tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-80231598538649853942024-02-19T07:46:44.335+00:00The Assorted Writings of Mark A. MorrisA fresh, innovative, irreverent view of strange people and exotic worlds Mark A Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00855198804375011390noreply@blogger.comBlogger86125truetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8023159853864985394.post-54173961053967711742018-10-24T22:55:00.000+01:002018-10-24T23:00:42.170+01:00A job for Life? (Halloween in the Graveyard)<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
The slab slid aside. Inside the crypt, it was dark and the
air was like soup, motes of decomposed flesh and insects’ droppings filling it
until it seemed impossible that it could sustain any form of life. There may
have been a few cracks large enough to admit small rodents, but it was inconceivable
that anything else could survive there.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A small figure emerged from the casket, its head and
shoulders pushing up through the wedge-shaped opening. Its hands were roughly
bandaged but its head was fully swathed, eyes being of little use in total
darkness. It would have to find its way using memory and touch. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The moon was shining outside above the graveyard. It was a
full moon and it was wreathed in clouds, shadows striping the graves as it
pushed feebly through them, giving the illusion of motion. There were usually few
people present here at this time but tonight there were two, the sexton and the
gravedigger, the pair of them busy reopening a grave so the police could examine
the remains within it, neither of them concerned about being where they were in
the dark. They’d hoped they could save themselves time later when the officers
were present, always feeling ill-at-ease when people were watching them at work,
this never being a problem for them when they’d only the dead for company.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Horace was waist-deep in the grave, throwing soil to one
side. He’d created a fair-sized pile already and was beginning to feel
uncomfortable, the earth rising above him as though he was being buried
himself. The sexton was smoking a cigar, using its odour to disguise the smell
of decomposition that was always a problem when they had to exhume a corpse,
Horace being blessed with an inability to smell anything at all.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A dull thud disturbed them, the marble cross topping one of
the tombs falling away in slow-motion, the masonry carving hitting the grass on
the opposite side of the hole. The sexton dropped his cigar, its glowing nub disappearing
into the hole and Horace swore softly, dropping to his knees to avoid both
items. This job was usually safe, the second person assigned to be a watcher, the
soil sides of the graves rarely collapsing onto the digger. A third figure
appeared, walking hesitantly, arms outstretched. It walked forward and then
tripped, pitching head-first into the hole.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Horace reappeared from the grave first, spooked by the
newcomer. The bandage-clad corpse emerged next, clutching the cigar. Its
dressings had already begun to smoulder, and it thrust the smoking stub back at
the sexton, holding it with one hand whilst beating out the hotter charred
patches with the other. The sexton nodded, took the cigar, raised it to his
mouth and then puffed it into life again. “You see that, Horace,” he said,
wafting away the stench that had begun to rise. “Some people don’t even let
death get in the way of them providing a service. You could learn a lot from
this individual.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />Mark A Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00855198804375011390noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8023159853864985394.post-54703625731988378592018-04-15T16:06:00.001+01:002018-04-16T21:04:49.010+01:00The Mai Queen<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">I don’t know who I am anymore. I’ve
changed. I can remember the best of my life so clearly; the soaring thrills,
the feeling I’d become what I’d always been destined to be; the knowledge my
life had been leading to that one brief period of fulfilment.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">~<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">It was hardly any time ago. The
proctors had collected us all together; this season’s Queens, they called us.
We were excited to be together; hundreds of us, all the same age. We were
driven to the coast and then fed a delightful feast; the flat-backed proctors
always watching, hardly eating anything themselves, their poor bodies deformed
and twisted into parodies of nature. We all pitied them then, as we always did.
We were young and they were aged; we were vital and they were staid and heavy
and dour. It was almost that they were another species from us; their lives a
travesty, their existences soured by what they’d missed, their bitterness
directed toward us in revenge for the cruelties nature had exacted upon them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">We were then shipped to the island.
There must have been hundreds of us. Thousands, maybe. Again, the proctors were
with us, feeding us until we could swallow no more - the rocking of the boats
and the strange juices they were giving us making us feel odd and uneasy. I can
remember the proctors I had with me then; the one rowing and the other one
urging me to eat and drink. I never really identified with the rower – she was
just a back to me; never speaking, never doing anything but pull on the oars –
but the other one was mercurial; trying to act as though she was a friend but
still with a calculated edge to her. I’m sure she would have thrown me
overboard if I hadn’t done as she demanded. And then we were ashore and it was
dark and we were hustled on again, across the beach and then up to the castle.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">There were more proctors on the
island, each as silent and muscular as the rower, the original one with the
boat returning to the mainland as soon as we were ashore. The cheery one that
wasn’t, the feeder, stayed with me while we were taken up the cliff, the new
one we’d been assigned following behind as I was led up the steps. There must
have been hundreds of steps we had to climb, carved into the rock, with only
our balance and sure footing stopping us from falling. And there were fallers –
I know that because I saw one above me, her skirts opening and flashing red for
a moment before she hit the rocks and the sand. My mainland proctor stopped
above me then, looking down, and I had to stop too, becoming conscious again of
the other one behind me, her breath now in my ear. We must have stayed like
that for a minute, with me always looking forward and up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">And then we were at the top and I
felt safe again, despite the company I had with me. The proctors led us to the
castle, although there was nowhere else to go, its walls almost up to the
cliff’s edge. We were taken to a great hall and then stripped; the slimmer of
our attendants removing our clothes while the others stood aside in readiness.
I can remember feeling silly – it must have been the excesses of the food and
the strange drinks, I think – but I felt enervated by my nakedness and the
sight of all the other Queens there. I slipped away from my entourage and we
danced together, hundreds of us, each of us happy to be together and apart from
the moderating influences of our proctors. We were young and we were free and
we were reckless; our spirits heightened by the screams of the fallers we’d
heard, feeling the relief of knowing that it hadn’t been us and the guilt of us
still being alive. It was just good to be there and present and we took
advantage of it, kissing and hugging and laying entwined with one another,
taking delight from our youth and the excitement that bubbled through us all.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">I wasn’t the first, but I was one of
the early ones. I’d heard someone cry out and then the screams of the others
near her before it happened to me. I already knew something was wrong when my
back collapsed; the bulge between my shoulders breaking open to let the wings
fall free. The attendants must have been watching us, waiting for it to happen,
because they were with me almost immediately, primping the feathers and pulling
at the muscles to warm them. My long-term proctor was there, forcing me to
drink again, the other one doing the massaging. I saw others like me, their
wings either trailing or still half-folded, all of us with our attendants; each
of us being coaxed to straighten our wings or to make those first few flaps,
exercising the muscles we’d discovered we’d had lying dormant. I know I felt
dizzy and afraid and confused.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">The next thing I remembered was the
ledge. The door had been locked behind us and there was nothing but the pale
light of the windows and the darkness in front of me like a wall. My proctors
were with me then and there was none the fakeness I’d sensed before; the
slimmer one now stony-faced and the more muscular one a barrier, preventing me
from making my way back to the door. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">“It’s up to you, now,” my proctor
said, her eyes hooded and unreadable. “You can take the dive or be pushed – it’s
all the same to me.” She craned her neck around and then smiled, pointing,
feeling no fear of the height. “The men’s island is that way – second star to
the right and keep straight on. If you’re lucky, you’ll get there before
morning. If not…” She shrugged. “It’s all the same to me.”<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">I looked out toward where she was
pointing and saw a dim light, low on the horizon. “It must be a long way,” I
said, dread filtering through me. “How far is it to the mainland?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">The proctor smiled, hawkishly. Her
nose was very narrow and her cheeks were concave, almost cadaverous. “’Bout
twenty-five miles, I’d say. Your best bets going straight on, toward the men.
