Background Noise

100 Word Challenge

This story is my first contribution for the ‘100-Word Challenge for Grownups’, (100WCGU,) from Julia’s Place. Click here to find more details.

This week’s prompt is:

…but where did the noise come from…

I’ve been waiting here so long. Silent and dark behind shutters and blinds. Hibernating – almost lifeless – shrouded in thick layers of grey dust.

But something is stirring, slowly bringing me back to life. Where is that noise coming from?

I hear a distant hum that rises to become the clear sound of a car engine. A vehicle is approaching!

The sound stops outside my door. Doors slam. Footsteps come towards me. I feel the front door opening, and light streams in for the first time in years.

I hear voices. A family! I close the door, and they’re all mine.

Target: Boston

This is my first attempt at a VisDare challenge! The Visual Dare Challenge is to write a story in 150 words or less, inspired by a selected image – see the photograph below. Please click on the VisDare Link for more details, and to read other stories entered in this challenge. Thanks.

VisDare 36: Implore

VisDare - Implore

Mark Boston, eccentric Billionaire Art Collector, confirmed that details of his plan had been published in full-page newspaper adverts around the globe. He finished the call to his legal team, and finally cut all ties with the outside world.

Mark sealed himself and his entire collection in the underground rooms he’d had constructed especially for this purpose. He took one last look around,  and with a wry smile triggered the sensor, that activated the statue, that fired the arrow straight at his heart.

His legacy: bequeathing a collection of art large enough to rival the world’s greatest museums.

The challenge: an elaborate and cryptic series of clues leading to his current location. Winner takes all – the finder will have legal rights to the collection.

The world’s greatest treasure hunt was now under way.

One Night Glove Affair

cane-shadePhoto: Cane Shade by Kondo Yukihiro

 

This story was originally written as an Writing Group exercise: to show only one side of a phone conversation, but still have it making sense. 

“So you want to look around and take a few photos? And you’ll be paying us. How much? Ooh, bless you! Oh yes, I’ve still got her gloves, she left them on my counter and stomped out, all of a fluster. Mind you, she had other things on her mind at the time. Pre-occupied you could say she was. Oh, I don’t think I could let you keep them, it just wouldn’t be right. But taking a few photos of them wouldn’t hurt. It’ll cost you a little extra of course, for my trouble. You just name the day, ducky!

I’m afraid we’re not at our best at the moment. Truth is, we’ve not been for a few years now. Look how nice the weather’s been. If it was always this hot, there’d be no need for anyone to go abroad, would there? Ahhh, the best summer we’ve had for years, but we’ve only got a handful of clientele in. Says it all really. My Arthur, God rest him, would be heartbroken to see how bad it’s got. To think, he fought in Korea to keep this place open. Even though we didn’t buy it until 1965. And no, before you ask, my Arthur wasn’t at the front line. But he never was a well man, even as a boy. People think he had it easy as a supply clerk, but wasn’t it Churchill what said ‘An Army runs on its motor oil.’ Or was it Napoleon? Anyway, it was my Arthur what ordered the motor oil, thank you very much. Enough said on that particular subject.

Ah, but it was always me what had to shoulder the burden on the Home Front, if you know what I mean. True, it was him what thought of the name ‘Central Hotel’, but seeing as we were only a hundred yards from Central Station, he didn’t have to work too much with that one, now did he? Not that work was ever his strong point, bless him.

Yes, back to this young couple you seem so interested in. I can always tell the ones that aren’t married. They’re all over each other, for a start. To be honest, it was her that was doing all the touching. Trying to grab his derriere, she was. And his unmentionables, I shouldn’t wonder. All with a big grin on her face, the hussy. What he saw in a stick insect like her I don’t know. She could have done with a good meal inside her. But I think she had other ideas. Why the interest in her anyway? And how did you know she was here? I hope this is all above board…

Oh yes, he was trying to keep it decent. My Arthur was like that. Decent. A bit too decent, sometimes. I remember saying to him, ‘Now it’s legal, you don’t always have to be the gentleman.’ Not that it made much difference. But as I said, he wasn’t a well man.

