Drabbles

A black Discovery swings through the narrow stone pillars, into the restricted off-street car-park. The privileged driver steps out in leopard print heels, perfect rouge lipstick and a black faux-fur coat. Clacking up the steps, a designer bag hanging from her elbow, she glances at the hoi polloi.

A woman stands at the parking metre, dressed in a blue hoodie, jeans, running trainers, a woolly hat, no make-up and is carrying an unnamed canvas satchel.

Each shivers at the thought of what the other is wearing. Smirking in the comfort of their own clothes, they both turn and carry on.

Surrounded by people too fit to be at the gym, her squishy parts squirm.

She still comes, mostly to rant
with her friend about life. A bi-weekly entertainment (or annoyance) for the few that don’t wear headphones or yell loudly when swinging kettle bells.

“I’ll get the gym ball,” says the friend. But slipping from her hands, it bounces into the man bench pressing her weight. His mates laugh, drowning out the swearing coming from the treadmill.

Apologising, her friend retrieves the ball but then lying across it dives head first at the rowing machine.

Eating cake would’ve been safer.

Perching on a green road sign, a shadow-black crow observes the passing cars. The sign gives them the choice to go straight, turn right or stop. The drivers choose which tarmac path to take.

There are red cars, blue cars, black cars and silver cars. There are absurdly big cars and little cars, wide cars and tall cars, many seated cars, sleek cars, muscle cars, practical cars, lorries, cranes and tractors.  All pass under the beady eye of the crow.

All pass the green sign telling them where they can go.

But then stretching out her wings, she flies away.

He wants to see her, to speak to her, to text her, but he can’t. Not whilst he’s driving away from her.

She’s a lead weight; a bullet in his chest. He should get her removed, but the resulting bleed-out would be fatal.

She’s in his dreams; smiling, laughing, sitting beside him. He wonders what it’d be like to hug her and… a horn blare and the image jerks sideways.

Instinct turns his hands, straightens his spine, opens his eyes. Squinting at the dark road, he tries not to think of her.

But he can’t help these near fatal thoughts.

Looking in a mirror, a girl covers her face with foundation; the building bricks of a masterpiece or a way to bury her true self?

A boy accentuates his eyes, with black liner, making a statement or does he just like how he looks?

Blusher’s applied with a brush, making her blush and false lashes flutter like little wings.

Coloured shadows highlight the shade of his eyes, making him stand out, and stand tall.

Friends help. Show them how.

Just don’t let others make you up.

Make yourself up. Make you the best version of you, with and without makeup.

Have you ever thought your life is, like on TV? That only one interesting thing happens to you each week; the moment you meet your unrequited love interest.

For forty-five minutes you’re together and you’re sucked into a world of safe excitement.

In the last episode you had so much fun, you couldn’t stop laughing, but you didn’t get any real answers.

You’re still wondering will you, won’t you?

On TV you’d know you will eventually, but it wouldn’t happen until the last season.

So, you wait, and tune in next week.

But life needs more than a regular feature.  

Three travellers stand on a station platform. Back packs on, walking sticks in hands and two dogs sit patiently at their feet.

Talking loudly, in clipped tones, they don’t look at each other.

The train arrives with a shush. The three travellers find their way to a door but are pushed back by an unseen force.

Stepping up the first calls out, “Two steps.”

Searching with their hands for an empty seat, one accidentally sits on someone before being called back.

“Here, to your left,” says a voice and a hand helps her sit down.

Three travellers blindly travel on.

Thinking about him, she’s distracted from her everyday.

She’s distracted by the memory of his smile, to which no other smile compares. And the glint in his eye that winks at her from every passing reflection.

Imagining imaginary meetings, she fills up her day. She makes lists in her head of everything she wants to say, but forgets when they meet, too distracted to remember.

She’s probably not a distraction to him, but right now he’s someone happy to think about.

Someone to look forward to meeting.

Someone who gives her hope that one day she won’t need a distraction.

She knows she shouldn’t, but the temptation is too great. The smell stirs something inside her. Her hormones are like bees roused by the smell of pollen and they won’t be still until she gets what she desires.

One lick. The taste is everything she imagined. But before she realises it, she’s unwrapped the lot.

Paper clothes lie strewn across the carpet. The rest of the evidence is melted onto her lips, like the remnants of a passionate kiss.

She cleans her face and starts tidying but the door opens.

He’s early.

She’s too late.

He’ll know she had chocolate!

Alfred March is too busy sleeping, to wake up.  He hits snooze four times each morning.

Alfred March is too busy washing his hair, trimming his stumble and picking his shirt-tie combination, to think about anyone else.

Alfred March is too busy admiring himself in the mirror, to watch TV, answer his phone or reply to his emails.

He’s too busy being on a diet to eat breakfast and too busy working to eat lunch.

Alfred March is too busy finishing the project to sleep.

Alfred March is busy being busy.

But Alfred March is happy being busy Alfred March.