NaPoWriMo Day#3

Today’s prompt was to take a rhyming dictionary and find as many rhymes or near rhymes as I could to write my poem. Now, I don’t have a problem with poems that rhyme: some good poems rhyme and some don’t; but I really don’t like the idea of forcing in rhyming words for the sake of it. However, the reference to near rhymes made me think of Wilfred Owen, a young man who wrote some very powerful anti-war poetry in 1915 when he was recovering from shell shock after fighting in the trenches in World War 1. Owen plays around beautifully with language and his half-rhymes and near-rhymes lend a sense of uneasiness to his poetry whilst still enabling it to flow – something that reflects the unsettled state of Owen and many of his fellow soldiers at the time. Most people are probably familiar with ‘Dulce et decorum est’, and other poems to look out for are ‘Exposure’ (currently one of the poems for English Literature GCSE with the AQA board) and ‘Strange Meeting’ (which my English teacher read to the class when I was 14 and I’ve loved it ever since).

My aim was to channel Owen – which I certainly haven’t done in this poem, so will keep trying. However, you could say I was inspired by him to write a poem that reflects the general unease of the population during this time of isolation – I’m playing with language but I’m also trying to tap into some of the very real feelings and anxieties of people in government-imposed quarantine.

Isolation

Outside, the streets are silent.

The world holds its breath, waiting

to see if this violent

disease is just a siren –

should we expect something more malevolent?

Inside, there is no peace, no quiet:

children and animals continue to riot,

raising their voices in a discordant choir.

Burning up with cabin fever, I feel quite

Delirious. My throat is on fire.

A sudden spasm of fear

Twists my gut, bringing me near

To total breakdown. Does no one care?

I scroll down my phone. My social life is deserted:

Online chat leaves me disconcerted.

I wander through empty rooms in the desert

Of my existence – and loneliness hurts.

A momentary burst of noise

Sends me to the window, expecting boys

Or gangs caught up in a fight;

Instead, outside in the night,

Cheers and whistles echo support for the NHS in their plight.

For now, the streets are empty of violence.

The applause over, the whisper of silence

Hums like a thousand tiny violins.

Day 21 of The Literal Challenge aka Like The Prose

This time the challenge was to write in a different style to normal – as well as writing on the theme of the Summer Solstice. All feedback gratefully received.

Summer Solstice

From now on, the days would be getting darker.

Daylight was still strutting round as I drove my car through the large iron gates and rolled along the driveway. The building shrugged, as if it recognised me and felt sorry. Its doors stood open to let in the breeze; memories of the day’s heat still lingered.

Hurrying past the deserted Reception, I made my way to her room. Jenny was awake, propped up by pillows, a tiny speck in the sea of sheets and blankets.

She looked up as I entered. “Is it time?”

I nodded.

The nurse on duty in her room helped me lift her out of bed. Six months ago, my wife had been a strong, athletic woman who ran fifteen miles a week and visited the gym every other day; now she was a ragdoll in my arms, her paper thin skin stretched over pitifully protruding bones. To me, she had never looked so beautiful.

I placed her gently in the waiting wheelchair. The nurse handed me a blanket, her eyes expressing the sympathy I so often encountered these days. Carefully, I covered Jenny’s frail frame, not wanting her to be cold as we sat outside to share the summer solstice.

“Any time within the next few hours, Mr Jones.” The nurse spoke quietly, but it was unnecessary: we all knew Jenny was dying.

Once we’d had the official diagnosis, realised that it was too late for any effective treatment, we’d deliberately discussed the things that no one else wanted to talk about. Jenny wanted to spend her last months out in the country, where she could see trees and fields from her window and hear birdsong instead of traffic. The lake in the grounds was an added bonus: when she was stronger, we’d spent hours sitting by the water, soaking in the serene atmosphere. It was fitting that this would be the place where we would say goodbye.

Slowly, I pushed her wheelchair to the bench that was impregnated with us. Our tears had soaked into the wood as we’d ranted and railed against doctors, against disease, against God. Tonight, though, there would be no talk of cancer or funerals, just the conversation of two people in love. As I placed her on the bench, her fingers stole around mine, a gesture so intimate that my breath caught in my throat.

Gradually, the day faded. The last vestiges of sunlight glimmered on the surface of the water, like memories. In the background, the faint sounds of summer insects were not enough to disturb us.

As the sun finally began its descent, I found I was strangely grateful: grateful for the gift of four years with this amazing woman; grateful that she had enriched my life; grateful to the hospice who had looked after her so well, who had allowed us to say goodbye surrounded by the nature Jenny loved.

My wife slipped away as gently as the sun disappearing behind the trees. I sat and held her for a while, reluctant to let go of the past. Then, as the cold began to seep into my veins, I placed her once more in her chair, ready to take her home.

From now on, my life would be getting darker.

Day 19 of The Literal Challenge aka Like The Prose

As a child, I was lucky enough to have a great-grandmother who told me plentiful stories about her life. This piece is loosely based on some of the stories I remember, but I’ve also used dramatic license to embellish these into a complete story.

The Patient Lover

Inspired by the life and death of my great-grandmother, Ivy Conway (1893-1991).

Death courted Ivy for the whole of her life.

Born in 1893, the fourth child out of the six her parents would somehow squeeze into their tiny two-up-two-down back-to-back cottage, she nearly didn’t make it. Her mother bit down hard on a stick, thinking that her other deliveries hadn’t been so difficult. As the scrawny mass of baby, blood and vernix slithered into the world, Emily started to haemorrhage; for the next hour or two, the baby was all but forgotten as she lay, wrapped in a clean towel, in a box in the corner of the room. Luckily, Ivy’s older sisters, Mabel and Evelyn, despite being only six and four, knew instinctively that this little scrap of humanity needed taking care of. When Ivy finally let out a thin wail, Mabel picked her up out of the wooden crate and held her tight, whilst Evelyn fetched a cup of milk from the pantry downstairs. For the next twenty-four hours, they dribbled milk off a spoon into the baby’s mouth, until Emily was stable and could finally feed her newborn child. Death shook his head and retreated until another day.

Despite this shaky start in life, Ivy grew and thrived, just like her siblings. Their father was a cobbler so there was little money but a lot of love. Two years later, Renee arrived, followed (after a more respectable three years’ gap) by Charlie. By now, the little house was bursting at the seams: Ma and Pa had the small bedroom and the children shared the larger one, dividing it into two with a blanket strung over a rope that went from one side of the room to another. The girls squabbled and fought for space in the bed they all shared, but it was a companionable relationship and they loved each other fiercely.

As, one by one, the elder siblings became old enough to work in the mill, Ivy found she could earn a ha’penny a week by carrying the lunch pail to the mill and back every day at noon. This was one of the perks of being the next eldest: when she started work herself, it would be Renee’s turn.

On her eleventh birthday, Ivy was treated to a whole egg for breakfast to mark the occasion of her first day at work. She would be going to school in the mornings this week and then doing the afternoon shift at the mill; and this would alternate with a week of mill first, school second. She grew to hate the morning shifts because she always had to go home and change her cotton-impregnated dress before going to school, and this meant she was often late and would be beaten by the schoolmaster.

Death was a frequent visitor to the mill. The cotton dust in the air had a way of working itself into people’s lungs. Many of the older workers died well before their time. Occasionally, he would steal a glance at Ivy, working busily; he always had a particular fondness for those who had eluded him earlier.

He was the uninvited guest at Ivy’s wedding to Alec, some years later. Perhaps it was his macabre sense of humour, but he couldn’t resist reminding her of his presence with the funeral hearse that almost collided with her carriage as she and her husband left the churchyard. The black plumed horses made a startling contrast to the coloured ribbons Ivy’s sisters had tied to the carriage axles; but Ivy was too starry-eyed with love to notice them.

As time progressed, Death found himself busier than ever. The onset of the Great War saw people dying in their thousands. Miraculously, Ivy remained unscathed – although there was a tricky moment when Alec lashed out in a drunken temper: she hit her head when she fell and was unconscious for several minutes. Fearing for their baby’s safety as much as for her own, Ivy fled her marriage and her husband (they were by now living in Scotland) and made the perilous journey back to Hyde and the safety of her family.

Death followed her to her old spot in the mill, watching attentively as she worked a gruelling sixteen-hour day, six days a week. He left her side for long enough to visit her older brother, Harold, as he lay in a hospital bed, his arm blown away by a bomb. Northern grit ran through the entire Conway family, though, and Harold left hospital some months later, living until his sixties despite his missing limb. Death sighed and returned to Ivy. Perhaps the Second World War would push her into his arms. But no, Ivy’s resilience kept her, her new husband, his children and her daughter alive and well. Even the air raids couldn’t touch them – in fact, the only bombshell that did any damage was when her son-in-law ran off with another woman the year before the war ended, so that he never saw his second daughter; but they soldiered on.

Through decades of disease and despair, Death kept a constant vigil at Ivy’s side, more faithful than either of her husbands. The car accident that killed her stepson left her with a slight limp but otherwise unharmed; the byssinosis that choked the lungs of so many of her former co-workers in the mill somehow passed her by. Time and time again, he issued an invitation for her to join him; on every occasion, she declined.

Renee died in her eighties, a casualty of carcinomatosis. The twenty cigarettes a day she’d smoked for sixty years eventually took their toll. Mabel was only seventy-six – but then she’d had thirteen children and the rapid succession of pregnancies and births, coupled with the anxiety of rearing so many at the same time, had aged her prematurely: her hair was grey by the time she was twenty-five. Charlie, who, as a child, had flirted with Death far more frequently than his sister, nevertheless lived to the ripe old age of eighty-one. Ivy often told her great-grandchildren the thrilling tale of how Charlie had stopped the runaway grocer’s horse-and-cart when he was only a teenager; but he was more likely to have ended his days at the hands of an irate husband, since his womanising ways in later life were legendary. Evelyn died in an old people’s home, well into her nineties. Almost totally blind after a botched cataract operation at eighty-four, she claimed that every time there was a power cut in the Home, she could “hear them carrying out the dead bodies.” As a girl, she’d been unbearably bossy towards Ivy and Renee; as an adult, she was equally unpleasant to her husband and daughter, alienating Alwyn to such an extent that she only visited the Home once or twice a year. Despite this, Ivy wept uncontrollably when Evelyn died: she was now the last remaining sibling and the loneliness was unbearable. “They’ve all left me,” she sobbed as she sat by the fire with her great-granddaughter. Emily (named for Ivy’s mother) held the tiny old lady as if she were a child, her fifteen-year-old wisdom realising it was better to let her cry.

Several times, there were false alarms. A bout of severe pleurisy almost finished Ivy off in 1982. Death sat by her bedside, waiting patiently. She was sufficiently ill for her daughter to make the three hundred miles’ trip from Sheppey to Summit, to be with her mother at the end. It was a wasted journey when Ivy rallied unexpectedly, causing Death to retreat once more and bide his time.

The following year, Ivy moved to Kent herself, claiming that she “couldn’t stand another northern winter”. Sharing an isolated house with her daughter and the dog, she was happy enough, walking round the garden each afternoon and watching ‘Songs of Praise’ every Sunday evening.

By the time she was ninety-five, Ivy started planning her hundredth birthday party. She had an ever-decreasing guest list – not just because all her old friends kept dying off, but mostly because whenever she fell out with someone, she crossed them off the list in a fit of childish petulance. “Well, he’s not coming to my party now!” she was often heard to say.

She never made it to her party. Death, who had waited so patiently for almost ten decades, finally managed to entice her into his arms just a few months before her ninety-eighth birthday. Ivy died as she had lived, with a song on her lips and her heart full of love. Death had finally claimed her – and, like all the best things in life, she had been worth waiting for.

Day 18 of The Literal Challenge aka Like The Prose

Write something Gothic, they said. Great, I thought. Set it in modern times, they said. That could be a challenge, I thought. After all, what’s creepy about the 21st century?

And then I thought about what might freak someone out today and I penned the following. Welcome to …

Grandma’s House

_{As
a child, I was always terrified of Grandma’s house.}

_{I had a nervous disposition as a little girl, thanks to the fairy-stories I read. The witches and ogres in the tales I devoured on a daily basis came back to haunt me by night. I would lie awake for hours, eyes closed, listening to the dark. I was sure I could hear them breathing, even if I couldn’t see their shadowy outlines.}

_{If I was scared in my own
bedroom, Grandma’s house was even worse. Every
room had a slightly sinister atmosphere, from the ominous ticking of the
grandfather clock in the hallway, imitating a human heartbeat, to the creepy
dolls in the spare bedroom, lined up like miniature corpses, watching me. I
dreaded staying there overnight, my imagination working overtime to produce in
me a state of frozen fear. I was sure that, once my eyes were closed, they
would come to life, slithering off their shelves and approaching me,
zombie-like, with outstretched arms.}

_{I may have been scared of their house, but I loved my grandparents. White haired and twinkly-eyed, they embodied everything grandparents should be. Grandma always smelled of baking and bitter almonds; Grandad of Guiness. (The doctor said it was good for him.) I remember sitting with them both for hours, in the safety of my parents’ company, playing Gin Rummy whilst sucking on one of Grandma’s homemade treacle toffees. (She made them with orange juice and claimed they were good for sore throats.)}

_{When Grandad retired, my visits increased – only, this time, without my parents as I found myself being sent there during the school holidays. At first, I quite enjoyed it. They were a happy couple: two old people who had genuinely enjoyed growing old together. Now in their twilight years, they were able to indulge more freely in the pastimes they’d not previously had time for. Grandad was a gardener and loved making things grow: the garden was a blaze of riotous colour, declaring his joyful passion for life. Grandma’s hobby, on the other hand, was the dead opposite – literally. She had spent years obsessed with taxidermy and her living room was now a testimony to this. Perfectly preserved animals sat on tables and filled cabinets: a pair of sporting badgers, glassy eyed, their mouths and bodies twisted unnaturally to suggest playfulness; a moulting eaglewith a mournful expression – I could go on. Their lifeless eyes unsettled me as much as their forced poses. Faced with this menagerie of moth-eaten creatures, is it any wonder that I often ended up siting there as rigid as these anthropomorphic inhabitants, desperately awaiting five o’clock when my mother would arrive to take me home?}

_{I was fifteen when we finally moved Grandma into a nursing home. She didn’t tell anyone when Grandad died – I’m sure it was from natural causes, but there was something unnatural about the way she arranged his stuffed, silent body in an armchair by the fire, looking for all the world as if he’d just dozed off. It was three weeks before anyone noticed the difference.}

_{“Probably better if she’s got someone to keep an eye on her,” my mother said tactfully as she signed the paperwork.}

_{To begin with, Grandma hated the home. “What am I doing with all these old people?” she’d ask fretfully, staring at the walls of her bedroom, tastefully distempered in a pale yellow. And, “It’s like a mausoleum in here – everyone just sits staring at the TV.”}

_{She had a point: the residents’ lounge was a dismal affair, with uncomfortable looking chairs arranged in regimented rows, facing an outsized television set that seemed permanently switched on. Assorted old people dotted the seats, not one of them with even a fraction of my grandmother’s vitality.}

_{“They just sit there knitting,” she told me scornfully on one of my visits. “That Mabel in the pink cardigan – she’s been knitting a pair of bedsocks for five weeks now and she still hasn’t got any further than the heel.”}

_{“Can’t you play cards with some of them?” I suggested. I was sure that all elderly people loved Whist and Bridge.}

_{She rolled her eyes despairingly. “Most of them can’t even remember what day of the week it is, let alone keep track of the cards in everyone’s hands. Frank and Harold sometimes ask me to play ‘Happy Families’, but the games go on for days because they keep forgetting who asked for what.”}

_{A few months later, I visited again. My usual pattern of going to see Grandma every weekend had been disrupted by mock-exams and a short-lived romantic liaison. I felt guilty as I entered the Home, wondering if my poor grandmother had been slowly dying of boredom with no one to talk to. When I knocked on her bedroom door, however, she seemed strangely animated.}

_{“You’re looking well,” I remarked, thinking there might be another budding romance in the family.}

_{A mysterious smile hovered on her lips. “I’ve been keeping myself busy,” was all she would say.}

_{We spent a happy afternoon in her room, looking at old photograph albums and reminiscing about Grandad. Just before I left, something struck me.}

_{“Where are all your stuffed animals?” I asked, secretly relieved that they were gone.}

_{She shrugged dismissively. “I don’t need them anymore.” Then, as I was putting on my jacket, she added, “I’ve had a lovely time decorating the living room.”}

_{A feeling of foreboding slowly made its way through my veins. Surely she couldn’t have …}

_{Quickening my pace, I hurried to the Residents’ Lounge to be faced with Grandma’s handiwork: a roomful of octogenarian corpses, displayed like dolls in a variety of positions. Mabel sat, as before, still knitting her bedsocks; Frank and Harold faced each other, each clutching a handful of cards. Every figure was perfectly posed and a trace of bitter almonds lingered on the air.}

_{My childhood terrors of Grandma’s house paled into insignificance beside the horrors of her Home.}

Day 17 of The Literal Challenge aka Like The Prose

This time the challenge is to write a story beginning with a famous first line from a novel. This is my offering, based on the first line of ‘Eureka Street’ by Robert McLiam Wilson.

My First Love

All stories are love stories – and this one is no exception.

I was nineteen, a naïve and idealistic undergraduate, when I fell for one of my English lecturers. Dr Small wasn’t particularly good looking, but his voice, when he taught us about Romantic Poetry, was hypnotic, mesmerising. I used to close my eyes and let his smooth, mellow tones caress me into a state of almost-ecstasy – instead of making notes, which is what I should have been doing.

Martin Green was my tutor for the first term: he specialised in American literature and we read ‘Catch 22’ and ‘The Tenants’, neither of which I particularly enjoyed. At the time, I wanted grand outpourings of emotion – something akin to ‘Wuthering Heights’, which I’d done for A level, or ‘Jane Eyre’. I longed for a brooding, Byronic hero to cast smouldering glances at me, then sweep me off my feet. None of the protagonists in modern literature did anything for me at all.

Everything changed, though, when we went back after the Christmas holidays. We’d been assigned new tutors and Dr Small was mine. Supercilious to a degree, he was, nevertheless, amazingly erudite; and, like I’ve already said, his voice had me from the first moment I heard it. When he spoke, it was a soulful, smoky blues song and a soporific wine; it was plunging into a waterfall of tones and cadences, and being rocked to sleep in a cradle of sound. I listened intently to every word he said about Wordsworth, Coleridge and Keats; when he read out loud in his mellifluous tones, I fantasised that he was speaking to me and me alone.

He was married – I think he might have had children too – but none of that mattered. In a way, his unavailability enhanced his attraction: like a trophy of courtly love, I placed him on a pedestal and worshipped from afar. It was the idea of being in love that mattered most; I see that now.

It’s not as if I’d never had a boyfriend before. I’d had a reasonably long-term relationship with a boy at school when I was sixteen and seventeen – you know the sort of thing: friendship gradually deepens into something more and then you start spending all your time together. We were surprisingly innocent though: the physical side never progressed any further than (what I thought of as) passionate kissing. When I later discovered he’d ‘come out’, I wondered if that was why he hadn’t wanted to take things further: had he been secretly aware of his repressed sexuality all along?

Despite the lack of sexual chemistry, it was a fairly successful courtship. I think we both enjoyed having someone to talk to who could give us the opposite perspective. I had close female friends, but there was a different dynamic in talking to a boy. Even when we stopped dating, we still spent a lot of time together, only without any kissing. At the time, he was an important part of my life.

Maybe that’s why I found myself looking for a replacement once I got to university: I wanted a male confidant, a soul mate who was happy to remain ‘just friends’ without either of us feeling any pressure to make it something more. Paul Simms was in my Hall of Residence – I’d spotted him hanging out in the bar several times before I recognised him in one of my English lectures and struck up a conversation with him afterwards. He was Combined Honours, like me; but whereas I was taking English and French, he had Music as the other component of his degree. We spent a fair few hours together in the Arts Faculty Coffee Lounge after that: drinking tea and eating custard creams and putting the world to rights. Eventually, I found myself telling him about my crush on Dr Small and how incapable I was of writing anything down in any of his lectures. He teased me constantly about it – even more so once Dr Small became my tutor – but it was an affectionate ribbing, nothing malicious.

As the second term drew to a close, I found myself faced with an essay to write for my idol. I desperately wanted to make a good job of it: I’d done well in my assignment for Martin Green, even though I didn’t particularly like the texts; surely writing about poetry was my chance to show Dr Small how much his teaching had meant to me?

For two weeks I travailed over text books, sweated over syntax, burned the midnight oil. This essay was my love letter to a man who’d barely noticed me in tutorials: it was my way of saying, ‘Look, here I am. I exist.’ Painstakingly, I researched every last detail of William Blake’s life, wanting to leave no stone unturned. I desperately wanted Dr Small to take me seriously. A week after the essays were handed in, he returned them with feedback. When he asked to see me in his room – just me: not any of the others – I felt delirious with happiness.

It says something about how delusional I was that I actually convinced myself that he was going to tell me he liked my essay, maybe even suggest he felt something for me; instead, he tore my writing to shreds. “The title of the course is ‘The Idea of the Poet in the Romantic Period’ but your essay reads like the Ladybird book of William Blake!” His voice was as cold as his eyes as he continued mercilessly, “Maybe you should think about switching to a different degree course – something you might be better at.”

I stared at him in disbelief. I had loved him so passionately, so hopelessly, pouring out my heart in seventeen pages of literary analysis – how could he treat me so callously?

A storm was brewing as I walked back to Hall, the purple and grey sky looking as bruised as my heart. No longer starry-eyed with optimism and inexperience, I had learned the difference between love and infatuation – it’s an easy lesson when you discover your idol has feet of clay.

I couldn’t face dinner that evening. Paul came to call for me – at least, I assume the loud knocking on my door came from his fist – but I remained where I was, curled tight in a tiny, broken-hearted ball beneath my duvet. I couldn’t bear to see him or anyone else who would question my red eyes and tearful face.

It must have been about an hour later when a knocking sounded again – gentler this time, as if the person outside my door was genuinely worried about me. I crawled out of bed and let him in, sniffling miserably whilst I told him my tale of woe. I think I half-expected him to laugh; instead, he wrapped his arms around me and enfolded me in a hug that lasted aeons. “Let’s go to the bar,” he said at last. “You need cheering up.”

I said I couldn’t face the bar at the moment, so Paul disappeared for ten minutes and came back with a bottle of wine. It was only cheap stuff – slightly fizzy – but it did the trick. Within two glasses, I was feeling more relaxed; and as we emptied the bottle, he leaned forward and kissed me. “You know I’ve always had a thing about you, Sarah,” he breathed, the longing in his eyes speaking volumes.

I know what you think I’m going to say: that alcohol and vulnerability conspired to push me into his arms; that when our lips touched, it was with an explosion of desire that incorporated Bonfire Night, New Year’s Eve, July the Fourth and every other major fireworks display; that all the months of agony and heartache disappeared when I realised that my best friend was also The One … Sorry to disappoint you, but that’s not how it turned out.

