An ordinary day

Thursday, wet, cold and novemberish. I needed to press ahead with an assignment that is required for the first of the online tutorials. You can guess that it is scheduled for next week, while I am otherwise disposed. Oh well i spent today writing. The task seemed trivial at first but proved harder , and more rewarding than i thought. Given a list of twelve fairly mundane words, we have to write a few lines that brings each word to life. I hope i succeeded, as always feedback of a constructive nature is always welcome. Wow even destructive is ok, it means i am being read.

Mary

Mary, unlike her namesake, was no virgin. Her tired face, burdened by layers of hastily applied makeup, and illuminated by the harsh streetlight, appeared stark, colourless and unreal. Her cheap, revealing outfit did little to enhance a figure that had seen better days. She huddled and shivered in the thin, night air as she awaited her next client with no sense of anticipation at all.

Sorrow

The news of my brother’s death came as a complete shock. There was an initial inertia of disbelief, as I stumbled back to my lonely room, and as I closed the door on the world, reality began to diffuse into my consciousness, tears welled from the depths of my being and as I lay on my unmade bed, my body was racked with sobs excluding everything else. Never before had I understood the true meaning of sorrow.

Joy

The bonus ball was a six. He stared in disbelief as the numbers were put in sequence on the TV screen. He looked back at his lottery ticket and back at the screen, checking and double-checking and vaguely heard the presenter declaring that tonight there is just one lucky winner.

He couldn’t believe it; he had never won a thing in his life.

“And tonight’s jackpot is twelve million pounds” came through, penetrating his mind like a flash of lightning.

His problems were over; his debts could be finally paid and he could do whatever he wanted. Overwhelmed with joy, it took him seconds to realise what this meant to him.

“I’ve won the lottery Margaret,” he said quietly to the sour faced woman that his wife had turned into, and for the first time in years, she smiled, albeit icily.

“That’s nice,” she said in a sarcastic tone.

“Yes,” he replied, his heart almost bursting with a sense of newfound freedom. “You’d best get packed!”

She put down her knitting and for once showed an interest in what he was saying.

“Where are we going then?” she asked attempting to add warmness to her voice.

He looked at his wife with a look of utter contempt. “WE ain’t going nowhere! You are! Now clear off!”


Blue

Everything about the bedroom was cold. The small space was lit by a single blue bulb that hung from the ceiling on a frayed, fabric covered, flex. The weak light reflected evenly from the plain surfaces of the unpatterned walls and fabrics while intense black shadows hid underneath the bed and single chair. Their breath seemed suspended in thin blue clouds in the frigid air.

Mug

That mug meant a lot to me. Not that it was particularly special in itself. It was white, mass-produced and had the bright yellow face of Homer Simpson printed on it, but it had been a gift from someone very special.

Over the years it had become a part of my daily routine. It lived among the clutter of books and papers that also seemed permanent fixtures on my desk, and each tea break, I would rinse away the remnant of the previous drink under the cold tap before adding a fresh teabag and hot water. Never having been washed properly, the inner surface had gained a dense patina of dark brown tannins and a recent chip from the inner lip, stood out in stark contrast.

Why someone would want to steal it was beyond me.

Skirt

Her legs seemed to go on forever; an illusion accentuated by ridiculously high heels and the almost non-existent strip of fabric that the Carnaby Street Boutique dared call a skirt. The thin, floral printed, cotton garment that hung from her hips, left little to the imagination, and each tottering step that she made towards the front door revealed more than just a hint of white panties. She reached for the handle, but before she could turn it, her father’s voice boomed loudly the words that she had learned to dread.

“You are not going out looking like that!”


Shoe

The shoe felt heavy in her hand. The black, scuffed, faux leather was machine stitched and new looking laces were tied tightly in a double bow. Curious as to the strange weight, she peered inside it, immediately dropping it with an involuntary shriek. It still contained a foot.



John

John was approaching his sixtieth birthday, and as he aged was becoming more and more like his father. His once long, flowing hair had thinned and receded, while gravity had forced the migration of much of his flesh to his waistline. He mumbled, rather than spoke, and whenever his watery blue eyes met yours, it was over the rims of his reading glasses. He was working hard on his hypochondria, and enjoyed cataloguing his multiple complaints whenever anyone would take time to listen.

John had become what he had always despised. A pompous, self-righteous bigot.


Wednesday

Otherwise known as “Hump Day”, Wednesday was seen by the workforce as a day for optimism. The road towards the weekend seemed to be downhill from that point onwards, and for many it had the added advantage of being free from East Enders.


Car

His first car was a black, nineteen forties Austin 10. It lay in a clearing in the woods, surrounded by a sea of long grass, its engine and wheels long since removed. It had become a home for mice, birds and slow creeping rust and yet he revelled in the adventure as he sat on the tattered leather seat, smelling the decay and gripping the spindly steering wheel. He would drive for mile after mile, unable to see over the wheel or to reach the pedals, only returning when his mum called him in for tea.



Coffee

Being the last man on Earth wasn’t easy. There were no birds, cats, dogs, or even insects roaming the empty streets. He felt dreadfully alone as he explored the premises of what had been his hometown. There was no shortage of packaged food; he could pick up anything he needed and although there was nothing fresh, he still had plenty of choice and supplies to last his lifetime.

He stopped, his attention grasped by a new and intoxicating smell. Aromatic and strangely sweet, yet smoky fragrance drifted through the still spring morning, assaulting his sharpened olfactory sense and he felt his heart thumping in his chest for the first time in years. He knew that smell, and its significance. Someone was making fresh coffee.


Newspaper

I can still smell the vinegar soaked newspaper that once enhanced the whole fish and chips’ experience. At the end of a night out, what could be better than to stand at the bus stop, munching at the battered cod, whilst reading ancient news items from the grease stained and fragrant wrappings?


ps - guess which i found hardest??