The wrong man

At first I don’t notice you at the bus stop. But then I see you staring at me. Who are you? I glance over my shoulder to see if you’re looking at someone behind me, but no-one’s there.  Your dark, beady eyes bore into me, and I feel naked. Fear crawls over me, and adrenaline surges into my system like a drug. Please, bus, someone, come! I tighten the hold on my bag and get ready to scream. My body prepares for fight or flight. And then you say excitedly: “Katie? How are you? We were at Primary school together?”

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© Vicky Newham 2012. All rights reserved.
Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the blog’s author is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Vicky Newham, and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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Thoughts

Particles,
Drift randomly hither and thither,
In constant collision.
Suspended,
In the liquid of the mind.
Dust, fluff
Tiny grains,
Seeds of thoughts,
Remnants,
Tirelessly,
Jiggling and wiggling,
In perpetual Brownian motion.

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© Vicky Newham 2012. All rights reserved.
Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the blog’s author is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Vicky Newham, and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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Flash fiction 100 – SWEET REVENGE OR DIVINE INTERVENTION?

Whilst I was padlocking my bicycle, I noticed a car patiently waiting for someone to come out of a space in the busy car park, so that she could drive in. Then a yob approached, music blaring out of open windows, and darted the wrong way round the adjacent row and nipped into the space. The pensioner looked non-plussed at this shameful behaviour, but drove off in search of another vacant spot. The yob got out of his car, shouting into his phone, and swearing loudly. When I returned two hours later, he was on his knees changing his tyre.

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© Vicky Newham 2012. All rights reserved.
Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the blog’s author is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Vicky Newham, and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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A literal crime – flash fiction 100

My neighbours are having the outside of their property re-painted. Not before time, so I am immensely pleased. On arriving home today, I find one of their decorators using a flower pot of mine – containing a beautiful, delicate flowering indigo Periwinkle – which I bought as a tribute to Colette’s character Vinca in Le Blé en Herbe – as a platform to stand on. Not amused, I tell him. Now with his huge boots back on terra firma, he exclaims – eyes wide with surprise – ‘Oh, it’s fine. Whatever was in there’s still there. It’s just a bit lower down than it was.’

(You really couldn’t make this one up, could you?!)

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© Vicky Newham 2012. All rights reserved.
Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the blog’s author is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Vicky Newham, and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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Enforced eavesdropping

I slumped down in my seat, put my head back and heaved a big sigh of relief: I had managed to catch the train with two minutes’ grace. Having run up the steps from the underground and across the busy concourse at Victoria station, I was sweating, and quickly stripped off my jacket and scarf. Liftoff! We were moving. As I settled down to read my book, I heard a man’s voice in the seat immediately behind me –

‘Hi darling, it’s me. Sorry about earlier. I was in a meeting. Can you talk?’

He spoke gently and with a soft, southern Irish accent. I didn’t actually want to listen but unless I put my earphones in – or moved seat – I didn’t have a choice: his words came straight into my ears and brain. After a packed tube journey, I was looking forward to some peace on the train. Oh well, I thought, most men don’t have long personal calls in public. And then I heard –

‘The thing is, I’m not saying never. I just think it’s too soon for us now.’

By the sounds of it, this was obviously going to be a very personal conversation and I wasn’t sure whether the man knew that he could be overheard. So I gave a clichéd cough to let him know and to give him the opportunity of moving somewhere more private. To my surprise, he continued –

‘I mean, in six or twelve months things might be different. Just because this flat has come up now, I don’t think that it would be a good idea to move in together before we are ready. There will be more flats.’

Pause.

‘Yes, I do love you, and, yes, I am committed to you. You know that.’

Pause.

By now, I have to admit that I was intrigued. I found myself wondering what the other person was saying and what she was like. And what the man looked like. It didn’t sound like the news was going down very well.

The man sitting opposite me pulled his glasses an inch down his nose, and peered at me, raising his eyebrows. He smiled wryly.

‘Blimey!’ he mouthed.

Suddenly, the train carriage went black as we raced through a tunnel. Having travelled this route many times I knew that it was a reception black spot, and that the poor man on his phone would get cut off. Sure enough –

‘Fuck it!’ we heard, emphatically, and repeated a few times.

I grimaced in sympathy for him, as did the man sitting opposite me. What a conversation to get cut off in the middle of ….

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© Vicky Newham 2012. All rights reserved.
Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the blog’s author is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Vicky Newham, and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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Waiting for the past

“’Ere you are, love! Another coffee?”

The waitress plonks the chipped mug down on the cluttered, corner table, spilling liquid in the process. Adam looks at her, expectantly, but she appears oblivious, and simply picks up the old cup and walks off. Muttering under his breath, he uses a handful of thin, shiny, paper napkins to dab at the pool which is spreading on the plastic tablecloth.

Adam takes another look at his watch, and his cheek muscle twitches. He picks up his phone and swipes the touch screen with his index finger. Dabbing away at icons, he checks for missed calls, text messages and e-mails. Nothing. Every time the door opens, he glances up hopefully, and his face falls each time he realises that this isn’t her. Where is she? She is late now. Has she been held up? Why on earth did he get here so early?

He opens up his well thumbed novel. Frustrated with having to keep re-reading the same sentence, he closes up the book and lounges back in the plastic chair, gently rubbing the two day stubble on his chin with his fingertips.

When they spoke on the phone, she hadn’t been convinced that meeting up was a good idea. Isn’t it sometimes better to let sleeping dogs lie? But he had pleaded with her, and she had finally relented. But that was two weeks ago. The nice lady from the agency emphasised the need to have low expectations.

“You’ve got to protect yourself. Don’t think that this is going to be everything that you’ve always wanted. It might lead no-where. It’s been a long time for both of you.”

Adam had listened to her sing-song-y voice and wondered how many times before she had said the same thing, and how often the outcome had been positive. She said that sometimes people in this situation agree to meet, and then change their mind and don’t turn up. But Adam was sure that she would.

The door opens again and Adam sees her come in. She looks about the right age. Short, dark hair, she had said. Height and age also about right. She recognises him from the photograph he had sent her. Panic spreads over her face like a rash, and she turns back for the door. Adams heart sinks and he is about to jump up and shout out. But then she changes her mind again and walks over to his table. Her eyes dart, nervously, and her outstretched hand shakes.

“Adam?”

He smiles at her tentatively, and then leaps up. He had spent his whole life, forty six years of it, waiting to meet his birth mother. And to fill in the gaps about who he was, and why she had given him up for adoption all those years ago.

“Mum. I knew you’d come,” he stammers, and a lifetime’s tears stream down his face.

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© Vicky Newham 2012. All rights reserved.
Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the blog’s author is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Vicky Newham, and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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Passion

Your twitching lips bewitch
Mouth, full and ripe
Waiting to be kissed.
Eyes, swirling whirlpools of emotion
Infuse your face with passion
Whisper to something in me
And set my soul on fire.
Your furrowed brow betrays
A life ruled by the heart,
Loves and losses
Etched in the fibre of your being.
Your thick, black, lustrous hair
Made to be caressed.
Your voice, like warm caramel
With its soft lilting tones
Lights the touch paper of desire.
Make me long for your sweet embrace
And to feel your luscious lips on mine.

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© Vicky Newham 2012. All rights reserved.
Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from the blog’s author is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Vicky Newham, and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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