Monday Fiction Fiesta - 'Mission Statement'

Good morning.

Tonight I have a planning meeting at East Leeds FM about my radio show. Looking forward to it, to getting to know the other show hosts a little better.  I'm becoming known as 'the one who brings cake'.

So, loosely connected (random group of people around a table), but really harking back to a church away day I was part of over a decade ago, here is today's story.

We're back in The Bookship again and poor Bosslady has to cope with yet another meeting of the Lighthouse Writers...

Mission Statement

The rattling on the door was insistent, annoying.  I was about to call through to Luke to investigate when the phone at the counter rang and I heard his crisp, polite voice answering it.

‘Good morning, ‘The Bookship’… not for another hour… we open at ten…’

Evan was unpacking a delivery below, so it was down to me to answer the door.

Three women with belligerent expressions were trying to get into the Bookship despite the ‘Closed’ sign. I recognised them as members of the Lighthouse Writers; they’d been customers for years and should know our opening hours by now.

‘We’re closed,’ I called through the thick glass.

‘What?’

‘Closed. Open at ten.’

‘We’ve booked The Table…’

‘From 10.30,’ I said in my Stern Voice.  They waited a moment or two before realising today I meant it, and wandered off.

‘Bosslady?  I’ve the secretary of Lighthouse Writers on…’

Luke had his finger on the ‘mute’ button, his eyes full of puppy-dog appeal for rescue.  I snagged the phone from his hand.

‘Can I help?’ I asked.

‘Belinda Summers here… Have our advance party arrived?’

‘I’ve just turned away three ladies since we’re not open yet…’

‘Oh but, we thought, as it’s for the Littlerature Festival…’

‘That I’d be open earlier?’ I interrupted. ‘No, from 10 as usual. The Table will be ready from 10.30, good morning.’

I handed Luke the phone and he set it down, his grey eyes dancing humour.

‘Shall I start setting up, Bosslady?’ he asked.  My name is Emily, but as that makes people think I’m twenty years older than I really am, I shorten it to Em which is a bit less aging.  But I quite like the boys calling me ‘Bosslady’; it’s a term of affectionate respect.  I hope.

Of course, ‘boys’ is a misnomer.  Luke’s in his thirties and Evan a little younger.  Employees, although I prefer to think of them as minions.  Even if it is me brewing up.

Luke is of medium height, sharp and smart, appealing in a dangerous kind of way.  His hair is that light, white blond generally associated with Bond assassins.  Evan’s dark hair is determinedly boy band in style.  He broods for effect, but his work is always spot-on. 

And The Bookship?  Well, I got the barge for a pittance and sweet-talked planning permission to anchor it solidly on dry land and turn it into my current venture.  We’re moored on a wide green bank overlooking the Dee Estuary on the Thurstaston side of West Kirby. 

I keep a small run of new books, local interest featuring strongly, but most of the space is given over to pre-loved volumes.  In the bows I’ve had seating fitted around the natural angles, and it was here that Luke was setting up The Table, a hireable space for local community groups.

I carried the tray of coffee through and called Evan up from unpacking.  We gathered at one end of The Table.

‘Lighthouse Writers,’ I said, reading from the diary.  ‘We’ll have to let them in a bit early.  I understand they’re planning something for the Literature Festival…’

Luke’s eyes danced. ‘Littlerature,’ he enunciated, earning my best Bosslady Scowl.

‘That’s just the sort of self-deprecating, twee prose that gives them a bad name!’ I said.  ‘I wish they’d find themselves a real lighthouse…’

The boys grinned.  I gathered the now empty mugs onto the tray.

‘Here, Bosslady.’  Luke took it from me.  ‘I’ll wash up.’

‘I’ve that delivery to finish checking,’ Evan said, heading for the stairs.  I’d have been more grateful if I hadn’t known they were trying to avoid the arrival of the Lighthouse Writers.

At quarter to ten the writers were back in force, looking affronted and annoyed that we still weren’t open. I rattled the keys as I let them in. 

Their numbers varied, but today there were eight of them heading for The Table.

‘Were you wanting to start early?’ I asked.

