Just Say Yes!

Week 4 Creative Writing Task.  Select a European Country and create a story describing in detail the location and  how an outsider causes conflict. With it’s verdant landscapes, Southern Ireland was my choice of Country.  

Just Say Yes

Aoife stood motionless on the rugged hills gazing out over the sprawling meadows of Killarney, the early morning breeze lifting her tarnished curls.  Tall grasses, stubborn in their aridity were flattened from the far hedgerow to the canopy of woodland leaves where she now stood drinking in the shade. Wild flowers were a cacophony of colour on the fading green. Purple thistles, blue cornflowers and tall asters with their yellow centres. There was no coordination like the displays in the village, just a free-for-all choreographed by the wind.

The meadow lay peaceful in the thickening light of late morning.  Flowing like a sea of green over the hillock, speckled with a riot of colour.  There was a shallow lake at the edge of the pasture, here the grass was thick and lush growing in dense tussocks, where the trees provided sun-flecked shade, a cool and refreshing respite from the mid-summer sun causing the white umbrellas of cow parsley to toughen and brown.  The rutted track toward the farm, once boggy, was mud hardened and cracked.  How she adored the lush iridescent pasture. Aoife gazed back towards home and sighed.

Today was her wedding day.  In little over an hour she would pledge her eternal love to Aidyn.  Her saviour, soulmate, protector. So why, amidst the cluster of cornflowers, was she musing, thinking of Elias?  If Aoife was honest with herself, not a day went by when he didn’t cross her mind, no matter how fleeting or how irrelevant, he was always there, only a thought away.

Aoife fell in love with Elias when she was eighteen years of age.  He stumbled into Aoife’s life and turned it upside down.  Aoife grew up on Killarney Farm with her father and five brothers, William, Patrick, Sean, Conor and Tomas.  Aoife never knew her mother, who passed away during childbirth, and she was raised by her father William, who was firm but fair and her five doting big brothers.  Aoife occasionally missed having a mother, but as she never knew her she often felt her feelings misplaced, unlike the grief her father and brothers openly displayed.

When Elias came into their lives, her brothers were fiercely protective, but Elias soon won them over with his American charm, his lilting accent and captivating antidotes.  Elias served for the US Army and was based at Killarney for six months. Six wonderful, joyous months.  Aoife loved Elias with every piece of her beating heart and when he left, six months later and she never heard from him again, each part was shattered into tiny shards along with every promise he had ever made to her. Aoife’s world became black, darker for his absence, loneliness crippling her every thought, until Aidyn.  Aidyn put her back together again.

“Aoife” she spun around startled, aghast, the very man on her mind was here, calling her, making his way over the meadow.  She froze, paralyzed with fear, with dread.  She opened her mouth, but no sound emerged.  What the hell was he doing here?

She managed “Elias” which was more of a whisper than a question.

“Oh Aoife, Aoife” he sang her name as he approached her “you look just as you did the last time I saw you”.

Aoife wanted to scream at him, make him understand, that on the outside she did look the same but on the inside, her core, she was damaged, she would never be the same.  Instead she just stood there and murmured “Hello Elias”.

Without shame Elias took Aoife by her hands and threw her into his arms, she remained stiff, unresponsive, fighting every natural urge to melt into his embrace.  He inhaled her scent, her headdress adorned with anemones and roses and for the briefest moment Aoife was sent hurtling into the past.

“Aoife my love, I have come back for you, for us.  Please forgive me my darling but not a day has passed when I have not thought of you.  The military dictated my future without you, but not anymore, I am here and I am free from them and I promise you Aoife I will spend a lifetime making it up to you.  It’s not too late Aoife, it’s not too late for us.” He paused, drinking her in, reaching for the ring “Aoife I love you, I have always loved you. Marry me?”.

There it was, everything Aoife had ever wanted to hear.  Three years too late.

Aidyn stood nervously at the altar.  His mother teetering on her ridiculously high heels, fussing, picking, irritating.  The choir shuffled impatiently in the pews and Aidyn closed himself off to his mother’s bestirring and absorbed the beautiful building.  The ancient stone walls which were once smooth were now pitted and scarred.  The midday sun seeped through the stained glass mullioned windows casting a checkerboard of vivid kaleidoscope sunlight onto the dark walnut floor.  Where was she?

