Thursday 1 October 2015
A good prompt to end the month (OK say I'm a day late!). Plenty of scope for so many different interpretations.
Five thirty and the windowless office started to empty as the call centre workers headed home. Jeff shut down his computer, picked up his jacket and started his ten minute walk to the car park. The day had dragged; he couldn’t stop thinking about the stupid argument. His head ached; he’d called Marie several times but each time no answer. He’d left three voicemails apologizing, but she’d not returned his calls.
Out on the street the heat was oppressive; carbon monoxide fumes invaded the atmosphere. Cars headed home to happy families at the end of the working day. Jeff walked slowly, replaying the morning’s argument. The sidewalk was full of workers and shoppers picking up last minute essentials. He didn’t cast a glance at the shop windows, lost in his own world of pain. At the corner of the parking lot where he had to cross the road, a flower stall had been set up. In all the time he’d been parking there he’d never seen the stall. As he crossed the road the fragrant smell of roses hit his nostrils.
‘That’s it!’ he thought.
He stood in front of the stall; flowers of all colours but he was he was drawn to the yellow roses. The old lady looking after the stall wore a green skirt with a heavy woolen coat that seemed too warm. He bought a dozen of her finest yellow roses.
His mood lightened as he drove home, Marie loved flowers. He should buy them more often. He turned into the drive; there was no sign of Marie’s car. His stomach churned, the headache tightened across his forehead. Opening the door he called her name, there was only silence. His heart sank when he saw he white envelope on the table.
Sunday 27 September 2015
Another excellent prompt today, intriguing without too much detail. Here's my offering, which could be the start of something bigger.
Subdued morning light filters through thin white curtains; chilled air cools my face. Plain pastel coloured walls greet my eyes; the window is too small and on the wrong side of the room. I blink, this must be a dream; looking around I am awake. Confusion sets in, what happened last night? I dredge the inner recesses of my memory; last night has evaporated.
OK, start again. What did I do yesterday? How did I get here? Why am I here? Still nothing. Next there’s a knock on the door.
‘Hello,’ I call out timidly.
The door opens slowly; a young woman in a white-skirted uniform comes in. Tidy shoulder length brown hair, fresh faced with no make up. I don’t know her; I’ve never seen her before.
‘Hello Martin, how are you this morning?’
‘Confused,’ I say.
‘What are you confused about, Martin?’
She smiles politely. At the end of my bed she picks up a blue folder, takes a pen out of her breast pocket and starts writing in the folder.
‘What’s that?’ I ask.
‘It’s your recovery plan, you know we fill it in every day.’
Another polite smile, she moves to the side of my bed and reaches out for my hand. I’m not sure what’s happening, she takes my wrist and feels for my pulse. Her other hand lifts her watch that’s attached to her uniform, while she counts silently.
‘That’s good, you’re making a good recovery and your pulse is much stronger today.’
‘Where am I?’
‘You’re at the clinic, I told you yesterday.’
My brain aches as I try to make sense of what she’s saying. How long have I been here? What happened?
‘What’s wrong with me?’ I ask.
‘Stress, a breakdown; it’s good you don’t remember, part of your recovery plan.’
Thursday 24 September 2015
A great photo prompt today, with some amazing photos for inspiration. Here are my three micro stories. Absolutely no connection between them, I think. I've used the photo title for my title, although I could possibly have come up with more intriguing titles.
A woman waits for a train
I’ve been waiting here for twenty minutes, that young man said it would be here in a minute. Harold will be wondering where I am. Perhaps, I should have told him I was going out. Is this the right platform? Why are there no more passengers? My feet are killing me. It’s not late, where is everybody? Have I got time to go the toilet? Where is the toilet? Maybe I shouldn’t have had that third glass of sherry. I think Richard was trying to get me tipsy. I think he wanted to have his way with me.
Are you looking for a summer vacation?
Friendly staff and home cooked meals.
Over sixty five?
On a budget?
The New Bolivar Hotel is just the place for you.
Free laundry facilities; cook your own meals options.
