tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-89171001092121714642023-11-15T14:27:35.313+01:00Writer's NotebookWords are only postage stamps delivering the object for you to unwrap.Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02515440663113132433noreply@blogger.comBlogger302125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8917100109212171464.post-8198798254517549192011-03-16T14:00:00.003+01:002011-03-16T14:07:16.454+01:00Au revoirI'll not be updating this blog any more. But I've not stopped writing. If you go over to http://merewords1958.wordpress.com/, you'll find my latest fiction as well other posts relating to words, language and my life. So this is an "au revoir" and not a goodbye.Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08136225187552117043noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8917100109212171464.post-33284355923691044682011-03-11T14:57:00.002+01:002011-03-11T14:58:44.121+01:00OutlawI know Mama didn't really like me sneaking into the saloon. But I also know that once there, she wouldn't send me home. Today was delivery day. That made it easy. I could get in through the hatch and up the stairs when Mama wasn't looking. But I didn't like the mustiness of the cellar, so I hung around until the men were finished and Mama went to check. I sneaked in through the front door and went straight to the corner table. As usual it was empty and I hid underneath. This was one of my favourite places. From here I could see everything – even things the grown-ups couldn't see. I could see the pretty, coloured garters some of the ladies wore round their ankles to get the men to buy them drinks. And I could see how some of the players used to hide cards until they needed them.<br /><br />Mama soon came back in but I stayed under the table for a while yet. Then I saw Billy Scoopdug sidle up to her. That meant Mama would have her hands full. Once a week regular as clockwork he'd turn up at the bar and push his charms onto Mama. I was hiding in the corner by the counter once and heard him.<br /><br />"Come on Sal... Ya know that man of yours won't dare show his face here again with the law round. Ya don't wanna stay tied to an outlaw all your life, do ya. Ya need someone to look after ya and the littl'un. A saloon like this ain't a proper place for a lady like you. Someone's gotta protect you."<br /><br />I hated him for that. How dare he suggest that Papa wouldn't come back again. Mama'd have none him either. She'd listen to his talk with that well-we'd-best-stay-polite smile of hers, all the time filling him up with some yellowy water stuff that made him ill. Then she'd get one of the guys to chuck him out.<br /><br />Well, seeing as Mama seeing as Mama was occupied I reckoned it safe to come out. The piano was ringing out full pelt and there was some dancing going on, so no one bothered about me. I went and stood besides the piano and old Mr. Powell gave me a wink. It was strange seeing him there, sleeves rolled up, a half-empty tankard on top of his piano, his whole body swinging along with the music. He didn't look at all like he did Sundays when he taught me Sunday School. He was the only one of the church crowd to come into our saloon. Mama had stopped going the day the preacher told everyone how Papa was a vicious outlaw and a good for nothing who'd never know how to reform.<br /><br />Of course, some of the other people in town thought the same thing about Papa. But for most of us he was real hero. Sure, he sometimes took what didn’t belong to him. But he only did it to help the poor. He never kept anything for himself. And although, he was the best shot in the neighbourhood, he never killed or hurt anyone.<br /><br />“You have to be a good shot, if you’re gonna do what you have to do without hurting people son. It takes some shooting to frighten people without touching them.”<br /><br />I gave old Mr. Powell the thumbs up and was about to take a swig from his glass when I was whisked off my feet. It was Aunt Lilli and as she whirled around the floor with me, singing at the top of her voice I saw Mama raise her hands in that helpless way of hers. Lilli passed me on to one of the other girls, hitched up her skirt and started kicking up her legs. Everyone cheered at that; even Mama joined in.<br /><br />If a silence could come to an end with a crash, then that's what I'd say now. That's the way it seemed to me anyway. The piano jolted to a halt and Lilli collapsed onto the floor. She turned as pale as old Mr. Powell's hair. The girl I was dancing with dropped me. Every eye fixed itself on the front door. I scrambled to my feet. I wanted to see for myself. A large, dark shadow towered over me. A pair of dark boots came towards me and two massive hands grabbed around my waist. I was catapulted up into the air, but I wasn’t afraid now. I’d recognised his tattoos. As I fell back down, I wrapped my arms around his neck and shrieked:<br /><br />“Daaaaadddddeeeee!”Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08136225187552117043noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8917100109212171464.post-74594775417907324062011-01-28T11:42:00.002+01:002011-01-28T11:45:09.699+01:00Silent Permission<span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">This week's Fiction Friday prompt: </span><strong style="font-weight: normal; font-style: italic;">“It’s better to be safe than sorry.” Write a scene where this proves to be true for your character.</strong></span><br /><br />Richard slung the ropes over his shoulder and glanced up towards the administration block. Guilt? He wasn't sure. He certainly felt no guilt over what he was doing. Last year, he had acquiesced; this year was different. This year he hadn't asked permission, so he hadn't been given a refusal. Not that there could be any doubt as to what Gerald felt about the matter.<br /><br />To a certain extent Richard could understand Gerald's point of view.<br /><br />"The slightest mishap... it doesn't even have to be an accident and that would be the end of the school."<br /><br />He was right of course. And it was probably the best way to run a school. It was Gerald's way of doing things. But Richard was different. Nothing dared, nothing gained, that was his motto. It had almost broken his heart not to take the kids climbing last year. He'd even threatened cancelling the class weekend altogether.<br /><br />"After all, if the kids aren't allowed to take any risks..." Gerald knew him too well for that to work.<br /><br />So this year he didn't ask. He knew full well, it would cost him his job if it ever got out. He couldn't even plead coercion on the students' part. You don't just stumble upon a beginner's climbing cliff with all the correct equipment. But he accepted that. His reward would be to see the light in the students' eyes once they'd made it to the top. It was a once in a lifetime chance. Their little school could never afford to send a class to one of these innovative mountain centres that were springing up all over the country.<br /><br />He packed the last of the equipment into the back of the van and returned it to the car park. The students were already waiting and the kids piled in the moment he stopped. It took them just over an hour to reach the hut. They unloaded the van and were just starting to get kitted up when a small, green coupe came crunching up the drive.<br /><br />"Look, it's Mr. Sanders," cried out one of the kids. As Richard looked up and caught his eye, he knew the time had come to look for a new job.Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08136225187552117043noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8917100109212171464.post-47171016435815920402010-12-31T15:12:00.003+01:002010-12-31T15:17:50.772+01:00Anti-Resolutions<span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >Like some of my fellow Fiction Friday writers I don't go in for New Year resolutions, so here are some anti-resolutions... things I promise not to do.</span><br /><br />I will not mourn over Wales defeat to New Zealand in the Rugby World Cup final by going on a singing spree around every pub in the town. I'll do the singing spree the night before. And please note, I said singing not drinking. For Welshmen the two are incompatible. First we sing, afterwards we pursue other less important pleasures.<br /><br />I will not sacrifice any roast beef and Yorkshire pudding dishes to Eyjafjallajökull in a bid to appease him and try and prevent a repeat performance of last year's breakout in 2011. The resulting digestion would almost certainly prove to be counterproductive and bring about the cancellation of our holiday in Spain to visit our son who's studying there for one year.<br /><br />I will most certainly not start living up to my old fogey age by refusing to make a fool of myself at folk dances, sing songs etc.<br /><br />I will not back away from the annual "sing our anthem before the game" competition before the Wales v France game at our local pub just because my son will not be singing along beside me. Even if the French doubled the 19 people they put out last time, that still won't be a match for me alone. Besides, if the wind is right, we might even hear my son singing his head off in Spain.<br /><br />I will not give way to pressure to write a trashy, political novel filled with violence, sex and corruption. My imagination just could never do justice to what's actually happening.Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08136225187552117043noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8917100109212171464.post-58234474455616866132010-08-18T14:14:00.003+02:002010-08-18T14:20:31.506+02:00Don't Panic<span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >This week's 3WW words - grimace, phase, stumble.</span><br /><br />"Hi, is this seat free? Thanks... Phew glad I got through that safely, last time I was here I stumbled over the top step and fell. My briefcase burst open and my papers went flying all over the departure lounge... Eeeh, do you mind if I smoke."<br /><br />He followed the eyes of his newest neighbour and victim to the large white sign with a red circle around the circumference. Inside, a cigarette and a thick, diagonal, black stripe.<br /><br />"Oh, of course. Wouldn't do to smoke here, now would it. I'm Michael by the way, Michael Glasdon."<br /><br />No reply.