The Muddy Metronome

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When Nutmeg was tiny, Uncle said we should put a ticking clock in his bed, wrapped in an old towel so he didn’t miss his mama so much. The problem with living with Uncle was that we were poor and there were no spare ticking clocks or even broken clocks: just the kitchen clock and my digital alarm that got me up for school.

What we did have, as Uncle was a jazz composer, was a morgue of metronomes. He’d start a metronome swinging from the moment he got up in the morning (so he could ‘tum-ti-tum-bow-bow-chicka-boom’ in time as he boiled up coffee on the stove) until the witching hours, when he and his sax would retire to bed. And so I retrieved an old metronome from the pile under the stairs. It had a bent pin but reliable swing.

            “Here’s a heartbeat for you, Nutmeg,” I said, tickling his chin. He’d been whimpering a little and I was keen to show him he was safe. I placed it on the kitchen table.

            That was the start of Nutmeg’s odd relationship with metronomes. I’d find him transfixed sometimes when I came home from school, tilting his head this way and that, and Uncle in his own world too, tap-tap-tapping on saxophone keys.

            “He’s like a nodding dog,” said my first girlfriend, when she came over some five years later. Left, and right, and left, and right, as Uncle played his jazz. When my next girlfriend came to meet Uncle and Nutmeg, she saw the commercialism in our furry friend’s trick and uploaded a video to YouTube: the faster the beat, the quicker his tilts. Someone remixed it to dance music, which Uncle thought was horrific.

            One day, as is the way with pets, Nutmeg died, and we buried him with a metronome in the garden. My son patted the Earth down with a plastic spade, and I slept with a bag of flour on my feet at the end of my bed, because I missed my dog so.

  

Thank you, Alley Cat, for the title. 

The Girl Who Should Lie

I was texted a title for some micro-fiction a couple of days ago, but as I worked through my lunch break yesterday, I didn't get a chance to play. This morning my internet wasn't working. I'd probably have watched Pretty Little Liars whilst eating my breakfast if it had been, but the box, should I have opted to reset it, is four floors down. Might as well write, I thought. In my defence, I did spend the whole day at work editing other people's writing yesterday. Sometimes words get a little bobbly and you just want to brush them off you with a clothes brush.

I had a breakfast of rye bread, two boiled eggs and a blood orange, and this is the burst of words that sprang forth.

x - x - x - x - x - x - x

The Girl Who Should Lie.

Daria was taught to lie by her brother, Pimm.

                “Lies are right,” said Pimm. “Lies are good for you.” His mouth was crammed with Wheetos, and flecks of chocolate shot across the table on to Daria’s rusks.

                “Mummy will be really pleased with you if you lie, Daria. Okay? You got that?”

                Daria hadn’t been quite sure what a lie was, and so Pimm said he would illustrate it for her. He came at her with his big boy hands outstretched and gave her a Chinese burn so hot it made her cry out. He then yanked a fist full of hair and ate the rest of her rusks.

                “Is everything okay in here?” asked Mummy.

                Pimm was stroking Daria’s head as she quietly snivelled.  

                “She just wants more breakfast,” said Pimm.

                “Do you, darling?” said Mummy. “We don’t want you getting fat like Mummy.”

                “You’re not fat, Mummy,” said Pimm, giving Daria a wink. “You’re thin.”

                “Don’t lie, Pimm,” said Mummy, laughing and giving him a big kiss on the cheek.  She didn’t kiss Daria. So, Pimm was right, then. Lies were good. Lies were rewarded.

“Of course I didn’t break your favourite cup,” said Daria, to Grandma.

                “I did not cheat!” said Daria, to the University.

                “I was often held up as an example,” said Daria, to her first employers.

                “I think Gemma is claiming too much on expenses,” said Daria, to the law firm.

                “The man is guilty beyond any shadow of a doubt, ladies and gentleman,” said Daria to the jury.

                “I would never do that to you,” said Daria to Mike.

               

And then, Daria met Sam – a man she thought was as beautiful and profound as an Oak tree.
                “I love you,” said Daria, wondering why she cried so much these days.

                “I love you too,” said Sam, thinking about filing his tax return.

               

Let’s hope neither of them were lying.

x - x - x - x - x - x - x

Anyone remember this song by Chicks? It's in my head now.

