Free-falling

Written for the Leeds savages writers meet on April 4th; inspired by a photograph by the documentarist Daniel Meadows


FREE-FALLING

Her husband would scoff if he knew how often she would leaf through the yellowed images which documented her sixteenth summer. If he could see her now, sat on the window ledge with one hand smoking an illicit cigarette like a teenager and the other holding the precious album, he would no doubt shout at her not to be so bloody stupid, to get down and get back to the important business of ironing his shirts.

Sometimes she found it hard to believe that almost forty more summers had passed since that time of ice creams and daydreams, so fresh in her mind were the memories. On other days however she struggled to reconcile the life-worn face that stared at her out of the mirror from beneath hooded eyes with the girl pouting in the photographs. With wrinkles now pursuing a relentless crusade from forehead to décolletage, it was hard to believe that she was carved of the same flesh as that girl who was all smiles and lean brown limbs; that long ago, decades before she gave up on hair dye and perms, she had once spent hour upon hour teasing her hair into those bouncy dark curls that were all the rage. That girl had turned heads; whereas this woman; well, this woman might as well be invisible.

It was to be the last holiday that she would take with her Ma and Pa; her next vacation being her honeymoon with Del on the Isle of Wight several years later. They’d been going to the holiday parks for a good few years; what with Pa usually spending nearly every waking hour at the factory where he was a supervisor; it was the one opportunity that the four of them got to spend any length of time together. At twelve her sister Karen had still been enthralled by the whole experience; donkey rides, competitions, hours spent splashing in the pool.  Helen on the other hand considered herself to be past such childish things. What she really wanted to get out of the holiday was a boyfriend; or at least the opportunity to lose the cumbersome burden of virginity before she started at Sixth Form College.

Ma had awkwardly broached the subject of sex with her just a few weeks prior to the holiday. She’d basically made out that it was a thoroughly unpleasant business that a woman would have to endure for the sake of her husband, and under no circumstances should she ever let a boy do anything to her beyond a chaste peck on the cheek outside of wedlock. Helen politely thanked her for her advice, and then promptly retreated to her room to re-read the hot sex tips column in a well thumbed copy of Cosmopolitan. If the contents of her favourite magazines were anything to go by, Ma clearly hadn’t ever done ‘it’ right. Cosmo and its many imitators had informed Helen that a great sex life was the right of every modern, liberated woman, and a wedding ring was certainly not a prerequisite these days. Deciding to follow the mantra of the magazines rather than her mother, she set off to Skegness with every hope that she would arrive there a girl, but leave a fully fledged woman.

Turning the pages of the photo album, Helen considered whether her Ma had perhaps been right all along, and that the whole bedroom business was hugely or, in her Derek’s case, averagely overrated. Fair enough it had given her two sons, but in last couple of decades it had played little part in her life. The screaming and shouting and swinging from the chandeliers type of activity still advocated by the magazines in the 21st century might be all well and good for the young ‘uns, but was not exactly an options with paper-thin walls and children prone to entering the bedroom at any time of night. The boys had both left home now; one at university and the other working; but the distance that had grown between herself and Del over the years was so great that it seemed unfeasible for them to just flick a switch, cast off the ‘Mum and Dad’ personas and rewind thirty years.

The next photo still never failed to send a shiver down her spine. Johnny Fish; oh so cool, oh so handsome, with his fashionable long, slick hair and hypnotic dark eyes. He was probably fat and bald these days, but in Helen’s dreams he would always be seventeen. She’d first laid eyes on him the afternoon that they arrived in Skegness; she’d been reluctantly playing tennis with Karen and he’d been stood by himself watching, smoking a cigarette. Helen blushed as she recalled how she had hitched up her skirt then deliberately bent over slowly to pick up the ball, ensuring that the mysterious stranger got a good flash of her knickers. Later on she’d plucked up the courage to go speak to him at the evening disco; to be honest once he started talking about the obscure bands that he was into and his passion for fishing and cars it was quickly apparently that they had very little in common, but that did little in the way of diminishing her attentions towards him. She remembered hurriedly taking the photo of him at the end of the night, her parents dragging her back to the chalet at 10pm much to her embarrassment. “I’m not a kid; I’m not a kid” she repeated with little effect as they took her by the hand and steered her away from Johnny.

