Day 18

Your character gets in a taxi but the driver takes has their own ideas about where they're headed...

I threw my case into the back seat, and told the driver where I wanted to go. He nodded and kicked the meter on, and started the vehicle. For the first few miles, my mind was elsewhere, wondering what had happened and how I was going to resolve the problem.

I hadn’t meant it to end like this. I hadn’t meant it to end at all. Where had it gone wrong?. Was it because I had assumed too much. Did we not mean as much to each other as I thought? Were we not meant to be together for ever and a day?

My thoughts spiraled round like a hamster in a cage. I was unsure whether to cry or to rage at the world. My only desire was to put as much space between him and me as I possibly could.

Gradually my breathing calmed, and as I gazed out of the grimy cab window, I realized that we didn’t seem to be heading in the direction of the airport. I tapped on the glass separating passengers from the driver, and shouted for him to turn round. I needed to get to the airport. I had to fly home. I couldn’t stand being in this city any longer.

The driver looked back at me through the rear view mirror, but said nothing in response to my voice. I shouted again, and banged like a madwoman on the shatterproof glass . I even took my shoe off and used that as a hammer. There was still no response, and no backward glance this time.

I grabbed the door handle. It wouldn’t turn. The doors were locked and I was in a taxi that wasn’t going where I needed to be.

Panic rose in my throat. I screamed at the driver; tried to wind down the windows to call out for help. Nothing in the rear of that vehicle would open for me.

I should have been concentrating when we set off; if I had not let my thoughts drift into the reasons why, I would have noticed we weren’t heading in the right direction for the airport.

What to do now? I had no idea. Where could he be taking me? Was I about to be assaulted or worse, killed. Once again the panic rose, threatening to overwhelm me. I squirreled deep into my handbag; did I have anything I could use as a weapon; no, I have removed everything that could be considered as useful, in preparation for the security check at the airport.

I unlocked my case. Was there anything in there that might work …… a bottle of perfume, some books spare shoes, my camera…………. My camera! I could take a photo of the driver and his meter number, at least when I was found, they’d have something to identify him! I pulled it from the jumbled clothing and raised it to take that snapshot of the back of his head.

The flash almost blinded me, reflecting back from the glass. For a moment I couldn’t see clearly, but as my vision cleared, I could see that the photo had not come out well enough to identify the meter number.

Still thinking hard, I rummaged again, tossing the camera back into the case. So concentrated was I, that it wasn’t till the vehicle started to slow down that I realized my time was up. Looking up from my task of trying to find some sort of weapon, I realized that we were close to a street that I felt I knew. What was this? As the taxi pulled to a halt, the rear doors unlocked and I scrambled out, heart racing. I grabbed my bags and set them down on the pavement.

I turned to face the driver …….. what the hell were you thinking of. I wanted the airport, why have you brought me here………………. Still shouting, I stopped, shocked into silence as firm hands gripped my shoulders. A scream was rising in my throat as I was turned quickly around to face…………….. him.

I didn’t want you to go, he said, so I paid the taxi driver to bring you back. Forgive me. Please come back, it was all my fault. Sobbing , I fell into his arms.

****

“Piccadilly Circus.”

The driver merely nodded as I clambered into the car. Far too absorbed with the phone in my hand, I didn’t see the hungry way he had looked at me, sizing me up. It didn’t even cross my mind that his intentions could be anything but honourable. Sure, I heard the stories but who honestly believed it could ever happen to them?

I certainly hadn’t.

It was why I didn’t react quickly enough when he pressed the small square of fabric against my face , leaving me defenseless to the fumes that crept through my nose, taking my consciousness with me.

And just like that my life was taken from me. One mistake is all takes.

I guess that’s why I’m writing this. People need to know that it does happen. I’m not even sure if anyone will find this but I’ve got to try right? I need to tell somebody, anybody. He’s the only one I see now and he has never talked to me, like properly, a real conversation. He just barks his instructions, threats, whatever you want to call it. It has been seven long years since I saw any face apart from his.

Even my memories are no longer enough. The faces of my friends, my family, the people I left behind have long since blurred unrecognizably. It is as if they are nothing more than a dream, a fantasy about a happier time.

This room is my life.

Gone. The rest is gone now. I would give everything to get it back but I know I can’t. In those first few weeks, I fought as hard as I could. Of course, I did. I screamed until no more sound would come. I hit him, kicked him, bit him. It’s human nature. The will to survive.

It wasn’t too long until I realized it was pointless. He wasn’t human so I couldn’t beat him. He was something else; the monster nobody wanted to believe exists.

If he finds this he’ll laugh at me, at my foolishness but I don’t care, not anymore. This is my lifeline. Here, in this room, it is far too easy to lose yourself. Days are stretched, each hour excruciating. I’m no longer a part of the world but trapped within these four walls. The only thing I have left is my own thoughts but I fear that they too will soon be snatched from me.

They are all I have left.

I can not lose them.

So here it starts the memoirs of a missing woman.

The woman the world forgot.

Day 17

Put on music while you work and see what happens...

He heard the sound again. It drifted, wisp-like on the breeze. He strained with all his being to catch the harmony, to listen to the music. He looked around; no-one else appeared to be hearing anything. Walking off to one side of the picnic crowd, he brushed close to the edge of the cliff that rose above the rippling motion of the sea below him. It did seem to be coming from that direction, and yet, he could not be sure.

“Be careful” he heard the shouted warning” the edge might break away! It’s not safe, come away”.

The spell was broken, the music faded from his hearing . He turned from his view of the sea and walked back to the group of his laughing friends and family. “Sit down” he was invited” you’ll miss all the food , if you don’t sit down’ He complied willingly, sitting between his cousins and looking at all the dishes being brought out of the wicker baskets.

Fresh bread, cheeses, hams, salads, pastries, fruit; plates, glasses and cutlery were being displayed on the blankets now surrounded by the chattering group. Bottles of good wine, and home=made lemonade appeared from the depths of the baskets , and eager hands thrust glasses to the person who was ready to uncork and pour. His cousins leaned past him to gather the foods they fancied and then allowed him space to serve himself with some crusty bread and cheese and fruit.

Silence descended like a blanket, only disturbed by the sounds of eating, and the clatter of cutlery on plates.

The natural sounds of the world intruded only slightly; the humming of the bees, busily collecting the pollen in the heather on the clifftop, birds wheeling and calling in the air currents sweeping up from the sea.

Replete with good food and in some cases, refreshment of an alcoholic nature, the group of picnickers returned all the used and now empty food containers and utensils to their places in the wicker baskets and many lay out on the blankets to enjoy the warming rays of the late afternoon sun. Shadows slanted low across the grassy cliffs. Some of the group walked slightly inland to examine the ring of standing stones to examine the mossy circle of granite. Others simply lay, totally relaxed.

He remembered the stories he had been told about the stones; they held ancient magic; they were the bodies of fallen warriors, never to return; they had been carried to this place from far away by giants of another land. So many stories, but the stones were not what carried the music that only he could hear. That came from the sea. He knew that now; deep in his soul it was calling to him and to him only.

He followed the music to the edge of the cliff; it was no longer a faint whisper on the breeze lifting the birds into the spiralling air currents. ; it crashed and thundered like the waves below. The wind rose again, lifting the pale blond hair on his head; the hairs on his arms crackled with the energy he was feeling from the booming music of the water.

