scribbles tagged ‘flash fiction’

access rights

Wednesday, April 28th, 2010 | tags: , , , , ,  |

young boy: but I love you, please.. …if you wont even give me a chance to prove how good a boyfriend I’d be for you, I might as well kill myself now

young girl: OH  P’Lease, grow up, I dont negotiate with emotional terrorists

Within 3 hours he had  written-off £4K of boy-racer Suzuki motorcycle to keep his threat promise.  He gave her name and address as hss next of kin.    She hadn’t had the chance to enjoy freedom from his persistent lobbying for access rights  when the police notified her of the accident.  They certainly added dramatic effect. Raised the terror levels.   How long before his capacity for violence, obsession with her, will put her in hospital?

access rights
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hot seat

Tuesday, April 27th, 2010 | tags: , ,  |

This  girl called Carol was hanging around at the club.   When she found out that I lived with you she started getting really really nosey about what you were doing, who you hung out with, what it was like living with you.   She was creepy, I didn’t tell her anything.     After the club  she came back to Glen’s house with us and  sat on the electric cooker like she was holding court or something while we made tea.    She just kept on being such  a bitch about you.

So Glen turned the hob on

ruined her skirt

hot seat
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4 bits of fabulous banter »

after the concert

Monday, April 26th, 2010 | tags: , , , ,  |

crouching in the back of a black cab,  I’d volunteered to hide from the cab dirver  so that all  6 of us could  travel together and share the cost.  

Kaff:   I don’t like wendy’s hair, its thick with hairspray, stiff and sticky

Kaff leant forward and grabbed a handful of my hair, yanking my head toward her sharp knees and pushing tears from my eyes.   I watched my tears splash on her expensive Italian buckskin suede shoes then  silently added a good dose of flemmy gob to the mix.

Glen: wendy’s hair is  soft and fluffy, nice to touch, I like it

Glen leant forward and stroked my hair,   pulling my head away from kaff’s threatening knees to rest on his tear-drying warm thigh.

The men they couldn’t hand sang rain, steam, speed

after the concert
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pillion

Friday, April 23rd, 2010 | tags:  |

I felt the bruises forming on my knuckles from the moment I thrust them into Jay’s kidneys. He hadn’t heard me shouting from my foam-lined helmet. The shouts swept away by the still air we  slid through at 120 mph. Not scared,    I was angered by the betrayal.  

Two days later the whole camp-site was jolted awake by the unmuffled sound of his screams, an ambulance rushed him to the local hospital accident and emergency department. The ambulance was fast, but not 120mph. Kidney stones. They sound very painful.  Five days in the hospital painful.

Pushing pins into wax effigies  is unnecessary,   using and bruising your fists is more personal and gets a suitable result.

pillion
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uniquely similar

Thursday, April 22nd, 2010 | tags:  |

my manager says I’m not a good team worker                

but its not me            I’m a really good team worker  
its everyone-else  they’re all going off doing things on their own
I’m the only team worker

and now my manager has taken away my office. Demoted me. I’ve got to sit in the warehouse on my own

its probably for the best though. I have to make a lot of phonecalls

uniquely similar
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sound of understatement

Monday, April 5th, 2010 | tags: , , ,  |

After the party, lights turned off,  John played a favourite Moody Blues album, closed his eyes and audibly sank into the large armchair.   On the floor, resting my head on the seat of his chair, I  listened to the lyrics as the spinning in my head gently wound down.    

I  never understood you and the prop, he didnt seem like your sort of guy

 I didn’t like him

I wondered whether this loud understatement would silence John’s curiosity.

The Moody Blues sang nights in white satin

sound of understatement
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confident swagger

Wednesday, March 31st, 2010 | tags: , ,  |

3 male colleages and I wandered along a crowded  Bourbon St (New Orlean’s) on a balmy November Saturday night.   The first night of a work related conference, we were full of smiles and energy.   A  Sassy Young American Lass (SYAL) worked straight up to me, flung her arms around my neck and attached her mouth to mine.   She stopped us all in our tracks.   I peeled her tentacles from around my neck, held her shoulders at arms length

wendy: excuse me,   but I don’t think we’ve been introduced

SYAL: ooooOOOOOOOooooo and a cute English accent TOO!

wendy: incase there is any doubt,   I’m not a lesbian

SYAL:  You look like a lesbian, ashame, ciao…

Turning to a giggling  colleague who,   unbeknownst to me at that time was ‘polyamorous’ (a swinger) and, was  much amused my complete lack of flow with the young lady.  

wendy: what does an american lesbian look like?

swinger: you

wendy: big nose, spectacles, flat shoes and a confident swagger?

swinger: short hair

Later that night  he put a slightly non-sober me in a Taxi to make sure I got home  without being accosted  for my cute crop. A subsequent informal  survey of my US friends determined that locally  short hair looked very lesbian….

