Five Sentence Fiction Fabric

“Look, if it makes you feel better, you can have this,” said Marcus as he threw a voile towards her; the creams and pale oranges floating through the air towards her. Katie picked it up; careful her manicured nails wouldn't snag the delicate fabric.Her sceptical eyes travelled the length of the translucent material, knowing it would not make her feel any better about the situation but she had signed the contract, wanted to do the job even if her nerves were getting the better of her.

“Come on!” he barked; his kid gloved approach vanished, replaced by impatience as his model dithered, possibly changing her mind; he couldn't accept that, wouldn't accept that.

Taking a moment, Marcus stopped and looked to Katie as she sat with the fabric, her elfin features innocent, her perfect body not enhanced by cosmetic surgery; she was a beauty and whilst she struggled with her principles, nerves, hang-ups or whatever it was, Marcus didn’t care which; he began to shoot and knew that every click was going to make him rich, even if she changed her mind.  

And that's my Five Sentence Ficiton for Lillie Mcferrin's weekly flash fiction. Why not hop over to read the other entries or, have a go yourself. . . . . you may surprise yourself at what you come up with. xx

MWBB #26 The Police Secret Journey. Cat's Eyes.

Cat’s Eyes

With his holdall packed, Alex was ready to leave. With a quick silent prayer, he closed the door and made his way out into the hustle and bustle of the night life. Anonymously, he walked with purpose, dodging passersby with his head down, hood pulled right over; it was surprising he could see where he was going but he’d walked this journey before and now it was like a map in his head.

Soon the streets quietened and Alex found himself in a residential neighbourhood; signs of family life strewn across yards in the form of footballs, tricycles, bats and skipping ropes. Signs of suburbia assaulted him; lawn mowers, barbecues, dogs. The bile rose in his stomach. He whispered another prayer and watched.

This was the part that fuelled his imagination, his need to feel part of this middle-class world, observing life; the routines of suburbia where everything seemed to run like clockwork. But he’d seen it all before. He already knew the house, the family, the time of his arrival. He just needed the signal. A cat jumped out, startling him, but he liked cats and beckoned it; soft, warm fur, powerful hunter’s eyes. Alex felt at one with the cat, understanding him. But it was a distraction. In swiping the cat away, the cat swiped back and nicked Alex’s hand before running off into the night. 

Lights out. 

Alex crept from behind the woodland at the bottom of the garden, pulling his gloves on, dismantling the alarm with ease; the code never changed; surburbians loved routine. He was inside within seconds. Before creeping upstairs, he stopped in front of the mirror. Shining his torch, he saw his reflection. He smiled as again he whispered another prayer and crossed his heart. He saw the signal; a halo in the reflection, above his head. He was doing the work of God, purging society from the evils of excess and he had a long way to go.  

The Smyths' were the first family, quickly followed by the Robinsons' and the Millers'. Only then did people start to take interest. Newspapers consumed every detail, detectives voiced their appeals on television but no one knew. They would never know. For his was a solitary journey, a secret journey sent to him by the highest authority in the land. He could hear him now, urging him to complete this task as he took each carpeted step gracefully, breathing calmly. The family portraits lining the stairs smiled down at him but he had someone bigger smiling down on him.

All the doors were closed but he knew who was on the other side of each one. He’d been good and done all his homework. His bag, now unzipped was ready and so was he.

It had been a long but satisfying night as Alex got home whilst it was still dark. He showered, letting the hot water melt away the aches and pains of crouching around in damp places. The TV was showing some game show and he watched whilst eating a microwave meal before dozing.

“Another brutal murder has taken place, this time the Young family,” the news reporter said as Alex awoke. He quickly turned up the TV; he liked this bit. Hell, he liked all of it! 

The news item quickly swung to the house where a crowd had gathered. A detective came on screen. “I know who you are! I know you! Your journey is about to come to an end and I’ll be meeting you,” he said, staring right at Alex. Alex laughed. The camera widened. Alex sat up. Something caught his attention.  Behind the detective, a police officer was holding a . . . . . . . it couldn’t be! . . . . . . . . . That cat! She was holding that cat and someone was taking something from its paw.  . . .

Alex’s face blanched as he ran to the bathroom; his microwave meal taking a quick journey down the toilet. He rinsed his mouth. He looked in the mirror but no signal came. He looked down at the scratch on his hand, a wry smile on his worn out face.  Alex had always liked cats.  

