Who’s Bad?

You may have noticed my dwindling words over the past few months, and for that I have slapped myself on the wrist many times, so much so that my writer’s hand has almost suffered an injury.

For this reason, I have henceforth decided that the time has come to give my blogging habits an overhaul.

The rather lengthy lauragabriellefeasey.wordpress.com has now become ismithwords.com, and in celebration of this brevity, I am launching an exciting new flash fiction feature tomorrow.

The Monday Muse shall be back in full force next week, with The Hemingway Day returning amidst a flurry of six words on Friday. The Confessions of a Shop Assistant series shall also be making an appearance – warts and all – once a month too.

Here’s hoping that the words to come will make up for the recent silence.

Laura.

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Catch.

Writing my thoughts down.

In my bid for both literary greatness and a satisfying night of shut-eye, I have decided my erratically leaking thoughts are in need of some daily catching.

Hemingway kept a diary, Stanley Kubrick and Guillermo Del Toro have manoeuvred their way through some of my most cherished films via notebooks of scribbles, and Sylvia Plath waged war on many a mental monster through the pages of her journal. So I’ve decided it’s time to start scribbling down a daily thought or two.

My first main issue was which notebook to choose, because, let’s face it, we all know I’m partial to a little overt affection when it comes to stationery, so much so that my office could suffice as the local stationery shop. But in honour of National Stationery Week, I am willing myself to make a choice.

I opted for this pride and joy firstly because it says ‘journal’ on the spine, and I’m not so much a rebel that I’m keen to ignore what this book was intended for, but also because its title takes the pressure off.

From henceforth everything I write in my journal shall be entitled ‘fucking brilliant’. Even if it’s not.

Thank you to the Daily prompt for spurring my churning brain.

Grumpuss.

The monday musings of a crazy cat lady…

Grumpuss.

I was watching The Simpsons. He strolls into the room and plants a squidgy bundle of sellotape and wrapping paper on the bed. I look up, eyebrow cocked, and he nods towards the parcel.

“Surprise.”

After unfolding the glitter-caked paper I am reminded of that moment in Sex and the City (yes I am a teenager of the noughties who was embroiled in the wonders of American cable sitcoms, bootleg jeans and RnB), when Trey brings home a cardboard baby for his wife, Charlotte, because they can’t conceive and he deems this an appropriate novelty substitution.

Inside the paper I find a cat. Not a real cat, but one stuffed with polyester and furnished with glossy plastic eyes that follow you to every corner of the room.

I am not saying we are ‘trying for a cat’. Unless you can call yearning after the endless snapshots of a Google image search for ‘Exotic Shorthair Kittens’ trying. But my boyfriend did bring home this cuddly toy grumpy cat because I am cat-broody and unfortunately, at this moment in time, without the real thing. Polyester and plastic will just have to do…

Chocolate.

 

Today my parade is basking in sunlight and is entirely rainproof, as I can finally say hello to the new and improved, laurafeasey.com, fresh from the surgeons table, because even the virtual among us need a little facelift once in a while…

To celebrate, here’s a little story from my ‘About Me’ page…

Chocolate.

I was five. I could still taste the saccharine sweet remnants of chocolate on my tongue. My mouth was smeared with cocoa crumbs and icing. My parents walked in, mouths wide open.

“Laura! Did you take a bite of grandma’s birthday cake?”

“No.”

And so the storytelling began…

Suspended.

Whilst you’ve all got that Friday feeling, I have a little tale from my Confessions of a Shop Assistant series…

Suspended.

One thing I wasn’t quite prepared to encounter during my days as a servant to the fashion whims of Knightsbridge was how rapidly a customer would transform from absolute stranger, to someone whose deep and dark secrets were comfortably and very willingly divulged…

The first time I was to experience this was just moments after an endearing and elegant elderly lady ambled through our door. The kind of woman one would expect to be hiding a stash of Werther’s Originals in her handbag, she was looking for something special for her grandson’s graduation. Her everyday shopping attire consisted of pearl strings and finely tailored Chanel, so I set about finding something worthy for her to try.

After leading her to the changing room, I loitered outside the curtain, waiting to be beckoned by her for some assistance. After several minutes of silence I enquired as to her progress, and after a few further moments of quiet, I heard her whisper that she was about to step into the first of my choices. Referring to me as ‘dear’, she definitely reminded me of my late grandmother.

Just moments after assuring me of her wellbeing, a high pitched squeal prompted me to turn around, just as she grabbed the changing room curtain, pulling it down with her body as it hit the wooden floorboards with a resonant thump.

My jaw was not the only one to follow her journey to the floor, as my fellow workers stood as statues, trying to comprehend the sight of this snowy haired lady, sat amidst our curtains, in a black boned basque, gold clasped suspenders and lace topped stockings, her fragility drowning amidst a sea of velvet and lace.

Whether my hasty dive towards her stemmed from the worry of injury or in an attempt to rescue her dignity I don’t know, but I hauled the curtains from the floor and cloaked them around her.

With a shake of the head and brush of the hair from her face, she turned to the gaping mouths and howled in her little voice.

“Well there’s something you don’t see every day.”

More in a lifetime I’d say.

 

 

Thank you to the Daily Post for the photo prompt.

Sharpen.

Happy new year to my lovely readers, I hope your last few weeks have been filled with a little indulgence of all kinds. In racking my brains this morning for a New Year’s post I ventured down this nostalgic path…

Sharpen.

Mechanical pencils are very often my weapon of choice, owing to many childhood years spent amidst shattered splinters of sharpenings and lead smears across my fingers and exercise book pages, but this morning, jutting from the hefty white ceramic fist that sits on my desk grasping my writing tools, a sliver of gold caught my eye.

Digging out a plastic sharpener in faded fuchsia from the bottom of my desk drawers, I gave this metallic sheathed scribbler its very first gasp of life. It shed its lustrous skin whilst the smell of wood shavings and lead scuffled up my New Year’s flu blocked nose and struck a chord in my brain that resonated with my eleven year old self, sharpening pencils in a blue diplodocus desk tidy that my Dad had purchased because I had a penchant for dinosaurs and it was obviously with much hilarity that one could sharpen their pencils in an extinct reptile’s bottom.

Once I’d grounded myself from my nostalgic wondering, I noticed the sharpenings had spiralled into a golden fringed crown… a regal start to the year.

Death Sentence.

Day 18 of photography101… “Edge”

Death Sentence.

Every now and again the glass would chime from the fluttering of limbs as he realised he was still incarcerated.

Fortune.

Day 16 of Photography101… “Treasure”.

Fortune.

The gong chimed, a bellowing command came from above, and from all corners they scuttled up the stairs, past the boxed bugs and through the dinosaur bones, onto the streets of Oxford. He hadn’t seen me. I stood looking over the curiosity filled cabinets and antique occupied closets, entirely alone with millions of years of treasure.

 

26.2

 

Day 14 of photography101… “Swarm”.

26.2

The asphalt rolled under every stride, a convey belt of monotony if it wasn’t for the reason he took each footstep.

Amber.

Day 11 of photography101… “Pop of Colour”

Amber.

Golden fields rolled across the valleys, spitting up amber dust into the air whenever the wind blowed.