At least you’ve a point to aim for – you could fly around in circles till you
fall, otherwise.” She paused, then continued, delight suddenly animating her
face, “The fishes eat well this time of year.”<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">The blockier proctor was closer now,
clenching and unclenching her fingers – first a fist and then a clawed hand. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">“And don’t think you can fly back
here – we patrol the coastline and drown the ones that aren’t already dead. An
inexpert flier’s noisy; we can hear you coming from miles away.” My proctor
shrugged, mockingly, her face now as impassive as it had ever been.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">“So, I just jump? From up here?” I
could see the castle wall, rising dimly above me, and the few lights of the
courtyard far below; the blocks of the wall in both directions large, smooth
and fitted closely together.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">There would be nothing to save me, if
I fell. Or if I was pushed. I would just have to put trust in what my wings
could do. They had to be there for a reason.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">And there was no other choice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">I heard the noise behind me and I
jumped, determined to make the decision for myself. At first, it felt like I
was flying; the rush of air past my face heady and intoxicating. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">And then I opened my eyes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">The first thing I saw was my feet.
Then I saw the wall, rushing past me. And then I saw the slabs in the
courtyard, growing larger, gaining detail. I began to thrash out with my wings;
feeling them first being pulled up vertically so that they dragged uselessly
through the air and then the pain as I drew them down again, shedding feathers
and feeling my muscles knotting with spasms. I sensed my weight again, not
realising the euphoria I’d felt had been my headlong plunge, my vision
tunnelling and growing dark even though my eyes were open. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">I would not give in, I vowed; knowing
it meant nothing to my proctor. I would do this. I would defy her. I would do
whatever it took.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">And then I was in control.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">I soared above the castle, not
knowing how I’d made it up there. I could see other Mai Queens on the ledges,
their own proctors implacable and brooding. I arced up and away from them,
seeking the light I’d been promised. It seemed closer from up there, the dot
brighter almost and knowing it offered me freedom, I turned instinctively
toward it, aligning my face and my hopes in its direction. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">The first few minutes of my flight
were dreamlike, and I took pleasure from rising up and then diving again; the
sea’s waves always there when I got low enough to distinguish them from the
dark aquamarine wall they’d become when I was higher. The skies weren’t truly
black either, of course, stars appearing when I became better dark-adapted,
populations of bright sparks forming patterns when I studied them more
intently; the brightest one always being the one low down toward the horizon. I
played with my new-found ability of flight; swooping with first one wing down
and then the other, trailing their tips through the waves, then circling and
spiralling through the air, rising up into a stall and diving down again,
knowing I could always recover my equilibrium and my heading. The beacon-light
grew brighter and soon became an island; the dot now covered with trees but
with also an inviting shingle beach that I corrected my course toward. It
seemed too soon to end my flight but I also felt tired, only now realising the
efforts I’d put my body through. What I needed now was to rest and then to eat
something more after I’d slept. I would fly again tomorrow, I promised myself,
but first I needed to recover.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">I landed awkwardly, almost dropping
out of the sky, clutching at the air to fall in a steep glide onto the sand, my
knees bucking beneath me. A group of people were there to greet me – not Mai,
like me, but not like the proctors either. They were broader shouldered and
muscular and had hair on their faces, unlike anyone else I’d ever seen. They
all seemed glad to see me and quickly crowded round.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">~<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">And then I awoke in the dark and I
was alone. I stretched my shoulders to flex my wings and felt nothing, backing
clumsily to the wall so I could trace their lengths against it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">And still felt nothing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Feeling nothing but the roughness of
hewn logs against my shoulders.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">I turned about and oriented myself
with the doorway, its empty archway lighter than the rest of the room. As I
moved toward its opening I felt something brush against my foot. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">A feather. One of many on the ground,
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">~<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">I was weeping when the men came for
me, crouched alone, clutching my useless wings to my chest. I’d tried to
reattach them, but they’d fallen away again, refusing to re-join themselves to
my back.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;">
<span style="color: #1d2129; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">How can a life pass in a day? I wish
I’d never been given my freedom. It only made my return to earth more painful
when I fell.<br /><br />~<br /><br />As this is on a blog-hop, the other links to follow are:<br /><br /><br />https://www.siobhanmuir.com/siobhans-blog/flashfiction-dont-call-me-baby</span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="color: #1d2129; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #1d2129; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">https://gwencease.com/2018/04/16/april-song-flash-fiction/<br /><br />http://www.bronwyngreen.com/flash-fiction-80-dive/</span></span></div>
Mark A Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00855198804375011390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8023159853864985394.post-3893683709150602522017-07-20T19:56:00.004+01:002017-07-20T20:06:40.176+01:00Fifty Shades of Cyber-sex<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">He unscrewed her foot and dropped it on the floor beside the
bed. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">“You’re staying the night,” he said. “I’m not taking no for
an answer.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">“Oh, I HATE it when you do that!” Eleanor pushed a chestful
of air between her lips, looking down at the stump at the end of her leg. A threaded
spigot protruded from the lower end of her calf, her ankle and everything
beyond it out of sight and now out of reach. “You know you’ve only got to ask.
I’m programmed to comply, whatever you ask.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">“That’s true, isn’t it?” Jacques clapped his hands and then
threaded his fingers together, turning his palms outermost and then flexing them
until his knuckles cracked. “Okay, remove the other one too. And your left
hand.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Eleanor sighed. This evening was not progressing as she’d anticipated.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">But she still obeyed him. She had no choice.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">“Right. My turn.” Jacques took hold of her remaining hand,
pressed the opposing points on either side of her wrist to disengage it and
then removed it too, holding it triumphantly above her. “Looky here,” he said,
grinning. “How about that for underhand behaviour?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Eleanor turned her face away. He was incorrigible enough
without her encouraging him. She closed her fingers so her nails bit into her
palm, forming a fist. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">“Hey! You can still use that? Now, that gives me an idea!” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">He dropped her hand onto the bed, his face suddenly close to
hers.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">“Memory purge time,” he said.</span><o:p></o:p></div>
Mark A Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00855198804375011390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8023159853864985394.post-42560896745390488802017-06-29T21:22:00.001+01:002017-06-29T21:26:03.831+01:00The Rise of the Reavers<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Failure is not an option.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Those five words could be seen everywhere. They were
stencilled onto the walls, etched onto their personal items, even tattooed onto
their skins. Their credo was with them each moment of the day, from their first
conscious breath in the morning right through to their last thought every
night. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">There is nothing but success.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">That was another of their conditioning phrases, second only
to the first. They had no alternatives; they had to fulfil their missions. The
trainers gave them no options, raising their requirements daily until the meek and the weak had all been eliminated from the process. Some of the candidates
speculated on how the unworthy ones were treated after they dropped out, but
those few people soon disappeared too, their voices quickly forgotten. There
could be no distractions. There was nothing but success.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Taryn was the first from her family to be chosen. There had
been others in the village who’d vanished, never to be seen again, but there
was no proof of their fate. They could just have fallen victim to the
Collectors, the raiding parties of the occupying forces always keen to take the
strongest and the fairest from each community for their purposes, none of those
returning alive, although sometimes their corpses were found.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">The Reavers were different. They were things of legend, a resistance force
that battled the oppressors, fighting to take back all that had been snatched away.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">They had to succeed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: large;">Failure was not an option.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
