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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