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Scribblings of M E Lucas

The Blog ...

An attempt to share my small contribution to the world of the written word. Includes: The Second Coming, my first novel and WIP, various Flash Fiction, and other bits. Occasionally, but not religiously, updated. It's a brave start ...

Social Media and Cheese

Authonomy FFF Posted on Sun, October 06, 2013 22:15:46

Authonomy – Friday Flash Fiction [FFF]

Post: FFF – October 5, 2013

Theme / Genre:
Cheese

Include:

Words:
1,000

Social Media and
Cheese

I wait for the stragglers to fill the seats, chatting as
they arrive, carrying their pens and paper, some with coffee, some with a glass
of wine. The usual crowd are in, along
with some newer faces. Lilian sits with
the girls at the nearest table, all ready to heckle, given the chance. Theirs is a wine table.

Debbie’s aromatic herbal teas have attracted Bea and others to
the centre table. Ron, Ray and the other
lads are all sharing a joke at the back of the room. New faces introduce themselves to the regular
friendly bunch.

‘Good evening, everyone.
Shall we start,’ I stand and turn to my Smart Board.

‘Right you are, Prince Valiant.’

A name coined by Leelah, but it is Tonia who kicks off the
evening. Looks like it’s going to be a
fun night. Bringing up two graphic logos
that fill the screen, I turn to face the group.

‘Oh no,’ Etienne whispers, under his breath.

‘Facebook versus Twitter.’

The room falls silent for a second, as if all are hypnotised. A thorny subject, but as writers, another set
of tools that should be utilised. Some
do, some don’t, some don’t know how.

‘I love twitter,’ I begin.

‘I don’t understand it,’ says Sylvania. A feeling most of the group have; I need to
quash it.

‘That’s why I thought we could discuss it today; show you
what it’s all about, and how you can use it.’

‘Good luck with that,’ Neville’s voice, from the back.

So, how do I
explain this.

‘Right, first we have Facebook or as you guys say FB. I’ve recently gone back to FB, because most
of my new Autho friends hang out there. Although, I was really surprised nobody really
tweeted.’

‘FB is so much easier,’ Judith says.

‘Do you think so? Let
me try to explain.’

‘Simple terms please, no long wordage thingmees,’ Diane
adds.

‘Simple analogy, Cheese.’

The room falls silent, all but a whispering of “Cheese? Cheese?”.

‘Yep, cheese. Now
let’s get to the basic_’

‘In my state, Wisconsin, we are known as
“Cheeseheads”,’ Jed says.

‘Sweet dreams are made of cheese, …’

‘Thanks, Zap and Jed.
Let’s start with_’

‘From Abbaye de Belloc to Zanetti Parmigiano Reggiano there
are over 650 speciality cheeses from some 60 countries around the world you
know. I once attended a fascinating
lecture where tasting of the cheeses was paramount, really fascinating, and
tasty.’

‘Thanks, Bill, but I’m going to use only a few examples
today.’ Bill is a mindful of knowledge,
never fails to educate us all.

‘Some cheese, if you please, pretty please, some cheese,’ Shirley
narrates. ‘Have you any samples, Matt?’

‘No, I didn’t think we would_’

‘Cheddar Gorge’us,’ says Yvonne.

‘Yes, Jarlsberg, Quark, Camembert, many exist. Who here loves cheese, show hands, umm that’s
most I’d say. Well it’s like this,’ I
compose myself. ‘Facebook can be seen as
a mature blue-vein cheese, such as Stilton, whereas Twitter is a younger cheese
like, say, Feta.’

Peace, at last their all listening.

‘Stilton is a slower process, there’s no hurry, as FB. You post up some comments and people take their
time, comment or not, go back to their timeline in their own leisure, to check
out what friends have posted.

‘Feta is a faster
produced cheese, Twitter is quick. It’s
not what you’ve done; it’s what you’re doing, now. Don’t get me wrong, I like both these cheeses,
but at different times and in different ways, it’s the same with social media. The Stilton FB way is with a glass of wine,
feet up, a catch up with old friends.’

‘Glass of wine sounds good,’ Tonia says, looking around and
receiving nods of approval.

‘The Twitter Feta way is of the moment, see the latest news,
what people are doing, drop in, drop out.
Tweets are quick one-liners, you click through on links if you’re
interested, or let them pass by. As with
FB you can always go back, or revisit to see what friends had been doing.’

