Flirting

Well, I have to say that I certainly enjoyed this topic, once I got around to writing it. It was chosen from a fantastic new book I've got called "The Writers Block": A tiny, cube shaped book full of inspirations and tidbits about writing.  

Also, I think my style of writing (in the beginning at least) was slightly influenced and changed by a combination of Francine Prose's book "Read Like A Writer", yet another new and brilliant addition to my bookshelf, and Anton Chekhov. Not that I think this is anywhere near either writer's abilities, but it changed the way I wrote nonetheless.

Please note that all place names are just made up on the spot, so don't try to look them up on a map. If there are any places with those names (And they are fairly generic, so I wouldn't be surprised) They have absolutely nothing to do with the story.

Statistics had been Jonathan Harrier's greatest pleasure in life for as long as he could remember. He hoarded them, collected them with the same fervour as a musician might collect his repetoir, the same obsessive fervour as a teenage girl might collect photos of her favorite celebrities. He loved the harsh truths of the numbers, the way you could calculate your life according to them.

Given his obsession, it is not surprising that his greatest ambition as a child was to become an insurance salesman, and indeed, later on in life he had applied. But, unfortunately, he had been fund wanting in perhaps the most vital aspect of the job. That is, that ability to smooth-talk. Or, in fact, communicate in any shape or form. He was the kind of man that, when confronted with the nessecity to actually converse with someone,  has an urge to hide under the table until they go away.

This had never posed him much trouble, however, aside from his regretful job application,  as he didn't care much for social gatherings  and prefered to stay in the company of his precious statistics. Never posed him much trouble at all, that is, until he met Marie-Louise Appleby.

He had become a bank teller in the Commonwealth Bank, a job he enjoyed well enough, as all that was asked of him was to do as the customer asked, and mabe make a comment about the weather  or the traffic should the need arise.

Every year there would be a mandatory Christmas Party for the employees of the bank. Mandatory, that is, for those who wiished to remain in favour with their boss. During these gatherings Jonathan would stand in the corner, sip a glass of cheap wine, and mournfully wait until he would be able to leave, which would usually be early morning sometime.

This time, though he noticed Miss Appleby dancing in the centre of the room. She was laughing, flicking her short brown hair back as she moved. She was wearing a Santa hat, as was everyone else in the room, but unlike the rest of the employees, she wore it with style. When she wore it, you somehow forgot that it was meant to symbolise a fat red-cheeked man, and instead noticed the way it brought out the blue in her eyes. Or at least, that was how it seemed to Jonathan.

Eventually she stopped dancing, and swayed over to his side of the room. Just as he was wondering whether he should attempt the impossible and try to talk to her, she introduced herself.

He really couldn't bear to remember the details of the conversation, such as it was, but he did know that he had managed to stutter, mumble, and, heaven forbid, whisper something about the weather.

Which was why, on the bus home the next day, he hoped beyond all hope that he would never have to see her again.

But destiny can be rather obstinate when it comes to such matters. And so, twelve or so stops before he reached the safety of his home, Marie-Louise got on the bus. She glanced around for an empty seat, sat down opposite the mortifed Jonathan, and started to flick though a book titled The Gambler. 

She hadn't even glanced at him.

Jonathan's mind whirled. What to do? What to say? Finally he came to a descision. He would take the risk. He would say hello.

He squeaked at her, and she glanced up in surprise. He could feel the blush marching steadily up his face. he waited for her to ignore him and keep reading- after all, she probably didn't remember him, and who could blame her?- but instead she grinned, and put her book down.

"Oh, hello Jonathan. Sorry I didn't notice you there."

Jonathan grinned back, hoping that he didn't look like a twit.

"Hi." He croaked.

"What did you think of the party? It's a bit of fun, isn't it?"

He nodded, afraid that if he opened his mouth it would somehow betray him.

"Music's a little off, though."

"Yeah."

"Kind of like something you'd hear in Chickenfeed, eh?"

He grunted an affirmative.

There was a blissful moment of sileence, during which the bus stopped and several passengers got off, but it didn't last.

"So, where are you going?"

"Uh, Maryvale." He muttered. "Live there."

"Oh yeah. I'm at Brookton. Maryvale's a pretty nice place to live."

"S' Okay."

She seemed to struggle for something else to say. Jonathan shifted uncomfortably. He knew he wasn't helping much. 

In a leap of intuition, he spoke.

"What are you reading?"

She smiled, relieved that he was actually talking.

"The Gambler, by Dostoevsky. You read his stuff?"

"Uh, no." He replied.

"Really? Wow. You should look him up in the dictionary. He's a genius."

"Okay." He agreed, though he kknew he wouldn't be able to remember the name, let alone spell it.

D-O-S-T-O-Y-E-F...

"So, what do you read?"

He started, and felt the telltale urge to sink under his chair. This was a question that would reply an explanation he was not entirely willing to give.

"I, uh, don't. Not really."

She nodded, and when she spoke her voice had a hint of disdain.

"You more of a movie person?"

"No. I don't watch movies."

She frowned, bemused.

"Do you write, then?"

He shook his head, conscious that he must seeem like an idiot.

"Well, what do you do?"

His blush deepened.

"Statistics." He murmured.

"What?"

"I... Collect statistics."

"Oh. Really?" She was obviously struggling to sound interested.

The bus stopped again. Jonathan quickly calculated that, statistically, according to his life experience so far, if he stayed in the same space as her for much longer he was liable to make an even worse ass of himself than he already has. Therefore, with a hurried "Gotta go. My stop," he left the bus before she had a chance to say "But this isn't Maryvale!", and proceeded to walk the rest of the way home.

Haunting Sounds

This one is my first written piece for a while, because the group was too busy organising an event for living writers week that was held in Dover, on the 24th of August. It went very well, I'm happy to say, and because of it we have received a new member with a great talent!
Welcome, Robyn!
Anyway, I enjoyed this topic very much, but I am slightly put out to find that no spell check accepts the word "Busks". For these that know as much as the spell check, that means to play music in a market or on a corner, or wherever, so long as it's legal, with a hat or case out to collect money. Well, even if it's illegal, really.
No, that doesn't mean that you can just play your Walkman really loud on portable speakers and hope.
Anyway, on with the story.

There is a blind man who sits at the corner, day after day. He is old, hands worn and face weatherbeaten. And he just sits, and listens to the rest of the world go by.

There is a boy that busks in the market every Saturday, fingers caressing melodies from wooden flutes. Time slows, and the sound of coins falling into his case is like the ringing of chimes to accompany his music.

There is a bird in a cage that never sings. It sits on its' perch by the window, and stares with dazed eyes. So close to the sky, never to spread its wings.

There is a song with no notes sung by a girl who cannot hear. A wordless, raw, tuneless chant which haunts you long after you walk away.

There is the sound of piano music that echoes from a house with windows flung wide, no matter the weather. A composers gift to the world.

There is a world within a snow-globe, a tiny village full of life. And when you shake it, the snow falls in chaotic swirls that spiral downwards, and you feel as if you are spiraling as well, down into new land. A world filled with music and laughter. Until the sounds of screaming pull you away, and you are flung back into reality.

And, like the snow, these sounds and moments spiral onwards, until they fall back to where they dwelled before, to be shaken again by the hand of time. And I wonder, can a sound come back to haunt you?