archive #009

livejournal 18-10-2009

These stories are all 150 words each. A small writing exercise.


Autumn

Marguerite likes the smell of good food. She likes the warm smell of apples drying on the wall. She likes cinnamon, she likes pepper and sugar. She loves the smell of onions frying in the pan, of pie in the oven and butter melting. From the window she watches her daughter play outside. She’ll make Lucy chocolate milk, with real dark chocolate when she comes in. She loves Lucy’s scent when she comes home with scabby knees while smelling of flowers, grass and earth. Marguerite loves the smell of vanilla. She loves the smell of wine breath on her husband on a good evening. She loves his aftershave, his sweat, his cigars and his hair.
Marguerite hates the smell of another woman’s perfume on his blouse, or the smell of her sex on his trunks. So Marguerite douses them with lavender in the washing as she wipes away her tears.

Winter

I watch my breath white in the air. The TV flashes. I shiver. I’m cold. Butterflies fly the room, bright and colourful among the grey shades of my room. The flutter of my curtains is in time with their wings which flap loud against my ears. The TV flashes. I hear nothing but butterfly wings. The window is open. Snow falls. In a moment of clarity I realise the strange occurrence that the flakes don’t melt as they land on my hands; kissing me like the brightly coloured butterflies. My eyes close, the light of the television pries to them. I try to remember why I’m here. Why I’m on the floor, why my hair is wet and sticky and why all I see is butterflies on a winter’s day. I can’t remember, the butterflies rest their wings and I’m tired. The snow holds me, but I’m not cold anymore.

Spring

There’s a girl on a bench. There’s a girl on a bench in the park. The girl is called Mary, after the eternal virgin. Mary loved Jesus and so does Mary now, but Mary never kept to her namesake. Mary is fourteen. There’s a girl called Mary on a bench in a park. There’s a girl crying on a bench on a park. Mary prays before dinner. Mary goes to church on Sunday. Mary doesn’t believe in sex before marriage, Mary doesn’t believe condoms should be used.
There’s a girl on a bench on the park, but she never kept to her believes. Mary is pro-life and so is the boy. So the boy left her, for she didn’t keep to her believes.
There’s a girl on a bench. Her stomach hurts. Mary has a fever. Mary weeps and Mary prays because sweet girl Mary never kept to her namesake.

Summer

They walk around bare skinned in this season. They walk around in mini-skirts and short that nearly reveal the curves of their rear ends. Their legs are long and brown, their toes in flip-flops and their arms and shoulders obscenely naked. He watches them. He always watches them, but right now he watches one in particular.
Her shoe hangs casually from a red painted toe which she moves back and forth accentuating the curve of her foot, her heels, and her calves. Her legs disappear in a short, brightly coloured summer dress. He stares at the shades between the folds. She drinks her ice-tea. A straw, two red lips. She makes him nervous. She pays for her drink. He mumbles and she leaves. He looks after her. Tonight he’ll send her a letter or call her and hang up, and he’ll keep doing until she calls the police on him.