Lifting himself as high as he could on his toes, his arms outstretched as though to fly with the gulls, he stepped over the edge.

****

With weary movements he pushed open the door, ready for another night of loneliness. A surprised smile tugged at his lips when he heard the faint sounds of his wife’s singing. It had been months since the sound could be found in their apartment. Although it was out of tune and far from perfect, he couldn’t help but love it. If she was singing again, it meant she must be happy once again, or at least on her way there.

Letting the sound guide him through the halls, he reminisced about the first time he had heard the sweet melody. His chest had tightened with joy when he had seen the sheer bliss on her face as she had sung. That had been the moment he had decided to put a ring on her finger. Things had started well between the two of them, the honeymoon period stretching from a month to a year, one whole perfect year. Fights were resolved, decisions made but all with a smile and a look of love.

And then her mother had passed away.

Suddenly her ever present smile vanished. The woman who had lightened a room drew into herself, became little more than an empty shell, a shadow.

Her mother, who had been a single parent, was her best friend and without her, it was as if things became too much. He had tried to help her – of course he had – but it was if she couldn’t hear him, let alone see him. For days on end, she stayed in bed with the curtains drawn. When he returned from work in the evenings, the food he ahd put out were barely touched, as were the meals he brought each night.

He had watched in despair as the pounds dropped from her, her hair losing the glossy look he had always loved. The woman he loved was disappearing before his eyes and he didn’t know how to stop it.

Although he hated to admit it, there had been moments when he had wanted nothing more than to leave. As he coaxed into a shower, did his best to keep things working, he had wondered what he would do if she didn’t get better. The thought was fleeting but the guilt was not.

He had remembered the promises he had made and knew that he wouldn’t leave her, couldn’t leave her.

She turned when she heard his footsteps. The smile had widened; she was back. The radio which had been as silent as her, was blaring as she busied herself in the kitchen. The hurt was still there, as it would be for a while yet, but it was finally under her control.

“I thought we’d have lasagna tonight?” There was an unspoken apology, a plea for forgiveness in her voice.

“That’d be great,” he said and he meant it, because he was sure of one thing. He loved her and always would, no matter what.

Day 16

Rewrite your story from a different perspective

So, as I listened to the replies that Mrs. Blank gave me, I was wondering how this could have happened. I call her Mrs Blank, because the whole case is sub judice, you see. I can’t tell you her name because it might get out to the press and that’s more than my jobs worth.

Who am I? I’m the person who was first on the scene. Terrible it was. I’ve seen some horrible sights in my time with the Force, but this was rare for a town as small as this one. I was the one who had to interview the neighbor. Fat lot of good she was, all shaking and throwing up. Can’t blame her, mind; it was nasty, and if you’re not used to seeing dead bodies, it is hard. The more so, because of all the blood around this one.

Still she did her best to remember and tell me what had led up to her being the one to go to the house, and what she found there. Her description of the smell was right on ; it did smell like rotten meat . Bit warm for a dead body to hang around.

Mind you, her information didn’t even fill a page in my notebook. It seems she didn’t really know the neighbor who lived in that house very well, except that she was pretty normal. My superintendent won’t be too pleased with that bit of info. He likes to have villains who are definitely villain looking, if you know what I mean?

I mean, who could imagine that a normal woman in a normal little neighbourhood like this, would go that berserk. Then walk off down the street like she didn’t have a care in the world – and that’s after asking someone to pop round and water her plants. That’s really being cool and collected, that is.

Shall we find her; well, we’ll give it a good go. I suppose she must have had a good twenty four hour start on us, so the investigation trail will be pretty cold by now. Yes, they’ll block the airports and the docks in case she makes a run for it to get abroad, but if it was me, I’d lay low and keep quiet for a couple of years,. Perhaps have a bit of plastic surgery and change the hair colour. It wouldn’t be that difficult.

Fingerprints? No , not that I’ve heard. Plastic gloves, I expect, and probably no clothes on while she was doing it either, that way then all the blood will be washed off down the shower. Oh, yes, they can check the water in the drains to see if it there’s any residue. Will they catch whoever did it? Be nice to think so, don’t you think. Whether they will or not is another matter, entirely.

What do I think?

I think the neighbor who found it will be having nightmares for a long time, poor cow.

****************************************************************************************************************************************

Josh,

I’m sorry but I can’t make tonight. I’ve just been really busy and I think I need some time to myself.

I’ll call you.

Mia

He was surprised to feel hurt bubble through his chest. It was not an emotion he was normally subjected to. That was something weak people felt and if there was one thing he hated, it was being vulnerable. The moment you let your guard down, that was when people struck. He had been stupid to let Mia in, he knew that now but something in the way she had smiled had made him think he could trust her.

One thing was for sure, he wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

He had had enough of her mind games.

The streets were strangely empty as he raced through them, or so he thought, blinded by his feelings. How dare she make him feel like this? What gave her the right to change him so? His life had been just fine until she had waltzed in. He didn’t want to fall in love with her. More than anything, he didn’t want to be who he was with her. There was something about her that brought out the worst in him, pushed him over the edge.

She didn’t answer when he knocked at her door but he had expected this – she never did. It was one of the many problems they faced. She always ran. Mia was not one to deal with a problem, she never had been. Maybe if they had found the courage to admit there were problems, to try and fix it, things wouldn’t be like this.

He shouted until his voice was hoarse, the skin on his fist raw from the contact with the door.

Only then did let his hand fall to his side, defeated. He could still feel it, the pang in his chest, as he trudged towards his favourite haunt.

“Back again?” asked the barmaid, sliding his usual drink towards him. The hurt had morphed with anger now. She had abandoned him, leaving him to face it alone. Why did she always do that?

He knew he had made some mistakes, still felt the guilt but he hadn’t meant it. He had been so frustrated at the way she shirked the issue; he knew it was no excuse but it was true. All he had wanted was for her to face up to it but no, she couldn’t do that.

She was too damn weak.

He had lost count of the drinks when a familiar song had began to play. It was their song. It had been playing the first time he had set eyes upon her. He had been transfixed by her smile, the honest look on his face. If only he had known how untrustworthy she could be he would never have taken that risk, made himself so vulnerable.

They were just two people who never should have been together. Putting them together had been fate’s mistake. It was like taking a lit match onto an oil rig. There was only one outcome.

It was only when he woke late the next day, still fully dressed and swearing he would never drink again did he hear of the poor girl’s death.

She was in the wrong place, he thought, a victim of a broken hearted man.

Day 15

Write a story that includes a blind man, a tent and a train

When I was a child I would lay awake early in the cold frosty mornings listening to the squabbles of the jackdaws on the roof, and hearing the panting of the steam train starting its day in our local station.

Even though the station was a couple of miles across my father’s fields, I could still hear that extraordinary sound clearly through the still air. As I grew up it was usually the signal that it was time to emerge from the cocoon of blankets that were keeping me warm ; push back the covers and dash to the bathroom for a quick wash. It was too cold to do much more than jump into clothes that had been nestled in the bottom of the bed to keep them warm. Dancing on cold feet I made my way to stand on the rug in front of the window.

