Writer's Notebook

I 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.

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.

"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."

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.

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.

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.

“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.”

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.

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:

“Daaaaadddddeeeee!”

This week's Fiction Friday prompt: “It’s better to be safe than sorry.” Write a scene where this proves to be true for your character.

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.

To a certain extent Richard could understand Gerald's point of view.

"The slightest mishap... it doesn't even have to be an accident and that would be the end of the school."

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.

"After all, if the kids aren't allowed to take any risks..." Gerald knew him too well for that to work.

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.

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.

"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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

This week's Fiction Friday challenge: The conversation took off when Louise mentioned Bruce Willis.

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.

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.

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.

"Bruce Willis...?"

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:
My attitude your problem

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.

This week's Fiction Friday prompt asks us to pick two established characters from your previous work and tell the story of their meeting. 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...

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.

He picked up the CD she'd given him when he'd met her at the airport yesterday evening: Mama Etta's Bongo Supreme.

"They're really very good. They're the first band from Dahc to make it onto the world stage."

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"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!"

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.

"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.

"This isn't drinking, it's Champagne. You can't possibly refuse Champagne."

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.

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?

The waiter brought in the dishes for the snails. She seemed puzzled.

"Snails."

"How wonderful." She clapped her hands together. "I love snails." But why all these dishes. What on earth are they for?"

He opened his mouth and was about to give an explanation but thought better of it.

"You ate snails in Dahc? So how did you prepare them?"

"We chop them up in the lettuce, of course. How else can you prepare snails."

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.

"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."

Simon stared at her with disgust. Wiping his mouth with his serviette he leant forward:

"Would you please excuse me a minute."

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.

This story is inspired by this week's Fiction Friday prompt: Use a McGuffin in your story. McGuffin: An object or person in a movie that has no use other than to drive the narrative forward. (originally coined by Alfred Hitchcock)

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.

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.

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.

"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."

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.

"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?"

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.

"Well, what can I be doing for you, Mr...?"

"Braak, Sir. John Braak."

I showed him the letter. His eyebrows pulled together as he read.

"I was wondering if you could shed any light..."

"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?"

Just then, the parrot gave another squawk and planted itself right in front of us on the mayor's desk, flapping its wings.

"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."

"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..."

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.

"So that's why you brought me here. Is this where Annie died."

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.

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.

"Scotch. Make it a double. On the rocks."

"You, a stranger round here."

"Yeh, just passing through from the east."

"So you won't be staying long then?"

It sounded more like a threat than a question. I obviously must be on the right track. I took my scotch.

"Your health... and mine."

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.

"Looks like your partner's cut and run."

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.

Kaldeidscope

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. Now or never. 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.

The strains of Dany Boy 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: Now or never. There was no escape.

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.

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."

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.

Henri 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.

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.

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.

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."

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:

"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.

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.

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.

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.

For this week's Fiction Friday we have to write about a telepathic parrot.

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.

“So, you say, you can cure all sorts of psychic ailments, so how about curing me.”

“Well, if you told me what was wrong, that would be a start.”

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.

“So what is wrong with being telepathic?”

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.

“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…”

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.

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.”

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.

“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.
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.

“But they’ll find his fingerprints on the candlestick.”

“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.”

“So he’ll get off scot-free?”

“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.”

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.

“Will you really do that… for me?”

“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.”

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

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.

Psychic parrot peeper counfounds murderer

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.

Harley 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.

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.

His mind went back to the request... his initial hesitation, his students' enthusiasm and that conversation with Joy.

"It's a fantastic idea. It's right up your street."

"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."

"Well, why not do that then."

"I'm not sure what Ian would say."

"Never mind Ian. It's your students that count. You're doing this for them, not for Ian."

"But he is the centre's director. I can't just go behind his back."

"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."

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.

"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."

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.

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.

This week's Fiction Friday prompt is: A man aspiring to be a pro bowler loses to his young daughter. 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.

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:

"Mercetto Brintini..." He raised his eyes towards Mercetto before adding "... Ginetta Brintini."

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.

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:

"The chit will win the first two sets but then I'll wipe her off the green."

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.

Mercetto was exasperated. He walked off the back of the rink and up to the club secretary who was refereeing their game.

"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.

"Mercetto docked one point for misbehaviour," he announced.

"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."

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.

"Play on!" he called out.

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.

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.

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.

This week's Fiction Friday prompt: “My husband doesn’t know, but he will soon.”

"Okay come on, out with it."

Sheena glances at Olwyn. Her smile barely makes it across the table.

