Would You?

On a starry evening, have you ever been alone in the garden,

Past the roses and the sweet peas and down to the very far corner,

Where the arms of a tree bend over so, and underneath is guarded,

Would you be able to smell the daisies, that wove a fragile carpet?

I’m sure I heard a melody, or a delicate tiny whisper,

As I bent my head and kneeled, and listened a little bit closer,

I heard it louder then, the laughter the music the dancing,

Would you be able to take a look, without ever asking?

I saw a beautiful fairy, with an angel voice she sings,

With curls of moonlit stardust and golden gilded wings,

Eyes of deep forgotten blue and creamy silken cheeks,

Would you be able to ask her then, of what it is she speaks?

Threads of sparkling crystal, that shimmied in the moonlight,

Like a hundred tiny spiders’ webs that were woven through the night,

I saw her turn and say my name; I held my breath so still,

Would you be able to face her then, and be denied free will?

I felt the blaze that scorched,and burned, beneath my very soul,

I swallowed hard and closed my eyes, and felt her lullaby fall,

It swept a path across my heart, and there it burned her name,

Would you be able to tell her then, you felt the very same?

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Life is a Stage.

stockfresh_408856_vertical-stage-drapes-with-spot-light_sizeXS“This must be the worst gig ever” Jenny said to herself, stabbing another pencil into the desk top sharpener. She held the button down forcefully and the blades kicked in. She waited.  Six other pencils, already lethally tipped, were symmetrical lined across the counter.  She was stuck in this hell hole all summer thanks to her love affair with some Louis Vuittons and casting agents who didn’t know talent when they saw it. Well actually, the butt kick from her mother and her dad’s near fatal heart attack over his credit card bill had forced her into signing on with the employment agency. She tried to wail. She’d stropped. She’d slammed every door and gone back and slammed them again. She’d pulled off the performance of her life with the sudden flow of tears, the anguished howls and almost painful shoulder jerking. Her dad had just looked at her mother, hoisted an eyebrow and gone back to his office, out of earshot.

The sound of a door opening made her look up. She scowled and checked the appointment book, Edgar & Edna Smith, 3.30pm. She plucked out some gloves from a box on the desk. They paid a fortune for hand doubles, she couldn’t be too careful.

Edgar hadn’t mentioned the appointment to her. There was no point, she’d only get herself worked up and he didn’t want her fretting. He hated when she got herself upset, he always had. Edna cried at everything, emotional pearl drops that marked an occasion. She’d cried at the station before he shipped off. She cried at the letters he wrote from the front. He hadn’t told her it all. Not of the blood and the horror or the bodies that were maimed and broken in two. She’d cried when the children came. Then she’d cried at each stage of life that they grew. She’d cried when the youngest was taken and killed, and when she looked at his body on the cold marble slab. She didn’t know Edgar had cried then too. She’d cried when the cancer came and disfigured her body. She would always be beautiful to him. He’d cried on his own when she got the all clear. It was hard to admit things were really so bad but the dementia was stealing her quicker than they thought. He had to be strong and do what was best.

It was 4 ‘o’ clock when the old couple left. Jenny was muttering about boring old people and them not knowing about life, as the tannoy rang out ‘Susan Malone’. Jenny looked across at the middle aged women in the plain navy skirt. I bet she’s a school teacher, has 17 cats and thinks a bikini wax is bottled by sunbathing beekeepers. Jenny sharpened another pencil.

Susan swallowed down the acid burning in her throat. She’d already sat in the car for half an hour outside, trying to hold onto the tiny bit of courage she still had. She only ever had little bits of courage. She wished she’d had the courage to tell Paul it was his fault he hadn’t got the job, when he’d hit her that first time. Or the courage to tell him that the other driver was right when he’d broken three of her ribs when they got home that night. If only she’d had the courage to say it was his fault when he spent all the money on the casino online. That was the night she lost the baby she carried, he pushed her from the top step and she couldn’t hold on. She wished she’d had the courage to tell him to go when the other woman’s husband barged through the front door. But today she was going to hold onto that courage, she had to. She needed the jabs for the trip she was planning, her new life with Brian. She wouldn’t need courage to tell Paul she was going, she’d just leave a note and her wedding ring on the table.

Jenny flipped off the computer when the school teacher left. She scrapped the last flecks of lead shrapnel into the bin and reached for the glossy mag she’d been reading all day. She didn’t notice the bold font tagline that read ‘Life is a stage and we all play a part’.

Photo from : jackiewalker.me

A Little Bit Of Something New (Well it’s new for me anyway)

Well, I am trying something else new. I’m a great believer in trying everything once, but in the words of the mighty MeatLoaf  “I won’t do that”….

I had a request from someone who wanted to do a podcast with one of my stories, you can listen to it here and it got me thinking. I’ve got into trouble before for thinking so try to avoid it as often as I can.   But then relented after a glass or two of wine and thought why not.