The Travelling Woman's Success

He warned her from the beginning. “Don’t put your trust in me,” he said, as he stitched the lace ruff to the corset of her dress. “Just because I am a dressmaker, doesn’t mean I belong in the home.” His cheek was close to her bosom and the sharp needle glinted in the candlelight.

“But, Sandy,” she said. “Only a trustworthy man would say that.” So, she kept coming back to him with requests of new costumes for her stage act: The Travelling Woman, and after she’d been fitted they would retire to his flat above the costume shop and live as man and wife for two or three days and nights, until a performance called her back or the shop needed to be aired to stop the fabric from getting musty.

One day, she got a proposal from a rich gentleman who had taken a fancy to her from the Royal Box. “Your costumes are so glorious,” he said. “You look like a performing orchid. You could be the centrepiece of my estate. How are you with running family affairs?”

Now, The Travelling Woman had received many proposals from men over the years, but this gentleman was taller than the others and she loved a tall man, and what’s more he wore plush green velvet; every man is attractive in shades of dark green.

“Thank you, Lord Spick, for your generous suggestion, but I love another. The man who made the costumes you admire so much, in fact.” She hardly knew what she was saying, but it was out of her mouth before she could stop it with her gloved hand – gloved by Sandy, in soft white leather with twenty pearls for buttons.

“He is very nimble with a needle,” said the Lord. He bowed low and took leave.

When The Travelling Woman returned to Sandy’s shop, with an anticipatory blush in her cheeks, she was horrified to find it boarded up. She hammered at the boards, and when nobody came, she ripped them away with unaccountable strength, borne from the love she had tended like a plant over the last year.

Inside, she found Sandy slumped over a table, with both of his hands as fat as clubs.

“They broke my hands,” he said, his mouth a parallelogram of pain. “I need to go to the hospital but I think they might amputate.”

Over the next few months, The Travelling Woman nursed Sandy back to health, and though his fingers could no longer sew, he was able to draw, and what he drew were the plans for a machine that could sew forth automatically, making line upon line of neat and tight stitch, and what’s more, it would be strong enough to penetrate leather and canvas.

The Travelling Woman took the plans to engineers and presented to them with her most professional face, and one man bought the designs for a large sum of money.

With the money, Sandy and The Travelling Woman ordered twenty of the finished machines and built a dressmaking factory, giving work to young women. The Travelling Woman became the Head of Personnel, and everyone loved to work for her. Sometimes the girls would sing as they worked.

Many years later, when the couple were reading by the fire, she asked him why he warned her away all those years ago. “You said not to put my trust in you.”

“I’m an ex-convict,” he said, simply. “When I was younger, I stole a hen and it all blew up into a much bigger matter than it should have done. I’m probably still a wanted man in Somerset.”

“Well, you’re a wanted man, here,” said The Travelling Woman, feeling lucky. She had lived enough to know that things could have ended very differently indeed. 

Flash Fiction lunch break again.

Again, I was given the title. Last week, actually, and it hung around my neck like an albatross so today it gets cooked up.  Could have gone a zillion ways, but it's free-style.

The Albatross

We were born with the curse of the albatross, says my uncle, who too sleeps on the wing. We soar through life half awake, half asleep, here and not here.

            “Would you like to go to the play about the man looking for answers,” asks my girlfriend as I gaze out of the kitchen window. Everyone on this floor of the tower block is high, but I am higher, among the clouds. 

            “You know. Jamie told us about it. The one where the protagonist has to decide on the price to pay for everything he uses in 24 hours, and then there’s that accident…”

            I have a film between me and my girl. It’s like a gauze or membrane, and it means I never really see her, never really feel her and never care much if we’re together or apart. She doesn’t know this, of course, because I enjoy her company and I would rather she not dump me. Then I would need to find a new flat, new friends, get a damage deposit together… Oh, I can’t be bothered to think about it.

            “We’re not great thinkers,” says my uncle. “We’re not great doers either.”

            “Rob,” says my girlfriend. “Are you with me?”

            Well, I suppose I am, physically. It’s raining again, and the droplets dart diagonally. Down there I can see the garages, the car park, the shops, the faint glow of the Overground station.

            “You’re meant to be stirring the beans,” she says, nipping under my arm to take the wooden spatula. She flicks her long nails against my earlobe to get my attention but the pain is dull. I focus anyway, to avoid a fight. She’s pretty, if you care for pretty girls, and I’m surprised to see she has green eyes. I’m living with a girl with green eyes. Who knew.