‘I would have thought you would be more supportive of this Littlerature Festival!’ Belinda said.  ‘After all, it’s bringing you lots of business!’

‘I am supporting it,’ I said.  ‘I’m hosting a poetry evening…’

‘Well, it’s news to me!’ She squashed herself into the last free space on The Table.  ‘We’d better get on; we should have started half an hour ago…’

I retreated behind the counter where her glare was slightly less scorching.  I could still hear everything, though.

‘Frank, you were going to list some topics for the workshop…?’

Frank cleared his throat.

‘Well, I thought, as we want new members, we could set an exercise in the workshop…’

I heard this every week from them; they wanted new members. Sometimes they got them; people would come back a second time, too.  But for some reason, never for a third time.

 Frank was warming to his theme.  ‘Something easy so they can all join in… ‘Love’ is a good one…’

‘Oh, no… not love.  People will write dreadful poetry or smut or things in bad taste…’ Belinda announced.  ‘No, I don’t think setting a topic is a good idea.   Really, the things you come up with! We can read our own work out and…’

‘Excuse me…’

It was a small voice, and it was right in front of me, and I’d been so busy eavesdropping I hadn’t noticed I had a customer; a self-contained young woman with a quiet air of shyness.

‘I’m sorry, miles away!’ I smiled apology.  ‘Can I help?’

‘I heard there’s a writing group meeting here this morning, looking for new members?’

‘Yes.’ I nodded towards The Table.  ‘The Lighthouse Writers.  I’ll introduce you, if you like?’

‘They look a bit busy…’

‘They’re a little involved at the moment planning for the LitFest…  They’ll be breaking for tea and biscuits soon, though, if you don’t mind waiting.’

‘I think I’d like to just listen in first, anyway.’

‘Whatever we do should reflect our mission statement,’ Belinda was saying.

‘Have we got one?’ Diane asked.

‘Of course we do: ‘To shine like a beacon of hope, drawing writers into the light of our mutual support.  To share our wisdom so none founder on the reefs of mediocrity…’

My sudden coughing fit drew a number of baleful glares in my direction as I masked an inappropriate giggle. The would-be writer’s mouth twitched.

‘Moving on…’ Belinda took charge again.  ‘What I think we should do is all take a word from the Mission Statement and use it as inspiration… and we all present our work at the workshop. We’ll be demonstrating to potential new members…  We wouldn’t want to put them off by sounding too good, but we need to make sure we don’t get anyone unsuitable.  Remember, we want to be supportive and welcoming…’

‘I’ll write a poem,’ Frank announced.  ‘I’ll take the word ‘Wisdom’…’

‘Really?’ Belinda said.  ‘How are you going to rhyme that?’

‘Assonance…’

‘There’s no reason for bad language!’

‘Look, don’t bother introducing me,’ the girl said.  ‘I think I’d rather founder on the reefs of mediocrity!’

‘Have you seen this?’ I asked, fishing a couple of leaflets out of the rack near the till.  ‘There’s an open mike poetry night here as part of the LitFest, you’ll be very welcome. Lighthouse Writers won’t be here, though – it’s the same evening as their event.’

Raised voices from The Table interrupted.

‘Well you couldn’t find a rhyme with both hands, Frank!’

‘At least I know how to scan properly! That Haiku you presented with three verses of four lines each…’

‘It was experimental!’

‘Well, we don’t do experiments at Lighthouse Writers; we’re traditional!’

‘Here are details of a couple of other local groups,’ I said as the mudslinging continued at The Table.  The one at Hoylake is very well thought of.  I think you’re wise to avoid Lighthouse...’

‘Isn’t that what lighthouses are for?’ she said.  ‘To keep you away?’

I laughed.  ‘Yes, I suppose they are. Do you think they realise?’

‘…don’t know why I bother with this group – I’ve a good mind to join the Caldy lot…’

‘Your problem, Belinda, is you’re a big fish in a small pond…’

‘Who are you calling ‘big’..?.’

The girl shook her head.  ‘You’re sure they’re not coming to your poetry night?’

‘No. Way past their bedtimes. See you then?’

She nodded.  ‘Thanks – you’ve been very helpful.’

