We write for fun
Exercise based on 'It's not your day'.
A Catty Tonic (By John)
Sometimes you know it’s not going to be your day. All I did was nudge Gemma’s moggy out of the way with my foot. Nothing vicious, nothing untoward, I mean cats do have nine lives so it was no big deal.
Or at least it shouldn’t have been.
The fit only lasted a minute. Legs kicked and jaws that had ripped apart tiny mice, helpless birds and more than one small dog snapped harmlessly at the air. I held my breath watching in horror as Mr Tibbykins breathed his last.
Gemma and I worked together and I’d been running her into work while her car was off the road. She couldn’t afford to fix it having spent a fortune on veterinary bills for the cat. The one I’d just killed.
‘Help yourself to coffee, Jason; I’ll be ready in a jiffy.’
‘Er, thanks but I’m fine.’
I looked at the scraggy ginger corpse and closed my eyes. This couldn’t happen, not when I’d finally convinced Gemma to see me as more than a friend. She was the real deal. Acres of wild brunette curls, doe like brown eyes and a figure made for modelling. This sweet innocent girl had no idea how beautiful she was. She was a dream made real and the kind of girl that only came to an ordinary guy like me once in a lifetime.
I should have been pleased about the cat’s demise. I’d only been introduced to Mr Tibbykins a month before but already had hate in my heart and scars on hand and face. To make it worse he slept on her bed, jealously guarding that hallowed place with eyes that promised savage retaliation on anyone fool enough to encroach. Not that I’d ever been invited to cross that threshold. I knew in my heart that my dislike of Gemma’s ginger soulmate was the thing holding us back…
‘Jason; can you feed Mr Tibbykins, there’s fresh chicken in the fridge.’
‘No problem.’
I couldn’t let her find the body. Not with me at the crime scene. I had motive and opportunity along with eyes that couldn’t lie. No way would she ever forgive or forget.
A rumble of hydraulics and the revving of an engine came with hope. It was bin day, which offered a cowards way out. Panic took over and I tore a rubbish sack from the roll. It wouldn’t open. Licking fingers I rubbed the damned bag between my palms praying for it to gape.
It didn’t.
Out of time I grabbed the cat by the tail and hurled it into the big grey wheelie bin by the back door, covering ginger fur beneath a full bag of rubbish from the kitchen.
Grabbing the bowl of chicken from the fridge I frantically scraped it into the bin; putting the bowl on the kitchen floor just as Gemma walked in.She looked amazing, and for a moment I forgot everything, but then she picked up the bowl and laughed.
‘Oh he’s such a piggy-winkle in the mornings. I’ve no idea where he puts it all.’
The kiss was full on and came with a delicious giggle that promised so much more. We broke apart, both of us breathless.
‘We have to go, but can you bring that bin out front for me.’
A shiver of shame ran through me as the bin rumbled through the narrow alley. She at least deserved to know that the cat wasn’t lost but the window for honesty was gone. I was shaking as we climbed into my car and the dustcart came into view. Gemma talked all the way to work but I had this black hole in my memory, her words getting sucked in and lost forever.
The kiss when we arrived at work was deep and meaningful. ‘Don’t worry Jason; you can choose the film if you want, I won’t make you watch something you don’t like. I’ll need to stop on the way home for salad though.’
‘Salad, yeah sure, and a romcom will be fine.’
‘Oh and I have to pick up the results of the scan so I know what’s causing the fits.’
‘You have fits?’
‘Not me silly, Mr Tibbykins. He does this thing where he has a fit then stops breathing. The first time I saw it I thought he was dead because he goes totally catatonic for ages. But then he’s fine… It could be a brain tumour.’
I held her while she cried visualising ginger fur being shredded by the jaws of a dustcart crusher. It was the single worst day of my life. By the time we finished work guilt had eaten through my armour and I was ready to do the right thing.
She had to be told.
Driving her away from work I tried several times to gather the courage but she hardly said a word, her face etched with worry. The news at the vets was good, or at least it should have been. She came out grinning, her arms straining under a whole stack of special cat food. I took a pack of those expensive little tins feeling even worse than before.
‘Er Gemma, I …’
She couldn’t wait to share her news and it bubbled right out of her.
‘There’s no tumour or epilepsy. He doesn’t know what’s causing it but thinks a special diet plan will help, isn’t that great?’
I couldn’t manage more than a forced smile as I loaded up the car. When we got to her place I carried the cat food in while she took the empty bin, the one that had been the cat’s coffin, and put it behind the kitchen door. I left the stack of food on the worktop and opened a bottle of wine.
We were both going to need it.
Sitting on the sofa I rolled my eyes to Heaven wishing I could turn back time; then as if my prayer had been answered a hissing ginger ghost leapt for my face. I caught him mid flight and threw him onto his back. His fur was a mess, like he’d been dragged through a hedge, or perhaps a dustcart, backwards. Venomous yellow eyes promised vengeance but I didn’t care, I was so pleased to see him that I tickled his belly and let him ball up around my hand and bite deep. I even laughed at the frenzied kicking of back paws as he ripped my knuckles to shreds.
