Category Archives: Wednesday Write-In Entries

Wednesday Writing – The ‘It’ Girls

Photo Credit: OrangeCounty_Girl via Compfight cc

Photo Credit: OrangeCounty_Girl via Compfight cc

The ‘It’ Girls

‘Why is the box just plain white, Mum?’ She twists in her seat and frowns at it. ‘Did they change the packaging, or something?’

‘Must have,’ I say, swallowing a yawn. ‘Eyes front, Marie. You’ll get sick, otherwise.’

‘Whatever. I haven’t been carsick since I was a kid.’ She twists further, and I’m terrified she’ll lift the lid.

‘Wow. That long?’ I mutter as I flick the indicator.

‘Ha ha,’ she mutters, rolling her eyes, but she settles back into her seat. ‘Hey, I hope they didn’t, like, cost loads, or whatever.’

I wait for the throb in my heart to subside before I’m able to answer. ‘Why would you say that?’

‘No reason,’ she sing-songs. Sometimes she sounds just like the TV. ‘It’s just – thanks, you know. For getting them.’

‘Yeah,’ I say, pretending to be distracted by a passing car.

‘Georgia’ll have made such an effort, you know? To have the perfect party?’ I cut a glance across at her. She’s staring out the side window, chewing the inside of her mouth. Her hands are hidden in her sleeves, but I can tell she’s picking at her nails.

‘It’s just going to be a few of the girls from class, isn’t it?’ I say, looking back at the road. The turn for Georgia’s house is less than a hundred metres away, and the base of my skull begins to throb, slowly.

‘Well, yeah. But they’re the important girls,’ Marie sighs. ‘And don’t give me this ‘you’re all equally important’ stuff,’ she interrupts, loudly, right before I’m about to say those exact words. ‘You know what I mean.’

‘All right, darling.’ The turning light changes to red, and I fight the urge to swing the car into a U-turn and zoom back into town, but I know the shop is shut. Christabel’s Cupcakes, even though the woman who runs it was baptised Tracey and God knows where she got her notions about ‘cupcakes’ from, because they were simply called ‘buns’ when I was growing up. Christabel’s sell their wares in light pink boxes, not plain white ones, and they wrap them like Christmas presents, and there’s always a queue out the door. I should have just found the money from somewhere and slid it across the counter in return for twenty identically perfect cakes, buttercream with silver sugar accents in silver paper cases, delicate vanilla sponge, light as a dream.

I should have. But instead I stayed up till 2 a.m. trying to bake quietly enough not to wake my sleeping child upstairs, and I found a plain cake box from somewhere, and that’s what’s waiting on the floor of the car. I’m not even sure if any two of the buns I made would pass for the same in a bad light, from a distance, and this is what I’m sending my girl into a party with.

‘So, like – are they pretty? The cupcakes?’ Marie asks, and for a second I don’t know what to say. The light turns green, and she doesn’t press me for an answer as we wait for a break in traffic. We turn off up the hill towards Georgia’s, and I press the pedal too hard.

‘Whoa, mum,’ laughs Marie over the roaring engine. ‘Cool it with the F1 stuff!’

‘Sorry, love,’ I say, looking for a space to pull in. Georgia’s driveway is full, and the grass verges and pathway are crowded with 4x4s and Land Rovers. I double-park beside a Jag and something I don’t recognise and flick on my hazard lights, and Marie leans over to kiss me goodbye. She flings herself out of the passenger door, and she leans in to pick up the box of cakes, touching it like it contains a sleeping baby. I want to tell her then, but I don’t. My heart thrums as I stare at her, clutching the tiny white rectangle with its battered corners and its grease stains, gazing fearfully up at the house, and I know I have to leave. Lights spill through open doors and windows, and I see crowds of people who all look perfectly the same, and I have to concentrate on not throwing up. I haven’t even washed my hair.

‘Aren’t you coming in?’ calls Marie to me. I gesture at the traffic.

‘I’ve got to get home, love!’ I shout. ‘I’ll be back at ten, okay?’

She tries to smile. ‘Okay, mum,’ she says, and blows me a kiss.

I catch the kiss she blows me, and I indicate to pull out, and I drive away and leave her there.