The frost made floral designs on the inside of the windows of my bedroom, and if I blew gently against the glass, they would slowly melt away into nothingness.

I slipped on my thick socks and slippers, huddled deep into my sweater, and made my way down stairs to the kitchen, where porridge was cooking gently on the range. My parents had already been hard at work in the darkness of the early day, and now returned to the farmhouse for their breakfast. Hot strong tea and thick porridge would keep them going till lunchtime, and I joined them at the well scrubbed kitchen table, which was drawn as close to the black leaded range as possible.

We sat there in silence , enjoying the warmth and knowing that soon each of us would have to brave the icy weather outside. The animals had to be cared for whatever the weather, and it was our job to keep them in good health. Calves had to be hand fed, the piglets needed their sty cleaning out, the milk had to be skimmed for the cream ; all these jobs and more were our daily tasks.

Finishing breakfast, each of us got to our feet and headed to the porch for our coats , scarves, gloves and heavy work boots. We knew that we needed to wrap up warmly – it was brutally cold out there. Water pipes had already frozen solid, needed to be thawed out for drinking water for the beasts, and we were well aware that no amount of foot stamping and hand wrapping was going to keep our extremities warm forever.

Taking one of the dogs who was very reluctant to leave the warmth of the haystack where they had been curled up sleeping, I picked my way gingerly across the farm yard and its icy concrete, to the gate to the first field. It was my job to check that the hedges and fences were still strong enough to keep our cattle in, and to keep out unwanted guests from other farmers lands.

The gate was icy to the touch, and the metal stuck to my hand briefly, as I unlatched it. Swinging it shut behind me, my boots crisped the grass as I moved down into the first field. Along the hedgerow I walked, looking for any indication that the hedge had been broken down by the frosts, and watching the warm breath from my body puff out into the chilly dry air. My dog pranced alongside me, sometimes running ahead, sometimes lagging behind as a particular scent caught her nose.

Suddenly she took off, running hard and barking ; I couldn’t see what it was, but ran , following her, stumbling in my heavy boots, and catching my feet on the frost hardened tussocks of grass.

As the dog and ! drew nearer to the end of the hedgerow, I saw what looked like a bundle of old rags on the ground beneath the overhanging branches. The dog circled warily, no longer barking, and I walked closer. If this was some old rags that someone had dumped, I’d have to clear it up; it could be dangerous to an animal who got tangled up in it. But why was the dog cautious. That bothered me, for some reason. Normally she would have nosed the rags for a scent, then finding none, would lose interest and search elsewhere for something more interesting.

The sound of the distant train whistle came clearly and with that the bundle of rags moved. Both the dog and I stopped in our tracks. Moving closer I put out my hand to move the fabric , and found it grabbed in an icy grip. With a gasp, I jumped backward so hard I slipped over. Hard…., onto very hard ground!. Not funny, especially since the dog danced around me, thinking this was a new game.

Shouting at the dog I got myself gingerly to my feet. By this time the bundle had changed from a bundle of rags into the shape of a person, although still muffled to the eyebrows in fabric. Taking off my now wet and icy gloves, I touched the one part of the shape I could see. It felt very very cold. I knew then that I had to help ; Catching hold of the bundle, I pulled the man, for that is what it was, upright. The rags , or what I thought were rags, now revealed themselves a s a tent, and the inhabitant of the tent slumped against me. Dog growled low, obviously concerned for my safety; it wasn’t often that a man would be that close to me, especially this far from the farm. Growling back at the dog to be quiet, I hoisted the man’s arm over my shoulder, and started walking. As we stumbled awkwardly forward I could tell that the person wasn’t fully conscious, and it was obvious that the biting cold had almost killed him. I sent the dog on ahead in the hope that someone from the farm would see her and realize that there was a problem. She raced off , leaving me to shoulder the burden as best I could.

Making our way gingerly across the field, weaving almost drunkenly from side to side, the effort was nearly too much for me. At one point I tripped and fell, bringing him down with me. I scrambled back to my feet, pulling and pushing him till he was standing again. We had no breath to spare for words; the cold was biting into my bones now, and I had no idea how ill he must have been feeling.

Almost at the end of my strength, I heard the dog barking, and heard rather than saw the tractor coming across the field. Galvanised by the sound into using the last bit of my strength, I stood , panting hard. We helped the man onto the trailer and I lay down beside him, covering him with my coat to try to warm him. It wasn’t until we brought him into the farm house and unwrapped all the cloth that jumbled around him that we realized he was unable to see us. Blindly he drew closer to the warmth as he thanked me for the rescue. We were going to hear his story but that would wait till he had thawed out.

***

The train was silent, it’s inhabitants under sleep’s firm grasp. Only one passenger had escaped it. He sat crooked in his seat, eyes straight ahead, showing only blackness. It had been many years since he had been subjected to any other colour, any other shape. There was only nothingness.

It was the sounds, the symphony unnoticed by all others that painted for him. He could tell the field from the park by the groans of protest they produced under his feet. Sight may have been snatched from him but he did not think of himself of blind. He saw what others couldn’t. While they overlooked a petal’s pattern, his touch revealed it; the way something felt can produce a much better image than people assumed.

He had long thought it ironic that those whose eyes still captured the many shades of life could be so blind.

The man hadn’t always thought this way. During those first fateful days when the darkness had been so consuming, he had screamed and cursed at whoever’s fault it was. He had been camping with friends when the black dots had begun to override his vision. He had called to them, desperation in his voice, as the walls of the tent vanished before him.

He had never tasted fear until that moment.

So sure that his dreams snatched from him, he drew into himself. Why should he be a part of a world he could not see?

His plans, his wonderful plans had taunted him. They had been taken from him unfairly of that he was sure. He could not face a world that treated him so cruelly and so the hospital bed became his prison.

Not even his art interested him anymore. Since childhood, he had dreamt of the day he became a ‘real‘artist, the day people understood that that was what he was meant to be. He had thought it was his destiny. His family did not know how to treat him. What could they say when they had what he most craved? Of course, they wished they could change it but they soon realized that life does not bend to the hopes of man.

This was his life now.

It was the nurse that slowly coaxed him back, accepting each relapse with patience. He had often wondered what she had seen in him, a young man slumped in defeat. He had certainly never been grateful for her help instead firing all his anger and hurt at her but it was still her hand he reluctantly held with his first steps, her arms that had pulled him back to his feet.

Most importantly, she had been the one to place the clay in front of him that fateful day. To say he took to it like a bird to the sky would be a lie. He remembered the frustration he had felt as he struggled to mould it without seeing it. It was only as he began to adapt, to learn just how inconsequential it is to see when you trust his body, that his talent was revealed. After all, it is in human nature, the instinct to change, the way it readjusts, survives.

He could still remember the pride in the nurse’s voice as he slowly reentered the world, no longer just a caterpillar but something better, something almost majestic.

For weeks, he moulded the clay, breathing life into it until he could feel that every tiny detail was ready.

On the day, he went home, he had pulled her aside, wrapping her fingers around the sculpture. It was the goodbye he couldn’t say.

“It’s so beautiful,” she breathed, her gaze upon the intricate butterfly the man had produced and she couldn’t help but be struck by the detail. He learnt much later that she had kept the token to her death, a prized possession. Since that first time, he had created many more sculptures but he had never felt as content with them. He had been told they were of a better quality, that he had only improved with practice but he wasn’t so sure.

