1800, France….or is it 2078, New Paris?

Strapped inside a corset, sweating under layers of cotton, I opened the door and stepped out.  A robot hovered past, feeding hot air up my petticoat.

‘Doctor…I think we’re slightly late for Napoloeon!’

picasso_doctor

For Trifextra.  The theme this weekend was ‘Time Travel’.  Could I have done anything else but the Doctor?!

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Journey’s End

A dark wave broke against the boat, tilting the starboard lip precariously close to the waterline; not for the first time, nor for the hundredth time.  The boat rocked on, cradling our nausea, nourishing our fear.

We were no seamen, not a single one of us. And yet, here we were; fourteen souls packed tight on a piece of wood barely qualifying for the term ‘boat’.

Adjoa screamed; a sound that cut through the thunder and made my insides hurt.

‘Shut that pie-hole, woman!’

Eniola sent a poisonous look in Paki’s direction and shifted slightly, barring Adjoa from Paki. He had been raising one hell after another since we left Libya, but Eniola had so far managed to contain him. Continue reading

A Summoning

Summer, you cruel devil, are you not done with me yet? Have my offerings in bucketfuls of sweat not been to your insatiable satisfaction?

Winter, you sweet thing, deliver me from this hell.

This was me tipping my hat at the seasons and, in so doing, answering the challenge the good people from Trifecta posed us this weekend:

Apostrophe: “A figure of speech in which some absent or nonexistent person or thing is addressed as if present and capable of understanding.”

Regarding my particular choice of Apostrophe…if you live were i do, where Summer lasts for eight whole months with daily temperatures of 35 degrees Celsius and humidity so high that the air you breath sticks to the sides of your nostrils and liquidates on its way down to your lungs…you would understand me better.

Hidden

I know a man who owns a mask.masks

It’s made of steel and covers his face.

He wears it often;

To hide his smile,

And his eyes.

But sometimes the mask is down;

When he is unawares.

But in those times

I see beneath.

I see flesh.

I see a smile,

And his eyes.

Do I like what I see?

Sometimes.

Only…

Once…

Just once…

The flesh slipped.

And I realised;

The flesh was not flesh,

But another mask.

Underneath there was another layer.

It was made of lead;

The fatal kind.

So,

Do I like what I see?

I don’t know.

In all these years,

I have never seen his face.

***

For Trifecta. The word this week is MASK.

Mauve Martins’ Secret

When Mauve tattooed the letter ‘M’ on her upper left arm, everyone simply assumed that she had tattooed the first letter of her name.

It was a nice tattoo.  Three inches wide and four inches long, the thin black outline of the ‘M’ was entwined with ivy spiralling up and down its edges.  It was a piece of art, no one denied that.

But when a second ‘M’ popped up right below the first one, some eyebrows were raised, some heads got cocked to the side.

‘Your initials, right? Mauve…it’s Martins, isn’t it?’ Mauve nodded and smiled thinly the first time someone asked that.  Then she just nodded.

The second ‘M’ had daisies sprouting out of the two parallel lines on the side.  The outline was black again, but the daisies were white with a yellow centre.  All in all, it complemented the green ivy quite well.

The scabs on the daisies hadn’t completely healed when a third ‘M’ materialised half way down Mauve’s left arm etched in front of a large pink lily.

Three ‘M’s.  Eyebrows were drawn in quizzical expressions.  Mauve just shrugged.

*

In the flat she shares with no-one, Mauve washes blood off her hands in the kitchen sink, brushing away at her fingernails using the steel, wiry sponge she usually uses to scrub pots with.

She wipes her hands on the dish towel and sits at the kitchen table where a High School yearbook is open.   A red cross quarters each of three different faces; Ivy Reynolds, Daisy Stevens, Lily O’Keefe.

Mauve grabs the red pen buried in the middle of the open book.  A smile snails its way up each cheek as another face is crossed; stroke, stroke.  Samara Lawrence.

Mauve reaches for a blank paper, sketches the four-by-three inch ‘M’ – her own chosen brand for ‘Murderer’ – and then pauses.  The pen hovers motionless for some long seconds until Mauve’s head shoots up, panic clouding her expression.

‘Samara…Samara…Samara…how the hell am I gonna pull this one off?’

 —

For Trifecta.  The word is BRAND.

This comes after a week-long  break from blogging…  *snigger-snigger* I was on holiday and ooohh have I enjoyed it!  ^__^

I missed writing though, so I’m glad I’m back with you all.

A Little Tooth Fairy Magic

When Mary visited the new dentist, his eyes twinkled at her before setting to work.  One by one every tooth needed mending giving Mary precisely enough visits to turn into Mrs Dentist.

 

Here is my offering for Trifextra this week with the word TOOTH.  

Last week I didn’t manage to submit my story for WEAK on time, but since I wrote it I thought I should post it anyway.  If you’re interested read on 🙂

The Strike

Kyle’s assurances sounded weak, hollow, even to him.  He was standing on the upturned casket that served as a low podium, barely a foot above the other heads.  But he was high enough to observe their changing expressions.

He remembered a time, not so long ago, when his words ignited fire. Men jumped at his command; much like that game his children used to play before the curfew set in.

Now, all his words did was aggravate the Union men.

“You said it would only last a few days.”  Murmurs of dissent echoed off the edges of the filthy crowd.

The strike had already been going on for three weeks and these men had children of their own to feed.

It wasn’t Kyle’s fault though.  Back in the old days, back when the bosses were human, strikes had had an effect; workers had had a say.  Kyle could never have predicted that the Authority would send the Bots in; that the workers who didn’t punch in would be picked off one by one and terminated. A human mind can never predict that.

“As long as we keep our heads together; keep a civil tongue in our mouths, they’ll take us back.”  That’s all he had to hope for now; forget the inhuman hours; forget the subhuman conditions that had sparked their protest. Their rivals weren’t human.  The rules of engagement were unknown.  The odds were insurmountable.