We sat and stared at each other for what seemed like ages, the silence between us growing more uncomfortable by the second. His declaration had built a wall between our easy intimacy: things would never be the same again and we both knew it.

Eventually, he spoke. “I shouldn’t have said anything, should I?”

My silence was the only answer he needed.

“I suppose I’d better go, then.” The awkwardness we both felt was palpable.

“I suppose you should.”

We never spoke of that night again.

The following day, I took my rejected essay to Martin Green for a second opinion. If he agreed that it was terrible, then I’d rethink my course; but, in the end, his criticism was more kind than Dr Small’s.

“It’s not a total failure,” he told me, having read the first page. “I’d jettison the first paragraph and start from the bit where you talk about Blake’s reception as a poet. After that, it’s not too bad – not as good as last term’s essay, maybe; but it’s not dire.”

“I don’t suppose there’s any chance I could have you back as my tutor?” I asked hesitantly. “I think maybe there’s a bit of a personality clash between Dr Small and me.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” he promised and, a week later, I was back where I’d started.

After a while, I began to forget Dr Small. His voice ceased to thrill or mesmerise me the way it had before; and now that I no longer hung on his every word, I realised that he wasn’t even a particularly good lecturer. He was adequate, but not that great.

That’s when I finally fell in love properly: not with a man, but with a subject. I rapidly became aware that English Literature was my true love – my first and last.

When I did finally marry, years later, it was someone I met by chance at a friend’s party: he was a scientist, not an English graduate, but somehow we just clicked.

All stories are love stories; but they’re not always predictable.

Day 16 of The Literal Challenge aka Like The Prose

You could be forgiven for thinking that this is the Post Script to yesterday’s entry – after all, this is a story of only eight words, more like an afterthought than an actual creative composition.

However, telling a story with as few words as possible is a definite art form: several newspapers and magazines regularly run competitions where entrants have to write a story on a given theme, using only 50 words or fewer. As a teacher, I’ve given the same challenge to students in the past: it’s a good way to decide what’s really important in a story.

So, below is my eight words entry, followed by some of the examples of 50 words stories you can find online. Authors have been credited.

My short story entry

The Divorce: their life ended; her life began.

Examples of 50 words stories from other writers

The Scottish Book Trust has some fantastic entries from children and teenagers – here are a few prizewinning stories:

Theme: your story must include a piano

All-age category winner by Lisa Holland:
The boogie-woogie was driving her crazy.
Every night, downstairs, her brother would practise those songs on the old piano.
Every night, upstairs, the music would keep her awake.
Until the day she crept downstairs in her pyjamas, and smashed the lid on his fingers.
Now his knuckles had the blues.

Theme: your story must include a bike ride

All-age category winner by Giancarlo Rinaldi:

“Look mum, one hand!” cried Luca, excitedly, the first time he cycled past the family home. Then, the second time around, he shouted with even greater delight: “Look mum, no hands!” But, on the third passing, it was the bicycle that spoke. “Look mum,” it said. “No Luca!”

Theme: your story must include time travel

Young Writers (12-18) category winning fictional story by Ashley Willis, age 16:

Travelling back in time to kiss your tiny palm clinging to life. I’m shredding you out of your skin of wires, machines and pushing you on a swing, healthy giggles erupting the sky. Your life isn’t marked on a stone rotting from rain and tears. In the past you breathe.

It would be interesting to see if any of these talented children become professional writers in the future.

Day 15 of The Literal Challenge aka Like The Prose

It must be the weekend because I’ve had time to sit and write at leisure instead of squeezing it into the few precious moments between work and sleep. After the recent briefs of writing an epistolary piece and than an ’80s style ‘Write Your Own Adventure’, it’s been good to return to ‘proper’ story writing today.

Three Sides To Every Story

You gaze at the man lying next to you – the perfect husband; the father of your children – and suddenly you realise that you don’t know him at all.

She wasn’t prying when she discovered the email. He’d left his laptop lying open again and she went to shut it, before the kids could touch something and delete an important work file – and that’s when she saw it.

It’s so hard not having you here all the time. When you come round, I think this is what life is supposed to be like, and then you hurry away at the end of the evening and I’m all alone. Get here as soon as you can tonight. Missing you already xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The knowledge was so unexpected that it caught her off-guard. Was that where he was every night he said he was ‘working late’? How long had it been going on for? Her fingers trembled as she scrolled up the screen to see how many other emails there were from this unknown woman and the sick feeling at the back of her throat intensified.

Last night meant so much …

I wish you could hold me forever …

Can you get away for a weekend? I really want to be able to wake up with you.

She’d thought that knowing would help her understand: instead, it just made her feel worse. He loved someone else, was spending evenings with her instead of with his family. Large, salty tears rolled down her face as she wept for what she’d lost.

Women! Why did they have to be so emotional?

You think you’ve got it all figured out by the time you hit thirty: you’re married; settled – then along comes someone who wants you so much that you can’t help straying. After all, it’s flattering to be the one being chased. It’s every man’s dream, isn’t it? To have an attractive woman practically throwing herself at you every time you see her?

Of course, the first time he’d met her, he’d had no idea what would happen. She was a new client and he’d been sent round to do her taxes. He didn’t normally make house calls, but she was paying a lot for the firm’s services – and that meant a substantial percentage for him.

It had seemed quite innocent at first. She’d offered him a drink when he arrived and, despite his better judgement, he’d accepted a glass of wine, telling himself that he’d be okay to drive by the time he’d finished checking her accounts.

Her fingers had touched his as she’d handed him the glass. Startled, he’d looked up, detected something in her eye that suggested she might be interested in more than business. Responding to an unspoken question, he’d followed her into the bedroom and towards the large, unmade bed whose rumpled covers hinted at what she had in mind.

Afterwards, as he dressed hurriedly, she watched him from the bed, her face flushed, her eyes sultry. “That was an unexpected treat!” she murmured.

He said nothing, guilt already choking him. What had he been thinking? He couldn’t let it happen again.

But he did.

How did you let yourself get into this mess? she wonders. Before him, it was all so simple. You never let your heart get involved.

She’d thought at first that he would be like the others: a brief interlude of pleasure to break up an otherwise monotonous day. When you worked from home, running your own business, it got pretty lonely. She could have hired an assistant – someone for companionship more than anything else; but she was too paranoid of having her ideas stolen. Freelance design was a poisoned chalice: if you weren’t careful, it would destroy you.

Now she realises that he’s just as dangerous. Her heart used to be intact: these days, it’s just a collection of fragments and each one has his name written on it. She’s a stick of rock, stamped all the way through with her love for a man she can never truly have. Why are you torturing yourself like this? she asks herself, hearing the answer in a whisper: ‘Because half a relationship is better than no relationship at all.’

Last night, he didn’t come home until almost midnight. By then, you’d read all the emails, waded through all the heartfelt emotion poured out on page after page. You’d torn at your heart by counting all the kisses, listing all the times she told him she loved him.

And now? Now it feels like there’s nothing left. This man is a stranger. You’re suddenly afraid.

I think she suspects something. Last night, she was asleep when I got in. It wasn’t that late – only eleven or just after. This morning, though … She’s lying there, watching me, pretending to be asleep. My eyes are closed, but I can feel the disapproval radiating from her. Maybe I should just confess – get it out of my system; clear the air.

But what if she kicks me out? Or, worse still, asks me to choose …

Choose! I can’t choose! How do you make a choice between two things you want equally? It’s like asking someone to choose between eating and sleeping, drinking and breathing.

No, better to say nothing, to let her think she’s imagining it. I can’t give either one of them up. I shouldn’t have to.

She wakes, as usual, in a bed empty of anyone other than herself. Every morning it’s the same: the night before always feels like a dream, an illusion. Greedily she clutches at any lingering moments that glitter like dewdrops on the spiderweb of memory, but the mirage melts in her fingers and she is left lonely and bereft.

When he isn’t here, the ache in her heart is so strong it feels like her soul is being ripped out of her body in a grotesque parody of giving birth. I’m pregnant with misery, she thinks sadly, knowing that he’ll never give her a child when he has a family of his own already.

She spotted them in the park once: he’d foolishly told her he was taking the children out for the afternoon on Sunday. He didn’t know she was there: she sat, stalker-like, swathed in scarf and woolly hat, peeping out at them from behind her copy of ‘The Telegraph’. Was that why these papers were so large? So people – spies, rejected lovers – could hide behind them whilst on stake-out?

She’d planned, at first, to wander up casually and say hello. A part of her was curious to see his children up close, to ascertain whether they looked more like him or Her.

She couldn’t do it. This was a part of his other life: she couldn’t intrude.

Bitterly, she wondered why it was that men could compartmentalise so easily: a box for work; a box for his wife and children; a box for his mistress. What was it Byron had said? Something about love being only a part of a man’s life but being “Woman’s whole existence”. And Byron should know! she thought grimly. Didn’t he have something like sixteen illegitimate children? He was definitely the ‘love ‘em and leave ‘em’ type.

Long after they’d left the park, she still sat there, her fingers freezing in the cold. But they weren’t as icy as her heart.

Looking forward to seeing you tonight. I can’t believe how much I miss you when you’re not here. My bed feels empty without you in it.

He stares at the email, his heart thumping. She knows.

“Do I need to show you the rest?” Her voice is tight; she’s holding onto self-control by her fingertips, as if it is a clifftop and she is clinging to the edge.

He doesn’t answer, so she continues to scroll through every damning scrap of evidence:

The first time I saw you, my heart swelled with the crescendo of violins. You are all I can think about, day or night. I love you. I love you. I love you. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

I’ve missed you so much these past few weeks. It’s been the longest fortnight ever. Come round as soon as you get back. Love you xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

All is not lost, though: he’d prepared for this eventuality, deleted his own emails so only her side of the conversation remains.

“She’s a client with a crush on me,” he says confidently. “It’s all one-sided, I promise. Look, all the emails are from her – I haven’t encouraged her.”

She’s less certain now, wanting to believe him – if only to save her marriage; dreading the consequences if she lets him get away with it.

He takes hold of her shoulders gently, twists her round to face him as deftly as he manipulates her with his words.

“Would I really be stupid enough to leave the emails on my laptop if I was having an affair?”

Now he says it, it all sounds so preposterous that she almost laughs. Almost. Not quite.

“What about the email with a thousand kisses?” she asks in a small voice.

He feigns surprise. “Really? I had no idea. I haven’t read any of her messages – she’s obviously deluded.”

“A thousand kisses,” she repeats. “I counted them all. That’s a bit over the top if it’s just one-sided.”

“There’s nothing going on – I promise.”

And his eyes are so sincere, his tone so heartfelt that she starts to wonder if he’s telling the truth.

We sit in still proximity as the evening draws to a close. The words you’ve told me are still echoing in my mind; half-empty wineglasses pressed to our lips.

“You always knew it would be over if She ever found out,” is what you say at last, and I nod dumbly, unable to protest.

I’ve already taken you to my bed – ‘break up sex’, that’s what they call it these days. Ironic, isn’t it, that an act of closeness should be the way to say goodbye.

By now, I know She’s seen the emails and that you’ve covered your back by lying. Technically, we could carry on as before – she’s not really any the wiser.

That’s not what you’ve decided, though: even the ghost of a suspicion is enough to make you terminate this contract and take your business elsewhere.

“I’ll pass you on to one of the other accountants.” You’re looking down as you say it; won’t let me catch your eye. “Will’s good – and he’s single. You never know: you might hit it off …”

Beneath the bravado, behind the façade, you hurt as much as I do – only you’ll never admit it.

Time ticks by slowly: each second an unbearable lifetime. The evening’s turned into tomorrow – and instead of making love, we’re waiting for you to go.

Day 12 of The Literal Challenge aka Like The Prose

Musings on T S Eliot

The clock ticked by as the students sat in silence, writing as if their lives depended on it.

Rachel Wood, a teacher for thirty five years, surveyed the sea of faces in front of her, wondering if this time their writing would make sense. She had tried so hard to make poetry accessible, but ‘The Love song of J Alfred Prufrock’ was challenging at the best of times – and these pupils weren’t exactly the brightest in the school. In the end, she’d just told them that the poem was a whole jumble of thoughts and feelings going on inside someone’s head as he skipped from thinking about asking a woman out to being distracted by the cat-like qualities of fog. Dared she actually hope to believe that they’d learned something? That they’d actually written something meaningful?

Her eye fell on Asad, the pupil on whom she’d pinned all her hopes for the assessment. Last time, she’d been impressed by Rosie, writing frantically for the whole hour and putting her hand up three times for extra paper – until she’d collected in the scripts and realised that the girl had panicked and just written her name over and over again. How many more years could she stand this? she wondered, unaware that Rosie was thinking the same thing. How many more years before she could leave school and do something else? There was no point in English – she could speak it already. And why did Miss keep making them read poems? This Toilet guy was so boring! She wondered if they’d got the new trainers in yet. The blue ones. She didn’t like the black ones – they were too much like Sam’s. If she wasn’t careful, he’d ‘accidentally on purpose’ pick hers up instead of his own and wear them to school.

Perhaps she should have read them ‘The Waste Land’ instead? That was a far better example of stream of consciousness, with its train of thought flitting from one character to another, dropping in casual allusions to any number of literary works that the reader was expected to recognise. Was it true, what she’d once read – that Eliot deliberately removed half of the poem before he published it, to make it as confusing as possible for the reader?

It was too confusing! Sonia thought in despair. She’d revised ‘My Father Thought It’, not this rubbish. She got the idea of the boy rebelling against his dad, but this poem was stupid. What would her dad think if she got her nose pierced? Or her bellybutton? Did it hurt? Kate had said she’d had her bellybutton done and it went all scabby. She had to take the piercing out. Gross, that’s what it was – she remembered Kate showing her in PE. She might have had it done at a dodgy place, though. Did they need licences to give you piercings? What time was it now? She was starving. Hopefully it would be lasagne.

“Eliot captures the indecision of Prufrock as he struggles to make up his mind,” wrote Asad. He knew what the guy was on about: he’d been trying to make up his own mind for weeks now. Was he going to ask Rosie out; or should he stick to a ‘nice’ Asian girl and make his parents happy? The trouble was, none of the Asian girls he knew were very ‘nice’: they were loud and exuberant, talking too much in lessons and plastering their faces with makeup. Rosie was feisty too, but somehow, with her, it was different. She didn’t pretend, Rosie – what you saw was what you got. None of these strange, synthetic perfumes the others doused themselves with: Rosie smelled of sweat and chips and fresh air – natural scents. He was already more than a little in love with her; she didn’t know he existed.

“You have twenty minutes left.” Not that it would make any difference to some of them, Rachel thought dispassionately. They could write for hours and it would still be the same old rubbish. Take Ibrahim, for example: he was absent more often than he was present; and when he did attend, he sat in the corner, clutching his coat and rocking back and forth like a distressed penguin. She’d be lucky if any of his assessment made sense. Samira was another one – lovely girl, but not a brain cell in sight. She genuinely worried what these children would do once they left school.

“The speaker in the poem likes a lady but doesn’t know how to tell her,” Samira wrote laboriously. She sighed. It was daft, if you asked her. What was wrong with going up to someone and telling them you fancied them? She did that sort of thing all the time – had been out with four different boys so far this year, although her parents would kill her if they found out. Well, perhaps they wouldn’t kill her – but they might lock her in her room and not let her out again until it was time for her Nikah. “Also, he doesn’t do himself any favours by asking her out to really cheap places, like the sort of hotels where people go for a quickie.” What did people actually do when they went to hotels together? she speculated. She knew about kissing, of course, but most of the rest of it was a closed book. It wasn’t the sort of thing you talked to your parents about; and the stuff they’d done in science lessons on ‘Reproduction’ hadn’t really been very helpful either.

“Prufrock and Armitage both write about regret.” Sonia had suddenly remembered something Miss had said. “Prufrock regrets not asking the lady out and the teenager in ‘My Father Thought It’ regrets having his ear pierced. It makes him fall out with his dad.”

Rachel had plenty of regrets of her own – this job, for one. Bitterly, she thought of the friends who’d ended up in grammar schools – or even good secondaries. That was the problem with a lot of these academy chains – they were full of rubbish schools that the organisations were trying to ‘rescue’; but what happened a few years’ down the line when the schools were still failing? Who’d bother sticking around then? No, it was time she moved on. She’d had enough of this game of chess, constantly trying to anticipate SLT’s moves and then counter with a defence of her own.

“Ten minutes left. Make sure you’ve talked about the effect on the reader.”

Asad had been profoundly affected himself by the poems this term – not all of them, of course, but ‘Paradise Lost’ had moved him deeply – even more so when Abbas had blurted out, “I wish Adam and Eve hadn’t eaten that apple and then I’d still be in heaven now.” Of course, if Rosie said yes, Asad would be in heaven straightaway. For a moment, he allowed himself to dream of the awful daring of a moment’s surrender. He knew already what his family would say, though: ‘A white girl, Asad? We don’t think so.’ Like Adam and Eve, he would lose Paradise; like Satan, he would be condemned to hell.

“Pens down everybody.” Where had the time gone? “Hurry up, please. It’s time.” Like last orders, she thought, wryly, realising how much she needed a drink. Was it really only one twenty?

A clatter of pens being placed on the table; a rustle of paper as sheets were stacked neatly.

Her brain allowed one half-formed thought to pass: “Well now that’s done: and I’m glad it’s over.”

Day 10 of The Literal Challenge aka Like The Prose

Snail Trail

There was definitely a snail in the orange juice.

Back in the early 1990s, I shared a house with four other twenty-somethings in Edgbaston in Birmingham. Not a student house, I hasten to add: Simon, my live-in landlord, had just graduated and – thanks to a very generous inheritance from a recently deceased relative – had bought a five bedroomed detached house on a respectable road. (Edward Road, notorious at the time for drug dealing and prostitution, was only a few minutes’ walk away, but we pretended not to know that.)

Anyway, there were five of us altogether: Simon; a guy called Mark, who was doing Psychology at Aston; Sue, who eventually became Simon’s girlfriend and, later still, married him; Kerry, a second year Medic; and me. It was all very civilised, with a rota for the housework and cooking, and house ‘film nights’ in front of the TV where we’d indulge in a ‘chocolate frenzy’ aka a huge, communal bowl of Maltesers, M&Ms, chocolate buttons and anything else that was bite-sized. Simon had a dining room, and we’d gather in there for our evening and weekend meals, and actually sit down to breakfast instead of eating it ‘on the hoof’.

I was in the kitchen one Friday morning, just the other side of the dining room, when I heard the shrieks and rushed in to investigate. There, in Sue’s glass of orange juice, was a snail – bobbing up and down and looking most uncomfortable.

“Eurgh!” I exclaimed without thinking. “Where did that come from?”

Sue rolled her eyes at me. “The orange juice! There was a snail in the bottle of orange juice!” (We normally bought cartons of Tesco’s value brand juice; but, last Saturday, someone had thought we deserved to try the good stuff and so we’d bought a bottle of ‘freshly squeezed’ juice which had cost an arm and a leg.)

“Are you sure?” I asked doubtfully. (It was expensive juice, after all.)

Sue looked aggrieved. “Well, where else could it have come from?” she demanded. “I’m going to ring Tesco now and complain.”

She grabbed the half-empty bottle off juice and stalked off. I gazed at the glass she’d left behind, wondering how on earth a large supermarket chain had allowed something like this to happen, then turned and went back into the kitchen to finish putting my own breakfast together. I’d been looking forward to sampling the posh orange juice before this happened, but now I decided I’d stick with coffee instead.

I was in a rush that morning – I had a nine o’clock English lecture; Anglo-Saxon actually – so I didn’t stop to wash up my own breakfast things, the way we normally did. Mark was just entering the kitchen as I left: he never started until eleven on Fridays. “Help me out and wash up my breakfast things?” I pleaded, not wanting to miss my bus. He nodded, knowing I’d return the favour another day.

By the time I got back from campus that afternoon (I’d finished at 3pm), the house was in uproar. “What’s wrong?” I asked.

“Mark washed up the glass with the snail in it!” Sue told me. She sounded as if she couldn’t believe that anyone would do such a stupid thing. “It was when I was ringing Tesco – he didn’t know about the snail and he just tipped the contents of the glass down the sink.”

“Oh no!” I was suitably interested to express concern. “Does it really matter, though?” I asked next.

“It does when you’ve told Tesco you’ll take the snail in to show them!” was her grim reply. “I’ve been out into the garden to try to find a replacement, but so far, no luck.”

“So are you not going to bother then?” I wanted to know. If you asked me, it seemed that hunting snails in the garden was taking things too far.

Sue snorted. “What, and miss getting some sort of compensation? Have you any idea how traumatic it was to find a snail in my juice? It’s a good job I spotted it before I drank any!”

She was still muttering an hour and a half later, when Simon came home, but by the time we’d all eaten and watched a film together, she seemed to be calming down.

Saturday. None of us had to get up early and we all made the most of the opportunity for a lie-in. I didn’t surface until half nine; and, when I did, I discovered there was no milk in the fridge.

“Has no one bothered to bring it in yet?” Kerry remarked in surprise. Back then, more people used milkmen than they did today: you only really bought cartons of milk in an emergency.

I was desperate for a cup of tea by this stage, so I padded to the front door in my nightshirt, thinking I could carry at least two. Grabbing a couple of the bottles that sat waiting patiently by the doorstep, I made my way back into the kitchen.

“Bring a bottle of milk in here,” someone called. “It’s just run out in the jug and I need to put more on my cornflakes.”

I rescued the stewed teabag from my mug, added milk, then carried the bottle through to the dining room. Mark and Kerry were seated at the table, a bowl of cornflakes in front of Kerry and a plate of toast beside Mark. As I handed over the milk, something detached itself from the bottom of the bottle and fell plop! into Kerry’s bowl.

“What the …” she began, looking startled.

The three of us stared at the snail, which was enjoying an unexpected bath.

That’s when I realised what must have happened the previous day: the snail in Sue’s juice must have hitched a lift on the milk bottle and detached itself as the milk was passed down the table. And she’d spent hours convinced that it was all Tesco’s fault.

“Sue …” Kerry said sweetly as our housemate entered the dining room, “look what I’ve just found.”

“My snail!” Sue looked totally mystified.

“No,” Mark corrected her, “Kerry’s snail. It’s in her cornflakes.”

“That’s even more compensation!” Sue breathed, pound signs all but flashing in her eyes.

“I don’t think so.” We gently told her about the milk bottles and how it looked as if Tesco was innocent after all, but she wasn’t listening.

“Give me your bowl, Kerry!” Sue ordered, her voice steely with determination. “I’m going to wash the milk and cornflakes off that snail and then we’re going to Tesco!”

Day 8 of The Literal Challenge aka Like The Prose

Recently, a work colleague who’d just read my latest novella asked, “Is it true?” I suppose I should be flattered that she found my writing convincing; but for many of us, trying to explain that the stories we write are works of fiction is often an uphill struggle. Whilst we may be inspired by real life people or events, fiction is still fiction. So, for any of you wondering whether today’s offering is based on my own teenage years, the answer is ‘It’s pure imagination.’

