Happy New Year (Short story)

It was the allure, a certain edge that he held, that attracted her. Distinguished, professional, sex appeal oozing from every pore.

Bodies floating around the room, spilling drinks on cashmere carpets, nonchalantly placing their foot over the marks, without apology.

Her mark was him, she watched for some time, waiting for the blondes to leave, his disinterest obvious. The look in his eyes, semi glazed, no attraction, nothing to peak his curiosity, as if he’d seen it all before. The wannabes. Keeping his attention, or so they thought, with their low cut dresses.

Holding his martini with one, whilst brushing back his hair with the other, dressed in an expensive well cut suit and white shirt, undone two buttons down from the neck, he looked like Adonis.

She moved to the couch, opposite from where he stood, sitting back, crossing her legs, her short black cocktail dress riding up her thigh, her gloss red stiletto tapping the air.

He would notice, she didn’t have to throw her shoulder length waves back or giggle high pitched like the fake blondes, or demand her breasts got his attention. She sat nodding, superficially smiling at the men who acknowledged her. She had a presence, like he and this is all she needed. Minutes passed, she checked her Cartier, fifteen minutes to twelve, fifteen minutes before he knew of her existence.

The guests were ushered towards the patio doors, bodies started milling waiting to proceed out for the festivities, she began to stand, only to see a hand reaching out to help her up.

She took hold, glass in hand, letting go of his grip to straighten her dress.

She smiled, nodded thank you and looked into his dark brown eyes.

He gestured for her to lead the way, so he could watch her from behind, her slender legs, the black layered dress, that draped her body. Her dark auburn hair that flung from shoulder to shoulder on the rhythm of her hips.

Out onto the lawns, fairy lights dangled amongst branches, lighting up the sky, a band inside the gazebo picked up their instruments ready to play again. The Marquee set up, with staff carrying silver trays of drinks. She grabbed another champagne of the tray, taking it all in, before walking to a lone tree at the back of the Marquee.

He grabbed another martini, his fourth, side stepping a little before regaining composure he walked towards her. She stood with her back against the tree, the moonlight highlighting the bronze foundation she wore. She was irresistible, a stranger, yet he felt he knew her, he was drawn to her elegance, the familiar air about her, that he couldn’t place.

He was standing in front of her now, breathing her in as the band picked up their instruments, leaning against the tree smiling, her lips wanting to be kissed. Her eyes met his, his beauty made her legs go weak.

They didn’t hear the countdown to midnight, or the band, as their lips met, their tongues hungrily exploring each other’s mouths. Fireworks began, rockets, pin wheels, colours, noise filled the sky welcoming the New Year.

He drew a deeper breath, looking in her eyes, that held a glint of satisfaction, his body stiffened as the blood pooled wider across his pristine shirt.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thought I would try something different.

Oh Percy

pressed grey suit
pristine  shirt
perfect tie
‘pon his head he wore a hat
Percival Peppertan  looked anything but playful
posing and pompous Percival couldn’t see what the fuss was all about
people that
passed by snickered , he thought them
passionless
pathetic and rude
promoting the company that he worked for
Percival allowed himself to
parade
peacefully through the streets
publicly, mind you and certainly not being
paid any extra, but simply for the love of their new spectacle range and he cared not if they
provoked him and said he looked stupid
Percival, was chosen, though he was considered the most
practical and
probably the most lifeless
person in the company, but he was excited at the
prospect they had
presented him with, the chance for
pedestrians to admire the new fashionable eye-wear and delighted at the
project, for alas Percival was quite a boring soul, but now, oh yes now with these, he let lose a little
providing himself with a new found freedom of himself, to be carefree and not so
pensive
possibly beneath the pompousness his watchful eyes allowed him to see a whole new world

 

Anonymous Legacy: VisDare 24: Mastermind anonymouslegacy.blogspot.com

Another brilliant photo from the Team –  but this was tough for me – so I looked on the light side – with my brain ticking over time..

Children’s Echo

 

photo source

 

 

The morning bell pealed loudly for the call to breakfast.

They walked, some whispering, some crying, some yelling out.

Sixty – five children in all, dressed in blackened muslin nighties and bed bonnets, found their place along the wooden benches that provided them little comfort.

The surroundings, too ornate for them to merely single file into, three times every day, to eat their meals.

Tarnished spoons, steel cups and bowls filled with porridge were set in front of them, as they were every morning.