<br /><br />"Aaare you flying for the first time? ... Well, there's nothing to worry about you know. They know their stuff, these pilots. They'll have in Mallorca in no time. Of course, there was that time the navigator left his map at home. We were in the air for three hours before anyone realised we should have landed half an hour ago. It was when I saw the river I realised we were going the wrong way. Still, from there it was easy. The pilot just had to turn the thing round and follow the river down to our destination. So we got there in the end."<br /><br />"At least, we're not late today. Not that I'm in a hurry but I do so hate waiting round. The worst part's once you get in the plane and are waiting for take-off. They have to put the plane through all these different phases before they let it loose. Mind you, good job they do to. I was in Africa once... didn't check on anything. Fastest take-off and landing you ever did see. We were in the air just one minute and twenty-two seconds. Turned out we were overloaded. Some bothersome official insisted on loading a truck full of goods into the hold. That's why we came down so quick. Perfect landing though. They're so well trained, pilots nowadays."<br /><br />"Would you like a polo? No! OK. Course, I love a polo myself, love sticking my tongue through the hole in the middle. Nothing like it. Hang on, I'm just going give those kids opposite some... Cheeky little blighter that little one. Offered him a polo and he poked his tongue out at me. Never had anyone give me a grimace like that before. Took the polo though. Mind you, mustn't suck a polo on the place. Dangerous with all that turbulence. Here I was one minute enjoying a nice little suck when my stomach came up into my head and the mind got lodged in the back of my throat. Turned green I did. My wife had to give me a good thump on the back to get the thing out. Said she should do it more often, but I've never had anything stuck since."<br /><br />"Here, look at the guy over there. There, look. Right in front of the phone boxes. Long grey hair, that's the one. Don't you think he looks a bit suspicious. Better keep an eye on him. Might be a terrorist. Never know, do you? That time I was flying to Moscow they had one. Mind you, never have noticed to look at him. Seemed perfectly normal. But when the police came to get to him, he swore at them in who knows what lingo. That's how they found out, he really was a terrorist. Thirty minutes more and the plane would have gone sky high. Not that anything like that is can happen to us, today."<br /><br />"No. With you around I'll be quite safe."<br /><br />"What's that? Did you say something."<br /><br />"Yes, I did. I said with you on the plane then the rest of us passengers will be quite safe. If anything's going to happen, then statistics dictate that it's going to happen to you. We're all in the clear."<br /><br />The wink he gave to the grimacing monster opposite was one of great relief at the sight of his panicking neighbour fleeing through the departure lounge as fast as his legs would carry him.Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08136225187552117043noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8917100109212171464.post-16419903351008231602010-08-13T14:06:00.002+02:002010-08-13T14:16:29.685+02:00Loud And Clear<span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">This week's Fiction Friday challenge: The conversation took off when Louise mentioned Bruce Willis.</span></span><br /><br />We had to wait almost ten minutes to get a seat under the parasol protecting us from the searing sun. We could have gone inside or even elsewhere but I was not going to miss my moment of glory. I'd waited three months for Louise to accept to go out with me and I didn't want to hide away from any passers-by.<br /><br />In the corner I saw some people get up and raced to claim the table. I pulled a seat back for Louise as she approached. She accepted without a word and I took a seat opposite. I was about to say how happy I was to be with her when the Perfect Stranger theme rang out of her bag. Without a word Louise glued her cell phone to her ear. The silence that followed was punctuated only by the occasional shot fired from her lips: a single word or two at best, presumably hitting its target as it took two or three minutes before the next shot rang out. My mind went back to the warning Ted had given me. Something about Louise not being right for me. To be honest I'd not paid that much attention. I wasn't going to let him spoil my afternoon.<br /><br />Over the next five minutes she shot out another few words whilst the server hovered in the background. I'd already waved him off twice and he was getting impatient. Several times I tried to get her attention before deciding to get her a glass of white wine. I took a nice, cold beer. I stared over the table at the face that had beguiled every member of our class since she arrived in April. The enticing, blue eyes seemed cold and distant today. A flicker of a smile appeared... something she'd heard, or did she notice me staring? It was not a welcoming smile. I raised my glass but again no reaction. It was another few minutes before the next volley rattled forth; louder, more questioning.<br /><br />"Bruce Willis...?"<br /><br />Now the conversation took off. Her voice softened. The occasional utterance built up to a steady stream. She was obviously warming to the subject... or to her partner. I was beginning to feel like number three in a proverbial crowd. With nothing to say, I soon finished my beer and got up to order another; just to give me something to do. I sat down again beer in hand. This time she actually acknowledged me, giving a thumbs up sign as she picked up her wine. I stared across at the gentle curves through the tight t-shirt she was wearing. Just an hour ago I'd persuaded myself, she'd worn it for me. Now I realised she had. Those words printed across the back:<br />My attitude your problem<br /><br />I got up and fished in my pocket for a few coins to pay my beers. She didn't even look up as I threw them on the table and walked away just in time. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Luap and Annie coming down the street. The last thing I wanted was for them to see me with Louise.Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08136225187552117043noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8917100109212171464.post-85684463140210508892010-08-11T18:58:00.002+02:002010-08-11T19:06:18.838+02:00A Kind Way Of Saying...<span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">This week's 3WW words: joke, leverage, remedy</span></span><br /><br />The jokes were flowing just as easily as the wine was. What more could we ask for: a clear, blue, a three-star picnic table, more than enough to drink, and the prospect of some excellent music ahead. I leant back in my chair, closed my eyes and tried to forget the cloud.<br /><br />Juliana crept up and put an end to my disquiet with a finger of comté: subtle and fruity With a touch of maturity. I nibbled the cheese down to Juliana's fingertips; with Robert here, I dare not go any further. I wondered if I would ever again have the opportunity...<br /><br />The fingers returned to wherever they had been previously and I sat up to see her flitting from one guest to the other. Juliana's parties were always special and this one had been perfectly stage-managed. To think that in just 24 hours...<br /><br />Juliana was an old friend and had been a client long before becoming an occasional mistress. And it hadn't taken me long to catch on to her game. The deal was simple. I kept the bank off their backs warning them only when their spending became critical. And I was a willing player even without the leverage she championed over me. In return, I got invited to all the best parties. I could indulge with impunity.<br /><br />I watched as Juliana got up to make her usual little speech. She didn't even know it would be her last. Everything blurred as my eyes started to water. This had all seemed so real. Was it just the circumstances that had changed? I tried to work out how to put it to them. Actually, I spent the past 24 hours trying to work out how not to have to put it to them. I clutched at any and every straw remedy that passed through my roaming mind. But the moment I got a grip on one, it slipped away I know not where. So tomorrow, I was going to have to tell them: all about the shareholders' dissatisfaction, the takeover, my getting replaced as manager. Can anyone think of a kind way of saying:<br /><br />"I'm afraid the first thing the new manager will do is an audit on all our accounts in the red. Bankruptcy is the inevitable consequence."Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08136225187552117043noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8917100109212171464.post-15301983330903671552010-07-23T12:54:00.002+02:002010-07-23T13:09:36.810+02:00A Tale Of Two Cultures<span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">This week's Fiction Friday prompt asks us to p</span><strong style="font-weight: normal; font-style: italic;">ick two established characters from your previous work and tell the story of their meeting.</strong><span style="font-style: italic;"> I've chosen Simon, my itinerant Irishman who finally settles down in France and Elizabeth who after a long voyage of self-discovery finally discovered her life was intricately linked up with Africa. Several years later...</span></span><br /><br />When he saw the drizzle outside, Simon began to have his doubts. He turned away from the window and glanced up at the fine grandfather clock in the corner of his salon. Just ten more minutes before the taxi came. Too late for doubts.<br /><br />He picked up the CD she'd given him when he'd met her at the airport yesterday evening: Mama Etta's Bongo Supreme.<br /><br />"They're really very good. They're the first band from Dahc to make it onto the world stage."<br /><br />He'd listened to a couple of the titles, just to say he had, should she ask. He placed the CD in the rack between underneath the Irish Folk section, making mental note to write a label for musique du monde. Strange how some expressions just refused to come to him now in English. The internal phone buzzed: the portier telling him the taxi was on its way. Passing in front of the mirror to straighten his tie, he picked up the bouquet and made his way out.<br /><br />They pulled up in front of the hotel some five minutes later and before he knew it an apparition in traditional African clothing came racing out of the hotel and opened the door to the taxi. How Simon stared. Her hair was made up in ringed sticks which stood out at angles from her head. He stared and stared not knowing what to think or say. He even forgot to make to make room for her to get into the taxi and she almost had to push him over.