Elevator Love – Dead Deer

Elevator Love

Arriving home Mark entered the front room and was startled and concerned by what he saw.

“Claire! What on Earth…… CLAIRE!”

He rushed forward as she crashed to the floor with a sickening bump. Whilst a heavy landing this couldn’t, surely, be responsible for all the injuries he could see across his wife’s body. Her beautiful eyes were fuzzy, dazed and unfocussed.

“Mark,” she half whispered dreamily, concentrating hard, “Claire. Mark and Claire.”

“Yes love, that’s us. What? What happened? Where does it hurt?”

She smiled, and giggled. “Everywhere.”

“Had you tripped?” he asked, “You seemed to be in the air when I came in”

“Tripped…” she repeated, looking blankly far away. “Yes, I tripped. Then… then I was ….floating. I was thinking of…. of, oh….. who? Was it Jim? I don’t know a Jim. I was just thinking, do I know Jim? Who is Jim? Are you Jim? Who am I? I’ve forgotten again.”

“I’m calling an ambulance.” Mark stood up and pulled out his phone, “Well, yes there used to be a Jim out over the other side of the common. I haven’t thought of him for yea … Oh yes, ambulance please. Yes for my wife. My name?”

By now Claire’s name had well and truly escaped her and she’d left the floor a little, gently hovering, her crooked limbs gaining some rest bite as she floated upwards. Mark turned to look at her; something seemed odd. Is she? Yes she is! Dumbstruck he called out to her, long and slow he drew out her name.

Once more poor Claire crashed to the floor.

Today I wrote from 22:54 to 23:04. I was prompted by an idea here. My other writings here. All my prompted writing here, and my tweets here

If you are interested this old prompted writing came to me when I saw today’s prompt. Might make more sense of this one if you remember that one

Feb 11th – Macaroni Madness


February 11th – Macaroni Madness


Yankee Doodle was probably right. It was getting out of hand.

They were streaming over in their hundreds, crossing the channel from Dover to Calais, and then heading south. Fresh out of university, and with privileged pockets full of family money, they were on their way to becoming gentlemen. With the obligatory Grand Tour to fill in the gaps in their education that Oxbridge had neglected to furnish them with.

Obviously they didn’t speak French. Not well enough, anyway, but there was time enough for that in Paris, an essential stop on the way to Geneva. In Geneva they learned to fence, and dance well enough to set them up for the balls ahead. Then, from Geneva, it was across the Alps and into Italy, some of them carried by their retinue of servants when the coach had to be disassembled through the Great St. Bernard Pass, their guides and good-time tutors leading the way.

It was in Italy where they got really annoying. Their predecessors, earlier in the 17th century, had developed a taste for Maccaroni, something delicious and exotic and other, and they had shipped this taste back along with as much of the pasta as they could get their hands on. With this, unfortunately, they shipped back the word, which became their catchphrase, a byword for anything exotic and fashionable and just a little bit outré.

They became, informally, and then more formally, members of the Maccaroni Club, a club of which Horace Walpole wrote,

“”the Macaroni Club, which is composed of all the travelled young men who wear long curls and spying-glasses”

It was the wigs that were the biggest problem. As the fops got foppier and foppier, the wigs got bigger and bigger, and more and more ridiculous, as the Grand Tourists tried to outdo each other with their displays of wealth and extravagance. Top heavy toffs teetered precariously in pointed toes while they whispered to each other about the women of Venice, those women who, as Sir James Hall noted, were

“more handsome women this day than I ever saw in my life,” also noting “how flattering Venetian dress [was] — or perhaps the lack of it.”

It was the Venetian women the Macaronis whispered about most, their more liberated dress sense and enlightened experience to sex being a highlight of many Grand Tours.

And still the wigs got bigger, and the bewigged nobles and gentlemen of breeding wore them prominently, out and about when the wind wasn’t blowing, and at home as they posed with the portraits of them posing with the ruins of ancient Rome.

Which brings us back to Yankee Doodle, satirised for thinking a feather in his cap was outré enough to make him one of the Macaronis of his aspirational dreams. Maybe it didn’t, but it probably left him with less of a headache and a more solid set of vertebrae in his neck.


Inspired by a prompt from here

Peach coffee and hazelnut tea

Warming their hands on the panic-ordered speciality drinks, they try to hold eye-contact across the unpolished wooden crate, this café is calling a table.

Blushing from their five-second gaze, they turn their attention to and sip their drinks…

Mirroring each other, they distance their cups from their lips, looking at them with uncertainty, before slowly placing them back on the crate and pushing them to one side.

For them, meeting up today wasn’t about the place or the drinks ordered, it was about sharing a moment with each other.  And blushing.


Prompted by this link.