 

Wednesday Writing – ‘Good Things Come’

Photo Credit: Leonrw via Compfight cc

Photo Credit: Leonrw via Compfight cc

Good Things Come

Leave the ‘ouse at seven-twelve; all good. Hop the train at seven-forty; all good. The gatherin’ crowd means I get shoved into someone’s armpit – not so good, but it could be worse. I feel like a slab of meat in an abattoir, my fingers goin’ numb around the bar suspended from the carriage ceiling, swayin’ gently with the clack-clack, just like every other poor sod.

But it’s all good.

We screech into her station, and I watch as she elbows her way on, knockin’ folk left and right. I hide behind some bloke’s newspaper, FTSE-this and NASDAQ-that lickin’ my eyeballs, but when I stick my ‘ead back out again I see ‘er, like she’s got an ‘oming beacon stuck to her forehead. She jus’ draws the eye, y’know? Face like one o’ them statues. Angled. Perfect.

She looks tired this morning, though. Can ‘ardly blame ‘er. You ‘ad a late night, eh? Oblivious, she flicks her finger up and down ‘er phone screen, swipin’ this way an’ that. Workin’? Sendin’ a very important email? I grin. Or checkin’ your dating profile, are we, love? Leanne6Herts, that’s you. Tweetin’ about your night on the tiles, yeah?

I look away before I want to. Any longer an’ she’d have felt it, like a weight. Any longer, an’ I might as well have screamed her name. I bite my lip and breathe, staring in the direction of the window, gettin’ an eyeful of some woman’s ear’ole, and beyond that, a spaced-out looking dropout with a nose-ring. Scum.

The ping as we reach the next station causes a handy bit of kerfuffle in the carriage, just enough to give me the chance to catch another glimpse. She’s leanin’ against the wall, her ‘andbag held tight, water bottle clutched like a baby. Still on the blinkin’ phone. In ‘er own world, this one. In ‘er own bloody world. Don’t I know it.

Eight-nineteen. We reach our destination right on time.

She’s ever so polite, stoppin’ to let folk off in front of her, smilin’ at some bint with a kid. Gives me a chance to slip out past her as she’s helpin’ to get the pram down from the carriage to the platform, all laughter and jollity. You can turn it on when you want to, eh?

The river of people bashes past me, umbrellas and briefcase-edges and cleared throats and mumbled conversations and excuse mes and muttered curses. I ‘ang about by the barrier, cradlin’ my ticket, ready to slip through. Just got to time it right.

‘Ere she is.

I slide up to the validator, an’ out I go. Carried along by the flow, we make our way up to the bridge like we’re all one tribe, y’know, all fightin’ the same fight. Suits and jeans alike, skin’eads and barbershop jobs. Nobody looks at anybody else. Nobody speaks. Nobody even notices me.

I make it across the bridge, no problem. Timin’, I warn myself, chancin’ a look back. I stop, ignorin’ the shakin’ heads and the clickin’ tongues all around me. Time it right, man!

She’s over halfway across – no goin’ back now, sunshine. She’s still clutchin’ that stupid water bottle, bags under ‘er eyes, face pale. I can barely keep it in long enough to let ‘er look up, in ‘er own time, an’ just when I think she won’t, she does. She finally does.

She looks up an’ sees me there, the press of people at ‘er back and the flow urgin’ her on. I smile my widest smile an’ hold out my arms, welcomin’-like, an’ she tries to stop walkin’ but someone bashes into her. Come on, darlin’. You ain’t got no choice. I tried it the nice way, and you weren’t ‘aving it. I’ve waited long enough.

She drops the water bottle, an’ it gets kicked away, quick as quick, as the press of people carries her to me like a reward, like a prize. Like nothin’ more than I deserve.

 

 

Writerish Wednesday

Today’s words – two girls  ::  thick braid  ::  peel  ::  heavy traffic  ::  allergic reaction – are unashamedly borrowed from CAKE.shortandsweet‘s Wednesday Write-In #3 (originally held in September 2012). CAKE has been offline for the past few weeks, and I’ve missed it terribly. Let’s hope it comes back soon.

two girls :: thick braid :: peel :: heavy traffic :: allergic reaction

Image: lovethispic.com

Image: lovethispic.com

All The World’s a Mountain

She carried the thick braid with her everywhere she went. It lived in her pocket, wrapped up in a fine linen cloth, tightly bound around itself like a never-ending loop.

