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.