Flat Eric looks out over the Mississippi as a steamboat rolls by

Flat Eric looks out over the Mississippi as a steamboat rolls by

confident swagger
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i want to look inside your head

Monday, March 29th, 2010 | tags: , , , ,  |

As his confidence grew he followed me into my favourite local pubs.   I first noticed him when I left the ladies room.   He was leaning against the wall.   As I walked passed I heard him quietly sing.   Like you hear leaves rustling, just there and natural.   I thought he was a gentle natured  giant singing a sweet song. Nothing ominous,  as our eyes met, smiled,  he stopped singing as I blushed.  

Soon after I started noticing him everywhere I went.    I’d catch his eye across a crowed room,  hear him singing as I left the ladies room, bump into him at the bar ordering drinks.  We barely spoke. My friends told me he was a prop on the high-school first rugby team, not a man of many words.    He used a few of those words to  prop-position me,  a few more to  tell my friends and the  rugby team,  we were dating.  

As if saying it would make it so

I politely turned down his prop-positions, told my friends that I had not dated him,  had no intenion of dating him. I didn’t think that neanderthal was your type… …normally it’s the hookers you have to look out for,   you can see the props coming…     close friends didn’t buy his story.  Persisiting,  he started turning up at my home, writing letters,  song lyrics transcribed followed by some of his own  mechanistically pornographic explanations of why I should  date him.  

He didn’t understand a polite assertive no, I’m not interested

He didn’t understand a screaming, swearing, spitting  version of **** off and leave me alone    

I moved home, moved cities,, moved home several more times  before I  finally got away from him. ‘Where do you go to my lovely is probably a beautiful song,    unfortunately I’ll never really be able to hear it as beautiful.  

Peter Sarstedt sang Where Do You Go To My Lovely

i want to look inside your head
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robert knows who he is

Wednesday, February 24th, 2010 | tags:  |

I’m boring.

I know I’m boring.

I keep a note book and make a note every time someone tells me I’m boring.

Everyday people tell me I’m boring.

Without a job,   I dont have enough money to go anywhere or do anything.   All I can be is boring.   I’ve tried being interesting but it didnt work.   I tried wearing interesting clothes. People just laughed at me and threw tomatoes. I am boring, that is who I am.

My days are all the same.   I’ve lived here all my life. I dont have anything to talk about.  

Last Thursday morning someone painted the word boring on my garage door.  They are right. What can I say?  I know I’m boring

Even the librarian told me I’m boring

robert knows who he is
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4 bits of fabulous banter »

not talking therapy

Wednesday, February 3rd, 2010 | tags: ,  |

chatty person: I’m waiting to start talk therapy. I’m not sure if they’ll want to talk with me

wendy:  [silence]

not talking therapy
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2 bits of fabulous banter »

sleeping

Tuesday, October 27th, 2009 | tags: ,  |

Soap episode 3

Jill: you SLEPT with Andy?!!!
Gail:   well,   yes,   errr, no,   well sort of,   not exactly..   …um I did fall asleep

Jill: in the Stud’s bed?
Gail:   ON his bed

Jill: and where was he?
Gail: he was asleep under the duvet,   I was on top at the foot of the bed

Jill: on top?   of the Duvet?   did you have any clothes on?
Gail:  completely clothed,   hat and all

Jill: did he have anyhting on?
Gail: um,   some,   he definitiely had a blue paisley brushed-cotton pyjamma top that was unbuttoned and a hot water bottle with an elephant cover peeking out from the Duvet on his  tummy but I don’t really know what was going on under the duvet,   I just didn’t go there.  

Jill: why not?
Gail: look,   it was really embarressing,   I went round for a chat and some tea and ended up falling asleep.  

sleeping
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sniffing

Tuesday, October 20th, 2009 | tags: ,  |

Soap episode 2

Gail: Hiya Andy,   can I drop by now for a couple of hours,    you can ply me with mugs of tea
Andy:   Hello Gail,   yeah, you’re welcome,  but I should warn you that I  have  a bad cold  

Gail: Oh,   do you want me to ply you with tea,   lemsips and read the Sunday papers aloud?
Andy:    Oh yes please,  if you don’t mind my being in bed, sneezing and snoozing

Gail: Stud! Can I tell people I spent Sunday morning in your bedroom,   with you in bed.    I know some girls who will simply die with envy when they hear
Andy: Sure.   you must tell me about these girls so that I can  earn the title – Stud

Gail: No-can-tell, I was made to promise,   you’ll have to sniff them out yourself
Andy: Come on over now,  help do some sniffing

sniffing
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after school

Tuesday, October 13th, 2009 | tags: , , ,  |

Jill: do you think he’s handsome?
Gail:   Handsome isn’t quite the word I’d use,   cute, good looking,   cheeky,   maybe.   Those dimples, pale green eyes and tight perky bum are a class above the other boys

Jill: is he your boyfriend?
Gail:   NO! Why d’you think that?