The handful of guests shifted, coughed and sniffed.  He blanched under their scrutiny and whispers.  The vicar tapped his prayer book aimlessly.   He knew what they were all thinking, she wasn’t coming.  Aidyn felt the thump of his heart reverberating. Beads of sweat formed and tickled his brow, his mop of tawny hair absorbing the moisture. Suit trousers slightly too short, jacket slightly too big, weighing heavy on his tall but slim frame.  Aidyn wanted to walk out but his feet were anchored to the parquet flooring beneath.  His mother, tired of being ignored, had taken her seat next to his father who had the biggest smile on his face.  Still proud, still elated, forever the optimist.

Out of the corner of his eye Aidyn saw the vicar make a move towards him and just as Aidyn was about to beseech “five more minutes” the heavy church doors were thrown open and there she was. In the warm summer light, which surged through the open doors, her hair glowed chestnut, tumbling in curls to her simple white dress, the halo of the flowered-headdress making her appear angelic. Floating down the aisle on the arm of her father, clutching a bouquet of lemon roses, her eyes never left his. Aidyn just stood there mesmerized, she was a stunning vision to behold, his future, his life, his Aoife.

Later in the secluded grounds of the church Aoife took Aidyn’s hand and lead him to the rickety bench beneath the luscious leaved branches of the oak tree.

“Aidyn, why did you contact Elias and tell him about our wedding?” she probed.

He bowed his head. “I had to know Aoife, I am so sorry but I had to know.”

Lifting his chin, she whispered “had to know what?”

Aidyn stood and lifted Aoife to him.  “Aoife I know what he meant to you, I know he was never far from your mind.  I could not go through with today, I wouldn’t want you to be with me, if Elias is still the man you love”.

“Oh Aidyn, that was such a long time ago and yes, you’re right, a part of me did believe I still loved Elias, but seeing him here, today, well it just made me realise that those feelings aren’t buried Aidyn, they are gone, they simply do not exist anymore.

Aidyn blinked away the tears threatening to fall and smiled at Aoife, gathering her into him he kissed her sweet lips.  “Shall we get back to our guests?” he asked.

She laughed and let him lead her back to the church, her fingers insentiently stroking Elias’s ring tucked away in her bridal pocket.

Hayley Mars

"A Fruit for all Seasons"

As I am now back at College, I am producing more than I am getting chance to post! Which is a good thing, well actually a great thing! However my novel is taking a bit of a back burner, but after the chaos of Christmas I intend to knuckle down and make some positive progress.  As you know I entered the NYC Flash Fiction Competition (both entries posted on here) anyway as much I loved my first entry it did not achieve a top 15th place, so nil points.  However lots of positive feedback from the Judges.  Well my second story “Hinkley Honey” only went and got 9 points, 6th place out of 35 stories.  I was elated and as far as my story critique goes I obviously don’t know what I am talking about as I much preferred my first entry.  However 9 points was not enough to get me the in the top 5 out of 35 to go through to the next round, I did nonetheless get a respectable 11th place.

Here is what the Judges thought: -

• I liked the ending when David texted Bob. I thought that was a sweet moment.
• I really enjoyed the plot twist at the end of the story. The love connection was easy to engage with and cheer on. The depth of character development was great-- not too much but not too little.
• A great concept. I especially loved the reveal at the end that Bob had set the two up. Some nice humour throughout.

Well back to my college work and back to Week 2.  Our task was to tell a story of our life through food.  As I was raised above a Fruit & Veg Shop, and in memory of my wonderful mother, it seemed only right to tell my story about growing up amongst the apples & oranges.

“A Fruit for all Seasons”

As the first orange, hued rays of sunrise kissed the litter laden, worn grey paving stones of the deserted streets, silent and still. Whilst I was still curled in the silent slumber at peace, my consciousness swirled in the land of dreams, oblivious to the physical world. My mother bartered, traded and loaded her van with the produce for the day. Monday to Friday she rose at 3am in order to make the Preston markets for 4am, working tirelessly, without complaint to ensure I had the privilege of my peaceful sleep.