<br /><br />As she leaned across and gave him a peck on the cheek the bouquet of her perfume roused him. He took her hand with not quite his usual eagerness and pressed his lips to it. It was one of the most exquisite perfumes he had ever come across. She was obviously a connaisseur. Was that her one redeeming feature? Maybe things would work out okay. She was certainly a beautiful woman with her tall, straight figure and the fine features of her face. If only she wouldn't stop behaving like a child all the time. She was like a bottle of freshly opened Champagne, bubbling away with all her might as she babbled on at all there was to see. Was there no end to her enthusiasm.<br /><br />The taxi pulled up in front of the Arpège and Simon scuttled out and handed the Majeur d' the box containing the bouquet. He then opened the door for Elizabeth and taking her arm accompanied her inside.He was acutely aware that every eye was fixed on them as they made their way to the small private chamber he had ordered for the occasion. Would the table-talk revolve around her beauty or her outlandish appearance. Surely, Arpège had never seen anything like it. Was it his fault? Should he have prepared her? But how?They'd only met for the first time yesterday. True her letters had been full of Africa. But never once had he suspected anything like this.<br /><br />He lead her to their table and pulled the chair out for her, giving an almost imperceptible nod to the waiter. He had scarcely sat down himself when she started.<br /><br />"Oh Simon, you can't possibly imagine how I feel. It's all so heavenly like in a fairy story. Here in Paris, in the shadow of so much history. And all these wonderful things happening to me. Aaaah, yellow roses! My favourite colour. How on earth could you have known!"<br /><br />He blushed; whether out her embarrassment at her shriek or due to his stroke of luck with the roses, we shall refrain from enquiring. The waiter returned again, champagne bucket in hand.<br /><br />"Oh, what's that? I'm afraid I couldn't possibly drink that. I'm not a drinker. Seen to many lives ruined by it. I hope you don't mind, but I really don't drink." Her smile failed to penetrate.<br /><br />"This isn't drinking, it's Champagne. You can't possibly refuse Champagne."<br /><br />But it became perfectly obvious that that's what she intended doing and with a sigh he ordered her a bottle of Peregrinet - "Sparkling, if you please," she added.<br /><br />They chatted a while but somehow life had gone out of their conversation. Could this really be the vibrant lady he had been corresponding with these past months; he'd thought her so charming, so refined. And once they'd exchanged photos, he knew he had to meet her. Where had he gone wrong?<br /><br />The waiter brought in the dishes for the snails. She seemed puzzled.<br /><br />"Snails."<br /><br />"How wonderful." She clapped her hands together. "I love snails." But why all these dishes. What on earth are they for?"<br /><br />He opened his mouth and was about to give an explanation but thought better of it.<br /><br />"You ate snails in Dahc? So how did you prepare them?"<br /><br />"We chop them up in the lettuce, of course. How else can you prepare snails."<br /><br />He didn't bother answering. Was she really trying to tell him she ate raw snails straight from the garden? She obviously had no idea of how civilised people ate them. He helped her as well as he could. She didn't seem terribly keen on them. The waiter cleared up the dishes and reappeared with the dinner plates and an innumerable number of knives and forks. Elizabeth gave him an anxious smile.<br /><br />"I'm afraid you're going to have to help me. I'm just not used to all this finery. In Africa everything is far simpler. Most times use our fingers."<br /><br />Simon stared at her with disgust. Wiping his mouth with his serviette he leant forward:<br /><br />"Would you please excuse me a minute."<br /><br />He got up and left the room discreetly. He went immediately to the Majeur d' and whispered into his ear. The latter led him through into the manager's office. Before eclipsing, he paid the bill in full and left an additional sum: "For the lady to take a taxi back to her hotel." He may have been a coward but he was also scrupulously fair.Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08136225187552117043noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8917100109212171464.post-63516930340550916392010-07-21T12:09:00.002+02:002010-07-21T12:20:23.410+02:00Humiliation<span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Two for the price of one today as I've combined this weeks 3WW prompt (bait, jump, victim) with a writing exercise that appeared Monday one the </span><a style="font-style: italic;" href="http://writeanything.wordpress.com/2010/07/19/audioboo-10-line-writing-exercise/">Write Anything</a><span style="font-style: italic;"> site to write a story in just ten lines as follows:</span></span><ol style="font-style: italic;"><li><span style="font-size:85%;">describe the weather</span></li><li><span style="font-size:85%;">describe a sound</span></li><li><span style="font-size:85%;">describe an object</span></li><li><span style="font-size:85%;">update the weather</span></li><li><span style="font-size:85%;">describe a piece of clothing/ accessory</span></li><li><span style="font-size:85%;">update the sound</span></li><li><span style="font-size:85%;">using the object, write something about the mood of the scene</span></li><li><span style="font-size:85%;">describe an action or movement using the article of clothing or accessory</span></li><li><span style="font-size:85%;">describe a physical trait of one of the characters</span></li><li><span style="font-size:85%;">end with a single line of dialogue</span></li></ol><br />The red of the setting sun almost matched that of his cheeks. A snigger went through the room as he desperately sought to evade those eyes directed at him, the victim. He stared at the large at the pebble in front of him: round, smooth, a little jagged at the edges; the worm-like writing and that one single word - which had him baited. The sun was growing ever paler; he hoped his cheeks matched. The gleaming, red pen, bought for the occasion, remained motionless in his hand. Around him the sniggering had died down, replaced by the sound of concentration and the occasional scratch of pen on paper. In front of each writer, a pebble evoking memories of carefree days at the beach, sunshine, laughter; the nadir of the prevailing seriousness. His pen touched paper, jumping down the side of the page forming the letters C A D U Q U E S. He began filling in the lines of an acrostic when he noticed her eyes settle on him, their sparkle offering a thousand excuses, all the time seeking absolution for the guilt brought about by chance. His smile returned, he managed to pluck up courage enough to mouth the words:<br /><br />"How about a quiet drink together after class?"Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08136225187552117043noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8917100109212171464.post-6710677919508044922010-07-19T19:53:00.002+02:002010-07-19T20:00:03.513+02:00Homecoming<span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >This morning Jodi published an interesting <a href="http://writeanything.wordpress.com/2010/07/19/audioboo-10-line-writing-exercise/">writing exercise on the Write Anything blog</a>. Here's my attempt to do it justice. </span><br /><br />A glimmer of sun broke through the gloom of the drizzle as Ron rounded the corner; fourteen years and not a word from Mum or Dad. The sound of the train pulling out of the station slowly reached his ears. He raised his eyes seeking out the slightest hint of a once familiar rainbow over the family abode; the one he had not called home since the day of the announcement - the cries and the slamming still made him shudder. There it stood in all its splendour but as the rejuvenated sunlight slowly caressed its façade, he realised how much that splendour had succumbed to impinging time and ebbing attention.<br /><br />A familiar vibration in his pocket: he flicked open his shiny, new cellphone and smiled. A second train rolled through the station - the express down from Swansea: it didn't stop. He glanced up and shivered... still no rainbow; where was he to get the courage from, not even Jan's words had helped.<br /><br />He propped himself up against the oak tree half way up the road and his fingers began moving furiously. His tongue soon found its way through the pursed lips, much like the train emerging from the tunnel. With one short stab he hit the reply button:<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Can't go through with it; coming home. </span><br /></div>Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08136225187552117043noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8917100109212171464.post-8728411535931829242010-07-16T14:16:00.002+02:002010-07-16T14:20:27.184+02:00Small Town Investigation<p style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong style="font-weight: normal;">This story is inspired by this week's Fiction Friday prompt: Use a McGuffin in your story. </strong><em>McGuffin: An object or person in a movie that has no use other than to drive the narrative forward. (originally coined by Alfred Hitchcock)</em></span></p><br />It wasn't much of a case. And the paycheck promised to be even smaller. But everyone has to begin somewhere. One day I'd be as famous as Philip Marlowe and Sam Spade, or maybe even all those aristocratic English detectives put together. When that day comes I'll be able to take on whateverc cases I chose. But for now, I take whatever comes my way. Not that this case actually came my way. It would be closer to the truth if I said, I went riding into it. But since I've always been somewhat econimical with truth, then we'll stick by that expression.<br /><br />I first went riding into Sdoowkcab because one of my old school sweets had sent out what you might call an SOS. Seemed like Annie moved out there soon after she left Homeville and married a local dignitary with a lot of money. He died about a year back leaving her a very rich lady. Well, now she was convinced that someone was after her and she wanted me to come down and protect her. She said, she'd make it worth my while. And when I remembered the good times we'd had together, I figured I knew what she meant by that. But nothing ever came of it. By the time I rode into Sdoowkcab - and yes it was as hard to find as it is to say - Annie was one stone dead woman, and I had myself a case to solve.