Mark A Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00855198804375011390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8023159853864985394.post-84494454042517528452017-06-24T14:03:00.001+01:002017-06-24T14:03:41.279+01:00Flight into the gloom<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; margin-bottom: 6px;">
<span style="font-size: large;">He brushed her antennae. She released a cloud of golden dust which rose into his eyes, making him blink. They both chittered for several minutes and then fell silent, knowing the sun was now below the horizon.</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Draven flexed his shoulders, seeking warmth from the stone. It was already beginning to cool and he knew they would both need to move soon. They'd be easy prey if they stayed here much longer, their joints becoming immobile and their attention dimming.</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<span style="font-size: large;">"We should find s<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline; font-family: inherit;">helter", he said. "Night's almost here."</span></span></div>
<div class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; display: inline; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;">
<div style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 6px;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Emanelle raised herself up, her head outlined against the darkening sky. She clicked her mandibles, irritated by the necessity to stir themselves. She was already feeling drowsy, swearing like a hive-drone as she fought to move, her legs already beginning to fuse into rigidity. She weaved drunkenly, her coordination slow to return. It had been so close. A few minutes more and they'd have been lost to the cold. The oblivion that took everyone could take them both now if they lingered here much longer.</span></div>
</div>
Mark A Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00855198804375011390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8023159853864985394.post-35752957372450996572017-06-24T12:09:00.001+01:002017-06-24T12:09:12.486+01:00A meeting<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; margin-bottom: 6px;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">He was anxious, she knew that. He'd brushed his knees of crumbs half a dozen times since they'd been sat here together and his hair stood no chance of falling over his eyes. He was a pleasant-enough man though and he made good conversation. He was also attentive and had shown consideration to her, pulling the chair out so she could sit at the table.</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">"Tell me," she said. "What are your passions? She held his eyes, resisting her own urge to look coyly down toward the table. "Wh<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;">at is it that fills your dreams each night?"</span></span></div>
<div class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; display: inline;">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><div style="margin-bottom: 6px;">
Russell leaned forward toward her, clasping his hands between his knees. He'd be brushing them free of crumbs again soon, she thought, wagering herself a second cup of coffee if she was correct. Then he smiled, laid both his hands on the table and then returned to his previous position, sitting upright but not leaning back, not wishing to appear too casual so soon. This was only their first 'meeting'. She imagined it'd be a while yet before they began to have dates.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
"I'm a painter. I've no real talent, of course, but it gives me pleasure." He stopped then, as though waiting for her to comment.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
Diane said nothing. She waited. He'd tell her much more if she gave him the stage and an audience to play for. Even if he said nothing, his words choking him into silence, that would tell her a lot about this man.</div>
</span></div>
Mark A Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00855198804375011390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8023159853864985394.post-17746567029862473392017-06-21T22:57:00.001+01:002017-06-21T23:06:16.172+01:00Garden Party<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; margin-bottom: 6px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Denise flipped the switch and the bulbs began to glow, their filaments like fireflies against the darkening sky.</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">“You can make the announcement now,” she said.</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">“Ladies and gentlemen, friends and family, colleagues and acquaintances, dinner is served!” I unclipped the thick red rope from the eye on the second post and hooked it up against itself. I stood aside and beckoned through the people we loved, one by one, the parade twisting and clumping as they continued to chat, spec<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;">ulating on the seating arrangements they’d find.</span></span></div>
<div class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; display: inline;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 6px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">We’d taken days on this, the decisions crucial to the success of this night. Denise had hired the best caterers in the town and we’d hesitated before choosing the most expensive table d’hôte menu options they’d offered. There was something for everyone, our friends able to pick anything that had been on the cards they’d been sent, the difference being that we’d also engaged a chef for the night, her duty to cook and plate anything they asked her to prepare, ensuring that everyone would be happy with their meal.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">It had cost us a fortune but it was worth it. It would probably be the last time we’d see most of these people, so we wanted to leave them happy and give them something memorable to remember us by.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
Denise stood with me now, her arm around my shoulder. She leaned against me and smiled, her lips brightly painted and her eyes filled with stars.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
“It’s perfect. It’s come together so well. We couldn’t have hoped for a better night.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
I nodded, my eyes running along the queues forming at the serving-stations the caterers had wheeled out onto the lawn. The manor house had been an inspired choice from the event organiser, the grounds and the gardens usually closed to the public. The organiser had known the family who lived there, having arranged private functions for them in the past, her success and her popularity making this possible at short notice. There was nowhere in town that could handle this many people, that could provide such a rich and varied menu, and do it with so little notice. We’d both taken a deep breath when the organiser had told us how much it would cost but that was the old James and Denise reacting. We’d won so very much so we could spend that and hardly notice. And it would be the grand event everyone would remember us by.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
“Is that a cloud, Hun?” Denise leaned across me, her hand pointing to the west. A line of dark smudges were massing, growing larger and heavier as they neared us. Threads of light joined them and an ominous rumble began.</div>
</span></div>
Mark A Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00855198804375011390noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8023159853864985394.post-656954151756943962017-06-18T16:30:00.001+01:002017-06-18T16:30:11.961+01:00Sample post June 18th 2017<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; margin-bottom: 6px;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">The demon whittled himself a toothpick from a thigh-bone, using a molecular blade. He jabbed it into his mouth, removing a gobbet of a quivering grey matter that looked loathsome. Then he threw them both away.</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">"There's never any shortage of donors' brains to dine on when you've as many enemies as I have," he said, spitting as though hoping to loose another clot of meat from between his teeth. "I've a six-and-a-half billion to none record of wins so far. You'd think people wou<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;">ld learn...but they don't. There's always another thinking he's found a way to beat the system. Even though they realise the Game's rigged. People...fools...they're one and the same. No exceptions."</span></span></div>
<div class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; display: inline;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><div style="margin-bottom: 6px;">
I tugged at the manacles looped about the gas-pipe that ran overhead, hoping to either get free or to release enough Butane to explode, killing me within seconds. The demon looked uninterested. He knew he'd get my soul whichever way things played out. He always have the advantage if he chose to play the long game.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
"You might be interested to know you've called for a house party," he dead-panned, raising a pointed ear toward the ceiling. "Or at least someone who can carry off a pitch-perfect copy of your voice. Everyone you've ever known is upstairs at the moment. Even your very first teacher from primary school, Miss Watkins. She's very old now but she's still in very good health. She's thirty-two doting grandchildren who'd be devastated if she were killed in a freak household explosion. So many of them with their little tear-streaked faces. It'd be a tragedy, wouldn't it?"</div>
</span></div>
Mark A Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00855198804375011390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8023159853864985394.post-75490679433928307242017-06-17T13:54:00.001+01:002017-06-17T13:54:31.767+01:00<span style="font-size: x-large;">Things are beginning to move in my writerly life. It seems like I'm going to need to be more attentive to this blog. So keep watching... there'll be more to come soon and it'll be even better than it ever was!<br /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;">Thank you for your visit. </span>Mark A Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00855198804375011390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8023159853864985394.post-33614775601768881022017-05-05T20:54:00.001+01:002017-05-05T20:56:12.030+01:00The Mark<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The hands on the ruined clock remained still but time continued
its flow. The church had been mostly demolished but one side of its tower
remained intact, albeit at a lower level than before. The glass behind the dial
was broken, of course, but the outer ring bearing the figures for the hours was
still there, as were the hands, reaching out as though they needed rescuing.