‘I think most are happy to stay with the wine,’ more nods of
approval.

‘Twitter tweets are snapshots, the crumbly bits, click
through to get to the bigger blocks. You
can tweet as much, or as little, as you like; no one will mind. What they will want is interest. The Twitter timeline is so quick, it’s just
as well tweets are short, but the advantage is that you can ignore the
uninteresting and they’re gone; hopefully replaced with something that is
interesting.’

‘Why are there so many tweets saying the same thing,’
Maurice asks.

‘Retweeting yours or other tweets has the same result as
bumping on Autho, where little crumbs of cheese are flicked around the globe at
different times, for those who may have missed out on the nibbles.’

‘There doesn’t seem much substance, are you saying they open
up more.’

‘Exactly, Scott. The
best part about Twitter is the wealth of information. Each tweet you send should have a hashtag
associated with it, for easy retrieval.
Like this,’ I face the Smart Board and write.

“See my latest #flashfiction #writing on the #authonomy
forum.”

‘From this tweet people will find it if they search for,
flashfiction, or writing, or authonomy.
Some people have a Twitter Client, which they use to read tweets, and
set it to find certain tags as they are typed, this means others can find you
without having to follow you. Following
is equivalent to FB friends, but a lot more open.’

‘But what do you do with followers?’

‘The more interesting your tweets the more followers you’ll
get, the more followers you get that are interested in what you tweet about, or
ultimately write, the more potential buyers you will have for any cheesy books
you may have the fortune to publish.’

Silence again.

‘Sorry, did I say something wrong!’

Next week: Emmental Swiss cheese – the one with the holes
– we will reference writing: what you should leave out.



Ch. 5 – The Gift

The Second Coming Posted on Sat, October 05, 2013 17:00:16

Note:
Chapter totally revised: 12-03-14


The Second Coming

Chapter 5

The Gift

2740 words

At Saint Genis Pouilly, they drove into a small bustling village square. Levi indicated to the left corner, they turned and pulled up to the kerb further around the corner.

The pavements, populated with locals out on daily errands: several carried groceries bought in the nearby shops, some with newspapers, others engaged in conversation with each other as they passed. For a moment, they all glanced in the direction of their car; Rupert imagined a town of zombies attracted by the scent of new untainted blood. With relief, the bloodlust gawps looked away and carried on with their own business.

‘This is it, wait here for my return, I will not delay,’ and with that Levi hopped out of the car and slipped into the streetscape unnoticed.

A few seconds passed, in the rear-view mirror Rupert observed his fellow accomplice meander along the street. His memory played back Levi’s voice from earlier, “For your own safety”. He wondered what he had meant, safe from what, or who. Levi had not expanded any further. He watched the figure shrink in the distance; Rupert’s curiosity got the better of him. He climbed out of the car, kept his eyes fixed on Levi, and followed.

A few steps held back, and careful not to lose him, he trotted along the pavement, darted between pedestrians; using them for cover. He need not have worried, Levi, fixed on the task in hand, did not turn around once. As Rupert viewed over the shoulders of an elderly man and his wife, a plume of Gauloises cigarette smoke wafted and blocked his view. When it had cleared, Levi had vanished. Rupert overtook the couple and ran to a road junction where he had last seen him, he slowed and stole his head around the corner; the last glimpse of brown suit, as it disappeared through an anonymous door opening.

Various posters and fliers covered the galvanised metal door. As he approached, he noticed graffiti and dried urine stains added to the covering. Other than a lock escutcheon, the door had no ironmongery, no knob, no handle, and Rupert possessed no key.

Over the road, back at the junction of the square, Rupert noticed a coffee shop; the recollection of a similar waft of freshly baked pastries that Levi disallowed him at the airport earlier. He made his way back to the café and ordered coffee and pain au chocolat. Seated at an outside table, he waited; eyes looked over to the side street, focused near the door. Not long now, he thought, and checked the clock on his phone.

People came and went, as did his pastry and so too his coffee. Where was he? Rupert glanced at his phone again; Levi delayed longer than a few minutes. He took euro coins from his wallet, left them on the table, and made his way back to the doorway. Absentmindedly, he rattled car keys in his pocket, he stepped towards the secure door and pushed it with his free hand. Rupert half-expected Levi to walk through, but it did not shift.

‘Great,’ he said to himself.

The lock was a straightforward 5-lever cylinder type, he examined it; the kind found on a modern house front door. He pulled out the set of car keys. To his surprise, on a separate interlocking key ring, a similar cylinder key jiggled free.