At The Table, Frank had turned puce, and Belinda was trembling with fury. It looked about to topple over into violence at any moment. I sauntered over, pretending I hadn’t heard a word.

‘Yes?’ Belinda snapped.

‘Just wondering when you’d like your tea?’

‘Oh… any time will do.  Now. Next on the list… how do we go about keeping new members once we have them…?’

Perspectives

Earth Hour

I knew nothing about this until an e-chat with someone in Australia was interrupted when she said she had to switch off the lights for Earth Hour.  Later, when I mentioned it to my husband, he'd already heard about it, so we decided to give it a go.

We watched a film by candle light and started early (so we didn't miss any) and finished late (it was nice to be in the dark with the tea lights gleaming).  It only occurred to me later that perhaps watching the film used more power than switching off the lights, but Saturday night is usually film or disc night anyway.

Viewpoints

Perhaps our choice of film was appropriate - 'Gravity'.  If you don't know the story, it's Plot 3B of the 7 traditional Sci-Fi plots - astronauts' ship is damaged and they must try to get home...

Visually, it was stunning; Earth from space with spiderwebs of golden lights picking out the nighttime cities and roads. The juxtaposition of sound and silence was well worked without being overdone. The plot... well, some people would argue it didn't have one.  But I found quite a chunky storyline there, perhaps because I'm a science-fiction fanista, perhaps because I'm a writer. I really enjoyed it, but I can see why other people may not have appreciated it on the same level.

One person said that it was a very short film and made no sense; our Blu-Ray copy is 91 minutes, so perhaps there showing had a bit missing.

Pass It On

Here in the UK it's Mother's Day.  Time was when this was all about my mother - what I could do to show my appreciation of her. In the fullness of time, I became a mother myself, and I found a new perspective on the day - it wasn't just about my Mum any more, it was about me, too. I began to feel I was just the next generation of a long line of mothers and children perpetuating a day of gratitude... I can only imagine how it must feel if you've a grandmother living, too, as I never knew mine at all.

Now my mother is gone and it's all about me. My son makes sure I get a card and something to mark the day. This year, with Mother's day being a week after my birthday, he took me to lunch midweek which was really nice.

All about me?  Well, by the time I've thanked him and reassured him that I've had a nice day (even though he hasn't called...), it's becoming more about his feelings than about mine...

To mums everywhere. Phew.

Monday Story - 'What Love Looks Like'

So, last month's task at Writers in the Rafters was to write on the topic of love, hope, support, advice...  I got two stories out of the topic, eventually - it was a bit last-minute - and this is the one I didn't present...

What Love Looks Like

Her first show.  She was an overnight success, as the saying goes, and it had only taken thirty years…

Drinks trays circulated. Critics mused and nodded.  It seemed her photography, her silly little timewasting hobby, wasn’t quite so silly now.  She smiled behind her glass of orange juice.  Bucks Fizz was doing the rounds, so it looked like she was drinking.

‘Ms Fane, hello.’ Someone with a microphone appeared in front of her.  ‘Mary Trent, Radio Wirral for ‘Let’s Have A Look…’ I wondered if you can tell me what you’re saying here?’

‘The show is called ‘Afresh’… I wanted to take a new look at concepts we think we know well…’ Julie trotted out the official promotional line, her eyes drifting the crowd as she expounded.  ‘Emotions like love, concepts such as hope… Have they changed? Have our perceptions of them changed…?  What do they look like in the current climate?’

In the corner, Paul was talking to her mother.  He was crouched at the side of the wheelchair, bringing himself down to her level, smiling and engaged.  Yes.  That’s what love looked like; your husband talking to your mother as if he wanted to.

‘So all the photographs here…?’

‘Are trying to reflect a modern reality of love and hope and support.’

‘Thank you, Ms Fane.’ The interviewer switched off the recorder, her shoulders sinking as she relaxed.  ‘Right.  Thanks so much.  I can enjoy the show, now.  Oh, one thing… love and hope and support?  All the pictures?  Even that one?’

Julie smiled and went closer to the photograph in question. It was a monochrome of a Mersey Ferry full of summer trippers; the sepia tone took it back in time, made it archaic.