In his heart, he knew a sculpture to rival the first would never come from his fingertips.

After all, that lump of clay had saved him.

It had been the first time the blind man had truly seen the glory in life

Day 14

A change of environment can sometimes refresh and recharge the brain. Do

you normally write at a desk or at your kitchen table? Today, go someplace

different to write. For example, try writing outside or in a public place such as a

coffee house or mall…

Write a story in a different environment – that is the instruction for today

Frankly, for me, that is an almost impossible task. Any-one reading this who is also self employed will know exactly what I mean. My stories have been composed and typed into my office keyboard for the whole of this 13 day writing experience so far, mainly by coming into the office a little earlier than usual and banging away before anyone else arrives.

Although I do leave the office occasionally – no, I’m not super glued to my seat – those occasions are usually for meetings of a business nature, and not conducive to writing a fictional short story. So, instead of changing my environment, I am going to visualize being in a coffee shop for my change of environment.

Sitting here over my cup of coffee, and being tasked to write a short story in 10 minutes or so , I decide I am up for the challenge. Pulling a notebook out of my handbag, along with an old pen that I found in the depths of it, I put pen to paper. Not! The pen and the paper do not connect. Have you ever tried this? You will be surprised at how difficult it is just to pick up a pen and write something.

People stare at me, hunched over that single cup of coffee. The whoosh of the cappacino machine, the murmurs of other people sitting their bistro style tables, the screech of the metal legs of the chairs being dragged across the tiled floor, all of these are distractions I could do without. Do I have some earplugs in my bag? Nope, so I have to tune these noises out, somehow.

The words don’t come easily – what am I to write about? My life is a boring one; work and family, family and work. My business takes almost all of my attention, even in my moments of relaxation. The television cannot engage my attention for very long; my sleep is interrupted by wakeful moments when a bright idea comes to me in the middle of the night. Even my unconscious mind is still working on the business.

The waitress is here to clear my dirty and now cold coffee cup away; does she enjoy her work. From her sulky face. I assume not. I ask her politely if I could have another. That leads me to look around the coffee shop again. How many of these people, young and old, really enjoy their lives. What are their stories? Probably a good deal more interesting than mine, I think.

The old man in the corner over there; why is he alone? Has he lost his wife?. Where are his family?. Is he living in an old folk’s home, and just comes out every now and then to have a cup of tea and see the outside world from a table in a coffee shop? What about the girl in the middle of the two boys; shouldn’t they be at school? She looks older than them, but I know that most girls always look and dress and behave older than boys of the same age. Perhaps they are her brothers, and she has been tasked with taking them out of the way of a long suffering and busy mother.

My pen rests on the unused paper of my pristine notebook. Oh, what’s the use. I need to get back to work and concentrate on something to do with the business. I can’t waste time here drinking innumerable cups of coffee waiting for inspiration to come.

***

Can’t you hear it?

It won’t leave me alone.

Every second, it’s there.

When I sleep, it creeps into my dreams, an unwanted guest.

I thought it would be easy.

I thought that once I made my decision, the hardest part, it would be over.

I thought I could leave my past behind me.

I was wrong.

The lines of past and present have long since blurred, leaving behind this state of nothingness that has become my everything.

Can’t you hear it?

It’s pounding in my ears.

It’s so loud.

My skull is ready to cave under it.

I am half-crazed, its presence constant.

It will be my undoing.

Can’t you make it stop?

The sound of my guilt.

The sound of a dead man’s heartbeat.

Day 13

Write the ending of a mystery story. Then write the beginning.

The camera hadn’t lied…………………

Peter had been so thrilled to receive the camera for his birthday. He had asked and asked his parents for one for such a long time, but their regular answer to his requests was “ when you’re a bit older, Peter” and with that he had to be satisfied.

Now he was old enough at 12 to have the top of the range camera he and his parents had gone out together to buy. For years Peter had been seeing things in a different way to most people. When he was much smaller, he had a secret playmate. When he tried to tell his parents about his friend, that no-one else could see, they laughed and said it was normal; that every child had a secret friend, and that he would grow out of it. His parents chose to think it was because he was an only child and needed company, so they enrolled him in a pre-school group. To Peter, that was betrayal – his parents didn’t believe him, and once he started the pre-school, nor did anyone else. As Peter grew a little older, and started the years of his education, he began to realize that no-one wanted to hear about the ghostly figure of his friend. They didn’t want to hear that his friend had told him stories of other worlds, and that Peter had seen pictures in his mind of how those other wordly creatures looked.

Peter became well aware that it was thought he was having hallucinations when he spoke to his friend when he was alone in his room. His parents would knock loudly on the door and ask him if he was OK.

As time went by, Peter learned to keep his feelings under control . He no longer explained to people that he could see someone unlike anybody else, or that he could speak in another language.

It became an obsession of his to prove the existence of the creature that had befriended him, and so through his school terms, Peter started to study the art of photography and the mechanics of developing black and white pictures.

His parents were relieved to see him taking up a “normal “ hobby and encouraged him by buying him an inexpensive camera on which to practice his growing skills. As Peter became more proficient in the use of his camera and the teachers at his school got accustomed to seeing him working in the Art class and photography lab during break times, they began to encourage his skills. The young male teacher of Art and Photography offered to give him some extra tuition after school, and the teacher of English suggested that Peter write stories to go with his photographs.

That was when Peter’s parents decided that he was ready for the expensive camera that he had set his heart on; the one that would , he hoped , take black and white images of his friend. No one realized that this was Peter’s ultimate aim; that he wanted to prove to his parents and all the other adults that he was not mad, and that it was not his imagination working overtime; that his friend really did exist, and wanted to show Peter the other lifeforces in the universe.

After school one gloomy afternoon, Peter walked in the other direction from his home. Some of his school friends called and asked him where he was going, but he hurried along, head down, and didn’t answer. Afterwards, one of his mates said they thought they had seen him carrying his camera and a tripod, but couldn’t be sure in the gathering dusk.

When he reached the quiet solitary spot he had chosen for this very day Peter set up his tripod and loaded his camera with black and white film. He had mentally planned this action, for a long time and now it was time.

He sat quietly in the gloom and welcomed his friend into his mind. He asked his friend if was alright to show the photos when they had been taken. The otherworldly figure gave agreement and stepped out into the dusk ; Peter felt the presence leave his mind and release from his brain. Horrified, he covered his face with his hands – that first glance had shown him that the figure that he thought was a similar shape to his own, was not! The faceless being that hovered in front of him was nothing like his imagined friend.

Peter pressed the remote button on his camera just as he felt himself being taken …………………

*********************

She may have killed her husband but no one could call it murder.

It was the neighbours that found his body. The blood had crusted around the bullet wound in the centre of his forehead when Mrs. Jenkins entered the apartment the couple owned, on her way to collect this months rent. When there had been no answer to her knocking, the angry old woman and dug through the pockets of her apron for her copy of the key.

That same key fell to the floor when she saw the slippered feet of her tenant. Anger was replaced with shock as she inched further into the apartment, hugging the wall. It was a grotesque curiosity that powered her legs. A part of her wanted nothing more than to turn around but she couldn’t. She needed to see it for herself.