‘That’s odd, why have a house key on a hire car key fob?’ He looked around, aware he mumbled to himself, and checked that no one had heard him. He looked at the key again. ‘It can’t be.’

With apprehension, Rupert offered the key to the lock, it slipped in without resistance. He turned and the mechanism unlocked, the door clunked ajar. How could this be, he thought, had Levi left the key on the ring and how had he managed to open the door without it? He pocketed the keys, pulled the hood of his zip-through over his head, tried to absolve what he was going to do, and heaved the door wide open. Triggered by the door opening, darkness disappeared, as wall mounted light fittings, fed by metal conduits, flickered into operation. At the same time, a red light appeared above the door and began to strobe. Was the door alarmed? Rupert could not remember any flash light when Levi had entered.

Find Levi, the only answer, and quick. Rupert pulled the door behind him and stepped down a set of stairs that led to a darkened corridor; the noise of the door clunked closed echoed before him. Triggered by movement sensors, bulbs buzzed to life the further he walked. The long grey concrete passage reached another deeper staircase, similarly utilitarian in its concrete and galvanised metal appearance. Rupert peered over the handrail in time to see a cascade of lights flicker into the depths. There was no sign of Levi. There had been no other doors or corridors so this had to be the right direction; he began a descent of the first flight.

‘Shit,’ out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed a shiny black-plastic dome fixed high up on the wall, a masked CCTV camera, how many others had he not seen? He pulled over his hood, covered his shame. When he found him, Levi would need to explain.

Despite trying to descend with as much stealth as possible, squeaks from his trainers reverberated within the hard interior. He was glad of the hood, the temperature felt like it dropped with every step, and it was cold. After a few minutes and countless stairs he reached the bottom, his legs ached and his breath visible in the chilled air. The only way, a pitch-black opening loomed at the end of the lobby. Anxious, he anticipated the lights would turn on and stepped forward, closer and closer. Although no bloodthirsty ghoul stood there to greet him, he still jumped out of his skin when lights burst in to life.

Ahead of him appeared a small shallow room, curved like an underground tunnel, leading off out of sight to his left and right. A large and shiny pipe thread through blue metal mountings filled the space. Several other pipes, wires, conduits, and lights clung to the walls around the pipe; everything ran in the same direction as the room. Rupert moved forward and looked to the left, the pipe and its attachments continued out of sight. He entered the room and gasped at the sight, the room was not a room, but a very long corridor with a slow curve. The apparatus stretched out and disappeared around the bend in the distance, he turned to face the other direction.

‘I told you to stay in the car,’ Levi said.

‘Jesus, Levi,’ startled for a second time, Rupert jumped at the sight of him.

‘Not two names I would usually put in the same sentence,’ Levi said.

The corridor continued with the same slow-bend behind Levi and the large holdall held at his side.

‘Where are we?’

‘Do you not recognise a Hadron Collider when you see one?’ Levi looked up and down the corridor.

‘Then we are probably in serious trouble.’

‘We are now you triggered the alarm, come on,’ he said and turned back along the curving tunnel.

‘Are we not going back up the stairs?’

‘They will be waiting for you.’

On cue, Rupert heard the sound of feet, they clattered and echoed within the stair core, he followed Levi. They walked along the curving perimeter; the footfall became louder and louder. Another darkened room off the corridor appeared and Levi took it. Lights did not flicker on until Rupert entered, by that time Levi was half-way up a flight of stairs. Levi, with greater stealth, must have done this a few times before, he thought.

‘Your turn to carry the bag, and hurry, they are coming.’

‘What is this?’ Rupert asked.

‘Just take it; we do not have time now.’

Rupert obeyed, grabbed the leather handles and heaved the bag up, it was a ton weight; he put it down.

‘It’s flipping heavy.’

‘I know, come on,’ Levi disappeared fast up the stairs. Rupert pulled up the bag again, threaded his arm through the loops and pushed the bag up onto his shoulder, still heavy, but more manageable.

They climbed another similar utilitarian staircase to the top; Rupert remembered to pull the hood up further, ahead of any CCTV cameras, along another identical corridor to a set of steps and a metal security door, where Levi waited.

‘No looking back, or dawdling, when we go through this door, straight to the car. I expect it will be busy out there and we do not need to get caught up with things.’

‘But—’

‘Ready?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘We can talk in the car, let us go.’