‘Oh, especially that one!  During WWII, one of the Mersey Ferries rescued over 7000 people from Dunkirk; hope and support all packaged up in one.  The ferries were vital, too, in getting people to work in the war years.  Service and courage, the quiet bravery of everyday people left to carry on without their loved ones, worrying about their safety…’

The story of the ferry was true, of course.  But the reality had been that Julie had been desperate to use an iconic Mersey Ferry in the show somehow, anyhow, not caring whether it confused the critics or not.  But within an hour of mounting the shot, she found that a logical reason for including the picture had formed in her mind.  It just went to show that everything was attributable.

Paul looked across and she thought she saw a glimpse of a ‘save-me’ in his smile.  She smiled back and steeled herself to go over.

‘I knew you’d do it!’ her mother announced.  ‘I always said you could!’

Julie’s smile became fake as she remembered…

‘You’re wasting your time, taking snapshots! And they cost money you should be spending on your children! I never wasted my money when I was bringing you and your brothers up…’  Mother had paused to light a cigarette, puffing angrily on it.  ‘Twenty four, divorced already, two kids at school and you’re talking about a photography course! Well, I can’t babysit while you go off to college…’

‘It’s one afternoon a week,’ Julie had said, knowing the battle already lost, the law laid down.  ‘Just for a couple of hours…’

‘Your place is with those kids. Until they’re old enough not to need you, they should be top of your list!’

Useless to point out that they were always top priority, of course, that she wanted to do the course so she could get a better job and earn more money. The world didn’t work like that as far as her mother was concerned…

‘Could I have a group shot for the ‘Globe’?’ someone asked.  Julie nodded and stood behind the wheelchair.  Paul straightened, and took her hand, lacing his fingers with her own.  He never put his arm round her – it was too proprietorial, he said.  Holding hands was more mutual.

‘She couldn’t have done it without me,’ Mother said to anyone who would listen.  ‘I supported her and looked after the kids and made her get on with it.  Yes, without me, she’d be nothing…’

 ‘Where’s my dad?’ Julie asked.  ‘We can’t have a group shot without my dad!’

‘Over here.’ Paul tugged Julie’s hand, led her away to where a familiar wispy-haired figure was standing in the shadows, deep in contemplation of a picture showing wildflowers growing in a municipal park. 

‘What’s this?  Weeds in amongst the bedding plants?’ he asked.  Himself a keen gardener, the thought of wildflower planting was anathema to him.

‘It’s a metaphor, Dad,’ Julie said, a smile in her voice.  ‘Come on. Have your picture taken for the paper.’

‘We’ll have to be going soon,’ Dad said.  ‘Your mother doesn’t like to be out late… something on TV she wants to watch.’

‘That’s what love looks like,’ Julie said, waving her parents off after Dad and a taxi driver had manoeuvred the wheelchair into the car.  ‘Dad giving up so much so Mum could stay at home.’

‘Do you think?’ Paul said.  ‘I thought it looked like you letting her take the credit for you being famous!’

‘What? No.  It’s all down to the people around me. I couldn’t have done it without any of you,’ she said in sudden realisation.  ‘You all supported me.  Even mother, in her own way.  If she’d looked after the boys for that one afternoon a week, I’d never have had to ask Claire to babysit… and then you wouldn’t have had to come to jump start her car when it wouldn’t start…’

‘It’s what any brother would do.’

‘We wouldn’t have met, if Mother had been more helpful, is what I’m saying.  If I hadn’t had to fight so hard to do the course, would I have kept fighting until I made it?’

Even so, without the man at her side, she’d still be entering amateur competitions once or twice a year.  It had been Paul who’d suggested, once the boys had left for Uni, that she dust off her old camera, Paul who’d comforted her when she’d lost her job in the recession.  He’d shown her how to see it as an opportunity to spend more time doing what she loved, had bought her a new camera, even though they couldn’t afford it. 

Julie felt the comforting squeeze of Paul’s fingers.  ‘No.  No, it’s more than that.  You’ve got real talent, love.’