First Dates and Football Socks

I was thirteen when I fell for the captain of the football team.

Mark, my brother, was football-obsessed – always had been. I, on the other hand, was a ‘typical’ girl, with only a vague notion of how the game worked and no knowledge at all of the offside rule.

All that changed, though, when I got my first crush. Dave Thomas was fifteen, the same age as my brother, but he looked like a totally different species. Mark was still at the gangly stage, you see – all arms and legs, not quite knowing how to make his limbs move in conjunction with each other; whereas Dave looked like a Greek hero: tall, tanned and toned. I know it’s a cliché, but my heart sort of snapped the first time I opened the door to him, when he came round to see if Mark wanted to fill in for someone else in Saturday’s friendly.

After that, he became a semi-permanent fixture at our house: he and Mark would disappear into the kitchen together and sit at the table for hours, talking strategy whilst drinking copious amounts of Coke and eating crisps. He never noticed me, of course: I was just a little girl, flat-chested and with skinny legs. I somehow felt that if the boys at school were told to choose girlfriends in the same way we chose our teams for netball and football in PE lessons, I’d still be the one left to the end, standing there miserably, hoping I’d get picked.

Don’t get me wrong – it’s not that I was ugly or anything: just that when you’re thirteen and under-sized and clever, obviously the boys are going to prefer the girls with long hair and curves and make-up. It’s how their brains are wired: they never ever look at a girl and think ‘Phwoar! Look at the personality on that!”

I did, however, take a bit of advice from my best friend, Debra. Deb wasn’t much taller than I was, but she had bags of confidence. She loved clothes and her mum had actually given her a clothing allowance once we started in Year Nine. It wasn’t a lot, but it meant that she could update her wardrobe on a regular basis; whilst I was still having to put up with my own mother’s idea of ‘suitable’ clothes, which, to be frank, were quite atrocious.

In the end, I managed to talk Mum into buying me a top that Deb had seen on Amazon and thought would suit me. I couldn’t wait for it to arrive. When it did, though, I felt horribly disappointed: Deb had one like it (only in a different colour) and it fitted her perfectly; but mine just hung off me sadly, as if to draw attention to my non-existent chest.

What would I look like, I wondered, if I had a proper figure? By this time, I’d gone downstairs to the kitchen, to make a cup of tea, and one of Mum’s bras was sitting at the top of the basket full of clean laundry. My mind was made up: I would give myself a non-surgical boob-job, just to see whether it made a difference.

I’d have to stuff it with something, though. I rejected a couple of pairs of tights and picked up Mark’s football socks instead. That should do the trick.

It did. I gazed at my reflection in the mirror, delighted with what I saw. Perhaps I should wear the socks to school and see if anyone noticed the contrast?

Just then, the doorbell rang. It was only as I was opening the door that I realised I should have removed the socks first – or maybe not. A surprised Dave took one look at my visibly enhanced chest and invited it to the cinema the following weekend. (I think I was included in the invitation, although it was hard to tell when Dave’s eyes remained firmly glued to one spot.) As he and Mark disappeared into the kitchen together, I’m pretty sure I heard Dave mutter something like “Your little sister’s really grown up, hasn’t she?” and my heart sang.

It was only as I lay awake in bed that night, too delirious with happiness to sleep, that I realised the potential pitfalls ahead of me. Now that Dave had finally noticed me – or, at least, two particular bits of me – I would have to keep up the deception; and that meant stuffing my bra every day for school, just in case Dave spotted me in the corridors or playground.

Luckily, once I was wearing my school jumper and blazer, it was hard to tell what shape I was. I’d been having nightmares about some of the boys in my own year group suddenly becoming aware of my changed bosom and teasing me about it. There was still the problem of PE lessons, though: the last thing I wanted was for anyone to notice what was under my shirt and start circulating the story about how I’d stuffed my bra to get a boyfriend. Eventually, I pleaded severe period pain as a reason to get out of PE that Thursday; I’m pretty sure the teacher knew I was lying, but there was nothing she could do about it.

Saturday finally arrived and, with it, disaster. Mark’s football socks were nowhere to be found. I finally tracked them down in the washing machine – five minutes after the load had started. Mum must have seen them on my bedroom floor and helpfully scooped them up with the rest of my laundry. The wash cycle took an hour and forty-five minutes, but I was supposed to meet Dave at the cinema in just under half an hour. What could I do?

I tried to recreate the effect with a couple of my own ankle socks, but it was a dismal failure. As time ticked on, I began to panic. Dave would be devastated if I wasn’t accompanied by the boobs he’d fallen for. I desperately googled the internet to see if it could offer any solutions to my predicament. It didn’t.

When I finally arrived at the cinema, Dave looked at me curiously. “What are you wearing that massive jumper for? It’s twenty-two degrees outside!”

I said nothing, hoping that the baggy garment would disguise my re-flattened chest.

“Hurry up,” he continued, checking his phone. “The others are inside already, buying popcorn.”

Others?

It was as we entered the cinema foyer that I realised our ‘date’ wasn’t as exclusive as I’d thought: I’d been visualising a romantic afternoon with the two of us sitting side by side in a darkened cinema, holding hands maybe, or even kissing (and, yes, I had been practising on my pillow), but Dave seemed under the impression that we were playing football, judging by the number of other people he’d invited along. I think I counted nine other boys, none of whom I knew, so we definitely had enough for a full team, if you included me.

I didn’t get half the names Dave mentioned as he started introducing me to his mates. After dark-haired Baz and chunky Robert, I sort of lost interest. I mean, if you think about it, it was like going out with ten different versions of my brother – and I saw enough of him at home to know that fifteen-year-old boys still have a lot of growing up to do.

Take the popcorn, for instance. Most people would assume you buy popcorn to eat while you watch the film – not this lot. Apparently, what popcorn’s really meant for is throwing at the people who’re sitting in front of you. And if any of it actually hits them, you score bonus points. It was like sitting with a group of six year olds – except I think six year olds would have been marginally better behaved.

I can’t remember now what the film was about because I spent most of the time hiding my face in mortification at the boys’ antics. There was only one who wasn’t joining in – either because he was a bit more grown up than the others or because he was really into whatever superhero was on the screen.

Finally, the film ended, and we all piled into McDonald’s, en masse, to order food. I was already regretting coming by this stage, and the food fight that ensued once Dave and his friends had got their orders just confirmed that feeling. With the exception of Gary, the boy who’d actually watched the film, everyone was flicking fries and splattering ketchup. It was really embarrassing.

After a few minutes, Gary turned to me. “Shall we just leave them to it?” he said.

I nodded, and we left the restaurant. It felt odd to be on my own with a boy I didn’t know, but it felt comforting too. Gary was only a few inches taller than me, a bit geeky looking, with glasses and curly hair. He had a gorgeous smile, though, and a wealth of funny stories which he shared as we sat in Costa, drinking lattes and enjoying a much more civilised time together. After a while, I felt sufficiently relaxed to remove my jumper, noticing, as I did so, that Gary’s eyes never left my face for the whole of the afternoon.

Of course, I knew there would be repercussions for me dumping Dave and going off with one of his friends; but, to be honest, I didn’t care. When Mark told me the following day that Dave was really pissed off with me for what I’d done, I felt a pang of guilt – but that was over very quickly.

“He still doesn’t understand what went wrong,” Mark said, sounding as if he didn’t get it either.

I sighed, remembering how easy everything had been with Gary: how we’d talked and laughed and sipped coffee; how he’d kissed me gently at the bus stop when the number 47 arrived to take me home. Superimposed onto that was the horror that had been the food fight at McDonald’s, the popcorn party in the cinema and the awkward moment where Dave’s hand had tried visiting my chest without a visa. If our date had been a football match, he would have earned not just a yellow card but a red one as well.

“Just tell him,” I said slowly, “that the substitute scored and he didn’t.”

Day 6 of The Literal Challenge aka Like The Prose

So, as the challenge progresses, I’m realising it’s not always easy to find the time to write something – hang on: isn’t that the point? The whole idea is to get people writing something every day, isn’t it? y problem is that I want to do myself justice and not just scribble any old rubbish – as I’m sure is the case with the rest of the people doing this.

Anyway, I managed to submit Challenge 6 on time – just; but it’s taken me a while to post it on here. All comments or feedback welcome.

The Letter

I gaze at the envelope in my hand, wondering if life would have been different if I hadn’t kept it a secret.

Back in the 1980s, when we were at university, Andy, Stef and I were inseparable: a sort of unholy triumvirate. I met Stef first: she was in the same Hall of Residence as me, so I suppose our friendship was inevitable: walking to campus and back every day gives you plenty of time to talk. By the time we’d stumbled through Freshers’ Week and found our feet in the English department, we felt as if we’d known each other for years – and that’s why I could never tell her how I felt about Andy.

Andy. He was one of only six boys doing English, the rest of the First Years preferring to opt for more ‘manly’ pursuits, like Engineering or Physics. Back then, girls weren’t pushed towards sciences, the way they are now. Out of the seventy of us on the course, anyone with testosterone was seen as a bit of a novelty. He was a lovely guy too: well-read, a good listener, and an incredibly dry sense of humour. We clicked straight away. All three of us.

And that’s where the problem lay. When you develop a bit of a crush on someone, you could really do with the chance to spend time with them on your own, to put out feelers and ascertain whether this thing between you is just friendship or whether it has the potential to be something more. I couldn’t do that: not with Stef always there, hanging around like Banquo’s ghost whenever I wanted to find out how Andy felt about me. Every time I suggested a drink after lectures, Stef was there too. When I told him about this restaurant everyone was raving about, ‘The American Food Factory’, and asked if he wanted to try out the lasagne sometime, that turned into a threesome as well. It seemed as if I was fated to have my best friend – the Gooseberry – at my side, no matter where I went.

It all changed in our Second Year, though. All three of us decided to audition for the Guild Music Society – they were putting on ‘Oklahoma!’ and we thought it would be fun to mess around in the Chorus together; only, it turned out I had a much better singing voice than they did, and I found myself understudying Ado Annie whilst they were relegated to Costumes (Stef) and Props (Andy).

That’s when the trouble started: although Costumes and Props were vital to the whole production, they didn’t have to attend every rehearsal, like I did; and, pretty soon, the two of them were sloping off on their own for meals and walks and trips to the cinema. I could have wept with frustration – except I didn’t want to ruin my voice.

It came as no surprise, then, when Stef burst into my room one morning – whilst I was still getting dressed, no less – all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and bursting with requited love. I tried hard not to let her know how I really felt: plastered a smile on my face, told her I was happy for them both; but deep down, it hurt like hell.

As one week slipped into another, I felt as if I were being slowly suffocated by their cloying togetherness. How could I stand up on stage in a few weeks’ time and join the rest of the cast singing “Oh, What A Beautiful Mornin’!” when I was carrying a perpetual raincloud around with me? And the worst of it was, they were oblivious to my feelings.

Then, as luck would have it, disaster struck. Stef and I had just come out of our Friday morning Anglo-Saxon lecture – sans Andy, who did Combined Honours and had a German Lit class whilst we were struggling through ‘Beowulf’ – when one of the secretaries from the Arts Faculty office came charging up to us with an urgent message. Stef’s mother had been involved in an accident and was currently in Intensive Care at her local hospital.

I saw Stef’s face blanch as she heard the news. “I’ll have to go home straight away,” she said slowly. “It’s what? Eleven o’clock now? I’ll try to catch the twelve fifteen from New Street.”

We walked back to Hall together, my mind rejecting all the unwanted platitudes I knew Stef wouldn’t want to hear. Despite the way she’d stolen Andy from me, I felt sorry for her right now; hoped her mum would be okay.

With my help, Stef was packed in a matter of minutes. “Do you want me to walk to the station with you?” I asked.

She shook her head. “I’ll get a taxi – it’ll be quicker.” Hall was deserted at that hour, so there was no problem ordering a cab via the pay phones in the foyer.

It was as we were waiting for the taxi to arrive that Stef suddenly remembered Andy. “Can you give him a note, Jill?” She was scribbling down her parents’ phone number on a scrap of paper. “I might be at the hospital until quite late, but tell him to keep ringing until he gets hold of me. I’ve no way of contacting him myself.”

It’s strange to think now how different things would have been had mobile phones been invented – or even email. As it was, Stef did the only thing she could: she trusted her best friend to pass on the necessary information to her boyfriend.

I stroke the pale blue envelope, remembering. Stef didn’t have an envelope, of course. She just handed me the note and asked me to deliver it.

Once she’d gone, I went back to my room and put the note in an envelope with Andy’s name on it. That was my insurance policy, you see: if Stef ever found out that I hadn’t delivered her message, I’d tell her I put the note in an envelope and posted it under Andy’s door. If she insisted that we went to his flat to check, I could easily drop it down the back of the fridge when no one was looking, and there was my alibi. She’d never know the truth.

But, as it turned out, there was no need for such subterfuge. I knew that Andy always met Stef for lunch at 1.15 in the Guild – there was a bargain price salad bar there and they used to make a couple of pounds last an hour – so I set off to meet him and give him my version of events.

He looked a little surprised to see me. “Hi Jill. Are you joining me and Stef for lunch?”

“Stef’s not coming,” I told him, making my voice sad and sympathetic. “I’m really sorry, Andy – she’s found someone else.”

His face fell, like I knew it would. “No,” he said at last. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“I know this is hard for you,” I said gently. “They’ve gone to London together, for a romantic weekend. She took a taxi to the station just before twelve.”

At least that last bit was true.

“No,” he said again, looking less certain this time. Then, “Did you know about this? Before today, I mean?”

By the time we’d decamped to the bar and then spent the best part of the afternoon drowning Andy’s sorrows, he’d heard the full story of how Stef had been seeing this other guy behind his back the whole time she’d been dating him. “I had no idea,” he kept on repeating, the words gradually slurring into each other as bewildered incomprehension was replaced with alcohol-induced acceptance. After that, it was simply a matter of walking him back to his own student flat, to ‘keep an eye on him’, and then suggesting that the best way to forget Stef would be to sleep with someone else. Men can be so naïve at times.

I rang Stef myself the following day – ostensibly to enquire after her mother; but then I managed to inject enough guilt and regret into my voice for her to ask what was wrong.

“I’m so sorry,” I kept repeating. “It just happened. Neither of us planned it – honest.”

Stef didn’t come back to Hall until a week later; and, when she did, things were never the same. She didn’t even bother speaking to Andy – she confided to me later that what had hurt most wasn’t the fact that he’d cheated on her but that he hadn’t even rung to ask how her mum was. The light had gone out of her eyes – and pretty soon, it had gone out of our friendship as well.

She and Andy are married now – not to each other, obviously. They never spoke again after my one-night stand with her boyfriend. I had to stop seeing him too: we were both too embarrassed after that single night to look each other in the eyes again. That was when I realised that it would have been better not to know, to hold Andy in my heart as an eternal what-might-have-been.

I gaze at the letter, thirty years after I decided not to deliver it, thinking how different life could have been.

Day 5 of The Literal Challenge aka Like The Prose

The Avenging Angel

I don’t usually see anyone I recognise on my morning commute, so I’m somewhat surprised to hear a once familiar voice calling my name as I wait on platform 1 at the unearthly hour of seven thirty am. “Gemma! How have you been?”

Lucy and I were almost inseparable at secondary school: we sat together in Maths and English for the best part of five years and sent most of our break- and lunch-times together. Then, when we parted ways to go to different sixth forms, we still kept in touch, texting and instant messaging at least several times a week. We even managed to keep the friendship going for the first year of university – me in Hull; her in Warwick – but as time passed and I found myself spending a year in Trieste (one of the perks of an Italian degree), we slowly drifted apart.

She’s grinning at me now as if we met up yesterday. “I can’t believe it!” she says. “It must be, what? Four years since we last saw each other?”

So we do the usual catching up routine: love life, career, where we live now – all that sort of thing. It turns out Lucy’s done well for herself: she’s working for the HSBC bank and has been promoted twice in the last six months – something to do with spotting a fraudulent cheque and saving the bank hundreds, if not thousands, as well as being really good with the customers – and she’s renting one of those pretentious new flats just behind the train station. She’s only just moved in, which is why I haven’t spotted her at the station before now.

The train arrives and we’re still gabbing away. She enquires about my parents; I ask after hers. “What about your grandparents?” I want to know, wondering, after I’ve said it, whether they’re still alive: they must both be in their seventies by now.

Lucy pulls a face. “Gran was arrested the other week. We’re really lucky it didn’t hit the headlines – or end up on social media.”

“What did she do?” I ask, fascinated – my mind already constructing scenarios of her being caught speeding on a mobility scooter or getting embroiled in some sort of granny-brothel.

Lucy sighs. “I suppose it’s funny, really – in a way. It was a bit embarrassing for us all at the time, though.”

By now, I’m desperate to find out what happened, so Lucy enlightens me. “It all started when she found out Prince Charles was visiting St Brigid’s,” she says slowly. “She used to be headmistress there, remember?”

I nod. I didn’t go to St Brigid’s myself – my family aren’t Catholic; but there were plenty of people at secondary school who’d done the full seven years there – eight, if you count the pre-school.

“Well, Granny’s never forgiven Charles for the divorce,” Lucy continues. Noticing that I look puzzled, she elaborates: “She blamed him for the break-up with Princess Di.”

I don’t like to point out that this seems to be a case of taking a grudge too far. After all, Diana died twenty-two years ago – I was three at the time, so obviously I didn’t have a view on the matter, being more interested in Pingu than conspiracy theories and adultery plots.

“Anyway,” Lucy continues, “because she used to be headmistress, she was invited to come along and meet Prince Charles with the teachers who’re currently there, and she was moaning about it at her bridge club, saying she ‘didn’t want anything to do with that dreadful man’, when one of her friends dared her to tell him what she thought of his behaviour.”

“You’re not serious!” I breathe, trying to imagine the scene she would have caused.

“Well, you know Granny …” Lucy shakes her head despairingly. “Once she gets an idea into her head, there’s no stopping her. So, she went home and made a big placard, thinking that she could wear it round her neck and then jump out and flash her sign at Prince Charles.”

“The Scarlet A!” I mutter, secretly rather impressed.

“And you know how terrible her handwriting is …” Lucy carries on.

I do indeed: Lucy’s shown me enough birthday cards from her grandparents over the years for me to remember the ridiculously illegible spikes that masquerade as penmanship. You’d expect someone educated, who’s been a teacher and headmistress, to have a beautiful, spidery copperplate; but Lucy’s gran’s writing is so bad that it resembles those hospital charts with all the peaks and troughs to represent heartrate, breathing, and so on.

“… So if she’d written it herself, it would have been fine,” Lucy explains, “only she asked my grandad to print it for her, and he’s got lovely writing …”

“And did she do it?” The mental image of an old lady leaping out at Prince Charles, telling him exactly what she thought of him, is priceless.

Lucy rolls her eyes. “She put on her ruby red mac – to hide the evidence – and off she went, There was a line of policemen outside the school gates – for security purposes – but Granny was an invited guest and an upstanding member of the community, so nobody thought to stop her.”

I can picture it now: Lucy’s granny, looking for all the world like a sweet, little, old lady; and Prince Charles having no idea what’s about to hit him.

“So she stood in line,” Lucy’s voice slows, as if the telling of it is too painful, “and waited with the rest of the teachers who were all lined up to shake his hand. And then …” Her voice falters. “And then … Granny flashed him!”

That’s when I realise that her voice is trembling with laughter, so I join in and we both snort and giggle at the idea of it all.

“At least she didn’t throw a milk-shake at him,” I gasp, thinking of the recent event with Nigel Farage. “Or her false teeth!”

“Would that count as treason, do you think?” Lucy asks, sounding suddenly serious. “I mean, do teeth count as a weapon? Even artificial ones?”

By now we’re both nearly crying with laughter and it’s a good few minutes before I realise I’ve missed my stop. I’ll just have to be a bit late this morning, though, because I have to find out how this story ends.

“So,” I say, composing myself as best I can, “what happened next?”

“She was cautioned,” Lucy says, with a straight face, “and escorted back home to Grandad. He had to promise the policeman to keep an eye on her in future.”

I’m still chuckling as I alight at the next stop and prepare to travel back to New Street.

Day 4 of The Literal Challenge aka Like The Prose

This writing addiction is taking a hold: awake at 5am, I’d written today’s piece (just flash fiction this time at 349 words plus title) before I got out of bed. Would this have been Britain’s future if we’d all voted ‘Remain’, I wonder? Or if we’d all voted ‘Leave’? One thing I’m certain of is that this writing challenge is certainly keeping me on my creative toes. I’m looking forward to seeing what Day 5’s Brief is …

Susie Sunshine

Susie Sunshine’s birth was a joyful experience for all concerned: unicorns pranced and scattered gold dust from their ivory horns as the future World’s First President of the Happiness Party slid down a rainbow and landed at her mother’s feet in a wicker basket decorated with pretty, pink bows. At least, that’s the version of events Susie’s telling in 2091.

The world in 2091 is very different to the one where Susie grew up. Back then, there were still such things as hunger and homelessness; today, there is plenty of food for everyone and each child lives in his or her own gingerbread house – mortgage free, of course. In the Dark Ages of Unhappiness, tears and torment existed, alongside mayhem and misery; but nowadays, thanks to Susie, everyone has compulsory wellbeing lessons from the age of five – which, coincidentally, is also the age people are when they are born. (Genetic engineering has got rid of all the negative elements of parenthood, such as sleepless night, teething and nappies.)

One of the things that has catapulted Susie into becoming World President of the Happiness Party is her determination to give every individual the happy childhood that she’s carefully constructed for herself in her memoirs. In Susie’s version of events, her drunken mother has metamorphasised into a benevolent angel, doling out lollipops and lullabies in equal measure, surrounding her with hugs and kisses, all but smothering her with love. It’s important for everyone’s wellbeing that she models the ideals and aspirations at the heart of her mission statement.

The history books of the future will look back on the Golden Age of 2091. They will wax lyrical about Susie’s positive innovations: the removal of death and decay, the absence of old age. They will laud the fact that she eradicated misery, outlawed pain. Thanks to Susie, 2091 is full of shiny, happy people, all of them aged between five and thirty, inhabiting a world of eternal sunshine and endless lollipops. Happiness is the only disease in this brave new world – and Susie’s done her best to make sure that everyone’s infected.

Day 2 of The Literal Challenge aka Like The Prose

Yesterday’s brief was okay, but today’s … A writer friend (the same one who inspired me to sign up) posted her own piece of writing for Day 2 earlier today, with the cryptic comment “I wonder if anyone can guess what today’s brief is?”

To be honest, hers is a much better piece of writing than mine is. I think I took the brief quite literally when I penned mine. And, I do have the added benefit of having been an English teacher since 1992, so my own piece is reasonably authentic in terms of my having seen a number of stories of a similar quality over the years.

I won’t tell you at this point what the brief is – all I will say is that it’s the writer’s equivalent of going out with no make up on, in your onesie, on a really bad hair day. Having said that, it was fun to write.