<br /><br />I reckoned the best place to start was with the mayor out there. My problem was that I didn't know him nor his office and there was no one about to ask. At this hour, even the saloon had not yet opened up for business. But perched on a pole right in front was one of the strangest looking parrots, you ever did see. He gave a mighty screech when he saw me, but he let me approach no problem.<br /><br />"Well now, you the only thing round here, huh? ... So, you ain't talking huh. Now if you were a human, I'd consider that somewhat suspicious, but I guess, you're just not a talking parrot. Wonder if you could show me where I can get to see the mayor."<br /><br />Behind me a door opened and a bucket sloshed it's way onto the hardened earth. Whoever it was threw it had retreated but the door stayed open. I wondered over and just as I did so the parrot gave a sqauwk and flew off above my head. At the open door I called out and a lady appeared.<br /><br />"Well Maam, sorry for disturbing you like this, but I was just wondering where I could get hold of the mayor of this here town?"<br /><br />In reply, she signalled with her head above and behind me and I turned to see the parrot sitting on a balcony rail. So the damn thing had understood me after all. As well as that my luck was in because the mayor was in his office and received me at once.<br /><br />"Well, what can I be doing for you, Mr...?"<br /><br />"Braak, Sir. John Braak."<br /><br />I showed him the letter. His eyebrows pulled together as he read.<br /><br />"I was wondering if you could shed any light..."<br /><br />"Yes, I can Mr. Whateveryousayyournameis. I can tell you that there's nothing suspicious here and if I were you I'd get out of town as soon as possible. Folks round here don't like people prying into their comings and goings, especially outsiders like you. Miss Annie's death was just an unfortunate accident. We looked into it thoroughly what with her husband having met such an unfortunate death and all that. But we found nothing. Besides, there was no motive. No one here wanted her dead. Why should they?"<br /><br />Just then, the parrot gave another squawk and planted itself right in front of us on the mayor's desk, flapping its wings.<br /><br />"Pretty fine fine bird you've got there. I guess a parrot like that could reveal a lot if it could say anything; kinda like a dumb witness."<br /><br />"Dumb's the word, Mr. It's not uttered a word since I've been here. And it's certainly not mine. Just hangs around town. And now Mr. Ahhh, if you don't mind, I've got..."<br /><br />But the parrot didn't give him a chance to finish whatever he had to say. With a whoosh and squawk, he went sailing away. It was waiting for me when I got out onto the street and immediately started fluttering away. This time I followed it through the streets and out onto one of the many prairies surrounding the town. He stopped at a small outhouse about a mile out of town. I hadn't a clue why it had brought me here but I figured it wasn't as dumb as people were saying. It had a flair for detective work, so if it brought me here, there must be some reason for it. I went inside and looked around. The place was empty but underneath one of the windows there was a dark blot that looked like it was blood.<br /><br />"So that's why you brought me here. Is this where Annie died."<br /><br />The parrot was on the sill and it looked me direct in the eyes. It didn't say a word. It didn't have to. I knew I was on the right track. Together we started to nosing around, digging up a few bits and pieces when the parrot gave another screech and I saw it was picking away at something shiney. I prised it from the ground and saw it was a gold ring. I cleaned it up a bit and examined it carefully. The name Joel was inscribed inside.<br /><br />Another look at the parrot. "Do you know this guy, Joel?" I put the ring flat on my hand and he took it in its beak before flying back off to town without stopping. But I wasn't worried. We too had developped a rapport. That's the only way you can do detective work. Find yourself a helper and build up a rapport. The parrot was waiting for right in front of the saloon, the ring sitting on the top step. I picked it up and put it quickly in my pocket before anyone could see. I must be getting pretty close to my prey now, so I didn't want to give anything away. I went in, the parrot on my shoulder. All eyes turned on me as I shimmied up to the bar.<br /><br />"Scotch. Make it a double. On the rocks."<br /><br />"You, a stranger round here."<br /><br />"Yeh, just passing through from the east."<br /><br />"So you won't be staying long then?"<br /><br />It sounded more like a threat than a question. I obviously must be on the right track. I took my scotch.<br /><br />"Your health... and mine."<br /><br />There was a screech from my shoulder and the parrot started hopping round on top of the bar and just as suddenly took off through the open window and out into the street. The barman gave a smile.<br /><br />"Looks like your partner's cut and run."<br /><br />But I didn't pay any attention. I was way too occupied trying to figure out what I should do now to hear the shot. And I hadn't a clue where it came from. Not that that really matters now. The shot certainly proved beyond doubt that I was on the right track. It was just a bit too late to do anything about it now.Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08136225187552117043noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8917100109212171464.post-31644608209814474502010-07-14T20:05:00.003+02:002010-07-14T20:11:22.206+02:00Forward Or Back<span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: 130%; font-style: italic;"></span><span style="font-style: italic;">gentle, praise, vulgar</span> are this week's 3WW words. So settle back for a little allegory this week.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span>As Alabanzo grew older, he began to wonder whose praise his writing was meant to glorify. His first poems and stories reflected the innocence of the teenager he was: white characters against backgrounds whose shades but occasionally darkened his canvas. Doubtless, a reflection on the simple but loving upbringing Alabanzo had experienced in the small village which wasn't but which could have been called Paradiso. The world seemed so straightforward in those days.<br /><br />Even when he left home to begin his studies, things hadn't changed much. The worlds he portrayed now contained big, black splodges. Even he could now see that the world of Paradiso was not to be encountered everywhere. Yet light was predominant in his stories, a vaccinating light, protecting and never failing to banish darkness.<br /><br />At university, his reputation as a writer with talent grew. But, said his teachers, you need to look the world in the eye; most of this stuff is far too sentimental to be of much use. But the girls liked it. And Alabanzo began to like the girls. Passion, desire, and elation rose up from this heart of light lifting him to new dimensions. But alongside such feelings came those of envy, chagrin, anger and obsession as he had to fight to obtain a prize much yearned after. Yet, he couldn't write about any of these. They just didn't fit into any world he could imagine; he had no idea how to represent them.<br /><br />Salvation came with Doucette. A fellow student she dripped her way into his life, dampening those passions which were threatening to tear him apart. Gentle was the only word he could find to describe everything about her appearance, her manner, her deeds, even the way she had invaded her soul. Not for her the passion others had provoked within him. Here was sweet assurance, benign light, placid contemplation. The world was whole again and Alabanzo wrote with a joy hitherto unfelt.<br /><br />Their life together followed the regular rhythm of the drum accompanying the onward progression of a tortoise battling its way through the many obstacles on its upward progression. They themselves, however, had very few obstacles to overcome. Alabanzo's writing was received with enthusiasm by tutors and readers alike. And interaction with others made him realise that the world was not quite the paradise he had once thought. His work began to sell and people praised the optimism which shone forth from his pen. He was soon earning a small but steady income and he married Doucette. Once again, all was well in the best of worlds and continued so for many years.<br /><br />Indeed, it might have continued so for the rest of his life, were it not for the monotony perfection brings. Alabanzo was growing tired of churning out the same kind of work day in day out. He wanted to widen his wings, take in something different. But whenever he went to the bookstore, all he could find was the type of vulgar novel from which he had freed all his life. "Who on earth would read such drivel?" he commented to Doucette one night. She responded with another of her saintly smiles. Monotony soon gave way to a broader dissatisfaction when Alabanzo discovered the drivel, as he put it, was actually selling a lot better than his own work. Not that they needed any extra money, they had more than enough and no desire for more. But the thought that readers were preferring vulgarity to the sublimity he had to offer them was too much. Envy soon found a small chink in his armour and began to lay siege to his thoughts. The resulting dissatisfaction was a severe test he fought hard to counter.<br /><br />Then came the day of the village dance. Alabanzo and Doucette never spent more than a few minutes together at such occasions. They turned up to show they were not totally cut off from what was going on around them, but rarely gained anything worthwhile from the experience. This year, however, Alabanzo was alone, Doucette having returned to her native village to help prepare her younger sister's wedding. Ever since her departure envy was having a field day with Alabanzo's thoughts, conjuring up various promises of excitement against which Alabanzo had little resistance to offer. In a desperate bid to find some sort of peace of mind, he had considered not going, or, at least just putting in an even more token appearance than usual, or certainly not staying for longer than the first dance. And as he had never liked dancing anyway, the rest would be easy.