Monday, 14 May 2012
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.
She had become a woman. A woman who knew her mind.
Sunday, 13 May 2012
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.
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.”
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.
"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.
Saturday, 12 May 2012
Lunch Date by Lesley Whyte
Nina practically trotted over to the window seat with her sandwich, and then wolfed it down, leaving a trail of marinara sauce down her chin. She gulped down her Coke before wiping it away with a napkin and then disposing of the evidence. She left the sandwich shop and crossed the road to the restaurant where they were due to meet. She gave the false name he always used for their reservations and was shown into the dining room. Here she was sat down at the best table and handed a leather-bound menu. She poured water from the pitcher in the centre of the table and then waited.
And waited.
She would order the avocado salad today, no dressing. And she would leave the avocado. If he thought she was eating again, if he thought she might start gaining weight...
Nina's phone buzzed in her handbag. She fished it out and answered it. He would be late. He wasn't coming. Something had happened. Gillian was back from her skiing trip. She wanted to have lunch. She wanted to be taken shopping on Rodeo Drive. He would be late back to the studio. He was sorry. He would make it up to her. He would buy her something special. Nina fixed a smile on her face and told him not to worry. She understood. She would head back to the studio now and make his excuses.
She hung up and left a tip, even though she hadn't ordered anything. It was her own fault, really. Why did she keep falling for men who were so good to their wives?
And waited.
She would order the avocado salad today, no dressing. And she would leave the avocado. If he thought she was eating again, if he thought she might start gaining weight...
Nina's phone buzzed in her handbag. She fished it out and answered it. He would be late. He wasn't coming. Something had happened. Gillian was back from her skiing trip. She wanted to have lunch. She wanted to be taken shopping on Rodeo Drive. He would be late back to the studio. He was sorry. He would make it up to her. He would buy her something special. Nina fixed a smile on her face and told him not to worry. She understood. She would head back to the studio now and make his excuses.
She hung up and left a tip, even though she hadn't ordered anything. It was her own fault, really. Why did she keep falling for men who were so good to their wives?
Lunch Date by Emily Chadwick
She was late.
Eli tore his napkin into fretful strips, tossing anxious glances at the diner’s door.
She was late. She should be here by now. She had said so.
He took a sip of his water, his fingers trembling as he held the glass.
Why was she late? Was it his hair? His clothes? Did he smell bad?
He tried to give himself a discreet sniff, but stopped when he realised that a wizened old man was staring at him from the next table.
“Would you like to order?” The waitress tapped her pencil against her skirt, cherry-red lips twisted in a fake smile.
“I – I’m waiting for someone, thanks.”
“Okey-dokey.”
The waitress tottered away, hips waggling. Eli stared intently at the fingerprints on his glass, his cheeks red. The waitress was probably laughing at him in the backroom.
Maybe she wouldn’t come after all.
All he could do was wait.
Eli tore his napkin into fretful strips, tossing anxious glances at the diner’s door.
She was late. She should be here by now. She had said so.
He took a sip of his water, his fingers trembling as he held the glass.
Why was she late? Was it his hair? His clothes? Did he smell bad?
He tried to give himself a discreet sniff, but stopped when he realised that a wizened old man was staring at him from the next table.
“Would you like to order?” The waitress tapped her pencil against her skirt, cherry-red lips twisted in a fake smile.
“I – I’m waiting for someone, thanks.”
“Okey-dokey.”
The waitress tottered away, hips waggling. Eli stared intently at the fingerprints on his glass, his cheeks red. The waitress was probably laughing at him in the backroom.
Maybe she wouldn’t come after all.
All he could do was wait.
Lunch Date by Sam Smith
Here is a detailed list of things that a pigeon will not eat. The research for this list comes from personal experience gained due to having an hour lunch break from my job at Phones-4-U but no one to share it with and a wide selection of food in the Sainsbury’s along the road. If the pigeon picks up the food and puts it back down after one bite, it still counts as not eating it. These instances are marked with a *. Other exceptions will be included in the notes section and marked accordingly.
