Her Hero – Dead Deer

Today I wrote from 12:58 to 13:08. I was prompted by ideas here. My other writings here. All my prompted writing here, and my tweets here

Tall, lanky maybe. Skinny certainly, but without any discernible presence. Entering a room full of people he would be unnoticed, even a room of one. Hell, he wouldn’t cause a stir even entering an empty room. If you happened to notice him at all your first thought would be of that old cruel line of Churchill’s regarding the charisma of a political opponent: “An empty cab drew up and out got Clement Atlee.”

Grey, annoyingly coiffured hair with an really stupid little upturn at the front. Long and slow is the voice, with nothing to say. Slightly accented with a catch to try and impress the false idea of thoughtfulness, maybe a hint that he wants to be thought self-effacing. In reality he has nothing of interest to say, and is actually rather pleased with himself.

Yes that is very clear. Rather than facing himself and seeing the weak and embarrassing fool there he somehow believes that he is assured, interesting, knowledgeable. Never has an original thought troubled his unfunctioning mind, a standard off-the-shelf view dressed up as insight, one of the clearest indicators of that type of English person; self important and ignorant.

A waste of skin, destroying things that belong not to him, dull, obvious, English, old and pointless.

And her hero? Give me a break.

Nov 30th – Her Hero

Hero scooter

November 30th – Her Hero


The guy in the shop actually asked her if she wanted it in pink. Honestly.

She was sure he was only being helpful, and although she’d tried to stop thinking that way, this was India. But even so.

She’d been in the city for a few weeks, work was going well, although she was busy. She’d still had time to get out and see the sights, the local ones at least, and it was when her manager suggested that she stop relying on the chaotic public transport system (which, to be fair, still had, in her eyes at least, a little charm) and get herself a car, that she had her brainwave.

She was going to get a scooter.

How hard could it be. And she’d seen the roads, gridlocked, nothing moving. She’d seen the scooters weaving in and out, moving. That was, quite literally, the way forward.

The fact that she’d never ridden a scooter before was neither here nor there. After all, she’d spent a damp year in Manchester cycling to and from her placement, so two wheels weren’t a total novelty.

There was a Hero shop not far from where she worked. Which is why, three weeks ago, she was in there explaining to the salesman that no, she didn’t want it in pink, thanks all the same, and that Panther Black would do quite nicely. It had a ring to it: Panther Black.

They thought she was mad in the office, of course. The company would quite happily pay for a new car, so why on earth did she want to go for the scooter option. She said a few things about independence, not being stuck all the time, the ability to go where she wanted, when she wanted, regardless of the traffic, but they didn’t really understand.

And it was, in truth, difficult to really explain. There was just the thrill of it. She pictured her mother’s face when she’d told her that she was getting a scooter, the gasp at the other end of the line. That’s why she was doing it. She had come out here to live, and now she was living!

She was picking it up after work. They were staying open for her. And then she was driving home.

She’d bought her Hero.


Inspired by a prompt from here

Voided Victories – The Writeycorn

Voided Victories

“Whoooooooooo we won!” “Yes!” It was the football tournament  in the European school and it was the semi-final 5ENB v.s 5NEA English vs The Dutch. The referees were Dutch and were cheating. We (English) started complaining ………………..

it was the final of the football tournament in the European school The Spanish vs The Dutch, a Spanish guy  had a broken arm but we chanted “LET HIM PLAY, LET HIM PLAY” so he played. The Dutch cheated again and won but got stopped by the principal!

Inspired by the November Writing Prompts.

Voided Victories – Dead Deer

It isn’t the drugs you know. No it was never about the performance enhancement, not for me. The guy was an arsehole, that was the problem. His deliberately provocative stance against all and sundry (especially against those noticeably anti-drugs – I mean, come on!) was just unpleasant and unnecessary, and that’s why he was so unliked across Europe.

‘Nice guys don’t win’ would be the mantra of a pugnacious flawed human such as he. It is a ridiculous claim. It is obvious to anyone that the true champions are the ones that win everything, but win with grace and magnanimity. There are plenty of examples from his own sport as well as all others.

This, I suspect, was the cause of his downfall. I mean it had been obvious that he was guilty for many many years before his admission, it was a bit ridiculous that he could still stand up and spout the bullshit, but more so that people continued to believe him. And all the shock and surprise when he admitted it! I mean, where had they all been?

