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