A small delicate hand rescued me, plucking him up by the scruff. Dangling his limp body out in front of her she dropped him outside the back door.
‘You Mr Tibbykins can go outside until you learn to play nicely with Jason.’
I rinsed my bloody hand in the sink, watching in disbelief as Gemma locked down the cat-flap. She smoothed plasters over my wounds then kissed me, taking my good hand and leading me back into the lounge.
‘Sorry about Mr Tibbykins, but I think I have just the tonic to make you feel better.’
It might not have been my day but it certainly wasn’t the cat's; and from Gemma’s smile it could at long last be my evening…
Blind Date (By Lindel)
The waiter, impeccable in black and white, leads me to our table.
“I’ve arranged your special selections sir.”
The little cakes, equidistant on their platter are perfect. Tiny éclairs, fresh cream, dark scented chocolate, Battenbergs, pink and yellow squared slices, aroma of almonds. Millefeuille, bright white icing, red jam and fairy flakes of thinnest puff pastry.
“And the sandwiches?”
“On their way sir.”
Ah yes, here they come, here they come. There’s the trolley piled with my favourites; patum peperium, unseen from the dish but hiding inside, the merest hint of strong saltiness and anchovy. Egg and cress, palest yellow threaded with dainty green strands, and a quick grind of sea salt. Cucumber, queen of the tea table, translucent jade, a tiny dusting of black pepper. All on the freshest, thinly cut bread. No crusts, ever. All evenly and finely spread with slightly salted butter. All presented on another silver platter and crisp white lace doily. Each variety with its own signature shape, square for cucumber, oblong the patum and a triangle for the egg and cress. A glorious jigsaw of straight edges…
Where is she for heaven’s sake?
“Would Sir like me to make the tea now? Lady Grey your preferred leaf still?
I thank him and congratulate him on his memory; it’s been a year since I’ve seen him.
“Just two spoonfuls of tea leaves, thank you.”
The boiling water hits the leaves, I imagine them uncurling in the heat, delicious aroma, bergamot. The liquid gently changing colour, infusing, blushing with the alchemy.
Heads are turning, elbows nudging, here she comes, here She comes! A floating of orange chiffon, a swathe of green velvet, purple corduroy trousers, dark glasses with sparkling things around the rims.
She dresses by texture, colour is not her concern.
I stand to embrace her, and take her elbow, seat her beside me at our table for two. We say all those “… haven’t seen you for ages, so missed you,” pre-ambles. She smells of patchoulie and vaguely, the sea.
“You smell of bergamot and cakes, and ever so faintly of spaniel”
She smiles, and puts her hand on the table, I take it up and caress the long fingers, noticing the veins, noticing… is it sand under the short nails?
“Not getting any younger you and I.”
" Better start on the feast then, before it gets too late!”
“Any new passions, pastimes and general carrying on?” she asks.
“Just you and good food.”
I pass the sandwiches and watch as her sensitive fingers lightly brush the surface, she chooses one of each shape.
“And you?”
“Ah yes, conchology studies. Actually I’ve got some here in my bag.”
She rattles about in the beaded pouch and makes a row of twisted porcelain like treasures on the crisp white cloth.
Caressing each in turn she names them.
“A Zigzag Scallop. Smell the sea, hear the waves!”
Orange and brown geometrical patterning on the outside. Perfect spacing.
“Feel the inside, feel the silky smoothness…
And this one is an Atlantic Sundial, smell the salt, hear the sea.”
It’s coiled like a slice of chocolate Swiss roll.
I hand her the sandwich platter again.
“This is my favourite, for the moment, The Leafy Jewel Box, so small with its elegant flounces. I know all the Latin names of course, you know me, if I do it, I do it in detail, they are all from the Caribbean, my friend brought them back for me.”
“What friend?”
“Why? Are you jealous?”
“Of course.”
“Don’t be silly, you are the only one for me and you know it, after all these years! Hand me a Battenburg, the marzipan will go well with the bergamot.”
We eat our afternoon tea in this old-fashioned hotel. We are happy and sad.
“Well my dearest cake-eater” she says, “same date next year?”
“Same as always.”
I pay the bill and we walk out arm in arm, the white stick in her left hand taps lightly before her.
I'm not my Brother's Keeper (by James)
It's 2176. The summer was particularly long this year in Northern Europe. People reckon it started around March and ended sometime in the second week of November. There are calls now to abandon Spring and Autumn.
But I digress. This is about my brother.
There's not much you can do about a brother who just wants to use any machine to see how fast he can go. Jet car, sky hopper, even an AI travel unit, Josh would take it to pieces, rebuild it, add that extra something and push to the limits. Then go a bit further.
