Dancing in the 70's

There was dancing in the 70's

so they say

At cheese-and-wine parties

in small flats 

with exotic house plants

and stylish furnishings,

where newlyweds

and their smartly dressed friends 

tried to forget

the Swinging 60's

and move on.

(Yes I see the photo says 1966, but this was my first instinct. Linking back, for your delectation, to Magpie Tales 256, please visit for more fantastical interpretations.)

Magpie Tales 214

The busyness, the rush of planning and preparation, had prevented her really thinking about the moment of Anna's leaving. That last night she lay in the half dark listening to her husband's soft snores, all the time aware of her daughter's continued presence in the next room, unable to imagine its lack. She was still awake, at least it felt that way, when she heard the heating boiler fire up at six, so she slipped from under the quilt and padded down to the kitchen. From the window she watched a lone blackbird at the top of the apple tree summon the morning. It arrived unceremoniously. Taking a cup of tea back upstairs she tapped on her daughter's bedroom door and opened it. Anna was standing at the window pulling open the curtains. As the sunlight shafted through it glinted off the cloud of dust motes falling around her and haloed her hair in golden light. She handed Anna the cup and they stood and looked around. The room was bare without the clutter of adolescence; the bed looked old and rather shabby, the makeshift desk marked with scratches and stains. 
"I'll miss it," Anna said, sipping her tea.
That was all she wanted to hear.

(Feeling nostalgic at the thought of baby birds flying the nest.)
(Linking back to Magpie Tales)

on the beach - The Mag 159

In the gap between her eyelashes the sun glinted off the fine dusting of sand that stuck to the hairs of her arm, each grain making a tiny shadow like a freckle on her skin. Nothing existed beyond that except the glistening water and the gentle ripple as the waves rolled in and back out in a ceaseless rhythm. The back of her calves prickled in the heat and a single drip of salt water reached the end of a lock of hair then dripped and trickled with cool exquisite slowness across her shoulder. Beneath her fingers tiny sand avalanches fell from tiny dunes. The art of it was not to move, to barely breathe, that way you could hold it in suspended animation. The sky a perfect blue; the sea a perfect green; the utter stillness of the warm air; as if the whole of life had been leading up to this place and time there was not a single thing to do but lie here in this moment of utter bliss.
Tomorrow, she promised herself. Tomorrow she'd tell the kids that the jelly fish had all gone.

(Linking back Magpie Tales)

Tell me - Mag 157

Venus de Milo with Drawers, 1936, Salvador Dali

Tell my what you're thinking
she asked,
(not for the first time)
Allow me just a glimpse
of what goes on
inside your head;
no need to lay bare
your very heart and soul,
nor to spill your guts
nor vent your spleen.
Your obfuscation
and avoidance
of this simple question
is driving me
to distraction.
Please tell me what you
are thinking?
He sighed and smiled
enigmatically.
Nothing much,
he replied.


(Linking back to Magpie Tales 157)

Not at any price - Mag 156

The best view of maple trees was from the drawing room window, bleak and naked but still beautiful; her husband had planted them as a young man to flank the formal garden, though now the ornamental ponds were dry and crumbling, and the rosebushes long since gone wild. That morning she made her way laboriously up to Frederick's room that faced north, out towards the town. Her fingers rested momentarily on the moth-eaten rocking horse and it creaked back and forth a time or two, raising dust motes into the stream of weak sunlight. She did not have to wait long. Last night's rain had sunk the remains of the paving under deep puddles and the car skidded and slithered up the rutted driveway, the tracks of its previous fruitless visits still evident. The two men got out and picked their way carefully towards the steps. Celestine admitted them to the hall so they would have the most impressive view of her descent. The faded grandeur of the vast gently sweeping staircase allowed her to look down haughtily at the same time as disguising her increasing frailty. She greeted them graciously enough but offered no refreshment. 
"Lets get down to business shall we Mrs Everett," said the taller man, removing a sheaf of papers from the briefcase. "I have been authorised to make you a much improved offer for the property. We appreciate the deep emotional attachment of your family to this house and feel this represents a very generous recompense for your loss."
She perused the papers, her eyes alighting on the figure at the bottom. She sighed. It had been worth the extra six months in the draughty, damp wreck of a building; Annette had been a fool to settle at the first offer, now she was rid of this place and her retirement in the sun was guaranteed.

(Linking back to Magpie Tales 156 for other contributions. Image: Wind of History by Jacek Yerka)

Knees - Magpie Tale 155

It was raining as he came out of the supermarket, a broken downpipe spouted water onto the pavement and washed the cigarette butts into the gutter. The bag wasn't heavy but as he shifted it to his other hand one of the handles broke and its contents lurched awkwardly forcing him to bundle the whole lot into his arms as he set off for the bus stop. As he sat waiting his eyes travelled aimlessly into the window of the cafe behind. He saw a pair of knees under the table by the door and they seemed familiar, not that he was familiar with many pairs of knees, but the sturdy curve of the calf muscle was unmistakeable. She had been on the hockey team, so they were regularly on display at Thursday afternoon practices. He would never have dared to speak to her, she was just one of those unapproachable girls, but he would often watch from the staffroom window while he marked essays. Then he had been the only one around the afternoon of her accident. Mrs Williams had practically carried her up from the field with blood pouring from a nasty gash, a piece of broken glass in the mud by the goal she said. She had sat in the office looking ghostly and Mrs Williams had just grabbed him and told him to 'keep the pressure on' while she called an ambulance. He had crouched, for what seemed like an eternity, the sodden wad of paper towels warm in his hand as he pressed it against her thigh. As he watched now the couple shifted in their embrace. He didn't know the boy. She had cut her hair. And then she opened her eyes and caught sight of him. He looked away, pretending not to have really noticed. Mercifully the bus approached but as he got up the door opened and they emerged. She smiled at him, seemed genuinely pleased. 
"I thought it was you. I never got the chance to say thanks before you left. Look, it healed really well, hardly a scar." She lifted her skirt slightly to expose a faint white line on the tanned skin.
He didn't look down, but smiled and nodded vaguely. 
"My bus," he gestured as it pulled up. "Nice to see you Cassie."
"Bye then. Thanks again Mr Wilcox."
He did not look back as the bus pulled away. 

(Linking back to Magpie Tales 155 where you can read other contributions)

satsuma

the man across the aisle wore the tallit beneath his jacket
I noticed as he stood up and I saw the knotted fringe.
I hold Jewishness in a curious kind of awe
so many rules to govern the simplest things in life.
he munched hungrily on a tuna sandwich
the noise of his eating and snuffled breath reverberating in the 'quiet' coach
then peeled a satsuma and the sharp citrus tang tickled my nostrils.
I awoke from a fitful sleep as we reached Euston
to see him folded uncomfortably into the tiny space
his knees tucked up against the seat in front.
it seems there was no rule pertaining to that.