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.


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.”


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?

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.


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.

Like The Prose 2021 – Day 28

Today’s brief asked me to write a story to do with the senses. The concept of synaesthesia has always fascinated me and there are some excellent novels which deal with this, such as Sarah J Harris’s The Colour of Bee Larkham’s Murder in which the protagonist is a boy who sees colours when he hears sounds. Not wanting to attempt what Harris has already done so well, I decided to explore a different facet of synaesthesia and write about a girl who hears music when she sees people. For the full sensory experience, click on the link and play the music while you read the story:

Waiting For Rachmaninoff

Alyssa has always heard music when she looks at people. One of her earliest memories is of gazing up at her mother and hearing a vibrant, comforting melody that she would later identify as Grieg’s Morning. Her father sounds like Grieg too, although she always associates his more menacing presence with In The Hall Of The Mountain King.

Everyone has their own signature tune, but she seems to be the only one who can hear the music.


She’s sitting watching TV with her parents one Sunday afternoon when an old black and white film comes into view. They’ve already missed the beginning and her father changes the channel before the film is over, but fifteen-year-old Alyssa is mesmerised by the haunting music she hears playing in the background as the hero and heroine gaze into each other’s eyes. If only, she thinks dreamily, I could meet someone who sounds like that! She’s so used to being the only one who hears properly that she’s amazed when her father remarks casually, “That’s the Rach Two – Rachmaninoff’s Second Piano Concerto.”

“You mean you can hear it too?” Alyssa blurts out.

Her parents exchange worried looks.


A few years later, she is off to university to pursue a music degree. Surely, she thinks, there must be someone else who’s aware of life’s rhythm the way that she herself is; but instead of the beautiful classical music she’s hoped for, the students she encounters resonate with the harsh discords of disappointment and despair.

It is several months before her ear finally detects a long-awaited melody. Rachmaninoff’s Second Piano Concerto drifts its way through the campus coffee bar, causing her to turn her head and follow the sound back to the floppy hair and high cheekbones of a beautiful, androgynous boy who smiles at her and beckons her over to his table.

She’s waited for him so long that when he asks her back to his room, she doesn’t say no. She’s often wondered what will happen when she meets the love of her life. Will their signature tunes blend and harmonise into a new piece of music; or will she find her own solfeggietto replaced with a variation on her lover’s theme? So powerful are the chords of Rachmaninoff when he kisses her that she thinks it may be the latter. She loses herself in the music as he removes her clothes and loses himself in her.

The following morning, he barely looks at her, seemingly embarrassed by her presence. How can he reject her like this when she still hears the Rach Two whenever she looks at him?


Weeping later on a friend’s shoulder, she finds herself telling Jenny about the black and white film and how deeply it affected her at the time.

“You mean Brief Encounter?” Jenny says. “Alyssa, you idiot! Rachmaninoff isn’t part of their love story – it’s the music playing in the background when they say goodbye forever.”

Like The Prose 2021 – Day 27

Today’s brief asked me to choose a picture and write about it – which isn’t a million miles away from the Writing question our GCSE students have to do for half the marks on their Language Paper 1. (Except they’re given a picture instead of choosing one.) I’ve taken one of Renoir’s most famous paintings, Le déjeuner des canotiers, and used it as the inspiration for this piece in which Renoir’s much younger lover (later his wife) struggles to establish how the great artist feels about her. Names and dates are factually correct, but the rest is pure speculation.

Domestic Bliss

He stands back from the canvas, eying his work critically. How many days, weeks, months has he put into this painting now? At least he was able to paint most of his group of friends en plein air as they relaxed on the balcony of the Maison Fournaise last summer. It had been a hot day, he remembers – there had been many hot days by the Seine in Chatou –  and he had been able to capture his trademark light and shade in the combination of figures, still life and landscape. Fournaise and his sister had both been there, of course – he’d rewarded them for providing the location by placing them both in prominent positions on the left of the painting. Everyone else is crowded together on the right – everyone, that is, apart from Aline.

Aline is speaking to him now – or perhaps berating him would be a more accurate phrase. “It still doesn’t look like me, Pierre,” she says sulkily. “The hair is darker, and my eyes are almost closed.”