The next day she sat next to the lake reading “Women in Love”; a book she’d borrowed from the library mainly on the grounds that she knew her Ma wouldn’t approve. She was struggling to get into it; Lawrence being a somewhat more challenging read than her usual boarding school or pony club yarns; but was persevering in hope that she would eventually stumble on the promised dirty bits.

“What you reading?”

Helen looked up to see Johnny and three of his friends, all boys of a similar age though none as visually appealing. 

“Oh, nothing, just a romance.” Blushes spreading across her cheeks, she scrambled to her feet.

“I’m not really into books;” one of Johnny’s friends replied. “Remind me too much of school.” Helen, in reality a voracious reader, shrugged her shoulders in what she hoped was a cool, nonchalant way.

“Do you fancy a swim?” Johnny asked. “Me and the boys were thinking of going for a dip”

The blush spread further at the thought of Johnny in his swimming trunks; messing about in the pool together, bare flesh touching.

“I’d love to but I don’t have my costume with me. I could go back to the chalet and get it though.”

“What do you think, lads?” one of the nameless boys asked. “We’re kind of in a hurry; places to go you know?”

“You don’t need a costume;” Johnny replied with a wink. “Just take off your dress and in you get!”

Beginning in spite of herself to feel a little uncomfortable with all the attention; Helen glanced around to see if her parents were nearby.

“I think I just heard my Ma calling; I’d better go see what she wants;” she said hurriedly.

“Don’t you go worrying about your Ma, you’re not a kid anymore, are you?” Johnny grabbed her wrist and held her in place. “If you want a swim, you don’t need your Mummy’s permission.”

“Like I said, I’ve not got my swimsuit;” she replied. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

The boys glanced at each other; a silent plan passing between them.

“Oh yes you can;” responded one of the boys who had until now been silent. Before she could even catch a breath to object Helen found their hands on her arms and shoulders, pushing hard. In an instant she was flying backwards through the air towards the cold water of the lake. The experience of freefalling through the air was exhilarating; in that brief moment between land and water the combination of fear and excitement created a sensation of intense pleasure that she had never felt before and, to be truthful, had never felt since. The last thing she saw before she hit the water, screams rising in her throat, was Johnny holding the camera that never left her side, beckoning her to smile as he pressed the shutter.

Pushing soaking hair away from her face and rubbing water from her eyes; screams of protest quickly transformed into shrieks of joy.

“Woo; it’s fresh! Are you boys not going to come join me?!”

“Helen Walker, get out of there this instant!” Stood on the bank with expressions of horror on their face were her parents; her Mum clasping her forehead, her Dad’s arm outstretched towards her. Reluctantly she took his hand and clambered out of the water. All eyes were on her as she stood there, soaking wet.  

“You’re a disgrace to yourself and to the family, Helen;” her father shouted. “Go dry yourself off then pack your things. This holiday is over. We’re going home.” Her mother gathered up her things and snatched the camera from Johnny’s hands.

Looking back Helen smiled as she recalled just how powerful she had felt for that minute; every boy and man seemed to be staring longingly at the thin cotton dress clinging tightly to every inch of her body, every woman trying and failing to disguise their envy at her youth. Her father’s anger was of no relevance – all that mattered was the way in which Johnny was looking her up and down.

“Nice knowing you;” he shouted as she was dragged away from him for the second time in as many days.

“Pity I didn’t get the chance to know you better;”she replied with a laugh.