The writing was on the wall that something unpleasant was going to happen. Or maybe you could say Josh was on the wall. Not even the cleverest buffer unit, which all vehicles have to have these days, can save you when your sky hopper hits 1000 mph. And then hits the side of the government's new Debating Centre. It was quite remarkable that the rescue robots actually found any parts identifiable as belonging to Josh. The discovery of the head was extremely fortunate.
Josh. What can I say about him? The adventurer. The buccaneer. Hurtling around at this speed and that. He planned next year to pilot his own hand built orbiter up to the Moon. Then head on to Mars after he added some illegally acquired booster components. Reckoned he could establish a new speed record for the journey.
He'd already married twice. Firstly to Kurt, and later to Marsha. Personally I'm not keen on these triangular marriages but some people swear by them. Guess you're just have to call me old fashioned on that issue.
Josh. He was loud. He was happy. It's a cliché but the room lit up when he entered. Mind you, after ten minutes of his incessant enthusiasm about his latest speed project, many people did wish the light would dim a little. He could become an acquired taste.
Sorry it's taking me so long to compose this little piece. I think my Mind Cloud chip needs reinserting. I mentally dictate nearly every day to the iCloud and the flexidrive gets bunged up with my unnecessary thoughts. A blast through with Cloud Eraser and my writing will be back to normal. They'll have to be careful, of course. This other chip implant I had put in three days ago is still settling down. I keep getting strange nudges and unplanned-for thoughts. It'll just take a week or so to bed in.
As I was saying, finding Josh's head was miraculous. The extraction of his essential self was remarkably straightforward according to the memory surgeon. So now Josh sits neatly inside my head. His passions, his thoughts, his plans, his desires, all are resting there.
I entitled this piece 'I'm not my brothers' keeper'. That was just to get your attention.
You see, now I really am my brother's keeper.
Josh is downloaded inside my head. Quite amazing.
Although, if I'm honest, I'm not really looking forward to the sex with Kurt.
Me and you (by James)
Your words made bad sound good.
First met in a bar of best repute, my heels bringing our eyes level, you toasted my rear and dared a response. Catching my hand mid-strike, reactions belying glazed pupils, you belched apologies through teasing lips. Your grip, tightly taut, eased with fingers sliding over my rings, lowering arms and barriers in one movement.
A jousting evening, words sharp as lances, ended in more than sex, less than love, frantic fumblings turning rhythmic repetitions. Dawn you smoked, I stared; we both understood unsaid commitments. Lifestyles ricocheted, mine surfing above the board you trod beneath. But there was something about you, differently dangerous, drawing me down. We parted, no promises proffered, yet knowing our unparallel paths would collide again.
You were there, days not weeks after that meet, waiting, time counting, finger flicking, stepping in front as I exited the theatre. I smiled with excitement, trembled with fear, icy heat sliding up my arm as hands touched. You offered a meal, I offered my time; you paid with a gold card, I paid with my future. Sex followed sex, but the in-between was greater, revelations by you, risking dislike and distance, but gambling excitement and enticement.
That dawn I was hooked, undesirous to leave, to taste delights outside my history, dangers never forewarned by mothers, highs that made all previous like the lowest of lows. You talked, I swallowed, a legend painted for creation. You showed me guns, cold metal warming my skin, as erotic as any lovemaking, and never flagging. You showed me plans, explained simplicity, like the teacher leading a pupil, an innocent and unfilled vacuum. I never left your side again.
The first was dim-lit basement cavern, high rollers high-rolled, barrels at temples, courage lapping their ankles. Money bundled in bags, more than six months my earnings, crumpled papers passing their dirt deep under fingernails. We laughed and tumbled on beds, counting lost after ten thousand, knowing we'd consummated something special.
The next lifted limits, precious jewels dropping dew-like into satchels, braceleted bangles imitating celestial rainbows sliding as they slid inside pockets, watches ticking out their worth as spilt unwound into boxes. You gun-butted an assistant, just because you could, I sneered at his powerlessness and kissed your barrel. We tyre-roared away, Bonnie and Clyde updated.
Bank cashiers blanched and blasphemed, audacity admired, as just two dared the biggest deposits in town. I toted a double barrel, upgraded upstart you jeered, daring a movement, desiring to trigger. Pale-faced near-retiree sweated his age, fingers dropped from position, I pulled and oblivion welcomed him. Exhilaration ensured, yelling for the next, you pulled me out, millions left blowing in the wind.
We drove, motoring one step ahead, light cases lightly travelled, motels our mansions, gas stations our resorts. Criss-crossing county lines, states becoming states of mind, stopping to shoot up with shooters, sexing the evenings like animals at rut, nothing could stop us, until we stopped ourselves.
Sitting atop grass-laden cliff, sunning our guns and baking our loot, you looked, and your eyes said 'Hey, enough.' I laughed, joking your party piece, but tiredness in pupils sold me your truth. We fired the car, our child in tow, looked over the edge, remembered Butch and Sundance, Thelma and Louise, hovered hijinxed then jumped. Back. Back into reality, cry-laughing to the next new town.
And our next new life.
.