The main body of the building was wrecked though, its contents largely looted, with
no sense of it once being revered.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">A rat pushed its head up and out into the moonlight. It was
hungry and although it felt safe in the ruins, there was little food to be
found there. It would have to venture further away to find its supper. The man watching
it raised his rifle to his eye and mouthed a single silent word.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Bang.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Of course, the rat remained unscathed. Although the rifle was
loaded, the marksman had other targets in mind. He’d been in position since
late the previous morning, his pocket flask providing for most of his needs,
the occasional sip being all he’d permit himself. His quarry was yet unknown to
him, his employer assigning him his mission along with details of the location
and the time he’d expected the contact to be there, picking up the money he’d
demanded. The designated time was long past now and only the shooter’s
professionalism had kept him here. Someone would come, he knew. No-one demanded
three million dollars and then left it for someone else to find.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The night was still quiet at three in the morning though and
the watcher was beginning to lose confidence in both himself and the target. A
fox had followed the trail half an hour ago, its nose to the ground and its
tail in the air, but nothing else had shown itself, even to his night-scope. He’d
heard an owl’s hooting and the small sounds of its prey but neither of them had
broken cover. Perhaps he’d been seen himself. A successful terrorist was
usually as skilled as those sent to hunt him, although the marksman preferred
to think he still had the edge. He’d been working this trade since the eighties
and had put away more than enough to keep him in comfort for the rest of his
life. But there was always the call of the challenge; the sport of the kill. It
was an addiction that would never loosen its grip.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The undergrowth and the trees suddenly quietened, the soft
noises ceasing as something disturbed the creatures that made them. The disc of
his sight panned the trail, hunting.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">He heard the child before he saw it, its heavy feet cracking
and breaking the finer wood stems that were everywhere. The balloon came first;
silver-green in his scope, bobbing at the end of its cord. It would be one of the
easiest shots he would ever have made. One to be remembered forever. He’d never
killed an American child. Not yet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The low cough came from directly behind him, the cold nose
of the pistol firm against his temple. He began to turn away then stopped.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">He would never outrun the bullet. He’d seen many try to but the
target always lost the race.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">“Okay,” he said. “You’ve got me. Now what?”</span><o:p></o:p></div>
Mark A Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00855198804375011390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8023159853864985394.post-9148027800038420632016-11-17T20:50:00.000+00:002016-11-17T21:03:18.814+00:00Caution... Writer at Work!<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">What's the difference between an ordinary mundane person and a
writer? It's not immediately obvious. At first you might think there's little
to choose between one and the other. It's true, a writer can often be found
with a book in their hand, just like an ordinary person might. Indeed, a writer
might also be reading the same book – writers read too, sometimes. But a writer
might not be reading in the same way as the casual reader. A writer might be
following the story in the same way but they could also be studying it; looking
for examples within the narrative that impressed them or maybe making a mental
note of the structure of the story. They might also be playing ride-along with
the author; analysing the flow of each sentence and testing each word for suitability,
for example. They could be wondering about the characters or considering the
reasons why the writer chose the points of view they did, or debating as to why
they developed them in that way and thinking how they might have written it if
they'd been the one sitting behind the keyboard. There're a bewildering number
of decisions to be made in each line and a writer never rests, not even when
you think they're relaxing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">Of course, there are other aspects that aren't immediately obvious
to a layman observer. A writer's never off duty. Not ever. Even when they've
put the book you thought they were reading down they might still be at work.
Because a writer is also the ultimate voyeur. They’ll watch people and they’ll
listen and they’ll always take notes, storing their impressions for use in the
future. Sometimes they'll wait and they'll mentally store the information but
they'll always be paying attention to you. You could be innocently waiting for
a bus, for example, and the writer could be taking you in; noting the clothes
you're wearing, the scent you've put on, or the way that you spoke to that
woman with the child. Everything that you do and their assessment of your
reasoning behind it. They could transform you in a flash; you could so easily
become an Edith or a Sue, or an athlete or a shop girl. You could even become
an alien invader, preparing a campaign for an invasion from space. The journey
you could be making could be taking you to China. Or to Kansas. Or to
Scunthorpe. Or Proxima Centuri. You could be deciding to go home or just
thinking of going for a coffee. Or you could be waiting for a stranger who
might abduct you.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">But a writer can do so very much more. They can strip you of your
clothes or they can strip you apart; exchanging your fashion, your face or your
mind. You could become be a role model for a character they're creating or
feature as just a part of one, if there was only one point about you they
noticed. Personally, I've written about the mouth of a woman I’ve seen; noting
the shade of her lipstick and the shape of her lips. I've been inspired by the
smallest and subtlest of details; transplanting each component and then
directing the composite, my Frankenstein's Monster, willing it to do whatever I
wished. Each word that you speak could be secreted away; the cadences or the
tone of voice that you used, the colloquial terms, and the concepts and the
content of the whole conversation. Even the gestures you made, the way that you
walked, and the fit and the choices of the clothes you wore. Everything about
you could be taken and used and could feature in the next novel that the writer
might produce.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">So, don’t be surprised if you notice someone watching you. We’re
usually benign and will rarely confront you. In fact, for the most part, we’ll
probably shy away and will redirect our attention to somebody else. </span><span style="background: white; color: #1d2129; font-size: 14.0pt;"><o:p></o:p>Someone
who’ll act naturally - because what’s the point in watching someone who knows
they’re being observed?</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
<o:p></o:p>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
</div>
</div>
Mark A Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00855198804375011390noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8023159853864985394.post-49118147197807283762016-04-26T19:00:00.001+01:002016-04-26T19:17:06.895+01:00Underwood - a 500 word flash fiction<br />
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</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirNPNxYgIL8vHQvJQtiF2R-apmam08YoArvmvSr1Yt1LOMwEA3LlqPbnWgI9FfrBamjt55NgiSfLBc5YBLasIC_cDzxO6E2jv5yDJs9wrf4u0ieDGX0ejn2U_uZvm-6QPMdD8rs_YAD3Y/s1600/13043407_937614639671266_6150081096737569903_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirNPNxYgIL8vHQvJQtiF2R-apmam08YoArvmvSr1Yt1LOMwEA3LlqPbnWgI9FfrBamjt55NgiSfLBc5YBLasIC_cDzxO6E2jv5yDJs9wrf4u0ieDGX0ejn2U_uZvm-6QPMdD8rs_YAD3Y/s320/13043407_937614639671266_6150081096737569903_n.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Deliberation.
That was him all over. He was a man with a mind of his own, never
swayed by another. He was a writer too; always tapping away at that
relic of his. Underwood, it was called: a big block of metal and ink,
like a cross between a squid and a centipede, all steam-punked up and
with him busier than a dog sniffing round an ant-hill.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">It
meant a lot to him though, sitting there in that shed he used. He'd
moved it there when the neighbours complained, saying it sounded like
a carpenter doing piece-work. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tappity, tappity,
tap, tap, tap, all night long. I had to take to drinking cause the
Tylenol couldn't cope with it; battering away at it all the hours God
sent us. Lord knows when he slept; he was there each night when I
went to bed and still sat there when I crawled downstairs again next
morning. Him and his paper and his rolls of inked tape, never using
whitening, over-typing mistakes 'cause it was his 'way'; not using
anything that might make his life a tad easier. He produced reams of
it – his book, I mean – word after word after word he typed,
never letting me read word one of it.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Of
course, he could have been lying all that time. It could have been a
tape recording he was playing all night long, if it wasn't for the
paper he kept using. Course that could have been a lie too, what with
me never seeing what he wrote next day. He could have been filing it
away, still blank, in those office drawers he put in there, sitting
alongside that Underwood on its table. He could have kept his
reel-to-reel in there as well, tucked away in a drawer, waiting ready
with his 'carpentry' tapes to be played all night. Just him in his
shed, with the door padlocked, even when he was inside of it.
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Not
that I would ever have gone in.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">He
was obsessive about his privacy too. As I said, the door was always
locked. It's the first time I've seen a door with a hasp fixed on it
both inside and out. And with the biggest padlock I ever saw too,
like the ones you see on bullion chests. Though, come to think, it
might be that. Maybe it was drugs or something. He could have been
mixing up whatever in there behind that door and that window with the
blind that never opened. He could have been brewing up amphetamines
or meth or speed and selling it on during the day, cause he was never
a one for grafting. Not him with his hands with palms softer than
mine, never used a hammer or shovel in his life.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<br />
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Maybe
I should have had a look in there one day when he was busy visiting
that publisher he saw. Mind you, publisher and pusher sound much the
same, don't they now?</span></div>
Mark A Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00855198804375011390noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8023159853864985394.post-77277149452792417272016-03-13T11:32:00.002+00:002016-03-13T16:03:01.886+00:00Heels on Wheels<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">“You took your
time!”</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">“Just making sure
I was ready. Whitehaven doesn't like to be kept waiting.” Cinching
the belt tighter, she secured the two sides of her coat together,
inadvertently giving her driver a brief flash of black lace. Driver
Carl was the one they always assigned to her and they'd quickly
settled into an uneasy alliance; with him taking care of escorting
her to Ben's more privileged clientèle and with her doing her best
to have as little direct physical contact with him as possible.