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Written for this week's Mid-Week_Blues-Buster over at The Tsuruoka Files. This week was an obscure song by The Police called Secret Journey which oyu can listen to here.http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Keolc7BpTcI&feature=youtu.be. I would say happy listening but it took me to a dark place, even with the kitty. xx

Flash! Friday #37 A Visit To Madam Zara

A Visit To Madam Zara

Once upon a time there was a beautiful princess who had everything she ever wanted. But she wasn’t satisfied. One day a circus was in town and the princess wandered into Madam Zara’s cabin where she promised you whatever you wished. Now the princess was unhappy at being called spoilt; it wasn’t her fault she was stinking rich. Then she had the most marvellous idea.

“Take me back to a time where money wasn't important,” she demanded.

Zap! And the princess was a baby.

“But that doesn’t explain the goat,”

“Ah well, every baby princess needs a nanny. Anyhow, how would she have gotten home?”

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For this week's Flash!Friday hosted by Rebekah Postupak with only a five word leeway either side of 100. Harsh . . . and that picture. . . . . looking forward to all the zany stories this week! x

Thursday Threads In and Out and A Quick Swipe of Alcohol

Meeting Tim

The doctor grinned as the needle plunged into Rory’s upper arm causing him to clench his fists until his knuckles whitened. Rory waited for heavy eyes, a numbness to consume him but he was still alert watching every movement the doctor made; if he was a doctor; forced to take a drug he didn’t need, kept isolated and limited on food and drink. He was a prisoner but didn’t know why. One minute he was drinking in a bar, the next he woke up in what could only be described as a cell.

“Now for the final stage,” the doctor said as lay down a tray. Out of the corner of his eye, Rory saw something move.  “This won’t hurt for long, in and out then a quick swipe of alcohol. You can have a swig for good measure.”Using tweezers; he picked up a bug like creature no bigger than a thumb nail.

“I don’t understand . . . . . . . the needle.” Rory tried to hide the panic in his voice.

“Just so we can track this beauty.” He laid the bug on Rory’s chest. Immediately, the bug arched up, digging in with pincers. Rory yelled but could only watch as the bug burrowed into his chest.

“What have you done?” he screamed.

“You’ll find out one day when I need you, now you’re free to go. Word of warning. Do no try to remove Tim. He’s quite at home now in your nervous system.”

“Tim?”

“A living creature needs a name.”  

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This week's Thursday threads hosted by Siobhan Muir over at The weird, the Wild and the Wicked. Go and see the other tales with the line "In and Out and A Quick Swipe of Alcohol" 

My Daily Picspiration Entry A Visit To Grandma

My second daily Picspiration entry for http://picspiration.blogspot.co.uk/. This week I chose picture two as it amused me and I felt it was more of a challenge; making up a story about knickers! But the story is far from amusing but is not dark; more of a tease really; just like those knickers! x

A Visit To Grandma

After several attempts of searching in the hot, stuffy loft, I finally found the old, worn shoe box. Carefully, I wiped off the thin layer of dust, studying the box but despite my curiosity it wasn’t mine to open.

It was another two days before I was sitting on the bus to visit grandma at her retirement home, the box nestled in a bag since its discovery, mainly to stop me from being nosy.  It was just a passing comment from grandma in wondering about the box but a veil of melancholy descended as she spoke.

“Hi Grandma,” I beamed as I gave her a gentle hug and a kiss on the top of her head; her grey hair soft and thick like cotton wool. “Guess what? I found your box, it took some time but here it is.” I watched as grandma took the plastic bag and lifted out the box, holding it secure on her lap.

“Family history is important Maia. There’s a lot you don’t know about me and it’s time to tell you.” I tingled; largely with excitement but a faint finality knocking at the door. “Don’t worry, there’s plenty of mileage left in me yet.” She smiled, resting her pale, hand on mine; it was surprisingly strong despite its fragility. “You know I was born in France?”

“Yes, but I’d never have guessed. You don’t sound French.”

“I sometimes slip into it but, no, my accent died a long time ago.” Again that mask of melancholy appeared. “Here, look in the box,” she handed the box to me, encouraging me to open it, sitting silently as she watched. First the letters from another life where she was young, vivacious with what looked like an army of admirers. A few black and white photographs showed her looking every inch the stereotypical French Resistance heroine with her dark clothing, standing just on the outskirts of a wood and a rifle leaning up against the trunk of a tree. “Your thoughts are correct Maia. I was part of the French Resistance.

My eyes widened, “but why haven’t we heard about this?”