"Now, don't tell me there's nothing wrong. We've been meeting together every week for the last eighteen months and today you don't even seem to know who I am."

The same nervous smile. The same hesitation. She opens up her bag and fishes out a letter, placing it on the table in front of her. Olwyn frowns but waits. It seems to require a tremendous act of will for Sheena to push the letter across the table. Olwyn picks it up just as the waitress brings a second pot of tea. She reads it through twice.

"I see what you mean. Does John know about this?"

"No, but he soon will. We're having dinner with Phil and Bev on Saturday. Besides, there'll be a public announcement next week at the latest."

"Is this going to hurt John's career?"

"I don't see how it can. But it'll be awfully embarassing and..." Her voice fails her. She fishes in her bag for a handkerchief but has to make do with the gold crested serviette sitting on the table.

"I... I just don't know how he's going to take it. John's given more than his career to the institute. It's become his obsession. And he never forced Phil; not a bit. But only I know how proud he was when Phil started to follow in his footsteps. He took him to all the debates. Every meal time one argument or other would be demolished alongside whatever was on the plate. And he did all he could to help Phil in his studies. He spent ages combing the bookstores for Christmas and birthdays... that's what all his royalties went on. Anything he could do, he did. But he never used his influence to get him anywhere. Phil wouldn't have let him, not that he ever wanted to. And the day Phil received his PhD he cried buckets before and after the ceremony."

"So won't he be proud of Phil's achievement? They may be on opposing sides but..."

"Opposing sides! Do you know what this means? Phil will be the lead speaker at next month's congress debate. They're bound to pick him. They won't miss a publicity coup like this. Father and son at each other's academic throat. It'll be the death of John. After all he's done."

Sheena bursts into tears. Not even the serviette can alleviate her distress. Olwyn helps her out into the street and they hail a taxi. As they pass the Swan Hotel, Olwyn looks out the window hoping to catch a glimpse of John on his way to their rendezvous as a tear trickles down her cheek.

There could be no doubt about it; Tommy was more than disappointed with the horror charm he dug out of his latest packet of griZZlies. He put the sugar cube on the table in front of him. It certainly wasn't a patch on the traitor's-tongue-tip he'd dug out of the first packet. He'd been overjoyed with that - there had been just 13 different pieces; you couldn't cut up a tongue into much more. A fitting end to a tongue that had belonged to Ally Sagen, his country's biggest ever traitor. The second packet also contained a real find: a Dracula-like fang which took pride of place on his neck. And now nothing but a lump of suger. Tommy looked at the packet. He knew most of the names there and couldn't associate any of them with a lump of sugar. Two names, he wasn't sure of; the sugar probably belonged to one of them.

He quickly buttered a piece of toast and raced back up to his bedroom. Ten minutes later he descended the stairs a little more satisfied. It seems the lump of sugar had belonged to a research doctor who had killed his son. He had been doing some research into warfarin anti-dotes and had prepared a few dozen lumps of sugar to administer to a number of volunteers, including his son who had been the first to swallow one of the lumps. Unfortunately... So

Tommy poked his head through the kitchen door to say goodbye to his mother. Sitting at the table in her new dressing-gown she was enjoying her first cup of tea of the day. Tommy froze as he saw that his lump of sugar was no longer where he had placed it.

This week's Fiction Friday prompt: An April Fools prank gone too far.
It's a long time now, since the famous BBC documentary on spaghetti plantations. Hard to believe that some people really did fall for it. Like Inspector Egghead.

It all started quite by chance. A holiday, a visit to my uncle, a good bottle of wine... a television programme. I say holiday. That wasn't quite true. It was a little more enforced than that. My superior had ordered me to disappear the moment the first headlines started to appear. He'd have given me the sack if he could. But a man who had liberated the kidnapped wife of our venerated Prime Minister could hardly be given the sack; most definitely not by a chief commissioner with high political ambitions himself. Maybe one day, the truth of that little affair, I use the word advisedly, will be told. It was, indeed, my one and only... But I digress.

It started in a small seaside town on the South Wales coast. I had decided to profit from my enforced absence to visit those members of my family who had emigrated to this green and watery land in the early years of the twentieth century. After three months of moving from house to house and then from town to town - I still hadn't seen half of them - my chief's patience was wearing thin. It was time to go home. My brush with the press seemed forgotten, excepting the new nickname they had baptised me with and which will doubtless remain with me the rest of my life.