Fortunately, the car was a manual shift, but Carl drove erratically,
keeping his right hand on the gear selector, making sure it was
always close to her thigh.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">“What time ya due
there? Two thirty?” Driver Carl had a wad of gum in his mouth as
usual, allegedly having kept the same piece going for over three
years now, leaving it soaking in an undrunk shot-glass of espresso
every night to refresh its flavour. He swore it worked better than
any energy drink and never left him needing to visit one of the few
local rest-rooms, but it left his breath reeking of stale coffee,
making him even more repellent than he would have been otherwise.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">“Two o'clock,
sharp. And I'm finished after that. You can take me straight back to
Ben's. I have my day-clothes and some other stuff to pick up and
after that I'll be making my own way home. I need to do some
shopping, so I'll not be wanting a ride. You can take someone else
out if Ben needs you to.”</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">“'Sa pity. How is
it you're always shopping, darling? I've never gotten to take ya
home. Anyone would think...”</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">“...I'm a busy
woman with a daughter at pre-school who needs to clothed and fed.
Yes, that.”</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">The car bumped along
the road a while longer, stopping at traffic signals every few
hundred yards, causing Carl's hand to stray toward the folds of her
coat she'd arranged to act as a barrier between them. She knew she
could tell Ben about it later but Carl was his only driver. She'd
still have to ride with him again and who knew how he'd act after
'Gentle' Ben had had another of his staff discipline him while he
watched. She'd as little to do Carl as possible but the stories he'd
told her between his masticating and his cursing left her with no
illusions as to his character. He was a tough-for-hire, that was what
his trade was, his driving just a way to ensure he was close to hand
if ever a client got too rough with her. If she pissed him off –
who knows if he'd ever respond to her call for help – maybe he'd
even join in, saying he was too slow to get to her and making sure
she wasn't able to contradict him.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">She was never gonna
let him take her home.</span></div>
Mark A Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00855198804375011390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8023159853864985394.post-75558475289133100402014-12-13T09:37:00.003+00:002014-12-13T09:37:40.998+00:00ALEX<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb0FsnjjzhE0YVVDCb2wvPRfq5zOp4cMLLiXO3ajktHYmdQdXRRBWPdr1LOT9OR7Yj45z9rQMeT-oaU_wDgZQI66ER2XjGZsJtUYb9wjcWk4XM213nTgYePq7DS7gRNcSA-QLBZxavivA/s1600/Android.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb0FsnjjzhE0YVVDCb2wvPRfq5zOp4cMLLiXO3ajktHYmdQdXRRBWPdr1LOT9OR7Yj45z9rQMeT-oaU_wDgZQI66ER2XjGZsJtUYb9wjcWk4XM213nTgYePq7DS7gRNcSA-QLBZxavivA/s1600/Android.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 20px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Alex closed her eyes, deferring to her client, her inherent programming guiding her through a simplified decision tree. “I am yours to command,” she replied, her voice low and breathy. “I will do whatever you ask of me. Without question and with no hesitation whatsoever.”</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 20px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 20px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Cameron stepped back to assess her more closely. The ALX 9000 was the most advanced model that Posidyne Systems had ever produced. Their ‘companions’ had been tweaked to behave exactly as their most demanding lessees asked; their First Law directives having been modified to permit the more advanced physical play the Company’s more ‘enthusiastic’ clients often required. Admittedly, there’d been a few casualties before the bugs had been sorted out, but that was why the lawyers had insisted every user sign a fully comprehensive disclaimer before taking possession of their escort. Accidents happened, even now, but it was never the rentals that came back dented.</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 20px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 20px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The models in the earlier series had never looked and felt as good either. Cameron was awestruck. He’d expected a room-temperature-warm neoprene-fleshed mannequin. Nothing like this. Moving in closer again, he studied her in more detail. The way she stood; her musculature constantly readjusting her position, her chest rising and falling just like you’d expect of a genuine woman. Hesitantly, he reached out, his hand finding her cheek as soft and smooth as though it was real skin. And warm too. His other hand joined the first, the two of them turning her face toward his; her flesh softening and hardening beneath his palms as though she was consciously anticipating his touch. Responding to him.</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 20px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 20px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">She was perfect.</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 20px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 20px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Alex,” Cameron began. “Would you let me undress you?”</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 20px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 20px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The companion nodded, the minute movements making her facial exo-skin slew and slide between his hands and the harder core beneath. Cameron released her, now intent on exploring further. Alex began to turn, offering her back to him so he could reach the zipper of the form-fitting dress more easily, the silken sheath banana-ing open as his fingers pulled the fastener down. She was nude beneath it, of course, her perfect physique not needing any additional support, although he guessed other clothing options could have been provided if anyone had thought of it. Not that he was going to be complaining, of course.</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 20px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 20px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Savouring the smooth uniformity of the skin, he curled his fingers into an arc, parting her hair and then drawing his hand down from the nape of her neck to the small of her back, the zipper preventing him reaching any further. Her skin was to die for. Barely warmer than room temperature, her coolness enticing him. And the way she wriggled against his touch.</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 20px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 20px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Divine. In a devilish way.</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 20px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 20px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Reaching up to her shoulders, he eased the material free, pushing it first forward and then down, the fine cerulean blue of the dress rippling up against his palms as it slid smoothly down her arms. The silk against her silken skin, gliding freely. A sensual appetiser. A precursor of what would undoubtedly be his finest hours. He pressed closer; his cheek against hers, his arms curved around her, his breath stilled as he imagined how this would all play out.</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 20px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 20px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“I would think that you’d find this experience more pleasurable if we interacted more,” Alex mused, looking back over her shoulder, totally non-plussed by his attention. “Just offering my opinion, of course.”</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 20px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 20px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“You’re right, of course. Whatever was I thinking?” Cameron ceased his efforts, trailing the fingers of one hand lightly behind her from one shoulder to another as he rounded her. “You’ve a beautiful face. It would be a waste to not see it.”</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 20px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 20px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Alex’s lips parted and then curved into a smile, framing her perfect ceramic-white teeth. “Agreed,” she said, canting her head to one side and then shrugging to ease the flow of her costume. “Continue, please.”</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 20px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 20px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Cameron nodded, the skin around his eyes crinkling as he matched her smile. He took hold of the dress again, drawing it down until it caught against her elbows, Alex helpfully keeping her arms in close to assist him. Then, with only a few lithe movements that ended with her leaning in closer to him, she disentangled herself, the top of her dress falling between them to hang loosely from her waist.</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 20px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 20px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“Oh, Mon Cher,” she said, her face moving forward so that their cheeks slid together, her voice like liquid. “This is always so hard for me.”</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 20px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 20px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“And for me too,” Cameron mumbled, his mouth now close to the delicate perfection of her ear. “Knowing that this will be our only time together, it’s going to be hard to go on having enjoyed this. Never to be repeated.”</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 20px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 20px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Alex pulled away slightly, her face pale and concerned. “I know. I’ll do everything I can to help. You know that.” She cupped her palms around his head, her fingers splaying to pull him close again, their lips almost touching.</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 20px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 20px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">And then she snapped his neck with a quick decisive twist, his body falling to hang limply from her hands.</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 20px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 20px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">“It’s done,” she said, suddenly business-like, turning to the official hidden behind the one-way glass screen. “Murderer #78542. Refused offered counselling and chemical behaviour modifications. Subsequently sentenced to death without appeal. Penalty paid.”</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 20px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 20px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Witness Tyler scowled, wondering if her bionetic implants could see him through through the glass. “Thank you, Alex,” he said, shivering despite the warmth of his watch cubicle. </span></div>
