The Hemingway Day. Surface.

So far in glorious London we have enjoyed about three days of summer. Today is the fourth. The sun is shining, the children are shrieking outside, my office fan is blowing hot air in circles, the inebriated are out early… and isn’t it just marvellous?

Here’s The Hemingway Day.

Surface.

Suede and water never did mix.

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The Hemingway Day. Quiet Please.

Apologies if the below contains any mumbles, bad grammar or is just bad writing. Blame it on the tennis-man.

I have everything crossed for Roger Federer to win today, although I find myself in times of trouble watching this current match, my nerves just don’t contain enough steel. I managed to clinch a pair of the illustrious, unobtainable tickets to Sunday’s final, so he needs to win so I can go all fangirl on him. If only he knew that…

Here’s to another man who might’ve also released my inner frenzied follower, Mr Hemingway…

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Quiet Please.

His hand smelled of Cherry Chapstick.

 

Thanks to the Daily Post for the photo inspiration.

Fool.

I have penned a little fool inspired story in honour of April the 1st. Here’s hoping you haven’t been subject to too many mischievous escapades this morning…

Fool

Fool.

Him: 

The tears loomed above her eyelashes, threatening to slither down her cheeks at any moment. With a hand clutching at her stomach, she signalled for me to stop.

I did. Begrudgingly.

Next to me her chest rapidly yo-yoed as she lay sprawled on the floor.

She was ticklish to the extent where even the threatening movement of fingers would spawn banshee screams and rapid movement in the opposite direction.

As she basked in the post tickle glow her eyes flickered towards mine. I reached for a jelly ring. She grew weak at the gesture. I asked the question. Her tears returned. I put the ring on her finger.

I have until midday to tell her she’s the April Fool right?

Her:

Laughter had always trudged that fine line between love and hate. The laughter that made my stomach ache as though my insides were wrangling a way out.

The pit of my gut wrenched and the noiseless hilarity seemed as though it would never end. I held my hands up in surrender.

Silence. Our pupils locked as I wondered how often in life these little moments of flawlessness drifted on in. His grinning face sobered.

“Marry me?”

His pupils flooded with fear the moment my tears fell.

If only he knew I was well aware that even his gluttonous sweet tooth didn’t care for the saccharine sweetness of those jelly rings. The ones he’d bought an entire sweet shop box of just last night, the night before the April the 1st.

Midday snack it is.

Check out some other April Foolers on The Daily Post

Suspended.

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

Suspender

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.

Stranger.

Today’s The Hemingway Day, telling tales of deceptive appearances…

Stranger.

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The pupils peering back weren’t hers.

Thanks to the Daily Post for the photo prompt.

The End of the Line.

The Hemingway Day… Aiming to deliver a few seconds of literary escapism as work begins to take its toll for yet another year.

The End of the Line.

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He was ready. Just three steps.

Thanks to the Daily Post for the photo prompt.

He’s Alive.

It’s a very merry Christmas from me and my festive happy house guest, and the last of this year’s The Hemingway Day flash fiction…

He’s alive.

 

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Their bodies recoiled, their eyes bulging.

 

Thanks to the Daily Post for the photo prompt “yellow”, which in my view, is just gold with less regal dripping.

Alone.

The Hemingway Day with five seconds of Friday fiction…

Alone.

Amidst unfamiliar pandemonium, she remembered loneliness.

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Thanks to the Daily Post for the photo prompt, ‘Twinkle‘.

Vampire.

 

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Vampire.

My trainers were the whitest of white. Blobs of blood plummeted onto the milky leather, instantly at odds with their crisp colour.

My foot had slipped along the metal pole where the paint was cracked and flakes of rusty brown were starting to take ownership. On the way down my two front teeth met the metal bar, grinding between the dirty surface and my gums as the roots bent, the enamel crumbled and they tumbled to the floor.

I ran home, blood spurting from my mouth and down to my white trainers, a gap in my gums that rendered the remaining fangs vampire like in their protrusion against the void. For the first time, my childlike vision of immortality was shattered.

 

This post is in response to the Daily Post’s Daily Prompt “At what age did you realize you were not immortal? How did you react to that discovery?” http://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_prompt/finite-creatures/