“You know I match hair colour to the rest of the painting,” he replies absently. The truth is that another woman had originally posed for the figure now representing Aline. Aline is blonde but he’s darkened her hair a little for this – it’s easier to show the effect of sunlight glinting off burnished,  brunette locks. He’s captured her plumpness, though, and the rosy softness of her skin, trying to encapsulate the dizzying effect she had on him when he saw her for the first time a year ago. He likes rounded, fleshy women and he will continue to paint their sensual curves for the next thirty-eight years. Aline will grow plumper still after the birth of their three sons – plumper and even more beautiful. She will be immortalised in many of his pictures, sometimes clothed, sometimes not; with their children, or posing with other people, or sometimes just by herself.

For now, though, she is angry, hands on hips, scolding him as if she were his wife. “You still haven’t introduced me to most of these friends of yours. Are you ashamed of me? Ashamed that your lover is just a dressmaker?”

“Aline,” he protests, listening with only half an ear, his mind already running over further areas that need touching up or repainting. Perhaps it was a mistake to replace the redhead with Aline: one should not let too many mistresses share the same canvas and Jeanne Samary is obviously visible on the right-hand side of the painting. It had never been serious between him and the Comédie-Française actress, despite her parents liking the idea of him becoming their son-in-law. She is definitely his type, though: blessed with the plump figure he admires so much in both a model and a woman, she looks positively pretty in his 1877 portrait of her – the one painted predominantly in pinks and greens.

“Pierre! You’re not listening to me!” and Aline stamps her pretty, little foot. “The Samary woman smirked at me when we met her after the theatre. She said you are not the marrying kind.” Her voice wavers and she turns her large, lustrous eyes on him, full of anger and hurt.

“But we cohabit, my little dove,” he says in surprise. Is that what she wants? A ring on her finger? What difference would it make?

“If I had stayed in Aube,” she says, her cheeks wet with tears, “I would be married by now – and I would have a fat, little baby crawling at my feet.”

“If you had stayed in Aube,” he corrects her, kissing her gently on her eyelids and tasting the salt of her tears, “then we would not have met. How fortunate I am that you came to Montmartre with your mother!”

She twists away from him and he knows that she has not forgiven him – not yet. He sighs. What is a man to do?  His first muse, Lise, had been just the same – but he had been younger then: only twenty-six; and they had moved in with his parents for a while for he could not afford to marry at the time. When she had become pregnant with his daughter, Jeanne, he had not been able to acknowledge her officially – much as he wanted to. A wet-nurse had taken the infant and he had made regular donations towards the child’s keep.

He is now almost forty – nineteen years older than his current lover – and an established artist. Is he ready to be a father in deed as well as in name? Is that what Aline wants?

Two years later, another one of his models, Suzanne Valadon, will give birth to a son. Ostensibly the child of her paramour, Miguel Utriillo, it will be whispered abroad that the father could be Degas or even Renoir himself, such is Suzanne’s bohemian nature. Aline is more conventional and there will be tears when she hears the gossip – not least because she has always suspected her lover to be in another woman’s bed when he is not in theirs; but the birth of their own son in 1885 will give her security; and when Renoir finally marries her in 1890 (she will be thirty and he almost fifty), she will know that his love for her is stronger than his feelings for any of the others.

He examines the painting again, congratulating himself on his technique. The folds of the white tablecloth! The way the light filters through the leaves of the trees in the background and refracts from the wine bottles on the table! And Aline herself – it was a stroke of genius to have her holding the little dog, looking at it as affectionately as if it were a baby. Perhaps one day in the future…

“Is it true, Pierre?” she demands now. She really will not let this matter alone! “Are you truly not the marrying kind?”

“Aline, chérie, you know I believe in marriage – but it is the marriage of my brushes with my paints. I am an artist – not a draper. Respectability is for the provinces, not for Paris.”

She exits the room in floods of tears and he sighs. They have not all been as difficult as her – he and his beloved Marguerite hardly had a cross word; but then ‘Margot’ died of smallpox, four years before he met Aline, and he had buried his love for her in the coffin that held her body.

Marguerite had been beautiful – ‘Margot’ was her alias for her modelling work – but neither she nor Jeanne Samary nor even Lise could hold a candle to Aline. She is my ideal woman, he thinks now, and she will forgive me eventually for not marrying her. He will not break with this one: she epitomises everything a woman should be.

