Six Sentence Stories: The Safe House Women VS The Masked Man

Starburst masks small ad. 1987.


I’m linking up with Denise at Girlie On The Edge Blog, where she hosts Six Sentence Stories, and everyone is invited to write a story or poem constructed of six sentences based on a cue word given.

This week’s cue word is Random

 

 


Editor’s note: the following is an extract from a larger work in progress, a ghost story, and features the characters Henry and Marling. This new instalment introduces two other major characters: Wendy Harper and the the Masked Man. You can read previous extracts here and here.


The Safe House Women VS The Masked Man

When they entered the bedroom they saw that the window was wide open and the curtains were flapping about like two demented phantoms, and that two metal coils were bobbing in the distance between Mrs Parker and the bed, which made it evident to the women that Mrs Parker had deployed her taser – further confirmed by the hooks of the coils which had attached themselves to the torso of the biggest man any of them had ever seen, a man wearing a mask – a buffalo mask of all things – and who was slouched upon the bed with the grin of the devil beneath his disguise, and Wendy thought… there’s no goddamn way this creep is gonna get the better of her and her friends.

Eighteen female eyes burned like lasers into his massive form, and his devilish smirk was wiped clean from his mouth as Wendy launched her knife – just missing the head of Mrs Parker in its trajectory, before embedding itself into the man’s left bicep… and the man – he didn’t so much as blink or yelp or cuss, but did nought else than pluck the blade from his arm and toss it to the floor, and then he growled, and then he roared, and he snorted, and he bellowed, and he made to rise his bulk from the bed to charge at the nine women standing before him, as though they were flimsy matadors to be tossed in the air before the goring began of each of their throats, which he swore in unsaid oaths he would rip open in one minute flat.

But the launching of Wendy’s knife served only to set off a wild and impressive catalyst, as the women began shouting and hurling missiles at the man who received body blows and headshots from such random items that included books, slippers, a bottle of mineral water, a table lamp, a cassette of Blur’s Greatest Hits, perfume, shampoo, a hairdryer, a set of hair straighteners, and a Hello Kitty toothbrush.

The man, understanding then that the women were about to charge him, did nothing more than leap from the bed and flee his tormentors, and in two long strides he was among the flapping phantoms the curtains still made, and hurling himself from the open window to return from whence he came.

They stood there in utter exhaustion, the nine women, puffing, panting, exclaiming enough curses between them to make a sailor blush.

“Well, that’s something to tell the grandchildren about one day,” Wendy said to no one in particular.


Six Sentence Stories: The straight line of footprints

Walkaway Fairy. Artwork by Ford, TVTA.


I’m linking up with Denise at Girlie On The Edge Blog, where she hosts Six Sentence Stories, and everyone is invited to write a story or poem constructed of six sentences based on a cue word given.

This week’s cue word is line

 

 


Editor’s note: the following is an extract from a larger work in progress, a ghost story, and features the characters Henry and Marling. You can read a previous extract here.


The straight line of footprints

Henry went over to the sole window of Doctor Lessing’s office, and when he looked with his sole eye he spied the water fountain on the lawn where he had arranged to meet Marling tomorrow at noon; beyond this lay the sprawling avenues and groves of many trees, and the patients wandering the grounds – twinned by their long shadows which fell about them on the grass like phasmids and mantises from the sun’s late afternoon toil.

‘Not a bad view eh?’ Inspector Du Maurier said, joining Henry at the window. ‘If you enjoy looking at crazy people that is.’

‘How do you know they’re crazy?’ said Henry

‘How do you they’re not? Tell me, how’s the eye?’

Henry ran a finger across the lower seam of his eyepatch and replied, ‘There is no eye.’

Du Maurier stared at the one-eyed Henry then looked away, his gaze falling to the same fountain Henry had been looking at in monovision, his detective eyes – even from the second floor of Doctor Lessing’s office – not failing to see the straight line of footprints embedded in the mud, which led from the fountain and into the hospice, as though the ghost of Marling was deliberately leaving clues.


Six Sentence Stories: A Love Like Iron

Art Window, Paris. Photo: TVTA.

I’m linking up with Denise at Girlie On The Edge Blog, where she hosts Six Sentence Stories, and everyone is invited to write a story or poem constructed of six sentences based on a cue word given.

This week’s cue word is Iron.

 

 

Editor’s note: the following is an extract from a larger work in progress, a ghost story, and features two characters making a circular journey. I chose this extract for the Six Sentence Story as it mentions the word ‘iron’ many times, and seemed the perfect fit.

A love like iron

Henry felt the impatient pull of the maze, a magnetism drawing them to the window, reducing them to ferromagnetic powders sent scurrying to the vibrating point of an impossible attraction in an impossible place.

Marling took his arm and led him along, shoulder to shoulder, their cheeks so close they might have easily turned their faces and kissed as two lovers.

And they walked like this for moments in silence, pulled towards the maze, the midday sun finding the iridescence of Marling’s feathers which poked from her crown; medicine woman, animal power.

And the sun’s rays did also cast luminosity upon Henry’s new silk eye patch; pirate-bold, buccaneer.

When finally they arrived at the centre of the maze, the window had already been flung open by their enemy; the relentless pursuer who was waiting for them on the other side.