She looked up into his face, saw the pride there.  He smiled and squeezed her fingers, the same smile he’d given her every time he caught her eyes on him.  Never mind these dozens and dozens of photographs; it was Paul.  That’s what love looked like.

Birthday Blogging...

Hello.

Many of you will know it's my birthday today.  I'm 29 (again), which is no mean feat when you realise my son is 35 this year.

I'm having a lovely day, feeling very spoiled.  Terry has worked so hard to make the day special that he's tired himself out.

Many of the things he gave me reference 'Fallen', my WIP - a T shirt with an angel on the front and wings on the back; a pair of 'Ear-Wings':

Cinnamon-scented shower gel (not pictured)

And an Alpha-Omega necklace:

Not all my gifts were from Terry; my dear friends S and C also marked the day for me. As well as some toiletries, C found me a notebook, which she packed with a note, 'saw this and thought of you...'

S made me a lovely card and gave me a handbag with a hand-knitted tag:

So I'm feeling very well loved today - thank you to everyone who has contributed.

Here's one I made earlier....

I managed to get a couple of knitted projects finished today.  I began this intarsia owl months ago, finding the juggling of so many colours - as many as five different balls of yarn at once - on each row. And then the striped colour changes, too...

Ages ago I promised to knit an animal hat for my son... he already has a panda, but decided he wanted a fox... so here's one I made earlier...

 He'll be thirty five in October, and I'm still knitting for him!

Learning Curve... and Childhood Memories... And WITR... Oh and a Picture!

learning Curve
Trying to network a little, I've been exchanging blog details this week with a few people.  This is fine when they're on other blogsites, but when I come across one also on Blogger, I can feel very amateurish.

Take today; I exchanged blog details with a talented young writer, visited the blog and found a multicoloured, multi-themed, all-singing, all-dancing, visually stunning delight.  Everything was clear and beautifully presented, there were lots of images and clickable links that actually work... I am in awe.

Childhood Memories...

My siblings are all more than ten years older than I am. This meant I inherited some of their playthings as I grew up and, under pretence of showing me what to do, they got another two or three years of play from these things as well.

I liked the Bako best, but it had little metal rods you stuck into base boards and bricks you slid into place.  the metal rods were considered Not Suitable for a three-year-old, even a supervised one.

Lego, however, was quite suitable.

In those days, Lego came in two main colours - white and red.  Bases were grey, and you could sometimes get black, grey, and transparent (-ish) ones, as well.

And these days? The Lego movie? Lego librarian figures?  PINK bricks????

Whatever is the world coming to?

And, yes, I still have a lot of that original Lego.  Some of it is older than I am. And it still works.

WITR

Writers in the Rafters today. We had a good meeting.  I arrived early, said hello to the other people who were already there, and received stony stares back.  Okay, fine.  We all have off days.

Some good pieces of work read out on themes of love and support.  One member, lacking anything on topic, wanted to share something else with us, but as he didn't have it with him, he just explained his thinking process.  We are a very tolerant and inclusive group, unlike the mythic Lighthouse Writers...  I think I shall write more about the Bookship, but first I have a novel to polish (this is not a metaphor) and a short story about dance to finish.

I had two stories on today's topic, and so your Monday Fiction will be  one of those.  Meanwhile, I shall work on clickable links...

And here is a picture to break up all this text...

Bear with me a moment... Monday Readtime... Two Dialect Letters

I'm a little fraught today.  This means that I've not had time to source the short story I wanted to find last week for you, or finish either of the three I have waiting.

You see, tomorrow we are having new windows for the house and so the weekend has been a confusion of moving furniture and getting ready.

So the best I can come up with is an exercise from a couple of years ago  - write two letters, one friend to another, in dialect.  As the task was set a few months ahead of the London Summer Olympics, I based the letters loosely around the Olympic Torch Relay.


I have provided translations, too.

Two Letters in Two Dialects:

Are Charrol  to err  mayte Djewliee.

Ahwriice derr, Djewliee,

Tanks for dee invyte from yore Mam to stay a’ yorze for dee torrtch ree-laiy; dat’s reealy sound of youz; Ah was mayde-upp when youze sedd.