You see, I didn’t have a front door, a front garden or indeed a back garden. I had a shop door, a back yard and an outside toilet. I was raised above a ‘Fruit & Veg’ shop, it was never a house, but always my home. From as far back as I can recall, I lived and played amongst the freshest of foods, back when the bananas came housed within crates, straight off the boats, together with the occasional stow-away spider, terrifyingly bigger than my tiny hand. When we had a ‘spud-bin’ where potatoes were poured, straight from the sack and then bagged and weighed by me to earn my pocket money, as soon as I could reach the scale. The same scale which was used to weigh my baby brother, born at home on the 13th October 1976.

Whilst part of me craved the normality of living in a house, it was always to my home everybody came, it was a novelty, enticing, as much fruit as we could stuff into our eager faces. Numerous days spent sat in boxes in the shop window, treats from the customers as they admired my flushed cheeks and wild red curls, Easter eggs, selection boxes, the odd ten pence thrust into my fervent fist. Where everybody knew my name and the shop-assistants were my un-related Aunties. I was the proud daughter of a greengrocer.

With the rich smell of strawberries, this little fruit royalty wearing its deep green crown, perfectly red, flawlessly formed, bearing no resemblance to the ones you now get in the supermarkets with their diffuse flavour and unsightly white skin. Golden delicious, wet and crisp, as I bit into it, it broke between my teeth with a soft crunch. The lingering sounds drifting around my ears, filling my heart with pleasure. Icy sweetness filled my warm mouth. Oranges of all shapes and sizes, they lure you with their brightly-covered coating and the promise of a healthy sweet snack, by the time you penetrate that illuminous coating, pith and peel, chewy and tough. There must be an easier way of getting my vitamin C?

Rows upon rows, of the finest fruit, vegetables, salads and more. All our meals, always home cooked, consisted of produce freshly bought from the markets that morning. There isn’t a cabbage that I haven’t tried, no type of apple I haven’t bitten into, too many potatoes that I can honestly recall. A prohibition on Jersey Royals when they first came into season as they were far too expensive for my youthful palate. My phobia of mushrooms, where I couldn’t even touch one without collapsing into a heap of unnecessary revulsion. The battle of the sprouts every Christmas time.

As the residuum of summer would melt into autumn, Halloween brought pumpkins galore, on the shelves and on the floor, tough and heavy, a dirty orange, but what made Halloween extra special was the home-made toffee apples made by my mother. It was her secret recipe that she took to her grave, but never again have I tasted anything quite so delicious. The colour was fresh, a bright shiny brown. The toffee a gooey honey like liquid stimulated with a sweet and buttery taste, oh how that toffee melted on my warm tongue. Every batch that my mother would prepare, the last one was always saved for me. The caramel never quite covering the Golden Delicious lurking beneath, but the toffee was thick, delicious and filled me with delight.

All too soon the nights grew longer, the days shorter. Customers seeking refuge from the driving, freezing rain, together they would huddle around the Calor Gas heater, strategically placed, munching on hot mince pies and drinking mulled wine. The shop adorned with festive attire, swinging and swaying against the draft from the door. Clementines, Cranberries, Sprouts and Walnuts. Christmas trees lining the walls. Plentiful orders for families festivities. Each one prepared lovingly by my mother’s fair hands, little extras for the less fortunate households, collected or delivered by Christmas Eve.

My childhood is amass with poignant memories, of a mother who worked tirelessly to raise her family and run a successful business. The years rolled by. Seasons came and went. All too soon the menace of the Superstore emerged and the traditional fruit and veg store could survive no more. Times were hard, the price of potatoes went through the roof. We had to branch out, introduce groceries, fresh bread and cakes. Homemade sandwiches, salad boxes and sweets. It was a tough time but my mother survived, the business survived, my home survived.