When they had eaten, they stood, silently, facing the front of the hall.

In unison, as they had done for the past seven-nine years, they thanked the cooks and mistress of the orphanage for preparing their food.  The great hall echoed with their frightened and feeble voices.

One by one, they walked bare footed, through the walls, waiting for the bell to peal again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

For the amazing photo challenge given by Angela Goff at VisDare.

VisDare 23: Ornate  Challenge – 150 words or less – My contribution 148 words.

The Year 1600 – Flash Fiction

Her hair was left threaded underneath his finger-nails.

Mud and wetted boots from chasing her through the moors, he finally caught up with her, though exhausted, she still put up a fight.

Breathless screams for help did her no good, not out here, where it was too barren, too cold for any human to survive for long, where the heavy fog blanketed the sedge grass and it wilted under its dampness.

Her clothes were tattered, expected, her life lived in the woods at the edge of the moors would be a poor one, but yet she was still pretty. He observed her cream complexion beneath the streaks of mud, her hair though matted a rich red and her lips though dried from the winter winds, voluptuous.

This job was not to his liking, it was dangerous, but it paid a gold florin and when instructed by the council, he did not hesitate to find the ones they sought.

There were other members of family, pacing the small room into which they were thrown, a bucket of ice cold water supped occasionally by the rats and a piece of mouldy bread, thrown in to stave their hunger, not that it was cared for if they lived, for they were to die.

She was the fourth, she was Alison, daughter of Elizabeth Device.

Cattle had been dropping of illness for weeks, winter crops had not flourished and the child not meeting her thirteenth year struck with a terrible fever, died in an agony that lasted for eight days, her stomach bloated, her face contorted from the pain that consumed her young body.

The voices in the village, mumbled, they, the outcasts were the cause, they were witches. Outcasts brought upon them by the people of the village. They had travelled a long distance, their appearance not met kindly by others. At times they would beg for food and were told there was nothing for them to eat, no need for them to be there and they were not wanted. They moved into the woods and lived off the land and what they could steal in the dead of night to survive.

He grabbed the rope from his satchel strung across his back and tied her wrists together, she kicked him. He spat at her three times, to ward off her evil, he was in control and would not succumb to her trickery or look directly into her eyes. Binding her wrists tightly, he pulled her behind him, clenching the lucky stone that was hidden on his leather necklet.

Alison, screamed for him to set her free, she begged and cried with such conviction of her innocence, that he was almost persuaded to feel kindness for her, but he would not falter, this was merely a trick, sorcery and he would have no party to it. He held his tongue.

They reached the village, crowds started to mingle as they watched him bring her in. Her feet now bloodied, her skirts ripped and muddied. Her legs weary made her falter now and then but she picked herself up and walked, silently behind her captor.

Voices started calling out, taunts of the scared. Bread was thrown and a potato hit the side of neck, they laughed as they watched her wince and close her eyes to the pain.

“Death to the witch”, they began chanting.

“Burn her at the stake”, yelled another.

“Aye kill them all, they have done this to our crops and our cattle, they killed Katherine Maloney”, one yelled at the back of the excited, angry crowd.

Her family was dragged out one by one from the cell, three in total, her mother Elizabeth, her brother James and sister Margaret. Alison was the fourth.

Alison locked onto the tear filled, frightened eyes of her mother and siblings and shook her head in silence, nothing would save them, no one would listen or believe.  They had committed no crime, nor practiced sorcery, but lived a secluded life out of necessity, but the village thought otherwise.

They practiced their witchery in the woods, these were the ones chosen by the people.

In the courtyard of the village, 4 large timber posts were dug deep into the ground, hay, torn up muslin and kindling were piled high around the bases.

Four large black crows circled overhead….

and when I’m gone

the moment that my
beating heart
stopped
in my solitude of
self
no recognition made of
others
that wept or held my
hand
there was calm

my vision that was
blinded
grew much darker than
before
yet I felt no fear I
yielded
to the silence
overwhelming

opening my eyes with eye lids
closed
I saw the light
appear
a light that shone so brightly
beckoning to come
there

I felt the warm air touch my
skin
once more I breathed the air
I knew that life had yet not
ceased
perhaps another
life to
live

There was no need to struggle
or maintain the hardship of my
fight
thoughts that swelled
inside of me were of an after
life