To be perfectly honest, I didn't have anything against the name Egghead. I take great pride in my bright shiny pate. I wash it every morning and once a month it gets the polishing it deserves at the local barbarian - as you English call him. And as no one told me it was actually meant as an insult, well I encouraged people to refer to me by that name. But again I digress.

So here I was on the first day of April, in this small Welsh seaside town, doing my best keep the rain and the wind off my shiny pate, when I finally found Uncle Pino's café. He welcomed me with open arms, but made sure his very fetching wife, Ginetta, did not do the same; me being just a few more years on the better side of 40 than himself. He introduced me to his favourite customers before he closed the café to make dinner. He always began early Mondays; none of the customers ever stayed beyond 5pm anyway. But the main reason, as he spelt out to me most volubly and with arms racing like a windmill was to further his education. Monday evening was Panorama. Panorama, he explained, was the most Italian of television programmes because it provoked discussion in the café until the next edition came up the week after. Besides, I've learnt an awful lot from it.

So, dinner over but with the wine still flowing we gathered around the small family television only to be astounded by what we saw. This week's subject was nothing other than the Spaghetti plantations of Southern Europe. Pino raised an eyebrow towards me, I shrugged my shoulders but Ginetta wouldn't hear of our turning it off. By the end of the programme it was difficult to tell what was the cause of all the laughing: the idiot English who gobbled down such rubbish like it was gospel; Ginetta who failed to understand how they'd managed to film such unbelievable scenes or the wine whose flow increased in direct proportion to the impossibility of the scenes being painted in front of our eyes.

It wasn't until I was safely snuggled up in bed, that my cynicism kicked in. The British weren't stupid. How could they be? They had a vast colony of Italians come to take up residence here. No! There was something more to this programme than met the eye. I sat up with a start and was dressed and out of the house within five minutes. But what was I to do now. I could hardly go to my bosses and explain to them that I had stumbled on an international plot to flood our cities with some of the most lethal drugs ever produced; with my track record they'd never believe me. Besides, this was my case. No one had even suspected it was nothing more than a poor April Fool's joke. Why let them take all the glory? No, what I had to do, was to infiltrate this organisation. Once inside, I could painstakingly gather my evidence. When I was ready a word to the secret services and bingo I would be in all the newspapers.

Finding the names of those who had collaborated on the making of the film was easy. My problem was how to infiltrate their organisation. The opportunity presented itself some few days later when an advert appeared for part-time workers to help out in an egg packaging plant, owned by one of these crooks. Now that's not exactly being let into the hub of their crime-ring, you might think. And you would be right. But infiltrating would take time. Besides, eggs were indispensable in Spaghetti production. So maybe, this is how I figured, the factory was being used as some kind of a cover-up. It wasn't until I saw one of the workers make a small hole in one of the eggs and suck out the inside, that I understood exactly what was going on.

The eggs were nothing but a foolproof way of transporting the drugs. A few workers - those in the know - would suck out the inside of selected eggs - not too many so as not to raise suspicions - before these eggs were passed on to a secret room where a liquid mixture would be re-injected into each egg. Once cooled the mixture became solid and the drugs could be transported without raising the slightest suspicion.

A few days after this discovery I chanced upon a large cardboard box with the letters BBC stamped over it. Now I had all I needed. My first call was to a the editor of one of our biggest national newspapers. Then I contacted my former chief who somehow didn't sound very pleased that I had suddenly reappeared. But a mention of a drugs consignment passing through his patch within the next few days did enough to placate him.

It was that same evening that the said box was loaded onto one of our lorries for immediate departure the next morning. Again I informed, first the editor and then my boss. I wanted to be absolutely sure that a newspaper crew were there to capture my one moment of glory. And so, shortly before eleven a police escort invited the driver to head into a lay-by and a thorough search of the lorry was made. Myself, I didn't arrive until the search was nearly over, but still early enough to catch the anger of my boss at once again being led down a false alley by his most incompetent element - as he so eloquently put it. It was hard to interrupt him but the moment he finished I explained to him why he had found nothing and how the drugs were actually being transported. Upon which, a look of disdain radiating from his face, he picked up one of the eggs I had pointed out to him and smashed it upon my shiny pate.

And the next day I had my moment of glory when every single newspaper sported a picture of my somewhat soiled face below the headline:

This week's Fiction Friday prompt is: "Shhh… did you hear that?” See what I've made of it below. And if you want, you can even cast your vote in the comments. Who knows it may appear in a subsequent Fiction Friday or in the African Whisperings Anthology.

"The radio's still dead. I've no idea if our message got through."

Djembé looked into Zara’s eyes trying to read what they were saying.

"How ironic!" he sighed.