<br /><br />And it most certainly would have been, were it not for Tawdria. Tawdria was far from the most beautiful woman in the village. In the cold light of day, few would give her a second look. But done up in her finery with gaiety all around him she was the most hunted treasure<br /><br />Hiding behind all the modesty she could muster, she held out her little finger to Alabanzo. Just the one dance he thought and then off home. They whirled around the floor and became the object of many tongue among those present. Alabanzo was spellbound when they stopped and was so glad when she leaned over and whispered into his ear. Never had words created such a tempest in his mind. She curled her little finger around his and led him away from the assembly, urging him on with promises of such enchantment. He followed her willingly and they soon came to the edge. She slipped his arm around her waist and soon they were looking out over the cliff into a future that sparkled with exhilaration. Just one more step. But would he go forwards or back?Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08136225187552117043noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8917100109212171464.post-66046798605330138952010-07-08T18:12:00.004+02:002010-07-09T12:15:30.489+02:00KaleidoscopeKaldeidscope<br /><br />Lucy couldn't help wondering if a third of a bullet would kill. That would save her having to chose who would die. She stared at the newspaper lying in front of her. <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Now or never.</span> The words began to swim around in her mind, the letters kaleidoscoping, creating in her mind new forms but always coming back to that law inscribed in stone which was to govern her day. She'd never been one to set much store in horoscopes, but today was different. Today, it spoke to her heart, urging her to action. The toss of the coin confirmed what she had to do.<br /><br />The strains of <span style="font-style: italic;">Dany Boy</span> poured out from the loudspeakers above the bookcase. Her eyes rested on Luke's photo, cropped into the top of her mirror. Those sparkling eyes which had sent her such a clear message. How she'd wanted to believe it was meant for her; the champagne of her heart overflowing when she'd realised, it was. The unbound joy as they whirled together across the floor gave way yet again to the letters swirling around before yet again settling on their final absolute form: <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Now or never.</span> There was no escape.<br /><br />That grasping bitch, Julie! Why couldn't she keep her hands to herself? What right had she to steal Luke from him? Now she would pay. Finding her would be easy. They'd be at tonight's ball. Where Lucy should have been... in his arms.<br /><br />She studied the gun in her hand. "A lady's gun...," that's what the man had said. She was glad, he'd asked no questions. But she had just one bullet. "Luke! Live or die? The one bullet decides."<br /><br />She lifted the gun towards the photo, took aim... and squeezed. There was a shattering of glass as the mirror disintegrated into a profusion of words spewing forth from his lips... worthless words, as unfaithful as his own.Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08136225187552117043noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8917100109212171464.post-71642793836693316042010-07-07T15:32:00.002+02:002010-07-07T15:37:17.743+02:00Last night I dreamt...Determined. That's how my parents knew me. From my early teens onwards I must have given them a pretty rough time. More than made up for my tepid big sister, who's still never kissed a boy or smoked a cigarette in all her 17 years.<br /><br />But determination doesn't have to be destructive. I learnt that when I finally learnt that my parents weren't quite the bane I'd always taken them for. True, their ideas are somewhat archaic at times. My dad is still proud of the fact that he never made out with my mum before they were married. But sometimes what they say contains some slight modicum of sense. Actually, and I want to make it clear that I'm not admitting to this publicly, but if I put their advice on the scale of good or bad, it would very definitely lean to one side more than the other.<br /><br />So, if determination does not have to be destructive, I'm issuing notice right now to all my teachers everywhere... you know who you were because of the acrid taste that rises up whenever you hear my name... I'm going to show you what I can do. Leave school with top marks, off to university and with my degree in the bag it's your jobs I'll be after.Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08136225187552117043noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8917100109212171464.post-72903319528244313182010-07-04T18:06:00.002+02:002010-07-04T18:09:55.672+02:00Riddle<span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">This week's Sunday Scribblings prompt is 'me,' begging the question who am I?</span></span><br /><br />She knew, he'd been working on one last project. She knew he'd wanted to keep it secret. "When it's ready," he'd say. There's just so many things going round in my mind, I have to sort things out. The next day, he was no longer. All that was left, were the letters and the safe where the manuscript was kept. At first, she'd wondered whether she should. But how couldn't she? Resistance had never been her forte. But what she saw surprised even her. Not one but five different manuscripts. Each one bearing the same title; each one bearing one single letter for the author's name. It was only when she went back to the letters that she realised what he had done. He had sold his memoirs to five different publishers; a manuscript had been prepared for each one. But this was no fraud; each manuscript was different. Each looked at the world through the eyes of the man she had called husband. Five answers to the same riddle.Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08136225187552117043noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8917100109212171464.post-15505940514830425702010-07-03T09:25:00.002+02:002010-07-03T09:31:06.815+02:00CourageHenri wasn't sure why he'd stopped to read the notice pasted on the back wall of the bus stop. But having read it once, he seemed to be drawn to it so that even the most casual observer couldn't help but notice this strange compulsion. Moreover, the notice seemed to be haunting him. Whenever anyone said something to him, he stared right through them with his grey eyes, taking up to a minute before acknowledging whatever was said.<br /><br />Being new to the village I was naturally intrigued by his behaviour. Moreover, Henri was one of the few villagers who hadn't taken me up on my offer of a free 10 minutes consultation - a bid to get my new practice off to a good start.<br /><br />I myself had taken some interest in some interest in the notice. As yet, I knew very few people here; a barbecue and dance would be an excellent opportunity to go about making some friends. But what did Henri find so intriguing.<br /><br />It was Annie who filled me in on his background. Seemed she used to do some cleaning up at their house during the better times. 'The better times' was Annie's shorthand for the period before his wife walked out on him. "Ran off with a good for nothing conman who'd persuaded her he owned half the state. Maybe, he did 'n all as far as I know. But he was bad news that guy, that I do know. Walked out on him right on his birthday Doctor, and he's never been the same since. Sure, he did try to get his life back in order. Set up a transport company exactly one year after; got a really good contract from the old steelworks down behind the canal. He invested heavily but they never paid. When he went to court, they declared bankruptcy. He lost everything. Had to move to one of the terraces. Remember I took him a cake the day he moved, bring some birthday cheer and all that. But never asks me to clean now. Never asks anyone anything now."<br /><br />To my surprise Henri turned up at the barbecue. Judging by the whispers I wasn't the only one surprised. He was standing silently beside the festive pole when the village Mayor clapped a hand on his shoulder:<br /><br />"Happy birthday, Henri. How are you holding up?" The only reply he got was a pair of raised eyebrows as Henri turned away. He reminded me of a dog we'd once had. Such a beautiful creature, he'd been the pride of the family. I remember I'd have given anything to be allowed to take him off to college with me. But when I came home for vacation the spark had gone out of him. Shortly after the vet suggested... at his age it was only normal.<br /><br />Henri was still in the prime of life, but the spark had gone out him. He must have been a handsome, imposing man... once. But now, there was just that droop. The music started up and I was pushed along with the masses. A hand grabbed me from the right, another from the left and around we whirled. And as the band started a little jig, I twisted inside and out, from one partner to the other. One, two, three, four, five, six... and I found myself standing in front of Henri. I more or less had to place myself in his arms, so surprised he was to find himself with a dancing partner, but once we got going he led with assurance. My thoughts too were in a whirl but I was glad when he kept hold of me when the music stopped and we set off on a second adventure of the evening.<br /><br />After the first round of dances the barbecue was lit and Henri beat a hasty retreat before I could say anything. But I could help notice the occasional glance he cast me from across the square. Once I smiled back and I'm sure I detected a brief spark light up his eyes before he turned away.<br /><br />I ate with a group of people who lived in the same street as me. From where I was sitting, I couldn't see Henri, but my mind kept coming back to him. The moment the band started up and the next dance was announced, I pushed my way through to the edge of the dance floor. There was Henri standing alone by the festive pole. When he saw me, he seemed to hesitate. Would he dare? He took two steps forward but then moved quickly to the drinks table. He picked up a glass and hesitated between the bottle of water and the whisky. I watched with bated breath as our future hung in the balance. I saw him pour and swallow and by the time he'd turned round, I was already in the arms of the young man standing next to me whom I'd asked to dance. The last thing I needed was a man who took his courage from a bottle.Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08136225187552117043noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8917100109212171464.post-44670180435457332452010-06-27T16:15:00.001+02:002010-06-27T16:24:52.431+02:00Thirty Minutes"Thirty minutes," added Luap as he continued his letter to the life-change fairy. "It mustn't be a minute more; that would be detrimental to our cause. But for thirty minutes..."<br /><br />Luap closed his eyes and tried to imagine the sights, sounds and smells inside the dressing rooms. The pungent odour of ointment as the players rubbed themselves down. The banter designed to provide an outlet for the big-match tension. The back slapping as the players make their way to the tunnels. And then the deafening roar as the doors open and he jogs out onto the pitch alongside his fourteen or more colleagues and looks up at the thousands of waving dragons, voices raised in song.<br /><br />Then, the deafening silence. The two teams line up. The first hymn for the visitors, a sign of respect Luap thinks only fitting. Yet he can scarcely wait for the moment which finally comes. Those introductory notes echoing around the stadium and then he opens his mouth and sings his heart out as his soul rises to the highest heights of whichever heaven habours anthem-singing rugby players.<br /><br />Luap's dream is over all too quickly. The game is beginning. Good job he only asked for thirty minutes, because once the game starts...<br /><br />His piece finished, Luap reflected a while before again putting pen to paper...<br /><br />"Dear life-change fairy, should you by any chance be an avid Sunday Scribbling reader, please don't forget me."Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08136225187552117043noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8917100109212171464.post-22293189318276797032010-06-24T18:35:00.002+02:002010-06-24T18:40:10.637+02:00Compensation<span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">For this week's Fiction Friday we have to write about a telepathic parrot.</span></span><br /><br />Most people just do not realise how tough it is being a psychic parrot. To be quite honest, it was something I myself had never thought about until I met Polypus. He came to see me in answer to an ad he'd read in Parroting Away.<br /><br />“So, you say, you can cure all sorts of psychic ailments, so how about curing me.”<br /><br />“Well, if you told me what was wrong, that would be a start.”<br /><br />He fixed me with his eyes, inviting me to share his thoughts. It was only now I realised I had to do with a telepathic parrot; a most interesting case, one I’d never come across before.<br /><br />“So what is wrong with being telepathic?”<br /><br />Once again his thoughts came through loud and clear. His problem was not with his capacities but with his incapacities. Or should I say with one particular incapacity. People with psychic powers usually compensate in some other area of their lives. And Polypus’ real problem was that he couldn’t talk. Of course, all parrots are somewhat limited here, but Polypus had special problems. All he could manage were a few unconnected stutters. The tension between his gift and his incapacity took a great toll on Polypus.<br /><br />“Sometimes I feel like it’s best to end it all. I remember watching a little girl playing. Danger was present and I flew at once to her mother but all that came out was ‘eeehp eeehp!’ She at once sensed the danger but thought it was from me, so she took a swipe at me with her handbag. Then she got up, packed the little girl by the hand and went off. Well, at least she saved her from…”<br /><br />Poor Polypus really needed help. He was on the border of a nervous breakdown. But how to help him, I’d never had a case like this before. I sent him away telling him to return three days later. In the meantime I had some research to do.<br /><br />It was the next night that things came to a head. I had just finished some extremely interesting reports by a specialist who claimed to have eliminated telepathic powers in well over half of his patients when Polypus cry of anguish and help came through. I was picking up his vibes loud and clear, so set off at once. Within minutes I was winging my way through the empty streets and it wasn’t long before I could here Polypus screeching, “AAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH DDDDDDD NEN NEN NEN.”<br /><br />I alighted on the ledge of the open window and looked in. What a sight. There was blood everywhere. Several anxious-looking policemen were standing round a body on the floor. And there was Polypus both feet planted on the dead woman’s breast, seemingly pecking away at a hole in the dead woman’s shirt, repeating the same screeching noise I had heard on my way. The moment I alighted he flew up and joined me on the ledge. One of the policemen gave a sigh of relief.<br /><br />“Thank heaven, we’ve got a rid of that crazy parrot.” But there was more danger than relief in the look he gave us so I thought it best to get away from there as soon as possible. We alighted on the branch of a nearby oak tree. Trying to get some sense out of Polypus, however, proved extremely difficult. Eventually, he calmed down and after a couple of my extra special soul massages, he began to explain what was wrong.<br />The body on the floor was that of his owner. It seemed she had poisoned that night by her good for nothing nephew who had wanted to squeeze yet more of her savings to fund his many debaucheries. When she refused, he hit her with one of the silver candlesticks sitting on the table. Polypus saw it all. He was the only eye witness.<br /><br />“But they’ll find his fingerprints on the candlestick.”<br /><br />“Not a chance. He packed them both up and took them off with him. He went straight to the station and got on the train to London. I followed him and saw it all. And they’ll never find him. He’d been away for months; no had a clue where he was. His turning up was a complete surprise.”<br /><br />“So he’ll get off scot-free?”<br /><br />“Not if I can help it, he won’t. That’s what I was trying to tell those policemen, but those idiots couldn’t understand me. You see, he made a big mistake. When he tried to take her money by force, the old lady put up a real fight and he had to bite her in the shoulder to subdue her. That means we can find out who he is. I was reading all about it just a few days ago. It’s something called A D N. It leaves a trace and they can find you, even if no one ever suspected you of being within a hundred miles of the scene. That’s why I was pointing to the hole with my beak. I was trying to explain to the policemen.”<br /><br />Once again I heard Polypus’ screeching when I arrived: “AAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH DDDDDDD NEN NEN NEN.” I stared into his eyes and he was soon calm enough to try and understand what I wanted to tell him.<br /><br />“Will you really do that… for me?”<br /><br />“I’ll try,” I replied blushing. Maybe, this telepathy business was going a little too deep. “After all, my old mistress took me to elocution lessons when I was small. I learnt to talk with the most Oxford of accents.”<br /><br />We flew off together but I managed to persuade Polypus to keep his distance. That policeman looked like he’d lovingly throttle any parrot’s neck he could get his hands on. I flew up to the window. There were a couple of plain-clothes officers<br /><br />I held my head high, took a deep breath and let out the most perfect rendering of A D N you’ve ever heard, brushing my wing lightly across the teeth marks in the blouse. The two policemen looked at each other with amazement before moving across the room and picking up the phone.<br /><br />Psychic parrot peeper counfounds murderer<br /><br />ran the next day’s headline. We were overjoyed and went on a celebratory flight right around the park before ending up in the fountain to cool off. That's when Polypus surprised me by lifting his wing gently over my head. And despite my misgivings over a partner that could read into the heart of one's very thoughts, I said Y E S with my very best Oxford accent.Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08136225187552117043noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8917100109212171464.post-57801241409582681262010-06-23T08:57:00.004+02:002010-06-23T18:35:42.854+02:00Au Revoir J-M<span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Some seven years ago an impertinent Brit took it upon himself to join a writing group in the small French town he had just moved to. His hope was to get to know new people, to enjoy doing something he'd always been tempted by but never seriously put his hand to, and perhaps even improve his French a little bit.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">That was my first encounter with J-M. The first evening did not begin promisingly. Every participant had to write a word on a pebble and pass it on to someone else. I can't remember what I wrote but I cannot forget the word I received. I had no idea what it meant and J-M was adamant. I was not allowed to ask. So I wrote an acrostic using the word and trying to describe my feelings. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Last night after seven years writing together, we said good-bye to J-M. He's moving on to fresher pastures, or should that read trees, after all he is a forester. So my 3WW post this week is a tribute not only to a fantastic writer but also a true friend. And because he loves haikus...</span><br /></span><br />What did you imply<br />With that prompt, we ask, but you<br />Just shrug your shoulders<br /><br />Up to us to tell<br />Your virtue, not to impose;<br />Leave us free to create<br /><br />To find our own voice<br />Not feigning what we cannot<br />imitate or bluffPaulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08136225187552117043noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8917100109212171464.post-497969705369002302010-06-16T19:33:00.002+02:002010-06-16T19:36:50.315+02:00Headline Fun<span style="font-weight: bold;">No trace of erased meadow phantom</span><br /><br />Museum officials are still trying to piece together events that lead to one of our city's greatest art treasures losing its meadow. Officials say they are studying CCTV footage of the room in question but nothing suspicious has been noted. As a result the mayor has ordered authorities to conduct a house to house search of all those known to have been in the museum during the course of the morning. Said a spokesman for the mayor:<br /><br />"A meadow is hardly something you can keep hidden for a long time, so we are confident that it will soon be restored to its rightful place."