“Now is not the time. I had my reasons. Look more.” Eagerly, I took out the piles of letters and at the bottom was a beautiful silk coloured cloth; bright blue with deep oranges. I picked it up and to my surprise, it opened up. A gleeful chuckle came from grandma; from her fond memories or the look of bewilderment etched on my face? “Ah, those fancy French drawers.” And I heard the faint traces of a French accent in what was now a young voice. “Do you know why those drawers are important to me and probably quite a few men?” I didn’t know what to say. Was my grandma going to announce to me that she was a prostitute? A woman of the night, entertaining French and German men?  A dark thought crossed my mind. If she was, then was it because it was a life she chose or one she was forced into? Dark times during the war making people do anything to survive? I shuddered.

“See these?” Grandma held up a small bundle of letters tied with a faded blue ribbon. “These are all ‘thank you’ letters Maia. From service men I helped rescue. You may read them in your own time.” My curiosity was eating away at me but I daren’t ask about the knickers. What a funny thing to keep. “There is a story behind those,” she continued. “These helped save so many lives.”

“What, your knickers?”

“Yes. It was a signal Maia. If they were hanging on the line, I had information to give. Simple really. No one suspected.” I looked in awe at my grandma, wondering what other tales she had to tell. “Of course, there is another story about those drawers,” she said thoughtfully with a wicked grin on her face, “but I shall save that for your next visit.”

Thanks for reading. Comments can be left here but many are on the main post over at Daily Picspiration. where you'll find more amazing stories from wonderful and obscure picture prompts. xx

Five Sentence Fiction The Lesson

                                                 

                                                 

The Lesson

“I hope you all did your homework, open up your books, “ordered Professor Maygon as she surveyed her students, knowing immediately the ones to watch, the ones who hadn't even looked at their books let alone completed their homework, the ones who were only pretending; but then the ingredient wasn’t very pleasant to come by.“Now, read the recipe and collect your ingredients,” she snapped, her patience wearing thin with these wannabes especially when she didn’t want the job in the first place, nothing more than a babysitting service for stupid parents who didn’t understand the art of creating something special; the need to do as they were told which meant bringing in that ingredient to make it work. 

She watched as the students grabbed for ingredients at the bench, rushing around with their equipment which surprised her as they managed it all so well, yet wondering when the first would raise their hand for the one missing ingredient; the one that would promise her youth, vitality and beauty.    

“Your spell will not work students unless you did your homework,” she reminded them as their cauldrons bubbled, “after all you are all here training to become a dark witch and I must confess, none of you are worthy if you haven’t done as asked and brought in the most important ingredient." 

“I have,” one girl exclaimed as her hand shot in the air; all turned to look at the tall, willowy figure with long black hair (so witch like already that all she was missing was a broom and pointy, black hat) and the glass jar in her hand which appeared empty until the lid was gently unscrewed and the classroom filled with the laughter of a child.   

And that's this week's Five Sentence Fiction over at http://lilliemcferrin.com/five-sentence-fiction-learning/ where you can read other submissions. I know I will be doing just that now my piece is done and dusted.   xx 

MWBB #25 Afro-Celt song Eireann; Echoing Song

Update on this piece, if you already didn't know (yeah right). It won and I get this rather nifty sparkly badge.

Phew, just in time for this week's Mid-Week-Blues-Buster- over at The Tsuruoka Files. The music this week was a gorgeous Afro-Celt song that whisked me away to this story; some of it based on fact . .  It reminded me of that time in the Irish pub . . . .Anyway, if you want to listen to the song called Eireann then please click the link and maybe listen as you read, as I listened as I wrote. Powerful stuff, music. xxx

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pSqR1O1PDJU&feature=youtu.be

Echoing Song

Sipping on a glass of wine wasn’t exactly befitting the Irish pub in Camden Town but it didn’t matter how much Linda declared how smooth a Guinness was, she was sticking to her wine, although the Guinness did remind her of when she was a child, drawing a face in the thick froth of her dad’s pint.

She loved Thursday nights as after evening class, they would walk into the quiet pub for a cheeky drink before heading home. But it wasn’t quiet for long as spontaneously, people would start playing on their tin whistles and their bodhráns. Before long, fiddlers would join in and the atmosphere was electric, not electric enough for Isabel to try the Guinness but enough to ask to have a go at playing the bodhrán.  

“It’s all in the wrist,” the young man said with a thick Irish accent. And he proceeded to play, his wrist moving quickly as he created complex but beautiful rhythms.  Soon the other musicians joined in; there was no room for solos. The music echoed through the pub as it did through time. .  .