Now, however, more pressing things beckon. The muscles in Caillebotte’s arm are not quite right, and since the art patron is an avid boatman himself, Renoir needs to create an impression of strength and power in those arms, despite his friend’s relaxed attitude sitting backwards on a chair. Angèle Legault has been painted listening to Caillebotte with rapt attention, and as he gives the canvas his full attention, he notices that almost all of the women are staring adoringly at a male figure – even Aline who is gazing at the Affenpinscher in her hands as if the dog is imparting wisdom to her.

No doubt the critics will say the painting symbolises his ego.

Like The Prose 2021 – Day 26

Today’s brief asked me to channel my pet and write from his or her perspective. I don’t have a dog or a cat – or even a goldfish. (Years ago, when my daughter was six or seven, we had a hamster but they’re not known for their longevity.) However, a few months ago, a vixen decided to make her home under the decking at the back of the garden and gave birth to four cubs. I’ve watched these little ones grow and develop and spent ten minutes or more this morning at around 5.30 am, standing by the back door and watching one of the cubs prance around, playing with a ball he’d found. They’re such playful little things and in my mind, they’r emy adopted pets – even though I know they’ll grow up and move on soon. (They’ll have to – they leave too many ‘presents’ on the lawn.) This piece, then, is written from the mother fox’s perspective and charts he rlife as a single parent.

Foxy Lady

Darkness descends as I trot along the hard, grey ground, following the scent of other foxes as I search for somewhere that will serve as a makeshift den. I am still not used to these solo journeys, but my mate went out some time ago and did not come back. The light in the sky overhead is a pale colour as it always is when I go hunting. I venture out little when the light is bright – there is not much food to be had then, and the strange two-legged creatures seem to be everywhere.

The trail leads me through a place with grass and trees and I sniff cautiously, wondering if I can find a burrow of some sort. My belly is too heavy with the young I carry for me to start digging a substantial hole, but my babies need to be born underground in a place safe from predators.


My heart sinks as I realise I have nowhere to have my kits. Surely there must be somewhere? I begin to run, trotting away from the soft grass and rejoining the hard surface.  Strange shapes loom in front of me, but it’s not the first time I’ve seen them. Once, I saw another fox push one of these things until it toppled and spilled its guts on the ground – and what wonderful guts they were! Bones with bits of meat still clinging to them, and things that tasted sweet, and green stuff – like grass, only better. For a moment, I wonder if I could somehow climb inside and hide until the cubs are old enough to leave home; but even if I could make my way inside, my little ones could not climb in and out; and if I managed to carry them one at a time, picking them up by the scruff of their necks, I would have to leave them alone while I fetched the next one – and who knows what might try to eat them if I am not watching them all the time.

The wind changes and I catch a faint odour of something that smells good to eat. Letting my nose lead me, I come to a tall, hard structure with gaps large enough to squeeze between. My belly drags on the ground and I know that my time is near.

More grass, with funny trees that grow in long unbroken lines. I wriggle through branches to find more grass and more long trees. Repeating the process, I come to a stretch of grass that smells of something not-fox – some sort of animal that will be good to eat. My eyes make out shadowy shapes within a structure raised from the ground and a smell of fear permeates the night. I approach, but there is something hard and sharp preventing me from investigating these furry creatures. Diving under branches once more, I find grass – lots of it – and an interesting looking hole that disappears under something low and flat and hard.


My kits are finally here. There are four of them in total – two boys and two girls but they are all identical. Their eyes are still closed and they are as deaf as they are blind. I lick their grey velvety skin, hoping their hair will grow soon. They smell my milk and whine with hunger, so I wrap my body around them for warmth, letting them nuzzle blindly until they have found my teats. Once fed, they sleep – and so do I.


My babies are now balls of black fluff. I worry about how to find food for us all. My milk will not last forever. Several times, I have left them sleeping and crept out onto the grass when the light is pale overhead. I managed to dig up long, slippery things but they were gone in an instant. My belly moans for solid food. If my mate were here, he would provide for us, but he is not coming back. I must raise our cubs without him.


Their fur is now grey. They have followed me outside, wobbling on unsteady legs, and they blink in surprise at the light. Until now, they have known only the comforting dark of our strange den and the hard confining walls. I see the smallest scenting the air – they must all feel overwhelmed by the space around them, by the feel of the grass underfoot, by the cool sensation of the breeze. I watch them proudly, marvelling at their perfect black noses and their small, rounded ears. Their tails are covered with the same grey fuzz as the rest of their bodies. They will slip in and out of the shadows when I take them hunting later.