She’d never seem him again, although he was the subject of many a fantasy over the next two years until she met Derek and instead channelled her energies into breaking his resolve to save himself until marriage, a resolve which lasted approximately 4 weeks after their first date.

Oh what she would give to have the chance to feel like that again, to be that person again! Legs swinging from the window ledge, she closed her eyes and imagined letting go, taking flight, freefalling.

Opening them again, she slammed the photo-album shut and climbed down from the ledge. Falling would be easy, sure, but there was a pile of washing to be done and the beds wouldn’t make themselves. She put aside the album and the promise it held, and set to work before her husband got home.

Lurgy and Turkey

I’m in the process of recovering from a bout of one of those stomach bugs that strikes without warning and provides an uninvited detox, a ruthlessly efficient purge of the system to put any health kick to shame. The house reeks of the delightful combination of bleach and febreeze with which I’ve doused every inch in the hope of eliminating all traces of the traumas recently passed. Solid food is making a hesitant but welcome return and with it energy and the ability to stay awake for more than an hour.

Fortunately the lurgy didn’t strike until Thursday, so I was able to make this week’s Leeds Savages writing meet. I hadn’t managed to complete anything on theme (‘A New Start’ being the topic of choice, and one on which I have more than a few ideas that i’ll try to put to paper soon), however the five minute writing task at the beginning of the meet resulted in the following random little piece – the subject was ‘It was cold’ and inspired a variety of weird and wonderful stories and poems. This effort is neither but quite fun!

IT WAS COLD in the gloom

Of the ice encrusted tomb

Where Boris came to take his final rest

Frozen with claustrophobic fear

Too bitter to shed a tear

Or voice the horror in his increasingly icy breast.

Only yesterday morn at the crack of dawn

He’d been running ‘round without a single care

A quick wring of his collar and Boris was a goner

And soon they’d plucked him bare.

He always knew it was his duty

As a much vaunted thirty pound beauty

To come to such a tragic Shakespearian fate

And come December’s winter chill

He’d inevitably be topping the bill

The prize turkey on the honoured Christmas plate.

Short Story - Preparing for the Worst

As promised; here's the short story that I wrote for this week's Leeds Savages writing group meeting...



PREPARING FOR THE WORST

Preparation is key; no, scrap that; preparation is everything. Be prepared for the worst of situations, the website said; and without fail things will only turn out for the best. I’ve always gone in for the mantra that a pessimist is never disappointed, and on the whole it’s served me alright. This time however I fear that things are going to go well beyond the realm of mere disappointment; based on what I’ve heard about what some of our guys across the pond have been put through recently I am, apologies for being crude, quite literally crapping my pants. Grown men reduced to tears; bodies shaking as these eternal control freaks for the first time ever learn what it’s like to lose their grip on a life previously diarised to the nth degree. No way was that going to be me; not if there was anything on this godless earth that I could do to help it.  

Hence my foray into the labyrinth of online advice so usefully available at ones fingertips these days, and hence why I’m currently tied to a cold table wearing only my boxers with a gag in my mouth and genuine terror painted across my sweat covered face. Her platform boots pound on the floorboards, each heavy thud like a punch to the chest. Shiny, thigh high; certainly footwear created with fetish in mind rather than engineered for running for the bus, doing the weekly shop or taking the kids to school.

THUD THUD THUD

She hovers above my shackled body, her face just beyond my gaze, eyes instead drawn to slightly mottled thighs, a blotchy artificial tan unsuccessfully trying to disguise the excess flab. A tiny skirt constructed from the same mock leather as the boots barely covers her dignity, underneath which I can see red knickers; not the flim flam, frilly and lacy sweet nothings of fantasy, but big, sturdy, practical garments. Like the ones in that film, you know, the one where that skinny blonde American plied herself with pies in order to portray the typical bloaty neurotic British bird. Bridget Jones, that’s the one. Bridget Jones pants.

THWACK!

She cracks her whip on the floor, its path spiralling mere millimetres from my ear.