The wind whipped Isabel’s hair across her face as the salty sea air coated her pale skin. She picked up her long skirts and turned to face Adair.

“Is it true?” his voice was hoarse but rose against the howling wind. “Did you bed my brother whilst I was away, fighting, for you!”

“You weren’t fighting for me! You’re fighting for glory, to show your father you’re the one who should lead the clan.”

“Is it true!”

“No!” She turned back towards the sea; as angry as her as it bashed against the rocks into a fine spray.

“Then why does Tristan mock me with these taunts? Why does Morrigan say so?”

“Morrigan? You believe the words and gossip from a mad woman?”

“She is not mad! She is wise and sees all, Isabel! Why would she say that if there was not the truth?” Isabel walked along the cliff edge, wanting to be far from Adair. The rocks were slippery but her footing was strong and sure. “Isabel? Please, we must talk about this.” He was behind and his large hand gripped her arm. She shrugged him off, not realising the rock she was standing was lose. A scream pieced through the wind as Adair quickly reached out, gripping her wet hand. “Isabel, don’t struggle, stay calm.” He heaved, pulling her up, but only where her head just peeked above the cliff top. His eyes were wild, demanding.

“Please! Adair!”

“Tell me the truth!”

“I have! Please get me up!”

“Morrigan says otherwise, your eyes betray you, your heart is with Tristan! I shall kill him but first,” he loosened his grip and as Isabel shrieked, he let go, watching her tumble to the rocks below, laying broken before the hungry waves took her.  . .

“Isabel!” Linda’s voice was shrill as she shook Isabel by the arm. “I was saying how nice the guy on the drum is. He likes you!”

“What?” she was dazed, confused. The dream had felt so real. She was trembling with fear and cold. She had felt the sea on her face. She licked her lips and tasted the salty sea. “I think I need to go home. I don’t feel well.”

“Ah come on girl,” the man playing the bodhrán said. “Stay for another!” His blue Irish eyes twinkled.  Isabel couldn’t refuse as another wine was placed in front of her. “Your friend was saying  you’d like to learn the bodhrán properly? I can teach you.” She nodded feebly.  “Tristan,” he held out his hand. Isabel stared at him, the eyes were deep and intense and she felt like she knew them, trusted them as she held out her hand, not wavering from the intensity of his gaze. “Just don’t tell my brother, Adair. He likes to do all the teaching, especially with someone as pretty as you.” He kissed her shaking hand as Isabel lifted her gaze to the dark eyes of Adair; the same eyes who let her fall to the rocks below.

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Flash!Friday #36 Behind the Smile

Flash!Friday with Rebekah Postupak and a mean 99 words this week . . . there's only one good thing about 99; the ice cream with a delicious chocolate flake but here, it's been a nightmare trying to get a story into 99 words!! But after much cutting and dicing, I have come up with this little tale from the photograph of today's prompt.   

Behind the Smile

Bill stared at his old, cuffed hands. Silently, a photo was placed in front of him. Familiarity flickered in aging eyes, then pain. 

“Tell me about this photograph Bill,” the soft voice coaxed. “This is you?” He pointed to the baby where the nurse’s hand touched his ear.

“She’s pinching my ear; smiling away . . . . . . . No one knew what she did to me.  . . . . . . . For years  . . . .  I suffered . . . .  . . with her evil.”  

“I can see behind her smile Bill. This explains your vicious attacks on nurses. You’ll get nothing but sympathy in court, I’ll make sure of it,” his lawyer smiled confidently.   

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Monday Mixer An Apple A day

                                                         

Oh my gosh! That was a challenge and a half!!! I have never taken part in this challenge before but thought, with a bit of time on my hands, why not? Famous last words as it has taken me forever to come up with this little story, using certain selected words that Jeff Hollar over at The Latinum Vault for his Monday Mixer has come up with. So, armed with dictionary and thesaurus and fuelled with determination, I came up with this. All I'm saying is 'it's a start' and remember, a first attempt. So be kind, if not kind then constructive, if not constructive then say nothing and I will get the message and will put this down to an experience on a rainy afternoon. xxx   

An Apple A Day

“One bite will cause a somnolent state Sire,” stated the witch, revealing the blood red apple in her long, bony fingers encasing it like a cage.

“Ah, magnificent! Now all the power and wealth will be mine!”

“You are an insular king; the worst kind, Sire,” she declared as she conjured a zephyr that lifted the apple to the King where it nestled in his lap next to his nougat.     