Next came the outrage, from all quarters. Tennis player’s appalled that someone might turn to illegal medicinal methods to aid and assist their game. Tennis! Satire isn’t dead, but it is on life support.

So the record books are left with a big hole in them, yet for many the gap is ignored and they still believe. And he still gets to travel the world airing his views, sharing his  grevances! And those who stood up to him, who refused to take his poison, what of them? On the scrap heap, ignored; still seen as dull whiners.

He was a nasty piece of work and he was a cheat. Why is he still lauded in his homeland? Oh hang on – they like that type so much they have one running the place.

Today I wrote from 15:44 to 15:54. I was prompted by ideas here. My other writings here. All my prompted writing here, and my tweets here

Nov 30th – Voided Victories

November 30th – Voided Victories


“Go on, eat it all up.”

“You’ll like it.”

“I made this specially for you.”

She knew they were watching her. They always watched her eat, now. So she tried, with a smile, to move forkful after forkful of the calories into her mouth. One sausage. 301 calories. A slice of cake. 257 calories. A banana. 89 calories. A glass of water. Nothing.

She sipped at the water. Smiled at her parents across the table.

She knew they cared. Cared. She also knew that they didn’t know that they were suffocating her with their care. Their encouragement. Their triumph at the smallest of victories. Their victories were the white spaces on her plate where the calories had been.

They didn’t understand. She was a good girl. Good at school, good grades, friends. Good at sports, too, once, before all this started. All this.

She knew what was going on. She had read the literature, gone to the sessions, talked to the overweight nurse and the overweight doctor and the perfect counsellor with her shiny hair and tiny waist and perfect small curves. She knew what she was doing.

She also knew that they didn’t see what she saw in the mirror. They didn’t see the swell of her stomach in the spotlight she angled up, every morning, every evening, just to see.

They’d started going through her computer. They didn’t know enough, though, to find the private browsing history, the chats, the perfect girls with their perfect hair and perfect teeth and perfect bikini bodies, on catwalks and covers and full-page spreads. They didn’t know about the chatrooms, late at night, where she could talk about calories and figures and BMI and perfect shapes.

They wouldn’t understand.

So she smiled at the dinner table, as she smiled at the breakfast table, as she smiled when she went out the door, her mother’s hug a hug goodbye and a pair of caliper arms, measuring, judging.

At school she was safe, if she was careful.

Straight into the bathroom, empty her stomach.

A victory.


Inspired by a prompt from here

Fractured and Formless – Dead Deer

Trying to make a decision that will alter the course of my life. As so often this complex and nuanced situation, full of pressures and many unclear variables, it comes to a simple binary decision. Yes or no.

And of course each of those options bring more problems and decisions. Which way to jump? How much weight to give to each important element? When my mind has been battered and bombarded for so long now (I cannot believe the calendar is telling the truth) it is left fractured and formless. Keeping thoughts in order and in place is a very delicate and almost impossible task; but I cannot chose until I  can.

My thoughts; an express train going round and round a circular route constantly knocked off track. To get it back I need to stop and start again. From the beginning. Everything needs to be in a line. I need to concentrate, and there needs to be concentration around me. Yet there is constant non-stop distractions, half-interested non-focussed demanding the answer. Just keep on topic, keep balancing the plates on the sticks until I can finally drop one way or another. Because once it is done, it is done, for better or for worse that will be the route I take.

And finally, who is driving this train? This is the worst element; the thought that what fractured my haunted head is the same thing at the controls of the train, railroading, manipulating, deciding already and merely pretending not to. As always. That is what drove us here.

Today I wrote from 22:04 to 22:14. I was prompted by ideas here. My other writings here. All my prompted writing here, and my tweets here

Nov 28th – Fractured and Formless

November 28th – Fractured and Formless



all around, and                  I don’t know where I am                                anymore:

or why I’m here. There is no        light       anymore, and it feels like there never will be again.

The wall is           cold        to my touch, my fingers tracing                  shapes                  out of


Low voices          come     (from my left, my right?) speaking in                       tongues that are

strange to me, or I am a stranger to them. What                do they want from me, these

voices?                 I have nothing                   to tell them, nothing to say any more.                     I am                 nothing.