He didn't need to say more. She understood perfectly. Together they made their way through the copse where their hut stood and looked up out over the river. The sun was already beginning to lean towards the horizon. Just another hour or so and its rays would transform the water into a river of blood. By then it would be too late. They didn’t call for the plane often. Just three times in the seven months they had served this small, backwoods community. But each time, a life had been saved.

They embraced as they looked up into nowhere, willing the small black speck into being, praying for the miracle that would give new life to their own daughter.

Zara began her lament. Her hope had gone.

Djembé turned his back. It was more than he could stand. Then…

“Shhh… did you hear that?”

Ben placed the phone back on its hook and turned to Seymour.

“I’m afraid they don’t know what will happen. The plane didn’t land this morning because of the fighting to the north. The pilot was afraid the rebels might launch an attack on the plane. It should be back some time this evening. But whether they will risk landing…”

Ben placed an arm round Seymour. He understood. And yet, he couldn’t understand. Seymour had given up the whole of his holiday for that year to come and help the clinic. He’d first cajoled then bullied his bosses into giving him the four weeks at a stretch. His wife had spent the first week helping organise the pharmacy. Then malaria got her and she’d had to return to the capital. And now this. If the plane didn’t land today, Seymour would not be back in time for work Monday morning. Then he’d be out of a job. Why was the world so unfair?

The dinner party was meant to be a joyous occasion; a chance to thank Seymour for what he’d done for them all. They got together anyway, trying to make a go of it. They were well into a new round of Blitz when Ben’s wife yelled:

“Shhh… did you hear that?”


Passah counted the weeks on the calendar again. 13! Far too long for a man to be without wife and child. He didn’t even know if he’d recognise his child; they change so quickly. But his precious Becca, how could he ever fail to recognise her. Her smile was enough to guide even a blind man. He glanced up at the clock. It could be hours yet. He closed the photo album and got up to go into the store room. There was work to be done. He wanted to have everything ready when they arrived.

Outside, a few of the villagers were already gathering, drums at the ready. No other woman had ever commanded such respect that the whole village ensemble turned out; proof that he didn’t need that she was one special woman. One or two of them had already started woman up. Others called out “Bema” as he appeared. He went into the store room and unpacked the child’s seat from its box, recalling the tears he had shed that evening when they had had to leave. He’d taken quite well until arriving home. But seeing that empty chair set the fountains in motion and he couldn’t stop. As he screwed the chair to the table the tears started again; this time they were tears of joy, or they soon would be.

Picking up his calabash he went out to buy the beignets he had ordered especially. It took him a lot longer than he had planned. Neither of the women sitting on the corner of the street would take his money. It was their contribution to the little ceremony. He argued and bargained to no avail. Everyone wanted to share in his joy. Was that making him just a little jealous?

Back at his concession the drummers were getting into full swing. Some of the women had even started dancing. The village enchantress waddled her way towards him in that typical style of hers and pulled him over to the others. That’s when he thought he heard…

“Shhh… did you hear that?”



Athous laid down his pen, still not completely satisfied with his effort. Badda came and wrapped herself round him. Her gentle fingers closed his eyelids.

“Are you still not finished?”

“I suppose so. But it could be so much better. I want it to be so much better. This could be my big break.”

“Emergent Publishing African Writer’s Prize. African’s greatest writer!”

“Well, it’s not quite that, you know. It’s just a prize for new writers. But it’ll give people a chance to read me, get me known. If only…”

“Well, there’ll be no if onlys, if you don’t get your act together quick. What is it you’re supposed to be writing anyway. Well, they want to me write a number of different story openings. And then, if I’m chosen I get to develop one of those into a full blown story which they promise to publish. They did the same a few years ago for Chinese writers. And now it’s the turn of us Africans.”

“Well, you’ll better get your manuscript packed and ready. The plane’s coming early this week.”

“What! Athous looked devastated. But it can’t. I’m not ready yet. I mean, there’s still so much to revise. I can’t possibly send it off now.”

“Well, you can go and complain to the President tomorrow. It’s his fault their sending the post plane today. He’s off to visit another one of his African cronies tomorrow. But first, make sure you get that package ready.”

““Shhh, you two… did you hear that?”

Athous and Badda looked up into the blue sky as the silver bird descended. Hovering somewhere between yearning and despair they watched their destiny fly in.