The first hunting expedition has worn me out. I could manage two cubs, but four on my own! It is not easy being mother and father at the same time. Still, I have showed them how to sniff the ground and follow the smells that lead to food. I pushed my way through the long trees and back again several times until they understood what to do, then led them away from the grass and towards the hard, grey ground. Trotting through the semi-darkness, we found strange food in a pile. It did not smell harmful, so we tasted and then ate. Perhaps the two-legged creatures left it there for later – I do not think they hunt as we do.

               They are sleeping now, huddled together in a mound of grey fur. I watch them for a while, then close my eyes. It is unlikely that enemies will come while we sleep, but my teeth are sharp and I will fight to the death to defend my babies.


They are growing fast. Their ears are now more pointed and their muzzles sharper. They are losing their adorable baby-features, their fur becoming brown. Soon the brown will turn to red and the boys will look like miniature versions of their father.

               They fight constantly, forever squabbling for more room in the safety of our darkened den. Then, when they get outside, they jump around in the grass, tumbling over one another as they play and wrestle, and yelping in excitement. I smile to hear their high-pitched barks.

               One of them has already encountered another animal – much the same size but leaner. The not-fox appeared in the grass, a short distance from our den, and stood staring at my playful little ones. The oldest is the bravest and he bounced his way over to the strange creature, jumping around it as he tried to understand what it was. I have seen these lithe beasts before – they are like us but their tails are thin in comparison to ours and they do not share our long, pointed snouts. When they are afraid, they arch their backs and hiss – as this one did when confronted by a giddy, prancing cub. My poor little one thought it was a game. He tried to bat this stranger with his paw – the way he plays with his brothers; but it disappeared in a blur of black fur. They will learn who to trust as they grow older, just as they will learn which animals are good to eat.


I have been teaching them how to bark properly. They can imitate the growl I use when I call them to me or tell them to feed, but they need to know how to warn against intruders. The youngest raised his voice earlier and I thought he was in trouble, but he was telling me he had caught a small, squeaking animal  with a long tail. I showed them how to tear the creature apart and eat the meat. They have been stalking the feathered things but without much success: each time they leap, there is a flurry of feathers and the things rise into the air – too high for any of us to reach. I have caught several in the past and they are plump and juicy compared to the little squeaking things.

               Warmth spreads over the grass from the bright light above. I let it dance on my fur, thinking that soon we must return to the den, but my children are leaping around again, playing hide and seek with each other in the fragrant grass. Perhaps they will sleep for longer if I let them wear themselves out now?

               Keeping one eye open, I let myself drift off to sleep.

Like The Prose 2021 – Day 25

Today’s brief was ‘pulp fiction’ – the genre, not the Tarantino film. I decided to give my story a twist by making my protagonist a female detective instead of a male; and I also threw in time travel so that my modern day police officer could travel back to 1920s New York. However, I’ve decided not to share it on here in case I want to try publication elsewhere.

Like The Prose 2021 – Day 24

Today’s challenge was to write in the style of an artist. I’ve chosen an imaginative interpretation of Vincent Van Gogh, using his painting ‘A Starry Night’ as inspiration.

A Starry Night

1881. Stars explode in a million galaxies when I see her. My emotions swirl. She is a splash of light against the darkness of my life. Colours  dance across the canvas and my heart swirls, whirls and twirls with them. Kee. The name pulses, radiates. I see her face and I am spinning across galaxies, dancing with stars. She is seven years older than I, recently widowed and with an eight-year-old son. These layers of information only add depth to my feelings for her. I lay out the canvas of my heart, swirling dark blue emotion in dizzying patterns, punctuated with explosions of yellow happiness. Kee. It sounds like the French word for who. Who has made me happy? Kee has made me happy. The yellow stars eclipse the dark night; she and her son have broken through my depression and we will form our own little universe together.

She does not want me.

I have declared my love; I have proposed marriage; but she does not want me. “Nooit, neen, nimmer.” No, nay, never. The stars wink out so that only deep blue swirls remain. The untouched yellow paint dries up on my palette. I no longer dance across the sky.

Picking up my charcoal, I sketch the bleak lines of life without her.

1882. I have learned to love again. Colours swirl in my mind. Sien also has a child and she is pregnant with another. Am I fated only to love maternal women?