Orders administered, he levered a handle and out they went, greeted by the sunshine and the noise of police sirens, into a deserted side street. Levi closed the door behind them, pulled Rupert’s hood from his head and led the way out to the main road. Rupert followed and recognised the busy street; people had stopped daily errands, stood, looked and pointed in one direction, past where they had parked the car, to flashing blue lights and the source of the sirens.

Before Rupert could say a word, Levi had joined a group of on-looking shoppers and conversed in French. Languages were not Rupert’s high point, so decided to avoid speech, instead continued past them towards the car. In an attempt to eavesdrop, he picked-up two easy words: terrorists and bank.

He placed the heavy holdall into the boot of the car, relieved to shed the weight, daylight gave the first proper look at the bag. It was an old leather holdall, covered in dust and cobwebs, secured by a series of leather straps and buckles; from a different age. A police car sped past, its siren wailed; he hurried and closed the boot. Heat prickled his cheeks, he felt flushed, and an uncontrollable glow of red filled his face with guilt and worry. He hastened into the driver’s seat and closed the door; Levi joined him.

‘Apparently, a group of terrorists have broken into the vaults of a Banque Populaire des Alpes on the corner,’ Levi gave Rupert a frowned expression. ‘You look flustered.’

‘Actually, I’d gathered that much, but we were nowhere near a bank vault and we are hardly a group.’

‘Do you seriously think that CERN would admit to allowing an unknown foreign student into their Hadron Collider?’ he omitted himself from the equation.

‘Levi, you told me you had something to give me, something safe, something that you owned. Yet here we are surrounded by France’s finest, gun wielding I wouldn’t doubt, with a damn heavy bag stolen from an immensely secure world-class scientific research facility. It is all a bit Hollywood don’t you think?’

‘Talking of Hollywood, might I suggest if you do not make a move soon, it will be you in front of all the cameras. The bag is not stolen. It was stored securely and safely for me until I needed it again; that time is now,’ Levi had an uncanny ability to put Rupert in his place. ‘With all due respect, Rupert, if you had not followed me through the door, this would not have happened.’

The car fell silent. Rupert’s well-reasoned mind could not comprehend what Levi told him. How could Levi have entered the building; passed by countless security devices; acquired a hefty old bag from deep in the recesses of CERN; and still not triggered any alarm? Although it pained him to admit it, Levi was right; if only he had stayed put in the car.

He started the engine and they made their way. A gendarme hurried to reroute backed-up traffic away from the scene; they departed without a hitch.

They drove west to the outskirts of town on the Rue de Lyon, past more airport hotels, and on to the main B255 headed towards Bellegarde-sur-Valserine. The route took them on a bendy road at the foot of the Jura Mountains and for the most part ran alongside the Rhône River. At Bellegarde they joined the A40 Autoroute and after the half an hour the journey took, Rupert spoke.

‘When will I get to see this thing?’ he said.

‘At the next services, pull off,’ Levi said, his eyes closed, as they had been for the whole journey, he barely moved. ‘We will stop for coffee and I will show you.’

‘It had better be worth it.’

‘Trust me.’

Rupert drove; Levi rested his eyelids. The E21 E-road and the A40 Autoroute, Rupert noted the same, at least for the current stretch of road. Confused by the numbering, he found solace in the satellite navigation.

‘Aire de la Semine, will that do?’ Rupert asked Levi.

‘No café there, drive on.’

Rupert glanced across to the services, as they sped past, several parked articulated-trucks and sure enough, just picnic benches complete with a toilet block. How did he do that? Either, he had been here several times before, had a photographic memory, or he could see through his eyelids, Rupert thought.

The motorway continued through the country, pine trees scattered across the hillsides from crest to the dusty grey verges of a well used Autoroute des Titans. Rupert had picked out the name on the sat-nav device, he had not given it much attention, and he now glanced back and forth from road to screen. The two lanes of westbound carriageway split from the eastbound, changed proximity and elevation, as they passed over the Viaduc du Tacon; Rupert focused on the dashboard guidance.

‘Do not look down,’ Levi said.

Rupert glanced out of the window, trees and buildings disappeared beneath the road, as they sailed high above. He noted Levi’s closed eyes.

‘How do you do that?’ Rupert said.

‘It is a sixth sense thing,’ a slight condescension in his voice. ‘I could teach you sometime; I know you are receptive.’