Cold chicken tikka. Lettuce*. Blue cheese. Red pepper. Green pepper. Yellow pepper*. Fish fingers*^. Quorn deli style ham slices. Raw egg. Custard. Dark chocolate. Frosties. Polish sausage. Cat food (rabbit). Heinz baked beans. Sainsbury’s brand baked beans*. Jelly^. Mint ice cream. Beef Stroganoff baby food. Ham slices*. Cherry Muller corner yoghurt*. Brussels Pâté. Tomatoes^. Hummus. Strawberry jam. Onions*. Rice^. A birthday cake*. Cous cous. Bombay Bad Boy Pot Noodle (cooked). Sausages. Sweetcorn*.
^Fish Fingers: The pigeon attempted to eat this, but it was frozen.
^Jelly: Pigeons are scared of jelly, no matter what flavour it is.
^Tomatoes: When confronted with a tomato, a pigeon will appear eager, but quickly become dissatisfied when close up to the tomato.
^Rice: Included only because the pigeon ate one grain of rice and promptly died.
Conclusion: Pigeons are pickier than a wife would be.
Cold chicken tikka. Lettuce*. Blue cheese. Red pepper. Green pepper. Yellow pepper*. Fish fingers*^. Quorn deli style ham slices. Raw egg. Custard. Dark chocolate. Frosties. Polish sausage. Cat food (rabbit). Heinz baked beans. Sainsbury’s brand baked beans*. Jelly^. Mint ice cream. Beef Stroganoff baby food. Ham slices*. Cherry Muller corner yoghurt*. Brussels Pâté. Tomatoes^. Hummus. Strawberry jam. Onions*. Rice^. A birthday cake*. Cous cous. Bombay Bad Boy Pot Noodle (cooked). Sausages. Sweetcorn*.
^Fish Fingers: The pigeon attempted to eat this, but it was frozen.
^Jelly: Pigeons are scared of jelly, no matter what flavour it is.
^Tomatoes: When confronted with a tomato, a pigeon will appear eager, but quickly become dissatisfied when close up to the tomato.
^Rice: Included only because the pigeon ate one grain of rice and promptly died.
Conclusion: Pigeons are pickier than a wife would be.
LATE ENTRY Sticky Fingers by Matthew Tomlin
“Jeanette?”
“Yes mummy?”
“Why does my blackberry pie have a hole in it?”
“I don’t know…”
Jeanette held her hands tightly behind her back.
“Daddy’s at work, so who does that leave?”
“Me and you.” Jeanette looked up at her mother, unaware of her mother’s knowledge on the matter.
“I wouldn’t stick a finger into my own pie, would I?”
“I don’t know mummy. Maybe you needed to check how hot it was?”
“Well, my fingers aren’t sticky.” Jeanette’s mother flashed her hands clearly for her daughter to see; berry free. “So, who does that leave?”
“Me.” The girl lowered her head so her fringe protected her from her mother’s stare.
“Can I see your hands, Jeanette?”
“… No.”
“Why not?”
“Because… Because…” Jeanette fidgeted on the spot, her young mind desperate to find a way out of this predicament. “Because Freddie told me to do it. If you see my sticky fingers, it’ll look like my fault. It’s not fair that I get in trouble instead of Freddie.”
The feline in question was fast asleep on a barstool tucked under the kitchen counter. Jeanette’s mother looked over at the cat before turning back to her daughter.
“Go and wash your hands.”
“But mummy-“
“Don’t do it again Jeanette. That’s all I’m going to say.”
Skipping cautiously to the kitchen door while keeping her hands in front of her, Jeanette left the room, dumbfounded by how her mother had figured her out so easily.
“Yes mummy?”
“Why does my blackberry pie have a hole in it?”
“I don’t know…”
Jeanette held her hands tightly behind her back.
“Daddy’s at work, so who does that leave?”
“Me and you.” Jeanette looked up at her mother, unaware of her mother’s knowledge on the matter.
“I wouldn’t stick a finger into my own pie, would I?”
“I don’t know mummy. Maybe you needed to check how hot it was?”
“Well, my fingers aren’t sticky.” Jeanette’s mother flashed her hands clearly for her daughter to see; berry free. “So, who does that leave?”
“Me.” The girl lowered her head so her fringe protected her from her mother’s stare.
“Can I see your hands, Jeanette?”
“… No.”
“Why not?”
