The Hemingway Day. Move.

I am back from my little Spanish jaunt and now I find myself amidst a sea of boxes as the boy and I prepare for a little change of scenery. This week’s WordPress photo challenge is of change, and the timing couldn’t be sweeter. Here’s a moving-day Hemingway Day for a few sections of fiction…

 

Move.

The box labelled ‘Heart’ is heavy.

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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.

Literary Lion. Happy Feet.

Bonsoir my lovely literary wizards. This week the lion has two pairs of pirouetting paws…

The word is ‘Dance’.

You have seven days to tell your dance inspired tales, in 400 words or less. As always, Pingback to this post, include the tag ‘Literary Lion’ so we can all see your story in the WP reader, and don’t forget to holler via Instagram and twitter.

Here is my tale of happy feet…

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The Audition.

The red door stood stark against a street of black counterparts. It was the exact shade of the virtual lipstick signature that sat at the end of the email she’d sent.

She called herself Darling.

I leant towards the lacquered wood and heard only space behind it. I glanced again at the piece of paper in my hand. There was no sign on the door and no number, just the potted topiary trees that she had described when she’d called to tell me to come to the audition. That word carried a certain chesty self-assurance.

I had told my friends I was going for an interview.

I knocked. The door swung inwards, revealing a dark hallway lined with leather cubes. Each foam filled box had a girl balanced on top. One sat empty and uninviting in the corner.

My heels ticked across the slate floor as I edged around the door. It was latched behind me by a man dressed in a suit that hugged his broad shoulders as though it was clinging on for life. I smiled in greeting but he remained mute and expressionless.

The hallway stood as silent as the void I had heard from the other side. My stomach growled in protest of my liquid caffeine breakfast. A girl with bleached yellow hair leered at my waist.

I should have had another cigarette.

By the time I’d been in London for a month I had convinced myself I was anaemic. Certain that my countryside reared blood couldn’t fuel my body in the way it did every other Londoner’s, I would chew on Pro Plus tablets with droopy eyes and a languid brain that had forgotten to swallow. I could still taste the morning’s dose; the bitterness had bonded with my taste buds as the coagulated powder sifted down my oesophagus unwillingly.

I heard her imminent entrance. The straightening of their backs and the fluffing of their locks told me that they had heard too. We stood to attention as she greeted us, her set of ghost white porcelain teeth flicking out from between rouged lips.

She marched us down the stairs and into a low-lit room cocooned beneath the city. A chequered floor stood at the centre, surrounded by tufted red velvet booths, each of which tilted towards a mirrored pole that stood at the helm.

 

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Literary Lion. Dirty Laundry.

This past week has been packed with tales of time, but now to a new prompt, and the lion is thirsty…

This week’s word is ‘water‘.

You have seven days to pen a piece of 400 words or less. Pingback to this post to ensure I can see your post, include the tag ‘Literary Lion’ so we can all see it in the WP reader, and don’t forget to yell at me on Instagram and twitter.

Here is my H2O inspired fiction…

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Dirty Laundry.

The bell on the launderette door chinked as the man in the suit slinked inside. He was smartly dressed to the most meticulous detail; his cufflinks polished, the pleats of his trousers crisp, his finely crafted Saville Row suit not the kind one might usually see in a place such as this.

As he proceeded towards the corner of the room, his presence raised several eyebrows from the bodies going about their humdrum routines. He rested his attaché case on the washer and opened it; the mechanical clatter echoed throughout the room while his back disguised what he wanted only his eyes to see.

Gingerly he lifted an item of clothing from the case, while stealing a look behind him to see who was watching. Everyone. The regular visitors to this launderette were intrigued by this alien presence and they had no shame in displaying their inherent nosiness with their indiscreet eyeballing. He contemplated for a moment walking away, finding an alternative and imagining their stares if he were to do so. He predicted their hurried whispers as soon as his foot touched the path outside. Instead, he remained resilient, determined to do what was required and leave without a trace.

He jerked the washing machine open, hurriedly placed his garment inside and shut the door on what he no longer wished to see. He pulled a small sachet of powder from his case, poured it into the draw and took two pounds from his pocket and slid them into the coin slot.

After selecting the hottest cycle, he watched the water begin to drain into the drum and wondered if it would be enough to wash away the evidence of his sins.

 

 

 

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The Monday Muse. Skinny Fry.

You will have to excuse my meandering mind again today. As I was laid face down on a surgeon’s table this morning, I couldn’t help but wish I was sat on the riverside bench that the boy and I had perched on just 20 hours previously with two portions of chips and a can of Dr. Pepper. I’ve always loved what we Brits can do with a potato, but I hadn’t sampled the magic for at least six months.

So as I studied the speckles of a blue vinyl floor, I started reminiscing about chips…

 

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Skinny Fry.

I was a fussy eater until I was around 25 years old. As a kid, I was often left sitting at the dinner table long after everyone else had finished, staring at a plate filled with greens.

I would long for a portion of fries.

My Dad used to tell me I’d turn into a chip. I used to think it wouldn’t be as bad as turning into a cauliflower or a piece of broccoli. At least I could be a supermodel skinny fry with a French accent.

 

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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.

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.

Word.

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The final day of photography101… ‘Triumph’.

Word.

“She stood up, and picked up the nearest cylinder and held it between her hands. It hypnotised her just as it did many years ago, the clear glass filled with spiralling tendrils of time, almost whispering from within.”

 

https://lauragabriellefeasey.wordpress.com/2014/10/03/time/

 

 

Hunt.

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Day 15 of photography101… “landscape.”

Hunt.

I edged lower into the rows of grain, willing the ground to be tight-lipped as it clicked beneath every movement of my limbs. A cracking resonated with every footstep he took. I froze just as his shins appeared above the kernels touching my forehead.

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Day 14 of photography101… “Swarm”.

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