Regular attendance at various conferences, Rupert had met many hundreds of people, along with challenging personas of those devote, yet, despite only meeting twice, Levi managed to take it to a personal level, offered up a challenge that required focus and similar retort.

‘That might be interesting, it could come in handy,’ he tried hard not to sound cynical. ‘I have a sixth sense of my own.’

‘Really?’

‘I’m a good reader of people.’

‘Yes,’ Levi opened his eyes; intrigued. ‘I am aware of that.’

‘I can tell if someone is telling the truth, or if they are wasting my time with superfluous acts or information.’

‘Well that is interesting, what—’

‘It’s not something I readily share with people, especially what I am feeling,’ Rupert truncated Levi. ‘Fifteen minutes to Aire de Ceignes services.’

They disappeared into the Tunnel de Saint-Germain. The glow of red taillights ahead of them filled the car’s interior. Rupert stole a peek at Levi to read the expression on his face and there it was again, not what he had expected, a smile.

Once more, with eyes closed he remained that way until they pulled into the motorway services at Aire de Ceignes, Haut Bugey. Greeted by a flamboyant cladding of red and yellow graphic panels, the Agip service station, a welcome interlude from the dull greys and browns of the tarmac and mountains that surrounded the landscape. They pulled into a parking space outside the main building and jumped out the car.

‘I will arrange coffee, you bring in the holdall,’ Levi said, he marched his way to the door and did not wait for an answer.

‘You really know how to push your luck,’ Rupert said to himself, he turned to the back of the car and opened the boot; not aware Levi was out of earshot.

He looked up. ‘Great, I’m talking to myself, and not for the first time today. Jeez, this bag is bloody heavy.’

Preparing his attempt to move it, he studied the rows of buckled straps for a second, and although tempted, realised it would take too long to unfasten the thing, have a sneak peep, and buckle it back up again. He lifted the holdall clear, closed the boot, and locked up the car.



Screwdriver

Authonomy FFF Posted on Mon, September 30, 2013 09:26:56

Authonomy – Friday Flash Fiction [FFF]

Post: FFF – September 27, 2013

Theme / Genre:
Free For All

(Do not) Include: just, know, one, eyes, time [see previous post]

Words:
1,000

Screwdriver

‘You see this face, remember this face.’

He made the “watching you” move made famous by Robert De
Niro, two fingers pointing to his own bloodshot eyeballs followed by the same
two fingers pointing at the camera.

‘I’m watching you, you realise that don’t you, start running
you little motherfucker, I’m coming to get…’

The camera kept rolling, both the interviewer and the
operator were delighted with the confrontational anger, but someone in the
studio pulled the shot and the rest of the interview never aired.

‘Why did you say that?
What are you going to do? You’ll
not bring our son back, you, stupid, stupid …’ Jill, unable to finish her
words, anguish and feelings of ruination forbade her.

‘No, maybe not, but they’ll be scared shitless that I could
possibly be mental enough to come and find them. They’ll be looking behind their back for the
rest of their lives,’ John’s irate manner showing his bitterness and hatred
towards his son’s murderer. ‘A warning. That’s more than Tim had. That bastard can live-on in fear, Tim can’t,
he’s dead?’

Jill began to sob again; she had not really stopped these
past few days. Their only son; taken
from them by some thug, a moron, whom the TV described as a young adult; not
much older than Tim. Young adult she
thought, what a joke, there was nothing adult about taking an innocent life.

Nonetheless, it was John that Jill’s attention turned to,
she could see his grief twisting him inside out, actions verging on the childish,
words of vengeance, and try as she might, she didn’t have the strength to fight
against him.

‘Your face on the TV, what’s stopping them coming to get
you, John, you hadn’t thought about that had you.’

‘Bring it on!’ he said, still defiant. ‘I need fresh air, a walk to the park.’

‘Be careful, John, don’t go looking for trouble.’

‘I’m only going for a walk.’

Pulling on his jacket, Jill could see that he was lost. He
grabbed his keys and mobile from the table and disappeared out the door without
a word.

She was right, he hadn’t thought about it, in the heat of
the moment he’d become far too emotional, but he had to say something. Police had little information about the boy
and the public had not come forward with any more help. What could he do? His mind mulled over what the inspector had
said to him following the TV interview.

‘Mr Giddings, do you mind if I have a word,’ he had
asked.

‘Yes, Inspector.’