“Because… Because…” Jeanette fidgeted on the spot, her young mind desperate to find a way out of this predicament. “Because Freddie told me to do it. If you see my sticky fingers, it’ll look like my fault. It’s not fair that I get in trouble instead of Freddie.”
The feline in question was fast asleep on a barstool tucked under the kitchen counter. Jeanette’s mother looked over at the cat before turning back to her daughter.
“Go and wash your hands.”
“But mummy-“
“Don’t do it again Jeanette. That’s all I’m going to say.”
Skipping cautiously to the kitchen door while keeping her hands in front of her, Jeanette left the room, dumbfounded by how her mother had figured her out so easily.
Brooklyn Nights by Matthew Tomlin
I miss those nights.
Where Tasha would play monsters with me under the kitchen table.
Where Bobby would race me out in the garden.
Where Granddaddy would tell me stories about my mum when she was my age.
Where Grandmamma would help me to read as I sat on her lap, covered by a patchwork blanket.
Where Mum would let me have a cookie just before I brushed my teeth.
Where Dad would pick me up and spin me around in the living room.
Where Buster would bark at me until I cuddled him.
Where Gary would purr when I snuck him ham from the fridge.
Where Annie from next door would return the football I kicked over the fence.
Where I always knew, no matter what,
That Mum and Dad would tuck me in, kiss me goodnight,
And say ‘I love you.’
Where Tasha would play monsters with me under the kitchen table.
Where Bobby would race me out in the garden.
Where Granddaddy would tell me stories about my mum when she was my age.
Where Grandmamma would help me to read as I sat on her lap, covered by a patchwork blanket.
Where Mum would let me have a cookie just before I brushed my teeth.
Where Dad would pick me up and spin me around in the living room.
Where Buster would bark at me until I cuddled him.
Where Gary would purr when I snuck him ham from the fridge.
Where Annie from next door would return the football I kicked over the fence.
Where I always knew, no matter what,
That Mum and Dad would tuck me in, kiss me goodnight,
And say ‘I love you.’
Brooklyn Nights by Meg Burrows
Brooklyn Nights shy away from me,
I burn too bright for the street lights
and I hold things down too hard for the cement cracks.
Brooklyn Nights keep away from me,
they know I’d influence the nights monster,
I’d throw a tea party and have him all eating the cake.
I burn too bright for the street lights
and I hold things down too hard for the cement cracks.
Brooklyn Nights keep away from me,
they know I’d influence the nights monster,
I’d throw a tea party and have him all eating the cake.
Friday, 11 May 2012
Brooklyn Nights by Lesley Whyte
The room feels sticky, the air conditioning's out again. The windows are thrown open, hoping to tempt in a breeze. The room is still. Across the water, the bright lights of Manhattan, the place where dreams come true. Sitting together in the hot apartment - the apartment where the floor throbs with the bass from downstairs, the apartment where the futon doubles as the master bedroom, the apartment where the bare brick wall is hidden under towers of books - the beers in a bucket of ice and the lights turned down low...well, this is a kind of dream, too.
Brooklyn Nights by Emily Chadwick
The city was quiet, strangely so.
Usually, at this time of night, there would be a dog or two howling across the spaces between the concrete skyscrapers. The rumbling of engines would echo down the emptying streets. Drunken shouts would pulse through the darkness. Periodically, a siren would shatter the sounds, wailing its two-note melody.
But tonight, all was silent.
Fog hung heavy over the river, spilling out over the asphalt like floodwater. The air was thick, moist. Breathing felt like drowning.
The lights in the skyscrapers, usually shining like stars against a smog-grey sky, were dull, if they were lit at all.
It was as though death had visited and swept all the people away.
Of course, that was not the case at all.
The final of Britain’s Got Talent was on.
Usually, at this time of night, there would be a dog or two howling across the spaces between the concrete skyscrapers. The rumbling of engines would echo down the emptying streets. Drunken shouts would pulse through the darkness. Periodically, a siren would shatter the sounds, wailing its two-note melody.
But tonight, all was silent.
Fog hung heavy over the river, spilling out over the asphalt like floodwater. The air was thick, moist. Breathing felt like drowning.
The lights in the skyscrapers, usually shining like stars against a smog-grey sky, were dull, if they were lit at all.
It was as though death had visited and swept all the people away.
Of course, that was not the case at all.
The final of Britain’s Got Talent was on.
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