Sien’s life is as tumultuous as mine. Wine swirls in the glass of her life, pulling her down to depths even I was unaware of. I keep my alcoholic prostitute a secret: she is the Mary Magdalene to my former Virgin Mary. It seems purity and degradation are not so different after all. The deep blue swirls in my mind, merges both women into one. Kee. Sien. Sien. Kee. Keesien. Sienkee. I am spinning through galaxies, searching for pinpricks of light.

1883. We drift apart. Sien will spiral deeper into deprivation, returning to her former trade. She will outlive me by fourteen years,  but in twenty-one years’ time, she will let the dark blue water of the River Scheidt swirl over her head.

The sadness lasts forever.

1884. A neighbour’s daughter, Margot, is in love with me. I return her affection, though with less enthusiasm than I might have done before Kee. Our marriage is thwarted by both sets of parents, but I am used to disappointment: first Kee, then Sien, now Margot. She, alas, is not so lucky. Strychnine swirls through her bloodstream but the hospital saves her before her face can turn blue. The oil paintings I produce the following year are dark and sombre. There is no life in them.

1889. I have entered an asylum in Saint-Rémy. It is not so far from Arles. Years of disappointment and despair have piled layer upon layer of deep, dark blue on my heart and mind. Taking my palette knife, I cut through the paint as Kee cut through my heart with her rejection. I swirl the layers into never-ending circles of despair. Here and there, blobs of yellow paint suggest hope, but the stars and even the moon are overshadowed by the dark tower of my mind. It looms at the forefront of the painting, reminding me that I am still a prisoner of my own unhappiness.

It is one of the best paintings I have ever done.

In years to come, those who view my painting will not see the years of hurt and rejection. They will be deaf to the voices that cry out constantly in my mind. They will admire the swirling blues of depression and the clouds of despair, and they will think the yellow stars and moon symbolise light and hope. I have painted my agony in a maelstrom of madness, but they will only see A Starry Night.

Like The Prose 2021 – Day 23

Today’s prompt asked me to write about why doing something right ended up feeling wrong. I’ve interpreted this rather loosely with a somewhat ASD narrator who needs everything to be ‘right’ and inadvertently causes problems for others in the process. As with other prompts, I’ve decided not to share this one in case I want to publish it elsewhere.

Like The Prose 2021 – Day 22

My brief for the 22nd was to write about a con artist. I love the TV show ‘Hustle’ and the various films concerning con artists, scammers and swindlers, but felt I wanted to take a more literary approach with this one, so I’ve created a Regency style story involving a young man who decides to con women out of their jewellery. I had a lot of fun writing it and hope you’ll have fun reading it.

Broken Hearts and Baronets

Henry Davenport was broke. He’d frittered away most of the fortune his father had left him – wine, women and cards were expensive hobbies – and was down to his last few hundreds.

“You need a rich wife, Harry,” Josiah remarked as they cantered through the forest one fine autumn afternoon. “A girl with enough money to keep you in the manner to which you’re accustomed.”

Henry nudged Lady’s reins gently. The mare was spirited, but he managed to let her know who was in charge. Women were a lot like horses: once you’d broken them in, you could easily steer them in the direction you wanted.

“There’s a ball at Grantleigh Manor this Saturday,” Josiah continued. “Bound to be a few fine fillies there, what?”

Henry considered his friend’s words gravely. At twenty-three, he felt he was far too young to be shackling himself to a wife; still, needs must where the devil drives and all that rot. He’d put on his best frock coat and the breeches from France and he’d jolly well bag himself the prettiest little thing he saw – provided she had enough money, of course.

As Lady trotted over the bracken, he began planning how he would spend his new wife’s money.


Lady Lavinia Grantleigh was one of the richest women in the county. She was also one of the most foolish. Slightly too tall and well built to look entirely feminine, her eyes were just a little too pale and her nose just a trifle too long for her to be regarded a beauty, but Henry would say anything necessary to convince this prize specimen that he was marriage material.

“Have I mentioned how musical your laugh is?” he murmured, bending low over her hand – ostensibly to kiss it but in actual fact counting how many rings she wore. Why, just one of those sparklers would cover his losses at the card table for a week!

Lavinia let out a self-conscious peal of laughter. It reminded Henry of a corncrake, but he pressed on, determined to clinch this transaction.

“I wonder if I might beg a keepsake of the woman I love,” he tried next, gazing soulfully into her anaemic eyes with a look that hinted at barely bridled passion. (He’d been practising in front of the mirror all week.)

Lavinia blushed, staining her cheeks an unbecoming red somewhat at odds with her rather carroty hair. Some women could carry off auburn locks; unfortunately, Lavinia was not one of them.