They entered the world of iron butterflies, iron maidens, iron ladies, iron men, iron giants, iron fists, iron skies and iron ages of a paradise wrought to a refinement good enough for the Eiffel Tower and Paris balconies, where once they haunted these structures as ghosts – flitting through the fretworks without a care in the world, and yet to be burdened by a guilt forged in iron upon their bare shoulders.

Love locks, Paris. Photo: TVTA.

The Eiffel Tower, Paris. Photo: TVTA.


 

Six Sentence Stories: Alice in Wonderland performed by the Fruit Ensemble of Pearsida

Agathe Tran Quang My and Biosca art for Anne Sylvestre – Fabulettes 1969.

I’m linking up with Denise at Girlie On The Edge Blog, where she hosts Six Sentence Stories, and everyone is invited to write a story or poem constructed of six sentences based on a cue word given.

This week’s cue word is Passion.

 

 

Alice in Wonderland performed by the Fruit Ensemble of Pearsida 

Once upon a time in a world far beyond our stars, there was a beautiful garden in the Kingdom of Pearsida, inhabited by fruit who lived peacefully together in paradise.

One day, Princess Passion Fruit declared there would be a performance of Alice in Wonderland, and so she built a grand stage in the garden, and from behind the velvet curtains she directed her cast of thespian fruit.

The fine cast included: Alicia Apple in the lead role of Alice (a part she believed she was born to play); the renowned method actor Bartholomew Cavendish Banana as White Rabbit; Spike Rambutan as Cheshire Cat; Marilyn-Mae Mango as March Hare; Bitter Lemon as the Queen of Hearts; and country and western singing star Pow-Pow Pineapples as Mad Hatter.

After many hours of rehearsals the opening night came, and in the audience sat two strangers, travellers from another world – a man and a woman – who watched in silence… goodness, what strange fruit they seemed, everyone thought!

At the end of the play, the strangers left without word, and it was observed by Princess Passion Fruit that her lead actress Alicia was missing, and she cried out to the other fruit: “But where is Alicia Apple, our star?”

“Twas those two strangers in demand of an apple…” said Spike Rambutan, “who snatched poor Alicia and gobbled her up, alas, and there was nought I could do as my prosthetic tail was caught in a dry ice machine, and I fear it is the last we shall ever see of our starlet… may she rest in peace in the great garden in the sky!”


 

Six Sentence Stories: The hen that came down a beanstalk

Jack and the Beanstalk. Illustration by Eric Winter, 1965, Ladybird Books.

I’m linking up with Denise at Girlie On The Edge Blog, where she hosts Six Sentence Stories, and everyone is invited to write a story or poem constructed of six sentences based on a cue word given.

This week’s cue word is Eternal.

 

 

The hen that came down a beanstalk

Jack is dead, oh, eternal be his memory –

Yet I have no time for his eulogy, as I clamber down this bristling stalk,

Over leaves as long as surfboards, over beans as big as basketballs,

Down, down, to meet my new horizon which shimmers with a hope

That I may return to a coop of my own.

 

Down I climb to claim this liberty, but – curses – that ogre is after me;

Bigger than me, bolder, brasher, brawnier, broiling with anger and betrayal and

Bloodlust!

 

“Get back ‘ere!” the ogre screams.

 

Frightened, frantic, faster and faster down the beanstalk I scarper,

While above me the ogre booms down oaths of murderous revenge:

The rain is his sweat, the wind is his breath, thunderbolts his words,

Flies and mosquitoes his crumbs of bread…

Broken from the bones of Englishmen like Jack.

 

Down, down, about to touch the ground, and there at the foot of the beanstalk stands

Jack’s mother – her each axe-chop a strike for Jack (oh, eternal be his memory) …

Chop… chop… chop… and at last the beanstalk topples, and with it the ogre

Who breaks his neck as easily as once he broke his bread.

 

Jack’s mother, she scoops me up and cradles me with more love

Than I had ever thought possible could exist; and for this, tomorrow,

After resting, and mending my wings and bruised beak,

I will lay for her a golden egg, as she puts on black robes for the eternal memory

Of her son, brave Jack, who set me free from a castle in the sky.


 

Six Sentence Stories: Sweet tooth / Meat tooth

 

Zapf dolls. Hamleys. 1983. UK. Image enhanced by TVTA.

Greetings, vintage mates. I’m linking up with Denise at Girlie On The Edge Blog, where she hosts Six Sentence Stories, and the cue word this time is Slice.


Sweet tooth / Meat tooth

She lived in a house made from gingerbread and candy, with marshmallow walls and marzipan doors, butterscotch tables and toffee chairs, and two plump beds made from Turkish Delight – for when the children stayed over.

A sweet tooth she had, but always craved something saltier; something hot and tender she could slice into succulent cubes, and watch the pink juices run loose.

She glanced through the window at the arrival of the boy and his sister.

She licked her lips and threw another crooked handful of salt into the cauldron.

She tipped back her head and cackled at the thought of such delicious stew to come, never knowing as she let them in – until it was too late – of the sharpened axes they were hiding behind their backs.


Thank you for eating candy with us 🙂