Harsh Times by Lesley Whyte

It was just so unexpected, really. I mean, I can't believe he'd do that to me. What kind of father just cuts up your credit cards? I know things have been difficult since he lost his job, but really, what am I supposed to do now? He told me to get a job. A job. Can you believe that? He doesn't even have a job and now he expects me to get one.

Watermelon Sunrise, please.

He says I'm going to have to start paying my own rent, that I'll probably have to find a cheaper place to live. He wants me to leave my home. I've had to sell everything. Everything. My car, my jewellery, my couture. It's barbaric. This is the last luxury I have left, getting my nails done. Who knows when I'll be able to afford it again? I might have to start painting my own. I mean, can you imagine? What kind of lawless heathen actually paints nails?

Oh, no offence, Mara.

Harsh Times by Carolyn Glass

I’m sorry, Miss Jones, but the only option is redundancy, business is down and we simply have to cut costs, and our biggest expense is salaries. No, I wasn’t aware that you were getting married next month or that you’ve just taken out a hefty mortgage based on your current salary here. 

Well, we all have to make sacrifices, I’ve had to forgo replacing my Jaguar this year, and I’ll have to holiday in Europe rather than my usual 6 weeks in the States this summer. Please stop making a scene, the customers will think there is a problem. Perhaps it would be better if you left now rather than working out your notice, don’t worry, I’ll deduct the rest of the month’s salary from your final pay cheque, don’t let the door hit you on your way out.

Day Thirteen

And today's prompt is...

Harsh Times

Smoke and Mirrors by Ben Hayward

The black mirror arcade raced past me,
Icons to neophyte religions in a blur,
Mixed messages absorbed in trite,
sweet sophistry in plain speech,

The darlings of lethargy speak to me,
My eyes itch but I can't tear myself away
White teeth, stretched across inhumane grins,
They tell you your needs, what's best for you.

We are silently complicit
And need the savage to come back home.

Smoke and Mirrors by James D. Irwin

I was fourteen when I took my first smoke. It was the summer and I had a job— of sorts— working at the funfair. There were a few of us— me, Rob, and Johnny. What we did was go around all the carnival games every now and then and ‘win’ so people thought they had a chance.

The work wasn’t strenuous and mostly we just got to spend all day running around a funfair and causing trouble and getting paid for it. And then there was Georgie. She was an older girl, sixteen or so. Georgie worked the House of Mirrors and wore cool clothes and sometimes smoked. We were all in love with her, of course.

One afternoon in late June or early July we found ourselves hanging out behind the small and run down House of Mirrors. I don’t think it was a conscious decision, at least not on my part... after an hour or so Georgie suddenly appeared out of a hidden door. A slim cigarette hung from her bored, insolent mouth. Our presence didn't startle her. She looked annoyed more than anything, before breaking out into a cruel smile. She sat down with us and asked if we smoke. We all lied and said yes. She called our bluff and offered us each a cigarette. Rob and Johnny ran away. I accepted. Georgie laughed. She lit both and I coughed and she laughed some more.

But I kept going back, and sooner or later I stopped coughing and got to being something of a professional. Georgie and I became friends that summer, if nothing else.

I think about that summer a lot, sometimes with fondness but usually with regret. I'm sixty-three now. I'm about to take my last smoke, if I haven’t already.

Smoke and Mirrors by Solomon Blaze

Dreams are your reality, when you’re Soul can’t sleep.

Pseudo-skies crumble;

You’ll drown in the Puddle.

It’s only Smoke and Mirrors;

You’re only Blood and Bones.

Please don’t take me, I want to stay...

Forever on the Surface; shall I simply lay?

Smoke and Mirrors by Lesley Whyte

Being dead is a lot like being alive, really. Except you don't have to eat or sleep or go to the bathroom, and most people don't even notice you. It was that last part I found really galling, but I guess a lot of ghosts - or at least some of them - never got noticed when they were alive. Never got...no, that's fine. Just had to check the grammar, didn't sound quite right.

I've always been noticed. Even as a little kid, I stood out. Probably because of my massive facial deformity. No, I'm kidding, I don't have a massive facial deformity. It's just a small one, really. Sorry, I couldn't resist. No facial deformities at all, I've just always been noticeable. I was the star of the family, always towering over Becky, and that didn't change when I started school and found a new audience. People didn't always like me, but they knew who I was. They had an opinion about me.

I liked it, most of the time. It made me feel important - and feeling important is important, because if death has taught me one thing, it's that nobody actually IS important. Sometimes, though, I'd complain about it and people would always tell me I was lucky, that it was awful on the other end of the spectrum. I'd never know what it was like to not be noticed. So I shut up moaning about it, because I really hated being told I was lucky.

Thing is, now nobody notices me and I'm kind of enjoying it. It's peaceful. Much better than being hated, that's for sure. I guess the problem is that people always want what they don't have. Like, Becky has this really flat, fine hair. Straight as anything, so low maintenance. But she was always saying she wanted my curly mess of hair. Like she didn't even know how much of a hassle it was. I always wanted her hair. It was the only thing of hers I wanted, that's for damn sure.