So, this pair – they were all dressed in this flash sports gear. She was wearing a pair of those fingerless biking gloves. Rather appropriate, if you follow my line of thinking about her. Jezebel! Yes, I’m looking at them now – some modern material, I shouldn’t wonder. All sticky and sweaty. I shouldn’t like to think why. Oh, they’re not nice cotton ones like I used to wear when Arthur took me up Sutton to the tea dance. He always met me inside you know. Aye, I bet it saved him a fortune. You must know what a tea dance is? Ooh, it is hot today isn’t it? I’m quite perspiring myself!

But yes, this couple. I heard them whispering about what name to put down in the register. They must think I fell off the Christmas tree. He was wearing a shiny gold ring but she wasn’t. If she had anything about her, she would have bought herself a cheap ring, to fool the likes of me. Doesn’t happen these days, which is a shame. If we weren’t so short of guests, I wouldn’t allow them in. But I can’t afford to be choosy these days.

No, they’ve both gone. Just stayed one night and left. I saw her this morning, looking like she hadn’t slept a wink. Oh yes! She asked me something about her having a ‘mobile e-top up’. I says we’ll have no truck with druggies here! I threatened to call the coppers in and she was out like a shot. That was how she left her gloves here. I doubt she’ll be back.

He must have left earlier. Left me a nice tip in his room though. Nice looking lad. If I was a few years younger… I turned a few heads in my day, you know. Up Stanton Hill anyway.

So you say this lad’s been in the news? A footballer carrying on behind his wife’s back? Shocking! I’m not saying it’s all his fault, mind. It takes two to tango. And these modern women are more interested in their careers than looking after their men!

You never did say what newspaper you’re from. Oh, my! You’ve got to be joking! Actually, my Arthur insisted we only have the Mirror. Said it’s a cut above your shower. I don’t need your kind of publicity, young man. And I’ll thank you not to call me again. Good day!”

The Train Station

Train tracks          Photo: Train Tracks by Peter Griffin

 

This poem was based on my hometown having a rail service resume after many years of closure. Unfortunately, at that time, the original Victorian station building was being used as a bar, and the replacement was basically a plastic bus shelter! I thought it sad that the railway service seemed very low-key. Fortunately, the original station has since been restored to its former glory. 

 

Waiting: wet, weary and windswept,
small groups huddle against the cold.
Seeking protection in plastic bus shelters.

The sleeping giant of the old station building
lies hidden, waiting for a makeover.
Awaiting rooms.

An old train pulls in,
quiet, almost retiring.
No whistles here.

No hustle and bustle,
no smells, no atmosphere.
Public transport in private.

They bought this station back to life
like Frankenstein’s Monster,
but this is more like the ghost train.

Heavy metal tracks
with shiny silver tops
stretched to the horizon,
almost infinity,
almost forgotten.
Hard lines.

The old hissing steaming dinosaurs
have long since been made extinct.
No smoke – without fire.
To be replaced by the new
clean, silent, safe?
“Sorry, indefinite delays.”

My Street

Chimneys    Photo: Petr Kratochvil

 

I based this poem on a previous house I lived in quite a few years ago. Although I drew on my experiences there, I have used a bit of artistic licence – it was never that bad a place to live!

 

I live in a street of terrace houses
where there should be a great community spirit,
but there isn’t.
Mutual respect and tolerance are in shorter supply
than parking spaces.
With a pavement as a front door step,
net curtains are no defence
against prying eyes and snarling voices.
In an area where councillors fear to tread,
even the loud speakers are distant
on election days.
I always vote, but I didn’t vote for this.
X marks the spot.

Four cars mark out the football pitch,
one of them is mine.
Another dent to my pride,
I wasn’t even asked to the game.

Hordes of street kids
acting tough to their audience,
playing their starring roles to full houses.

This should be a one-way street,
but nobody pays attention.
Permanent “For Sale” signs
should read “No Way Out”.