‘Mr Giddings, I understand that this has not been easy
for you, or your family. This is all
very emotional, of course, we understand that, but I have to caution you about
your behaviour.
He had sounded quite
serious. ”We will let it go, but you
really can’t incite any violence, or take the matter into your own hands, Mr
Giddings. We have a team working around
the clock on this tragedy and we WILL get to the bottom of who murdered your
son.

It was small recompense, he’d thought.

The walk was unadventurous, or was it simply his state of
mind, only focused on some sort of vendetta.
What would he say to the boy should he meet him? Should he carry a weapon or something?

It was late, the park quite, a few dog walkers passed him,
and he barely acknowledged them; wrapped up in his own little world.

A twig cracked ahead of him, followed by rustling leaves and
a figure jumped out from the hedgerow.

‘Well, if isn’t the man from the TV.’

John looked around; they were alone.

‘What’d you say, “Run you little motherfucka,” or somethin’
like that.’

The boy was about nineteen, John guessed, he had a detached
demeanour, typical bully material. Dirty
jeans, leather jacket, and long limp hair to match. This is my son’s killer.

‘Well?’

John hadn’t been listening.

‘I said you’re the mofo and now I’m gonna stick you like I
done to your kid.’

There was something in the boy’s hand, metal.

‘A screwdriver, you killed my son with a screwdriver.’

‘Yeah, need to stick it harder, don’t ya.’

The boy lunged forward, John, caught sight of his diluted
drugged pupils, full of anger. The shank
of the tool was coming for him.

He side-stepped, a reflex action from learning self-defence
as a youngster, the boys arm passed by, John grabbed it and turned into
him. He forced the arm downwards, then
with clenched fist and a protruding joint of his middle finger he pressed hard
into the back of the lad’s hand. The
pressure grinding against the metacarpals, the boy released the screwdriver in
an instant. John pushed the arm away,
transfixed he picked up his son’s murder weapon.

The moment’s lack of concentration allowed the boy to trip
John up, sending him over, off the path and onto the dry sun-scorched grass.

‘You cheeky old git,’ the boy now towered down at him. John
caught off guard, laid in a defenceless position and was unable to stop the
sudden kick placed right into his face.
A crack and his whole body arced backwards, in shocking pain, nose
cracked, he felt the warmth of blood running down his face.

He turned to look at his attacker. The pain, anger, and
frustration flared up inside him, like a boxer’s fist he was up out of nowhere,
leaping at his laughing enemy, screwdriver in hand.

Surprised, but seemingly in control, the boy stepped back,
he knew from John’s position he would not reach far enough to do any damage.

John had a different idea, he thrust forward and with all
his might, the screwdriver came down hard, piercing the canvas of the boy’s
converse, straight through his foot, the rubber soul and four inches into the
hard ground beneath.

The boy yelped aloud.
Dogs barked. The boy wasn’t going
anywhere, John rested, took out his phone and called 999.



The Unknown Writer

Scribblings Posted on Thu, September 26, 2013 10:05:52

The Unknown Writer

Shame, guilt,
hiding fears.
Secret engagement,
private tears.

Learn, gain,
complete enjoyment.
Selfish thoughts,
chase fulfilment.

Steadfast, onward,
gaining ground.
Marked improvement,
knowledge found.

Desire, need,
can’t confess.
Creative drive,
search success.



The Battle of Trafalgar

Authonomy FFF Posted on Tue, September 24, 2013 21:54:51

Authonomy – Friday Flash Fiction [FFF]

Post: FFF – September 20, 2013

Theme / Genre:
Free For All

Include:

Words:
703

The Battle of Trafalgar

The stripy black and white top with leather jeans
combination would attract anyone’s attention.
Sat at the counter in full view of other imbibers and smokers, one sees not
alone, another girl of similar age impinging her space.

The pair, perched atop of tall bar stools and chatting aloud
over the room’s din, nurse two glasses of white wine. At home in each other’s company, indirect
friends through a close relative, and neither suffering from a lack of
Blarney’s “gift of the gab”.

The future observer arrives, notices the stripes, and orders
a pint. Ensconced, away from the bar, in
an open people-watching corner table, one observes the new arrival, checking
his watch and sipping his pint, all whilst occasionally glancing over to the
two girls.

A shy character, long-haired and goatee adorned, with a
diffident manner, his body language betrays his lack of confidence. Yet, the little boy lost, is attractive to
some, and an appropriately placed barfly-on-the-wall would sense a certain female
interest growing in defence to a companion’s suggestion, and cajolement, for
other entertainment.