Smoke and Mirrors by Sara Travis

When I was twelve years old, my Uncle Tom took me to the circus. It was late, much later than I was usually permitted to stay out, after the dark had unfurled its wings, blanketing the tents in an inky blue. We walked through the high, velvety flaps of the tent, and past the place where dreams began. A large, circular stage dominated at the centre, its floor a swirl of red and black. Scattered around were cushions in various sizes, and spectators were dragging them as close to the stage as they could manage.

To the side of the stage stood a lady in a cage. Clusters of candles littered the ground by her feet, and the air was thick with a heavy, perfumed fog. She wore a leotard in the same, deep red as the walls of the tent, and she was dancing, though you couldn’t really call it dancing. She moved her body slowly to the soundless music, but it went further than that. As though the blood that ran through her veins was laced with the notes, her heart beating in time to the melody. Her face was covered in an elaborate mask, a deep, dusky red, covered in intricate swirls and encrusted with sparkling gems. And yet I felt the full, breathless pull of the beauty underneath, drawing me closer until I stood at her feet.

The mask shrouding her face slipped, and for a split second I caught a glimpse at what was beneath. Silky, porcelain skin. Full, ruby lips. Dark, rich eyes. She was beautiful; perhaps, too beautiful. In the wrong light I thought her features might look harsh, dangerous, frightening even. But in the soft glow of the candlelight she seemed to hang upon the cheek of the night, like a jewel. I found myself beguiled by the truth I saw in her face. We locked eyes, and it was as though all of my most secret dreams had somehow been set free.

I never saw true beauty until that night. I have not seen it since.

Day Thirteen

And today's prompt is...

Smoke and Mirrors

Mademoiselle by Meg Burrows

She was always a little girl, with little things and little curls and a little mind. People would say there goes the girl, the one that will brighten your day. (But maybe not so bright in her mind.) She would take little steps, with little shoes, that had little journeys and little tales to tell. But she wouldn’t mind. Because little things, made the bigger things, which led to the great things and in time, these things brought her to one of the best things.

She had become a woman. A woman who knew her mind.

Mademoiselle by Sam Smith

When I was about fifteen, someone told me that I have a “very French facial features”. This came as quite a surprise to me, coming from an incredibly British family. I’m not even sure that we have any other nationality in our blood. Maybe a little bit of Icelandic on my mother’s side. But apparently the shape of my nose, the way the sides of my lips curl when I smile and something about my eyebrows makes people think I look French.

For a while, I thought nothing of it. I’m not one of the British people who still seem to harbour resentment to the French for I guess the war or something. It’s just my face. It might look French. It might look stupid. Ultimately it doesn’t matter because it looks like me.

But when I was eighteen, a girl came up to me in the pub and asked if I was French. I was just standing at the bar waiting to get served. I wasn’t doing anything even remotely French. The girl was very pretty and I got nervous and told her the truth in my charming West Country accent.

‘Err… No, I’m from Bath. It’s kind of near Bristol.”

The pretty girl was less than impressed. She made some small talk with me about Bristol being kind of gross and then walked back over to her friends without inviting me.

Similar situations like that occurred before I figured out what to do. It was starring me straight in the face. On a night out for a friend’s birthday, a pretty girl with glasses asked me if I was French. I smiled, making sure to curl the ends of my lips a lot more than usual and contorted my eyebrows. Forcing my voice to go quite a lot lower than normal, I whispered one word that I was sure to interest her with.

‘Mademoiselle.’

Or at least I tried to say that. It’s very hard to say French words when you’ve been raised in the South West. I ended up sounding less like a charming French man and more like a confused tourist. Needless to say, the pretty girl walked away almost immediately and I don’t blame her. I have since stopped smiling, started to get my eyebrows plucked on a monthly basis and I have an appointment for a nose job booked for early next year.

Mademoiselle by Emily Chadwick

Sir Reginald von Toastingham twirled his moustache as he surveyed the gaggle of pretty women outside the fine Parisian milliners. The ladies were crowding around a display of particularly flamboyant and vibrant hats, giggling and chattering as they vied for the best viewing spots.

There were tall girls and short girls, skinny girls and plump girls. Redheads, brunettes and blondes.

And they were all unchaperoned.

Sir Reginald tugged on his moustache with a smile.

There was an especially delectable French morsel standing a little way away from the others, She was blushing prettily as she bobbed on her feet, craning for a peek at the hat display. Her rich dark hair was twisted up in an elegant knot at the back of her head, held in place by a fine mother-of-pearl clip. Blue eyes sparkled.

Sir Reginald walked up to her, his fingers tight on his finely-carved cane.

“Good morning, Mademoiselle.”

Mademoiselle by Lesley Whyte

"Excusez-moi, nous voudrait à order."

"Naturellement, mademoiselle."

"Je voudrais les escargots de Bourgogne et puis… va comment le blanc de boudin?"

"Superbe, mademoiselle."

"Hm. Pas, je voudrais le coq au vin."

"Certainement. Et pour vous, monsieur?"

Alex squinted at the menu. He'd left his reading glasses at home, not wanting to embarrass himself in front of Jade, but they wouldn't have helped. "Uhh...that," he said, stabbing at something.

"The andouillette? Excellent choice, sir."

The waiter took their menus and left them. Jade took a sip of the wine she had chosen, which was
delicious, and then smiled.

"Andouillette. I'm impressed. It's an acquired taste," she said.

Alex started sweating.

Day Thirteen

And today's prompt is...

Mademoiselle.