Tuesday's Tales - Picture Prompt

Welcome to Tuesday's Tales

Welcome to Tuesday Tales and this week's picture prompt . This excerpt is taken from Megan's Story, the follow-on WIP from Duty Calls. [The large print version available at online outlets from May 29th] Luke Hawk is Rafe's half-brother (Duty Calls) and Megan's brother. (working title - Megan's Story) It is taken from an earlier scene than the one last week.

 

A couple of rings later Luke answered. “Vince? Hi, are you still intending to visit Megan?”

“Luke,” Vince ignored Luke’s question. “Listen to me. I’m with Megan now, and I think you should get here without delay, and call your parents and get them here too.”

“Hell, man. You’re scaring the shit out of me Vince. What the hell’s going on? If you’ve done anything to hurt her, you’ll regret it.”

“Luke, I’d never hurt her, surely you know that? I can’t discuss it on the phone, but she needs you all here now.” Vince waited long enough to hear Luke confirm he’s talk with his parents and get them and himself to Megan’s as quickly as possible before cutting the call.

Gently he eased Megan away from him and scanned the room for a comforter to wrap her in before taking off his Jacket and pulling it round her shoulders. He banked every cushion he could find around her before crossing the room to switch on the fire. Cheerful gas-induced flames leaped to life, creating an orange pattern of dancing flames on the opposite wall.

When he’d arrived, the summer sunlight filtered through a growing accumulation of grey clouds, now those clouds obscured it completely, darkening the normally cheerful room. Vince headed to the kitchen and filled the kettle with cold water. He opened cabinet doors searching for mugs or cups and saucers. The fourth try yielded up several cheerfully decorated mugs. He lifted two down and placed them on the counter top. Another search revealed tea, coffee and sugar containers. 

 

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Tuesdays Tales 11-03-14 ~ End

Welcome to Tuesday's Tales  

I'm sorry but this is another isolated snippet this week, taken from my Regency wip started back in 2012.

 

It is 1812 and Consuela remained in London when her affianced, Juan, has returned to the war in Spain. She may not be sure of the stranger who is flirting with her but admits to herself she is charmed by him.

How could someone she didn’t know fascinate and repel at the same time? She turned away to watch their graces dancing together, and hid a smile behind her hand at the outraged whispers around her.  Jealous old tabbies, she thought. Just because they were trapped in uncongenial, she liked the new word her grace taught her that morning, uncongenial marriages, they didn’t like to see the Duke dancing with his Duchess not caring who saw how much in love they were still, after nearly three decades.

“Unusual.” The sound of the deep voice penetrated her musings and reluctantly she refocused her attention.

Yes beneath the veneer something dark lurked in the man’s eyes. A tremor of foreboding skittered up her spine. “It is a pity we cannot dance together.  Do you like to dance?”

“I’m not a good dancer.”  Consuela admitted through clenched teeth and wished for the music to end and their grace to join her once more.

“I find that hard to believe.  A beautiful woman like you, I thought all the ladies learned to dance.”  He swept an arc in the direction of the floor, crammed with couples.”No?”

“I believe the English teach their daughters the dance at an early age, but I, as I am sure you have realised, am not English.”

While the man inclined his head, Consuela noted his smile failed to reach his eyes.

 

 

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Tuesdays Tales - Pale

Welcome to Tuesday's Tales  

This week's prompt is -Pale-  and my offering is, for now, an isolated scene that will hopefully end up in a story of it's own.

Dust motes danced in the pale sunshine filtering through the mucky window. She’d never seen such a thick coating of dust on a surface before, let alone a whole room. If this was some mythical castle with a hidden room forgotten for centuries she’d understand.

Stuffing her itchy fingers into her jacket pockets Brenda stepped across the threshold. “Dust smells.” Her grandmother’s words echoed in her head, but she couldn’t deny them. The room smelled. Fusty. Forgotten. Forlorn.

Fighting the urge to tiptoe across the floor she headed for the window. Would it open? Had it been closed for so long she’d find it frozen? Under the dust beneath her feat Brenda thought she recognised a Persian rug. What kind make or brand, if they had such things, she didn’t even hazard to guess. The tattered material hanging from the canopied bed had her looking over her shoulder. Worn the material may be, but the tears in the material looked more like knife slashes to her. What had happened in here that the room had been abandoned for so long?