Another fidgety check of the watch, interpretively showing a
sign of disappointment, the desired impromptu meeting would not be happening; further
clarified by gulping the last dregs of a pint glass. Nevertheless, to leave when the hint of an
alternative dalliance could exist would be a loss and defeat by insecurity,
better to aim for more Dutch courage and purchase another beer.

Naturally, aware of each other’s presence, no eye contact occurs
at the bar. Returning for a few more
sips, the need to relieve the bladder follows, unsurprisingly, and the long
walk of shame from the solitary sitting position at an empty table for four is
inevitable.

The return walk is no better, perhaps worse as a passing
acquaintance acknowledges and confers with the loner, but neglects to make an invitation
to another table and therefore again left to one’s own devices.

Stranger things are afoot; both girls have taken residence at
the now half-full table for four.
Innocent expressions of mistaken appropriation of the seats lead to
first contact and conversation flows between the three, although it is the slim
striped girl in black leather that takes control; although blessed with
gorgeous emerald green eyes, one would fail to remember what the other girl was
wearing.

From solitude to threesome in the pull of a pint, close
attention is given, glances made and pleasantries forth come, however, all is
snatched away as alternative adventures await the couple and no sooner are
conversations struck-up, they dry-up as three becomes one again.

A visual happiness exudes from behind the facial hair, eyes
glisten with pleasure following the unlikely flirtation. Although, with it, signs of other extemporaneous
conversations are lost too, shyness and anxiety rear their ugly heads once more
and attention moves to another, last pint.

Not local to this den of iniquity, the head full of
starry-eyed dreams would surely return another day, perchance to meet again
with the mystery young women whom had seemed so naturally friendly. Now, however, it was time to dispense of the
visibly singular existence and drink up.

Three-quarters of a pint is the casual drinking time it
takes the entrance door to clatter open once more. It is also a sign for the single-man to make
tracks, and return to the single-bedroom flat above the off-licence. It is also the signal for the slender,
leather-clad legs to return, evidently under duress from the owner of the green
eyes, but content to play along.

Up until now – it would transpire later – the emeralds have
eyes for the goatee. Yet, despite this,
and with honest thoughts not to get involved, the leather bond is beginning to
tighten. The visual differences are obvious,
his unkempt hair versus her short trimmed bob, casual dress versus street-wear
with fashionable attitude. Connections
of chalk and cheese made through talking and listening, confident versus
self-doubt, but it works and it strengthens.

The corner table in The Battle of Trafalgar pub, with
hindsight, is set to become the talk of future dinner parties and tales for
young offspring. It projects an unforgettable
foundation stone, the beginnings of a long enduring relationship.

The rest is history.



FFF Words

Authonomy FFF Posted on Mon, September 23, 2013 23:48:15

FFF Words

FFF – September 20th, 2013

A regular thread on the Authonomy Forum is the regular Friday Flash Fiction thread, or the FFF, as fondly known.

Each week several authors pull their hair out whilst racking their brains thinking of a flash fiction piece, as instructed by the threads proprietor, Verse_Artiste, AKA Lilian, and all in 1,000 words or under.

This week there were nineteen entries in differing varieties of form and genre, as this week was a “Free For All” challenge. Congratulations go to Yvonne, for this weeks winning entry, as voted for by Authonomy members, “Song in the Key of F” on page six.

Intrigued with the words for this week, I copied and pasted all of the submitted stories from the thread into the Wordle website, the following image is the result. It shows the top 200 most popular words, as used by all the authors involved:

Top 200 Words

The largest shown are the most commonly used. There are also some good ol’ favourite characters in there: garbage-man, Billy, Lanette, Croc, Rutters, Masters, Bess, and so on.

However, which are the most popular words used this week?

The following image, using the same data, shows the top 5 most popular words:

Top 5 Words

Do you recognise any of them from your submission?

Are you guilty of using too many ones or justs?

What could you use to replace them?

Now, there’s an idea. smiley



Left Behind

Authonomy FFF Posted on Mon, September 16, 2013 22:51:58

Authonomy – Friday Flash Fiction [FFF]

Post: FFF – September 13, 2013

Theme / Genre:

Include: Nail polish, knife, tissues, shoebox, watch.

Words:
865

Left Behind

In the dim light you
stand at that the top of the stairs, looking down at him at the bottom, he does
not move. You know he’s not going to
move, you know the force that you thrust the knife into his body, there is no
way anyone would survive that, especially as he fell the full flight of stairs
with that heavy bag of his.