Mark A Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00855198804375011390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8023159853864985394.post-23805271847254947652014-08-23T12:49:00.002+01:002014-08-23T12:50:25.906+01:00Darkness<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8D_LEAXar8UIfgRDT5dO8DTocgzF3P0WXqmg0JRAsR91PbGRDIWOVOsr8tCBGKdxki-lkldqsw4D_hKKumjQo-ECX0TJJV1egWIkMRwNwBP7Z3sQjfAOZ2bMc6XMk8AZ6KGl8xd9GcsU/s1600/black.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8D_LEAXar8UIfgRDT5dO8DTocgzF3P0WXqmg0JRAsR91PbGRDIWOVOsr8tCBGKdxki-lkldqsw4D_hKKumjQo-ECX0TJJV1egWIkMRwNwBP7Z3sQjfAOZ2bMc6XMk8AZ6KGl8xd9GcsU/s1600/black.jpg" height="250" width="400" /></a></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Just black.</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Hughie turned his head to the left and then to the right, scanning the cellar. There was nothing to be seen. Nothing visible anyway.</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">But he knew he wasn't alone.</span></div>
<div class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #141823; display: inline; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 6px;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">At first it was intuition. Or something unknown to him. All he knew was that he knew.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">
</span>
<div style="margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">It took a few minutes for his vision to return, his eyes seeing despite the lack of light, his brain needing to see and finding things, even though they weren't there. Putting his hands out in front of him, the red and grey blotches lacked substance; hallucinations brought forth to fill the nothingness presented to him. His feet still moved though, his shuffling feet searching as he inched forward toward...</span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
Toward what?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
Something. Definitely something. Something sharing the space with him. He knew it was there even though he knew his eyes were tricking him. His ears too. He'd thought he could hear it, but when it turned when he did and stopped when he did, he realised it was only himself he could hear. His breath or the blood rushing through his veins. Or something else.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
And then it fell on his head.</div>
</span></div>
Mark A Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00855198804375011390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8023159853864985394.post-13927729674115663772014-08-15T21:25:00.002+01:002014-08-15T23:09:52.911+01:00A meeting...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ7qSnMDogyoPyCUgEegDewEDsjQHFYSNcTHa8haewhc4HEHhdwQrIDYNsLL1kk-M57R7K6XrI2zWvm5FnQq6I-9WRMsl2UFTQczepmCDOeh58FPBP6OeaRVCAMdm4dKVecnasrF9Tqnc/s1600/Lady+Geek.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ7qSnMDogyoPyCUgEegDewEDsjQHFYSNcTHa8haewhc4HEHhdwQrIDYNsLL1kk-M57R7K6XrI2zWvm5FnQq6I-9WRMsl2UFTQczepmCDOeh58FPBP6OeaRVCAMdm4dKVecnasrF9Tqnc/s1600/Lady+Geek.jpg" height="225" width="400" /></a></div>
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<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">She moved down the aisle with a look of self-confidence. Either that or she was the ultimate introvert and nothing or no-one else existed for her. She was a little over five feet tall, dressed in blacks, greys and a dark floral print. Like camouflage; not wanting anyone else to notice her. A little soft goth not wanting interaction.</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">However, her subdued nature enthralled me. What was her story? Who was she? How did she live? I imagined her as an artist, painting illustrations<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;"> of flowers for a publication with less than a hundred subscribers; her immaculate representations unseen by most of the world; being avidly viewed by only a couple of dozen appreciative botanists in studys as far apart as Helsinki and Honolulu. Or maybe she was a webpage designer; constantly developing page templates using HTML and rarely venturing out in the daylight. Her work'd be seen in thousands of places across the whole of the internet and no-one would ever be able to put a name to the one-woman studio creating them all.</span></span></div>
<div class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; display: inline; line-height: 19.3199996948242px;">
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 6px;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I had to know more about her.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Waiting until she stopped to pick up a packet of pasta - who knew how many types there were - I judged my move perfectly, reaching out to take hold of the fettuccine at the same time as she did, delighting in the way her eyes turned to mine: looking puzzled behind the dark rims propped against her nose.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="line-height: 0.5cm; margin-bottom: 0.16cm; margin-top: 0.16cm;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">“I'm
sorry,” I said, keeping hold of the other end of the wrapper. “I
was just needing some pasta.”</span><br />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br />“Me, too,” Miss Soft Goth,
replied. “But,” she said, raising a perfectly plucked eyebrow,
“there are some more packets behind it.”</span><br />
<span style="color: #333333; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="LEFT" class="western" style="line-height: 0.5cm; margin-bottom: 0.16cm; margin-top: 0.16cm;">
<span style="color: #333333;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I
sighed, not wanting to lose this opportunity. “Of course there are,
ma'am. But...” I began, studying her feverishly to look for some
reason to keep her attention a little longer. She'd got no rings on
her fingers; just a friendship bracelet that looked hand-crafted and
a stylishly simple dial-faced watch with a silver bracelet and a
single gemstone at the twelve o'clock position. Her clothes were drab
but well made, with a high-end quality that suggested they were
either hideously expensive or vintage garments bought from an
exclusive boutique shop. And her glasses; her glasses were
dark-rimmed and framed with a minimum of decoration. A monogrammed
letter, that's all, positioned discretely against the
hinge; the letter and the hinge both finished in a dull lustre.
Expensive again. She was classy.</span></span></div>
</div>
</div>
Mark A Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00855198804375011390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8023159853864985394.post-18808910043426759362014-08-10T21:32:00.002+01:002014-08-10T21:32:56.526+01:00Between Worlds<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE-AjWZPLjaXjiIYw2ncRz60V15HLNlsetRowm-AD1RE6gZrKSMbFtjNTauEz-oXPiQ0_48Aq-s4FpE_1z4ftolw4vI_YXH1uYxws8gwtHSvtsDApKQUj8cEuMKgfUHUcvAZN1mYcyg-Y/s1600/goblin.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE-AjWZPLjaXjiIYw2ncRz60V15HLNlsetRowm-AD1RE6gZrKSMbFtjNTauEz-oXPiQ0_48Aq-s4FpE_1z4ftolw4vI_YXH1uYxws8gwtHSvtsDApKQUj8cEuMKgfUHUcvAZN1mYcyg-Y/s1600/goblin.JPG" height="297" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Just one stumble and
everything began to unravel.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Paige had been hurrying
home late from the office and it'd been a long day for her. Of
course, she had her arms full of folders and her case jammed beneath
her arm, and she'd just about managed to make it to the station in
time to catch the last train home when she tripped over that case in
the gangway. Then everything went flying. Papers and folders and her
precious tablet computer and..</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And then reality ripped
apart.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She'd been flying
through the air like a besuited super-hero with pearl necklace and
bangs when things got strange. One moment she'd been trying to track
the flight of her most important items and the next she was soaring
just above the ground, her attention suddenly caught by a grimacing
scaly creature stepping out from an open locker. Just as casual as
you like.
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And Scaly saw her
looking too. In fact, he even gave her a nod as he placed himself
under her tablet, clutching it to his chest and then to his side as
he prepared to make his escape.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Of course, she was
having none of that. She'd no idea where this creature had come from,
but she knew there'd be hell to pay if she lost the work she had on
her computer. Scaly may have been ugly enough to make yoghurt from
milk at a glance but the real ogres worked in her office. </span></div>
Mark A Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00855198804375011390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8023159853864985394.post-85321770129200022382014-08-08T19:57:00.001+01:002014-08-08T19:57:17.949+01:00Happy Birthday?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ2cSXuTN6WKcuMJdB0vM6LFHq6FaE0p-wCBzrLF9LDRMWPxhAq53lsQ1zgw3dqcdKNx0msf4yENWqB8AapQhiDO8EdyHf4cmpp9Lw6xPeTsDVWPIml0Zpf6-rGVtCif_MnD3T8C-N13c/s1600/candybirthdaycake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ2cSXuTN6WKcuMJdB0vM6LFHq6FaE0p-wCBzrLF9LDRMWPxhAq53lsQ1zgw3dqcdKNx0msf4yENWqB8AapQhiDO8EdyHf4cmpp9Lw6xPeTsDVWPIml0Zpf6-rGVtCif_MnD3T8C-N13c/s1600/candybirthdaycake.jpg" height="272" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 18px;">Angelina puffed her cheeks up large, like a food-carrying hamster. Nine candles this year. She was such a big girl now.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 18px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 18px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 18px;">Lilly smiled as her girl blew out a huge breath, slobber and drool showering across the candles and the icing. Damn, if the puffing didn't put those candles out, the showering certainly would. She stepped back from the table as Angie's parents moved in closer again, flanking her</span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #141823; display: inline; line-height: 18px;"> on either side, wanting to make sure no-one got hurt when she got to wield the family heirloom cake-knife: solid silver and at least as heavy as a candlestick.<br /><br />Lilly smiled again, her face now shadowed and her lips pressed tightly against each other. She looked blank for a moment, pulled in a long deep breath and then left, not to return until next year at this time.</span></span>Mark A Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00855198804375011390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8023159853864985394.post-9448401692344530532014-08-08T19:36:00.001+01:002014-08-08T19:36:13.098+01:00The Razor's Edge<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt-VIdbuk5MKq39YdtwFV3wqFTidIZwsAogsnXItXLGpxUVpD9jFdrvdjPRLcoekEN_urLrtL8PVnhMcmbY5ZECwdzClBY5bapDWAq8UGBX6As9ShtoscNOvokS40_1c2BeeYzD2a27ls/s1600/razor.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt-VIdbuk5MKq39YdtwFV3wqFTidIZwsAogsnXItXLGpxUVpD9jFdrvdjPRLcoekEN_urLrtL8PVnhMcmbY5ZECwdzClBY5bapDWAq8UGBX6As9ShtoscNOvokS40_1c2BeeYzD2a27ls/s1600/razor.jpg" height="142" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Cutting.<br /><br />Sitting
with her sleeves up, sliding the razor's edge across her forearm,
enjoying the tug of the blade as it sawed back and forth. To and fro.