The tiled floor was slick with blood as she made her way into the kitchen. How can one person have that much blood in them?, she thought, completely transfixed by the corpse in front of her.

What she didn’t expect to see however, was his wife sat a few feet away, knees pulled into her chest like a child, tears falling freely, a gun at her feet.

Mrs Jenkins knew she hadn’t been seen when she backed from the apartment. She doubted her neighbour was seeing anything other than the body of her husband in front of her. There was not even the slightest feeling of guilt in Mrs Jenkins’ mind when she dialed the three numbers that would bring the police to the apartment block. If she had taken the time to speak to the young couple she may have realized that there was more to the situation than meets the eye.

The young woman hadn’t moved when the police arrived. When they dragged her to her feet, placed the cold metal of the handcuffs around her wrists, she never once looked away from the body of her husband.

It was as if a part of her had died too, leaving the empty shell that sat before the police.

“Mrs Young, your fingerprints are all over the gun and – “

“I know. i was the one who...who pulled the trigger.”

The police were shocked – this had to be a new record for a confession. She hadn’t even tried to deny it. They quickly set about filling out the necessary paperwork, filtering from the room until only one policewoman remained. She was in her fifties, hardened by the things she had seen but this was different. This woman didn’t have the eyes of a killer.

“Why’d you do it?”

The young woman froze. How could she explain it? How could she justify what she just did?

“My husband was a very proud man. If anyone perceived even the slightest weakness it would ki-,” she couldn’t form the words, not when his lifeless body was laid on his kitchen floor.

She took a deep, shaky breath.

“The doctor’s said the tumour was inoperable, there was nothing they could do. He would just get weaker, until, one day, he would be gone.”

The tears were falling freely now on both the women’s faces.

“He couldn’t bear the thought of having to be taken care of, of being that vulnerable. ‘I don’t want it to end like this’ that’s what he told me. He asked me to do it, asked me to pull the trigger.”

“I loved him, with my whole heart.We were meant to grow old together; he was meant to be my forever-“

Her words were drowned by her sobs, sobs that shook her whole body. They were ripped from her chest, her pain obvious to anyone who looked.

No, the police woman thought with pity, she may have killed her husband but no one could call it murder.

Day 12

Day 11

Your character gets trapped in an elevator with someone he or she is afraid of

(you decide why)…

Day 11m

“Going up” sang out the elevator operator as we all ran to catch the lift as the doors opened. I needed to get to the penthouse this morning before anyone else did.

Crushed inside that small elevator with all those people almost made me queasy; it’s not my favourite way of travel, and the crush of bodies, with the accompanying odours of damp overcoats, stale perfumes, various aftershaves and umbrellas and leather briefcases jostling against my legs gave me the shudders.

As the elevator rose through the various levels of the building, there was some small relief as some riders left , but that was very short lived as others got on from different floors. This was a very tall office building too, and we had many more floors to go before my rendezvous.

The camera pinched my hand as someone bumped into me getting on., and I must have gasped. He did apologise, and I stole a quick peek at him from under my hood. Tall and dark featured, he smiled at me. I looked back at the floor; not wanting anyone to remember me when and if the event occurred. I didn’t even want anyone to remember that I was carrying a camera, not a briefcase. I had wondered whether I would be less noticeable with a briefcase, but had decided against it, needing to be able to get the shot quickly before I was noticed.

Gradually the crowd thinned out as the elevator reached the higher floors; the more “elevated’ floors where the executives would be working in the offices. I knew most of them would be in earlier that the regular office staff; he made sure of that. He didn’t like slackers amongst the people he had chosen to lead.

The mirrored walls of the elevator showed fewer reflections as we travelled higher, until there were just a few of us riders standing, watching the luminous numbers marking our way upwards, not looking at each other, waiting to be carried to the very top floors of the building.

At last, the elevator doors pinged as it reached the penthouse floor. I disembarked, head down and hood up, still clutching the camera, and hoping against hope that it would be alright. With my heart pounding, I set off along the thickly carpeted corridor to his door. I was walking so fast that I didn’t have time to admire the artwork on the walls, or the marble statues that adorned the hallway. My mind was firmly fixed on my mission. I had come here to do one thing and one thing only, and nothing was going to get in my way. Pulling the camera out from under my raincoat I paused to catch my breath. If my hands were shaky because I was out of breath, then the shot would be wasted. There would be only this one chance to get it right.

That pause was the undoing of me; had I not been so determined and unconscious of my surroundings, I would have realized that there was someone else coming along behind me. As I stopped, he strode up beside me. It was the tall stranger who had ridden up in the elevator at the same time as me. My mistake – I had been so deeply concentrated on what I was intending that I hadn’t noticed him get off on the penthouse level.

He took hold of my raincoat and tugged me around. I could feel the strength in him now, and knew that the game was up. Twisting my arm and pushing me hard, he hurried me back to the elevator doors . I hoped and prayed that the elevator had gone but he had jammed the door open so that it wouldn’t go back down……………… he almost threw me inside, and removed the case that had blocked the doorway. The elevator doors closed with their silent swish, and I was alone in that small mirrored room with him. He hit all the buttons on the pad, and the elevator juddered to a halt. I knew then that I needed to be afraid – very afraid. My queasiness returned, fast. I felt sick with fear, this time.

He took the hood of my raincoat off my head, and gave me that small smile again. I looked down and saw nothing but those big hands.

**************************

I needed to get out of this elevator. Now.

The stench of his sweat filled my nostrils, suffocating me. It had clearly been a few days since he had showered, or even shaved, judging by the stubble that hid his cheeks. I doubted he cared; right now, I was pretty sure he could have been standing there naked and he wouldn’t have noticed.

It wasn’t the smell of the booze that gave him away, it was the red rimmed eyes, gazing at me hungrily – or rather the wall next to me. It was the way he leaned against the elevator as if his world was spinning, which I guessed it was.

There was something about him that unnerved me.

Perhaps it wouldn’t have been too bad if there were other people here, but there wasn’t. We were alone.

There would be nobody to help me.

There would be nobody to hear me scream.

I shook my head forcibly. Thinking like that wouldn’t help anyone. The chances of him trying to hurt me where slim. It was far more likely that he would vomit or pass out before he even managed to cross the enclosed space.

I just needed to stay calm.

Two more stops and I would be out of here, in the crowded lobby where somebody else could take care of him, put him in a cab and send him as far as way from me as possible.

If only he would stop looking at me like that.

I could see the desire in his eyes as they raked over my petite frame. There was an animalistic edge to them, a wildness that made it hard to stay composed. Seeing the obsession in his glance made me want to run from the four walls that held me captive. Stuck in this goddamn metal box, I felt a strange sense of claustrophobia settle over me. I needed to get out, gulp at something other than this stale air.

The minute the doors began to slide open painstakingly slowly, I bolted. Without so much as a backward glance, I weaved through the crowds into the night, gasping. When I felt my pulse begin to calm, I began walking, glad to be out, free, no longer the drunk’s prey.

I was free.

I was safe.

If only I had looked behind me, I would have realized that this hunter wasn’t ready to let me go.