And, she stopped, her hands resting on the window frame, why had her grandmother left her this house in her will? She had her own city apartment close to her work place. All the amenities within walking distance, well almost. Now if her grandmother had left the place to her brother Gabe. That would have made more sense. But then, like this room, no one seemed to know what had happened to him either.

Letters from his email continued to arrive each day to her own box, but they weren’t from him. She knew. She just knew they were not coming from Gabe. At first she’d assumed he’d been in a hurry, and responded as usual, before something penetrated. Even now, looking back, she couldn’t put her finger on what trigger her concern up to worry and then outright disbelief.  Unsure how to react to her certainty that Gabe was no longer in contact with her she’d continued replying. Apparently as usual to someone who shouldn’t know the score. But the responses passed all her little tests. Small misspellings they’d agreed on if one of them was concerned for the other. Deliberate typos. After all how often had she and Gabe laughed over what she called ‘her typing dyslexia’? She could suddenly go weeks where she mistyped words. Adding in an extra letter, reverting them so ‘play’ would end up being ‘paly’. Or the words where she left off the final letter altogether.

Whoever was responding picked them up said the right things, and yet something, deep within her told Brenda her brother was not the author of his supposed letters.

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Tuesday's Tale Picture Prompt - Library

Welcome to Tuesday's Tales  
This week's Tale is written to the picture prompt - library.

[This has been tweaked to fit the 300 word max ... nearly :-) ]

 

None of it mattered to him any more. But he, like her, had faced decisions, made his choices in life. After all they’d known each other for more than sixty years and had celebrated their golden wedding anniversary together, days before the accident.

She was fifteen, and Jim seventeen, the first time they met. Not through the usual, dropped your books in front of the dishy boy all the girls dreamed of. 

Her lips curved up. No golden god would have given her a second glance back then. Not with braces on her teeth and the horn-rimmed glasses she hid behind to cover her debilitating shyness.

Jim, sadly, was an accident waiting to happen and she’d fallen hopelessly in love the moment he tripped over his feet in the library and spilled his coffee all over her research papers. She could almost smell the books again, that unique blend of books and fusty bodies you found in every library.

She’d turned on him in a fury. Months of work diluted and vanishing beneath the brown haze of coffee. And then… She’d looked up, seen the furious blush on Jim’s face, noted the blend of chagrin, shame and embarrassment in his eyes… and melted. She’d tried to stop him from bundling her scattered papers together, but he was too intent on collecting them up to realise he was spreading the stain to other papers.

“Stop.” In her frustration she’d yelled at him, bringing the wrath of several librarians down on them both. The shushing from other students reminded her of an express train in a tunnel.

She’d smiled and feathered a touch over the back of his hand. Poor Jim. With both hands full of dripping papers, he’d reminded her of a rabbit caught in car headlights.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

 

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Tuesday's Tales ~ Check/checked

Welcome to Tuesday's Tales  

 

Once again, many thanks to all those who drop by each week. I also appreciate, and often act upon comments and suggestions left.  Many thanks.

 

This week I am back with my current WIP. Amanda is at the same fairground as Josh and is still observing his actions when she thinks back 24 hours....

 

     Tamping down on her rising panic Amanda forced herself to turn her back on the mystery man and his interest in the other woman. After all why should it matter to her, she’d be here for a couple of days at the most, 24 hours if she decided to check out on sooner.

Something, she didn’t know what, had pulled her to the place. Well not exactly. She’d stopped to fill up her car with petrol and been fascinated enough to linger. Whether it had been the gold of the setting sun turning to fire and flaming the lacy silver clouds, or whether it has been the laughter drifting out from the open door of the café across the road. Perhaps it had been the sway of the trees turning almost black in the lengthening shadows. She didn’t know and at the time didn’t care.

The enchantment of the place had her parking near the café and walking in. People looked up, some nodded others redirected their attention to their companions while a couple watched her walk to the counter ordered a meal, and then followed her progress to an empty table near the window. Music, too loud to be described a ‘background’ forced the level of chatter up a decibel, and Amanda listened in to snippets of conversation around her.