I drifted and released
myself from the grounded earth
and let my soul float upwards to the
light of my
re-birth

~~~

This was created for Alastair’s Photo Fiction

If you are interested in prompts please support his new endeavour for budding writers.

http://alastairsphotofiction.wordpress.com/2013/05/12/photo-fiction-sunday-12th-may-2013/

Rosalind Smith-Nazilli Interview

 

Rosalind  Smith-Nazilli Author of The Whore Slayer kindly asked to do an interview with me a few days ago, which was posted.

I now reciprocate her kind gesture.  Sit back, pour a wine, and I hope you enjoy, getting to know another fellow blogger on a more personal level.

You are known as The Fiction Vixen, why did you choose that Title in particular?

I wanted a title that was short and sharpish because let’s face it, my real name is a bit of a mouthful and for various reasons I did not want to drop either my family name or my married name.     I also wanted something that (sort of) rhymed with fiction.

Can you tell us a little bit about yourself, where you were born, where you live now?

Well I was born in the UK, in a place called Marlborough but I live now in a seaside village in Turkey.    I simply got the urge one day to be somewhere else so I packed a bag and left.

What do you do when you are not writing?

Not a lot.  I am always writing but I do like to garden and walk the dog.  I am not big on socializing but have to make the effort from time to time for the sake of the sanity of my husband.

Do you have a day job as well?

No I don’t, although I did do some copy writing via online sites for a while.        I have no visa to work in Turkey but I am to become a citizen of this Country at the end of the year so I will then have the necessary credentials, but I hope to avoid working outside my home. 🙂

When did you first start writing?

I have always written for as long as I can remember.      When I was about twelve my teacher said he thought I had a bit of Edgar Allen Poe in me but I still can’t see that to this day.

How did you choose the genre you write in?

I write flash fiction and short stories mainly because I don’t have the concentration span or even the patience for anything longer.         Only recently have I started to dabble in erotica.

Where do you get your ideas?

I am most definitely a panster.  I usually start with a sentence I have come into my head or something I hear somewhere.    Picture prompts are a favourite of mine as well but if something doesn’t come immediately then I move on.  I don’t want to have to labour over words.  They are either there or they are not.

Do you ever experience writer’s block?

Yes I do, I think every writer does, but never at the start of something.  It’s usually half way in when I can’t decide which way to take a story.

Do you work with an outline, or just write?

I did try once to start with an outline but it’s not for me.  I have to write what comes as it comes, and I write for me firstly and foremost.     Occasionally someone may say that they don’t understand or get what a story was about or where it was going but as long as I know myself, I am satisfied.

Is there any particular author or book that influenced you in any way either growing up or as an adult?

I have always loved Sidney Sheldon but to be honest there are so many spectacular works of fiction out there that it is hard to choose.      I love mystery thrillers and anything with forensic science.

Is there anything in your stories based on real life experiences or is it purely all imagination?

No it’s all imagination.  My life has nothing in it that would interest anyone.

What project/a are you working on now?

I have THE WHORE SLAYER  almost ready to be published but I am still not one hundred percent happy with it so have gone back to do a little more editing.    There is also a collection of flash fiction that needs to be formatted and edited.      Several WIP’s are sitting on the back burner as well.

Do you have any advice to give to aspiring writers?

Just keep writing.  Find your voice, try different genre and do not give up.

What’s the nicest thing someone has said about your writing?

I like it when someone says “Oh, I wasn’t expecting that.”   From time to time I am told that my flash fiction has the potential to be developed into something longer and the reader has hated that it ended where it did.

What’s the worst thing?

Someone once said that I wrote like a nine year old and that my grammar was appalling (I already knew that, the grammar bit) but you can’t please all of the people all of the time can you?

How do you find the blogging-world in general and any tips you would care to share?

I think some bloggers have a tendency to go mad and flood the world with posts to their blogs.  In my opinion two or three quality pieces in a week is enough.   There are many also who do not appreciate that people are not going to support you if you don’t support them back.    It’s important to visit blogs that you wouldn’t normally choose to, say hello, leave a comment or a compliment.         The only way forward with blogging is interaction.

Dark or white chocolate?