The resilience of my mother was unwavering, over the tough times she fought assiduously to keep her business, her legacy, alive and she triumphed, so that many years later my children could also enjoy a childhood I had once relished. ‘Nanny Shop’ she became lovingly known as, and just as I had done way back when, her grandchildren laughed and they played, cramming their faces with delicious delights, until such time as my mother turned sixty five and hung up her greengrocer gloves for good.

Forever in our memories, forever in our hearts.

“In loving memory of my mother Carole 1942-2015”

Tenby Tunnel

I have to say the last 12 months have flown by and I am, as you know, back for my second year of Creative Writing.  I have already posted my third week assignment "Oblivion" so I will rewind to week one and "Picture Prompt" flash fiction of 500 words or less.  Take certain elements from a picture together with descriptive words to develop a short story.  One of the things I most enjoy about writing flash fiction is that I create them without any particular strategy in mind.  I literally watch it unravel beneath my fingertips.  

TENBY TUNNEL

Michael escaped through the gargantuan glass doors, unceremoniously spilling the deluge of the city’s proficient upon the tired grey stone, groaning under the haze of the setting sun.  Unregimented footfalls reverberated within the lofty structures with the carelessness of an undisciplined march.  Michael lifted his collar melting into the throng of the masses as they surged ahead.  Inconspicuous.  Determined.  Alone.

Whilst the City was fast-paced, almost chaotic, Michael remained serene, tranquil.  He greedily inhaled the aromas from the nearby restaurants and brasseries and his stomach moaned appreciatively.  With head bowed and hands thrust deep into his pockets he disappeared, unnoticed, into the stench of the grime-ridden underground.

The light in the toilets flickered intermittently and just for a moment Michael gazed, motionless, at his reflection in the tarnished mirror above the chipped ceramic bowl.  He had done it.  Taking his crimson stained hands from deep within his pocket he vigorously rubbed soap into his tainted skin, the hot water taking the burnt orange residue into the drainage below.  His cheeks flushed and his lips displayed the semblance of a satisfied smile.

As Michael quickly changed his clothing, removing all traces of any remaining bloodstain, the final rays of the evening light bounced rhythmically off the soiled tiles beneath his feet.  Removing the bloody hunting knife from the safety of his inside pocket, Michael proceeded to meticulously parcel the knife within the clothing he had removed.  As Michael left the camouflage of the underground, parcel securely underneath his arm, he was greeted by the sky dyed a pomegranate pink.  The heaviness of the earlier surge had lightened.

“May there always be sunshine, may there always be blue skies” Michael mused.  Turning toward Tenby Tunnel, the vagrants milling around the brazier even though the temperatures were far from cool, the plume of flame licking at the musty surround.  Michael approached the cluster of the cities forgotten, their deprivation etched in each hard line on their aged faces and swiftly dropped his parcel into the brazier causing the hungry flames to devour, like a great famished beast, belching out plummets of black smoke.  He walked away leaving their angry protests lingering in the still air.

Michael gazed over to the Tenby River, the water lay flat, silent, as was his emotions, as if one were a reflection of the other. The fading orbs of light recoiled and eventually melted into the water, causing the river to appear like a huge pool of deep red.  Michael thought of Harry.

Harry’s blood didn't gush in a constant flow, but in sync with the beating of his heart. At first it came dense and strong, flowing through his fingers as he clutched his ripped flesh. Michael looked on, fascinated, watching the blood ooze over his hand, the thick fluid finding its own direction and staining the clothing beneath. After just moments the blood was still leaving his rapidly paling flesh, but his pulses were slower, weaker. Michael didn’t leave until Harry had taken his last breath and his heart had given its final beat.  Only then did Michael walk away.

Hayley Mars

Author Blog Challenge 2016

Author Blog Challenge 2016 is underway today.  A great way to challenge and promote yourself and your blog, at the same time helping other authors promote themselves and each other.

https://authorblogchallenge.wordpress.com/

Good luck.

Oblivion

I am back on the Creative Writing Course, three weeks in on my 2016/2017 course.  Well I have been busy, lots of tasks and word counts too complete (which I will post at a later date) but this week’s task was the biggest challenge yet. We were given lyrics to Clean Bandit – Let it be (ft. Jesse Glynne) and (using lots and lots of language features) asked to do three things: -

·         Write a response;

·         Make a video;

·         Publish it to YouTube.