“You’ve been a bad boy, Michael. And what do bad boys deserve?”

I try to reply, but given my current situation this is a rhetorical question; my mouth clearly otherwise engaged.

“Bad boys get punished, Michael. They get what they deserve.”

As the whip cracks again just a whisper away from my incapacitated jaw, I try to refocus my mind.

The Boy Scouts may have worn dreadful outfits and engaged in far too much wholesome, worthy activity for my liking, but they did have a pretty great motto. ‘Semper Paratus’. Be Prepared. Preparation, that’s what it’s all about. Preparation, physical and mental, is the path to success.

She turns and picks up one of the candles that provide the only light in this dark chamber. She holds the flickering flame over my naked torso, then slowly tips it until hot wax hits my chest and I writhe with exquisite pain.

“Enjoy that, do you, you sick, pathetic bitch? Well let’s see if you enjoy this.”

Putting the candle aside, she grabs my smarting wax encrusted nipple and twists hard. This is really not my scene at all, and I’m certainly not planning any repeat visits, but I’m determined to see this through. Michael Porter is not a quitter, never has been, never will be.

“You should be ashamed of yourself, you dirty little banker. Lowest of the low, that’s what you are.”

With her free hand she loosens the straps holding the gag in my mouth and I gratefully inhale a lung full of incense-laden air.

“Tell me, slave boy. Tell mistress exactly what you are.”

With a spluttering cough I clear my throat.

“I’m a bad boy, mistress. I’m a bad boy and a dirty little banker and I deserve all the punishment that I get.”

With a agonising flick she releases my nipple from her grasp.

“That’s correct; you’re the scum of the earth, you bankers; and don’t you know it.” She spits on the floor in emphasis of her disgust then starts to loosen the straps that are holding my arms in place.  “Yes, that’s why so many of you come here for mistress to put you in your place.” She slides down to the foot of the ankles and opens the clasps that have been securing my ankles. “Now then, before we send you on your merry way, I think it’s time that we turn you over and introduce you to mistress’s paddle. I hope you’re prepared for the spanking of your life.”

Preparation, bittersweet preparation; the very reason why I’m here. Fearing the potentially even more agonising consequences of non-compliance, I manoeuvre myself onto all fours and grit my teeth as I await the inevitable.

Fifteen minutes later, with red raw stinging buttocks hiding beneath my made to measure suit, I emerge from the dungeon into the bright light of the waiting area. Sat thumbing through magazines are a couple of guys just like me; one of whom I’m sure that I vaguely recognise from the trading floor. Deliberately avoiding eye contact I hurry from the building and make my way back to the office; the Rolex I treated myself to with last year’s bonus informing me that I don’t even have the time to grab a coffee before the dreaded appointment.

When I arrive, slightly out of breath and pumped with adrenaline, the door is closed and his personal assistant indicates for me to take a seat. Slowly I lower myself down, lips pursed, knuckles white, every fibre of my body trying not to wince as my stinging flesh makes contact with the chair. The next five or so minutes seem to pass inordinately slowly, and I begin to fear that the fire rushing through my veins will subside too quickly, will not achieve the desired effect. Just when I start to feel concern that all that preparation was for nothing, the dragon behind the desk calls my name. “Mr Porter? Mr Lancashire is ready to see you now.”

With a deep breath, I deliberately graze my buttocks against the arm of the chair, igniting a fresh surge of pain to carry me through. I’ve put myself through the most intense pain in order to numb myself to whatever agonies I’m about to face. Has all the preparation been worthwhile, and will it achieve the desired effect? Ask me again in a hour, once my appraisal is through, and I’ll let you know.

A couple of poems

I've not been writing much in the way of short stories recently -whether this is due to a lack of time, the absence of inspiration or sheer laziness isn't quite clear.... Probably a combination of all of the above.

I have however written a number of poems for writing group tasks - here's a couple which were inspired by the topics 'Before and After' and 'Invisible'.