She didn’t look at it very often, but its weight was always there.

‘What is with this rush hour, huh?’ muttered her neighbour, a tall and heavy-set man with skin so dark it absorbed the day. His voice made her fingers tremble, and she realised she’d been clutching at her coat, squeezing the lump of hair within it like a totem. ‘You ever seen such heavy traffic?’ The bus they were riding in sat, honking, amid a sea of metal and glass. The windows were beginning to run with moisture, and the air was too heavy to breathe.
She did her best to smile at him, but he – already forgetting her – rose sharply to his feet.

‘Hey! Yo! Driver, man! What’s happenin’ up there?’ He squeezed his way past, his elbow slamming into her shoulder. He did not bother to apologise, and she felt something sharp at her heart. Another layer of her patience began to peel away.

She ignored the yelling that kicked off around the driver’s cabin as she smothered the fear, the growing anger, the rising rage.

Her hand found the braid again. Through the fabric of her coat it felt cold, and wet, and heavy. She squeezed it, clenching her eyes against the noise and the heat and the stench

No two girls could be more alike, mama had always said. Born the same day, each with hair like evening and eyes like the dawn. We were friends. Always friends. Our hands fitted together like they’d been carved as one, and we were so rarely at odds that the older folk smiled and said of us that we could read one another’s minds.

But what is sweet and lovely at five is not so at fifteen, and still less at twenty.

My friend’s mama took her away before she turned twenty-one and sold her to a man from the mountains. He became a husband more bear and hair and growl than human being. She called out to me, her words not formed by tongue and teeth; I heard her, but not with my ears. She was so far away. To say I missed her is to make a mockery of the words. An oozing void gaped within me where my heart had been.

And then, one day, her voice stopped.

I packed a bag and left, mid night, on feet grown so used to silence that mama never knew. She slept as I climbed out the window; she slept as I slid into the shadows. She slept as I made my way to the mountains.

I arrived as they pulled her from the lake. Her hair – my hair – dark with dark water, sodden with cold, swollen and dripping and dead, flopped around her neck like a serpent. Her braid was neat and perfect, but her eyes were sealed.

‘She had an allergic reaction,’ blustered her husband. ‘She ate some berry or other and ran into the tarn, out of her senses. Stupid townish woman.’

They commiserated and sympathised and filled him full of their sorrow, but I could see the laughter at the core of him. He’d had what he wanted, and he’d got what he wanted.

Before they buried her, I took her hair.

After they buried her, the mountain man vanished.

My bag has grown threadbare over the years. My clothes are clean but out of date. My name changes every time I am asked for it. I leave no trail.

And I look into the eyes of every man I see, waiting for the spark of recognition. When I find it, I will know what to do.

She sweeps to her feet and grabs her battered travelling case from the overhead rack. The braid drags down her coat on one side, making it swing. She strides up the aisle and asks to be let off the bus in a voice she doesn’t recognise, and before he knows what he’s doing the driver has pulled the lever, the door has hissed aside and she is off, striding between the rows of unmoving cars.

A man – shrunken now, and shaven, eyes hidden by a cap – watches her pass. Before the door can slide closed again he runs for it, squeezing through the narrowing gap and plunging out into the melting light of a city day. His own pocket is heavy, but not with a token of love.

He was born to the life of a tracker. All the world’s a mountain, if you need it to be.