Excuse the quality – a mobile phone, a couple of glasses of red, a bag of M & M’s and a dire northern accent don’t make for a great recording….

Nobody Saw & Nobody Knew –

He Glanced at His Watch Impatiently 

Nobody Saw and Nobody Knew

I sat and I watched and I played my part well,

I walked a thin line, but no one could tell.

For nobody saw and nobody knew,

The nod and the smile that were given on cue.

I filled my glass, more times than I should,

And let the elixir erase all it could.

The wispy clean white and the oak bloodied red,

Never mix your berry, isn’t that what they said.

You looked across and she reached for your hand,

The touch of your skin, like a seal or a brand.

I picked up my glass and whispered a kiss,

Nobody knew, so they saw no remiss.

I drowned in the liquid, and it ignited my sorrow,

I knew it was her you would wake with tomorrow.

She’d breath in your scent and feast on your power,

And you’d love her again in the early morning hour.

I knew it was wrong when I opened the door,

It grew ever stronger, I didn’t care anymore.

I pushed my foot harder, the wind in my face,

I missed a green light, the speed my embrace.

Another green light that flickered to red,

It would soon all be over, would he know I was dead.

No choice but to cull………..

photo-competition-winner-octoberI thought I’d take the bull by the horns and submit some of my stories and some poems for a couple of competitions. While there being considered, rules state they must not appear anywhere else, even a personal blog.

I’m really not sure why I’ve done it. There’s probably more chance of me meeting Brad Pitt in the toilets in Subway, than having a shot at winning,  but I thought what the hell.  Plus empty pages should spur me on to keep writing, although jeans that don’t fit should spur me on with the diet, but they don’t!

Thank you so much for all the brilliant comments people had made on the posts, in fact it’s all your fault that they’ve gone. Stretching my ego had bugger all to do with it..

I’ve only been seriously updating the blog the last 4 weeks or so and have had a non-fiction piece being serialised in totally4women, two shorts being published in an Anthology coming out in September, been declared link of the week on the Dead Homer Society, had a story featured on http://tipsylit.com/ and one on Austen in August . So chuffed is a little understated.

Here’s to September being more of the same.  Or else my names not Claudia Schiffer, oh hang on, what’s that you say? It’s not, Oh damn……………

 

Daddy has a Secret!

This weeks 100 word flash fiction photo prompt for the fabulous Friday Fictioneers. Photo by Dawn M Miller

ff39-dawn-m-millerI came here with Daddy, it was a secret he said.  He looked in the cases for a very long time, then picked something shiny in a red velvet box. I told Mummy about the red velvet box. She smiled.  On Mummy’s birthday, Daddy gave her a scarf. She didn’t smile then. Mummy’s sister has a shiny new locket and Daddy doesn’t live at home anymore. I don’t like it when Mummy cries all the time, but I know what to do. I’ll hide here a while and perhaps he’ll come back. I can tell him that Mummy didn’t like her new scarf.

Day 30 – The Ice Globe

 

For more years than anyone could ever remember, the scene had never once changed. Or so it was always believed. Inside a small bevelled dome, rising high towards the stars was a town encased in glass, forever in winter. Little coloured buildings, the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker all covered in a white cotton snowfall, no sun would ever thaw.

Where tiny flecks of glitter would shimmy and sparkle off reflective white ice. Tiny painted windows, and coloured glass panes, illuminated the houses for curious wide eyes. Children in mittens and scarves tightly wrapped, run through a carpet of powdered white grass. A boy with a snowball in his tiny clasped hand looks to another and plans his attack. Three little girls, in loose woollen hats, roll a large ball across to the flat. Two clumps of coal and a carrot lay close, waiting to awaken the snowman, we suppose.

A woman in grey, with a thick woven shawl stands by a window and studies its wairs. Inside the shop a little toy train track follows the curve of the glass fronted bay. A shiny black carriage is stalled at the station. The face of the woman is held in refrain, hope and despair are pained in her eyes. Christmas is coming and no money to spare; she could never buy the present she knew that he craved.

A pair of young lovers in an open top carriage steer a clear passage through a trail of white velvet. Their hands are entwined and hidden from view. A ring in his pocket, he would propose, she knew. Up to the church, that sits on a hill, a tower and a steeple, and a bell in pure gold. Their secret would out and all would be told.

A white haired old lady sits by her bed; her gnarly thin fingers show the life that she’s led. She holds the globe tightly, against her weak chest.  Her ruby red slippers on over-puffed feet tap to a melody that plays in her head. It was her time to go, she knew it was so. A long life of plenty, now the curtain must fall. As she closed her eyes slowly and breathed her last breath, with the glass covered globe still held to her chest.

Her family held a yard sale not many years later and a small girl of eight with moonlight coloured curls picked up the globe and held it real close. Every night before bed she would look at the scene and whisper her stories to the people inside. She loved all the people, the children and the shops. But her favourite part of all was the smiling young lady with the ruby red slippers. She danced in the snow and smiled just for her.