BEFORE AND AFTER

Before
 
The sun shone down
In an illusion of summer
A cool coastal breeze caressing bare arms
Palm to palm, fingers fused
No words.

Silent communication
From smile to smile
Knowledge shared, perfect understanding
This is it, you, me, us
Forever.
 
Airplane trails in the sky
The distant sound of children’s laughter
A discordant ice cream symphony
Other lives, other worlds
Spinning round
 
But I am here with you
In this time, in this place
Cocooned in the safety of impenetrable belonging
In your certain presence
In your certain love
Nothing can touch me
 
After
 
As a handful of ash
Thrown to the wind
Questioning all I held true
Alone in thoughts I stumble through
Darkness
 
Where did it go
That faith once held
The certainty of the seasons
Rebirth, light, life; consumed by endless winter
 
Separate souls spiral
In opposite directions
No longer recognising myself
Through the fractured mirror
Mapped with cracks
 
The sun still shines down
An illusion of summer
The cruel April breeze stings as I see
Palm to palm, fingers fused
You and her



INVISIBLE

Futures mapped only upward
Or treading a steadfast linear path
Through a blinkered lens they do not see
The cracks in the pavement beneath

Or comprehend how easy it is to fall

To a place where neither routine nor ritual holds
The alarm clock without dominion
The night without comfort

Unseen, unrecognised

Hers is an inconsequential existence
Not observed, never documented
Days pass without words

On the town hall steps symmetrical smiles

Embrace the beginning of a journey
Wellwishers wave them off
To that uncertain destination

Unnoticed she glides between

Picks the confetti off the floor

Each scrap, each token placed
Into the crumpled carrier bag that swings from her arm
Next to yesterday’s news.

Her Revolution

This week's Leeds Savages writing group task was to write something based around the topic 'Revolution'. This resulted in a wide variety of contributions from members covering everything from aeroplanes to plate spinning via spooky mirrors and slavery - certainly a broad spectrum of interpretations of the the subject!
This is my poetic contribution....


HER REVOLUTION


Her revolution began quietly
Small changes to the daily routine
Skimmed milk instead of cream
One sugar instead of two
Tiny acts of defiance, subtle
But he knew, oh yes he knew
The look on his face when he sipped his brew
The accusative tut as it swilled round the sink
Brow furrowed at the effort of making his own drink
He knew, oh yes he knew.

That accidental red sock
Those white shirts now pink
Oh what would the lads think?
After a hard day’s dallying he gratefully fell
Between fresh cotton sheets
For a night of pure hell
What caused the itching he never could tell
Bundling bedding into the alien washing machine
Bemoaning the effort to get the stuff clean
He knew, oh yes he knew.

Head pounding he awoke to
The thing he liked most
The smell of her best Sunday roast
From bed to table stumbled down where
He found no place was set
One fewer plate, one fewer chair
She did not need to look at him to picture
The frown as he reluctantly spread
Cheap jam on three day old bread
She knew, oh yes she knew.

She hadn’t needed to say a single word
But was sure that her job was done
After years as his slave she could finally see
A man in her thirty year old son
He knew, oh yes he knew
Had always known but
Not wished to believe true
The lesson she’d finally imparted by stealth
If a job’s worth doing, then do it yourself.
He knew, oh yes he knew.

Lady Icarus

A poem written for a Leeds Savages writing task with the theme of 'artificial'

LADY ICARUS


A little larger, perhaps, a little higher, perhaps
A little firmer, perhaps, a little rounder, perhaps
A little more like someone else
A little less like me
As little more than ordinary
Is the very worst thing to be

When you’re paying for perfection
There’s no point in second best
Take my money my soul my innocence
And give me a super pneumatic chest

My ma said count your blessings
But I was never blessed
With anything more than an ironing board
Two bee stings at the best

My ma said it’s how God made you
It’s how you were meant to be
Easy for you to say, I said
As an ample Double D.