 

Writerly Wednesday

The prompts from CAKE.shortandsweet were delayed today, so I went ahead and improvised: I created five sets of five words using a random word generator, and then I took the first word from the first set, the second from the second and so on until I had the following prompts:

Mile :: idiot :: brooch :: duck :: iron

Image: hdw.eweb4.com

Image: hdw.eweb4.com

Justice

The only problem with iron bullets is – of course – they kill humans, too. Mortflesh flowed around us like they were caught in a slipstream, their tiny, self-obsessed brains unseeing as we passed among them. Not for the first time, I wished for the freedom to fire at will, but I knew well the Council would have my powers if I dared to try it.
‘Where is he?’ muttered Klaas, beside me. ‘How is he hiding?’
‘Let’s hope he hasn’t embodied yet,’ I replied. My finger was light on the trigger of my weapon, concealed in a fold of my robe. ‘If he has, we may never find him.’
‘Chances are slim, surely?’ Klaas’s eyes flickered, gleaming golden, considering and discarding mortal faces one after another. ‘He hasn’t had long enough to find a subject.’
‘All he needs is one mortal willing to be an idiot,’ I pointed out. I saw Klaas nod, shrugging.
‘They are easy to fool,’ he agreed. ‘Something shiny – a brooch, or a bangle of jade – and they’ll do most anything.’
‘Not that you’ve tried it,’ I said, glancing at him.
‘Of course,’ he said, his voice like fresh milk, his eyes far from mine.
And then, I saw a flash between the trees ahead of us – light too pure to be mortal, too beautiful for this earth. The light of a fae, impossible to conceal.
‘Half a mile, dead ahead,’ I murmured to Klaas. He turned to face me again, the golden tang fading from his eyes. ‘Between the trees.’
He blinked, and looked. ‘I see it.’ His stance changed as he trained his eyes on the light, sparkling in the failing day. He took off at a run, mortflesh scattering either side of him. I followed, drawing my gun out of my cloak.
Within moments, we were within range. His light was so clear, so clear, that it made my eyes sting, but a mortal woman stood over him, arms outstretched, seemingly unaffected. I saw him turn to face us, baring his teeth in a hiss; the woman’s approach did not slow.
‘Come on, darlin’,’ she was saying. ‘Come on to Marie, now, and she’ll take good care o’ you.’ She dropped to a crouch, extending an arm toward him. ‘Who’d leave a tiny child on his own in a public park, eh? Who left you all alone?’
‘He’s glamoured,’ I said, and Klaas nodded. Behind the woman, the rogue fae glimmered, his mocking eyes gazing up at us. Five more seconds, and it would be too late; five more seconds, and he would be embodied. Beyond our reach.
‘Ma’am!’ I yelled, desperate. ‘Step away!’
She jerked in shock, turning.
‘What’s going on? Who are -‘ She caught sight of my gun, and shrieked a little, falling backward. ‘Get away from this child!’ she shouted, extending her arms to shield the creature behind her.
‘That’s not a child!’ called Klaas, waving a free hand at the woman, gesturing for her to move.
‘The hell it’s not!’ she replied, shuffling backward. Behind her, the fae laughed, silently. ‘Come on, darlin’. Let’s get out of here and away from these horrible men.’ She turned to me. ‘I’m callin’ the cops, right now!’
‘You must trust us!’ I shouted. ‘Duck, ma’am! Please!’
‘Young man, I – ‘ she began, but the rest of her words were cut off as a gurgling cry tore itself from her throat. The fae had made its move. Two sparkling hands plunged into the woman’s mouth, swiftly followed by its glimmering arms. It lifted its face to sneer at us before ducking into the human flesh that would give it sanctuary, making it immune to our judgement. The woman flopped on the ground, her arms and legs thrashing, her face turning scarlet as she struggled to breathe. Her eyes were filled with tears.
‘Dammit,’ I growled. I took aim and fired just before the fae finished slithering inside its mortal skin. The woman’s body jerked once, twice, as the bullets found their mark.
‘You’re going to be in worlds of trouble,’ remarked Klaas as she slumped on the ground, the growling fae already dragging itself out of her flesh.
‘Just grab him, and let me worry about the Council,’ I said, sliding my gun back into its holster. The dead woman’s eyes regarded the sky as we stepped over her to bind the wounded fae hand and foot, ready to drag him back to where he belonged.
Like I said. Humans find it so easy to act like idiots. Something told me, though, that taking the Council’s punishment would be a little easier, this time.