            There’s a thump, then, against the window, and we both look around. This is the second time a bird has crashed into that pane since we moved in, four months ago or whenever.

            “I looked it up,” says Carla. Her name is Carla, my girlfriend. “They’re busy looking for moving objects down below so they make mistakes in flight.”

            “They’re busy looking for moving objects down below so they make mistakes,” said Carla, earlier. We’ve eaten dinner and it comes back to me, and I feel like there’s some kind of importance to that line but I’m not sure what it is. We were talking about something before. I don’t know what.

Three flashes - short fiction

In a bid to actually finish something, Nik suggested we take it in turns to choose the title for a piece of flash fiction every few days. I'm not sure either of us really knows what makes a good piece of flash fiction, but I personally feel like a bit of a cheat. Flash fiction seems to have some of the impact of poetry without needing any of the skill. It's such an enigmatic form that throws up so many more questions than it answers. Even when done badly, the framing hangs the words on the wall just so.

My favourite of Nik's is Man on Fire, which works very well as a short piece (excellent last line) and his favourite of mine is The Locked Room (which I thought was overly melodramatic). I suspect that Nik's Man on Fire is the only one of the six that stands alone as a whole, whereas mine are character sketches.

The one rule is that we're not allowed to read each other's until we've finished. Unwrapping them is the fun part. My own rule is that I just spend ten minutes or so on this whilst eating my sandwich at lunchtime. I think Nik's have been bashed out in American airports, which is so much more glamorous than me with mayo on my keys. 

One Minute - Nik V

“Big Issue?”

You know what? Today I will. I look through my wallet and take out two pound coins. I put them in her hand and try to smile. It seems like the right thing to do even if she’s homeless. She looks at them in a funny way, inspecting each one carefully like I have given her fakes. Have I? Is she going to get into trouble? Am I?

She looks through her pile of magazines, before handing me one. I inspect it carefully. What if she has given me a fake copy, a bootleg one? I flick through it. It seems legit.

We stand and look at each other, two potential forgers.

“Do you believe in monsters?” she asks like she knows what she’s talking about.

No, I don’t.

“Yes,” I say. 

She looks around then takes the Big Issue from my hand. She puts it at the back of her pile and gives me another one. I look at her and nod in agreement. I take the two pound coins from her hand and put them in my pocket. In my wallet I manage to find another pound coin and two fifty pence pieces. I place them in her hand.

She smiles and asks me what the time is. I don’t know and I tell her. 

“Just wait one minute”, she whispers. “Then it’s time.”

*

One Minute - Mia V

The balmy day glued the back of my thighs to the sofa. May as well stay put for a minute more, since I don’t like the feeling of peeling skin from leather, but it’s then that I notice a flash in the leaves of the silver birches. Like glass, a sharp shard of light. And again.

Investigation requires unsticking myself and going to the balcony. The trees smell cool, like toothpaste and wet bark.

There’s someone in the trees. I squint. Not in the near spinney, but the cluster further back – a grey shape, hiding in zebra legs. He’s spying on me, I’m sure of it. There’s the flash again – a binocular lens?

James has some cigarettes in the kitchen drawer. I don’t usually smoke but retrieve them and perch on the balcony wall. I shake my hair from its tie. When I pull on the cigarette, I work my lips, and the tendril of smoke ribbons heavenward. I flick ash, see my feet. They’re sandy-tan and prettier than before.

The lens flashes again and I loop a leg over the wood, sitting bravely above the pavement. It’s not a bone-shattering drop, but I’m risking a fracture if I fall. I stare at the cunnilingus cloud. Did I just say that? An anvil of cumulonimbus cloud, foretelling a storm.

There’s a jay hopping in the shrubbery – I can see the shock of forget-me-not blue on his wing. He’s a beautiful bird, as substantial as a magpie but as fair as a maiden. 

Man on Fire - NV

I didn’t even have time to get annoyed at the man squeezing past me in the stairwell before I realised he was on fire. He didn’t seem to care himself and by then he was already so far ahead it didn’t seem appropriate to run after him. If anyone else was noticing they weren’t doing anything about it either. By the time I reached the platform myself I had caught up with him and we got on the same train. ‘Ha’, I thought to myself as I sat down. ‘See, how far all that rushing got you’. 