Lift me shape me just remake me
A nip and a tuck so the boys will rate me
A little more like a glamour girl
A little less like me
Going under the knife to sculpt a new life
Make me the best that I can be.

My ma said don’t you dare forget
The place from which you came
Fear not, I said, I’m still the same girl
Just with better teeth and a more memorable name

Money might not buy you happiness
But it does buy real nice things.
And I know one day I’ll fly from here
With a pair of silicon wings.

A festive story

Here's a festive story written for today's Leeds Savage writers group meeting. Unfortunately I won't be there in person as I'm not risking leaving the house again after the four mile journey home this afternoon took three and a half hours - damn you snow!!!

Speaking of which, here's the view from our front door....



A HAPPY BURGER CHRISTMAS


Jim had never enjoyed Christmas - even as a child the forced jollity and feigned festivity had grated on him, and as an adult he had adopted a distinctly Scrooge like attitude to the season. Why should he be expected to waste his energy on spreading love and goodwill to all men given that in any of the other 11 months of the year most of them would not give him so much as a smile when he served them their fries? He had not, mind you, taken on the job at Happy Burger due to a love of customer service; to be honest he hated it when a pimply beef lover tried to engage him in an inane conversation about the weather or enquired into his plans for the weekend. If he had his own way there would be a large sign on the counter instructing customers to place their order, pay up and shut up. No small talk, no problem.

It was an entire month before the start of advent when the ‘C’ word was first uttered in the Craven Road branch shift managers’ meeting. The guilty party was the store manager Gemma who was, with her unfailing love of towing the corporate line, the diametric opposite of Jim, whose sole objective was to get through each day without giving in to the urge to swear at the customers or pummel the numbskulls that he supervised.

“Great news guys!” Gemma announced with her usual irritating enthusiasm. “This year Happy Burger are going to put last year’s politically correct ‘Winterval’ disaster behind them and let us celebrate Christmas properly! There’s going to be a special festive menu on offer and head office are going to award a special prize to the restaurant that they think has best embodied the Christmas spirit! I’m sure you’ll all agree that it’s going to be brilliant.”
Jim rolled his eyes and turned to the colleague at the side of him. “Bah humbug! If she thinks she’s going to get me flipping quarter pounders in an elf outfit whilst singing Silent flipping Night she’s got another thing coming.”

“What’s that Jim?” Gemma replied with a straight face. “You’re volunteering to dress up for us? What a wonderful idea! And speaking of wonderful ideas, I would recommend that you all get your thinking caps on as I’m going to be offering an extra day of paid holiday for the employee who comes up with the best festive idea by the twelfth of December. Let’s show head office what Craven Road is made of!”

At these words Jim suddenly shook off his usual indifference. “An extra day of holiday you say? Let’s get this festive show on the road then!”

That evening Jim set about brainstorming ideas that could win him a priceless day away from the greasy stench and oppressive heat of the Happy Burger kitchen. Certain things he immediately discounted as being off limits, notably dressing up in any kind of fancy dress or putting on any kind of public performance. Working in Happy Burger was by itself demeaning enough without the need to stoop to such a level. What else then could he do to give Craven Road a Christmas that it would never forget?

Santa, Rudolph, Elves – in Jim’s opinion a load of gubbins, twee nonsense for children and others of the same mental age.

Turkey, Crackers, Mince Pies and Pud - festive perhaps, but all a bit clichéd and nothing that you wouldn’t find in some shape or form at every eating establishment from Kebab City upwards at this time of year. What Jim needed to do to bag that holiday was something different, something that hadn’t been done before. Then it hit him. Sprouts – what could be more Christmassy than sprouts? After all, Jim couldn’t recall any member of his family who would eat them on any other day of the year, something that couldn’t be said for turkey, spuds and all the other accoutrements. Everything from pizza to pasta was given the turkey and cranberry spin come December, yet he’d never seen a sprout seasoned bag of crisps or sprout stuffed sandwich. Underrated and unloved compared to the other goodies on the Christmas dinner table, why not make sprouts the star attraction for a change?