Wednesday Write-In #91

outfox  ::  couture  ::  spell  ::  grate  ::  willow

Image: spartacus.wikia.com

Image: spartacus.wikia.com

Prey

I stop at the willow tree. Heart galloping. Fast – so fast! Breathe. Look. I can hear them – smell them. Not far. Hallooooing trumpets, their dogs in a frenzy.
I have nowhere to go.
They are coming.
I blink. Breath tears through me. Thirsty so thirsty so tired… Instinct takes over. The world looks strange as I run. Behind, not far enough, the howling starts again. They have my scent, and they are coming.

I had been cleaning out the grate when it happened. I froze as I heard the Ladies coming back into the Great Room; I’d been sure they’d left for the day, but I must have been mistaken.
Or, they’d changed their minds. It wasn’t unknown.
Their voices tinkled in the hallway, and I doubled my pace, fingers trembling, praying…
‘Ah! Look, sister. Our little soot-boy is still here.’
‘It cannot be!’
‘I assure you.’
‘But, whatever for?
‘I presume he has been lazy, and has left his tasks undone until the last moment. Wouldn’t you think so, sister dear?’
‘No other explanation presents itself, certainly.’
I stumbled to my feet, turning and bowing low. I hid my filthy hands from their cool, clean gazes; I shrank my plain, worn garments from their gowns, elaborate, couture, worth more than my life.
I knew.
‘My ladies, I -‘
‘Do not speak, boy,’ spat Lady Mary. ‘Have you been given permission to speak?’
‘Milady, no -‘
‘Again! He spoke again!’ crowed Lady Elizabeth. ‘Did you hear him, sister?’
Lady Mary did not answer. She crossed the room, her steps quick, her shoes click-click beneath the rustling of her skirts. She stood three feet from me, and I could hear her breathing. I crunched my eyes shut.
‘You. I tire of you, boy. Your insolence upsets me.’
I said nothing. My eyes burned.
‘A punishment, sister!’ called Lady Elizabeth, from the door.
‘I have just the thing,’ replied Lady Mary. The hissing of silks and two careful steps, and a giggle.
And then the pain.

I wake in her arms. Lady Mary’s. Her fingers cold. Cruel. Like metal. My breaths too quick. No voice. No hands. I kick. Her fingers dig in, deeper, like a claw. Like a trap.
‘Peace, soot-boy,’ she hisses. ‘The spell is yet to settle fully. If you disturb it now, it will be worse for you.’
I do not believe her. I try to cry out again, but nothing comes.
Striding toward the door. A hand reaches to unlatch it. Sunlight, air, a bright day.
Distant yapping makes my spine contract. I struggle. I try to bite.
‘You beast!’ screams Lady Mary.
She flings me from her and I fall. I miss my footing. No – I cannot find my feet, because they are not there. Before I can move, a savage pain bursts through me and I spin, splayed, out onto the lawn.
She has kicked me.
And then I see it. I am covered in fur.
The keening of dogs makes me heartsick. I know without knowing that they are coming for me.
‘Let’s see you outfox us now, little hare,’ I hear. Lady Mary. Lady Elizabeth stands beside her in the doorway, laughing. Her eyes dance.
‘Run, soot-boy!’ she calls, waving.
Once again, as I have always done, I obey.

The dogs are upon me. I can smell them. I can taste their hunger. No matter where I run, they are there.
Trumpets. Shouting. Howling. Heartache. Agony.
I taste my own blood on my tongue.
A flash of light draws my eye. Through a haze, I see. Sunlight. Sparkling on water.
The river!
A snarl to my right makes me veer left; a howl to my left makes me redouble my pace. I cannot breathe. These limbs, not my own, are numb.
Screaming from behind me. I cannot hear the words. I do not need to hear to understand.
I stretch, further than I think I can bear. Feel like I am being torn in two.
The dogs’ breath burns like an open flame.
Then the water, so shocking, so cold, so fast, so clear, and the pain, the pain, the thumping, deafening, whirlpooling agony, the popping and bursting, the groaning of muscles and sinew, the stretching and rending of bone…
I drag myself up on the far shore. My fingers run red. I am shivering, naked. I turn, blinking through my own eyes, through a film of exhaustion, at the hunters.
The water washed the spell away, along with my scent, but the dogs play at the shoreline, dancing with the water, waiting for the word. They don’t need to smell me to tear me to shreds.
A hunter raises her bow, and cocks it.
‘Wait!’ calls another, a slender girl, her skin flushed. ‘Not yet.’
‘But they will ask for his heart,’ replies the other. The bow does not tremble.
‘We can find another hare,’ says the slender girl, turning to me. Her dark eyes fill with fire. ‘Leave him for another day.’
‘But -‘
‘Just do as I ask,’ says the slender girl. She smiles, but it is not gentle. ‘He has given us the best chase in years. Would you destroy him?’
The bow is lowered.
‘And, as we well know,’ says the slender girl, ‘men make much easier prey than hares.’
She blows me a mocking kiss and pulls her horse around. The others follow, reluctantly, and soon I hear the howling start again.
They will know the heart is not mine.
I do not have long.