“Time to let it rest.” Someone behind her had stated. The impatience in his voice was followed by a grunt while a woman chastised him for his intolerance.

“Don’t be daft woman; it’s time to let it be. They keep raking it up year after year…”

“If you’re so dead set against this fair, then why are you making such a large donation to the cause?”

A child at another nearby table set up a screech of discontent drowning out the man’s reply, and Amanda wished she could turn round and see the man whose generosity had been found out. But for what, she wondered, and sat back with a smile for the waitress who delivered her coffee and a piece of chocolate cake.

From her window seat she watched several diners leave and head for their cars. Couples, young and old, and a mother couple, the father carrying a child in his arms and the mother with a baby in one of those body-sling things that had become so popular. A fluorescent pink one, that almost glowed in the dusk. She smiled, and acknowledged the curl of envy that clutched at her belly. She’d always dreamed of having children. Lots of them. Four at least, perhaps more.

But time was a passing and the chances of her dreamed of family receded with each birthday. The buzz of her phone distracted her from the young family and she sighed when she identified the caller. Time seemed to be front and centre stage right now. Soon she would have to make arrangements for a temporary move to London while she worked on refining her film scores. Giving in to temptation she switched off her phone, smiled when the waitress stopped to ask if she wanted anything else. Another coffee seemed like a good idea, Amanda thought and stopped the woman long enough to ask for a recommendation on somewhere to stay overnight.

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Tuesday Tales Picture prompt

This is  September's Picture Prompt week. Thank you for coming by and I hope you'll visit all the other participants in this week's Tuesday Tales.
“You’re joking! Tell me you’re joking.” Max stared at the woman standing inches in front of him and wondered how it had come to this without him noticing.“I’m serious.  This is not a joke.” Doreen’s glance took in the opulent office, the panoramic view beyond the glass walls before fixing her husband with a steely glare. “If you spent less time wedded to your job than your marriage it may not have passed you by.  After all you’re the last to notice.”
His gaze dropped to his wife’s midriff, to the obvious swell of her belly. “We said no kids…”

 

You said no kids,” Doreen interrupted. “When I walked you promised we could have kids.”

 

“But so soon…”

 

“Five years is too soon?”

 

Had they been married so long?  It hit him how little time he’d spent with the woman he’d wanted to himself. Where had the years gone, and who was this hard faced stranger?

 

Automatically he took the papers she held out. “What’s this?”

 

“Divorce papers.”

 

Two ice-laden words, that pierced his heart. No joke, Doreen was serious. “On what grounds?”

 

“Desertion.” Raising her hand she indicated their surroundings.

 

Disbelief leant volume to his voice. “It’s given you everything you wanted. The house, money, cars, designer clothes.”

 

“But not your heart, you never understood that’s all I wanted.” Doreen hesitated at the door.  “Goodbye, Max.”

 

* * *

 

Releasing the past had been harder than expected.

 

“Well?” Allan’s love embraced her when she joined him outside the office buildings.

 

Doreen placed her hand in his. “It’s done.”

 

“To new beginnings,” she said, raising her glass thirty minutes later.

 

"New beginnings.” Allan echoed and reached across the table to brush a kiss on her lips before touching his champagne flute with hers. “New beginnings.”

Tuesday Tales - Promt Dawn

“Time is an illusion.” ― Albert Einstein So, where did it go to in the past seven days?
Here is another Tuesday Tales offering to this week's prompt 'dawn'.
It is from my Regency wip Vidal's Honor

Salamanca – July 22nd 1812

“We’ve endured some bad storms, have we not Dev, but I misremember one as bad as this.”

My Lady Beaumont snuggled up to her lord, her head on his shoulder.  They’d celebrate three blissful, if unusual years of marriage in a month’s time.  Hopefully this time they’d be back in England and she’d throw a party like none before. 

“The lightning was so bright at one point I thought it had struck our tent.”

“At least we had some cover,” Honor sighed, “those poor soldiers have no shelter at all and Wellington will expect them to perform their duties regardless.”

"We are at war, my dear.”  Lord Beaumont pulled his wife closer.  One more day and they’d be on their way home.  One more day…


So why did Devlin dread the coming dawn?


