Reap – Trifextra Week 80

August 9, 2013freyathewriter 28 Comments

This weekend, the Trifecta team’s Trifextra challenge asks us to write only 33 words, including the word ‘tooth’, but excluding stories of milk-teeth tooth loss.

Here’s my offering this week. It’s weird, came out of nowhere and I’m not sure what to make of it – are you? Let me know!

And… why not visit here to read all the other brilliant offerings?! Or, take part yourself….

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– Reap –

I created a monster out of you.

I moulded you to my desires.

I wished. Here you are.

Like the jagged tooth of a cheap comb, you cut me.

And

Made

Me

Bleed.

Hidden in Plane Sight – Alastair’s Photo Fiction

August 7, 2013freyathewriter 9 Comments

Here is my offering for Alastair’s Photo Fiction this week, inspired by the photo below. Why not take part? And why not visit his photography and writing blog to take a look at his other photos…?

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– Hidden in Plane Sight –

“Look here, Givens, you need to paint the camouflage in properly! Here, give me your brush, for Pete’s sake.”

Archie Givens nodded, pretending to listen and pay attention as the uniformed NCO swirled the grey-green paint over the canvas in front of him.

“See? That’s the way! Make it count, boy! Now get your finger out!”

Archie took the paintbrush and started again, feigning concentration. Satisfied at last, the military man strode away, making a beeline for the cafeteria.

Archie dropped his brush into the paint tin and shook his head at his best mate Johnny, who was curled up on the ground laughing silently, tears running down his cheeks.

“He don’t half get me goat! I’ll bloody swing for him! It’s not as if the Jerry pilots’ll be checking my artwork on these decoys from thousands of feet up!”

Johnny sniggered, then picked up the brush and daubed out a female pin-up, complete with nipped in waist, large breasts and a come-hither pout.

“Just in case, eh ? One last moment of joy for ‘em before our ack ack girls shoot ’em down!”

*****

This is my tribute to the many artists, builders, engineers and visionaries who worked on the K, Q and Starfish decoy sites in the UK during World War II, not forgetting the women of the ATS who risked their lives manning anti-aircraft guns.

Mouse – Trifecta Week 87

July 23, 2013July 23, 2013freyathewriter 32 Comments

Below is my offering for week 87′s Trifecta challenge word, which is ‘charm’. As you will see from the relevant blog post, the challenge is to write between 33 and 333 words of fiction, non-fiction, poetry or prose, based on the 3rd definition from the Merriam Webster’s Online Dictionary. This week the 3rd definition of ‘charm’ is:

– to control (an animal) by charms (as the playing of music)

Here’s my offering below – I hope you like it! Please check here for the other entries!

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– Mouse –

Graham can charm anyone. It’s just how she is.

Of course, her name is the best ice-breaker ever. ‘Oh, Mum is American,’ she says, as if that explains everything. In middle-of-nowhere, suburban England, it works like magic.

She accompanies that breezy statement with a flick of her perfect blond hair. Everything is so effortless for her. I adored basking in her reflected rays when I was younger. I was ‘Graham’s friend’. Often it was ‘Graham and Sarah’, like we came as a package, which we did. Still do, really.

All that innocence and mystery started getting to me when I reached that awkward teenage stage. I got spots – she developed breasts. My chest remained flat as a pancake for so long, even my mum wondered if I should go to the doctors, muttering about hormones.

I really resented all the attention she got from boys. They couldn’t keep away – she was perfect, a vision of youth and beauty. I stood in her shadow, getting her cast-offs who were just not interested in a short, stocky, brown-haired, teachers’ daughter.

I was jealous. I admit it.

Then, I wasn’t. I must have been about fifteen. I turned up at Graham’s one day, unannounced. I’d left my cherry lip-gloss in her bedroom and I really, really needed it. So, I sneaked into their house, quiet and unobtrusive, like the mouse that Mrs Edwards chose to call me.

There was Graham in the kitchen, cowering in front of her shouting, red-faced mother.

‘You will not do that ever again! Do you hear me? When I tell you to cook the dinner, I mean prepare it properly, not just heat up leftovers in the oven!’

And then she swept all the plates, the cups, the saucers, the food, everything off the table. Crockery smashed, cutlery bounced and food spattered, mostly over Graham herself. She stood, dripping in gravy, head down.

I backed out, unseen.

Envy cured, instantly.