Your character doesn’t make impulse purchases, but one day at the market they felt compelled to buy… what?
I'm using this to try and get under the skin of a character I'm working on. Any feedback appreciated


The jazz shops being closed for another half hour or so yet, I decided to wander through the market. Most of the stalls were just beginning to set up. One or two of the traders were standing looking up at the sky, undecided as to whether they should open or not. Of course, to leave now, would invite not a little irritation from the other traders. Much like sailors on a sinking ship, traders who leave a market hardly inspire confidence among the buying public. Solidarity. It had been Dad's A - Z. I saw myself once again, sitting on that high stool just about making it up to Dad's shoulder while he gave me a running commentary on all the goings on. That, of course, was long before that stroke of good fortune which enabled him to progress from a flea marketeer to antique dealer; almost overnight.

I squeeze my way through the narrow alleys trying to distinguish the various smells which begin to lay assault on my nose. I used to play at guessing with Dad. And there's the cheese vendor. Now he is one for the nose. Same old sign in front of his stand: touch, smell, taste. And the young guy's Dad always used to slip me a couple of extra pieces with a great big wink.

"Mister, over here." I turn and meet the brightest smile. A large lady vaunting her wares, holding out an alphabet full of colours; finest cloth for the best of ladies. I'm no longer sure if it's me talking or her. Nothing much changes on the market. The whistling of the loudspeakers and a voice announces the last chance to win a bottle of Baron Dumarrier... Suze's favourite.

How lucky I am to have found in him a second father. I was sixteen when Dad went. I'd have probably got by alone. But it was good to have someone give me a guiding hand. And when Suze invited me to be part of his set-up, I sprang at the chance. To be honest, I think he only asked me because he was a bit disappointed in his son, a somewhat profligate young man who did his best to squander his father's trust. But even after their reconciliation Suze continued to treat me like one of his most trusted friends.

The church clock strikes ten. One of the two shops is bound to be open by now. I push my way through the crowds and try to overhear the trader's banter. At the end of the alley, a small wood-crafter is busy at his wheel; a variety of his creations on the table in front of him. But my eye immediately falls on the three monkeys on the table: Dad's three monkey. I can see them still besides the old shop till. Dad always had them there. He called them his motto. In reality, they were his life.

Three monkeys: the first his hands over his eyes; Dad's voice exhorting me never to close mine to any injustice for the sake of convenience. The second, his hands over his mouth... Dad's favourite: "Never let an ugly word frequent your lips." And if ever I had done, I'm quite sure he really would have taken some Marseille soap to wash my mouth out. And then, the one I could never understand. Hands clasped over his ears, he could never hear no evil. How I used to protest. It's not my fault if people say bad things when I'm there. Am I wiser now? I'm aware of the temptation. But do I flee?

The three monkeys look far nicer than the old chipped ones Dad had in the shop. The craftsmanship is beautiful and the deep rosewood adds a touch of fright to their looks. I cannot resist. Money changes hands. The monkey's are mine. I go off in search of my partitions. And only when I gaze into the shop window do I realise I'll have to put off my purchase until I'm paid next month. Not that I care.

Taking things into their own hands Kalito and Ramona went through every room in the house. Kalito had the large bunch of keys, the lawyer had given him. But only a few of the rooms were locked. The ones that weren’t, he left to Ramona. Together they turned the house upside, being very careful to leave everything as it was. They didn’t want to alert the authorities to the treasure.

Never had they imagined things would take this long. Not that it would have changed much. They had fooled themselves into a false patience, by not phoning the lawyer once. They could wait until matters were cleared up and the house was theirs. To compensate, they visited the bank manager and arranged a series of consumer credits; modest, at first but growing in proportion to the hunger released by the first taste of fortune.

“Any luck?”

“No. I’ve searched the two double bedrooms and the study and I’ve found nothing.”

“Listen, maybe it’s in the outhouse.”

“What makes you think that?”

“These keys. I’ve checked them all out. The keys opened every door in the house, except the small wooden door at the end of the hall; the one that leads to the outhouse.”

“That was the studio wasn’t it? What on earth would uncle have hidden there?”

“We could find out, if we figure a way of getting in there.”

Never once, had it struck them, that what they were doing was illegal. After all, it would all belong to them one day, as soon as all the paper work was finished. But whereas one day was plodding along at a tortoise’s pace, their debts far outdid the speed of the fastest hare. Desperate measures were called for.

“I think I know how to get in. Remember, I used to spend most of my holidays here. Uncle never used this door. He used to get into the studio from outside. I’m sure he kept the key hidden away somewhere, so that Julio could get in too. That’s why this door was kept locked. Julio could get into the studio but not into the house.”

“So where did he hide it.”