Day 11

Day 9

Marta, your character's neighbor asks your character a favor. Would your

character mind taking in Marta's mail and watering her plants while Marta is

away on an unexpected trip? Your character agrees and accepts Marta's

house key. But when your character lets himself/herself into Marta's house for

the first time, he/she encounters something he/she certainly wasn't expecting....

Marta was my closest neighbor – not a close friend, but we did manage to smile and say Hi to each other in the street, and sometimes she would come round to my house to borrow a cup of sugar or a couple of eggs . I didn’t really know very much about her,; she seemed to be normal enough, going off to work about the same time as I did. Coming home with bags of shopping at about the same time as me. Nothing out of the ordinary, really.

I worked up in the city so had to take a bus into town, but I think Marta worked locally in one of the big shops, so we didn’t travel together. I suppose that’s why we weren’t all that close. She had her life and I had mine. Kids? No, I don’t think so. Never saw any, anyway. Married, couldn’t tell you, didn’t see any regular men in and out. Me, kids? oh yes, I’ve got three of the little b…..s, oops shouldn’t say that, should I. The old man doesn’t like me to swear.

What happened? Well, it’s like this. You know I said I didn’t know her that well. Apart from her coming round on the odd occasion……………. You know, to borrow bits and pieces. I imagine she could have been baking or something when she wanted the sugar or the eggs. It’s pretty common round here that people borrow off other neighbours, saves having to drag back into town , you see.

Anyway, this time when she came round , she said she had to go away for a few days so would I have the key, pop round and pick up her post and water the plants, that sort of thing. Yes, I suppose I was surprised that she asked me, but she said it was an emergency and she had to go . Did she tell me what the emergency was? No… , I did ask her, but she just said she’d had a phone call from a friend, and had to go. Well, of course I said Yes. You would, wouldn’t you? It’s no skin off my nose, just to run round there in a day or two to water some plants. So she goes back to her place and comes back with the keys.

The next thing I know, she ‘s off down the street with a suitcase in one hand and this funny little umbrella in the other, handbag slung over her shoulder. I suppose she thought it was going to be wet wherever it was she was going. Did she look alright? Yes, a bit worried looking I suppose, but that’s to be expected, if it’s an emergency, like, isn’t it?

I put the keys in the windowsill and decided I would go round today; I couldn’t see any point in going there just after she had gone. Plants aren’t going to die from lack of water in just one day, now are they?

Well, I got the kids off to school, and decided to go round there this morning before I went to work . Yes, it was a bit early, but it’s better to do any spare jobs in the morning before I go to work, once I get home and the kids are there, I have to do dinner, and get them to do their homework and stuff – that’s not so easy, either.!

Anyway, off they go, and off I go. Locked my front door and away down the street. I was all dressed up for work…….. you know - high heels and a suit, hair all done, makeup on, so that all I had to do was go into her house, pick up the post, water the plants, then straight off to catch the bus.

I had the keys in my hand when I go to the front door of Marta’s house, so that I could get straight in. No, she didn’t have an alarm system – in our street! Don’t be silly, none of us have got anything worth stealing!

Got the keys in the door, and opened it………………… oh my god, what a stench. I had no idea what was stinking like that, so I went in a bit further. Perhaps Marta had left some uncooked meat out – that’s all I could think of would make that smell.

Went into the kitchen…………… you never saw such a mess – it looked like a slaughterhouse. Blood all up the walls, and ……………….. well, a thing on the floor. No, I didn’t get any closer. I’m afraid I backed out of there so fast my feet didn’t even touch the ground. I’m sure I was screaming my head off, but between that and throwing up, I have no idea what I was doing. That’s when I got on the mobile phone and called you ……………….

***

Day 11:

I was going to kill my kids.

Ok, not literally, but still. Some days I just feel like walking out of that door and never coming back. Four kids is a lot to handle. Especially, when your husband spends most of his time stitching people up and is never home to help.

Technically, I only have three; the eldest, Renee, is my husband’s from a previous marriage. As far as I’m concerned, she is as much my child as the others, having raised her since she was four.

It was a shame about her mother though. I hadn’t wanted to tell her at first. Ten year olds shouldn’t know their mother is a drug addict facing jail. Kids should be kids for as long as possible. Having been forced to grow up far too quickly, I was determined to let them keep their innocence for as long as possible and if that meant enduring some of their louder games then so be it.

I didn’t normally mind it, liking the way their laughs echoed through the townhouse Will, my husband, had recently inherited. Sometimes, if I wasn’t too busy, I’d join in. Not today though.

It was Thursday, the day I had to meet my deadlines. It was also bound to be the day that everything went wrong.

Last week, as I had struggled to finish my weekly column, Ethan and Mia, my three year old twins, had decided to give our Labrador a makeover. Trying to simultaneously apologise to your editor and wipe nail varnish from the dog’s paws was not a task I wanted to repeat, especially since he had already traipsed it through the house while trying to hide from the toddlers.

Thankfully, I had been up half the night with the youngest who refused to quiet unless I was in the rocking chair beside her crib. Although it meant that what little sleep I had was cramped and uncomfortable, it had given me the opportunity to quickly scrawl the last few paragraphs of my article the night before. All that was left to do was email it and I was free.

I was beginning to think that letting the kids play cowboys wasn’t such a great idea however, since Ethan had been desperately trying to lasso me for the past hour.

Just as I was ready to scream, I heard the door opening and a familiar voice calling out.

“Hey Marta,” I called, a large smile forming on my face.

Marta, a kind elderly lady who lived next door, was a life savior. She pulled two sweets from the weatherworn brown bag she carried everywhere and the twins were quiet. Just like that. I had no idea how she did it but it was a trick I was desperate to learn.

“I came to ask a favour Ellen dear. My son’s a bit under the weather at the moment so I was going to go stay with him for a few days but I was just wondering if you could keep an eye on the house while I’m gone.”

She really was the sweetest woman I had ever met. Her son, who was probably in his forties by now, caught a cold and she dropped everything to help him out. Sadness deep within my chest, I remembered my own mother. She had been nothing like Marta; she was a cold woman, a distant one. That wasn’t the kind of mother a child needed.

“Of course I will,’ I told her, my smile suddenly forced as I accepted her key, “you take care.”

It wasn’t until Saturday that I spotted the key buried under a mound of drawings that I remembered my promise. Feeling guilty that I had forgotten, I left the kids with their father, who was home for once, and scurried over.

The house looked the same as it had the countless other times I had visited it. it was like walking into a parallel universe; everything was tidy and ordered, not a discarded sock in sight. I doubted the house had even been messy when her children lived with her. Marta seemed more likely to be the perfect mother than, well, me. I knew I should be a bit more disciplined with my kids but I couldn’t bare to. The way their bottom lips quivered when they knew they were in trouble, it broke my heart.

Absentmindedly, I filled a jug and began watering the many plants she kept. Flowers never lasted long in my house. Between the dog and the kids, they were trampled on the floor within seconds.

As I made my way past the bedroom, I saw it. The familiar glint of metal caught my eye as I edged closer. On hands and knees, I reached under the bed reaching for it, curious. If I had known what it was, I would have ran then.

But I didn’t.

I grasped it, drawing it from the shadows.

A shout escaped my lips as I dropped it, scooting away.

I had never seen one in real life before but somehow, I recognized it straight away.

Why would she have one? She was a sweet old lady; what was she scared of?