Well I am sorry Jesse, but I didn’t have a response, so instead I have used my own lyrics and made a video and published it to YouTube.  In the words of Meatloaf “Two Out Of Three Ain’t Bad.”

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iWHlcgp_Kvw

NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Challenge (Round 2) 2016

Here it is my second (a probably final) submission to the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Challenge. There are so many amazing submitted stories I have read, that I will be extremely surprised if I reach the finals.  However I have enjoyed the challenge immensely, even if I have felt like tearing my hair out at times.  Here is the Judges feedback from my first submission (Round 1) :-

WHAT THE JUDGES LIKED ABOUT YOUR STORY - The crying girl is a curious and intriguing element. Vivid description adds to realism. The walls of literature closing in are frightening and add to the suspense. Your story had a good pace. You were able to set the scene well. I also liked your final paragraph (the ending).

WHAT THE JUDGES FEEL NEEDS WORK - Questions remain at the end of the piece. Who was the little girl? What was the purpose of the old man? He seemed ignorant of the protagonist's fate. Why was Harper killed? The dialogue between Charles and Harper could be better developed. You could have highlighted their personalities, thoughts, and suspicions more through their dialogue.

Anyway back to Round 2 - My (extremely random) prompts for this story were as follows:-

• Genre: Romantic Comedy
• Location: A Nuclear Power Plant

• Object: A Jar of Honey

Hinkley Honey

Penny arrived at Hinkley Point ten minutes before the agreed time.  There were no other cars on the road and no sign of life.  To the left of Penny was the countryside, stretching before her like a giant quilt of golden and green squares held together by the thick stitching of hedgerows. It rose and fell like giant waves on a gentle ocean, sprinkled with farm animals. Occasionally there was a cluster of deciduous trees that separated the fields. Penny envisaged vehemently protesting and afterwards ambling through pastures, hand in hand with Bob as they found a secluded clearing and sampled the picnic she had lovingly prepared. What could possibly go wrong today?

To her right was the imposing Hinkley Point.  It was vast with geometric angles in complete contrast against the greens, blues and golden lights of the trees, water and sky. Penny was unconsciously drawn to the structure existing in the periphery of her vision.  Where were the protestors? Where was Bob?

Penny checked her appearance in the mirror and groaned.  The reflection revealed that this morning’s coiffured up-do now resembled a bird's nest. She cursed her undisciplined mane, zealously pulling clips to release the unruly curls which eagerly sprang loose.  

Leaving the car armed only with her placard and hamper she searched for fellow-protesters. Penny broached the secure perimeter of Hinkley Point, gazing apprehensively at cautionary signs displaying the hazardous environment contained within.  Turning, Penny absorbed the rolling landscape and began to understand Bob’s enmity.

“Hello can I help you?” Penny turned, startled.

“Oh, I’m sorry I didn’t see you there.  Are you joining us today? My name is Penelope, but everybody calls me Penny,” she balanced the hamper precariously on her hip and thrust out her hand.

Taking her hand in his, he smiled. “Hello Penny, I am David and it’s a pleasure to meet you, however I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Penny stared at him confused, digesting his gawky demeanour, thick rimmed glasses and wild curls, not too dissimilar to her own. “Friends against Fracking? Hinkley Community Hall?” she questioned.

“No, sorry” David replied shaking his head.

Penny proceeded to proudly hold up her placard “DON'T FRACK WITH ME”, smiling expectantly at David.

David glanced at Penny quizzically “do you know what fracking is?”

“Of course I do” she insisted, dangerously swinging her placard gesturing “it’s digging up our beautiful countryside, polluting our water, destroying our earth” she tried to deliver as passionately as Bob, but it appeared to fall flat.

“Hmmm it is Penny, you’re right. So why are you stood at a Nuclear Power Plant?”

“Bob said this is where we were to meet” Penny delved into the depth of her memory.  Had she got it wrong? Was she too busy watching Bob rather than listening to him?