Me an Are Bev went down ta see i’ when it chumm to de Pee-er Ed last weekh; It was amaaa-zin. Der was loadz an loadz a peepul dere, an all dee scallies chum out for a dekkow . An aftah, it was so pachked, we ad ter ger a joey owme coz de busses was all chokka.

Anyroad we gorrin around niyne an ad a bevvy.

So if I get de cowch owver to yorze, can ya meet us ad de bus station? Am reely lukkchin forward to it – I luv dee torch, I’d folly I’ all de way to dee smokey,  Ah wudd, me. Ahr eh, it’s dead sad, dough. All dem runnaz,  dere sellin de torchis on dat internet. Dee say day need da munney, an wiv no djobz, dee do, dough, don’t dee, dough?

See yuz nex Chewsdee, den,

Charrol

Joolih replies.

Eh, hup, Karrul

It’ll be reet grand to sithee, so gi’ ohver an’ stop tha mitherin’.!  I wah wi’ owr  Tirry ’other daehyh, an he said, tha-knaws, his granddad were owver youwer waehyh for ‘ Tall Sheeps Raehyce wunce. Bu’ tha’ wor twenteh yeer since nahw. ‘Ee Seddit wor a grand sight, an’all.

‘ torch innt goahn t be  euar whil Soondaehyh and Munndaehyh, so tha’s  loaads a’ time furruz ter look abaht ‘ plaehceh. An Ah’ve gorruz tickets ter go oop Tempseh fooar ‘ celebraashunn on ‘ Soondaehyh ni’t. Owwer Tirry an’ ‘is lass is cumin’, an’ aall.

Sithee soon,

Joolih.

TRANSLATIONS

(note that ‘ch’ is guttural, like the sound  of the word loch)

Our Carol to her mate, Julie.

All right there, Julie.

Thanks for the invite from your mother to stay at yours for the torch relay; that’s really kind of you all.

Me and our Bev went down to see it when it came to the Pier Head last week; it was amazing.  There were very many people, and all the local chancers came out for a look. And after, it was so crowded that we had to get a taxi home as the busses were full to capacity. However, we got in around 9pm and had a drink.

So, if I get a coach across to yours, can you meet me at the bus station? I’m really looking forward to it – I love the torch, I’d follow it all the way to London, I would, me.  But what’s really sad -all those runners, and they’re selling their torches on the internet. They say they need the money, and with no jobs, they do, though, do they not?

See you next Wednesday, then,

Carol.

Greetings, Carol,

It will be really great to see you, so stop pestering me! I was with our Terry recently and he said, you know, that his granddad was over your way for the Tall Ships Race. But that was twenty years ago, now. He said it was an amazing spectacle, too.

The torch isn’t going to be until Sunday and Monday, so that’s plenty of time for us to go out. And I’ve got tickets for us to go to Temple Newsam for the celebration on Sunday. Our Terry and his ladyfriend are coming, too.

See you soon,

Julie.

MondayTale...'Standstill'

Hello. The sun shines outside and I hope for spring.  I was looking for a suitably seasonal piece for you, but I can't quite track it down at the moment.

Instead, the story below was written as an exercise for Writers in the Rafters. We were given photocopies of three pictures to choose from and asked to write about it.  This is the painting - Reflections on the Thames by Atkinson Grimshaw.  My story idea came from a comment by my husband Terry: 'Why are there no hands on the clock?' he asked...

Standstill

A cold night, crisp, darkness looming and the Thames green under green skies twisted by filaments of foggy night air with a crazed, hazed moon riding the wreaths of mist.

Westminster Bridge stalks over the surface of the slow-slurring waters, a multi-limbed, improbable creature reaching from bank to bank, seeming to lie in wait for the approaching string of boats, coupled together like so many beads in a necklace floating, drifting with the current towards the maw of the bridge’s arch.