<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Phantom eraser traced to meadow hideout?</span><br /><br />Police say an anonymous tip-off could be the breakthrough they are looking for in the so-called phantom meadow theft. Police raided a country shed in the early hours of the morning after a member of the public complained about 'mooing noises' coming from a man's briefcase. Police using tracker dogs followed the case's progress to the hut - a popular site for partying students and courting couples. The briefcase contained several packets of 'La Vache Qui Rit' - a popular French cheese. A police spokesman admitted that no trace of the meadow had been found in the hut but said a thorough search of the surrounding countryside was in progress and that several members of the cattle fraternity were helping the police with their inquiries.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Artist erased meadow traces with special ink</span><br /><br />Peter Alchem, a local art student has been charged with Mr. Alchem was traced after failing to erase fingerprints from a briefcase he used in a failed bid to place suspicion onto local farmers. According to reports Mr. Alchem used a special ink developed by his girlfriend to make the meadow disappear. Unconfirmed reports suggest that Mr. Alchem has now himself disappeared following a visit by his girlfriend. While police refused to confirm these reports the Mayor of Meadowhill berated police promising a very full and public inquiry.Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08136225187552117043noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8917100109212171464.post-51918309252428831312010-06-04T19:40:00.002+02:002010-06-04T19:44:19.444+02:00The Eye Of The StormHarley crawled out of his master's office office, tail between his legs. Some 5 minutes later Francis appeared in the doorway. It took an expert eye to distinguish between man and dog, both victim's of the director's sabre-like tongue. Harley watched Francis make his way towards the exit wondering whether it would be safe to try and reclaim his basket underneath his master's desk. One thing he had learnt from the experience. Never again would he attempt to show any sympathy for someone who was evidently not in his master's good books.<br /><br />As for Francis, he hung about the front of the building unsure what to do. When he saw two of his now former colleagues coming up the street, he crossed the road and slipped into the park. The bench under the oak tree was free. Francis liked this spot. The tree's large overhanging branches always welcomed him with open arms. Today, more sinister connotations came to his mind; the branch creaking under the strain of a rope and the his body mass.<br /><br />His mind went back to the request... his initial hesitation, his students' enthusiasm and that conversation with Joy.<br /><br />"It's a fantastic idea. It's right up your street."<br /><br />"But I don't want to visit Paris. It's just one big, sprawling metropolis. What on earth would we do there? Besides, the students all want a trip which will bring them into contact with English speakers. They don't want hotels and museums. I'd much rather take them to Gensdouce. It's got some beautiful countryside and I could arrange meetings with various groups every day. That would be ideal."<br /><br />"Well, why not do that then."<br /><br />"I'm not sure what Ian would say."<br /><br />"Never mind Ian. It's your students that count. You're doing this for them, not for Ian."<br /><br />"But he is the centre's director. I can't just go behind his back."<br /><br />"And you're the best French teacher the centre's ever had. The figures speak for themselves. Just go and tell him what you intend doing and why."<br /><br />And he had. Ian had not been happy. Not at first. It was all a question of prestige. Compared to Paris, Gensdouce was nothing but a backwater tucked away in the mountains. But for once, Francis stuck to his guns and Ian acquiesced.<br /><br />"But I'm warning you, if anything goes wrong, I'll hold you personally responsible. French teachers are two a penny round here, you know."<br /><br />But what should go wrong. Organising the journey was easy enough with Joy's expert knowledge. And she even managed to get them an extra 10% discount on top of the usual group rate. Ian had been impressed. And once the number of participants topped twenty, he had even begun telling people what a great idea he'd had: praise indeed from one of the town's most selfish bastards. And he was even there to film as the group of twenty-five people set out on the first leg of their week-long trip. Everyone was so happy, they'd paid no attention to headline that was soon to throw everything into disarray. Besides, they'd never heard of Eyjafjallajökull before. What harm could he do them.<br /><br />In the end they'd waited three days at the airport before calling off their trip. And the return was far from the joyful triumph anticipated just a few days earlier. Hardly had the bus stopped, Ian made it quite clear to Francis that he would have to pick up the bill for the flop from his own salary. Francis tried to object but soon realised it was pointless. The disciplinary hearing was fixed for Thursday at 3 pm. But it never met. Realising most of its members kowtowed to Ian, Francis handed in his resignation letter to an astonished and furious Ian. Facing up to this tirade had badly shaken his confidence. But he'd pulled it off. And it had been worth it. Ian's power had been broken. And he would turn up Monday morning for his new appointment without the slightest regret.Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08136225187552117043noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8917100109212171464.post-80350668989878444902010-06-02T17:15:00.002+02:002010-06-02T17:18:09.245+02:00Success<span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">This week's 3WW words: budge, nimble, theory</span></span><br /><br />This is the worst scenario imaginable. I'm sitting here at my desk and I don't know what to write. Does that happen often? Of course not! I don't write often enough for it to be a common occurrence. Not like my brother. He's forever complaining about writer's block and such nonsense. But then, he's forever writing. Me, you can't get me to budge unless inspiration first comes flying overhead and sprinkles a few drops of her precious liquid into my inkwell. I guess you could call it the only-way-to-sure-success theory. And unti now, it has stood me in good stead. Not one of my sure-to-be-published works has come in for the slightest criticism. And I feel they never will. Now for a writer, that's success.<br /><br />So what went wrong today? Why has inspiration passed by and left me with nothing. I could, I suppose, go into all the reasons for today's failure. But as I'm not any kind of soul-soother and haven't enough parchment and ink to elucidate all the different theories which passed through my head during my most recent bout of staring at the paper then I guess I'd better not. Besides, were I to do so, it would make my fingers almost as nimble as my brother's. And what would that do to my always dreaming of greatness reputation? So please excuse me and permit me to roll back into my furry, little ball for another week. Who knows, if inspiration is still out there, maybe she'll smile on me again. In which case you can read the results in next week's 3WW. But don't bank on it. And for those of you in need of a reading fix right now, you can always try reading one of brother William's plays. They're quite well known and available from all irreputable printers.Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08136225187552117043noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8917100109212171464.post-80911809065037207522010-05-26T18:10:00.002+02:002010-05-26T18:12:30.354+02:00Unsuspecting<span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">This week's words: abandon, gradual, precise</span></span><br /><br />Finding that tie was the last thing I'd expected. But I was even less prepared for Linda's reaction when I got into work. Maybe it had nothing to do with the tie. Maybe she'd had it in for me anyway. The tie had just proved to be a convenient excuse, setting into motion a chain of events which I still have difficulty understanding.<br /><br />To be quite honest I'd been rather chuffed at finding the tie - a birthday present from my first girlfriend. I'd worn it at my first interview and got the job. Putting it on that morning I felt its magic was bound to rub off. Maybe Linda would at last say yes to that dinner engagement I'd been pestering her over.<br /><br />In fact, she didn't say a word. She just stood there staring. And when I asked her to type some letters I'd dictated, she fled the office in tears. She still wasn't back when the personnel director phoned about an hour later. In her precise, telegraphic style she informed me Linda no longer wanted to work for me. She was being transferred to customer service. Now it was my turn to blow my top. That earned me a call from the managing director. If I couldn't learn to control my temper, then I could look for a new job elsewhere. I agreed and thanked him for handing me back my freedom, before I realised what I'd done.<br /><br />I was out of the office before lunch. The personnel director wished me luck in finding a new place; probably suspected I'd come crawling back if I didn't. I shot over to the other side of town before deciding on anything to eat. Couldn't face the prospect of all those questions my now former colleagues just couldn't wait to ask.<br /><br />So what happened, I hear you ask. I'm asking the very same question, staring into the bottom of my glass for the answer. I hope it comes soon, before I'm tempted to fill up again. I see Julie's reflection in there. The lopsided smile she had whenever she was pleased... like that day she gave me the tie; her eyes, round and black, always looking as if she couldn't quite trust me. And I'd proved her right. Only a coward would have abandoned her the way I did.