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.

Corsica

Dear Agnes
Thank you so much for popping in to water the aspidistra for me this week, George was annoyed at himself for forgetting about it before we left. The trip has been quite an experience. It is so hot I am wilting, even in the shade. George bought a straw hat which looks utterly ridiculous but he seems to think it gives him a continental air. My new sandals have rubbed a blister on my little toe but I am hobbling on regardless. I do hope you've got that problem with the porch light sorted out.
With love,
Bernice

Isle of Man

Dear Agnes,
The crossing was fine, considering. I walked George three times round the deck to ward off the seasickness; I'm a seasoned traveller as you know but he did complain for quite a while and then we settled down in the restaurant to share a bacon butty. I must say it felt a bit like going abroad but once we got here it was just like England. I let George have kippers for breakfast yesterday morning and then wished I hadn't, his breath smelt something awful, so today we kept to cornflakes. 
Wishing you were here.
With love,
Bernice

Dear Agnes

Dear Agnes
We are in Torbay for the week, recommended by the doctor, for George to get some sea air. It has been so blustery and the poor palm trees on the front have been battered almost to death. My scarf blew off, you know, that lovely mauve silk one that mother gave me her last Christmas, and we chased it right down onto the sand, where it landed in the sea, fortunately the tide was incoming at the time. I hope Bernard is feeling better and not keeping you up at night like the last time.
With love
Bernice


(Returning to 100 Words in preparation for NaNoWriMo. Inspired by a postcard at work, just the name and the place it had come from and decided to do a series of 'postcard' messages.)

Letters

all we had
thoughts and desires entrusted to paper
consumed, sniffed, caressed, secreted
the words less important 
than the piece of paper
mundanities savoured with anticipation
'how was work'
'I thought of you'

now boxed and bound
quelled, extinguished
passion tempered by reality
but kept
so that in my dotage 
I might relive the way it felt
to be in love


(Linking back to The Poetry Jam where the theme is 'Letters'. Visit for more contributions.)

Fridge poetry

The trouble with magnetic fridge poetry sets is that the choice of vocabulary almost forces you to write in a certain way. Some words leap out at you (like 'breast' and 'chocolate') and just demand to be used. And some have obviously been included to complement each other. Some words are annoying in their absence. So I have a go at writing 100 words ... and this is what I come up with:

Creature left me the following message in the middle of the night:
So this morning while my tea brewed it became this, by a process of mere word substitution, still 100 words:

strange beings

They came out of the mist, unsteadily, the tufts of grass and uneven ground was difficult for them to navigate and their ungainly stride made a faintly ridiculous sight. Their intent was unclear but it was argued amongst the professional observers that it was plain they carried no obvious weaponry. The more wary advised a cautious approach with defensive preparations kept in close reserve. Hysteria was inevitable however, one faction rushing for the hills, the other reaching for their guns.

It was assumed they must communicate by some kind of telepathic method, there was no obvious oral or any other sensory communicating organ. Their limbs were stiff and indicated a preference for some kind of powered movement. They appeared superficially homogenous but on closer inspection the subtle differences in their surface markings demonstrated an individuality comparable to humans.

The ship that hovered above bore a distinct resemblance to a welsh dresser, the rows of willow patterned plates rotating slowly and emitting a quiet hum. The blanket of white had concealed the means by which they had descended to the surface. We waited. They waited. It seemed a standoff was developing, neither wishing to make the first move for fear it be a faux pas.

Then an unassuming volunteer stepped forward. She seemed to have some instinct about the strange beings and they reciprocated, parting awkwardly to gather her into their fold. She looked back once and was gone.

(Linking back to Magpie Tales 91. Finding myself a little surreal today. My first thought on seeing the image was the scene at the end of Close Encounters where the bloke goes up into the space ship surrounded by all those weird little aliens ... go figure.)

Man Mountain

Although his tall frame had withered quietly with the passing of the years Rose had always thought of Mr Mountain as a big person. Maybe it was just the memory of their first meeting when she had crawled from under the hedge and found him on the other side. The box that emerged from the back of the hearse looked as if it could not possibly contain him.