“Lord Henry,” she simpered, fluttering her fan in what she hoped was a suitably flirtatious manner, “you should not say such things! We have known each other only an evening.”

“Is that all?” Henry replied gallantly. “It seems much longer.”

It really did seem much longer. Lavinia had to be one of the most boring women he had ever met. She knew nothing about horses and less about dogs. (You couldn’t call that ridiculous rat she kept on her lap a dog! What was it she’d said it was? Some fancy Mexican name.)

Eventually, after a truly excruciating evening, Henry managed to extricate himself from Lavinia’s presence with an invitation to come for tea the next afternoon (tea, for goodness sake! Why not coffee? Now that was a man’s drink) and a rather ugly looking ring containing a large garnet which, she whispered, was a sign of good faith. It was not exactly a promise to marry him, but it was her way of saying she would not pledge her heart to another.


It was as he was riding home (the coach already having been sold to settle a few gambling debts) that an idea struck him – why get married at all? If it had been as easy as this to persuade that frightful looking girl to part with some of her jewellery, why shouldn’t he court as many women as he could and amass the funds he needed by sweet talking them into parting with rings and lockets? And they might give him other things that could be turned into gold.

Impressed with his own brilliance, he withdrew to the study as soon as he reached the modest eight-bedroomed pile left to him by his father. Fetching the copy of Debrett’s Peerage from its place on one of the bookshelves, he began turning the pages. He would limit himself to girls who had no brothers, he decided – after all, he didn’t want to be challenged to a duel by some angry chap who thought Henry had besmirched his sister’s honour.


And so it was that Henry found his true vocation. Like any other modern man of the early 1800s, he applied himself seriously to idle pleasure. Always impeccably dressed, he was the quintessential dandy; conversationally, he was a rattle par excellence; and above all, he was a fastidious flaneur. What Henry didn’t know about the well connected simply wasn’t worth knowing. He kept a small, leather-bound notebook in which he recorded every conversation he had with a woman – along with details about her likes and dislikes and how easy it was to part her from her jewellery. One typical month’s entry included no fewer than six different women, each one accompanied by a description of the ‘gift’ she had given him. So far, he had pawned an emerald necklace, two strings of pearls, six diamond rings, three pairs of earrings, several tie pins and sets of cufflinks and an incredibly vulgar ruby pendant. His modus operandi was simple yet effective: no matter what the girl looked like, you just told her she was pretty then looked at her for a while with what she construed as desperate longing while you let your mind wander into more interesting realms.

He had perfected the art of making it seem as if he were proposing marriage without ever actually using the words – that way, he could not be sued for breach of promise. He was careful, too, to choose impressionable girls who would believe his claims that their reputation would be ruined were they to tell anyone what had transpired between them. (It was mostly flirting with very occasional kissing, but his objets d’amour were too inexperienced to know that every woman indulged in a little dalliance now and then, finding excitement in the secrecy.)


It was on a beautiful spring afternoon that he thought up his finest plan yet. A gentleman by the name of Mountebank had recently begun renting Rugely Hall, a well-appointed establishment on the other side of the park. The man was a widower with five daughters – all of them at marriageable age. There was some sort of unmarried sister who acted as chaperone to the girls, but Henry decided she wasn’t important. He had learned from experience that most young women possess a devious streak when it comes to matters of the heart and he was convinced that these newcomers would be like all the others and would endeavour to find ways of being able to talk to him alone. What a triumph it would be for him to court all five simultaneously without any of the girls knowing what her sisters were up to!

Without further ado, he ordered a servant to deliver his card to the Mountebanks. Thanks to his hard work over the past six months, he was now well equipped to play the rich, young gentleman. He had cleared his gambling debts and built up a respectable bank balance, and he once more owned a fine-looking carriage and a pair of well-matched horses. It should be easy to inveigle himself into the family – particularly one with so many daughters who would all be seeking husbands.

The first meeting was a great success. Henry had never been more charming; his conversation never wittier; his attire more flamboyant. He was unable to meet Colonel Mountebank himself as the gentleman was suffering from a particularly nasty episode of gout which kept him confined to his chamber, but every one of the five daughters had turned out to meet him and pretty things they were too – each one of them as different as if they had not been related. Under the pretext of wanting to see the garden, he had managed to persuade the eldest, dark haired Maria, to step outside with him for a few moments and had then declared his undying love for her in the rose garden. The location had been a nice touch: he was able to present her with a rose, deliberately pricking his finger on a thorn as he did so and telling her piteously, “My heart bleeds for your love – far more than that finger.”