Obtaining the required volume of sprouts to bring Jim’s plan to life proved to be no easy task. Every supermarket in the vicinity had its supplies exhausted as he loaded case after case into the back of his clapped out car. Eventually, after six round trips and a few odd looks Jim had sourced enough of the vegetables to construct his masterpiece. The next challenge was to peel all ten thousand sprouts; the late shift workers who usually wiled away the hours with a copy of the Sun and a lot of lengthy cigarette breaks being forced to participate by the cracking whip of their usually indifferent and ineffective supervisor. Come the end of the shift Jim would hide the work in progress at the back of the industrial fridge safely away from Gemma’s prying eyes; the likelihood of the boss ever actually lugging around the boxes of frozen buns and processed meat being a longer shot than a white Christmas.

The eleventh of December came round and rather than locking up with his usual haste at the end of the night, Jim retreated into the warehouse to set about building a burger unlike any that he had ever served before. Given that peeling and boiling the sprouts had taken a good week some of them were now frankly past their best, but as this was a meal designed for viewing rather than eating he didn’t foresee that as being a problem. Rolling up his sleeves he pounded the vegetables and fashioned them with the help of sticky egg into something akin to a giant green cow pat almost 6 feet in diameter. The internet had informed him that the world’s biggest burger of the carnivorous variety had weighed in at a whopping 15 stone, but nowhere had he found any stats for the biggest veggie pattie. His fellow workers may have made Gemma smile with their cutesy angel outfits and homemade mince pies, but had they put in Craven Road in the Guinness Book of Records? No sirree. Jim was confident that his efforts would not go unrewarded and that that extra day of holiday was as good as his. The irony of the fact that he had put in a good twenty hours of overtime was not lost on him, but the look on Gemma’s usually patronising face when she begrudgingly declared him winner would surely make it all worthwhile. The official from the book of records was due to arrive at 8am, the same time that Gemma and the morning shift would be rocking up to get the happy hash browns sizzling for the commuter crowd. At 3am, finally satisfied with his handiwork, he sellotaped a printed sign beneath the counter where the creation sat which read 'The world's biggest veggie burger'. As an afterthought he scribbled 'Merry Christmas Boss' underneath in Biro. If immortalising the Craven Road branch in print was not enough to win over Gemma then, much as it pained him, maybe a bit of uncharacteristic ass kissing would seal the deal....

Before locking up and heading home for a couple of hours sleep he took a photo of the gigantoburger on his phone. A true work of sprout based art.

As he approached work Jim was surprised by the massive crowd hanging around. He had expected the news of a world record having been set on Craven road to pull in plenty of customers and locals keen to have a nose, but had not anticipated it spreading so fast. He pushed past not one but several tv crews and journalists, eager to find Gemma and made her concede that his effort was undeniably the best. Her Young Manager of the Year award may have made a tiny column on page 23 of the Winfordshire Evening News, but today he, Jim Gordon, was going to make the headlines.

At last he saw Gemma heading towards him through the chattering crowd. As their eyes met the look on her face was certainly memorable, but not in the manner in which he had expected. She was covered in what appeared to be soot, and her usually pristine cream Happy Burger tunic was black. Jim was taken aback when she threw herself into his arms; he'd thought that the burger might raise a wry smile from his boss, but physical contact was something he had neither expected nor desired.

"Oh Jim, Jim, it's awful!" she sobbed into his chest. "Its completely destroyed, totally gutted!"

It was only at that point that Jim noticed through a gap in the crowd that where his place of reluctant employment had once stood was now a smoking mass of bricks, mortar and Formica.
"What the?" he exclaimed.

"It was a gas explosion" Gemma replied. "An abnormally high build up of methane apparently. I flicked on the light switch and the whole place went up in an instant. Thank goodness there were no customers around or who knows what could have happened!"