They went outside and turned over every loose stone; a number of nails were hammered into a small board hidden away under the overhanging roof – but no sign of what they were looking for. Even the pot plants in the courtyard refused to yield up anything resembling a key.

“And if we went to see old Julio?”

Which all explains why some two hours later, key trembling in their fingers as they tried to find the lock, they were finally able to penetrate inside the one room in the house, where the treasure could be hidden. It was littered with outdated recording equipment, bookshelves full of partitions and saxophone methods; on the walls hung covers of some of uncle’s favourite recordings and the occasional poster for one of his concerts. And on the table under the window stood a rainbow-coloured saxophone case – their uncle’s trademark.

“We’ve been had,” stuttered Romana. There is no treasure.

Kalito looked at her aghast.

“Not a real one, anyway. Remember what uncle said… ‘To my niece and her fiancé I bequeath, in addition to a third share in the house, the greatest of my treasures.’ Well, there it is. The saxophone.”

Things seemed perfectly normal until I walked through the door to our courtyard bracing myself for the expected avalanche. Nothing happened. Where were the kids? There, sitting in front of their houses talking, playing, doing the things they did all the time. But what mattered most, they were ignoring me. Until coming to Africa, I had looked upon the Pied Piper of Hamelin as a highly improbable fairy tale with some kind of moral twist. But the likelihood of hordes of children following after one man, however skilful his pipe-playing, had never impressed itself on me.

That changed overnight with my arrival in Africa. Being different draws children like a magnet. And I certainly was different. Every time I went out onto the street, a group of chanting kids started following. "

"Nassara, nassara."

I'd have thought that was evident enough without it having to be sung. But the kids, it seems, didn't. More often than not the group grew into a horde by the time I reached the limit of our quarter, upon which the kids turned and went home leaving me to the relative peace of having a few adults mumble something similar every few minutes.

Even time didn't temper their enthusiasm. I'd been living among them now for almost two years and still had to run this gauntlet, daily. But today? Why was today different. Had it been night, I dare say I would have counted my lucky stars. That's not easy by day, so I just made my way to the neighbour's half expecting a crowd to jump out at me chanting "April Fool... Nassara... April Fool." Nothing happened. Arriving at the table my neighbour had set up in front of his house, I started greeting him. It was only when I realised this greeting was taking far more than the - for a nassara - usual two minutes that a strange feeling came over me. Everyone was treating me like a black man that day. True, I was wearing my jalabah. But that didn't usually make such a difference. I bought a small jar of jam and a baguette and crossed to the other side. Assantah greeted me with a wide grin.

"That soap works very well, neighbour."

I looked straight back at him. The back of my mind began to stir. Yes, he'd offered a special soap just a few days ago. Soap for staying secret, he'd called it.

"I give it to you, and if you like it, you pay me later."

I'd merely smiled at the time, but what if... I stretched out my hand from under my jalabah to pay him. The palm still looked pretty white but when I turned it over... It was only a light black, of course, somewhat like my northern neighbours but nowhere near like the black of the southern tribes who occupied the neighbouring quarters. Still, it was enough for me. I returned Assantah's smile and wandered on. For the first time in my life I was going to discover Africa in-cognitio.

Instead of continuing the story as the prompt asks us to do, I have tried to rewrite the original two paragraphs in a different style.

Original

‘God damn.’ Eddie Kerne’s voice had altered, from anger to shock. But he shifted back to anger quickly. ‘And what the hell were you doing while he was climbing off the bloody cliff? Watching him? Egging him on? Or having it off with her?

‘He was climbing alone. I didn’t know he’d gone. I don’t know why he went.’ The last was a lie, but he couldn’t bear to give his father any additional ammunition. ‘They though at first it was an accident. But when they looked at his equipment, they saw it had been tampered with.’

Poetic

Do you know my own true son
What it is that you have done?
Such an idiot, I can't believe
That while he died, e'en his wife you did not leave.

Oh but Dad, tis not my fault.
Nothing know I about his vault.
And so, dear reader a lie so white
For once from his lips did alite.

At first, you see, an accident they suspect,
but then foul play still more expected.
For tampered his equipment was,
Thus murder they suspect because.

Humourous

Tampered with, I've never heard anything so funny in all my life. You really want me to believe anyone would take the trouble to fool around with his equipment when all they had to do was leave him to his own means. The man was a walking accident. He never needed egging on, not when it came to doing anything stupid. And I bet all the time that was going on, you were in bed having it off with is wife. Oh, it really is all too funny.