Take it as you will …

The Best Story Ever

Once upon a time there was a big fat king and he lived in a castle no in a tent because the wicked witch put a spell on him and turned him into a ~~hedgehog~~ into a big smelly man with a beard and he had to live in a tent because ~~a hundred years ago~~ ten years ago the witch asked him to marry her but she was like really ugly and she had a big fat hairy wart on her chin so the king said you are like the ugliest person I have ever seen and first the witch ~~cried~~ got angry then she was going to turn him into a toad but she liked toads too much so she just turned him into a smelly man with a beard because beards are like really gross. And then there was this princess dude who was like really cool because she could skateboard and get really high scores on all the bestest video games and like really cool stuff like that but she didn’t like all the boys who kept following her around because they were like so needy and stuff. And she was really really cool but these guys were like so pathetic that they liked really lame stuff like Ben 10 and that’s what my brother liked when he was three and now he’s fifteen so that’s so obviously not cool, right? And then there was like ~~a monster~~ an ogre with big ~~hands~~ teeth and he was going to eat the princess but she chopped his head off with this really cool ~~sword~~ samurai sword that she found in the charity shop but it was really a magic sword and whoever finds it and buys it will be king of England or some crap like that anyway she bought the sword and chopped the ogre’s head off. Oh, and there were these criminals as well and they had been in prison for stealing cars and taking stuff that didn’t belong to them but they were really vampires because this vampire dude was one of the prison guards and he like bit them you know so they turned into vampires and I mean proper vampires not silly vampires like in the Twilight books where they’re vegetarian and they go all sparkly in sunlight and all that crap. So like they’re proper vampires and first they bite the princess and make her a princess vampire and then they bite the fat smelly king dude who lives in a tent and then they bite the witch. So like now we’ve got all these really cool vampires but you can only have one ~~king~~ chief vampire who gets to boss all the other vampires around so they have this like contest where they all have to prove they’re the best vampire and it’s like The X Factor but because they’re vampires they call it the Necks Factor – see what I did there? – and they all have to do karaoke but it’s like a song they’ve written that proves they’re better than the other vampire dudes and it’s like Britain’s Got Talent too but if the judges don’t like you they um like they kill you and because they’re like all vampires, if they don’t like your act they stake you through the heart so you explode in a cloud of dust like on Buffy that was so cool when they staked vamps and they just turned to dust. And the contest is going really great and the king vampire gets staked straightaway because his singing’s like so terrible but then some of them like the princess and some of them like the witch and they can’t decide which one to stake so they say the princess and the witch have to wrestle in jelly and the winner gets to be head vampire but the loser can be like vice president or something and so they fight and all the male vampires are like go on you can kill her but then the witch vampire and the princess vampire go all feminist and decide to kill the vampire judges who are all men vampires and so they kill them and they eat the jelly and that’s as far as I’ve got so far what do you think?

Prose, Prose (Prose) – Day 7 (August 7th 2023)

“Write a short romantic story whether that be, historical, fantasy, erotica, rom-com, YA, Christmas romance etc…”

Author’s note: Three years ago, when I was taking part in The Literal Challenge’s ‘Like The Prose 2020’ competition, I wrote a short story involving a radio programme in which scholars discussed the Middle English poem ‘The Song of Pardal and Enara’ (https://writingatjaneandrews.com/2020/06/09/like-the-prose-day9/). (The poem doesn’t exist: I made it up for the purposes of the story.) When I was asked to choose one of the stories I’d written so far and rewrite it from a different perspective for another challenge, I wrote the story of the two ‘Lovebirds’ in prose (Like The Prose Day 29 | The Addicted Writer (writingatjaneandrews.com)). The following story is another variation of Pardal and Enara’s story, but this time, I’ve written it as a fairytale so I can give them both the happy ending they deserve.

The Ice Mountain

They had both grown up in the same village, sweethearts from the time they could toddle. He can still see her now, only five or six summers old, sitting in the meadow surrounded by daisies. She’d shown him how to thread the yellow and white flowers into a delicate chain and he’d placed it on her head, declaring her his queen. Back then, they hadn’t envisaged anything would ever separate them. They were Pardal and Enara: everyone in the village linked their names together.

She was thirteen summers when he’d kissed her for the first time and her lips had been as sweet as cherries. Harvest time came and went, but still he did not have the courage to ask her father if he might court her properly. Instead, they stole away as often as they could, spending innocent hours together, his head in her lap whilst she threaded daisies into a crown for him. He was still a boy; but if he could become apprenticed to the village bard, he would have a trade to offer her father, a way of showing he could provide for a family.

At first she laughed at him as he sat strumming his lute, trying to learn the fingerings. But when she realised he was serious about his apprenticeship – and that he was striving so hard for love of her – she took pity on him and sat by his side, accompanying his voice with her own sweet soprano. As he grew more confident, he whittled wood to make himself a set of pipes, and then he would play the songs she loved while her clear, pure notes chased his. And when he kissed her now, they both heard the stars singing.

Four more summers passed before their betrothal. He danced with her at Summersfest as he did every year, and when the village maidens shyly laid their wreaths at the feet of their intended, Enara laid hers at his. The following day, his parents met with hers and it was agreed that the handfasting would take place in six days’ time. Six days did not seem long to wait, but the promised celebration did not happen, for on the eve of their union, Enara disappeared.

Pardal sets his empty flagon down upon the table and regards the assembled company. This is the fiftieth if not the hundredth time he’s told his tale, travelling from one end of the land to the other in an attempt to find his bride and rescue her; but although he has stopped at every tavern, singing each night for his supper, no one can help him. As hours drag into days and days blur into one another, he finds his mind returning again and again to the happiness he and Enara had known in their village.

And he wonders if he will ever kiss her again.

Night after night, as he brings forth his pipes and his lute, his heart is heavy as he thinks of the girl with golden hair that he has loved and lost. He still sings the songs he first learned in an attempt to woo her, but the words now catch in his throat: they’re a reminder of everything he no longer has.

“He lost the girl with the golden hair

O, he lost his lover so bonny and fair

He lost the girl with the golden hair

To the king of the icy mountain.”

He’s putting away his lute one night when he notices the crone standing in front of him. The local wise woman. His heart quickens at the sight of her.

“Your notes are true, Pardal of the Three Bridges,” she says, “but not your words. Your love has been stolen away by a sorcerer, not a king.”

“Do you know where she is?” He hardly dares to hope.

She nods slowly, something akin to pity in her eyes.

“Far away,” she says, her cracked voice weaving a spell around him as he listens, “in a land where the sun rises in the west and sets in the east, there is a mountain made of solid ice. Atop the mountain stands a castle: that too is built from ice, and within that castle your bride is imprisoned. She has been frozen by Gelus, the ice sorcerer, because she refuses to marry him.”

“How do I find the way?”

“You must travel for a year and a day,” she tells him, “across the Sea of Glass and through the Forest of Forgetting. If you survive such a journey, you will find the land you are seeking. But be warned: the way is long and arduous, and the mountain is impossible to climb. It is a fool’s errand, Pardal Goldentongue, and one that bodes ill for anyone who undertakes it.”

“Nevertheless, I must try,” he replies. “Mayhap I will perish in the attempt, but I could not sleep at night knowing that I had a chance to rescue my love and did not take it.”

“Then may the gods watch over you.” She pauses. “Never forget the power of song. It will bring you hope when you feel only despair and warmth when you feel cold; it will sustain you when your belly roars with hunger and bring healing when you need it most.”

Her shawl flurries around her and she is gone.

He continues to work his way across the land, never stopping more than one night in the same place; always earning his bed and board with the songs that make children dance and lovers gaze at each other dreamy-eyed. Sometimes he plays so softly that the mice cease their scurrying and sit spellbound, twitching their whiskers; spiders pause spinning their webs and sway in time to the lilting notes that tumble from his lute. At other times, the lively tunes from his pipe set the whole tavern jigging so that laughter fills the air and the tavern master’s takings are doubled. But every night, he ends with the song the wise woman mentioned: the ballad of the girl stolen by the king of the icy mountain; and each day brings him a little closer to his goal.

It is many months before he reaches the Sea of Glass. He gazes at the crystalline waves and wonders if he can walk across them. But as soon as he sets foot upon the frozen water, it turna to liquid and he knows that to attempt such a crossing would be perilous. His heart stills. Has he come so far only to be defeated?

Unable to think of anything else he can try, he takes up his lute and begins to play a song that speaks of wind and waves and a kingdom under the sea. On and on he plays, until his voice is hoarse and his fingers sore; and when he stops, he is surprised to hear a voice coming from the sea before him.

“Your song has moved us, Child of Earth, and so we will grant you a boon. Choose wisely, for once spoken, words cannot be returned.”

The speaker is a beautiful woman, rising out of the sea. A delicate crown sits upon her waist-length silver hair, and when he looks at her, she is both young and old at the same time.

“Grant me passage across the sea,” he begs her, “for I must rescue my true love who has been stolen away from me by Gelus, the ice sorcerer.”

At this she sighs and the sound is the whisper of the ocean. “Crossing my sea would avail you naught,” says she, “for on the other side lies the Forest of Forgetting, and once you set foot inside it, you will no longer remember your true love.”

“Nevertheless, I must try,” Pardal replies. “Mayhap it will turn out as you say, but I could not sleep at night knowing that I had a chance to rescue my love and did not take it.”

“Then may the gods watch over you,” says the Queen of the Sea. She pauses. “When you enter the forest, do not forget the power of song. If your voice charmed me, it will charm my sister also; and she and only she has the power to help you through her realm.”

She raises her arms and the sea becomes glass once more.

“Walk in safety, Child of Earth,” she says.

Pardal stretches out his foot and steps upon the solid surface. Walking carefully, he soon reaches the far shore and sees the Forest of Forgetting stretching out before him. He turns to thank his benefactress, but the waves flurry around her and she is gone.

The Forest of Forgetting looks dark and mysterious. Tall trees tower above Pardal as he approaches the entrance. For a moment, he pauses, heeding the warning the Queen of the Sea gave him: “once you set foot inside it, you will no longer remember your true love.”

Unable to think of anything else he can try, he takes up his lute once more and begins to play a song that speaks of the wind blowing through twigs and branches, and sap flowing through the veins of the trees. He sings of birds building their nests and squirrels scampering along boughs. On and on he plays, until his voice is hoarse and his fingers sore; and when he stops, he is surprised to hear a voice coming from the forest before him.

“Your tune has moved us, Child of Song, and so we will grant you a boon. Choose wisely, for once spoken, words cannot be returned.”

The speaker is a beautiful woman, emerging from one of the trees. A delicate crown sits upon her waist-length green hair, and when he looks at her, she is both young and old at the same time.

“Grant me passage through your forest,” he begs her, “for I must rescue my true love who has been stolen away from me by Gelus, the ice sorcerer.”

At this she sighs and the sound is the soughing of the wind in the trees. “Safe passage through my forest would avail you naught,” says she, “for if Gelus has stolen your true love, she will be entombed in ice in the sorcerer’s castle and no no-one can rescue her.”

“Nevertheless, I must try,” Pardal replies. “Mayhap it will turn out as you say, but I could not sleep at night knowing that I had a chance to rescue my love and did not take it.”

“Then may the gods watch over you,” says the Queen of the Forest. She pauses. “When you reach the Ice Mountain, do not forget the power of song. It will bring you strength when you feel weary and joy when you feel sorrow; it will sustain you when all else seems hopeless and it will reunite the two broken halves of the whole.”

She raises her arms and Pardal finds that he has traversed the forest in the blink of an eye. He turns to thank his benefactress, but leaves swirl around her and she is gone.

It takes many months before he finally reaches the land where the sun rises in the west and sets in the east and sees the mountain made of solid ice. His once youthful face now sports a beard, and his clothing hangs from him in tattered rags. Nevertheless, the sight of the mountain makes his heart leap for he knows that he has almost reached his beloved Enara.

Try as he might, the mountain seems impossible to climb. His feet and fingers fumble for purchase only to slide off the smooth, slippery surface. For a night and a day he tries, and still he remains at the bottom. Has he come so far only to be defeated?

“Do not forget the power of song…”

His voice charmed the Queen of the Sea and the Queen of the Forest but it cannot charm a mountain.

“Do not forget the power of song…”

His voice is not his only instrument. He has his lute and his pipes.

Plucking his pipes from his knapsack, he regards them thoughtfully. Perhaps they could help him in another way.

Carefully, he pulls his pipes apart. Using the wooden tubes as chisels, he carves steps into the ice and begins to climb. On and on he goes, higher and higher, scaling the mountain with sheer determination. At first, his fingers hurt with the cold; then they become numb; and finally, frostbite sets in – but he will not give up. Cold seeps into his bones and his bloodstream almost freezes, but he carries on.

Finally, he reaches the top, exhausted and broken, and trudges towards the castle. The door is frozen shut, but he has come too far to let something like this stop him. Ignoring the pain in his blackened fingers, he takes up his lute and begins to play. Despite the icy cold seeping inside his head, he manages to coax some semblance of a tune from the weary strings, and each note he plays shimmers in the air until the whole mountaintop rings with the sound and the door creaks slowly open.

Inside the vast, empty castle, endless corridors stretch before him. He will walk every one of them if he has to – if this is the only way to find Enara.

As if in a dream, he begins to drag himself down the first passageway, pushing open heavy oaken doors, desperately calling for his love.

At last, he finds her – encased in a block of ice. She has been frozen as the crone foretold. His fingers are now too stiff and cold to play his lute, so he sings. His chest hurts with each note that rips from him, but he will not give up. He sings of the fields and streams in their village, of the flowers and birds and summer sunshine; and finally, he sings of his love for Enara.

Inside her block of ice, Enara begins to sing too; and as their voices join, the ice around her melts.

Enara runs to her lover but he is half-dead from cold and exhaustion. Flinging her arms around him, she sings. He has no voice left, but hers is clear and true. As she sings, the blood begins to flow once more in his veins and his colour is restored. Hand in hand, they stand and sing, and the castle of ice melts around them.

Prose, Prose (Prose) – Day 6 (August 6th 2023)

“Is there a song that you hold special? If so, play it and really listen to the lyrics and then write a story about where that song takes you to.

Bonus points: Use song lyrics in your story.”

Author’s note: This isn’t exactly a song I hold special: it’s more a case of taking a song where the lyrics lend themselves easily to being turned into a short story. I remember thinking for a long time that the song by The Moody Blues was called ‘Knights in White Satin’ (it was years before I saw it written down), and so in my head, the line conjured up an image totally different from what the song was actually about. For some reason, the (erroneous) title always made me think of Tennyson’s poem about ‘The Lady of Shalott’, and so that’s what I’ve gone with. However, I’m pleased that I’ve managed to take part of the actual lyrics – “Gazing at people / Some hand in hand / Just what I’m going through / They can’t understand” – and incorporate that (albeit slightly paraphrased) into my story.

Knight in White Satin

Winter

From an early age, I had learned to beware the window.

My earliest memories are of being rocked to sleep in the arms of a comforting presence. There was a pleasing softness and squishiness about her and a comforting milky smell. I would later learn that this woman’s name was Tilda and that she was my nurse. My mother had died giving birth to me, but I did not know that then, and so, until I was some four or five years of age, I thought Tilda was my mother for she certainly cared for me as if I were her own, feeding me, singing to me, brushing my hair every morning and night.

She it was who taught me to sew. I was adept with a needle long before I could wield a pen and form stumbling letters, dipping my quill in the glass ink pot and making so many blots on the parchment that Tilda was driven to scold. I still remember holding my blunt bodkin, threaded with a colourful ribbon of silk, learning to pass the needle in and out of a piece of linen; although I wonder now what purpose was served by my learning such a skill, for all knew that I would never marry – could never marry – for what man would be willing to tie himself to a girl such as I? The stone walls of my tower room were my world; I could not expect anyone else to willingly share it with me.

But I digress. I had no thought of any husband when first I learned the small neat stitches of embroidery. My child’s fingers laboured to master satin stitch and crewel stitch that I might sit with Tilda, working on the same pillow. I had not thought then that my life’s work would be a tapestry so intricate that it would occupy every moment of my waking hours from first light until dusk.

I still remember well my seventh naming day when the large tapestry frame was carried in by eight servants, another eight following them with the mirror that would become my window on the world. And thus my task was explained to me: I was to observe the outside world through its reflected pattern in the mirror, and I was to reproduce each detail faithfully. Poppies and cornflowers romped in fields of golden wheat either side of a winding river, and a road snaked its way along too, leading to many-towered Camelot. At first, my eye saw only the wonders of nature, for flowers and trees seemed beauteous indeed compared to the stone walls that surrounded me; then, as I grew older, I began to take an interest in the people who passed by on the road, and to make stories for myself about who they were and what they were doing. They flitted across the mirror like shadows in a puppet play, yet it sometimes seemed that they were more substantial than I.

Summer

Swathes of silk still shroud the forbidden window, but daylight always manages to creep through, spilling onto the flagstones in puddles of muted pinks and greens and yellows. At times, I long to pull the hangings aside and gaze out on the world below. I don’t, of course: it has been imprinted on my heart that the window is dangerous and that were I to look outside just once, for just the smallest moment, the curse laid on me at birth would take effect and I would topple to my doom.

Shadows are not so tiresome when one knows the reality is fatal.

My hands fly over the tapestry. I have learned much since those first tentative attempts with a bodkin. An old woman with a basket takes shape upon the road, her form outlined in stem stitch, whilst off to the right, the sun beats down upon fields of barley and rye. I do not include the figures the mirror showed me earlier: a young swain and his lass who disappeared hand in hand into the long grass and emerged again some time later. I have no name for the thing between them that puts a smile on his lips and a blush in her cheek, but I long for it with every one of my fourteen summers.

Winter

The candlelight flickers. It is not late – only six of the bells, but the natural light in this room faded some time ago. I can no longer see to make the feather stitches necessary to complete the corner I am working on; and besides, the absence of light outside is reflected in the mirror within. How can I weave the unseen world about me when its shadow is obscured by darkness?

Spring

My tapestry continues to grow, the mirror furnishing me with fresh subjects each day. Bold knights gallop towards Camelot; merchants returned from the sea display their wares. Did our Lord feel thus when He separated light and darkness, land and water? When He admired the handiwork of his creation, did He experience the pride that I feel now when I regard the microcosm I have made in coloured silks?

Summer

I watch the seasons change through the mirror’s eye. Winter is cold and bare; spring brings hints of life; and summer bursts with joyous fecundity. Sunlight glints off the water in my woven river – or, at least, an impression of what I think sunlight must look like in real life. I still live in a world of shadows, seeing only my mirror’s version of reality, but the curse is an effective deterrent and the window remains shrouded.

I could have ignored it for ever had it not been for the knight in white satin.

The mirror shows a sky so blue it almost hurts the eyes. The road is busy today, it seems: a farmer walks past, driving his geese to market; a procession of nuns, stiff and severe in their long, black dresses and starched, white wimples follows at a more sedate pace. Their lips move as in prayer, but the mirror shares only sights not sounds.

And then, I see him. Shining armour peeps out from beneath the white satin surcoat he wears over it. His carriage is tall and straight; he bears himself like one of royal blood. His proud horse steps down the road as if carrying a king, and the jewel-bedecked bridle glitters in the sunlight. As my eyes hungrily devour the scene in the mirror, a light breeze catches the plumes on his helmet, making them flutter, and his polished vambraces gleam. A spark of lightning ignites inside me and I move as one in a dream towards the forbidden window, knowing that I am no longer satisfied with shadows. This man is my destiny: I must gaze upon his true face.

Ignoring the curse, I pull the hangings aside.

Time slows and then stills. I am as immobile as the figures in my tapestry: a woman poised on a precipice of destruction. A single grain of sand falls through the hourglass and I feel my life unravelling.

For an endless moment, I am frozen in time. If my knight in white satin would but only raise his head, he would see my face and I his. I could die happily knowing that I have gazed on true beauty.

He does not look up.

The Fates pluck my life-thread from the tapestry they have been weaving these past fifteen years. Embracing the inevitable, I let myself topple from the window, knowing that I am moving towards my death.

Prose, Prose (Prose) – Day 5 (August 5th 2023)

“Today’s prompt is: write a short fantasy story.”

Author’s note: As with Day 1 and Day 3, I’ve taken an idea I have for a full-length novel and decided to consumer test it by writing it as a short story. (Additional note: It’s just under 9,000 words as I got a little carried away, so be warned if you were after a quick read.) Werewolf stories seem to be in vogue at the moment; I blame it all on the ‘Twilight’ saga. Typical tropes include fated mates (people who are predestined to be together), pack Alphas (male leaders) who are all well over 6 feet tall, and Lunas (female leaders bonded to the Alphas) who are often physically and/or emotionally fragile but display huge amounts of resilience by surviving abuse and bullying. From what I can gather, there seems to be a lot of emphasis on the Lunas wearing pretty clothes and being carried around by the big strong Alphas, but a lot of people (myself included) think that there’s too much toxic masculine hegemony in a lot of the stories, so I’ve decided to give mine a bit of a twist.

Still interested? Then check out Day 5’s story.

The Wolf and the Witch-Child

As I walk down the aisle, resplendent in my white gown, I can feel the eyes of the whole pack upon me. I know some of them are wondering why the new Alpha chose me – it can’t just be because my father’s the retiring Alpha; and I can sense the inner wolves of a row of girls just ahead of me, growling with frustration because it’s me and not one of them.

Ahead of me, my groom waits. Not a muscle twitches; he doesn’t even turn his head to look at me. I try to make out who it is, my heart desperately hoping that it isn’t Aaron. Shafts of sunlight streaming through the stained-glass windows of the tiny Gothic church obscure my vision so that I have only a blurred impression of height and strength; but his wolf calls to mine and I know that we are fated mates. Against my will, I am being dragged towards him, my need for him so urgent that it almost overwhelms me. The moon goddess herself has decreed that I will love both man and wolf, and my howl is now no longer one of frustrated denial but a song of joyful acceptance.

I reach his side and lift my veil to see his face, but his human form has disappeared and a pure white wolf stands in his place.

And that is the point where I always wake up.

“So, you have no idea who your fated mate is, then?” Galen’s question sounds casual, but he knows how on edge I’ve been feeling ever since I started having the wedding dream almost six weeks ago.

We’re sprawled on the river bank, enjoying the last rays of the late September sun. At our feet, water gurgles contentedly. I come here a lot when I want to be quiet and reflective – and so does Galen. It’s our ‘happy place’.

“Nothing,” I tell him now. “Every time I get close enough to see him, he’s a wolf. It could be anyone in the pack.”

“And how do you feel about that?” he persists. “Is there anyone in particular you’d like it to be?”

“No one,” I say, “and definitely not Aaron. He’s been strutting around for ages convinced he’s going to be the next Alpha and that somehow that gives him the right to take me as his mate.”

“Hmm, a guy who’s potentially the next Alpha, six four with rippling pecs and a bad-ass attitude. Yeah, I can see why you’d be averse to marrying someone like that,” Galen says lightly, his green eyes searching my face as if to check for tell-tale signs that I’m lying.

