Oomph

To the world she looked like the typical self absorbed selfie-taking girl. Only, she wasn’t clicking pictures of herself.

The short skirt lifting in the breeze, the flick of the hair, the subtle thrust of the chest, and the not-so-subtle pout, was all a pretence. Her fourth guise of the week.

Across her, Jason whipped of his shirt, flaunting his sweaty washboard abs.

The mark walked past, oblivious, his eyes interested only in the brochure.

Time to make the call.

“Mrs. Adam. I’m sorry but I don’t think your husband is the cheating type. You’ll have to get that divorce some other way.”


In response to Bikurgurl’s 100 Word Wednesday: Week 47 challenge.

The new Pied Piper

Let us speak of mice and men, for indeed we live in interesting times.

The capitalist Pied Piper has shrunk our world to the confines of his kaleidoscope, and media is his instrument of choice. The great puppeteer has us addicted to consumerism, to his mighty malls with their bargain sales and food courts. Who we are, what do we want and where we wish to be – he decides, he dictates.

But not to me.
I, the thinker, the artist, the lover, the non-conformist. I make my own music, swim against the tide for humanity.

For we are men, not mice, and this world is no fable.


My 108 words reaction to the picture by Mert Guller hosted as part of Bikurgurl’s 100 Word Wednesday: Week 46 challenge.

Sam, please come home

She should wait for him. Sam would be home shortly. But freshly baked bread was her weakness. God, she hoped that it wasn’t vanity to appreciate your own cooking. Just last Sunday the pastor had spoken of pride. Gulping down a little wine, she said a quick prayer.

Almost six. Yes, he should be home soon.

Suddenly the phone rang. Ah, it was Jason.

“Hello son.”

“Hi ma. Just called to check if you’ve taken your pills.”

“I will. After supper.”

“Why have you not eaten yet?”

“I’m waiting for Sam.”

“Ma… He’s not coming. Dad’s dead, remember.”


In response to Bikurgurl’s 100 Word Wednesday: Week 45 challenge based on a photo by Brooke Lark

Unanswered questions

The room looked like they were tourists. Only the sheer number of vintage cameras lying around was baffling. Did people still use film rolls in this digital age! And why so many?

The backpack, duffel bag and boots clearly belonged to the man in the room. Two passport covers and neatly laundered clothes strewn around, implied the presence of another, probably a female.

Yet the landlord and neighbours claimed that the room had been unoccupied for the last month. If it were not for that one loud bang, no one would have noticed him.

“Where is she?” I ask him.

If only the dead could talk.


In response to Bikurgurl’s 100 Word Wednesday: Week 44 challenge based on a photo by Brevitē

Gotcha

My head thumped louder than the music, if that was even possible. Very soon, it would break the sound barrier and explode like a ripe melon. Damn! I wonder if my brains will look psychedelic through these glasses.
Man, what’s the saying. Too old for disco, too young to die.

Stop drooling and focus grandpa,’ my ear mic cackles.

I smirk as a pretty young thing brushes past. ‘This grandpa’s still got his swag.’

My eyes follow her taut ass as she walks up to a pair of guys. Despite the harsh lights I notice one pass her the pills.

Dealer.

North-east side. Two males. Alpha in burgundy jacket,’ I relay as my team closes in.


In response to Bikurgurl’s 100 Word Wednesday: Week 43 challenge, based on a photo credited to Hybrid

Heaven on a tray

I wake up to the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, roses and chocolate, to the sight of my handsome husband bashfully holding heaven on a tray.

Placing it down gently, he leans in for a kiss.

“Morning breath,” I warn him.

“Don’t care,” he whispers, as his mouth softly meets mine, lingering, his tongue sweeping across my lips seeking entrance.

I open for him, tasting coffee mingled with traces of whisky.

Nature calls, and I eventually make it to the toilet.

Undressed, I examine my reflection.

The blue and violet bruises on my arms will be easy to cover up. How do I conceal the impression of his fingers on my cheek.

“I’m waiting babe…” he calls out.


In response to Bikurgurl’s 100 Word Wednesday: Week 40 challenge based on a photo by Brooke Lark.

Moving up

Sensing my fear, Michelle slipped his hands into mine.

I liked that he didn’t question me or offer platitudes. It was more of a It’s ok, I got you kind of a gesture. He gave me the courage to look up, look around.

And I saw Adam.

I saw Adam coming down the travellator, his arms around a giggling brunette. Yes, Adam with his condescending jokes. Recalling his acrophobia japes reminded me that I was going uphill; UP A BLOODY MOUNTAIN. I froze.

“Shhh, almost there baby.” Michelle’s voice flowed through me like a soothing balm. Closing my eyes and mind, I leaned into him, until cool winds told me that we were already there.

I looked into Michelle’s warm eyes. Perhaps he was the one.


In response to Bikurgurl’s 100 Word Wednesday challenge of Week 39
based on a photo by Bikurgurl

He

I watch the jeep come to a stop. He steps out and all my synapses fire. I need him like a bird needs air.

A petite brunette opens the door. With a little make up she could probably pass off as pretty, but she is no match for him. Yet his face lights up as they reach for one another.

This is the reason he is always in such a hurry to leave.

The door shuts like a slap across my face.

The Emersons‘, the name plate reads.

He’s married, my brain warns me. Does it matter, jeers the green monster.

In response to Bikurgurl’s 100 Word Wednesday: Week 38 photo challenge

Art Attack

“Enter.”

In her 23 years teaching art, Matilda doubted she had ever faced such an intimidating group. Principal Bee, the State Superintendent of Public Instruction and the District Counsellor, looked ready to announce a death sentence.

Pushing her shoulders back, she walked in and tabled the strange old painting.

“What’s this,” the councilman sniggered.

“It’s proof that art matters. It’s why you should not cut the school’s art budget.”

“This masterpiece is supposed to convince us?”

“No,” came the gentle but firm voice of Police Chief Brandon from the doorway.
“I am. Me, the artist who painted that. Anger therapy was what Miss Matilda used to call it. That is the reason why I uphold the law instead of breaking it.”

In response to Bikurgurl’s 100 Word Wednesday: Week 37 challenge.

On duty

Bloody hell. Years of intensive training… for what? To stand around guarding a bunch of politicians. Obliged to protect the very ones over whose dead body I wouldn’t shed a tear! Sucks.

I look at Al. He looks equally frustrated. We have been here for the last three hours. Another half hour till he passes by? I need to take a leak.

Forget a damn crowd, other than a few photographers, no one has even turned up. Total boycott. Smart move. Small crowds piss him off; let’s see how he reacts to no crowd.


In response to the 100 Word Wednesday: Week 36 challenge based on a photo by Izaak Standridge.