The following day, he visited again – this time to accompany the young ladies on a walk. He somehow contrived to find himself alone with green-eyed Louisa – how convenient that she had caught her foot in a rabbit hole and twisted her ankle! A very pretty ankle it was too – he had placed it in his lap and gently massaged it until she felt able to rejoin the rest of the party. He knew she would not tell anyone he had declared his feelings for her: it was not done for a younger sister to have found a potential husband before the eldest.

The third day saw him begin his campaign to capture Sophia’s heart. Her brown hair and blue eyes were pleasing to look at, and she had a rosebud mouth that seemed to demand kisses. She did not complain at any rate when he demonstrated his ardour for her by letting one of two land on her lips rather than her hand. “Of course, you can’t tell your sisters about this,” he murmured in her ear as they left the drawing room where, she insisted, she had left her novel, and returned to the smaller salon to resume polite conversation over tea. “I wouldn’t want to be the cause of any jealousy.”

Her large, innocent eyes widened in surprise before she dimpled prettily and agreed that some things were best kept secrets.

By some stroke of luck, he was able to begin his charm offensive with Eleanor, the fourth sister, only a day later. Eleanor had offered to play for them and Henry gallantly said he would stand by the piano and turn the music for her. That gave him ample opportunity to murmur endearments to her whilst out of earshot of the others. The sunlight catching her red gold curls was not as bright as the dazzling smile she gave him after he had showered her with compliments.

He now had four out of five of his targets lined up and was somewhat surprised it had been so easy. He had half-expected Colonel Mountebank’s sister to intervene at an inopportune moment, but it was almost as if she knew what he was up to and was actively encouraging him to court all five sisters at once! Perhaps she was: she might reason that at least one flirtation would end in marriage and she might not be particularly choosy which one was married first. It would no doubt make her job easier if she only had to find husbands for four girls and not five.

Rosamund was the last to fall under his spell. Only just eighteen, she had large, blue eyes and golden ringlets and had not yet lost her childhood plumpness. She reminded him of a puppy: quite adorable and with no sense at all. When he told her he loved horses and would like to see the stables, she was more than happy to offer to take him there – and she didn’t complain when he kissed her in one of the stalls. No doubt she was over-excited at the thought of being the first of them to have a beau, but he made her swear solemnly not to tell anyone else that she was as good as engaged.


He’d been a frequent visitor to Rugely for three weeks when he began to wonder if it were a mistake to court five women simultaneously. So far, they had all seemed receptive to his advances, but not one of them had offered him a present and he was used to being able to wheedle wealthy young women out of their jewellery in half as much time. However, things took a surprising turn when the girls’ aunt approached him one afternoon as they were setting off for a group walk and asked if she might converse with him.

Strolling through Rugely’s ample grounds, they let the girls wander ahead of them, smiling to see them enjoy the morning sunshine. “You have been very kind to my nieces,” Miss Mountebank remarked.

“They are delightful young ladies,” Henry said carefully. Attempting to change the subject, he added, “You seem an excellent chaperone to them, although I confess you do not look much older than they do.”

It was true. Colonel Mountebank must have been approaching fifty whereas his sister seemed not to have reached thirty.

“He is my half-brother,” Miss Mountebank said. “Edwin’s mother died when he was a boy and his father re-married some fifteen years later. He has always been very good to me and offered me a home with himself and his wife when he got married. It was fortunate that he did so, for poor, dear Allegra died soon after Rosamund’s birth. I have cared for all five of them ever since.” She paused. “They are as dear to me as daughters, Mr  Davenport. I would not see any of them hurt.”

“Nor I,” Henry protested. “Why, I have been the soul of propriety…”

“Not so.” She cut him off. “I rather fancy that you have let each and every one of my nieces believe that you intend to marry her.”

Henry’s heart stood still.

“You have not been entirely honest with them, have you?” she continued. Then, as he started to protest, she laughed. “Did you really think I would not notice? You and I are cut from the same cloth, Mr Davenport. I too have mastered the subtle art of dalliance in order to gain men’s confidence and inspire them to shower me with gifts.” She smiled roguishly. “An unmarried woman must resort to whatever tools she has at her disposal.”