I bite my lip. Aaron is good-looking; but he’s also arrogant. What’s more, he’s got a mean streak – especially when it comes to Galen.

“I couldn’t be with someone who treats my best friend like dirt,” I say at last, my heart thumping as I wonder if Galen will understand what I’m trying to say.

He gives a bitter laugh. “It’s not as if I’m the only one – the whole pack treats me and my mom like pariahs.” His fingers tug self-consciously at the iron collar around his neck. “These anti-charm bracelets we’re forced to wear… They’re not exactly a badge of honor, are they?”

Galen was six years old when a group of pack-scouts found him and his mother in the woods – along with the body of a dead shifter. She admitted she was a witch and that the child was hers – perhaps she thought the Betas who made up the scout-party would be afraid of her if she confessed what she was; but what she didn’t know was that the scouts had a shaman in their midst: one with the power to neutralise her witchcraft. The iron collar he snapped around her neck was fastened by wolf-magic – as was the one he used to subdue her son. She must have come across the wolf by chance because he wasn’t from our pack – maybe he’d been tracking her or something: some kind of rogue mercenary hunting magical creatures for easy gold; but whatever the story was, she kept quiet about it, and that made her look even guiltier.

My gaze rests on him now: about 5’10 and slender but wiry. Over a decade of working in the stables, learning how to handle wild stallions, shovelling muck for hours on end, feeding, watering and grooming around thirty horses, give or take, has chiselled his body and honed his muscles just as effectively as the hours that Aaron and his cronies spend in the gym, pumping iron. There’s a quiet confidence about Galen: he doesn’t need to flex and pose like the alphas-in-waiting; he’s not trying to impress anyone. Galen is Galen – and that’s why I love him.

I’ve never told him this – what would be the point? I’m the Alpha’s daughter – his only child – and I can’t inherit my father’s title. Instead, I’ll become the Luna of my dad’s successor: the fiercest and bravest of the would-be Alphas. For months now, Aaron and the others have been duelling each other, practicing their moves in preparation for the big contest that’s taking place this weekend. Whoever wins will be crowned Alpha and I’ll have to marry him.

“You could always refuse, you know.” Galen breaks the silence that stretches between us. “I know tradition’s important to your people, but this is the twenty-first century, Cass. You’re not your father’s property – at least, you shouldn’t let yourself think you are.”

His dark hair flops over his forehead and he brushes it away with irritation. I stare at his long, pale fingers, imagining how it would feel if he were brushing the hair away from my face not his; wondering what it would be like if he kissed me.

“You need to live up to your name,” he says now. “Cassandra means ‘Warrior’. It’s time you started to fight for what you want.”

“Some warrior!” I sniff. “I haven’t shifted yet.”

In my dreams, my wolf is definitely there – so much a part of me that I struggle to know where one of us leaves off and the other begins. I thought I would shift on my sixteenth birthday – like so many of my friends did – but almost a year later, my wolf is still silent, causing me to wonder if I might not be a throwback: a shifter without the ability to shift.

“It’ll happen,” Galen says, trying to reassure me. He squeezes my shoulder, sending a million tiny sensations shooting through my entire body. I close my eyes, unable to keep looking at him without wanting something I know I can’t have.

“Cass?” There’s a note of uncertainty in Galen’s voice now. “Are you okay? Did I say something that upset you?”

Willing myself not to fall apart, I open my eyes again. I’m lost, and I know it. No matter who gets chosen as the Alpha, I’ll never be able to feel the same hopeless longing for him that sits in my belly now when I look at the boy who’s been my best friend for as long as I can remember.

“What would your father say if he could see you?”

Malice drips from Aaron’s question as he strides towards us, surrounded by his normal entourage of adoring girls and sycophantic Betas. There’s no doubt he’s got some sort of charisma – at Winfold High, he was always the leader of the cool kids; and since he turned eighteen and became a full-time Beta, he’s been roaming the pack compound in the same arrogant way he used to stroll the school corridors.

I feel my face flush at his words. Galen and I weren’t doing anything, but I know it’s not the done thing to be found in the witch-child’s company. If anyone who mattered saw Alpha Quade’s daughter hanging out with a collared servant, I’d be confined to my room for a week.

“Keep your distance,” Aaron orders, looking at Galen as if he’s something nasty he’s stepped in. “I don’t want my mate to be contaminated by a piece of filth like you.”

Galen says nothing, but color begins to stain his cheeks. He’s used to abuse – verbal and physical; he’s lived with it for twelve years.

“I’m not your mate,” I say through gritted teeth.

Aaron ignores me. “Step away,” he says. “You should be knee deep in horse shit in the stables, not talking to the Alpha’s daughter as if you’re one of us.”

“I’ve finished mucking out the stables for today,” Galen tells him. His complexion’s returned to normal; he looks totally unfazed by Aaron’s attempt to bully him.

Aaron steps closer to Galen, attempting to intimidate him with his superior height and weight. Galen doesn’t flinch: instead, he eyes Aaron as if they’re equals. My stomach tightens. This is going to end badly.

“I told you to leave.” Aaron’s voice is almost a growl; his wolf’s not out, but it sounds like he’s not far away.

“I’m spending time with my friend.” Galen sounds calm although he must be shaking inside.

Without warning, Aaron lunges forward, trying to land a punch on Galen’s face. Something bubbles inside me – fear? anger? – but before I can let myself give in to this strange gut reaction, Galen sidesteps and dodges Aaron’s blow. The two of them face off, fists raised as if they’re in a high school boxing match, and my heart sinks. Aaron’s a dirty fighter. He was school boxing champion but only because he ignored the rules when the coach wasn’t looking.

I turn away momentarily, not wanting to watch Galen being beaten to a pulp. Aaron’s always had it in for him: it’s as if he’s jealous of him in some way.

“Stay away from my woman.” Aaron’s issuing a warning.

I spin round, facing them again. “You don’t own me! We’re not even dating.”

“I think Cass has a right to make her own decisions,” Galen says mildly.

Aaron growls under his breath. I can see the hatred in his eyes and I know he’s going to punish us both for daring to stand up to him. He needs to prove to himself and everyone else that he’s alpha material – to show them how easily he can subdue a helpless human – and believe me, Galen is as helpless as a non-magical human while he’s wearing that collar. It’s been welded to him since he was captured, despite him not showing any signs of magic either then or now. He might be the son of a witch, but he and his mother have been powerless since they were taken prisoner.

They’re still dancing round each other, eyes narrowed, focusing on the moment. Time stills; it’s as if the universe pauses to watch the two of them.

My heart twists. I already know what the outcome will be. Aaron is the strongest and fastest Beta in the pack, and Galen… Galen is intelligent and sensitive – the sort of person I’d want as my Alpha if he were a wolf; the mate I long for but know I can never have.

Aaron throws another punch. Galen avoids it neatly – his reflexes are surprisingly fast. Aaron shoots out a foot, trying to trip his opponent, but Galen bends his body, keeping his balance. When Aaron grabs hold of him, Galen twists and somehow manages to use Aaron’s own strength against him, making the Beta stumble.

“Don’t just stand there watching!” Aaron roars in frustration.

Horror-struck, I watch as four of his cronies hurry forward. Five against one. I’m detached from my body, forced to stand by as a helpless observer as they grab Galen and hold him still for Aaron to hit. I want to rush over and drag them off. I want to protect my mate.

Without thinking about what I’m doing, I release my inner wolf.

She’s been there all the time, just under the surface, waiting until I needed her. Her strength flows through my veins and I’m aware of a strange sensation as I drop to all fours and begin to arch my back. I’ve heard other people talk about shifting for the first time and how it feels as if all your bones are breaking at once; they don’t tell you how that stab of intense pain pales into insignificance beside the thrill of your wolf exploding out of you.

Letting my wolf instinct control me, I leap at Aaron, knocking him off balance, not caring if he shifts too. My wolf is ready to take on his.

He sprawls on the floor, his face thunder. His eyes are turning yellow; I can sense his wolf itching to come out.

Back off, my wolf tells him.

Surprisingly, his eyes return to their normal ice blue. “Let him go,” Aaron says out loud, injecting a note of boredom into his voice. “He’s not worth the effort.”

He clambers to his feet, trying to make out nothing untoward has happened. His lackeys are still holding Galen. I growl at them to release him.

“Let’s get out of here,” Aaron says. Lowering his voice, he murmurs, “This isn’t over, Cass. Your witch friend had better watch his back.”

I move between him and Galen, daring Aaron to see what happens if he tries to touch him again.

“We’re not wasting any more time with these losers.” The arrogance is back in Aaron’s voice. “When I’m Alpha, I’ll make sure they both obey me.”

I continue to stand guard over Galen until Aaron and his entourage have walked away. Once we’re alone, he drops to his knees in front of me and fondles my tufted wolf ears.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says, his fingers stroking through my dark, silken fur.

I growl with pleasure.

I know I need to shift back now that Galen’s out of danger but I’m enjoying the sensation of being touched by him. Wanting to prolong the physical contact, I push my nose into his chest, then look up at him. Our eyes meet.

For an endless moment, we gaze at each other. My wolf’s retreating: I want to be human once more so I can feel Galen’s hand stroking my back, his lips pressed against mine.

I’m mid-shift when I realize that human Cass will be naked. My clothes ripped when I transformed.

“Uh, Cass…” Galen must have come to the same conclusion as me because he pulls away from me and starts unbuttoning his shirt. “I’m not looking at you,” he continues, eyes closed. “You can put my shirt on to cover your dignity until we get back to the Alpha house.”

Now fully human, I take the shirt from his outstretched hand. He’s a good ten inches taller than I am so the shirt’s long enough on me to pass for a mini-dress – but only just.

“You can open your eyes now,” I say, fastening the last button.

His green eyes flicker as he takes in the sight of me in his shirt. Am I imagining it, or is there something between us: some current of electricity that makes me tingle all over from just being near him?

It would be the perfect moment for our first kiss, but he’s holding back. Perhaps he doesn’t feel the same way I do.

“We’d better get going,” he says awkwardly. “I don’t want you to get into trouble because of me. If Aaron’s told your father…”

“What, told my father that he’s a bully who attacked you for no reason? Or that he had to get reinforcements because you were beating him in a fight? Get real, Galen. He’s not going to say anything that puts him in a less than perfect light. You know how much he wants to be Alpha.”

Then a thought strikes me. Aaron managed to land several blows while his friends were holding Galen. “How badly are you hurt?” I ask.

Galen shrugs. “I’m fine.”

“You’re sure you haven’t got cracked ribs? I thought I heard something shatter when he hit you.”

Galen shakes his head. “It hurt at the time, but it’s fine now.”

Even though I’ve only shifted once, I know that superfast healing is part of what we do as wolves. Is it a witch thing too?

“Have you inherited your mother’s witch-power?”

“I don’t know.” He won’t look me in the eye.

And just like that, the potential closeness between us is gone.

We’re careful for the next few days. I don’t want to give Aaron any more incentive to hate Galen. We don’t go to our happy place by the river; instead, we hang out in the stables, grooming the horses side by side while we talk in low voices about the future.

“We could run away together,” he says. “I don’t want to spend my whole life in a collar, and you don’t want to be forced to marry the next Alpha.”

My heart skips a beat. We’d be fugitives, forever on the run – but we’d be together.

“Let’s do it,” I say, counting rapidly in my head. “Today’s Wednesday and my father’s announcing the new Alpha on Saturday. That means we need to leave tomorrow or the day after.”

“I’m ready to leave at any time,” he says. He hesitates. “Can we take my mom? I don’t like the idea of her being left here on her own.”

My heart stills at the idea of what Aaron might do to her if he thought she knew where we’d gone. He wouldn’t think twice about torturing a defenceless woman to get information – or to punish her for her son’s disobedience. Besides, I like Myrna. Despite being a servant, she’s been a mother-figure to me ever since my mom died three years ago.

“Let’s go and tell her now,” I say. She’ll be in one of the Alpha house bedrooms at the moment – she always changes the sheets on Wednesdays – but everyone else should be out so we won’t have to answer awkward questions.

We find her pretty quickly – or what’s left of her. She’s lying on the floor of one of the guest rooms, her face a mass of vicious looking scratches and a hole in her neck where her throat’s been torn out. Clean bedlinen is scattered on the floor around her: she must have been carrying it when she was attacked.

Galen lets out a small grief-stricken sound. His face is deathly pale. I want to put my arms around him and comfort him, but his grief is too new, too raw.

“Aaron,” he says at last.

I nod.

“I need to find him,” Galen says. His voice is tight. “I need to make him pay for what he’s done.”

“No!” I catch hold of his arm, afraid he’ll walk out of the room and start looking for Aaron straightaway. “You can’t fight him. He’s setting you up so he’ll have a legitimate excuse to kill you.”

“He killed my mother!”

“We don’t have proof,” I remind him. “And Aaron’s going to be the new Alpha. You can’t accuse him of murder – it’ll be seen as treason.”

Pain rolls off him in waves. Pain mixed with anger and something else I can’t yet define.

“I can’t lose you, Galen.” It’s the closest I can come to confessing my love for him.

“Tonight,” he says, his jaw set. “There’s some kind of event in the Beta house. Aaron and his myrmidons are going to be drinking all night – I overheard two of them talking about it when I was mucking out earlier. That’s an advantage of being a servant: no one notices you when you’re just getting on with your job. … We’ll sneak away while they’re busy partying. I don’t want to spend any more time here than I have to.” He looks at me. The sweet, sensitive boy I grew up with has been replaced with a young man who knows the weight of grief. “You don’t have to do this, Cass – not unless you really want to.”

But I do have to do this. My need for Galen is a slow burning ache inside me. I have to be where he is: if he’s not in my life, I’ll cease to exist.

“I’ll go and pack now,” I say. “Nothing much – just a few clothes and essentials. Nothing that won’t fit in a rucksack.”

“How are you going to leave your house without being spotted with a rucksack?”

“I’ll throw it out of the window,” I say, the plan forming as I speak. “If it lands in the bushes, no one will see it.”

“I hope you’re a good shot,” Galen says soberly, “because if anyone sees your bag and realizes what you’re doing…”

I reach up to squeeze his shoulder. “Nothing’s going to go wrong. I promise.”

Only, something does go wrong – not with packing my rucksack; not with throwing it out of the window – what goes wrong is far worse than anything I could have anticipated.

The first inkling I have that our plans are about to be scuppered is when my father enters my room just after I’ve heaved my bag out of the window. At first, I think he’s seen it land in the bushes outside; but as he starts speaking, I realize that this was something far more serious.

“Who normally cuts your hair?” he demands, striding across the floor to scrutinise me at close range.

“What?”

“Who does your hair? Would they have time to do something with it before tonight?”

My hand flies instinctively to my ponytail. I haven’t had a haircut for about three years – ever since Galen let slip that he likes long hair. It’s waist-length when I don’t tie it up, but it’s too impractical to walk around with it loose all the time.

He’s opening my closet door and rifling through the contents before I have time to reply. “You need more dresses. The future Luna should be stylish and sophisticated. You’ll have to borrow something that’s more appropriate for the big announcement. Are any of the other girls your size?”

Big announcement?

“What’s happening tonight?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.

He finally turns aside from my clothes rail to look at me. “I’m announcing the new Alpha tonight. Now that you’ve shifted for the first time, there’s no point in waiting. After all, it’s going to be your engagement party too.” He pauses. “I wanted to surprise you, so I’ve got a team decorating the Beta house and the caterers are there now, setting up. But then I thought you’d rather know in advance so you have time to get ready. You need to make a good impression, Cassandra. There’ll be Alphas from other packs. It’s an important night for us – and Aaron.”

Aaron. My heart sinks even though I’d anticipated this. I can’t do this. If my engagement’s announced officially, I’ll never be able to leave.

“Can’t we do this tomorrow?” I blurt out, desperation making my voice squeak. “That would give me time to get my hair and nails done, and buy a new dress, and…”

“No.” It’s the pack Alpha not my father who answers the question. “The celebration’s taking place tonight and that’s final.” He consults his watch. “You’ve got just under four hours to get ready.”

And just like that, all my dreams of escaping are dashed to pieces. If I don’t show up at the feast, my dad and Aaron will come looking for me – along with a bunch of Alphas from other packs. Galen won’t stand a chance.

Under the pretext of going to see a friend to borrow a dress, I sneak back to the stables to let Galen know the worst. His face lights up when he sees me, and my gut twists when I realize I won’t be able to spend time with him from now on. I know without being told that Aaron will guard me possessively as soon as our engagement’s announced. He’s had girlfriends in the past but they’ve only ever been casual – a warm up for the main event of marrying the Alpha’s daughter. Nevertheless, I’ve seen the bruises around eyes that dared to look in the direction of other men. Aaron doesn’t share his toys. Perhaps it’s just as well that Galen’s leaving because it would only be a matter of time before Aaron found an excuse to beat him up again, knowing how much it would upset me.

“That was quick.” He’s still carrying the horror of his loss – there’s a haunted expression in his eyes that wasn’t there before; but his face quirks into a half-smile as if he’s pleased I’m there.

“Change of plan,” I tell him. “You’ll have to leave on your own.”

For a moment, he says nothing; then, “Do you mind telling me why?” His voice is deliberately casual but I can sense his heart breaking inside.

“That thing in the Beta house – it’s my engagement party.” The words drag themselves unwillingly from my lips. “My father’s naming Aaron as the new Alpha and me as the new Luna.”

“I see.” Galen turns away from me and begins brushing one of the horses. An invisible wall of resentment shimmers between us. “So you’re going to marry him – after what he did to my mom.” The words are flat. Lifeless.

“I don’t want to marry him.” Tears are forming in my eyes. “But I have to.” I take a deep breath. “It’s the only way to keep you safe.”

The brush he’s been using clatters to the floor as Galen spins round to look at me again.

“Cass?”

And then his arms are around me and his lips are on mine, and I’m swimming and flying at the same time, and I know I’ve finally come home.

“I’ve wanted to do that for years,” he says as we finally break apart.

Blood’s thrumming in my ears; my pulse is racing. “Don’t stop,” I say softly, reaching for him again, but he shakes his head, grinning.

“There’ll be plenty of time for that later – when we’re far away from here.”

“We’re still leaving? But I can’t. What about…?”

“We’ll find a way.”

Somehow, his lips find mine once more and we cling to each other. My bones turn to water as he kisses me and I feel ready to fall apart.

“What about your witch-magic?” I ask as we finally come up for air.

He grimaces. “I don’t know if I have any. I’ve been collared most of my life.”

I stand on tiptoe, stretching up to feel the iron collar around his neck. I know that it’s fastened with wolf-magic, but I don’t know anyone with that skill. The shaman who imprisoned Galen and Myrna left us years ago, and he was the only person I’ve met who knew how to use it.

Galen’s fingers close over mine. “Maybe we need to join forces,” he says. “Combine your wolf and my magic.”

It’s a slender chance but we have to take it. I let his fingers guide mine over the cold, smooth metal, tracing it all the way around until they meet something that feels different.

“It’s a catch,” I say in surprise, fumbling to open it. But the collar remains locked and I want to howl with frustration.

“Let me try,” he says. The catch springs apart in seconds and we look at each other.

“Was that you or me?” he asks.

I shake my head in ignorance of the answer.

Galen removes the collar, staring at it wonderingly.

“Try some magic,” I tell him.

“I don’t know how,” he begins, then smiles as an idea comes to him. “What are your favourite flowers?”

“Pansies,” I say immediately.

He grabs my hand. “I don’t know if this will work, but it’s worth a try.”

I let him lead me outside the stable. Several large ceramic tubs filled with earth are dotted under the windowsill of the adjoining house. “The gardeners are getting them ready for replanting,” Galen says. Gazing at the tubs, he begins to mutter something under his breath. As I watch, tiny shoots spring up that grow and blossom until…

“Pansies,” I breathe. They’re a riot of color: purples, lilacs, whites, yellows… “Are they real?” I ask next.

Galen nods. “I saw one of the gardeners planting seeds earlier today. All I did was speed up the growing process.” He pauses. “My mom couldn’t use her magic once she was collared, but she told me about it – how she used to be able to speed up time or slow it down. She said magic’s not about creating something out of nothing: it’s about using what’s already there but intensifying it.”

He pulls me back into the stable and our lips meet again in a long, lingering kiss. “If I could, I’d freeze time to make that last forever,” he says.

I’m about to nod in agreement when a thought strikes me. “You can freeze time.”

“Uh, I guess so. I haven’t tried yet, but I think I’ve just demonstrated that I can speed it up.”

I break away from him, walking up and down to help me concentrate. “Do you think you could freeze time tonight?” I ask. “As in, for long enough for us to get away?”

He looks startled. “I don’t know, but I can try.”

“Then tonight,” I tell him, pushing his long, dark locks out of his eyes, “you and I are going to walk out of the Beta house and no one is going to stop us.”

The Beta house is packed by the time Dad and I enter. The folding doors that separate the ground floor rooms have been pushed back to create one huge space set up with tables like a wedding reception. White and silver balloons adorn the walls and there are banners that say ‘Congratulations!’ A long trestle table at one end of the room groans under the weight of platters of food and there are opened bottles of wine on every table. Dad glances at me and then nods approvingly. I’m wearing a figure-hugging gown in pale blue that matches my eyes, and my uncut hair is twisted into an elegant knot on top of my head. Stylish and sophisticated, just like he wanted.

Across the room, I spot Galen acting as a waiter. He’s wearing the collar again, but it no longer has magical properties. He said it would make people see him as less of a threat. I catch his eye and he gives a barely perceptible nod. That means he’s ready, although I know he still has mixed feelings about this. Once he realized he could use witch-magic, Galen had wanted us to leave straight away, but I told him that if I wasn’t there for the festivities, Dad and the visiting Alphas would come looking for me and that I doubted any kind of magic would be able to prevent them from executing the servant who’d run away with me.

“And tell me what’s going to give us a better chance of escaping if we’re both at this party,” he’d said.

I’d explained that the whole pack would be there. “It means everyone’s in one place for you to freeze them,” I told him. “It’ll give us a better head start.”

Lost in my thoughts, I’m unaware of anything else until my wolf growls and my skin prickles. I turn around to find Aaron eying me hungrily as if I’m a raw steak.

“Glad you made the effort to dress up for me.” Arrogance oozes from his pores. He knows he’s the pack’s golden boy – how could any woman resist his sun-streaked hair and muscled physique?

“The dress isn’t for you,” I tell him. “My father wanted me to look the part for the visiting Alphas.”

He reaches a hand towards me and I step away from his touch. For a moment, his eyes narrow, and then he lets out a derisive snort. “I’m going to enjoy breaking you, Cass – once you’re officially my Luna.”

“Go to hell!” I snap at him. My wolf growls impatiently, but I keep her in check. Just another hour or so, I tell her, and then Galen and I will be leaving.

“You’re beautiful when you’re annoyed.” He’s laughing at me now, secure in the knowledge that I’m his – whether or not I want to be. He places a possessive hand on my shoulder before I can wriggle away from him: he’s claiming me in front of the entire pack.