 

Wednesday Write-In #90

This week’s words are:

jungle, matchbox, sparrow, hog, mull

Image: mrssmithscottage.co.uk

Image: mrssmithscottage.co.uk

Wash Day

We wanted to play, Sid and me, but Mum was busy. She was always busy. We scattered as she hauled the tin bath, full to the brim with shirts and soapy water, out to the back door, nearly sliding on one of my Matchbox cars as she went.

‘Get out from under my feet!’ she yelled. ‘This place is a blimmin’ jungle, Rodney. Get those things cleared up, this minute!’

‘Sorry, Mum,’ I said, glad she had hold of the bath. That meant, with any luck, she couldn’t smack me one.

‘I’ll sorry you,’ she muttered, leaning the bath on the garden wall. I heard the gooosh as the wash-water poured away, and the squealing of Mr Johnson’s pig next door. Probably thought it were feeding time, poor bugger.

‘That disgusting hog,’ hissed Mum, kicking our back door closed. ‘Why he can’t just be turned into breakfast, I will never know.’ Sid looked up, puzzled, a line of drool down his chin.

‘Never you mind, Siddie boy,’ I said, wiping his mouth gently. ‘Nothing’s going to happen to ol’ Porky.’ Sid grinned at me and went back to playing, swooping his toy aeroplane around like it were a B-52, doing the ack-ack-ack under his breath. Dad had carved it for me, but I’d given it to our Sid last year. He’d never left it out of his hand since.

‘Get out to that pump, Rodney,’ said Mum, slapping the shirts onto the scrubbing board. ‘Bring your brother, if he’ll go. I need at least two buckets.’

‘Right, Mum,’ I said, hauling Sid up by his collar.

‘At least two, mind! And none of your half-full nonsense. I need these shirts sparklin’.’ She started scrubbing, her hands red and the shirts white as snow.

‘Yes, Mum,’ I said, bundling Sid into his old, too-small coat. He stood staring, thinking who knew what. Probably wondering, like me, where Dad had gone and why Mum kept washing his shirts, week after week, like she was expecting him home any minute.

Sid and me clattered out, a bucket each. The pump was at the end of the road, painted white and red. The women stood around it like a bunch of birds on a garden fence. Mrs Ellis from number 12 was a sparrow, small and bony; Mrs Jenkins from top of the road a crow, beak and all.

‘All right then, young Robsons,’ said one of them as we got close. I nodded and Sid grinned, showing all his teeth. ‘There’s a good boy,’ crooned another, but more of them turned away, their mouths tight. They carried on talking, but in low, far-away voices.

Sid held the bucket steady while I filled it. The pump handle creaked and banged as it went up and down, up and down, the water gushing out like magic. Sid giggled. I knew he wanted to stick his face in, and I hoped he wouldn’t.

I grabbed a full bucket in each hand. Sid scrambled up to follow me, wanting to take some of the burden, but I couldn’t let him carry it. He’d forget it, or spill it, or fall… We’d been too long already.

‘Come on, Sid,’ I said, half-gasping, getting a grip on the handles. ‘Don’t delay.’ We passed the post box and turned the corner, and our house stood at the very far end, looking like it were miles away.

‘Dad!’ burbled Sid, suddenly. ‘Daa-ad!’ He crowed, clapping his hands and pointing.

‘Don’t be silly, Sid,’ I muttered, trying not to let him knock me off-balance.

