Literary Lion. Baked.

Huge apologies for the lateness of the Literary Lion this fortnight, but I am mid house move, and, of course, our little lion friend got lost in the forest of cardboard. Suffice to say he is now found, and this week’s word is ‘Sun’, something that the usually cloudy-skied England has actually been blessed with today…

You have a fortnight to tell your tales of ‘Sun’ in 400 words or less. Remember to use the tag ‘Literary Lion’ in your post, pingback to this prompt and don’t forget to give me a mention on Instagram and twit-twoo on Twitter.

Here is my sunshine inspired piece…

Baked.

The sun crackled, singeing her skin. She drank in the heat, letting it hit the depths of her lungs as it enveloped her, invading her body with its stifling smother. She opened one eye and saw her feathery lashes in the reflection of her sunglasses. They were curved, covered in a thick black mascara stain. She was batting them in vanity when she first noticed the lines. Little wrinkled trenches spanning away from those plumed hairs, gorging through the skin and reaching towards her eyebrows in a takeover of old age. Her designer lenses magnified them to horrific heights. Her years of sunshine allegiance, her practised pose of worship, her secret concoction of lemon juice and extra virgin olive oil, and all she was left with was something that resembled a desiccated baked potato.

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The Monday Muse. Choux your buns.

This time four days ago I was being kissed by the sunshine and caressed by silence. Today I am nuzzled by rain drops, sirens, children screaming and adults complaining. Goodbye Spanish campo, hello my old friend London.

Having just returned to the city from a holiday, it has taken me a moment to become accustomed to the sheer amount of souls I am once again surrounded by. It has also taken me a moment to become reacquainted with the types of souls this city is filled with…

While strolling down the aisle of a supermarket yesterday I decided, what with it being Sunday and the last official day of my holiday, I would see off two weeks of indulgent face-stuffing with a gooey cream cake.

As I perused the pastries I saw a pair of podgy fingers reaching for a chocolate lacquered choux bun; someone else had plumped for the same snack selection, although it appeared her decision needed a much more rapid wish fulfilment than mine. The bun was not her pick for the trolley, it was a mere little something to amuse her loose lips whilst she chose what she really wanted: a chunky Victoria sponge oozing with fresh cream and strawberry jam.

Now I am sure that her honest nature had her taking the empty cake box to the till with her to pay for her in store treat, but time and time again when I see these supermarket munchers, grazing on the stock as they shop, I wonder why. Perhaps they are safeguarding against that impending apocalypse that might just stop them from enjoying that box of Coco Pops the following morning. Or perhaps they can only prevail over the weekly food shop if there are tummy loving perks on the way round. It’s the ones that don’t close their mouths that are the worst. Munching on buns whilst in the middle of the supermarket, the congealed butter and cream swirling around their tongue and slapping against their cheeks.

I wonder if they’ll ID me after I’ve drunk the whole bottle of Vodka in my basket on my next grocery shop…

Sugar.

day7

These two repulsive little creatures are part of today’s Writing 101 task: to write of a contrast between two things using dialogue…

 

Sugar.

Her lips were frosted with that pearlescent lipstick that women seemed to covet in the early nineties. The kind that they’d outline with dark liner to give their lips some extra pout. The days before collagen was just a reasonably priced syringe away. They moved like fish lips when she prattled. “Put your name on the top of the form. Fill in the questions and the doctor will see you when you’re ready.”

It was the speech of a robot. I ticked my way to question five.

Have you had a poor appetite or been overeating?

I looked over at Fish Lips. “What would you constitute as over eating?”

Her sickly pink fluffy jumper hugged her chubby arms and made her somewhat marshmallow like in appearance. She wasn’t the best judge of portion control.

“Who cares kid. Just tick in the middle.” She went back to reading her Real People magazine. Pages of relatable souls that had gone through terrible times. ‘I was 20 stone by the time I was 13.’ ‘I sold my baby for £25.’ ‘I was stabbed by my husband’s father’s brother in law’…

It was question seven this time.

Have you had trouble concentrating on things like reading the paper or watching the TV? 

Fish Lips was rustling in her desk drawers. She pulled out a toffee and started twisting the shiny wrapper with her globulous blubbery pink sausage fingers.

I stared at her until she looked up. Pools of toffee moisture had collected in the corners of those lips as she smacked them together with each chew.

“What kid?” She said through her caramel mess.

“Does pornography count? As watching TV?”

Her spidery eyelashes came together as she narrowed her eyes at me. She crinkled her nose and hissed “Vile creature.”

The final question, number nine.

Have you thought that you’d be better off dead or hurting yourself in some way?

Her lips were smooching louder as she poured a pile of toffees on her desk and shoved another into the load.

Again, I stared at her. “Does it count if I’ve thought that someone else might be better off dead?”

She stopped chewing and held her mouth open, a syrupy goo of saccharine and pearlescent lipstick.

I continued, “That I thought of hurting someone else?”

As I said it I noticed the gleaming red handles of a pair of scissors that were casually laid next to her pile of toffees.

Revenge is sweet.