I’m angry enough to shift, but I don’t. Instead, I keep telling myself that I only have to put up with this for a little longer. I turn away from Aaron, my eyes searching the room, trying not to stare too obviously at the mate my heart has chosen. In less than an hour, we’ll be free; but I can’t help the icy sense of foreboding that’s seeping through my veins.

It’s tradition for everyone to sit down to eat and drink before the official announcement of the new Alpha. Dad’s been leader here for as long as I can remember, but over the years, I’ve accompanied him to other Alpha ceremonies in various packs across the county, so I know how these ceremonies unfold. I used to love the excitement of waiting for the big reveal, and I didn’t realize at the time that I was being shown off like a prize broodmare – without any sons of his own to become Alpha after him, Dad was using me as bait to entice worthy candidates. That’s how Aaron ended up being part of our pack: he was only fourteen when Dad and I visited Willow Creek five years ago, but he already had a reputation for being faster and stronger than anyone else who was still of school age. He knew he wouldn’t make Alpha anytime soon if he stayed where he was – the guy taking up the mantle while we were there was in his early twenties so it looked like he’d be around for a long time; but Aaron was happy to transfer to Forest Glen on the understanding that he’d be made Beta as soon as he was old enough and that he’d be training with the other potential Alphas.

My suspicions that Aaron really is going to be the next Alpha are confirmed when we take our seats at the top table. Dad has the centre seat, with me sitting next to him and Aaron on my other side – a Luna hemmed in by two Alphas so I can’t escape. The visiting Alphas are also on our table – each with his own Luna. I’m feeling claustrophobic before the eating and drinking starts.

On one side of me, Dad is discussing pack policy with Alpha Aimilios from Tall Pines; on the other, Aaron is trying to woo me with what he thinks is sexy talk, fuelled by the vast quantities of wine he’s knocking back. I ignore all of it, not wanting to engage in any more conversation with him. Then, as the meal progresses, his comments stop being suggestive and become downright crude.

I’m relieved when Dad finally calls for silence and tells the assembled company that he’s about to announce the new Alpha. Galen’s hovering nearby with a platter of chicken; I catch his eye and he nods.

As the crowd begins to quieten down, Galen starts muttering words under his breath. At first, I don’t see any difference; then gradually, Dad’s voice begins to drag to a halt as time slows down and finally freezes.

Galen walks over to the top table and takes my hand. I’m aware of what’s going on but I’m as immobile as everyone else.

“C’mon, Cass!” Glen sounds impatient. “We need to leave now. I don’t know how long I can freeze time for.”

I can’t move, my mind tells him.

I don’t know whether he can hear me or not – wolves can mind-link, but I don’t know if witches do that too – but a look of comprehension suddenly dawns on his face. “You’re frozen like the others.”

Scooping me out of my chair, he begins to carry me away from the table and out of the hall. Aaron’s eyes flash fury. I can’t help feeling a sense of smug satisfaction.

We’re approaching the threshold of the hall when time starts again. I suddenly realize that I can move my fingers, but everything’s in triple slow motion. Horror squeezes my heart as I watch Aaron force himself to his feet, attempting to come after us. He looks like he’s moving through treacle.

“I’m sorry, Cass.” Galen begins muttering again, but it’s too late: before he can refreeze time, four heavily-built shifters rush in from outside and grab hold of us. Of course – there would have been Beta bodyguards left on duty outside the Beta house. I saw them when Dad and I arrived, but I just assumed they’d come in and join us once all the guests had arrived.

By now, Aaron’s reached us and my father isn’t far behind.

“Glad you were able to get here in time,” Dad says, addressing his remark to the Betas holding us. “I wasn’t sure if you’d been affected too when I sent the mind-link.”

“By the time you’d alerted us to the danger, it was too late,” one of them says. “We found we couldn’t move at our normal speed – everything had slowed to about a hundredth of what it should have been.”

Galen’s magic had still reached them outside, but it hadn’t been strong enough to freeze them. And when time had restarted slowly in the hall, it had kicked in at full strength outdoors. I try not to look at Galen, not wanting to make things worse. If necessary, I’ll take responsibility myself for freezing time: I can claim I found the spell in a book and that I had no idea what it would do.

Dad’s looking at me now as if he doesn’t know who I am anymore. His face is a mixture of disgust and disappointment, and I know he must be embarrassed too. I’ve let him down in front of the whole pack – and all the visiting Alphas.

I open my mouth to tell him I’m sorry, but Aaron gets in first. “I think we have grounds here for a trial,” he says, his voice steel. “It’s quite obvious that Cassandra was being taken against her will. The witch-child-” – and here he spat in Galen’s face – “is guilty of kidnapping the future Luna. And as her intended mate, it is my right to challenge him to fight to the death in a Wolf Duel.”

“You can’t!” I burst out, terror making me reckless. “Galen’s a witch. He can’t shift. He doesn’t stand a chance!”

Aaron is smirking at us both. He knows exactly what will happen. He’ll tear Galen’s throat out in front of me and I’ll be forced to watch.

“At least give him a different opponent,” I continue wildly. Someone who doesn’t hate Galen as much as Aaron does. “Or make Aaron fight in human form.” Galen’s beaten Aaron before in a fair fight. He can do it again.

My father’s shaking his head and I can see that the other Alphas are in agreement. “You know the rules, Cassandra: once someone challenge someone else to a Wolf Duel, the fight is between those two only. And of course Aaron needs to shift: it’s a Wolf Duel, not a Man Duel.” His tone is cold and emotionless. He wants to get this over quickly.

Ice begins creeping through my bones. I sway on my feet, fear making me unsteady despite the bodyguards holding me, then right myself once more. Plunging into the depths of my soul and finding a strength I hadn’t known I possessed, I meet Aaron’s eyes. “I cast the spell – not him. If anyone should be facing you in a Wolf Duel, it’s me.”

A shocked hush falls over the room and I inwardly curse myself for forgetting that supersensitive hearing is all part of the wolf package. Then again, everyone would still have heard me if I’d whispered.

Aaron doesn’t bother lowering his own voice as he replies. If anything, he projects it so that everyone can hear easily. “My poor little Luna. He’s bewitched your mind. Doesn’t that prove that he needs to be eradicated?”

The crowd’s wolves murmur angrily. If I’m not careful, there’ll be more than person shifting into a crazed killer today.

Cass… Galen’s voice in my mind. So, witches can do it as well as wolves… Don’t worry – I know how to use my magic now. I’m not afraid of Aaron.

“And we’ll make sure it’s a fair fight,” Aaron continues. He beckons to one of the men standing with my father. “Alpha, we need your shaman.”

The shifter he’s addressed, a tall man in his forties with grey hair and a hatchet-face, nods in the direction of someone who looks like he might be of Zimbabwean descent. Like most shamans these days, he’s clad in a business suit rather than a robe, but the white painted tribal markings on his face leave me in doubt as to his profession.

“Mr Zwane,” the Alpha says by way of introduction.

From his breast pocket, Mr Zwane takes a stick of blue chalk. Without saying a word, he begins drawing a large ring on the floor: the battle arena. The crowd that had surged forward to gawp at Galen and me shrinks away again.

At first, I don’t understand what’s going on. My father pulls Mr Zwane aside and mutters something to him, gesturing at Galen and his collar. Mr Zwane shakes his head.

They know the collar doesn’t work anymore, Galen tells me. The shaman’s creating a space that prohibits magic in the same way. Once I step inside that circle, I’ll be powerless.

The circle’s complete. Mr Zwane takes an odd-shaped instrument from his trouser pocket. It looks very old – as if it’s been carved from the bone of a sabre-toothed tiger or the ivory tusk of an extinct mammoth. Vivid blue and red feathers are tied to one end of it with scarlet thread. Mr Zwane walks around the perimeter of the circle, shaking the – whatever it is – and muttering strange, unintelligible words. The hairs rise on the back of my neck as he does so, and by the way other people’s inner wolves are fidgeting, I can guess that everyone else feels as disconcerted as I do. Even Aaron looks slightly uncomfortable.

Mr Zwane finishes his ritual and nods at my father. “It’s done,” he says. “100% witch-proof.”

“Then we can start right away,” Aaron interjects. He begins unbuttoning his shirt. Someone in the crowd whistles.

I watch in stupefied silence, wondering why he’s taking off his clothes. His body’s well-muscled, but it doesn’t interest me at all. Surely he doesn’t expect me to agree to being his Luna just because he’s stripped down to his boxers?

And then my heart hammers as the pieces fall into place. Aaron’s getting ready to shift. He’s not going to give Galen a chance to best him again like that other day at the lake.

He’s going to wolf out as soon as the contest starts, and Galen won’t be able to defend himself.

Tears prick at my eyes as Galen’s dragged into the circle to face Aaron. They eye each other warily, the almost naked 6’4 hunk and his 5’10 fully clothed opponent. It’s almost like David and Goliath, except Galen doesn’t even have a slingshot to defend himself with. For a brief moment, I dare to hope that the shaman was wrong and that Galen will be able to freeze Aaron, but when I catch Galen’s eye, he gives a tiny shake of his head and I know the battle’s already lost.

“Wolves of Forest Glen…” Dad’s voice rings out confidently. “…Visiting Alphas… One of our pack has brought an accusation against the witch-child, Galen. Alpha-Elect Aaron claims his right to ask for a Wolf Duel. Let the Moon Goddess herself decide who is right: if the accusation is just, may Aaron defeat his enemy…” Cheers break out around the room at this. “…But if the witch-child has been wrongly accused, let the Goddess herself protect him.” The accompanying silence is a pretty clear indication of whose side the audience is on. “May the loser’s death be swift.”

The words are barely out of his mouth when Aaron drops onto all fours and begins to shift. His eyes have turned yellow and his back arches; he’s almost doubling in size. Within moments, a huge shaggy wolf stands opposite Galen emitting a low rumble of hatred.

I gaze at my would-be lover, realising that it’s the first time I’ve seen him in wolf-form. I’d imagined his coat would be golden, like the streaks in his hair, but Wolf-Aaron’s fur is a dark grey color. It’s standing on end now as he crouches, ready to spring at his prey.

I can’t bear to watch Galen being torn limb from limb, but I can’t look away either. I need to commit this scene to memory so that some time in the future, I can make Aaron pay for it. Clenching my fists so hard that my nails dig into my palms, I force myself to keep watching.

Galen drops to his own knees, and for a moment, I think he’s trying to protect himself by crouching in a fetal position, protecting his throat; but as I continue to stare, something incredible happens. Galen’s entire body starts to shimmer. It takes a few seconds for me to work out that he’s glowing with sweat from the exertion of… shifting. This should be Aaron’s perfect moment: he can easily defeat someone whose body is transforming for the first time; whose bones are breaking and resetting; who’s confused by discovering he’s not what he’s grown up believing he is.

Only he doesn’t. Aaron seems as mesmerized as the rest of us, staring in awed silence as Galen steps forward in wolf-form: the white wolf of my dreams.

Almost as a delayed reaction, Wolf-Aaron regains his composure and springs at Galen. Galen meets him mid-leap, and the two hurtle to the ground, grappling together, teeth biting, claws ripping, no holds barred. Galen’s human form may be physically inferior to Aaron’s, but his wolf is bigger, stronger. I gaze at the powerful jaws and know that they won’t struggle to rip Aaron’s throat out. Galen’s not just going to defend himself: he’s going to execute the person who murdered his mother.

And a part of me feels glad. I want to see Aaron suffer; I want him to know what it feels like when someone more powerful inflicts pain on him.

The air around us is thick with tension as the fight continues. The cheers for Aaron have died down; it’s no longer an unequal fight between wolf and witch but an evenly matched contest of strength and skill.

That’s when it hits me. If Galen wins, he’ll have beaten the new Alpha. And that means…

My concentration returns to the scene before me. Aaron’s tiring: he’s not used to fighting someone with stamina to match his own. But Galen’s been forced into manual labour for the past twelve years, working fourteen-hour shifts with barely a break, endlessly repeating physically demanding tasks. Charged with adrenaline, he’s almost a blur, dodging Aaron’s attacks and inflicting plenty of damage of his own. Meanwhile, Aaron’s bleeding from a scratch near his right eye, and his left ear is torn; he’s dragging one of his back legs as if it pains him.

It’s not hard to guess how this is going to end.

There’s a sudden last-ditch surge of strength from Aaron as he sees his Alpha crown slipping away from him. With a howl of fury, he aims himself at Galen’s throat only to be batted back with such force that he flies across the arena, landing on his back with the wind knocked out of his sails. Broken and bleeding, he lies there, a helpless victim, as Wolf-Galen casually saunters over to him and stands looking down at him with contempt.

Aaron knows he’s defeated. He offers Galen his throat. The room stills as everyone waits for the kill. I’m waiting too, dancing on toes of anticipation. Nobody, not even my father, can refuse to let me take Galen as my mate now he’s proved himself in front of the pack.

Galen bares his teeth, ready to exact revenge for his mother. The silence is deafening.

Slowly, Galen withdraws from Aaron and transforms back into his human form. Someone has the presence of mind to hand him a scarf to veil his modesty. At his feet, Aaron twitches, but Galen quells him with a look.

“A strong leader knows how to show mercy,” he says. His voice is quiet, but we all hear it. He’s mind-linking everyone here. “Aaron deserves death, but I choose to let him live…” The sharp intake of breath that ripples round the room tells me that no one was expecting this. To be honest, I wasn’t either.

“I’m the new Alpha!” The words escape in a howl from Aaron, now no longer in wolf form. “You don’t have the right…”

“Silence!” My father’s whiplash command startles me. “You were Alpha-in-waiting,” he tells Aaron, making sure that the assembled company hears his words, “and you threw it away in a petty act of vengeance, duelling someone you were certain you would defeat.” He takes a deep breath. “I will not let my wolves be led by anyone reckless. This error of judgement nearly cost you your life…” He pauses to glance at Galen – a look full of surprise and grudging respect – then continues, “…The next time, you could endanger the whole pack. From now on, you are no longer a part of Forest Glen.”

The bruises on Aaron’s body are livid – but not as livid as the expression on his face.

“You have twelve hours,” my father says. “If you’re still in the compound after that, I’ll give Galen permission to finish what you started.”

Heads are nodding all around the room. People are agreeing with my father’s decision to banish Aaron. He’s gone from hero to zero in a matter of minutes.

“Ga-len!” somebody shouts and the crowd joins in. “Ga-len! Ga-len! Ga-len!”

My father’s smiling. He’s actually pleased that people are shouting Galen’s name. “Let’s do this properly,” he says, calling for silence. “Galen…” He fumbles for the surname.

“Galen Witch-child,” I say helpfully.

“Galen Braveheart,” my father corrects me. “Galen Braveheart, you have proven yourself in battle as a warrior, but you have also demonstrated self-control and sober judgement. I can think of no better man to lead as Alpha in my stead.”

“I accept your offer.” Galen’s language is as formal as my father’s. “And ask for the gift of your daughter as my Luna.”

Before my father can reply, Galen reaches out and grabs my hand. Pulling me towards him, he whispers, “I know you wanted to leave, but I think we can both afford to stick around now.”

And then he kisses me in front of my father and the whole pack, and the crowd goes wild.

“So,” I say as we sit by the river, once more in our happy place, “your mom was a witch and your dad was a werewolf.”

Galen nods.

“And you’re a…” What? Is there even a name for what Galen is?

“A bit of both,” he says. He pulls me closer so that I’m snuggled into him with his hand stroking my shoulder. It all seems so natural – as if we’re meant to be together.

“Why didn’t you tell me about your wolf heritage before?” I ask now.

He looks uncomfortable. “My mom never really talked about it. When your pack found us, we were on the run. I can’t remember much because I was so little when it all happened, but I think my dad must have been the dead shifter – the one they thought my mom had killed. He must have died trying to protect us. My mom had no idea who your scouts were or how they’d react if they found out she was the mate of a wolf… I think she was worried I’d be killed if anyone found out I was a half-breed. That might have been why we were running away in the first place.”

“That’s all behind you now,” I say. “The pack’s accepted you as their new Alpha. No one cares what happened in the past.”

“Maybe…” He sounds thoughtful. “I think it will take a while to work out how to balance my witch- and wolf-sides, though.”

“We’ve got all the time in the world,” I tell him.

And then he starts to kiss me, and time stands still without the need for magic.

Prose, Prose (Prose) – Day 4 (August 4th 2023)

“Today’s prompt is simple: write a sixty second comedic monologue.”

Author’s note: As I edge my way closer to my sixties, I’m constantly forgetting how old I am until I mention something like ‘Opal Fruits’ to the children I teach and they look at me blankly. ‘Opal Fruits’ were renamed ‘Starburst’ in 1998 – a decade before any of these children were born. It does make me think about the importance of brand names for products and whether certain things would be as successful were they named something else, and that’s where the inspiration for this monologue came from.

Additional note – I know it’s supposed to be a 60 second monologue, but the ‘Veet’ section alone (381 words) took 2 minutes when I read it aloud, and the entire piece is 1342 words, meaning that it would take at least 7 minutes to perform this.

‘Avez-vous un Snickers?’

Have you ever stopped to think about some of our big brand names and asked yourself whether these products would be more successful if they had a slightly different name? Several years ago, Pizza Hut ran an ad campaign where they pretended they were rebranding themselves as Pasta Hut – the point being that they wanted people to realise that they didn’t just make pizzas. And here in the UK, we often rebrand items so that we’re calling them by the same name as the rest of the world – ‘Veet’, ‘Cif’ and ‘Snickers’ all had different names in Britain when I was growing up.

The problem is that these new international names often don’t make as much sense to us as the original name did. ‘Veet’ hair removal cream used to be ‘Immac’ – presumably because your underarms would be immaculately smooth after using the product. ‘Immac’ made sense, but ‘Veet’… That’s not a word – well, not in English anyway. Of course, it does sound like the French word ‘vite’ which means fast, so I’m guessing that the company who makes the stuff wants to subliminally advertise how quickly it does the job. I can picture the scene now in a French business meeting where all the advertising consultants are discussing the rebranding of their product for the UK market: (over the top comedy French accent) Ah, zeese Eengleesh, zey are so stupide, n’est-ce-pas? Zey will not realise what ‘Veet’ means…

And let’s be honest, the majority of English people are so useless at learning other languages that they really don’t know what the word ‘vite’ means – it actually sounds like ‘feet’. You can picture the scene in the chemist’s, can’t you?

Me: Have you got any ‘Veet’ cream, please?

Pharmacist hands me a tube of anti-fungal cream.

Me: Erm, ‘Veet’ aerosol?

Pharmacist presents me with peppermint cooling foot spray.

Me: ‘Veet’ wax strips?

Pharmacist gives me strange look as if wondering what sort of Hobbit feet I possess if I need to wax them.

And then I remembered what my friend Stephanie told me when I was 13: “Joanne Berry says the changing rooms in C & A smell like Immac.”

Joanne Berry says the changing rooms at C & A smell like ‘Veet’/feet – it makes perfect sense now.

‘Cif’ bathroom cleaner’s something else that’s had a rebrand. For decades of my life, it was known as ‘Jif’. Again, this is something that makes sense – you can get the cleaning done in a jif if you use this product. The problem is that this phrase works for us but not the rest of the world. The closest the French come to ‘in a jiffy’ is ‘dans un instant’ and the Germans say ‘im Handumdrehen’ which translates to ‘in no time’ or ‘in the blink of an eye’ but doesn’t have the catchiness of ‘in a jif’. And like ‘Veet’, the word ‘Cif’ doesn’t mean anything in English – unless you use it as an abbreviation for a sexually transmitted disease. I mean, can you imagine the confusion that would cause when a wife sends her husband off to the supermarket to buy cleaning products and then receives a text saying, “I’ve got the Cif”? Some women would take that as an admission of adultery.

But these problems with rebranding pale into insignificance beside the way that our beloved sweets have suffered over the years. I’ve mentioned ‘Opal Fruits’ – or ‘Starburst’ as they’re now known – and they’re a prime example of an original name that made more sense than the new name. As soon as you read ‘Opal Fruits’ on the packet, you knew what to expect: sweets that taste like fruit. But when you see ‘Starburst’, that doesn’t tell you anything. For a start, a star isn’t exactly something I’d want to put in my mouth – it’s a luminous spheroid of plasma tied together with self-gravity – yum! The sun is a star and I certainly don’t want a burning ball of light in my mouth, thank you very much. And as for it bursting…

‘Starburst’ is still quite a recent rebrand though as it was only twenty-five years ago. What really changed the face of British sweet eating was the renaming of the iconic ‘Marathon’ chocolate bar to ‘Snickers’ in 1990. ‘Marathon’ made sense – it was advertised with a mock up of an athlete about to run a long-distance race-. Someone handed him a ‘Marathon’ bar just as he was about to start and instead of chomping it down in one bite, the guy stood there for what seemed like twenty minutes biting through all the layers of chocolate, caramel and peanuts. It was called a ‘Marathon’ because it took a long time to finish it.

We were the only country that called it that. Everywhere else in the world called it a ‘Snickers’ bar, so eventually, a huge ad campaign was brought out to introduce the new name in England. We saw a French girl – you could tell she was French because she was wearing a beret – walking into one shop after another with the same question every time: “Avez-vous un Snickers?” Scores of bewildered shopkeepers shook their heads, not having a clue what she wanted, and I’m not surprised. Yet again, it’s a word that doesn’t make sense in English – or at least, not in the context of a chocolate bar. It’s the sound a horse makes, or the sound of a scornful laugh – neither of which springs to mind when you’re feeling peckish. In the advert, you’d be forgiven for thinking that she’s asking for underwear because it sounds like she wants some knickers. And since when was that the way to name a chocolate bar? All the other brands from the same family are named after astronomical features: ‘Mars’, ‘Galaxy’, ‘Milky Way’ – we’ve got connotations of a chocolate universe going on here. And then we get to ‘Snickers’ – grab an item of underwear and stick an ‘s’ on the front. You might as well call it ‘Sunderpants’ or ‘S’why fronts’… S’thong… S’G-string… I could go on all night.

But you do have to be careful with some of the original names for chocolate bars too. The ‘Topic’ bar was another product from the Mars stable. It was like a ‘Marathon’, but instead of “Comes up peanuts, slice after slice”, ‘Topic’ promised “A hazelnut in every bite.” My ex-husband loved ‘Marathon’ bars as a child but didn’t like ‘Topics’, so when he went on a residential trip with the top year of primary school at the age of 11 and was given a ‘Topic’ in his packed lunch, he decided to take it home for his dad – you know, the way that boys go on trips and bring back presents they haven’t actually bought because they spent all their money on football stickers at the start of the week. My brother did that when he went away to Scotland on a school trip – he handed out all the fruit he hadn’t eaten all week so my older brother got an orange, I got an orange, and my mum had two apples. Anyway, my ex-husband (who was not my ex-husband at the time but my fourteen-years-into-the-future husband) came home from his school trip on the Friday evening and gave his dad the ‘Topic’, his dad ate it, and that was the end of that… Until Monday morning when everyone was walking to school and a girl called Jenny asked my ex-husband if he’d finished the project they’d been given to do for homework. Only, she didn’t call it a project: she called it a topic.