He sat down in the seat opposite me and immediately started reading a book. I found it hard to tell if the sweat dripping from his forehead was from the sprint-like descent down the stairs or because his upper torso was engulfed in flames. I looked around. Still, nobody in the carriage was paying him any attention. I felt bad just sitting there watching him burn, but then I decided that it was far too private a condition to point out to a stranger. 

The heat was taking its toll on his book and as the page he was on started turning from brown to charcoal I began to worry about him missing out on vital plot points. Luckily he finished the page before it disintegrated. I wondered if the butler did it or if they were going to live happily ever.

*

Man on Fire - MV

Gordon hadn’t spoken in three months. He didn’t know what had happened to his tongue, but where it had once flicked deftly around his mouth, forming vowels and clicky teeth-tipping sounds, it was now a heavy beached whale.

I suppose this is what lethargy is, he thought to himself. The eyes, lighter than the tongue to manoeuvre, still looked around the room as they had before. He could see the corduroy curtains, the chintzy chairs and the stained doilies. The home smelled of stale fags from the nineties. The disinfectant rasped the back of your throat.

“Still not talking, Gordon?” asked the nurse. She was a proper East Ender like him, family from Bethnal Green. He’d known her uncle Pete who bred fighting dogs. Her mother had been a stunner. Where was she now? He’d meant to ask, but didn’t want to risk crinkling that garden-fresh face.

She had a posh look for a common bird – a ski slope nose that spoke of the Alps, and whilst he was on piste, tits to match. A funny girl who played cards with him back in April, when he still spoke.

“I set fire to my boyfriend last night,” she said to him. Gordon’s lips felt floppy but his eyes were hooked on hers. Nobody could hear her as she said, “Meant it too. You ever scared by yourself? I sometimes wonder how far we’ll go. See my arm, here?”

Clear stepping stones of bruise showed a hand print.

Gordon wondered if they’d ever stab each other, or cut out each other’s tongues.

*

Locked Room - NV

Peter couldn't sleep. He had tried every trick in the book, from counting sheep to reading to jerking off, but this evening nothing could stop his mind from spinning at a hundred miles per hour. Tomorrow was the day, his day, finally. For as long as he could remember he had been trying to find out what was behind that locked door. Even his older brother, who he could normally count on to betray their parents' trust at any given opportunity and for the smallest of rewards, had proved impossible to bribe. Up until the day he had turned 18 himself, now almost two years ago, they had been partners in crime, both trying their hardest to convince parents, grandparents and family friends to reveal the secret unsuccessfully. Back then he had even promised Peter he'd tell as soon as he found out. But when the day came, suddenly it was like those years of brotherly scheming never meant anything and he'd been answering each plea with same deadpan "you'll find out on the day" ever since.

Lying there now, Peter couldn't help but feel a certain degree of bitterness about being the last in the family to find out, but at least the wait would be over tomorrow. After what seemed like an eternity and a half of twisting and turning Peter caught a glimpse of his alarm clock just as it changed to 11:11. He made a wish and finally fell into a peaceful slumber.

*

The Locked Room - MV

Mother said some sad and strange things on her deathbed. In and out of consciousness, she rode waves of memories and hallucinations. My brother had warned, close your ears to her delusions if you want to remember her well, but I thought, instead, I never knew Mother yet.

The sobs were hard to take. Guttural, from under her collarbone, lifting up her bird chest like a paddle puppet. One day she spoke mainly of a cat and kittens, of feeding them bread soaked in sugar milk from her fingers.

What I can’t stop thinking of, though, is the locked room she rambled on about. She had been flirty and girlish all morning, like I’d never seen her (nor would I want to), and then she descended into the deepest depression. She spoke of pulling furniture into a hidey-hole – a loveseat, a bottom drawer and a bookshelf of poetry. I never heard her read a poem in her life; she never read aloud to us and favoured science journals. She called, wailed, for someone called Jerry, and I pieced together he had left for war when Mother was twenty and that he had silver threads in his amber eyes.

Then she dragged Jerry himself into the room, kissing his wounds and forehead intermittently, taking off his uniform and sponging his skin.

 “I shall never love again as long as I live,” she said, with a fierce look on her face that added ten years, if it were possible.

I realised then that she had been true to her word, and for the first time, I liked her.

*