<br /><br />As I watched a gradual feeling of familiarity crept over me. I couldn't put a finger on it but it was almost as if I'd seen her somewhere recently. That, I knew to be impossible. They'd invited me to the funeral but I'd not been able face it.<br /><br />I continued to stare, continued to wonder. The waitress passed once, twice... The third time I ordered another - a double. It would give me more time to think. In the end it stayed untouched on the table as the truth suddenly hit me between the eyes. Julie Wilson... a common name. So common, I'd not once connected her with Ms. Linda Wilson who had been my secretary for the past three months. What had Julie said... her sister had helped her pick the tie out.Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08136225187552117043noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8917100109212171464.post-15983210600134740892010-05-19T17:49:00.002+02:002010-05-19T17:52:06.273+02:00Close Encounters<span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">This week's 3WW words are dread, grasp, pacify. </span></span><br /><br />Dread never had any problems finding a victim. Today was no exception. The moment he saw the somewhat despondent looking man kiss his wife and set off bag in hand, Dread knew he had his catch. There was something about his stooping shoulders which told all. Following silently, he considered his opening move, deciding against a full-fronted attack. Today stealth was called for. A few reassuring words, an arm over the shoulder; just enough to prove his sincerity but far too weak to be of any real help. And once the seeds of doubt were sown, the rest would be child's play. Or so he thought but just as his spidery fingers reached for the jugular, he took a blow to the nose which sent him reeling. For the first time in months a victim had escaped him.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">* * * * *<br /></div><br />Luap tried his best to look the part as he set off down the street. His wife's words whirled around in his mind like the Mary Poppins carousel they had enjoyed together the previous night. It had been Hatti's treat, designed to take his mind off things. She had succeeded; for a while. Now, it was up to him to show her that her efforts were not in vain. Victory was in sight, but he alone could reach out and grasp it. No one else could help him. He tried his best to keep his head high but before long whisps of doubt began to tangle themselves around his person. He looked round but could see no one. He sat down as the cares began to overwhelm him. It seemed a lot easier than making a fight of things. But just as he was about to succumb Hatti's insistant words came back to him: "Never lie down, only victims lie down." He shot to his feet. And set off on his way again. As he did so, he couldn't help feeling he'd somehow toppled someone nearby. Yet, he was quite alone, of that he was sure.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">* * * * *<br /></div><br />Hatti couldn't help pacing back and forth in her kitchen. She thought she'd done enough to keep despondency at bay, but as she watched Luap shuffle down the road towards the station that morning, she saw the familiar figure of dread creep up behing him. The worst was that there was nothing she could do to help him. If only... She pulled herself up as she recognised her husband's favourite train of thought. "If only..." How often had she chided him for going down that path? The surest way of opening oneself up to Dread, that's what it was. How fortunate, Dread was not around. Her husband had been the decoy and now she knew he would make it through. All she had to do was wait for the phone call, wait to hear the pacifying words she no longer doubted would come that evening.Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08136225187552117043noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8917100109212171464.post-70112919222353414212010-05-06T20:04:00.003+02:002010-05-06T20:09:06.904+02:00Mercurial<span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">This week's Fiction Friday prompt is: </span><strong style="font-weight: normal; font-style: italic;">A man aspiring to be a pro bowler loses to his young daughter.</strong><span style="font-style: italic;"> I'm afraid I know absolutely nothing about professional bowling so I've taken some liberties with this post, above all transporting it to the UK and the sport of lawn bowling. But the essence of the prompt is still there.</span></span><br /><br />Friday afternoon in the park. The sun sat down on players and spectators alike. Thanks to the now experienced park-keeper and the early morning rain that day, the greens were immaculate. Everyone was looking forward to an excellent evening's bowling. Club championship. First round. 64 of the best bowlers in the club pitting their skills against each other. And for the first time a woman had made into first round. Ginetta had won the junior championship three years running. Last year she had also partnered the club captain to the final of the pairs, losing only to her grandfather and his long-standing bowling partner. Polite applause, the closest thing you'll get to enthusiasm in bowls, accompanied the arrival of the club secretary with the pairings. In his best monotone voice he read out the names, hesitating when he got to the fourth pairing:<br /><br />"Mercetto Brintini..." He raised his eyes towards Mercetto before adding "... Ginetta Brintini."<br /><br />Try as he might it took at least three minutes for order to be re-established. This was going to be the game of day. For years Mercetto had been after the club championship; ever since he had been seduced to leave their oldest rivals and come and join them it had eluded. Pairs, fours, mixed pairs... some several times. But never the championship. Never, that is, until the previous year. Fate had smiled on him that year. A storm had brought a postponement of the original date set for the final. The rearranged tie was fixed for the day of Mercetto's 60th birthday. The whole Brintini clan turned out to see him. His opponent had little choice. Win and get lynched or put a brave face on things.<br /><br />Most people were convinced Mercetto would retire from championship bowls after that. He himself, had no such thoughts. He was the title holder, he was determined to defend his title. Walking towards their rink, a smile on his face, he proclaimed for all to hear:<br /><br />"The chit will win the first two sets but then I'll wipe her off the green."<br /><br />Ginetta herself, was delighted to be playing against her grandfather. She was a chip off the old block if ever there was one, but today it was her wisdom which shone through. She simply kept her mouth shut and let her bowling do the talking. Not that that had much to say mind you. Despite her father's best efforts she lost the first set badly. Her length had gone to pieces and she wasn't able to get any real draw on the woods. In the second she faired a little better but still lost, scoring just two points.<br /><br />Mercetto was exasperated. He walked off the back of the rink and up to the club secretary who was refereeing their game.<br /><br />"What did I tell you about letting girls into the championship. Girls were born to play girls. They have no business playing with us. They can't even win when you let them." And arms flaying he poured out a torrent of insults against his granddaughter. The referee stepped up and warned but Mercetto continued.<br /><br />"Mercetto docked one point for misbehaviour," he announced.<br /><br />"Mercetto docked one point... docked one point. You could dock me a hundred bloody points and I still couldn't lose. She doesn't know the first thing about bowling."<br /><br />The referee stood his ground. Any more of this and he would disqualify Mercetto. Then he caught sight of the tears streaming down Ginetta's eyes. The girl was visibly shaken by the outburst but in her eyes he also saw the steely coldness of the Brindinis. She didn't need a knight in shining armour to come to her rescue. She could do that herself.<br /><br />"Play on!" he called out.<br /><br />Now it was Mercetto's turn to stutter. He lost the next set without winning a single point, before taking six straight points at the beginning of the next. With victory in sight, his smile came back but his bragging had stopped. Which was fortunate for him as Ginetta fought back and won 21 points in a row to take the set. And so the two locked horns for the final battle.<br /><br />Ginetta took the early advantage and kept it by constantly changing the length of play. She knew her grandfather hated short lengths but by varying it, she stopped him from getting any regularity into his play. But Mercetto wasn't a champion for nothing and once he succeeded in gaining a pointed, played a series of long lengths and began picking up points. But his lead never extended itself to more than one or two points and when Ginetta took two points on a long jack which Mercetto had set up, they were locked at 19-19. What turned out to be the final rubber was fascinating. Ginetta had one wood to play with three woods were clustered around the jack To the onlookers it seemed as if one point, maybe two would go to Mercetto. But the decision would be a tough one and would probably require the measure. Ginetta stepped up to the mat wood in hand. She had two options. Thunder the wood down the rink and try and take out her grandfather's two or try and squeeze through the tiny gap and hope it ended near enough to give her the point. It was the final option she took and a gasp went up from the crowd as the wood drew through the gap coming to a stop just millimetres away from the jack. The point was hers, that much was obvious. The referee stooped measure in hand with Mercetto watching over his every move. But he couldn't fault him in the least. Her second wood must have been almost half a centimetre closer. Mercetto stalked away before the referee even had time to announce the result. Ginetta, a beaming smile on her face turned to acknowledge her grandfather but he was nowhere to be seen. The club captain came up and congratulated her, before leading the referee away into the office. Their deliberation was short and sweet.<br /><br />The letter, informing Mercetto of his immediate suspension came as he himself was putting pen to paper to inform the secretary of his decision to resign.Paulhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08136225187552117043noreply@blogger.com2