Chocolate?  Did someone mention chocolate?  Any and all although the quality of it out here is not that great and I do miss some of my old favourites.

Dogs or cats?

We were always a cat family until recently when our little bundle of joy, puppy I hasten to add, arrived.

There is a huge problem with stray/street animals in this Country and we have taken in many a kitten only to have them die from something inherited due to inter family breeding.  The same has happened with a couple of puppies which is why we went the breeder route with Ayda.

Ayda

It was something that I was very much against because there are so many needy animals on the streets but for me at least, the emotion evoked when a pet dies is just too much and I am really not that strong a person.

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Thanks so much for this Jenny.  It really is appreciated more than you know.

No, I thank you Rosalind,  for allowing my readers to get to know you.  You may now go and finish your gardening or play with Adya 🙂

“My Sanctuary” for Picture it and Write

I am trying something a little different for this post. The below picture is from

This is a short story that came to me whilst looking at the picture below (1680 words).

I hope you enjoy the read.

“Come with me” Robert held out his hand to Mary, who eagerly took hold.

“Where are we going?”

“To a special place nosey, you’ll love it”, he smiled reassuringly.

They had already parked the car and had been walking for over half an hour through the woods. Suddenly the trees came to an end and they reached a clearing at the waters edge.

Mary stood motionless, her gaze transfixed at a broken weather beaten old house with an equally dilapidated bridge that meandered it’s way to a small island on which the house stood.

“Whose house it is?” she asked.

“Mine” Robert replied. “Come on it’s safe, trust me”.

“It doesn’t look that safe, what if the bridge breaks?”

“Then we shall get wet, I suppose”, he chuckled.

 Mary edging her way across the wooden planks looking down at the water below, holding tight onto his hand, till she set her feet safely on land once again.

“How long have you had this? You have never mentioned it at all”.

“I bought it 3 years ago, it was up for sale for so long and it was cheap, too isolated for most, but for me,  it’s a place where I can write and paint to my hearts content, far from the madding crowd as they say, my little sanctuary”.

Robert retrieved the key from his jeans pocket and placed it in the lock. Mary stood behind him looking out at the water, the forest from where they came. This was indeed a secluded part of the world, where you could retreat to, but not really her cup of tea.

The door creaked open.

“After you madam,”he politely suggested holding his arm out in a gesturing manner.

“Why I thank you kind Sir”, she grinned.

Inside was dark and lacked furniture, an old wooden desk strewn with various pens and pencils, a copper lamp and some note-pads. A fireplace that was dusty and full of ash from the previous fire was centred on the far south wall. A small kitchenette, with the same proportion of dust over a saucepan left upside down on the steel sink. A couch, rocking chair and paintings on the wall completed the picture. She smirked giving a slight ‘tut-tut’.

“I know it needs a woman’s touch, I haven’t been up here for over six months,” Robert said trying to wipe down the desk whilst gathering the papers in his arms.

“It’s ok, you don’t have to do that on my account, you do have a bathroom though I hope”? she asked.

“No,  I go in the ocean…joking.. yes right through that door,” he laughed, pointing to a small door off the main room.

“I’ll get a fire started, it’s turning a bit chilly in here”.

Mary went to the bathroom she sat, looking at the corrugated iron walls around her. Thankfully there was toilet paper, though she wondered how old it was and if in fact it was still sanitary enough to use.

“Feel better now”?

“Yes, thank you”, emerging from the loo, blushing slightly

She looked around the walls upon which hung, mini paintings of boats, the ocean and the island itself. In the corner, stood a small easel not noticed on her first inspection, with a rather dirty palette containing dried up paint.

“You do these”? she said pointed to the paintings.

“Yes, my first pieces, so please don’t look too closely, I believe it’s best if one stands back to capture the image properly”.

“They are good Robert, no seriously, really good”. She walked along the  wall admiring them. “What on earth is this one”?

Robert walked up behind her, the smell of his after-shave was almost hypnotic, she felt his breath on the back of her neck.

“That”? “That my dear is my chest fridge, I just love the way the steel has been hammered and…ok I was particularly bored one afternoon, had enough of painting the boats”.

“Fascinating”, she responded, trying so desperately hard to sound convincing.

He smiled. “Why, I thank you Mary”.

“So, no phone, no TV?”

“No none, the last thing I want is to be contactable when I’m in an artistic throe!”, Robert flung his arms in the air with mock grandeur. 

“So much about you that I do not know”, she quipped.