There was light once, and colour, and people who            shared                  my name. They have

All                                                           gone. They have taken them       from me.

I whisper             liberty into the air,           and the air           swallows it down. The air              swallows

me down. I am                  nothing here, no-one.

I am full of           questions,           but none of them             can be answered. Not here, not

anywhere. My words are gravel that        fall to the ground and                                     spill.

The voices           rise. Syllables of                nothing that

roll around my ear, grating.

Then there is silence.

Silence is creeping towards                          me.

Silence is crawling over                  me.

Silence is me.


Inspired by a prompt from here

Wilted White Whiskers – Dead Deer

Picture: Malcolm, b. 1994 Kingston upon Hull d. 2009 Santa Tecla, here pictured in Lowestoft 1998

The old man lies now, would you believe, under a banana tree in a garden in Central America. What a life for a cankerous, wonderful old cat. He’d seen a bit of the world, had he, and he didn’t, if truth be told, think much of any of it.

Bad tempered and cold, certainly, haughty with other cats at best. His disdain for any non feline organisms put this deep into the shade, however. Yes he would often be seen waiting by a door merely to lash out at any passers-by. But he was amongst the truest and dearest friends I have ever had.

A black cat at heart he had been dipped in snow white fur much further than he may have wished. As his whiskers became greyer his white belly sagged and flopped as he walked increasingly. His broad black back had that unique white circle about two thirds of the way back, slightly to the left.

Those so, so, rare occasions where he would lower himself sufficiently to sit on a human would be golden. Despite his lack of tactile affection me and he were great mates and I would talk with him for hours. He would be up – always the higher the better, always searching for a loftier throne to look down at the world from, somewhere worthy of him – sitting on an open door, or a tall cupboard and watching with keen interest. In a species know for it’s knowingness he stood out for his intelligence and that look he would give you. “I see you. I know you” he would be saying.

Well, I was lucky to know you, Malcolm, and still I miss you every day.

Today I wrote from 21:04 to 21:14. I was prompted by ideas here. My other writings here. All my prompted writing here, and my tweets here

Nov 27th – Wilted White Whiskers

November 27th – Wilted White Whiskers


In human years, White Whiskers was 128 years old. Which made him, at an estimate, 832 cat years old. Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately for him, White Whiskers had been dead for the last 114 years, having died, been mourned and then inexpertly stuffed in a hectic three weeks just after the turn of the century, somewhere between the original Bloomsday and the opening of the St. Louis Olympics.

White Whiskers had, in turn, been Elsie’s cat, while alive, then Mother’s cat, Grandmother’s Cat, Great-grandmother’s cat, and now his care, such as it was, had passed to Louise. White Whiskers was Louise’s cat.

Louise didn’t really want the cat. She wasn’t the biggest fan of cats when they were alive, but this one, 114 years dead, with its remaining three eponymous whiskers wedged into unfeasible spots on its cheeks, the hint of sawdust whenever it was so much as touched, and the unfortunate effects of gravity (and stuffing) on an already prodigious stomach, combined to make something definitely unsavoury.

“Your Great-grandmother left him to you. So you’ve got to look after White Whiskers.”

Louise’s mother knew she had dodged a bullet. She had always dreaded visits to her Grandmother’s as a child, wary of, and then embarrassed by, her Grandmother’s habit of addressing questions to the off-white former creature, and then pausing, as if in expectation of a reply. So, while she shared her daughter’s revulsion of the object, she stressed family loyalty and the respecting of wishes, just in case her daughter ever considered returning it to her care.

So Louise was stuck with it.

She’d put the thing in many places around the house, but none seemed to fit, until, after a visit from the girls and a lot of wine, someone made the suggestion that White Whiskers looked quite regal next to the fire, and so, with a hint of sawdust and some delicate readjustment, White Whiskers was a lion, sentinel, guarding the fireplace, and by extension, the house.

Or he was.

Because last night Louise fell asleep with the fire blazing, with far too many logs to die down in any great hurry. It had been a cold day, a hint of snow in the air, and the fire had been on all day. All day, and most of the night.

And in his place of honour, too close to the heat of the fire, White Whiskers had wilted. At first. Wilted, then swelled, then burst, then collapsed. Whiskerless, White Whiskers was nothing more than a sad pelt of a very off-white. Louise was going to have some explaining to do.


Inspired by a prompt from here