Defamiliarisation

Looking at him you'd think he was vacillating between anger and shock. Yet, as he stood there, straight as a ramrod, emotions in check, with even a touch of relief in his eyes, you'd never have guessed it. That's what made it so difficult to reply to him. I waited almost a full to minutes before blurting the first thing that came into my head. 'He decided to leave me have my way with his wife and go climbing alone. I guess he did so because he loved her. And of course, being an ardent team man, it made perfect sense for him to go off alone. He was always doing it.' After all that even I was unaware as to what was truth and what was lie.

This weeks Fiction Friday prompt: A woman revisits the neighbourhood where she grew up to find that her childhood home has been condemned.

Sîan once again picked up the letter from the solicitor's, and turned it over and over in her hand. She knew this was the final blow. The house was sold, making her a rich woman. But what did she care for that! Time and again she tried to make sense of the film running out of control through her mind. The first letter from the solicitor, repeated calls requesting she put the house on the market, heated discussions with her sisters, the decision to return home. Finally, the day when she once again set foot on her home soil.

Fifteen years it had taken. She had dreamt of this moment almost every day. A joyous celebration was how it had always been represented in her mind. And indeed, she was glad to be back home. Yet, she had never imagined it being a lonely matter. Her sisters' decided lack of enthusiasm and their unwillingness to travel down to see her were bitter disappointments. Gwyn had even refused to answer the telephone last time she called, hiding behind her ten year old son.

Then came the visit to the rectory. It didn't take long for her to realise it was beyond repair. Condemned, the solicitor had put it, and the word battered away its around her mind whilst she carefully picked her way through the broken floorboards and the undergrowth that had once been their play room. So many happy memories, but someone must have erased that hard disk. She failed to conjure up a single one, not even her father in his study. If it hadn't been for Delwyn she'd have drunk herself stupid that night.

He'd recognised her at once. Called out her name. Come up to her. It wasn't until he brushed his index finger over her cheek that she realised who he was. Time had not been kind to him. He was greying far more than was normal for his 36 years, and his features were ruddy and harsh, doubtless the by-product of years of labour in the local stone-quarry. But a few words sufficed for her to realise that time had not erased his courteous, even generous, manner. She remembered the shy little boy who'd come to hear them sing. Then later, he'd even joined the group. Four years they sang together and were often solicited for various local concerts. Then came her one big chance. No one could refuse a scholarship to the Royal Musical College of Wales. She'd left without so much as a good bye; and regretted it ever since. He walked her back to the hotel that night. And as he ran his finger down her cheek, she saw her sisters' reflection in his eyes as they'd stood there teasing her. She had always asked herself if there was anything in their gentle badgering. Now, she knew.

She invited him to breakfast the next day. He turned up saying he'd taken the whole day off work. This time it was his turn to talk, and she discovered to her amazement he'd become one of the most successful people in town. He'd inherited the quarry from his father and turned it into a thriving business, employing over a 250 townsfolk. But he still lived in the run-down old house behind the scrapyard, though he did admit to having done it up, somewhat. As they were chatting away, the hotel manager arrived with three letters, each from the solicitor. She couldn't help explaining her business there now.

"So, you see either I have to come up with £350 000 by next week or accept one of these offers and get out of here for ever."

His eyes more than his lips asked: "Is there no way you can raise the money?"

"Not by next week. If I had another six months, I might manage it, if..." But that part of her life still lay under a shroud of secrecy.

He excused himself right after breakfast but promised to pick her up before eleven. We'll walk out to the canal and take a boat down to Tonwy. She'd not quite imagined the boat being his boat but loved the thrill she got from standing at the tiller, Delwyn standing behind her, holding firmly onto her shoulders to keep things steady. They'd lunched on a fine old ploughman's at "The Crossed Keys", washed down by a quenching pint of real, brewed by the landlord himself. And when she saw the piano sitting alone in the tap room, she couldn't resist. Another pint of real and the three of them - the landlord also loved a sing-song - were off. They sang all afternoon, going through their old repertoire several times, and even trying out some newer songs. People came and went and were generous with their applause. But not one of them recognised that they had before them half of the foursome who had entertained not a few of them some fifteen years ago.

That night it was Sîan who lovingly raised her finger to caress Delwyn's cheek, hoping that he might... They parted without a word, not even making arrangements to see each other the next day. But, thought Sîan, he knew where to find her.

Sîan slept the next day until after ten o'clock. Delwyn had proved the perfect antidote for her troubles and she was looking forward to seeing him again. The moment she appeared in the lobby, the manager came out to meet her.