Everyone had secrets- I knew that - but this?

Why did Marta have a gun?

Day 10

Day 8

Write a story about a bad or unpleasant person. Make this person likable to

your reader…

Sid wouldn’t normally have done this; he was far too mean. Why would he have left a posy of flowers on my mothers’ doorstep?

When we were kids he would chase us off if we so much as looked at his vegetables in the allotment. Old Sid was really proud of his allotment, and managed to grow vegetables that were bigger, or juicier, or greener than anyone else in the village. We always used to say that his spite made them grow bigger than anyone else, because his plants knew if they didn’t grow he would pull them out and throw them away onto the compost heap.

As with all kids we were constantly playing ball or chasing round the allotment and spare ground at the back, and there were many times when he would come out of his little shed, shouting and threatening us with his rake or his spade for getting too near his beloved patch of ground.

My parents could remember Sid when he was a younger man, and they knew the story why he had turned so miserable. One evening when he had been particularly obnoxious to us kids, and had taunted the older boys with nasty stories about their parents, we sat round the kitchen table and pestered mum and dad to find out why he was so mean and spiteful.

My mum knew him when he was at school with her, and she said that he had been a really normal little boy; he used to do the usual stuff that all little boys do, like climbing the apple trees to take an apple, blackberrying in the autumn, collecting conkers from the horse chestnut trees in the woods for conker fights in the playground; fishing in the local streams for crayfish and tiddlers, all those sort of childhood games. He was a sweetheart to his mum though, and would pick violets in the woods for Mothers Day, and bring her little posies of summer wildflowers when he got out of school in the afternoons. My mum could remember how kind he had been if a small child had fallen over in the playground ; he used to hate to see smaller kids crying.

As he grew up in the village and became a pleasant hard working young man, he started courting Becky, the local baker’s daughter. When Sid had saved enough money to rent a little cottage, he and Becky arranged to get married. Both his mum and dad and Becky’s parents were delighted with the match and were looking forward to the many years of happiness that they both deserved.

The morning of the wedding dawned bright with sunshine and blue skies; Sid bathed and dressed in his very best suit, and with his family surrounding him, set off down the lane to the church for the ceremony. They arrived and were standing talking for a while with the vicar in the church yard, when a small boy came running down the lane, brandishing a sheet of crumpled paper. Mister, mister , he was calling. Everyone stopped what they were doing, stopped talking and turned to see what the commotion was about. The hot and sweaty boy ran up to Sid and handed him the paper. He looked down at it, and paled. His face grew grim and he strode away with the note crushed in his hand. Sid’s mother ran after him asking her son what was wrong. He gave her no answer, simply thrust her away from him and continued along the lane towards the little cottage that was to be his and Becky’s.

Everyone followed him, worried by the look on his face, and the determination in his stride. At the front gate to the cottage, he stopped, and turned to face his family and the followers. “She’s gone” was all he said ,as he unlatched the gate and entered the front door and closed it behind him..

Everyone looked at each other, shock in their faces. The questions flew - what, where, why – and no-one had the answers. They just knew that the wedding had not taken place as planned. His mother hammered on the door to the cottage, calling upon her son to come out or to let her in. There was no response to her anguished pleas. Her worried face crumpled and she allowed herself to be drawn away by her husband. “ Let him be,” he said,” he needs to be alone. Come home lass, and let’s have a cup of tea.”

My mother could remember that day, the terrible shock it created through the village. The baker knew nothing of his daughter’s intention to jilt the young man who had courted her so carefully, and moved away from the village in anger and shame. He never really got over it, my mother told us, but the one person who was so completely changed was Sid. He joined the army after that, and moved away from the village himself. On the rare occasions that he came back to visit his parents, his eyes were cold and calculating now, and his manner was distant. The army became his life, and he never did marry.

Mother remembered the day Sid came home for his mother’s funeral – in uniform he stood at the graveside clutching a posy of wildflowers. One by one he tossed the flowers on top of the coffin as it was lowered into the ground, and that was the first and last time anyone saw him cry.

When he became too old for the army he came back to the village , and now lived alone in the small cottage that had been his parent’s home.

My mother saw him occasionally , and to her he remained as pleasant as he had been as a school boy and as a young man, but the joy of living had gone from him, and he seemed to grow more and more miserable except when tending the plants that he loved so dearly. Plants that he tended and cherished as he would have tended and cherished Becky if they had wed.

Mother’s posy showed that there was still a soft spot in Old Sid’s heart, but he only showed most people his miserable side. At least now we kids knew the reason for his unhappiness, and could make sure that we did not cause him any more grief by spoiling his life in his allotment.

****

Day 10:

Andrew was not a nice man; he knew that. He had no problems with it. It was his way of life, all he had ever known. He couldn’t understand why he should put others first. He had learned many years ago that it was every man for himself.

It was this thirst for survival that drove him. It was behind every rude smirk, every insult.

He did what he had to do.

He didn’t plan for other people to get hurt. It just…happened. It was as if there was someone following him, burning a trail of destruction. They were always there, waiting to destroy whatever fragile life he had managed to piece together. No matter how far or fast he ran, they were there. They were everywhere he looked.

Andrew was good at running. Hell, he’d had enough practice at it. For twenty three years, he had kept moving, never looking back. The past was too painful for that. When he thought of that man, that monster stood over her body, he felt the familiar urge in his legs, the need to move and never stop. Andrew had been shocked to see how peaceful his mother had looked. He hated how accepting she had looked. She was meant to fight it. Did she really want to die? Didn’t she love him? She was meant to be there for him!

He had fled, left without a single goodbye and hurt heavy in his heart. Andrew had ran as fast as his teenage legs could take him ignoring the tears forming in his eyes. They were not tears of sadness, but of anger.

His mother had loved the monster and look where that had got her. She was dead, lying in a grave nobody visited.

She had let him down.

More than anything, he couldn’t face the disappointment again.

So he was alone.

He grimaced as the sound of a child’s laugh filled the train carriage. Unbidden, memories flooded his mind. His mother, smiling, as they raced on the swings, trying to get as high as possible; the feeling of freedom as the wind caught his hair; the way their laughs had risen in chorus; the happiness that had warmed his heart.

And the man on the bench, leering at the other young mother’s in the park, never satisfied with Andrew’s own mother.

He was brought back to the present, an all too familiar scowl across his face.

“Will you shut that thing up?”

Day 9

Day 9

Go to Google.com, and click on the "Image" link on the top left. This will take

you to the image search page. Type two words into the search box, and click on the ""Search"" button. A bunch of pictures will appear. Choose one of them to use as a writing prompt. You can repeat this exercise whenever you need fresh writing ideas!

Swan Lake

Lonely and afraid, she watched from the murky shadows of the back alley beside the theatre. The girls from the Ballet would be coming out very soon through the backstage exit, and she might be able to mingle with them as they hurried back to their dormitories. At last, the spill of light across the alley showed that the doors were opening, and she tiptoed across the alley to join the tired chattering throng of young women. They didn’t look so elegant now, as they had been on stage. Out of their costumes of feather s and tulle, carrying their little ballet shoe bags, their hair still in tight chignons, they twittered and chirruped to each other in relaxation. None of them wanted to wait any longer to go home and rest; it would be another performance tomorrow.