From where he stood on the broad spread of paving, Cobb could see the sweep and curve of the new electrical lamps delineating the contour of the river down towards the bridge and the Houses of Parliament; there were people about, a woman with a basket struggling towards him, another, better dressed, leaning over the wall looking out to the string of boats. Sad, she looked, and he debated approaching her, telling her of the place near Southwark Bridge which was perfect for suicide, where the waters opened to you and enfolded you like the arms of your mother and clasped you down the dark, drowning bosom of eternity… but then a dog appeared at her heels, nudged her, and she reached an absent hand down to stoke it… no, the woman wasn’t debating dying, not tonight.  You don’t bring your dog with you if you’re about to end it all.

Nearby, hunkering over an easel set up between Cobb and where the sad-faced dog-woman was leaning over the parapet, a dark-dressed man worked feverishly at a canvas, painting with quick, sharp strokes and filling the rectangle in front of him with patches of colour, light on dark, dark on light; curious, Cobb was about to wander closer to look over the artist’s shoulder, but abruptly, with a dissatisfied headshake, the man straightened  up and stared intently  in the direction of the clock tower before  shoving his brushes into a canvas roll. He packed away his paints, disassembled the easel and, holding the damp canvas gingerly by its frame, stalked off with careful haste towards Westminster Palace, muttering and glancing up at the clock tower repeatedly as he did so..

Cobb, his breath coiling and clouding visibly as it condensed in the brittle night air, followed the artist with his eyes.  What had caused him to hurry off like that?  What had he seen?

Cobb turned his attention to the Houses of Parliament, looking the building over.

Something felt… wrong, somehow.  But what?

The artist had stopped some hundred yards or so ahead and was staring up again, his head slowly turning from side to side as if in disbelief; Cobb set off towards him. As he got nearer, he faltered, stopped.  Just for a moment, he thought he’d had it… No.

The artist glanced over his shoulder, saw Cob, and waved him over.

‘Did you see? Did you?’ he demanded.

‘I… thought…’ Cobb’s deep voice was slow in coming.

‘The clock!’ the artist exclaimed.

‘Yes.  Something…’

Something…

Juts briefly, it had seemed as if the hands on the clock face had vanished.  But that was ridiculous, outrageous, they were there now, most certainly, showing the time as steadily as ever.

And then the gas lamp just behind them flickered and died.  Then the line of lights on Westminster Bridge all began to fail. The lamp next to them was next to snuff out, and all along the curving line of the parapet, out, and out, and out…

As the two men stared at the clock face, its hands once more vanished… the fog, perhaps, hiding them? But no, the edges of the tower were clearly defined, even as the darkness grew and swelled around them. And when Cobb looked again, there the hands were, once again – or still – in position.

The last lamp failed.

Darkness, then.

And the moon edged out from cloud cover and dripped silver illumination on the scene.  Cobb heard a gasp from the artist, echoed it himself. 

The clock hands had once more gone.

A frozen moment.

The clouds stopped in their sky-sailing, the bead-boats stuttered still on a river suddenly flat and lifeless as the artist’s canvas.  Behind him, Cobb saw the dog-woman’s dog, its wagging tail paused in mid-swish; only Cobb was free to move.

‘What the…?’

Well, Cobb and the artist…

They looked at each other. Horror on the artist’s face mirrored the disbelief on Cobb’s; nothing else moved, no-one.  The moonlight lay like shards of mirror on the river, dripped like spilt milk from the rooftops.

‘Why us?’ Cobb asked in his strong, slow voice. In the petrified streetscape, it sounded like the bones of the earth stirring.  ‘Why only us?’

The artist shrugged expansively, turned towards Cobb. The moonlight lay on his face like a blue-bright stain.

‘Who knows? Who can say? Maybe we were the only ones looking when it happened…’

‘It’s still happening; it’s not finished yet…’

Black shapes arced through the sky like the wings of some gigantic, dark angel. Sheets of impenetrable ebony slapped silently over the blue and white of the moon, folded down over the clock tower, the Palace, Westminster Bridge, eating up everything until only Cobb and the artist remained in a little pool of not-quite-darkness.

And then the black wings swept over them like death and sightlessness and Cobb knew no more.