The gathering was small, just a nephew and his wife who had driven up from Stroud and a handful of stalwarts from the village, and herself. The memorial on the neighbouring plot somehow made her feel unreasonably irritated. Why did people think so much of themselves that they felt the need for such ostentatious megaliths, since it was never really there for the dead person but for the visitors who came to mourn. She tried to bring her attention back to the muted murmuring of the vicar but it all seemed so irrelevant. She thought fondly of the time he had rowed them out to the duck island on the boating lake and the duck call he had bought specially for her to try and lure them out. She suddenly had an almost irrepresable desire to sing 'Toot Sweets.'

(An out-take from my NaNoWriMo novel, but I like it so much I might put it in.

Linking back to Magpie Tales 90)

quick brown foxes

I taught myself to type after I left Polytechnic, on my mother's old manual typewriter, by typing 'the quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog' over and over. It has all the letters of the alphabet, so gradually you learnt where they all are on the keyboard. You had to pay close attention in those days, there was no going back and erasing the mistakes. And you had to hit the keys pretty hard. None of this namby pamby tap tap tapping, it went clunk, clunk, and at the end of each line sprung back with a loud 'ka-ching'.

(Linking back to Magpie Tales 89)

untitled

Today I don't want to write 100 words. I can't be bothered. I have sat and stared at this stupid little empty square. I am tempted to just write 99 and see if it will tell me off. Because I seem to be doing everything wrong today. I chose the wrong day apparently to feel pissed off and taken for granted. Because today was the day when I was supposed to be strong, competent, supportive parent. Today I get accused of being unapproachable and judgemental. When I am asked for help i have never turned any of them away. Ever.

First NaNo meeting

The anxiety started to build as we waited for the tram. Creature was convinced we were 'late', I said I bet there would be hardly anyone there yet. It was half past by the time we got off at Market Street, though we were reassured to see the place across Piccadilly Gardens, right where she thought it was. It was crowded inside so I asked and was directed towards the back. We weaved through the bar, were briefly concerned at the sight of a random group of middle aged blokes, and then we saw the signs on the tables, 'NaNoWriMo'.

Macaroni cheese

It's a macaroni conspiracy. You go to the cupboard and invariably most of it has escaped from the packaging and you have to sweep it up from the shelf. Or there is only that stuff that you bought in an emergency and it was never very nice, far too starchy so it stuck together when it cooked, so it was left at the back uneaten. Or you've got a lovely new packet, specially bought for tonight and the packet bursts and spills its contents across the kitchen floor. But a good cheesy sauce can effectively cover all manner of sins.

(another inspired by Creature who is downstairs cooking her favourite dinner)

bad news

A siren sounded in the distance but somehow he knew that it was not coming to his rescue. He stood back in the corner of the room and tried to calm himself. In only a few minutes they would be there and he was supposed to be in control, at least of himself if not the situation. The door opened and the men filed cooperatively to their desks. He took a deep breath and began handing out the assignments. "Well Mr Manson, I'm sorry, but you'll have to re-write that essay, it's really not up to your usual standard."

(Feeling uninspired Dunk found a random writing prompt generator for me and it came up with 'a teacher gives some bad news to a mass murderer')

road rage

Eunice's knees were feeling particularly bad that morning, and she hadn't slept well, so the move from her bed to the chair was going to be a slow one. Her slippers were as she left them the night before, just under the edge of the bed. She shuffled with her walker to the bathroom and relieved herself noisily, sighing with pleasure. She put in her false teeth and peered closely at her face in the mirror. Then she ran her brush through her fine hair and coiled it into a tiny bun. She shuffled on, and in the kitchen made coffee and toast. It was difficult to walk and carry so cup and plate where shifted to the edge of the counter, then to the telephone table by the door, then to the coffee table by her chair. She finally sat down and sighed again, settling herself with the Radio 4 news.

The first sip of coffee was interrupted by a loud crunch and the blaring of car horns. Eunice pulled herself to her feet again and leaned against the window frame to see down to the street. Two big expensive cars were stopped directly below. Already both drivers were out of their cars and angrily blaming the other for the collision. She opened the window a little wider, took from her windowsill a glass paperweight, and pitched it smack in the centre of the first car's windscreen. In the stunned silence that followed she sat back and picked up her coffee.

(Linking back to Magpie Tales 88.)