Another burst of thunder directly overhead shook the ground, and a flash of lightning lit up their meagre bivouac, followed within seconds by another flash and another roar of thunder.

“It must be all of two hours since this storm began.”  Honor traced Dev’s lips with her finger. “Perhaps we should distract ourselves?”

“And how do you suggest we do that?” Pushing the unidentified dread to the back of his mind, Devlin kissed his wife long and hard.

“That’s a good start.”  Honor returned his kiss and followed where he led.

* * *

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Tuesday Tales ~ Picture Prompt

This week's Tuesday Tales prompt is the picture so... I've called today's offering... The Bridge!

(It has been edited to fit the 300 word max remit)

Darkness and light.

A bit like her life really, Sharon thought, as she approached the narrow aperture. Shadow and sunlight bathed the bridge in stark contrasts...

The lack of sunshine, cut off by the rough hewn stones piled one upon another, sent a shiver up her spine, and whipped her out of the nightmare memories in time to prevent herself tripping over the drunk lying right across the path underneath the bridge.

Venting her anger at allowing old memories in, and idiots who drank too much and passed out where they dropped, she stopped, bent over the man and discovered a pool of blood beneath his skull.

A closer look revealed a trail of blood that led to the side of the path. She looked round for help. No one behind her. Stepping over the inert form, she realised the one time you wanted company, company took a hike. She couldn’t leave him in the middle of the path for others to trip over as she nearly had, and bent to take a closer look at the man at her feet.

Lying face down, it was partially hidden from view.

His jacket was rucked up round his neck, masking more of his face, and the now obvious blow to his skull.

Sharon stared up at the bridge arcing high above her. Had someone hit him on the skull and pushed him over the bridge? If so, when, and where were they now? And why?

Why leave evidence of their crimes where anyone could find it?

Fear skittered up her spine. On the one morning she’d left her cell phone behind…

Sharon dropped to her knees and sighed with relief to feel a faint but steady pulse. 

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Tuesday Tales 8th May - Finger

Sorry I've been MIA recently, but today my Tuesday Tale is an excerpt from my WIP on the third story in my Gasquet Princes series. Working title Sacha's Story.
Today's prompt word is 'Finger'
My thanks for your visit and comments.

Something was off.

Sacha couldn’t put his finger on it, but his personal alert system had gone haywire. No one could explain the loud bang he’d heard twenty minutes ago. Nor could they explain why nothing was disturbed when he’d done a personal check on all the outdoor buildings.

So what on earth was going on? Thankfully Simeon had phoned to say he’d be at the farm in another twenty minutes. But—

Sacha stalked to the sitting room window; then glanced at his watch. Forty minutes had passed since Simeon’s call, so where was he?

He watched the crimson coloured Porsche zip up the drive and come to a shuddering halt. Simeon’s car. But the man who slipped from behind the wheel and looked towards the front door was not his brother.

He looked liked Simeon, in fact if his gut didn’t tell him differently Sacha would consider his apprehension unfounded.

But a twin knew.

A twin recognised his sibling at a deep and instinctive soul level, and this imposter didn’t touch his soul. He glanced behind him when Liam laid a hand on his shoulder.

“What’s wrong? I thought you’d be pleased to see Simeon, even if it is only for a few hours, before we are all engulfed in the next tier of Jubilee celebrations.”

“If the man approaching your front door was Simeon, I’d be delighted, but the man you’re watching is not Simeon, I’d swear my life on it.”

Liam swung him round and Sacha noted the pallor on his brother’s face.

“What are you saying?”

“I don’t know why, or how, but my instinct tells me we are about to invite a cuckoo into your nest.” His dry tone was not lost on Liam, Sacha noted with satisfaction.

Strangers watching Liam go about his business could be forgiven for thinking he’d put the past behind him. But they’d be wrong.

Since the attempt on his younger brother’s life Liam, if Melanie didn’t restrain him, tended to go overboard about personal security these days, and Sacha appreciated the turmoil his bald statement would have on his younger brother.

Physically knocked back by Sacha’s claim, Liam stepped forward again and watched the man haul a briefcase from the passenger seat of the car and head for the front door. “Who would organise something like this?”