Time, Cobb believed, passed.  At least, he counted the beats of his heart as it thudded and banged and slowed to its proper rhythm. There was nothing else in the world except for his heartbeat; the blackness pushed against him, muffling any outside sounds... of course, he remembered, there weren’t likely to be many outside sounds; only he and the artist had been able to move, speak, see…

He tried to call out, but he felt as if his throat was full of darkness.

And then, with a silent snap of bonds breaking, Cobb could move, feel, see again; in the sky, the moon swooned towards the horizon – time had passed, then, at least an hour of it.  The artist was staring wildly up at the clock tower; the hands were back in place, as solid and real as before.

‘I suppose you can finish your painting now,’ Cobb ventured, as much to hear the sound of his voice as to hear the artist’s thoughts on the matter.

‘Well, now…’ The artist scratched his head.  ‘It’s one of our big questions – does one paint what one knows is there, or what one sees..?’  He nodded fiercely towards Westminster Palace.  ‘I think I paint what I saw, in this case. Not that anyone will believe, or explain this night, eh?  But as a reminder.  Look at them!’ he exclaimed with a sweeping arm gesture at the other people in the area. ‘Dazed, perhaps. A little confused; how have they been out all this time and not noticed? But we are wonderful creatures, sir, amazing creatures! We have the talent of forgetting anything that makes us uncomfortable and getting on with things as if they were normal. Normal!  Ha!’

He gathered up his scattered belongings and, taking firm hold of his canvas again, stalked off towards Westminster Bridge as if it had personally offended him.

Cobb sighed again.  Once more, his condensing breath curled and plumed in mist.  He glanced up at the moon and thought, just for a moment, that he saw great, dark wings swoop across its face.

An odd evening; probably atmospherics, Cobb thought.  Still, he’d be glad to get home.

What time was it again? As late as that?  He really had no idea how it was that it had got to be so late…

Change of Hat for a Moment...

Sometimes, when I get stuck with writing I need a change of direction to get my writin' muscles working again. I go for walks, or I do housework.  Or, if I'm feeling I can justify the squandering of time on something that doesn't come under the guise of a) exercise or b) work... I crochet or knit.

My friend S knits beautifully, and gave me a lovely handknitted scarf for Christmas, but she hasn't quite mastered crochet yet.  Although I can't hold the yarn the way you're meant to, I do like how quickly crochet develops.  I finished my latest project last night and here she is....

Owlivia

Oh, crumbs, it's Monday again! Story time...!

Well, today is interesting... I've had my beloved husband come home poorly from work and so have been a little distracted from posting!  Please note, however, that I have discovered how to create PAGES. This is where I intend posting about all my writing achievements for the year.

Today's story... Hmm... Are you sure you want one?

Well, here's a flash fiction I wrote a while ago...

Extreme Measures

‘I want,’ Christobel announced, ‘to Make an Entrance at my son’s fiasco of a wedding. If That Woman insists on stealing my son, then at least I shall steal her thunder!’

Libby kept her face polite, attentive. The woman was dressed to maim, Size 14 wearing expensive Size 10.

‘I want three stone off in three months.  Well?’

Professionalism took over. Smile.

‘We observe strict guidelines at SleepYouSlender. We are not permitted, by law, to allow a client to drop below a healthy BMI. The most we could help you lose is two stones…’

The woman glowered. Libby pressed on.

‘You see, our target demographic is morbidly obese clients who are averse to bariatric surgery. Placed in a medically induced coma and fed intravenously, one undergoes tabletoning sessions four times weekly… typical losses average twenty pounds each month, but for someone not obese, that isn’t achievable…’

‘I’ll pay double to lose three stone.’

Libby shook her head.  ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Alright. Two stone, then.  You offer a money back guarantee?’

‘For clients who fit the criteria…’  Seeing Christobel’s scowl, Libby sighed, shrugged, capitulated. ‘Well, if you’ll sign the waiver to permit us to use extreme measures…’

‘Anything!’

*

Everything fuzzed into focus; Christobel tried to sit up…

‘Steady, you’ve been asleep for three months…’

‘My leg hurts! Why does my leg hurt?’

‘We had to amputate…’

‘What???’

‘So you’d reach your target.  We took the right leg, you’d a nasty bunion forming… You did sign the waiver… Extreme measures, remember?’