This on-going collection of stories has been and are being written in my current home on the Côte d’Azur. Many of the tales are based in and around the town I call Medville, others are situated in Scotland, and the remainder take place in less exceptional parts of this and other worlds.
Mysterious and enigmatic, served with a splash of humour, nothing here is ever quite what it seems.
Expect the unexpected. There is always a twist in the tail. Nearly.
This challenge is produced by GirlieOnTheEdgewith the following simple rules: Write 6 Sentences. No more. No less. Use the current week’s prompt word – DISTRACTION
Click here to hear the author read his words:
Every night has its own sounds.
We hear internal noises, the creak of the water pipes, the groan of the heating system as it cools, and sometimes the drip of a tap, difficult to ignore.
There are also external distractions common to apartment blocks everywhere, like the click of heels in a corridor, the far-off music of a long-dead jazz pianist, doors being closed too loudly and, through the shutters, the wail of a cat hoping to escape the rain.
A motorbike engine sixty metres away drowns out the wind, now rustling silently through the parasol pines and plane trees that surround my home, my sanctuary.
Normally none of this disturbs my peace or, in fact, has anything to do with me.
But tonight, I realise with mounting horror, there is another noise, and it does.
Grey. Dreich. Depressing. Twenty years since I’ve been here, and I know why I left. But it’s my home town, where I fell in love for the first time. I wander down High Street, and my heart leaps. She is coming out of a café with a good-looking guy, arms linked. Her smile tells me that, even at this distance, she recognises me. I cross over, say hello. How’s your mum, I ask. They look at each other. Not long now, he says, and she nods. This place’s still a dump, she says, taking my hand. Let’s go home.
the wind dances down the valley of the Rhone and kisses the Golfe du Lion before turning eastward and following the coast to Medville
she comes in many forms gentle soothing caressing her lightness of touch bringing welcome relief from summer heat or she arrives suddenly in anger stripping the golden mimosa blasting sand into the eyes of beach-worshippers hurling garden furniture into swimming pools raging for three days and nights
which is why although in French le vent is masculine I cherish her in the depths of my soul as a lady
but now as weather patterns change increasingly she blows from the east from Italy and beyond or from the south carrying the dust of the Sahara
and as she meanders further northward she tugs at my memories and tempts me and my heart yearns to follow
Président Macron speaks of ‘Les gens qui réussissent et les gens qui ne sont rien’*, as he turns France into an over-controlled, over-surveilled police state. Jacob Rees-Mogg jokes about ‘happy fish’ while the Scottish fishing industry is devastated by Brexit. He also amuses himself by unfunny alliteration, like ‘bands of blighters’, referring to asylum-seekers. This vile creature is part of Liar Johnson’s inner circle, as they rape the UK with blatant corruption and cronyism. This level of contempt from politicians towards the general population presages a new generation of fascism comparable to 1930s Nazi Germany. Democracy is in meltdown.
* ‘People who succeed and people who are nothing’. Please note, not people who do nothing, or people who have nothing, but people who ARE nothing.
There are three different breeds of these savage creatures. The Furry Hillside Haggis has two short and two long legs, and hunts bairns on the slopes of the misty mysterious Ben. The Wild Marine or Sea-Water Haggis has a shell of steel and claws like daggers, and if you tempt them onto the rocks, you can sometimes trap them in a stout wooden box. But the Three-legged Nasty Haggis has sharp teeth and feathers, and scurries around under the heather, ready to attack knees or anything else under the kilt. Ah, the Highlands, the most romantic spot on earth.
This challenge is produced by GirlieOnTheEdgewith the following simple rules: Write 6 Sentences. No more. No less. Use the current week’s prompt word – BOWL
Click here to hear the author read his words:
The night that Death came we were all sitting round the table at Sunday dinner. He wasn’t what I expected, not at all like Monty Python’s cowled skeleton with a scythe, just a nondescript wee man in a grey nondescript suit, although he had about him, I admit, a certain gravitas and an air of finality. He studied each of us in turn, with a seemingly regretful shake of his head, then paused when he reached Grandma. He nodded, she nodded back and sighed, but when she asked if she had time to get ready he said nothing, so she put her spoon into her unfinished bowl of jelly and ice cream, vanilla with raspberry sauce, coughed politely to excuse herself from the table, stood, and went to get her coat. He waited for a few moments, while we looked somewhat awkwardly at each other (small talk seemed rather inappropriate, even Auntie Annie ceased her inane wittering, a small blessing given the circumstances) but carefully not at him, and then he followed her. We never saw either of them again, but I guess it’s just a question of time.