Jill: Well,   I saw you holding hands and you’re always hanging-out together after school
Gail: no,   he’s just a friend, I keep thinking I should fancy him,   what with him being so pretty and all,   but I don’t…   …don’t know why

Jill: are you gay?
Gail:  don’t think so, I don’t fancy any girls

Jill: do you fancy any boys?
Gail: no.   It’s  really disappointing,   I keep hoping that it’s just because I haven’t met the right boy yet,   but how many boys do you have to meet?   Everyone else seems to find people to go out with and  snog in the corridors.  

Jill: what about Andy?   He’s nice, tall, funny  and clever, there’s a whole load of girls want to go out with him,   you sit next to him in maths and history  and you go round his place after class, some of the girls are really jealous
Gail: Really?!    He’d love to know that,   can I tell him?  

Jill: NO!   way-too embarassin’
Gail: You too?!     Why can’t I see it, whatever it is that he has that you all fancy

after school
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Where are my teeth?

Wednesday, September 30th, 2009 | tags: ,  |

I know I was wearing them at lunch because I ate  my cheese sandwich.  

The teeth are old,   not as old as me. They don’t fit aswell as when they were new.    In January I lost my job.   No more  health insurance.   55  unemployed in Warren, Pensylvania.  No  new jobs.  Without a job I  don’t have health insurance, or money,  to replace the old teeth.   Without teeth I can only eat soft food.  

While looking for a job,    trying not to spend money, trying to stay warm, I spent my days in the library.

The Library!  

Warren LibraryI must have left my teeth at the Library.    The woman who had sat opposite,  draped in gold jewelry and plastered in 3 coats of make-up, complained  about the sound of my sucking my teeth.   I stopped sucking my teeth –  I took  them out.   Hah!   I placed them on the table where the over-sensitive rich bitch could see them.     She moved tables,   I lost myself in a book then forgot about my teeth.

Before breakfast I went back to the Library to  pick them up.   The Librarian winced as she told me she found my teeth.   She threw them out last night  because of  what she called ‘cleanliness concerns‘.   False teeth can be cleaned! Steam, disinfectant, take your pick, what do they teach Librarians at school these days?    I searched the bins at the back of the Library,   the bins weren’t clean.   No teeth.   That librarians ‘cleanliness concerns’ has turned my diet to mush.    Mush   until my money completely runs out,   then who knows what will happen to me.    Maybe I too will be binned for cleanliness concerns.

Where are my teeth?
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mangled midget

Thursday, September 24th, 2009 | tags: , , , ,  |

I love her. Tears streaming down John’s face.   I know. Liz reassures him

I didn’t love any of the others. As one of ‘the others’ Liz understands, laugh’s, lowers and softens  her tone   I know.

Where is she?   Liz knows that  Maria is skinny-dipping with her new lover, John’s friend,  on a beach 5 miles west of the camp site.   She can look after herself,   where-ever she is,   she’ll be alright.

John takes the torch, scrambles out of Maria’s tent and starts stumbling from tent to tent,   peering in, stumbling.   He’s been drinking.   Liz curses the lads for leaving John with the holiday  whisky stash.

Modern dry stone wallWhere is she? Liz parries   ‘It doesn’t matter.    Where-ever she is,   it’s none of our business.   John,   ITS OVER, she’s left you, she doesn’t want to  see you.   Let her go’   John doesn’t appear to hear.   He makes his way to his aging MG midget and climbs in.   Liz runs to the car and jumps into the passenger seat.  

John,   you’re in no state to drive,   DONT DRIVE.   The car lurches over the field’s uneven ground, Liz wishes she was old enough to drive   Calm down,   where are you going?   As he shifts to second gear  he says ‘the pub’.    Liz tries again Can we walk?  John is determined   You can walk if you want.   The pub is only 3 miles away,   the roads are deserted,   they could make it.    The lad’s are in the pub,   support,   distraction and warmth.    They swerve down the  dry-stone-wall lined winding roads.

John  seemed to need  to move his relationship loss of control and emotional pain to something physical.

A wall mangled the Midget

Love crashed

mangled midget
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1 wonderful musing »

this one will do

Friday, September 18th, 2009 | tags: , , ,  |

As they strode towards each other through the bed warehouse John’s baritone reassured the young besuited sales assistant

I’m looking for a bed
me too! Sarah’s soprano sang,   John stopped, turned to face her
Are you? his slight Oklahoma drawl,   playfully suggesting a challenge
No,  I’m looking for YER bed misser Sarah tilted her head and  flashed her lashes to take up the challenge. John blushed with a hint of a smile before turning back to the sales assistant.  