A couple of the girls noticed the small bedraggled waif in their midst, but kindly smiled at her, assuming she had been caught up in their midst and would spin out of their group as they reached the wider pavement.

She looked up wistfully at the tall girl who had smiled down at her “Can I learn to dance like you?” she asked . “How did you know we dance? “ questioned the ballerina. “I sneaked in one day when the guard wasn’t looking” replied the little girl, “ and I saw all of you practicing. So then I tried to stand on tiptoes like you did, but it hurt so I stopped.”

The tall dancer bent down and whispered in the child’s ear “ Yes, I know. Sometimes it hurts us too, but we carry on because we love doing what we do.”

“So, can I learn like you?” came the request again. And once more the smiling dancer leaned over and replied that of course she could. “But you’ll have to go to school and learn lots of things, then your parents will have to enroll you into ballet classes.”

The little girl shook her head sadly. “I haven’t got a mummy and daddy,” she said” I live with my aunty, and she doesn’t have any money, so I can’t go anywhere.”

The dancer walked forward to her friends, who had slowed their passage through the nighttime crowds while she was talking to the child.

She explained the situation and got their agreement to what she was proposing to do. Then she dropped back to where the child was standing. “OK, little one, here’s what we’re going to do. You take me to where you and your aunty live and we’ll talk to her about you coming to watch us again, and perhaps then you can show our manager how you like to go on tiptoes. Would you like that?”

The child nodded and took hold of the dancer’s hand.

Day 9:

The cold was beginning to seep into her, her thick wool coat offering insufficient protection. She had watched as the sun had slipped below the horizon, felt its warmth leave her.

She knew she should go inside but she couldn’t, not yet. Sat under the heavy oak tree, with no one to bother her, she felt calmness settle over her. It was something she had not felt in a while. It was...nice.

It had helped, sitting here. Finally, she could think about this, straighten it out in her head. For too long, it had been plaguing her, taking over every second. Even when she slept, it was there, reopening that wound time and time again. Everyone told her the pain would dull, that she would be able to manage it.

They were wrong.

It never let go of her.

There was no escape.

She had given up asking for help. She knew what they were thinking, saw it in their pitying smiles. They thought it was pathetic.

She knew they laughed at her pain, mocking her.

She couldn’t take it.

There was one option left to her, one last chance to numb the ache within her. It called to her, like the mother she had never had. She wanted its comfort, its embrace.

But, she was scared.

It was so final.

And yet, she knew it was all that was left. She wouldn’t miss them, not any more. They didn’t understand. A distance had settled between them, a rift no one knew how to cross.

She ran the rope through her hands, thinking. She never wanted to leave this spot, lose the tranquility she had found so recently.

She made her decision.

She chose death.

Day 8

Day 8

Hemingway was once challenged to write a story in only six words. The

heartbreaking result: "For sale: baby shoes, never worn." Write a ghost story or

a love story in less than 20 words..

He waited; the bus arrived; she didn't get off.

***************************************************************************************

Day 8:

A look.

A smile.

A caress.

An embrace.

A kiss.

A ring.

A child.

A coffin.

Alone.

Day 7

Your character gets a call from someone asking to talk to "David." "You have

the wrong number," your character says. But instead of hanging up, the caller

and your character get to chatting, and they decide to meet later that night...

I’ve never done this before, so wish me luck. Tonight I’m going to meet a total stranger and take him to my bed. You may well ask why…. Well, it ‘s like this. I am ready to lose my virginity! You may well be shocked. You’re probably like my mam, who always says you should wait till you’re in love and married.

Ha! Little does she know about the world as it is now. N o education, no prospects, no money nothing to look forward to. Why should I wait to experience life? .

All my friends are boasting that they have already had sex with a man, and they’re all laughing and sniggering at my innocence so I had better get on and do it.

Will it hurt; all the books say that it might hurt if you’re a virgin. All the books say that you have got to use protection. What is the best protection?. What if he’s too big for me?. Will I like it? I don’t know.

Now I’m beginning to get cold feet. Should I or shouldn’t I? Who can I ask.

It all sounded so good this morning when I answered my mobile. Some guy with a really sexy voice asked for someone called “David”. I said, did I sound like a David, and he laughed. That was the start of it. He asked me what my real name was, and then said he’d like to call me David , anyway, since that was how we met. How we met, oh wow! This guy was flirting with me. He sounded so cool. We kept talking on the phone, and he asked me to meet him tonight at the local club. I couldn’t tell him I was too young to get into the club, now could I? He obviously thought I was older and from our conversations he must have thought I was sexy, because he kept making suggestive remarks like he’d like to touch me all over, and he could imagine how good I looked naked just from my voice. Stuff like that. . So I agreed. I felt so good; someone actually thought I was worth dating.

What do I wear?. If mam saw me going out in anything other than school uniform she’d have a hissy fit and want to know where I was going and who I was meeting. I called around to my friends and asked them what would I be wearing to go to the club. That meant I had to tell them the story of the phone call and they were all curious about the cool guy I had arranged to meet. Anyway, one or two of them offered to lend me some clothes that they thought would be sexy enough, then they said they’d do my hair and makeup, just to make me look a bit older.

We spent the afternoon, giggling and trying on short skirts, and filmy blouses, tank tops and tight fitting tees. My best friend talked me into trying her high heeled shoes , so that I would look taller and skinnier, but oh, how they hurt my feet. Still, vanity requires pain, doesn’t it? And I want to look good tonight.

The next question was , how could I get past mam later this evening. The time he gave me to meet outside the club was 9.30 tonight, when I should be doing my homework at the kitchen table………… I’ll have to ask her if she’ll let me do a sleepover with one of my friends. I will promise mam that I’ll do my homework over there, and I will promise to call her before we go to sleep, and that I will get up early enough to go to school tomorrow. Do you think that will work?

Oh, I still don’t know if I should do this………….. should I tell lies. I know what my friends will say, they’ll say go for it. You only live once, and so and so on. Not only that they had all told me what it would be like, and they had lent me all those clothes and shoes, and makeup. What will happen if I don’t go to the club tonight. He knows my phone number. He knows how to reach me. What should I do?

Who can I ask?

****************************************************************************************

A phone rang.

A woman answered.

“Hello?”

“Hello? David?”

“No. It’s Ali; I think you might have the wrong number.”

“Oh.”

Silence.

“Are you ok?”

“Yes...No, David was meant to pick me up.”

“Pick you up?”

“From the airport.”

“Oh. Manchester?”

“Yes”
“You could get a cab?”

“No cash.”

“Have you tried calling him?”

“Yes...you answered.”

“Where do you need to get to?”

“David’s house.”

“Stay where you are. I’ll be there in ten.”

“Excuse me?”

She was gone. She didn’t know why she was doing this. He was a stranger, a man she had never laid eyes on.

There had been something in his voice, calling to her, asking for help, her help.

Her resolution left her when she saw the large man who was waiting under the arrival sign. He was tall and well built, menacingly so. Scraggly brown hair was tied at the nape of his neck, revealing a multitude of tattoos, some of which appeared satanic.

This man was clearly trouble.

He still hadn’t seen her. He would never know the difference if she just turned and left. It wasn’t wrong, not really. It was for her own survival. He was dangerous.

Prejudice won.

She fled.