"Very lucky indeed" Jim replied solemnly . As Gemma continued to weep onto his shirt he was surprised to find that her hair smelt strangely nice; granted the explosion had given the air a fragrance reminiscent of farts or, dare he admit, sprouts, but at this unfamiliarly close proximity Gemma seemed a little less like a whiny dictator and a bit more like - shock horror - a reasonably attractive girl. He was just contemplating this turn of events and taking another sniff of Gemma's locks when he noticed a familiar looking piece of paper floating towards him on the wind. In a smooth move that would have impressed James Bond he grabbed the note with one hand and pulled Gemma into a tight embrace with the other. Fair enough ass kissing wasn't usually his style, but in the spirit of the season maybe this time he would make an exception. His culinary creation may not have had quite the desired effect, but as it was this was far better than he could ever have planned - not just one day off but no more flipping burgers for the foreseeable future. He screwed the paper up in his hand and tossed it in the gutter before whispering in Gemma's ear 'Merry Christmas Boss. I know we’ve had our differences and all, but given that it looks like we’re going to have a fair bit of time to kill over the Christmas season, do you fancy going sprout some time?'



Poem - 'A Tragicomedy'

This poem was written for a Leeds Savages writing group task with the theme 'Alcohol'.
Always fun to bring out the rhyming couplets....


A Tragicomedy


Chardonnay, Shiraz, WKD Blue,
Pint of Stella, Jagermeister, Lemonade and Taboo
She isn’t fussed by the taste, just chasing the sensation
Leaving responsibility behind for a night of libation
When she slaps on the warpaint, fake lashes, high heels
It’s not about the look but the way that she feels
She warms up with vodka so she won’t feel the cold
As she waits at the bus stop for the night to unfold

She likes a Malibu, Southern Comfort, that schnapps made of peach
A Woo Woo, a Cosmo, then Sex on the Beach
She knows no better way to forget all her troubles
Than a bright pink concoction with a cherry and bubbles
Dancing shoes buckled on and she’s ready to move
Hit the floor, wild abandon whatever the groove
She won’t give a damn what anyone thinks
As long as the barman keeps pouring the drinks

Closing time brings an exodus to the nearest cab rank
Girls competitively analysing how much they drank
She sidles up to him wide-eyed in the endless queue
“I love you” she says, “I really, really do”
“My feet hurt like hell and I barely can walk
Just let me hold you for a while, there’s no need to talk”
Yet this tall strong beau is immune to her charms
For you won’t get many kisses with a lamppost in your arms...

'The Letter' #fridayflash

Something quite different to my usual contributions, an ultra-short piece of writing inspired by a Leeds Savages (http://www.leedssavage.com/) writers group task.


THE LETTER
As she recoiled at the acrid taste of the glue, she reflected on how the letter, in its physical form, was a sadly dying breed. A generation of young lovers were now exchanging ‘billet doux’ instantly through the air, the romance historically borne of distance and separation lost now that constant, instant communication was available to all. In this digital age poetic expression had been replaced with acronyms unintelligible to anyone over the age of 30, and the missive was sealed not with a kiss but with a smiley emoticon.

She folded over the flap and ran her finger along it firmly. The words within this envelope were not for sharing on a blog or tweeting to the world. They were not words to be read on a screen in impersonal Times new roman, size 12 print, but thoughts brought to life on paper, their meaning conveyed not just through the juxtaposition of characters and spaces but through the smudged imperfection of a manuscript speckled with tears.

She carefully placed the envelope in the middle of the open hearth. For a few seconds it sat there untouched, flames dancing around it but making no mark. Then the crackling tongues of fire wrapped themselves around the corner of the envelope, consuming the paper with ravenous hunger. She watched as the name that she had lovingly inscribed disappeared, sucked up the chimney with the other fragments, a memory to be carried on the wind.