Stirring the down of the hair there as it dragged along over it, the
pressure intensifying as she gave the cut-throat more weight.<br /><br />It
was a dark night outside, just the stars and the moon lighting her
room. Downstairs her dad was probably asleep, passed out in front of
the telly, surrounded by the dead bodies of three or four six-packs.
If Jayne was lucky, it'd be more and he'd not wake until the sun came
up again: stamping up the wooden stairs to her room and demanding
that she get up immediately and make his breakfast. Or feel the bite
of his belt.<br /><br />But if she was unlucky, he'd wake up in the small
hours, alone and feeling his grief again. And then when he pulled his
belt out from its loops, she'd be afraid for another reason. </span> </div>
Mark A Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00855198804375011390noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8023159853864985394.post-45563925402870241082014-08-05T23:21:00.001+01:002014-08-05T23:22:05.353+01:00It's Got to Be Perfect...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9PTGmox289MED3JYp5qpNJ61dnFkON_GIMd1MOXImEPg8gkanbNXSe3dxg_0jRGRwL3N7CMeF5NdgotbiAIYTb_BBBdtYaVgfPlOwlfzjil75gZuiLiR-WvnOflsBnx2_a4izf4OeoW8/s1600/satisfaction-guaranteed.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9PTGmox289MED3JYp5qpNJ61dnFkON_GIMd1MOXImEPg8gkanbNXSe3dxg_0jRGRwL3N7CMeF5NdgotbiAIYTb_BBBdtYaVgfPlOwlfzjil75gZuiLiR-WvnOflsBnx2_a4izf4OeoW8/s1600/satisfaction-guaranteed.png" height="296" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We're all looking for
perfection. The ideal that marks the end of the road. Job done.
Nothing more to do. Game over.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">How horrible. Just
imagine that you could get there. Find that elusive 'it' that makes
the difference between damn near perfect and the totality of it all.
You'd be happy then – for a while. You could ride on that for a
good time: being the man or woman who achieved the golden one oh oh.
You could show off your achievement – you did get photos, didn't
you – and then one day you'd come to a shuddering halt. Crippled
and frightened.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">What do you do next?</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Imagine you're an
artist or a writer, making a career or a living out of what you do.
You've worked hard, studied, feted the attention of the people you
respect, learned their secrets and got their respect. You've spent
years perfecting your techniques and honing your vision so that the
art you produce is incontroversially as good, if not better than
anyone else in your field can do. Repeatedly. Every time.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And then it happens.
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Just imagine it. You're
there at the top of the hill. Looking down. No-one better than you on
that day. Anywhere.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So you roll along,
enjoying your fame. But what do you do when the crowds aren't there?
When you have to carry on and produce the next commission. How do you
prepare yourself for that; knowing you'll most likely not achieve
perfection this time? Even the thought you might not will probably be
enough to make you hesitate and hold back.
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And then it's all
downhill from there. People will say you've past your best: that
you're washed up. Even though you might be better than everyone else,
you'll still be less than you were. A has-been. Maybe you could keep
at your art but every piece you do will be a disappointment.
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And so you'll give up.
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">You might continue with
your art but the heart will be lost.
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div align="CENTER" class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">----------------</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Of course, this isn't
likely to happen to anyone. Art is a subjective media and you can
never satisfy everyone's ideals. Especially your own. And I'd never
make the claim that I've ever achieved perfection in what I do and
that I can't improve on what I've done before. But there's a
difference between that and my seeking to perfect everything I do.
The 'best I can do today' is often what you need to do. Sometimes you
need to accept that and let it go. Release it into the world.</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And move on.</span></div>
Mark A Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00855198804375011390noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8023159853864985394.post-73641647884908021452014-08-03T22:01:00.002+01:002014-08-03T22:01:18.356+01:00Creators - A Work in Progress<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWAaaaw8U2Eq9sWO0BhCHHFPmQ1mPRPHufcE548skXTLUyj5zu3Zf2DmDd8xxtM7LM7qWz3-CypIOfbvb_PdnFRJjKjhDdY8Mtc-rn2g7s2FstZM7yRMJqr135XpbLoUL6Bm2Z5fY2Dxw/s1600/indigo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWAaaaw8U2Eq9sWO0BhCHHFPmQ1mPRPHufcE548skXTLUyj5zu3Zf2DmDd8xxtM7LM7qWz3-CypIOfbvb_PdnFRJjKjhDdY8Mtc-rn2g7s2FstZM7yRMJqr135XpbLoUL6Bm2Z5fY2Dxw/s1600/indigo.jpg" height="214" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">His eyes were indigo like a bruise but with a wild intensity she'd never seen before.</span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-bottom: 6px; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; display: inline; line-height: 19.3199996948242px; margin-top: 6px;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="line-height: 19.3199996948242px;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">(Creators - a work in progress.)</span></span></div>
Mark A Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00855198804375011390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8023159853864985394.post-46729916658882799992014-08-03T19:25:00.004+01:002014-08-03T19:25:41.627+01:00Amelie<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAAmaZCeoMxtLbEBMTZ5nK5_ZTwrGj8FGZ9C89MN6xDWG2GA5t57fkOS_AyS6j-q3jG2xv9UZ0xyng07Bs-4DwDUAC_PojaahQeBEUBhclQW_zJXbj2wjUT1mII8fBPgZGSvdu8XsFefQ/s1600/bicycle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAAmaZCeoMxtLbEBMTZ5nK5_ZTwrGj8FGZ9C89MN6xDWG2GA5t57fkOS_AyS6j-q3jG2xv9UZ0xyng07Bs-4DwDUAC_PojaahQeBEUBhclQW_zJXbj2wjUT1mII8fBPgZGSvdu8XsFefQ/s1600/bicycle.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; line-height: 18px;">She had boot-brown hair and the cutest retrousse nose. And a smile that made it like seem the sun had gone in whenever it fell from her lips. Not that it ever did when Charles was around. She loved that guy. Loved him better than she did herself: not that she'd ever suffered from that failing. She broke hearts every day, just by walking away, although you couldn't hate her for that. She was a pack</span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; display: inline; line-height: 18px;">et of love in human form, that's all.<br /><br />He always knew when Amelie was coming in: the ticking of the wheels on her bicycle always gave her away. And every time he stood waiting behind the door of his shop to kiss her, he surprised her. She was a dreamer though and everything about the world either delighted or startled her.<br /><br />And she never once guessed how he knew she was coming.</span></span>Mark A Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00855198804375011390noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8023159853864985394.post-82727012817937572812014-07-26T23:39:00.001+01:002014-07-26T23:44:25.324+01:00Romantic Rendezvous<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj70snVTwiLb77HB14R-qlfsPYybyMWoAcfj-072xs2iffoMtZLMqiPkyLnxHu9NAMVwCGbC2I69upbodbo9u3Vt2fP-iCnkIdt1PFiPo9qCBFHWDsa1PVHU3xMQ5iFLesJvAYogVL1jmE/s1600/loving-sunset+(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj70snVTwiLb77HB14R-qlfsPYybyMWoAcfj-072xs2iffoMtZLMqiPkyLnxHu9NAMVwCGbC2I69upbodbo9u3Vt2fP-iCnkIdt1PFiPo9qCBFHWDsa1PVHU3xMQ5iFLesJvAYogVL1jmE/s1600/loving-sunset+(1).jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The sun sank below the hills and Caitlin snuggled in closer, seeking Norman’s body heat as the temperature began to drop.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“I like that, sweetness,” he said, shifting a little nearer and wrapping his jacket around her. “In fact, I love it.”</span></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The world stopped for a moment and Caitlin waited for him to say it. Expecting those three words she’d longed for for so long.