“And you are insolent. We had an agreement Witch, unless you wish to burn?” She blenched.  Her kin had suffered the burning, hearing their excruciating screams even now. She knew once he had the apple, he wouldn't let her leave the castle which was why she sparged the apple with ancient magic where upon anything the apple touched, the spell would transfer causing the apple to become harmless. The witch smiled as the king selected a large piece of nougat. 

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And here is the list of words where you can select one from each and use in any tense as long as makes sense and the meaning hasn't changed. As you can see, I used two from one row. I don't think that classes me as an over- achiever lol. Maybe next time . . . did I say next time? Yeah right!.  xx    

things:          1) zephyr         2) plonk            3) billhook

Verbs:           1) ruminate     2) sparge          3) blench

Adjectives:   1) pawky         2) somnolent    3) insular

Five Sentence Fiction Bliss; A Dog's Point of View

                                               

I just had to leave my serial of Zoe Saxon (the female assassin who hasn't actually killed anybody yet) behind this week as who on earth could resist this cutie little picture of the Jack Russel taking a chance on a delicious little cupcake? So here's my take on this week's prompt where I have used the prompt 'Bliss' and for the first time, the picture too which is too adorable to ignore and that's coming from a cat person! xx  

A Dog's Point of View

I could smell the sugary cakey goodness a mile off,  what was she thinking by leaving such a treat right in front of me; I am a dog after all and I can’t be held responsible for the silly mistakes my pet makes and it was the chance I had been looking for.What would the K9 Club say if they knew I had ignored the rule of no paws on the coffee table in case I accidentally left a tiny scratch; I mean look at those coffee rings doing more damage than my soft pads could ever do.

I had to uphold the honour of dogs everywhere and show the Great Dane, Dewy, I had what it takes to become a fully fledged member of the K9 fraternity; they would surely welcome me, after all Bonnie got in on a slice of toast that fell on the floor, I mean it was practically given to her and, toast for dogs sake- what’s that all about?      

The first lick of the vanilla frosting tingled on my tongue, the tiny crunchy balls exploded with sweetness in my mouth, the soft light sponge melted like butter and before I could say ‘bone’ the cupcake had disappeared into my well deserving belly; I was in sugary heaven.

It didn’t take long to demolish the evidence of my crime stealth and the chance to belong to the K9 Club but my tail wagged with the sugar overload; who needed the K9 Club anyway when my pet left treats around for me to steal devour and let’s be honest, what kind of name for a Great Dane is Dewy? 

Flash! Friday #35 Extraction

What a nerdy looking picture for this week's FlashFriday #35 hosted by Rebekah Postupak. Here's what I came up with in 198 words. xx

Extraction

“I don’t see,” said Marcus, annoyingly. Arnold mopped his brow, removing his glasses, rubbing his eyes. If this didn’t work, it was more than funding that would disappear and the Queen had lost all patience with their promises.  

“Look! It’s happening!” Arnold exclaimed, pointing to the extraction chamber. They watched eyes wide as the extraction chamber filled with energy; tiny golden particles swirling around before settling to the bottom. 

Carefully, Arnold opened up the chamber under the watchful eye of Marcus and a Queen’s agent. Ignoring the gold dust, Arnold reached in and with a pinch, picked up the little creature; wings drooped, all colour faded.

“How do we know there’s no magic left?” the agent asked.  Arnold regarded the fairy between his finger and thumb before releasing his grip. The three men watched as the fairy, once full of magic and vivaciousness, tumbled to the floor in a heap.

“We have the power of magic! Our Queen can now defeat all her enemies!” Arnold triumphantly declared.

“See, your Fairy Queen is dead and darkness will now rule,” the agent declared to a small cage of frightened fairies as they sorrowfully looked down on their lifeless Fairy Queen.  

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Thursday Threads Will it Come Back?

The shrinking candle flickered against the onslaught of darkness. It wasn’t romantic now in the old, stone cottage as the storm raged and the sea crashed against the cliffs. With the battery dead in her laptop and phone, Kirsty had nothing to occupy her other than the small orange flame that hungrily devoured the candle.

The door flung open. Kirsty let out a scream as the howling wind swirled around the room.

“It’s only me. Chinese as promised,” said Mark cheerily, slamming the door shut. “Locals say the power often goes out up here. I got a few more candles too.” Kirsty relaxed in the warm, comfortable glow.