Henry began to relax. She was just like him! He could not help feeling admiration for her.

“Please, call me Harry,” he said.

“Very well, Harry – and you can call me Letitia. Now, let us discuss how we can use this situation to our mutual advantage.”


A week later, Henry invited the Mountebank sisters and their aunt to visit his home. Although not on the same grand scale as Rugely, it had a fine library and Letitia had expressed an interest to see some of the first editions his father had collected.

“Besides,” she said, dimpling prettily, “it will further the pretence if the girls think you intend for one of them to live there with you as your wife.”

And so it was that Henry found his house filled with women. Leaving the girls to exclaim over the wallpaper in the parlour, he led Letitia to the library. However, once inside, she closed the door and motioned to him to sit down on one of the dark green Chesterfields.

“Have you noticed that each of the girls is decked out in her finest jewellery?” she muttered. “I know it is not usual for an afternoon occasion such as this, but I thought this would be an ideal opportunity for you to relieve them of their gems. I take it you have a safe?”

Striding to the fireplace, Henry reached up and removed the oil painting that hung there, revealing a small door built into the wall. Taking a key from his pocket, he unlocked it and showed her the items he had collected so far. It was a while since he had visited the pawnbroker and the cupboard housed a most impressive haul.

“You’ve done well,” she said approvingly. “Oh, Harry, just think of the life we could have together if we teamed up. I’m tired of playing nursemaid to my nieces – once you’ve filled your safe with their jewels, we should elope together. We could live in luxury for years on what you have here.”

“I’m not really the marrying kind,” he protested.

“Nor I. But there are certain… benefits… to a man and woman working together.”

She was suddenly very close to him. He became aware that the dress she was wearing was exceptionally low-cut – almost scandalously so – and that her diamond necklace only accentuated her decolletage.

“I see you are admiring my own jewels,” she murmured. “The stones were a present from a would-be suitor – they are worth hundreds.” Again, she paused. “With what you have here already and my nieces’ jewellery, we have a small fortune.”

Her eyes held his. Mesmerised by her diamonds as much as by her beauty, he found his mouth reaching for hers. He did not really want a partner in crime – she would be old one day, and women only really appealed to him if they were attractive to look at. But there was no harm in making her think that they could work together.  After all, she could not expose him without compromising herself.

“You may have my diamonds as a sign of good faith,” she said, slipping them off and presenting them to him. “Now, shall we return to those girls? I think we both need a little refreshment.”


Despite the fact that it was only mid-afternoon, someone had laid out glasses and a decanter of sherry. He should have really offered some to his guests first, but Henry needed a drink to steady his racing heart. Damn the woman! She was incredibly bewitching – but then she wouldn’t always look like that. He grabbed the glass from the table and downed its contents hurriedly. And then he knew no more.


When Henry came to, he was back in his study, sitting on one of the hardbacked dining room chairs, his hands bound behind his back and his feet tied to the chair rungs with what looked like a silk scarf. What was happening?

“Letitia?” he croaked. His throat felt dry and parched.

Her lovely face loomed above him. He noticed she was wearing her diamonds once more, and that the door to the safe stood open. The cupboard was completely empty.

“I’d like to say it’s been a pleasure, Harry,” Letitia said, watching his gaze travel from the empty safe back to her. “Only, you made it far too easy. Did you really think no one would realise what you’ve been up to these past six months?”

Surprise and shock numbed him.

“Not one of these lovely young ladies is my relative,” she continued. “They have merely been bait used to inveigle an invitation to your home. I knew you must have stowed your ill-gotten gains somewhere – and I was not wrong.”

Not her nieces? Henry struggled to understand.

“Colonel Mountebank is not my brother,” she went on, “and nor are these girls his daughters. We are friends who work together to relieve scoundrels like you of the wealth they have stolen from others. We don’t return the money and jewels, of course – if the victims are stupid enough to let themselves be gulled, they deserve to lose everything.”

“You won’t get away with this.” Henry’s voice came out in a croak.

“I rather think we will,” she replied smoothly. “How can you complain that you have been robbed when what has been taken from you was not yours in the first place?”

She bent and kissed him lightly on the forehead. “It couldn’t have happened to a more worthy opponent, Harry. And perhaps, in future, you will think twice before you try to swindle innocent women out of their jewellery.”

As she and her five accomplices quit the room, Henry was left staring at his empty safe and ruing the day he decided to deceive the Mountebanks.