"Miss Pryce, your solicitor has been trying to get hold of you, all morning. He wants you to go and see him as soon as possible."

Sîan shivered a little as a cold foreboding came over her. If only Delwyn was here now. She poured down a cup of pretty tepid coffee and grabbing an apple made her way into town.

"Mr. Silkin, will you please explain what all this is about. You said there would be no further developments this week."

"Yes, but I was not expecting an additional offer, and one you can't refuse."

"An offer I can't refuse?"

"Yes, I have received an offer of £550 000 for the immediate sale of your property. At that price I would be failing in my duty if I didn't advise you to accept. True, the bidder wants an exclusivity clause, but he's a respected local business man and even if he had to invoke the clause, it would take six months at the most."

"Could you please explain what you are talking about."

"An exclusivity clause, Miss Pryce, means you agree to forego any current offer on the table. So in the case of the buyer not being able to come up with the money in the required time, he would be granted an automatic extension of six months to find the necessary sum. But as I have already said, the likelihood of that happening is extremely remote."

"Six months! But Mr. Silkin, if you had only waited six months I could have raised the sum needed to restore the property and keep it in our family."

"That I'm afraid, Madam, is beyond my control. You were not able to pay the outstanding bills, so..."

"Mr. Silkin, would you kindly inform me who this extraordinary offer is from?"

"That, I'm afraid Madam, is not possible. The bidder distinctly requested his identity be kept a secret until the contract itself is signed. And now, if you will excuse me, I have a prior engagement at my golf club. Good-day Madam."

Before Sîan was even aware of what was going on, he had disappeared. She slowly got up from the desk she'd been sitting at and made her way to the front door, only to hear the secretary call out:

"Come here, love. I shouldn't really be telling you this, love, but you seem so distressed. The bidder is a Mr. Davies, Delwyn Davies, the man who runs the stone-quarry in town. And if it's any consolation to you, he's a really nice man. Not much to look at maybe, but he's got a heart of gold."

"Yes, a heart of gold," replied Sîan in a daze. "A heart of gold, gold, that's all his fucking heart thinks about; gold, gold, gold and more gold; cold, gold heart; slimy, cold, money grabbing bastard." The office door shuddered behind her.

Sîan left the hotel within the hour. No humiliation could touch her now. She was beyond being moved. Like a worm he had courted and cheated; wormed his way into her trust before wriggling back down into the earth where his wealth had come from. Suddenly, she saw her father standing in front of a gaping whole. His words had both a familiar and a comforting ring to them: "Remember man that thou art dust and unto dust thou shallt return." If only... but she knew she would never find the courage.

The next day she'd gone back to the solicitor's to pick up the remaining documents.

"There you are, my dear. Hope you're feeling a bit better this morning. Mr. Silkin is out right now, but he's left everything here for you to collect. Always his usual efficient self, Mr. Silkin.

Sîan took the envelope without a word. She walked out into the park wondering whether or not to read the fateful words the letter contained. It made little difference whether she read them or not. Yet, she had to know. After hours of dithering she finally took her penknife and slit open the envelope. The letter bore the familiar letterhead blazoned above the terse statement.

Dear Ms. Pryce,

I regret to inform you that our bidder is currently unable to go through with the deal. He has begged me to be allowed to inform you of matters himself, a procedure which while highly irregular, I reluctantly agreed to in light of the very generous offer made. I therefore enclose a further note, the contents of which I am wholly ignorant of. Should they reveal any failing on my part, I beg you to excuse me.

Your's faithfully,

J.I. Silkin Esq.

Sîan examined the envelope once again. It contained one further sheet of paper. With a slight tremble she unfolded this second letter and read:

Dear Sîan,

Now is not the time for keeping up pretences. When I heard of your predicament, I decided, I could not leave you helpless as you seemed. Had I tried to offer you the money needed to cover your debts, you would doubtless have refused me. So I made my way immediately to the offices of J.I. Silkin Esq and made an immediate offer of £500 000 for your property, insisting on an exclusivity clause being written into the contract, in order to assure no other bidder could present themselves until six months after any failure of completion on my part. I am so pleased to inform you, that I am currently unable to complete and that the likelihood of my doing so within the next six months is very small. If at the end of these six months, you are able to raise the money to clear your debts, you are free to do so. It is normal in such circumstances for a penalty of 10% to be imposed up the failing partner. If this sum can be a help to you in paying off your debts, I shall be only to pleased to have been of assistance.

Please forgive me. I'm not much of a writer. But what I really want to say is...

It was Sîan's own tears that had blotched the rest of what he wrote, rendering it unreadable.