Rapidly, a chill descended around them, candles snuffed out, swamping the room in darkness. The wind swirled around Kirsty’s legs. She couldn’t speak as the candles suddenly lit; revealing a shadow; a figure standing by the door, looking out.  

“I see it too,” whispered Mark.  The door flew open and the figure drifted out. “Come on!” Mark followed to the edge of the cliffs, mesmerised by the shadow, his candle not blowing out in the wind.  

“Look!” Kirsty pointed out to sea where a light bobbed erratically towards the rocks, watching in silence as the light changed direction and the glowing of the candle faded.

“What was it and will it come back?” Kirsty asked, walking back carefully, directed by the light from their cottage.

“Who knows but one thing is certain Kirsty, lives were saved tonight.”

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Written for Siobhan Muir's Thursday Threads over at The weird, The Wild and The wicked.

MWBB #24 You Know I'm No Good- Amy Winehouse

I did week one. . . . . . .23 weeks later, I've decided to have another go at Jeff Tsuruoka's MWBB, week 24 and what a song. The sultry, smokey tones of Amy Winehouse; You Know I'm No Good 

No Good

“My name is Isabel and I’m”. . . . . . . no good. My mouth is suddenly filled with cement. I need a glass of water or a hammer and chisel. Water is offered, lukewarm, tastes of plastic from the beaker. One sip, thankfully, is enough to moisten my tongue. I look around the mismatched group. I know what they’re already thinking.

“Water not good enough Princess?” a man wearing a beanie hat asks, grinning as he receives craved for admiration.

“Champagne for the Sloane Ranger,” chips in a girl with a nose ring. I’m right; the girl with the clipped accent and loaded, no right at all to be sitting in the same room as them. Maybe they’re right? I’m not worthy of anyone.

“You’re in the wrong class. Shopaholics anonymous is down the hall,” offered Beanie Hat.  I was being criticised for my clothes; nothing changes.   

“Yes, Becky Bloomwood, off you trot,” Nose Ring replied, dripping with sarcasm.  

“You don’t even know who Becky Bloomwood is do you?” asked a mousy haired girl. “You’re more Pride and Prejudice that shopaholic.”Is it a crime to wear chic clothes? Why are they being so rude and stereotypical about me? I didn’t even want to come to this dilapidated building and sit and be judged. I’d been judged all my life. I knew it was a mistake. These people were no better than the one who put me here. Like these people would ever understand. I don’t even understand how my father, how any father, could be so cruel to their own flesh and blood just because she was a she and not a he. What on earth could I possibly do to the family inheritance that a boy wouldn't?  Did he miss the female Prime Minister and the fact we have a Queen? I ignored the trickles of sweat running down my back, too long being scared and made to feel useless. I didn’t want to justify myself to anyone. I want to get up but my feet are glued to the stained lino floor.

“We are all here for the same reason. Differences are left at the door!” a woman reminded the group. She must be the leader, the head of the circle, if you can have a head in a circle. But she smiled sweetly at me; not out of pity or sympathy, but a warm smile of encouragement. “Why don’t you tell the group why you’re here Isabel?”  I had to take another sip of the lukewarm water, hoping for courage. These people were just like me otherwise they wouldn’t be here. So what if I had money! Fat lot of good it did me! I had no friends to spend it with; they were all married now with babies. My family despised me. I was alone which is why I ended up here. And for my troubles, all I was getting was ‘poor little rich girl’ which was fine if it came with understanding.  Judging eyes stared back; a few of the girls lustfully eyeing up my Stella McCartney boots. Maybe the shopaholic tag was warranted.

“My name is Isabel . . . . . . and I have. . . . . . . .  no self esteem.  . . . . . . . . I was bullied by my father,” I can’t say it. They’re all going to hate me. I know I shouldn’t care but I want to be accepted.

“Go on Isabel,” the leader says softly.

“I pay for people to be my friends  . . . . . . . I pay. . . .  for . . . .  company.”

“Do you mean men like as in sex?” Beanie Hat asks.

“I pay for sex! I pay for strangers to be my friends to take to family weddings, when I’m invited! I pay because I have no one! I’m no good! All I want is acceptance for being me and not have to lie, cheat and feel so worthless!” I stop now as my emotions are running high. I don’t want to be labelled a lunatic as well. Faces stare back. Beanie Hat smiles. Nose Ring nods with empathy.

“This is the place to find that self worth Babe . . . and true friends,” Beanie Hat says, offering his hand. “Paul. Nice to meet you Isabel.” Grey, empty eyes stared back, mirroring my own. 

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