The gallimaufry approach to life

'What do you mean they've cancelled Christmas? They can't do that. What about all the preparations I've made?' 'My mother says it's not her fault if you plan 6 months ahead for something they don't even celebrate.' 'But they said they were coming and then tell you to tell me they're not. On the 24th. That's not fair.' 'It's just that in the Netherlands we don't really celbrate Christmas if there aren't any kids.' I could tell he was running out of patience by the way his nostrils started to flare. 'Well that's sad.' 'It's not sad! It's just that my mother doesn't feel like celebrating twice that's all. After the 5th there's not much point really.' 'Ok I get it. Your mother doesn't like me.' 'I can't believe we're having this conversation again.' Then he stormed off, slamming the door behind him. I took another sip of sherry and got back to forcing...

I wrote this as part of a Futurelearn course to improve my skill. We had to imagine we were starting with, I remember. His brush strokes were powerful, his scrutiny intense. My naked body writhing twisted there on that dais. My nose was itching, the smell of oil paint tickling my nostrils, my nipples erect and puckering in the cold. He had forbidden me from moving. He had assured me that the ordeal would be over quickly. He had lied. He was engrossed in his own pleasure and I found myself at the mercy of his engorged ego.

'I love you.' he said looking at her hands folded over the crumpled white sheet, stars of light dancing off the red varnish on her perfectly manicured nails. She didn't take her eyes off the ceiling. 'OK' she said. OK? OK? Is that how she responds to the opening his heart to her, leaving him raw, exposed. It was her fault, she made him love her and he was sure she loved him too. She had to. There had been the gentle caresses, the way she way she ran her fingers over his balding head, the things she had told him that she'd never told anyone like her dream of becoming a nurse, and the love making, she couldn't have been faking it, could she? Could she? He stared at her tousled mane all aflame and pronounced the words once more. 'I. love. you.' he uttered each word one after the other because that was it, she hadn't understood what he'd said before. 'OK' same tone, eyes still on the ceiling. Then, she pulled her legs to her chest...

Cologne, Germany. Modern day reflecting on past events  Hans gripped his 27 year old granddaughter's  arm, her warmth and youth comforting him. She was so lucky she had not had to endure war, that she could enjoy being young. How it should be, he thought. They had reached their destination and stood at the foot of the steps leading up to an imposing building darkened by pollution and age. Most of Cologne had been destroyed during the war but not this monstrosity.  'Are you sure you want to go in, Opa? We could just go and eat cake.' He grunted and leaning on her arm, climbed up the steps.  As they passed the threshold, Lina watched her grandfather's expression. He was scowling his mouth set in a resolute grimace. She bought the tickets and was informed of the different exhibitions. 'I don't want to see the exhibitions. Just room 202 and the cells.'  The young man behind the desk explained 'The rooms were transformed in the 1980s when the old Gesta...

Steven was running late. He hadn't expected the traffic to be this bad at this time of day. Why was he even doing this? He didn't even like Xavier. Oh yeah, it was to advance his career. Anything to please the head instructor. 'My girlfriend, Lola, is arriving from London at 8pm but I'm training that pilot from Basel from 6 onwards. Do you think you could pick her up for me?' The life of a pilot was unpredictable. There he was, stuck in tail to tail traffic, on the Periph as the Parisians called it.  He ran into arrivals, skidding to a halt at the correct gate. And there she was with her bags. The neon light bouncing off her peroxide hair forming a halo, as her red talons tapped agressively on her smartphone screen.  'Hi. Sorry I'm late. I'm Steven' 'Yeah. About time. I almost thought you wasn't coming.' He detected East London. Nostalgia rose in his throat. 'You're not French.' 'Nope. Kent, born and bred....

Margaret shuffled towards the heavy black doors. Squeak of hinges. Bang shut. 'Madam?' Said a thin raspy voice from behind the counter. 'I've lost this.' She tapped a gnarled finger on the black and white photo of a young woman carrying an umbrella. He pulled out an engraved pocket watch and watched her response. She shook her head. He turned back to the shelves and produced a red silk scarf. She rubbed the material gently between thumb and index, the roughness of her skin catching on the delicate threads. Shaking her head, mumbling to herself, she stuffed photo into her bag. Squeak of hinges. Bang shut. 'This is the lost property bureau, not some bloody psycho ward.' came a voice from the corner 'Every week, she shows you those old photos. You show her rubbish, she shakes her head, then leaves. Weird.' 'You have no idea who she is, do you?' The old man folded the scarf obsessively 'or was?' He turned to look at the ...

Tom stood at the top of the steps covered by centuries of moss, staring out across his newly acquired lands. 'Look at that. Mole hills everywhere. It's your job to get rid of them.' He said accusingly to the old man next to him. 'Take me forever to get rid of 'em all. That's a specialist's job, tha' is. Ask Bob and Bill down the Old Clocks 'n Apples.' Half an hour later, Tom had walked up to the bar of the local pub, asked the surly publican where he could find the mole catching duo and was looking into the corner at a grimy potato sack, a muddy bucket and a long plastic pipe propped up beside two men in flat caps. Clink clink went the draughts on the board. Without looking up from the game, one of them said 'how may we be of 'sistance, Sor?' Tom raised his eyebrows for the merest second at the sales patter. 'I heard you can get rid of moles.' 'Tha's right. We catch 'em, then let 'em go.' 'You do...