Look!’ he insisted, plucking at my sleeve.

I put the buckets down and squinted, doing my best to see. Our front door was open, and there was someone there, someone with his back to us. Someone tall and broad and wide…

I grabbed Sid’s hand and we ran, full-pelt. Sid yelled all the way, Dad! Dad! Dad-daaad!

And the man turned.

He wore a full moustache and a dark blue uniform with polished buttons on, and shiny boots. His hat was clutched to his chest, and his eyes were kind. Our mum stood in the doorway like she were nailed to the frame, grey and open-mouthed. Her nose was red. Her eyes flicked back and forth over the front step like she couldn’t figure out what it was.

‘All right, lads,’ said the man, bending slightly, smiling at us. ‘Your mum’s just had a bit of bad news. She’ll have lots to mull over in the next while. You be good lads, all right? You’ll be the men of the house, now.’ He nodded at us, slid his hat back on his head, and strode off.

I stood staring at Mum for ages. Eventually, Sid and me got a shoulder each under her arms and helped her to the kitchen. Sid went back for the buckets; one was gone, but he brought back nearly the full of the other.

I finished the washing, and hung it out.

Eventually, we grew into Dad’s shirts, Sid and me, and they were as starched and white the day we first put them on as the day they’d first been made.

 

**

Just a little note to say: this is my 500th blog post! Thank you all for sticking with me this far, and I hope we’ll have plenty more blogging adventures to come.

Wednesday Write-In #89

The prompt words this week were:

disown :: doldrums :: narrow :: curse :: assemble

Image: colourbox.com

Image: colourbox.com

The Prodigal’s Return

Aix-en-Provence, 23.III.34
Robinson,

Oppressive times here, old chum. Oppressive indeed. This morning’s post brought a missive from Pater regarding my apparent ‘profligacy,’ ‘throwing away the family coin on women and wine,’ &c., and threatening the dreaded cut-off if such damnable behaviour does not cease forthwith. Blithering old fool. What business is it of his how I conduct myself here, far from his maddening grasp? Curse him. What irks most is how on earth he’s aware. Of course, he doesn’t know the half of it, but the half he does know, he appears to understand with perfect clarity.

All I wish is to be left in peace to write. Once my novel is completed, and I am being fêted on the London literary scene, we’ll see who requires money from whom.

I say, you couldn’t assemble a small packet of necessities, could you? A razor, some soap, a little cologne if you can spare it, some ink and nibs? Would be most grateful, of course. Recompense at a later date, and all that.

Must dash –
Yours
Stroud

 

Aix-en-Provence, 05.IV.34
Robinson,

The doldrums continue apace, their sole lightening your letter, received yesterday with childlike gratitude. I thank you most sincerely for the ink and sundries you were good enough to send. When I came upon the inner package and found just how far your generosity had extended, I was quite moved, old boy. Assure yourself that I shall use it to pay for the roof above my head and the cuisine – victual as opposed to venereal, naturally – of which, perforce, I must partake.

Work continues well. I am all but finished the first draft. Not that Pater cares: along with your wonderful package came another ‘I Shall Thee Disown’ decree, filled with the most dreadful vitriol. It’s enough to make one dizzy.

Off for a walk in the Spring sunshine before returning to my narrow quarters, to sleep perchance to dream – perchance to write.

I can feel it, Robinson. The acclaim. Time, o Time, that blessed mistress; Time is all I need.

Yours in gratitude
Stroud

 

Bridgwater House, Taunton, 17.V.34
Robinson,

I hold no ill-will, old chap. I’m sure you felt your hand forced, your conscience pricked without cease, and all that. I saw his top hat, first of all (nobody in Aix wears such things – he stood out like blood on a wedding gown); I tried to run, but could not decide what to leave, and what to bring. I froze, like a fool. He came straight to my door; there was no other way he could have known. I hope he made it worth your while, at least.

He flung my work upon the flames. It is ash, as am I.

No matter. Chin up, eh? Summer is high. The family coffers are, once again, sealed. Rejoice, o Israel.

Remember me, won’t you? With affection, if you can?

Yours eternally, in comradeship most fond,
Stroud