You can see where this is going, can’t you?

Jenny (thick northern accent): Have you got your topic?

Ex-husband (aged 11): No.

Jenny: But Miss said we had to hand them in this morning.

Ex-husband (panicking): No one said we had to bring them into school.

Jenny: So where is it then?

Ex-husband: I gave it to my dad and he’s eaten it.

There would have been none of that confusion with a ‘Marathon’.

Prose, Prose (Prose) – Day 3 (August 3rd 2023)

“Today we are going to write a story about friendship, the good, the bad, the ugly. Are your characters siblings, neighbours, or perhaps roommates (maybe a mix of both.).”

Author’s note: For years, I’ve wanted to write a novel loosely based on the story of Goldilocks in which the central figure destroys the lives of three of her childhood friends. I quite often write the idea as a short story first to see if it works. For this version, I’ve gone with an American setting, but the characters and storyline might easily migrate their way back across The Pond at some stage.

Who’s Been Eating My Porridge?

I stare at the details on my phone. Yes, this is the right address. It’s been fourteen years since I left here, but the memories haven’t faded – and over the next few months, those girls are going to regret what they did to me.

It’s a beautiful spring morning as Jodie opens the door to greet the woman who’s called her about renting the room. Aurelia wafts into the room on a cloud of expensive perfume, sunlight catching her long, golden curls. Jodie could feel threatened by the sight of this goddess, but she’s clad reassuringly in faded jeans and a top that’s more K-Mart than Gucci, and besides, there’s a reassuring smile on her face, so Jodie smiles back too and leads her to the currently unused second bedroom.

“I used to have a lodger,” she babbles nervously, “but she moved state a couple months ago and I haven’t got round to finding a replacement yet.” She pauses as a thought strikes her. “How did you know about this room? I haven’t advertised yet.”

Aurelia regards her coolly. “You work for Watson’s, don’t you? I went to college with a girl who works there now and she mentioned it when I told her I was moving to this area.”

It’s a half-truth: Lacey and I did meet at college and have kept in touch. I couldn’t believe it when she said she’d taken a job in my old home town, or that those three witches would still be living here. She knew all about what they did to me, of course, and she promised she’d keep me updated on what they were doing

“Lacey Jenkins,” Aurelia says when Jodie looks at her quizzically.

Jodie’s face lights up. “Oh, Lacey! We’ve started eating lunch together recently – she’s such a good listener.”

And it seems as if that’s the only reference Aurelia is going to need because minutes later, the two of them are sitting on Jodie’s back porch, sipping peppermint tea and sorting out a date for Aurelia to move in. Phase 1 has begun, and Jodie has no idea what’s in store for her.

The smell of fried chicken permeates the air, mingling with the chattering voices of Jodie and her three best friends. It’s strange how quickly Aurelia has become part of their coterie, despite being a newcomer to the town. Jodie, Helen and Meg grew up here and went through school together, drifting apart momentarily to attend their various colleges before returning to the place they loved and the friendship they’d forged, but Aurelia’s slotted in so well you might almost think she was one of the original set.

“Jodie, that was amazing,” Helen says, clearing her plate of every last delectable morsel. “No one makes chicken the way you do.”

“Make sure you’ve left room for dessert,” her friend warns. “Aurelia’s made chocolate fudge brownies and they’re the best thing I’ve ever tasted.”

There’s a flurry of plates and a clinking of cutlery as Meg helps Jodie to carry the empty dishes into the kitchen, bringing back a tray of chocolatey goodness and a family sized tub of ice cream. Jodie digs her spoon into the gooey richness and savours the taste on her tongue before she turns to the others, eyes bright with excitement, and says, “I can’t hold it in any longer. There’s a vacancy for a PA at Watson’s, and I’ve decided to apply.”

Helen and Meg know how much this means to Jodie: she’s been a secretary now for a little over a year, but she’s always dreamed of bigger and better things.

“I was wondering…” – and here Jodie sounds a little hesitant – “if the three of you would look through my personal statement for the application form and let me know how it reads.”

An hour later, the four of them have analysed every sentence in detail, crossing out a word here, adding a phrase there. Jodie knows she can’t improve it any further, so she excuses herself for a few moments and begins copying her personal statement onto the official form.

“Isn’t it an online form?” Helen asks in surprise; but apparently, the company values handwritten applications.

“They probably hire a graphology expert to analyse what you’ve written,” Aurelia says jokingly.

Jodie looks worried at the suggestion and they all hurry to reassure her.

It’s getting late and Helen and Meg need to leave. It’s another twenty minutes after that when Jodie finally feels satisfied that she can’t see any errors with grammar or punctuation. She’s ready to put the form in an envelope, but she can’t find hers anywhere.

“I’ve got some in my room,” Aurelia tells her. “Fold it to the size you want and I’ll find one that fits.”

Jodie triple-folds and then Aurelia disappears with the form. She returns with a sealed envelope and tells Jodie to write the details on the front.

“I sealed it to stop you spending another hour re-reading and obsessing,” she says firmly. “Now, are you delivering this by hand or mailing it?”

Jodie pops the sealed envelope into the in-tray at reception the following morning, knowing that she’s done her best; but she’s not prepared for the shock a week later when Aurelia guiltily confesses to her that she applied as well – or the crushing devastation she feels when her lodger is offered the job.

You knew how much I wanted to be class president, but you ran for it anyway. This is what they call karma, Jodie Mitchell. I’m going to do to each one of you what you did to me.

The others are understandably sad for Jodie, but at least the job’s gone to another person in their friendship group. “You’ll be able to eat lunch together every day,” they say consolingly, but Jodie isn’t so sure she likes Aurelia anymore. Friends don’t steal other friends’ dream jobs.

Aurelia knows Jodie’s angrier than she’s letting on. “The atmosphere in her apartment is so uncomfortable at the moment,” she tells Helen as they meet up for coffee without the other two one lunchbreak. “I know she wanted the job herself, but it went to the best candidate and now she’s acting like I set out to hurt her on purpose.”

She can’t prove anything. When I replaced her application form with a blank piece of paper, I hid the evidence under my pillow and burned the form when she’d gone to work the next day.

“She does have a mean streak, I’ll give you that,” Helen concedes. “There was this girl in Middle School who spilled a drink on her…” What was her name? Gilda? No, Goldie. “– and Jodie was so mad at her that she made her life a misery for the next two years.” She gives an embarrassed laugh. “Actually, we all did. She moved out of town when she was thirteen and I’ve often wondered if it was because of what we did to her.”

Laughing about me behind my back. Not inviting me to any of the parties. Telling people I had lice. No one would have wanted to stick around after being treated like that.

“She had long golden hair,” Helen says conversationally, “like you. But once we started the headlice rumour, she had it all shaved off.”

“Speaking of hairstyles…” Aurelia pauses. “Do you still want me to do something with yours?”

Helen nods enthusiastically. “I still can’t believe that’s not your natural color. I can never get a home dye-job to look that good. And the salon around here charges such astronomical prices!”

“This weekend, then?” Aurelia keeps her voice casual, but she feels a bubble of satisfaction rising within her. Phase 2 is on track and Helen won’t know what’s hit her until it’s too late.

Helen wriggles excitedly on her hard, kitchen chair, a plastic cape around her neck as the acrid smell of ammonia fills the air. From time to time, she takes a quick peek at the image on front of the packaging, visualising herself floating into work on Monday morning with long, coppery locks cascading to her shoulders. Jodie’s a natural redhead and Meg’s part-Japanese heritage means that she’s inherited glossy black hair and almond shaped eyes, but Helen’s always felt like the plainer one, her mousey-brown color nowhere near as vibrant and exciting as that of her friends.

“We knew she didn’t really have headlice,” she says suddenly.

Aurelia’s fingers stiffen in the process of applying the color, but she recovers and lets Helen continue.

“Jodie was jealous of her,” Helen says now, blissfully unaware of the drama being played out on her scalp. “Goldie’s hair was longer than anyone else’s and it was a really pretty color – like yours, but natural. That’s why we started the story – because Jodie didn’t want anyone else being prettier than she was.”

I cried for weeks after my hair was cut off. I remember Jodie telling me I looked like a herring; and as for you, Helen… Karma’s about to teach you what it’s like to be called ‘Baldy’.

“I think that’s everything covered now,” she says as she stands back and surveys her handiwork. “You need to set a timer for twenty minutes and then shampoo it off. There’s color-protect conditioner in the box.”

“You’re a lifesaver,” Helen says gratefully, sipping the camomile tea that Aurelia’s made for her.

“I’m sorry I can’t stay for the big reveal,” Aurelia tells her, picking up her things and preparing to leave, “only you know I’m moving my stuff out of Jodie’s today. Meg’s said I can lodge with her and Harry for the time being until I find a more permanent place.”

“The rent-money will come in handy for them both,” Helen agrees, beginning to feel a little sleepy. “it’s sad that you and Jodie aren’t talking anymore though – it makes it awkward for Meg and me when we want to get together.”

“I’ll let myself out,” Aurelia says, kissing Helen on the cheek. “You look nice and comfy where you are.” And the Lunesta tablet in your tea should make sure you stay that way for the next 6-8 hours. “Make sure you rinse it off in 20 minutes, though, otherwise your hair might be damaged.”

Helen yawns as the door clicks shut. Her eyes close; and within seconds, she is fast asleep.

Meg stares at Aurelia in horror. “She did what?”

“She fell asleep with hair dye on her head and she slept for 8 hours,” Aurelia whispers. “I told her to rinse it off after 20 minutes, but after 8 hours, it was breaking off in her hands wherever she touched it. There was nothing the stylist could do to save it.”

“She must be heartbroken,” Meg says. “She was so excited about getting that color.”

“I did warn her about the risks of using a box dye,” Aurelia says now, “but she seemed obsessed with the idea of saving money by letting me do it for her. And she’s just had to pay over $100 for a professional to cut it all off.”

Meg eyes Aurelia warily. There’s something a little odd about this tale, but she can’t quite work it out. Why would Helen fall asleep in the middle of the day, for one thing? And stay asleep for 8 hours?

“I feel awful,” Aurelia continues – “but I had no idea she’d do something like that.”

A faint memory stirs within Meg of a golden-haired girl daring her to pull Tommy Lundberg’s pants down in the playground when they were six. Meg had been in so much trouble with the principal, even though she’d sworn – what was her name? Yes, that was it: Goldie – had told her to do it. She could still hear the girl’s voice now: “I had no idea she’d do something like that, Miss Williams.”

She looks at Aurelia and shudders involuntarily.

Aurelia’s been living with Meg and Harry for two weeks now and it’s given her an insight into their relationship. Meg teaches high school and brings work home with her every evening. While Aurelia and Harry giggle over stupid shows on TV, Meg sits at the table, grading history papers, turning round every now and then to shush them when they get too noisy. When that happens, Aurelia rolls her eyes at Harry as if to say, ‘What a killjoy!’ and then Meg will stump off into the bedroom, banging the door behind her as she tries to ward off the uneasy feeling that her relationship is falling apart.

The other morning, she came out of the shower to find Harry and Aurelia laughing and joking over coffee and cinnamon rolls. Harry doesn’t normally eat breakfast, and her stomach had rolled tighter than one of the pastries as she watched her friend and her lover acting for all the world like a married couple.

Today, Harry leaves before Meg can remind him that she’s got parent-teacher meetings this evening. She meant to ask him if he wanted her to bring back dinner since she won’t be done till 7.30, but Aurelia assures her that she’ll cook for the three of them and so Meg thanks her, wondering now if she’s misjudged her lodger after all. She’ll text Harry anyway and tell him to expect her by 8. She hates it when they don’t have a proper goodbye in the mornings.

When Harry arrives home, at first, he thinks there’s been a power cut. Candles are burning on the dining table but the rest of the room is in semi-darkness. He’s slightly confused when he smells food – didn’t Meg say she’d be home late tonight? And then Aurelia walks out of the kitchen, looking like sunshine and smelling like Christmas, and he forgets all about Meg when he notices that the top buttons on Aurelia’s blouse have somehow come undone.

Aurelia’s poured him a large glass of red wine. He doesn’t normally drink on a week night, but his senses are already reeling from the sight and the scent of her and he takes a large gulp to steady his nerves. “I hope you’re hungry,” she says teasingly, “because I’ve made steak Diane.”

Meg made them both stop eating red meat some time ago. Every so often, he indulges in a sneaky burger when he’s out with workmates and then feels guilty afterwards. He knows he should say no to Aurelia, but the thought of that tender juiciness is too appealing.

“What about Meg?” he asks. “I think she’s expecting dinner when she gets back from the parent-teacher meeting.”

“You mean the school concert,” Aurelia corrects him.

Harry’s throat flutters as if something is suddenly trapped in his windpipe. “I’m sure she said it was a parent-teacher meeting,” he says uncertainly.

“Yes,” Aurelia says a little too quickly, “I’m sure I got it wrong.” But he can’t help but notice the uneasy expression on her face.

He grabs his wine and tries to drown his insecurity.

The bottle of wine stands empty. Aurelia turns to Harry, sitting beside her on the sofa, and grins flirtatiously. “Should we open another one?”

He ought to say no – his head’s already swimming with alcohol and angst and a surfeit of pheromones; but Meg is somewhere else and it looks like she lied to them both; and Aurelia’s fingers are lightly trailing up and down his bare arm, making him feel as confused as a teenager. She leans forward for his glass and he thinks he could fall into her cleavage and be safe from all the emotional turmoil; and then his eyes meet hers, and their lips mesh, and he somehow finds himself kissing Aurelia as if his life depends on it.

And that’s how Meg finds them when she opens the door and walks in a few minutes later.

For a moment, Meg feels as if she’s been punched in the stomach. Unable to move, to speak, to breathe, she watches her world collapse around her, pain twisting her gut until she thinks she’ll be sick.

The two of them break apart guiltily and Aurelia speaks first. “Meg… I’m so sorry. I never wanted you to find out like this.”

It’s as if Meg’s life is a snow-globe, turned upside down and shaken violently, and all she can do is watch the pieces settle.

“Get out,” she says as she finds her voice. “Both of you – get out. NOW!”

“Meg! Baby!”

Harry’s voice is desperate, but she stops her ears to his pleas. How could he do this to her? And why? The empty wine bottle offers some clue, but even so…

“I want you both to leave now,” she repeats.

She waits until they have gone before she lets the tears fall.

When we were eight, our teacher decided we would enter a float in the town’s annual carnival. That year, there was a fairy tale theme and the teacher chose me to be Goldilocks because of my hair. No prizes for guessing who the three bears were.

Maybe that’s what started the animosity – none of the others could forgive me for being the centre of attention; but what really hurt the most was the way Meg knew I liked Artie Beaumont and decided to steal him away from me. I’ll never forget the hurt I felt when she told Artie I’d badmouthed him to her and Helen and Jodie – or the smug expression on her face when he kissed her in the playground.

Revenge is sweet. Sometimes, you have to wait a while, but when it comes, it’s never too hot or too cold, always just right.

Prose, Prose (Prose) – Day 2 (August 2nd 2023)

“Today’s prompt is pretty simple really… write a horror story. It could also be a spooky story that you would tell around a campfire with the flashlight pointed up towards your face for visual spooky effects.”

Author’s note: I’m not really one for reading, writing or watching horror. However, a few years ago whilst researching Scandinavian folklore for a different story, I came across the Icelandic legend of the Yule Cat: a huge and vicious cat who lurks about the snowy countryside during Christmas time and eats people who have not received any new clothes to wear for the Christmas festivities. You can read about the Yule Cat and the figures associated with it here: Icelandic Christmas folklore – Wikipedia

The Children Who Had No New Clothes For Christmas Eve

“Beware the Yule Cat, my little ones, when the snow is cold and the moon is fat…”

Ömmu’s voice is soft and lilting within the cosy darkness of the winter evening, but the firelight casts strange shadows upon her face as she speaks so that Gunnar and his siblings are not sure whether this is really their grandmother or the giantess Grýla hunting for naughty children to devour.

Inside the little house, everything is cosy and warm. The four children sit beneath a fur blanket, sipping hot chocolate and listening, wide eyed, to the twilight tale.

“Tell us again about the Yule Lads,” eight-year-old Helga begs.

Every year, Ömmu recounts the story of Grýla and her gigantic children. Their father says it is made-up nonsense used to frighten children into good behaviour, but Helga and her brothers know this is not true: Ömmu saw Pottaskefill when she was a girl, and even though her face is now wrinkled and her hair is white, she still remembers the outrage she felt when she crept downstairs one snowy December morning and found the hulking lout finishing up the leftover kjötsúpa from the night before.

“Of course, half of them stole food of one kind or another,” Ömmu says, her tone reflective. Her eyes mist over as she revisits the past, and Helga and Gunnar and the four year old twins, İsak and Anna, are dragged into the story with her – running past the smokehouse and spying Bjúgnakrækir in the act of swiping sausages, or tiptoeing into the kitchen to catch Þvörusleikir licking all the wooden spoons. So thrilling are Ömmu’s recollections that Gunnar can feel the smoke tickling his nostrils as he hides in the rafters of the reykhús, his mouth watering at the aroma of birch-smoked hangikjöt and kindabjúgu. Meanwhile, Helga is caught up in the wild romping of Hurðaskellir and Gluggagægir as the former runs through door after door, slamming each one loudly, and his brother stops to peep in every window, looking for things to steal. In Ömmu’s homespun fantasies, Helga is as naughty as the thirteen brothers, but Gunnar knows she was first in her class this week.

“The Jólakötturinn,” İsak and Anna chorus. “Tell us more about the Yule Cat, Ömmu.”

“The Yule Cat is as tall as a house.” Ömmu lowers her voice to a dramatic whisper. “His legs are tree trunks and his eyes are dinner plates. When he growls, it is the sound of the ocean crashing on the rocks and his mouth is a cavern wide enough to swallow you whole.”

İsak shrieks and Anna giggles. Gunnar pretends he is not listening, but everyone knows the Yule Cat story is his favourite folk tale.

“And if you listen very carefully…” – Ömmu’s voice is now so quiet the children have to strain to hear it – “you will hear the sound of his tail swishing through the snow as he prowls the streets, looking for the naughty children who have no new clothes for Christmas Eve.”

Helga and Gunnar exchange worrid looks. They have no new clothes for Christmas, but Mamma said it was because Pabbi had bought a new car and there were no króna left to spend on socks and sweaters.

“The Jólakötturinn prowls the streets of Iceland,” Ömmu continues, “peering into windows to see which children have no new clothes. First, he eats their supper…” – İsak squeaks with outrage – “and then he eats the children!”

Her skinny arms grab her younger grandson and she pretends to bite off his head. Helga and Anna scream.

“Shame on you, Móðir!” Mamma scolds, bustling into the room and depositing a heap of knitted scarves and hats onto the fur covered couch. Then, turning to her children, she adds, “Put your new clothes on now – before the Jólakötturinn arrives.”

And with a sigh of relief, Gunnar and Helga do as she asks.

Prose, Prose (Prose) – Day 1 (August 1st 2023)

For three years (2019-2021), I signed up for an annual writing challenge, ‘Like the Prose’, which involved writing a short story every day for the whole of June – each day, a writing prompt would be sent out at midnight and participants had 36 hours to write and submit a story. Last year and this year, Like the Prose didn’t run their June challenge, but a friend of mine took up the mantle and devised her own prompts every day in June. Although I’d signed up to receive daily prompts, she forgot to add me onto the mailing list until Day 18, so I decided to keep all the prompts and do the challenge in August (school holidays so more time), keeping to the same rules. Every day, I’ll post the story inspired by the previous day’s prompt.

Happy reading!

“Today’s prompt is inspired by The Midnight Library by Matt Haig. … Write a story where you wake up in a different life.”

Author’s note: I took my inspiration for this one from body swap stories such as Freaky Friday, but I couldn’t resist a few tongue-in-cheek references to Barbie and Ken as well. (Thank you, Greta Gerwig.) This story clocks in at 1, 089 words but is more of a first chapter than a self-contained story.

If you think this would make a good YA romcom, please let me know – I already have a few ideas about how the rest of the story will pan out, so I’d love to know if anyone would be interested in reading the full-length version.

I’m a Barbie girl

Ken: Friday, 7am

It seems like only seconds since I closed my eyes last night, but my alarm’s going off already, reminding me that there’s still just over a week left to go until school’s out for the summer. Trying to ignore the persistent beeping sound, I huddle deeper under the covers, trying to recapture the dream I was having. I know it was a good one.

I can’t ignore it any longer. Poking my head out from under the quilt, I yell, ‘Off!’, relieved that voice activation means I don’t have to open my eyes let alone sit up. The irritating beeping sound continues. I curse, and fumble for my cell phone. It’s not where I left it.

Swearing enough to qualify for a lead role in any Tarantino movie, I finally force my eyes open and try to work out where my phone is. Only… This pastel pink boudoir isn’t my bedroom, and the boobs I see peeping up at me from beneath a Minnie Mouse nightshirt definitely aren’t mine. Somehow, while I slept, I seem to have turned into a woman – and not just any woman either: unless I’m very much mistaken, the body I’m inhabiting belongs to Barbara Finsterson. But if I’m in her body, who’s in mine?

Friday, 7.15am

I still have no idea how I’ve managed to morph into Babs. (She hates it when people call her that, but not as much as being called ‘Barbie’ instead of Barbara.) What I do know is that I’m the only boy in school who’s seen Barbie Finsterson in the nude. Yep, that’s right – I checked out my new body about ten minutes ago. Who would have thought that underneath those prissy little button-through sweaters and conservative shirts was a set of curves that could give Jennifer Lawrence a run for her money?

I don’t know how long I’ll spend in this body; what I do know, is that I don’t want to forget what Babs looks like when I’m back to being the real me, so I’ve taken a few naked snapshots of myself as Barbie and emailed them to my Ken address. I can think of plenty of guys at school who’d pay good money to see those.

Friday, 7.25am

Uh oh. Barbie’s phone’s just pinged with an email alert. It’s been sent from my email address but I didn’t write a word of it.

What the hell do you think you’re doing?

She sounds pissed.

Sorry. Who is this? I decide to play dumb.

You know exactly who I am, Ken Masters. You’ve just sent a naked picture of me to yourself – only since we seem to have swapped places, you’ve sent a naked picture of me to me.

No! I can’t believe I’ve been so stupid. I sit there a while longer, precious seconds ticking away whilst I wonder what to say next.

Uh, sorry? I hazard at last. She doesn’t even dignify this last attempt with a reply.

I try again. I apologise for my behaviour, Barbie-

BARBARA! she responds, the capital letters leaving me in no doubt that she’s yelling at me.

I’m sorry, Barbara. I promise I won’t show the photos of you to any of my friends.

You’re damn right you won’t. Because you’re going to delete that photo of me from my phone right now, and I’m going to delete it from your phone.