You remember the
noise.

It happened about
ten minutes ago and you have been standing there ever since, in the dark of the
night, just staring down at him, watching to see if he moves, he has not.

The noise he made as
he fell, you stabbed him, you pushed him, he fell, the noise.

Again, your eyes
stray from his body to look at the broken spindles that he crashed into. Poking out at differing angles onto the
stairs, some with dark blood markings, as the blade you are still holding. You feel the weight of it now in your right hand;
the knife is a good nine inches long and glistens with the man’s deep crimson
blood.

There is blood on
the stairs, from the knife, from where he fell, from where you pushed him.

The noise was loud,
his sudden unexpected screech, the cracking of timber, the cracking of bone; you
are sure it was bone. The way he is laying,
there, his arms and legs distorted, they must be broken.

That was the noise: fractures,
breaks.

You tighten the grip
of your left hand, without looking, you know it is still there, the
shoebox. He did not get his hands on it;
you did not let him.

He tried, but you
protected it, just as promised, just as always.
It is all you have left and he would have stolen it from you. He did not know about the knife, otherwise,
he would not have come. He did not know
what the box and its contents meant to you.

The man was a fool
to try.

Why do some people
think it is acceptable to take other peoples things, possessions, memories,
why? What would he have done with
them? Not sold them, he’d get nothing,
he wouldn’t know their history; given them to his girlfriend, unlikely, they
are so defaced and scarred; thrown them away, probably. It is no matter; he will not be coming to get
them now. They are safe.

The blade is
starting to shake now, only slightly, but you notice. You have not moved for nearly twenty minutes,
it is beginning to weigh you down. To
compensate, you clench both hands. The
guard of your Bowie knife pushes right into the flesh of your hand from the
force of the lunge you made. The card of
the shoebox is crumpling, as you tighten your grip.

The noise was loud,
even for that short time. The neighbours
must have heard something; heard his scream, or the sound of falling; the
splintering of wood; the cracking of a skull, his skull. Surely, someone heard. The tiled flooring to the hallway, did he
crack his head open? Did you crack his
head open?

Looking down to the
tiles, trying to see his head, you notice a faint blue light shining through
the glass of the front door; it’s flashing.
Brighter and brighter, the blue light grows. Flashing and flickering, it illuminates the
tiles with a depressing sapphire light.
A pool of dark, dark crimson, surrounds the head of the man, you can see
it now.

That was the noise.

Peering down again,
to the box this time, you smile; you know the watch and the two bottles are
safe; safe in your hands. There was no
way he was going to get them, and you made sure of that.

Why do thieves
presume they can just break-in and take anything they want? Why?

Protect them, that
is your job, and you have. You have
nothing to fear. If anyone asks they
will see you have done your job, you have protected the box and its delicate
contents.

Three things are inside
the box, cosseted in tissues to keep them safe and sound: a Longines watch, one
bottle of nail polish, and one of nail varnish.
You know why they are there. They
are all you have left of her. The last
things she touched.

An engraved watch you
gave for her twenty-first and miraculously a bottle of her favourite, although
unusual, green nail varnish, and polish.
All found in the carnage of Minoru Yamaski’s fallen World Trade
Centre towers. The wristwatch, separate
from the disintegrated and burnt make-up bag, however, both contained a clear
reference to your undying love, over a decade ago.

He would never get his hands on anything you knew that,
never. No one would.

Into the intense flashing blue light you gaze, it’s mesmerising
and soothing. There is a flickering shadow
approaching the door, it grows larger and your doorbell rings; a familiar
ring. He doesn’t hear it, the man at the
bottom of the stairs, but you do. A
second ring and you tighten your grip again.

They are safe. The
police will understand. You had to
protect them.



50 Word Fiction

Scribblings Posted on Mon, September 16, 2013 21:34:36

Scottish Book Trust

50 Word Fiction Competition

Submitted: September 16, 2013

Prompt: Tudor House

Link: http://www.flickr.com/photos/spjwebster/3434671733/

Words: 50

“They say
people have gone missing from here and it’s haunted,” the rich man says.

“Yes, indeed. This
way, mind the step.”

The man’s wife asks,
“Haunted by whom?”

“Just close
this door, goodness isn’t it dark,” a veil of quiet coldness enshrouds
them.

“A jealous
estate agent,” he answers.



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