The technical bed-purchasing discussions didn’t interest Sarah.    From across the warehous she interrupted their conversation to ask the sales assistant If I takes me shoes off can I jump on yer beds… …to test em out like? the young besuited assistant nodded.  

Sarah kicked of her pumps, leapt onto the nearest bed then launched from bed to bed across the store finally  stopping by John who was lying on his back.  His body barely moved as she landed beside him. His eyes were closed,  his fingers woven together across his chest. If she hadn’t known he was testing sleep she might have thought him dead. Sarah gently kissed Johns serene forehead.    

Are you dead? Can I wake the dead?! Sarah started trampolining by John’s side.   With a slow deliberate move he swung his arms round her legs and draggged them to the foot of the bed.   She fell neatly  in a giggling bundle beside him.

“I think this one will do,   don’t you?” he said to the sales assistant while holding Sarah’s gaze.

this one will do
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violent lover – his story

Sunday, September 13th, 2009 | tags: , ,  |

She ignored me. She blames me, but we both argued.   It takes two to argue. I drive from work straight to the hospital every night since the misscarriage and she lies there with her back to me.   She ignores me,   even when I shout at her she ignores me. She hasn’t spoken to me since the misscarriage.  She blames me, she lost it because of the stress.   I was stressed too, I hurt too.   She thinks she is the only one in pain and she just doesn’t listen to me, even when I shout. Bitch. At least she’s still there, at least I’ve still got the bitch.

violent lover – his story
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violent lover – her story

Saturday, September 12th, 2009 | tags: , , ,  |

 

 

 

.

violent lover – her story
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auditory ‘allucinations

Sunday, September 6th, 2009 | tags: , ,  |

Caller: are you real or one of the voices in my head?

Answerer: I’m real

Caller: are you the lady that I called on the phone?   Are you on the other end of the phone?

Answerer: yes, you called me, I’m on the other end of the phone

Caller: (silence)

Caller: was that you or someone else?   is there anyone with you?

Answerer: I didn’t say anything, there is noone with me

Caller: it’s very noisey with all the people talking in my head, I can’t tell which one’s are in my head and which ones are real.   Are you real?

Answerer: yes, I’m real, you called me on the phone

Caller: yes,   you’re on the phone

(silence)

auditory ‘allucinations
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of mice and maturing

Sunday, April 30th, 2006 | tags: , , , , , ,  |

1985 (Assume poetic licence  with the precision of dates and details.   The story has  changed with  fermentation in memory.   The gist of the story is consistent with the orginal experience.)

I   rented a room near ‘The Mermaid’ in a small  Sparkhill red-brick terraced house shared with four girls.   Bambi rented a room  in a Handsworth  red brick terraced house  shared with four boys.   Two bus rides, an hour, apart.   Neither house had a telephone.   We were poor.   We were young.

Bambi’s house smelt of rotting mice.   It was infested.  The neighbours houses were infested.   The whole area was infested.   Everyone lived with the mice.  Mice would dash for cover when you entered a room, switched on a light, moved suddenly.   The boys would play at trying to jump on, squash,  mice before they reached cover.   Several  squashed mice decorated the floor in the front room.   The floor was also decorated with chair-side piles of empty beer cans and chris-crossed with glittering slug trails.    A milk bottle containing a dead mouse sat on the fireplace mantle; gently warmed by the gas fire on colder days.   The mouse had climbed in voluntarily when the bottle lay on the floor then, unable to climb out,  starved to death.   The boys treated  the bottled mouse  as a trophy.   Some mice died more peacefully of old age under the floor boards.   Then rotted.   I’ll never forget the overwhelming stench of rotting mouse.   It’s integrally bound with first love.  It filled your lungs and scented your sweat during the deep breaths of love making.   It seems appropriate that I read Ian McEwan’s “First Love, Last Rites” in this house.  

Early on a brightly lit  summer evening I turned-up to meet  Bambi.   He wasn’t in.  In other homes I would make myself at home with a cup of Tea.   Not here. Concerns about household hygiene.   The mice-droppings on the kitchen work surfaces and stench were an effective deterrent to eating or drinking.   I picked a book from Bambi’s collection and  opened a window in a futile attempt to release the seemingly endless odour.   With my head by the open window I  started to read ‘the catcher in the rye.    My first American novel.   The sun gradually set.   Sodium pink, then yellow, street lights lit the pages.    The mice scuttled over the silence.   Lost in the story I forgot about the planned evening with Bambi.    Despite knowing  very little about the places,  symbols,  or lifestyle outlined in the book it felt powerfully relevant to  the loneliness of that night, madness of  youth,  and pains of new found adulthood.  

I finished the novel as Bambi arrived.

of mice and maturing
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