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The two of them had only known each other for a short time, quickly jumping over the embarrassing coyness stage into full-on romance. But Norman had stopped there, digging his heels in and seeming to be unwilling to take the next step.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But now…</span></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“You’ve become my world, you know that?” Caitlin nestled under his arm, looking up at the line of his jaw and drawing in a quick breath of his scent. “In fact, I don’t know what I’d do without you now.” </span></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Norman grew quiet, his body tensing and his breaths becoming shallower and more controlled. Caitlin studied him closely, waiting for a reply; needing him to give her something more than he had so far. She cursed herself. Had she done it now? Had she pushed him too far too soon? Was this the beginning of the end? It was all her own fault for rushing him. If only he hadn’t mentioned love. What was a girl to think when they were in-close and her guy mentioned ‘that’ word?</span></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Everything stopped. Except for her heart, which was threatening to push it’s way up through her suddenly-tight throat, and her thoughts which were racing away with her, making her throat and her heart even more of an issue. Her future began to collapse in on her and her hopes withered and died; her ‘happy-ever-after’ becoming a lonely attic shared with her even-older mother, the two of them identically wrinkled and dressed in matching pj’s. This was it. Lord, take me now. My life is over.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“I feel the same,” he replied, curling his arm more tightly around her and leaning in for a kiss. “Maybe we should move in together and see how it goes? See how we work out when we share the same roof. When you can’t help but see me in my scruffs. See my unguarded side.” He smiled, his cheeks dimpling. “Maybe you’ll change your mind when you see all I am?”</span></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 36px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Caitlin released the breath she’d been holding. “Never,” she said.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace; font-size: x-small;">http://writingroom101.wordpress.com/2014/07/26/wr101-prompt-series-seductive-saturdays-prompt-10/</span></div>
Mark A Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00855198804375011390noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8023159853864985394.post-34138782914029434332014-07-25T22:03:00.005+01:002014-07-25T22:53:19.744+01:00Are You Man Enough?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKdEqpmtf2BpA8jzlV_-UBl-YvZsWZeYOGSj4-IGCbmCE3A_iQY38dik_lj3oS_v3t-dS-BxWTdX19yGMzrQMw2vRvgO172YJIRc-aT27IBNAJjh2KvcE9DZEzK-YsangKULlRLqzF_Vk/s1600/tubes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKdEqpmtf2BpA8jzlV_-UBl-YvZsWZeYOGSj4-IGCbmCE3A_iQY38dik_lj3oS_v3t-dS-BxWTdX19yGMzrQMw2vRvgO172YJIRc-aT27IBNAJjh2KvcE9DZEzK-YsangKULlRLqzF_Vk/s1600/tubes.jpg" height="191" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The plugs went into his ears and the headphones went on.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“Can you hear me in there,” the technician asked.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The guy nodded, biting his lower lip nervously.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And then the serious business started, the collar and clamps engaging into place, the dull clunks and bright clangs of the clips snapping shut sounding like nothing he’d ever heard. He felt the pressure of them across his shoulders and against his head and knew he was in it now for better or for worse. The soft swell of the the bulb in his palm took on added significance and he swore he was man enough to take this.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“We’re going to start now,” the voice came, sounding remote and underwaterish. He looked up through the face mask, seeing her there in the control room, her thumb raised. The periscope optic gave him a limited view and he took a quick breath. Steeling himself.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-size: 12pt; text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-indent: 36px;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The first tones began, like a guitar riff, sounding like the first blows of Page’s pick in ‘Communication Breakdown”. Only continuing on and on, his head ringing with the noise. As though he was entombed inside an amplifier, the anodes of the tubes directly in series with his brain. Ringing out. Getting louder. And never stopping.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Time passed. He lay motionless either watching the technicians in the control room or the steady rise and fall of his own chest. The tones stopped and then restarted; this time pulsing more rapidly, the table beneath him vibrating in time. His lower lip felt fat between his teeth and he started counting in his head. Trying to gauge the time. </span></span><br />
<div style="font-size: 12pt;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Minutes passed. Maybe fifteen before he felt the table moving beneath him, his arms brushing against the ring carrying the magnets. The technician returned, her smiling face reassuring and calm. He felt her take his arm and then the cool stroke of a swab as she disinfected the entry point.</span></span><br />
<div style="font-size: 12pt;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">“You’ll feel a scratch now. I’ll move the bulb into your other hand and then we’ll finish off. Only another five, ten minutes.”</span></span><br />
<div style="font-size: 12pt;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He felt the scratch and then her fingers kneading his flesh, hurrying the dye’s passage. He visualised the alien liquid suffusing through him, merging with his blood. The table moved again, pulling him in. More tones, sometimes in pairs, their pitch separated by a perfect fifth. Power chords. How cool.</span></span><br />
<div style="font-size: 12pt;">
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It continued, his eyelids drooping into a meditative state. He could do this. It must be almost done.</span></span><br />
<div style="font-size: 12pt;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And then everything went quiet. The table slid out again and he was alone with his own breath. And with his unbitten lip still fat between his teeth.</span></span></div>
Mark A Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00855198804375011390noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8023159853864985394.post-54863231601735642482014-07-25T19:33:00.003+01:002014-07-25T19:34:22.764+01:00A New Dawn?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2xBMpxyQHbwBy0c61heWcv-6hY2N1fMbO0Q5J4AYY4Zaqp6nICokfXHA0Nml8u3kmM7HuOrl0AjYiFIJh2hxWuAoeRwNY8_n6_gN1eeYDuN_FIzUu1S0hIrfwO4rXsv098FjffFCnh2M/s1600/Sunrise.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2xBMpxyQHbwBy0c61heWcv-6hY2N1fMbO0Q5J4AYY4Zaqp6nICokfXHA0Nml8u3kmM7HuOrl0AjYiFIJh2hxWuAoeRwNY8_n6_gN1eeYDuN_FIzUu1S0hIrfwO4rXsv098FjffFCnh2M/s1600/Sunrise.jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></div>
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<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Droid Sans, serif;">Colour
drip-fed into the day, his consciousness' resolution shifting from
soft monochrome to gentle pastels as the sun rose unseen in the
distance. Birds cawed, the white-noise of tyre on tarmac filling in
as an accompaniment to Nature's day-shift. Friday began. </span>
</span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Droid Sans, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">It
wasn't a day notable for anything other than what it was. There were
no events unique to that day but it was still a day he'd set apart as
being the first of his new era. Day One. A dawning of sorts. And a
new beginning to what he hoped would be a life less ordinary.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: Droid Sans, serif;"><span style="font-size: 21pt;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Droid Sans, serif; font-size: large;">(Newly awoken at 4:30am)</span></div>
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Mark A Morrishttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00855198804375011390noreply@blogger.com0