For a brief moment, I toy with the idea of sending her photo to Todd or Jackson or one of the other guys. They’d think Babs sent it, but still…

Is it deleted? Because if it isn’t, I can take a photo of your junk right now and send it to your friends via What’sApp. I have all your contacts right here.

She wouldn’t – would she?

It’s deleted.

I’m expecting her to say thank you, but the response she types back surprises me. I didn’t realise Barbie Finsterson knew any words like that.

Friday, 7.35am

“Barbara! Have you overslept?”

I guess the voice I hear through the bedroom door must be Barbie’s mom. School starts at 8.30 and I can drive there in 5 minutes, so I don’t know why she sounds so snarky.

Hold on – Ken can drive to school in 5 minutes, but I don’t know where Barbie lives or even if she can drive. “I’m getting dressed,” I call back, opening the closet to grab some clothes.

A sea of dull, muted colors greets me. This girl needs a makeover – she’s got a hot body but she hides it all the time in oversized shirts and long skirts that make her look like she’s trying to be an Amish wife. I pull piles of folded clothes from the shelves. This girl doesn’t even own a pair of jeans.

“Your oatmeal’s getting cold.”

I hate oatmeal. Breakfast for me is usually pancakes and waffles. I have a stay-at-home mom and four younger siblings, so there’s always a stack of food on the table.

“Not hungry,” I call back, struggling with my bra clasp. How do girls manage to fasten these things behind their backs?

Conceding defeat, I decide that today Barbie will go braless. It’s not as if anyone will know – the shirt and pants I’m wearing completely disguise my shape.

Friday, 8.35am

It takes far longer than 5 minutes for Barbie to get to school. For one thing, she lives about 10 miles away from Edgemont High; for another, she can’t drive. I’ve just had to endure forty minutes in a car with a woman who acts like she’s auditioning for ‘The Stepford Wives’ – and not the comedy remake with Nicole Kidman. From stuff Barbie’s mom said as she was driving me to school this morning, I’ve learned three things: 1. Barbie’s parents are divorced and her mom thinks her dad doesn’t pay enough alimony; 2. Barbie’s mom drives her to school every morning because she’s convinced Barbie will be murdered if she takes public transport; and 3. Barbie’s mom treats Barbie like she’s still 12. I never thought I’d feel sorry for Barbie Finsterson – she’s always so aloof – like she thinks she’s better than everyone else; but spending just one car trip with her mother has made me realise how crap life is for that girl.

Wait up – that girl is currently me. And unless I can figure out how Barbie and I swapped places and how we can change back again, I’ll be stuck with her life – mom and all – for the foreseeable future.

January 1st 2022

What inspires you as a writer?

It’s a little over two and a half years since I set up this site, not really having much clue about what I was doing but thinking that it would be a good way to promote my own writing. I still have no idea how to run a website properly, and I’ve done very little in terms of promoting my own writing apart from posting my daily entries in June each year for The Literal Challenge’s ‘Like The Prose’ contest – before realising that doing so effectively shoots me in the foot as it means I can’t enter any of those pieces for other writing competitions.

Having an extremely time-consuming job as an English teacher in a secondary school means I don’t get as much time to write as I would like to – particularly since I’m also doing an MA in Creative Writing which is another 20-40 hours a week of study on top of the 45+ hours in school each week. So, all in all, I don’t seem to have much to share on my blog page.

That’s when I started re-thinking this site. Writing is a way of life. As Margaret Atwood has said in one of her ads for her online Masterclass, ‘You become a writer by writing. There is no other way. So do it. Do it more. Do it better. Fail. Fail better.’ However, reading is equally important: reading ‘good’ literature expands our vocabulary and improves our own writing style. It opens us up to new ways of looking at the world and fresh ways of describing characters and events. I often tell my GCSE students that I can tell from looking at their creative writing who the readers are in the class – because the ones who read the most are the ones whose writing is richer in vocabulary, more imaginative in ideas and more elegant in terms of style.

So, this year, I’m going to try to post something every day – not to showcase my own writing but to share words from other writers that I find particularly inspiring, challenging or beautifully written. Let’s start with a quotation from a 19th century French novelist:

“La parole humaine est un chaudron fêlé où nous battons des mélodies à faire danser les ours quand on voudrait attendrir les étoiles.” Gustave Flaubert, Madame Bovary.

I’ve read two different translations of this, neither of which does the original French justice. One reads, “Language is a cracked kettle on which we beat out tunes for bears to dance to, while all the while we long to move the stars to pity.” whilst another says that “Human speech is like a cracked kettle on which we tap out crude rhythms for bears to dance to, while we long to make music that will melt the stars.” My own translation is as follows: “Human speech is a cracked cauldron where we beat melodies to make bears dance when we would like to soften the hearts of the stars.” Whichever way you look at it, Flaubert is saying that human speech will always be inadequate at expressing our truest longings and desires – but he says it in such a beautiful and poetic way that his statement seems contradictory.

What are your thoughts on this quotation?

Like The Prose 2021 – Day 30

Once again, Like The Prose has come to an end. I managed to submit all thirty stories on time but didn’t always manage to post them on this website on the day they were written (hence posting Day 30 a day late).

Day 30’s theme was beginnings – which got me thinking, how would someone cope with having to begin life as a different version of himself or herself? The American TV series ‘Quantam Leap’ (1989-1993) dealt with a character who woke up in a different body every day, and there are several novels which deal with a similar premise, such as ‘The Seven Lives of Evelyn Hardcastle’ by Stuart Turton or ‘Every Day’ by David Leviathan.

But what if my protagonist wasn’t human? I decided to write this one about an angel who is forced to experience something new when he temporarily relinquishes his angelic powers because he’s fallen in love with a human woman. It’s my own take on the morality plays from the middle ages.

Beginning

It was gone six o’clock when Marie finally finished her shift at the homeless centre. Wrapping her scarf around her neck for protection against the chill November air, she left the building, longing for the warmth of her tiny flat and the companionship of her cat. She loved what she did at the centre, but it wore her down sometimes. It was good to know she was providing a service for people who needed it, but it could be a thankless task – lots of rough sleepers would far rather be given a bottle of whisky than a mug of hot soup. Nevertheless, she tried to dole out smiles along with the soup and sandwiches. Any of those lonely individuals could be her parents or grandparents, her brother or sister-in-law, her nieces or nephew.

A blond, young man passed her on the street. “You’ve been doing a great job in there!” he called and she felt instantly encouraged. She continued on her way, not noticing the three youths following her at a distance; oblivious to a dark-haired man who watched from the shadows, smirking at the assault that was to come.

“She doesn’t deserve that.” The blond man spoke quietly at his darker companion’s side. “You had your chance with her years ago, and you lost. Leave her alone, Samael.”

“You’re somewhat overprotective for a ministering angel,” the demon replied contemptuously. “Isn’t your job merely to lift fallen spirits – metaphorically of course –“ he sniggered at his own joke – “and soothe fevered brows?” Before Joel could answer, Samael continued, “Don’t tell me you have feelings for this human! You know the rules forbid it.”

Joel listened with only half an ear, one eye watching the street and the youths who were creeping ever closer to Marie. She’d heard their footsteps now and turned fearfully, trying to gauge whether to run.

At this point, Joel could bear it no longer. Dropping his visible persona, he shimmered into the gap between Marie and her pursuers, shielding her from their view with his feathery wings. The would-be assailants paused, baffled. Had she disappeared down a side street? Meanwhile, Joel escorted Marie to the safety of the bus stop, keeping her out of human sight until the bus arrived and she climbed aboard. He retained his hidden presence until she had reached her destination, walking her to her front door without her realising that he was there.

As Marie’s front door clicked shut, Samael grabbed hold of Joel’s shoulder. “You’ve gone too far this time – you know we don’t interfere with the course laid out.”

“So you weren’t getting involved yourself when you pointed those thugs in the girl’s direction?” Joel challenged.

Samael pretended not to hear.

“I’ve done nothing wrong!” Joel protested.

“Well, we’ll let the Boss decide, shall we?” And Samael parted the veil that separated the world of men from the spiritual realm and dragged Joel into the Boardroom.

“Is there a reason why the two of you are here?” The archangel looked sternly from one to the other.

“This junior“ – Samael struggled to conceal his disgust – “has developed a romantic attachment for a mortal.”

“Well, this is most irregular,” Raphael sighed, clicking his fingers. A golden book hovered in the air before him. A slight nod from the archangel caused the book to flip open, pages turning of their own accord until the section Raphael wanted was on display. “Let me see… Hmm… A young lady named Marie Fellows who works at a homeless shelter. I can understand the attraction: you both spend your time ministering to others. Is there any reason why a friendship should not be cultivated?”

“It’s against the rules!” Samael hissed.

The archangel settled his gold-rimmed spectacles more firmly on his nose and peered over the top of them at the demon.

“That’s not the case,” he said mildly. “In the past, there were some unfortunate incidents when supernatural beings – on both sides – pursued carnal relations with men and women…” For a moment, he was lost in thought. “The mythologies called their children demi-gods,” he mused.

“I’ve done nothing improper,” Joel insisted.

“Yes,” Raphael agreed, “I can see it all written down here. You feel affection for her; you think she’s pretty;” – the junior angel blushed – “but you haven’t introduced yourself or said anything about your feelings. May I ask what your long-term intentions are?”

“I… I’m not sure,” Joel stammered. “I think I’d just envisaged watching over her for the rest of her life.”

“But you know there’s no such thing as a guardian angel? That idea’s merely a human fabrication because they like to think they’re special enough to warrant the attention of a being whose sole purpose is to protect and guide them,” Raphael declared. “What you’ve described sounds remarkably like the institution the mortals call marriage. Are you telling me you would relinquish your wings for this woman?”

Joel hesitated, torn between his longing to look after Marie and his desire to serve the rest of humanity.

“I think this is a moot point,” Samael interjected. He glared balefully at Joel. “If he has feelings for this person, then he’ll be neglecting his care of the others in his assigned district. Surely he should be moved elsewhere and another appointed in his place?”

Joel’s heart stood still at the thought of never again seeing his beloved. “I don’t want to stop helping other people,” he said slowly, “but I don’t want to abandon Marie either.”

“I believe there is a way you can do both.” Raphael twitched a finger and the book’s pages turned again. “If she can fall in love with you – without knowing your true identity – then she will have bound her destiny to yours and the two of you could eventually have what’s been known as a ‘mixed marriage’.”

The junior angel looked up, scarcely able to believe what he had heard.

“However,” Raphael warned, “there are rules which must be followed: you have twenty-four hours to win her heart; and for that length of time, you will be stripped of your angelic powers. You will spend one day in her company in the guise of a human, and if she offers you a kiss before the day is over, you will be deemed to have won her heart.”

Joel’s wings sagged again. How could any human fall in love in only one earth day?

Beside him, Samael smirked. “I take it that if the angel’s unsuccessful, he will be reassigned?”

Raphael nodded. “Your success or failure will be recorded in the book,” he told Joel. “For the time being, your powers will be kept here –“

A golden casket appeared before him. Raphael motioned with his finger and Joel felt a strange sensation as if his angelic power were being squeezed out of him and into the ornate box. Was this what it felt like to be mortal? To feel so weak and unsure, so unknowing?

“Take him back to the world of men,” Raphael instructed and Samael dragged Joel through the curtain once more, depositing him in an unceremonious heap on the ground.

“Make the most of your next twenty four hours,” the demon hissed in the angel’s ear, “because I still have my powers and I’m going to see to it that the woman you’re so fond of gives herself to me and not to you.”

Dawn was just breaking as Joel arrived at the homeless shelter. How did the humans manage? he thought. As an angel, he was used to keeping going all the time – never sleeping, never eating, never having to relieve himself; but just eight hours or so as a mortal had exhausted him. He’d never imagined what it would be like to have a body that didn’t repair itself either. Gingerly touching his jaw and shoulder, he thought again of the man who’d assaulted him. It was much easier to restrain someone if you were invisible and had superhuman strength. Now he knew where the phrase ‘As weak as mankind’ came from!

The notice outside the shelter proclaimed that Saint Peter’s was ‘Open 24/7’. Joel pushed the door open and stepped inside, wondering how to offer his services.

The elderly lady sitting at the desk by the door clucked sympathetically when she saw him. “You’ve been in the wars, haven’t you? Let me find the First Aid box.”

It was a novelty to be ministered to rather than the other way around. Joel let the kindly soul inspect the cuts and bruises he’d sustained as he patrolled the streets, wondering why these people kept going in the face of such adversity. At least he was normally immune to physical damage, but these mortals constantly put their own lives at risk when they chose to interact with the lost and lonely on their streets. He felt a fresh surge of pride for Marie and her co-workers as he realised how difficult their task was compared to his own.

By the time Marie arrived, Joel had consumed several cups of tea and three rounds of toast, all while making breakfast for whoever else wanted it. No longer able to know instinctively what troubled people’s hearts – that kind of empathy was locked away with his other powers for the time being – he had discovered that listening to them was a powerful way of gleaning information. Beryl, the woman who had attended to his injuries, had lost her husband over six months ago. She could have let bitterness consume her, but instead, she’d chosen to devote her time to helping others. Justin was the nervous looking man in charge of the kitchen. He’d been partway through catering college when he’d suffered a nervous breakdown and dropped out of his course. He’d lived on the streets for a while himself after that, relying on handouts from passing strangers, until eventually he’d plucked up courage to walk through the hostel doors and ask for a bowl of soup. He was now renting a room in another volunteer’s house and trying to complete his catering qualification part time.

As for the homeless themselves… Joel didn’t need angelic powers to see that they were broken and dejected. A strong aroma of alcohol accompanied some of them, and most of them were unwashed and unhygienic, but the shelter welcomed them all. He felt humbled by the humans’ capacity for kindness.

Marie’s first task that day was to sort the donated clothing in the stockroom upstairs into different types and sizes. They had a new volunteer – a blond man who looked vaguely familiar – and he offered to help her straight away. As they checked pockets and examined labels for sizing, she found him asking her questions about what had motivated her to do this kind of work. She didn’t normally tell people her life story, but this stranger was incredibly easy to talk to; besides, she somehow sensed that he wouldn’t judge her, so she told him about her wild student days and how she’d got involved with ‘the wrong man’.

“I don’t know why I’m telling you this,” she said at one stage. “Anyway, the upshot of it was that by the time I did my Finals, I was six months’ pregnant. I somehow scraped a pass and we moved in together, but Sam drank a lot and he was a mean drunk – you know, violent.” She paused momentarily, her face etched with pain. “A few weeks before the baby was due, we got into a fight and he pushed me down the stairs – he’d been drinking heavily all day.” She swallowed. “I lost the baby…”

She’d lost a lot more than that, crying uncontrollably for months afterwards, hating herself for not walking away sooner from a man who’d treated her so badly. Anti-depressants had numbed her to the pain for a while, but eventually she’d wanted to clear her head and start living again. It had been a painful process, but two years further down the line, here she was.

“Thanks for listening,” she told the blond stranger.

Joel smiled sympathetically. “Any time.”

It wasn’t until she and Joel were sitting down to take their lunch break together that the new vicar from Holy Trinity arrived. She’d never seen him before, but he introduced himself straightaway, telling her how pleased he was that the centre was doing the Lord’s work by caring for the poor. Forgetting all about the blond man she’d been getting to know, Marie stared into the vicar’s eyes, mesmerised by his devilishly handsome features, feeling her heart flutter when he took her hand in his and pressed it warmly. Almost before she knew what was happening, she had agreed to go for dinner with the reverend that evening so they could discuss fund raising ideas he’d had for the centre.

Joe’s hope cooled with their soup as he heard Marie making her plans.

“Until later, then,” the vicar said, turning to go. He paused just long enough to let Joel see his true features: disguising himself as a man of God was one of Samael’s favourite subterfuges.

“Do you think it’s wise to go out with someone you don’t know?” Joel asked as Marie was collecting her things together at the end of the day.

She pulled out a mirror and applied lipstick. “It’s not a date – it’s talking about helping the centre. And it’s really none of your business anyway.”

If he’d still had his powers, he would have cloaked himself with invisibility and stood watch over her while she and the reverend dined in an unpretentious restaurant a few streets away. As it was, he was forced to stand outside, peering in through the window every so often to check that Marie was okay. He knew Samael would not be content with merely stealing Marie away from him: he would try to hurt her in some way to make Joel suffer.

Not being able to hear what was said at the couple’s table when normally he sensed people’s thoughts and feelings and could hear audible voices over a span of several miles was making Joel nervous. Peeping through the restaurant window once more, he saw Marie rise to visit the ladies’ room. Seconds later, a waiter delivered drinks: something alcoholic for Samael and a large mug that Joel knew would contain hot chocolate – Marie had confided to him earlier that she didn’t eat dessert but loved to round off her meal with a hot, sweet, chocolatey beverage. As he watched, Samael made a stirring motion above the mug with his finger. Even without his angelic powers, Joel knew instantly that the demon had drugged the drink.

He was on the verge of barging in and pouring the mug’s contents on the floor when Marie returned from the ladies’ and began sipping her drink. Joel watched her with a heavy heart. He knew that Marie hadn’t dated anyone since her miscarriage (how much she’d told him in their brief time together in the stockroom!) and he was worried that she might be led astray too easily tonight. It was obvious to him that Samael had evil intentions; but would Marie be able to resist the demon’s charms when they were so attractively packaged?

When they left the restaurant some fifteen minutes later, Marie let the reverend take her arm, surprised at how unsteady she felt on her feet. She must be more tired than she had thought because she hadn’t drunk any wine and yet she could hardly walk in a straight line.

Joel followed at a distance. He was certain Samael knew of his presence – all supernatural beings have a sixth sense that alerts them to each other’s proximity – but he felt compelled to keep Marie within sight, just in case Samael tried to harm her in some way.

Instead of taking Marie to the bus stop, Samael had obviously talked her into walking all the way home. They crossed the road with Joel following and entered the park. Joel quickened his pace slightly, an uneasy feeling growing in the pit of his stomach. He had to protect Marie – even if it meant losing the challenge he had been set.

The pale moonlight of the November sky cast night time shadows on the path in front of Marie. Her head was as fuzzy as it had been when she was taking her medication so that she felt as if she was wading through treacle as they walked along.

Suddenly, the reverend stopped. “Do you know the real reason why I asked you out tonight?”

His question surprised her. “To talk about the centre,” she said stupidly.

“I don’t care about the centre.” Now he was beginning to reveal his true colours. “What I want is you.”

His hands were grabbing for her in the dark. She froze in terror, suddenly back in the past with Sam’s hands moving over her in the same way.

“You know you want it.”

Was that Sam’s voice or the reverend’s?

“No!” she forced out, but his hand had grasped her wrists and he was forcing her backwards, pressing himself against her aggressively, his eyes full of malice. How could she have ever thought him handsome?

“Please! I don’t want to…”

His hand struck her and pain exploded across her cheekbone. He’s going to kill me! she thought wildly.

“Leave her alone!” Joel faced his rival bravely. He still ached from the earlier street assault, but he had to do something to help Marie.

Samael smirked as the defenceless angel approached. Using every ounce of his supernatural strength, he let his fist connect with Joel’s face before throwing him to the ground and delivering a few well aimed kicks. Powerless to protect himself, Joel took the full impact of his rival’s heavy boots, gasping as his head exploded into a galaxy of stars. Meanwhile, Samael stared with satisfaction at the bloody, beaten mass before him, then turned back to his prey – only to experience a burning, stinging sensation in his eyes that made him recoil in shock.

Marie held her pepper spray in front of her defiantly, her other hand clutching her mobile phone. “I’ve just called 999,” she told Samael, “and there’ll be a police car here in a couple of minutes.”

The demon melted away into the darkness, satisfied that he had at least prevented Joel from achieving his reward. Meanwhile, Marie gazed at the figure on the ground, her heart welling with gratitude for what he had done.

“Thank you,” she whispered, gently kissing his cheek; and at that moment, Joel felt angelic strength flowing through him once more as his body began to repair itself and the air glowed with the miracle of love.

Above his head, invisible wings unfurled.

It was definitely the start of something wonderful.

Like The Prose 2021 – Day 29

The penultimate day of the challenge asked me to go back to a previous story and rewrite it from a different perspective. I chose to return to my first story this year and write about Jimli, the bizarre mythological creature that my 17 year old son and I dreamed up a few weeks ago. In the first story, it was unclear whether Jimli existed or was just a bizarre idea in the mind of the protagonist’s work colleague. Here, Jimli becomes the star of the story and we learn a little more about him and how he is viewed in other countries as well as the Czech Republic.

Still Waiting for Jimli

Many believe that he is just a figment of people’s imagination and indeed, at one time, this was true; but the idea simmered and bubbled, growing stronger and more powerful every day until, one winter’s night when the air was cold and the moon was fat, Jimli shimmered into being.

The Czech people will tell you that Jimli is many things, but their tales only scratch at the surface of his true terror. He has one hundred relatives and they are all his father – and his shoes are made from their skin. He eats his hatchlings, and then he weeps over his greed. His children are many and every one of them sows death and destruction. As for Jimli himself, he is the eventual nemesis of the living and the scourge of the dead. Whole villages wait for his appearance when one of their number hovers in the doorway between life and death, but his carriage is drawn by ten fat slugs and so the hour of death comes slowly. Nevertheless, all must wait for Jimli, whether young or old, for if Jimli does not see them waiting, he will hunt them down and steal their breath while they sleep.

In some countries, Jimli is known by other names. In Iceland, he is called þjófur tímans, which means ‘thief of time‘, and he is linked to the Yule Cat which prowls the land in December and eats the naughty children who are not given new clothes for Christmas. The Icelandic legends give him a chariot of bones and he is depicted with long fingernails and toenails which freeze into icicles around the doors and windows of the houses where his victims dwell. The Finnish version looks a little like a Strömkarl, but instead of playing a fiendish fiddle to lure people to a watery grave, this incarnation sings loudly and tunelessly until dogs howl and windows crack and the townspeople hide under their beds in fright. He lives in a waterfall made from the tears of the children he has stolen away.

People sometimes ask what will happen if they do not keep the traditions and welcome Jimli when he walks abroad. Some mistakenly leave gifts of food, but Jimli has no interest in pork and oranges; instead, all who anticipate his coming should decorate their homes with branches of hazel and rowan for these are known to ward off evil spirits; and those who wish Jimli to smile on their families should leave gifts for him on their doorsteps: screwdrivers in muslin bags tied with ribbon, or tiny cakes in the shape of seahorses.

But for those who do not make him welcome, Jimli will enter through the window and then he will find the sleeper’s bed. And he will place his hairy hand on the sleeper’s shoulder and shake the sleeper to wake him up. And the sleeper’s eyes will open but at the same moment, his blood will freeze in his veins and he will be one of the mrtvoly: the living corpses who have no place in heaven or in hell but must wander the streets of memory for thousands of years until they turn into dust. Then, and only then, will Jimli forgive them, and he will dance with the unarmed raindrops and sing with the spiders in the dilapidated fortress of despair.

The Addicted Writer

Writing stories people want to read

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