“The ‘who’ escapes me,” Sacha replied, “but the why is obvious.”

He swung round with the intention of heading for the hall to watch the man pretending to be his twin, enter the house, but found his path blocked.

“They why is not obvious to me, so before we greet this imposter, if imposter he is, you better share your conclusions,” Liam demanded.

His head snapped up, his attention on the closed sitting room door. “Whoever is behind this subterfuge is counting on their man getting past us. After all, if he can fool his brothers, then whoever has organised this exchange can be more confident their man will fool the public.

“And there’s his first error.” Sacha breathed in a sigh of relief when the doorbell peeled. Instinct could be twisted, but the stranger’s first mistake validated his instinctive belief in the switch. Now they had to find out the true identity of the new arrival and who was pulling these new and alarming strings.

He'd suspect Charles deBonet if he hadn’t died when Liam and Paxman rescued Melanie…

Then who?

And where was Simeon?

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A-Z Challenge Day 16 P

P is for Paranormal

At the end of last year I joned a lovely group of writers who post a story each week to a given word prompt. In January this year the prompt word was LIES, and this story - a paranormal horror (and horror is SO NOT my thing) evolved.
So today my P is for my Paranormal horror story.  LIES.


Jenny skipped along the street, her pigtails flying, her eyes shining, and a permanent smile on her face. She carried her present for Shirley in the plastic carrier bag hanging from her arm, her Cinderella costume blowing in the breeze. Today her bestest friend was celebrating her ninth birthday with a fancy-dress party, and next week it would be her turn. Somehow, the figure nine seemed more grown-up than eight. Nearer double figures.

“You going to Shirley’s party?”

She’d seen the boy in the school playground. Always on the edge of a group, always watching, and, she shivered now, something about his eyes made her uneasy. Today was no different, and his costume didn’t help. His smile was inviting, warm and almost gleeful; yet, secretive, Shirley decided.

“What are you dressed up as?” She studied his cape and the scythe he carried, its blade gleaming in the sun.

“The Grim Reaper,” he said. “And my friend Herakles will be joining me in a moment.”

Damien, that was it! She’d never liked the name because it always made her think of demons; and demons, she knew, were scary. Lately they filled her dreams, turning them to nightmares.

She never quite saw their faces in her dreams, only heard their laughter, when it turned dark and evil and woke her up.

For the last couple of nights, she’d tried in vain to wake from the nightmares. The demon stood there watching her. Whatever she did, wherever she went in her dreams, the demon stood there watching in silent celebration.

Jenny looked at the boy walking beside her. Strange, she’d never noticed before, but if her demon had a face it would be like Damian’s.

“How old are you?” she asked in an effort to shake off her qualms. “Aren’t you too old to come to Shirley’s party?”

“Age, is in the head.” Damien smiled. “After all, you think nine as far more grown-up than eight, don’t you? When in reality it’s just the beginning of another day, another number you’ll hang on to for a year.

“If you’re lucky, that is.”

His eyes, dark as obsidian, gleamed in the sunshine, his hair reminded her of the huge raven that stole food off the bird table this morning, and cawed at her mother when she chased it away.

Sometimes, in a certain light, Damien reminded her of the old man who lived in the end house on the street. Rumour and gossip abounded about him, and the school children ran past his home; half hoping he’d come outside, and terrified he might!

“Never see a light on in that house, me dear,” old Mr. Hawkins, from two doors down, told her one day. “Best to stay clear of the place. That’s what I say.” And cackling he’d wandered off into the nearest shop.

Jenny stopped at the pedestrian road crossing and waited for the lights to change from red to green.

“It’s safe to cross now.” Damien told her.

She stepped into the road, thankful Damien hadn’t followed. Reflected in the shop window ahead of her she saw him standing on the pavement, watching her, his smile one of satisfaction this time.

She didn’t hear the car that ‘came from nowhere,’ didn’t hear the screams of horror that filled the air when the car never stopped, never saw Damien vanish into thin air, to reappear beside the driver of the car.

“Promise me she didn’t suffer,” he demanded of Herakles. “I didn’t like lying to her, she was a sweet kid.”

“She didn’t suffer,” his companion assured him.

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