David studied her confused expression “I can assure you there is no fracking intended here or anywhere in the vicinity, what you see over there will remain as it is, nobody is digging or polluting the water.  Not on my watch. I am senior operator here and if there was any intended fracking, I would know about it.”

Penny shrank to the floor “oh god, I am such a fool, such a stupid fool” without warning tears began to swell in her heavily mascaraed eyes.

“Hey, now don’t say that. What’s in there?” he nodded toward the hamper.

“It’s a picnic, for Bob and me” she whispered.

“Bob is your boyfriend?”

“Humph, that was the plan” she said, more to herself rather than David.

“It seems such a shame to let this go to waste Penny, I don’t know about you but I haven’t had chance to eat.  I have been here all night, I am ravenous.”

Penny looked at David, he was actually rather handsome in a mad scientist kind of way and beyond the thick rimmed lenses he had the bluest eyes.  She returned his smile and sitting cross-legged proudly opened her beloved basket.

“Wow” said David, going straight for the jar of honey and holding it up “Bob must be a special someone?”

Penny shrugged “I did think so.”

“So, what is so wonderful about Bob, that you bring him honey?” David winked.

Penny giggled “I know I am pathetic, desperately looking for love” She leaned toward David “can I let you in on a little secret?”

“I would be disappointed if you didn't”

Penny looked around as though checking for eavesdroppers. “When I went to my first meeting of Friends against Fracking, I actually thought I was attending speed dating, I got the date wrong.” Penny let out a smothered snort.

“What on earth is speed dating?”

“Exactly what it says, you meet lots of potential dates, but only have three minutes to chat before you move on to the next one” Penny pronounced.

“Well if that’s the case I have spent my entire life speed dating.  Not many of my dates last beyond the first hello.” he confided.

“Yeah me too” Penny agreed.  “What do you think we are doing wrong?”

“Perhaps trying too hard? Love should be unexpected, random, suddenly appearing when you least expect it.” David leant forward and tucked a stray curl behind Penny’s perfect pixie ear.

Covering his hand with hers she looked at him intently “I know what you mean.”

David pulled Penny up from the ground.  “Forget about Bob, forget about fracking, let’s take this picnic, your wonderful jar of honey and go and explore the countryside.”

Penny smiled an illuminous smile.  “Let me lose the placard and I’m all yours” she turned to the car, her auburn curls bouncing in the breeze.  David looked on longingly and took the phone from his jeans pocket.  Keeping one eye on Penny and one on his phone, he fired off a quick text “She is wonderful, thanks Bob.”

“Ready?” asked Penny.

Returning the phone to his pocket, he took her hand, lifted the hamper, kissing her gently on her lips he smiled, “ready.”

Hayley Mars

Vanished - NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Challenge 2016

This is my submission to the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Challenge 2016. I and another 2100 participants wrote our stories over a 48 hour period. My story was edited down from 1850 words to 1000 words. That is why the ending is a bit ambiguous and also shows strain from the editing.

My prompts for this story were as follows:

• Genre: Suspense (Emphasis is on the suspense, even more than on characterization)
• Location: A Bookstore (Majority of story must take place in this location)
• Object: A Passport (Must at least be mentioned in the story, but may play a key roll if desired)

Vanished

I stared across the street into the window of the bookstore, suitably named “The Book Nook”.  The shop was bathed in darkness, diffident, unimposing. I saw something move within.  Was it a trick of the light?  I shook my head and fell back into the warm embrace of my home.

Every evening I found myself stood at the window in the throes of insomnia, watching, waiting.  Tonight the moon was full illuminating the inky curtain of sky. Rays of light bounced off the bevelled glass of the aged bookstore and there she was.  I found myself staring into the eyes of a young girl, my hot breath distorting the image I frantically wiped the window.  She was gone.