Watch the world go by, relax, put your feet up.
Meet interesting people; spend your days reminiscing with your new friends.
Card games every Friday.
Yes sir, the New Bolivar Hotel is the place for you!
Polka Dancers at the Gibbon Ballroom
‘Helmut! You’ve just stood on my toes again!’
‘Sorry Petra, it’s my new dancing shoes’
‘No, it’s your feet!’
‘Petra darling, these shoes are too big.’
‘So why did you buy them?’
‘They were a bargain.’
‘You are an oaf Helmut.’
‘But you know I love you, Petra.’
‘No you don’t. You couldn’t find anyone else to come to the dance with you.’
‘That’s not true my angel.’
‘Don’t try to sweet talk me.’
‘Do you want a drink sweetheart?’
‘No I’ll keep dancing, I know your sort!’
Tuesday 22 September 2015
I've managed to avoid writing to my own prompts so far this month. However, this vignette popped into my head this morning after reading the prompt again, so I thought -why not.
A New Beginning
Family and friends gathered round the font. Baby Davina Entwhistle was the first Entwhistle grandchild and her grandparents were suitably proud. They would have preferred Mercedes to have finished her exams and be married before starting a family, but after a succession of unsuitable boyfriends she had settled on Ricky.
‘Alright, gather a little closer so you can all get a good view,’ the vicar encouraged the gathering.
Mercedes held Davina and her Mum, Alison and Dad, Geoffrey edged closer to the vicar. There was a good degree of jostling amongst the close friends and relations to get the best vantage points.
‘That’s better,’ announced the vicar as he took Davina from Mercedes.
Davina started to cry, she may only have been three months old but she took exception to this odd man dressed in funny robes holding her.
‘So, who is Davina’s father?’
Ricky bustled through the throng to stand next to Mercedes.
‘Excuse me, I think I’m the father,’ Trevor, a greasy haired teenager with an acne-riddled face pushed his way to the font.
‘Watch it mate, who do you think you’re pushing? I’m Davina’s Dad,’ a bespectacled Nigel with a fierce crew-cut stared into Trevor’s eyes.
‘I don’t know what you guys think you’re doing, Mercedes told me I was Davina’s father,’ chirped Connor, wearing a grubby leather motorcycle jacket and ripped jeans.
‘Mercedes!’ Alison screamed.
Her daughter wriggled her way out of the melee and rapidly made for the open church door. Ricky looked bemused whilst Trevor, Nigel and Connor pushed each other trading blows.
The vicar looked on holding the baby, his face etched in panic!
Tuesday 15 September 2015
I'm a day or two behind, sometimes it takes a day or so to fully come up with something I can work with. Any how, my response to yesterday's prompt.
‘Hello, it’s me over here.’
The woman turned around but there was no one there; she thought she was hearing things. She turned back to look at some of the landscapes.
‘I said, hello! Here in the portrait.’
She turned around more slowly this time, unsure what she might see. On the wall a portrait of a middle aged man with a rugged appearance. His hair was greying but still quite long and wavy. It was only his head and shoulders, he seemed to be wearing a military jacket, maybe a naval uniform.
‘It’s lonely in here with no one to talk to,’ the voice addressed her.
She was sure that the man in the portrait seemed to smile, but that was ridiculous. Helena fixed her stare on the portraits face. She glanced left and right and then whispered, ‘Hello.’
‘Thank you Madam,’ the voice replied.
Emanating from the picture; she looked around again. Nobody was near enough to talk to her; she blinked and stared once more at the portrait.
‘That’s correct Madam, it is I, Sir Percival Robbins.’
She looked at the name under the portrait, which confirmed that was whose picture it was. Her pulse quickened, she started to perspire.
‘And pray, what is your name fair lady?’
‘Helena,’ she whispered.
‘Thank you for taking the time to speak to me Helena.’
‘You’re welcome,’ she retorted.
‘It’s a long time since I’ve made the acquaintance of such a gracious woman.’
Helena blushed and hurried along in to the next gallery. Looking this way and that to make sure no one had seen her talking to the wall.