“I’m not that complex, really I’m not, just an ordinary run of the mill kinda guy” he said giving her a slight wink.

She tried to ignore it, maybe he had something in his eye..was it a wink. “So how long do you stay here, at one time I mean?”

“Sometimes a week, sometimes a month, depends on what I have going on and how much time I can get off. Of late it’s just been the weekends and holidays, as work has been so bloody busy” he said placing more wood and paper into the fire-place.

“Please sit down woman, you’re making the place look untidy”, he smirked.

“As if!” she retorted.

Mary obliged and sat down on the small couch in front of the fire place, watching Roberts lean forearms even more closely, the strength in his arms, the tendons, she shook her head to stop thinking this way, she had only known him for two weeks.

“Right then, that should do nicely, drink?”

“Yes please, and what would you recommend?”

“Let’s see, warm coke, water or red wine, I’m afraid the parlour is substantially lacking at the moment. Normally I bring supplies in from the mainland and bags of ice for the chest fridge, but this was spur of the moment to bring you up here, so I’m afraid it’s rather slim pickings”.

“How very primitive of you”, she giggled.”Then I shall partake in some red wine, I would hope it is vintage”?

“I think you will be pleasantly surprised madam”, he said bending down to lightly kiss her cheek.

She gazed into the fire, watching the lights flicker off the timber, the smoke curling its way, into the bricks above. We haven’t been intimate yet, she thought, which is rather odd, but why rush these things, possibly now, here, that will change, thinking of the kiss planted on her cheek.

Robert entered the room, holding the glass of wine.

“For you madam, I hope it is to your liking”, he said handing her a goblet of cherry red nectar.

“Thank you”, she put her nose to the inside of the glass and inhaled the aroma deeply.

“Oh I have wine connoisseur on my hands do I?”

“Not really, I’m just showing off”, she winked back. 

“No electricity out here either?” Mary asked inquisitively, noticing no light switches, I honestly don’t know how you do it, I couldn’t, even if it was only for a few days I’m afraid, I like the luxuries in life, be they ever so humble. This is way too primordial for me”, she said taking her first sip of wine.

“That’s why I love it, I have no need for anything, a bathroom, a desk, a fire-place, a couch, a kitchen, the fridge to keep my food cold, oil lamps and my easel, what more could a man ask for… I mean really?” There was that edgy smirk again, that seemed to hit right in her groin area.

Mary sipped more wine, it was slightly bitter, which she put down to being either, not a very expensive drop or past the ‘use by date’ even for a red.

“Hey, you’re not joining me?”

“No, I’m not much a red drinker, I just had some water.”Please don’t let that stop you enjoying, is it drinkable?”

Mary swallowed a mouthful. “It’s fine Robert thank you”.  “Do you get any visitors?” she asked gulping more wine, for some reason he was making her a little nervous, she had no idea why, probably because they hadn’t known each other that long. The wine was helping waylay any notions that sprung into her head as to where this little relationship or being privy to his private corner of the world was leading.

“More wine Mary?” Robert asked lifting the bottle to her glass. “You seem to be a little thirsty”.

He smiled that broad, delicious come hither smile and the only answer to that question was.

“You are trying to get me drunk and have your wicked way me kind Sir”, she replied hoping that yes that was indeed the plan, instead the only other thing to spring from her mouth was “Yes, please”.

Another glass was consumed, her head was starting to feel heavy, the speed in which the alcohol was taking effect was far quicker than what she anticipated and she was normally good at holding her liquor.

The room started to spin, her body starting to slowly sway and her eyes closed and opened several times as she gazed deep into the fire.

“You ok Mary?”, Robert held her hand “You don’t look very well, perhaps the wine is was too much, you didn’t eat much at lunch today did you?”

She couldn’t speak, she tried too, but no words came out, her mouth was dry and her body felt like lead, the thought of being lain on his bed,  with him beside her was all she could think about. The fire pirouetted before her and just before she passed out into his arms she swore she saw the devil dance in the flames.

Robert picked her up and carried her out of the room, she was so groggy, so unaware of her surroundings, but she heard him speak.

“Let me introduce you to my chest fridge my love”. She barely recognised his face contorting as he spoke.

Kicking open the lid, he gently placed her body inside, she couldn’t speak, could not yell, could not move, what had he done, what was he doing.

“I am sure you will be able to sleep that wine off”.

Locking the lid, Greg whistled as he casually strolled back into the house, grabbing a fresh bottle of red, he walked towards his easel and grabbed his finest red sable paintbrush, smiling.

 

Ramblingsfromamum February 2013