After a sleepless night I broached the ancient building. What I had considered quirky and quaint suddenly appeared ominous.  The windows were dirty, the paint tainted and chipped.  For a second I hesitated.  Turning the brass handle, a rusted chime echoed around the space within.  The smell of incense and stale cigarettes clung to me as I marvelled at the lengths of literature, basked in a dusty haze.  I was not sure how far the shop went back but it appeared endless.  Scraps of paper adorned the walls, musings, quotes “a life without books is no life at all”.  

The sound of a cough tore me away from the overflowing shelves of used paperbacks, and I turned to the desk nestled in the corner.

“Can I help you?” said the man occupied behind copious mounds of magazines and books.

“Sorry, good morning Mr….?” I asked.

“No need for such formality my dear, you can call me Charles”.

“Good morning Charles” I repeated.  “May I ask, do you live here alone?”

“Goodness gracious me, what a bizarre question.  Yes Harper, I do live here alone.  Why do you ask?” he came from behind the cranny of his desk.

Astonished that he knew my name I was momentarily silenced.  Before I had time to engage, he held out his hand containing my passport, which I took confused.

“You must have dropped it, I found it yesterday by the post office.  To be honest, that is why I thought you were here, I left word with the postmaster”. He looked at me questioningly.

Reality smothered concern and I felt embarrassed. “I didn’t get your message.  Thank you for returning this to me.  I was copying it for ID purposes.  It must have fallen from my bag.”  I realised I was jabbering incessantly and fell silent.  Charles just watched me, amused, absorbing.  I felt my senses sharpen and my skin prickle.

“Why did you ask me if I live alone?” he asked.

“It was just that I thought I saw a young girl in your shop, last night, late?”.

He shook his head quickly “you must have been mistaken. I am here alone”.  His voice was deep, mellifluous, convincing but I saw uncertainty cloud his eyes, unblinking yet drawing me in. I suddenly felt a chill.  

“May I look around?” the words came unintended.

“Of course Harper, it would be my pleasure.  Now if you don’t mind I need to get back to my work” and with that Charles disappeared beyond the mountain of clutter he had earlier emerged.

With trepidation I made my way into the bowels of the shop.  Dust collected as far as I could see. Spider webs weaved loosely around books and between the dirtied shelves. Ancient lamp fittings hung motionless embedded into the cracked ceiling. The floor was littered with dirt, books, discarded paper. The fissures in the wall housed abandoned piles of dated material. Dust floated lazily in the air catching in the back of my throat. With each footfall it billowed and fell. All that could be heard was the rustle of paper beneath my feet and my own hurried breath.

I became immersed in the tiers of tired battered spines, mottled gilded print portraying obscure inscriptions of unknown authors, a mish mash of size & shape.  I wasn’t aware how long I had been there but a gloom fell, making the silky thread of web invisible in the dim light.  I heard a sniffle and as I rounded an ornate bookcase there she was.  Sat huddled in a crumbly crevice was the girl.  Two browns eyes stared up at me, the same eyes.

“Hello” I said to her “What is your name?”

She stared at me, her eyes red and swollen as though she had been weeping for a lifetime.  I saw fear in her eyes that appeared to flow flagrantly from her soul.  “Leave” she whispered. Shuffling towards me she grabbed my wrist with a strength I was not expecting.

“You must leave” she pleaded “Go now, before it’s too late”.

A clatter from behind made me jump and turn, releasing the grip of the girl.

“Who’s there” I shouted, but my voice was swallowed by the clogged cases.  When I turned back the girl had gone.

I turned to leave, making my way back through the dust and debris.  The lofty shelves looming, threatening.  At each turn another bookcase. I hurried through the labyrinth and yet the passageways still stretched as far as I could see. Panic engulfed me.  The daylight had dwindled to a barely perceptible somber glow. Each wall of books was identical to the next without any identifying marker of any kind. Suddenly with a deafening grinding the walls of literature began to close in, I screamed but it caught in the back of my dry throat and I keened, like a wounded animal, as the historical prose consumed me greedily.

Charles awoke with a start.  The shop was in darkness and he was unaware how long he had been dozing.  He stretched with the enthusiasm of a tired elderly man, and mused that Harper must have turned down the lights and  left discreetly leaving him sleeping.  He turned the sign on the door and retired upstairs.