Inspiration

A task set for a June 2013 Leeds Savage Writers meet I did not make .

The bastard motivation of passion and obsession drove Stewart to his canvases.  The early morning had begun to leach a grey dullness from the chill summer night.  A thick palette board he’d left on the chair a few hours ago was taunting him with its gelled pigments smeared and globbed in vibrant discord.   Stained rags lay matted and stiff around the base of the easel and around the studio where they had been dropped onto the colour encrusted floorboards days, weeks and years ago.  The room was a complete chaos encasing another astounding work of focus, depth and clarity on canvas.  Similar pristine images shone from countless abandoned and partially complete canvases laid angularly against the walls, the furniture and nestling on the  piled detritus of the room.

What he called the studio was a front room upstairs, usually the main bedroom.  It was in one of the damp stone terraces crammed into the bleak back streets of Ayreshire, three down from a derelict pub and a bleak co-op.  It was the only room in the socially funded house that glimpsed the southern sky and could steal any benefit from daylight.  It had been Stewart’s retreat and sanctuary for 20 years.  Two decades of chasing perfection in his style of almost transparent oil painting. His works had developed over this time and become fantastical creations of layer upon layer of disparate images all interlinked and visible through each other.  Each layer held a story with related meaning and subtext to the greater story told by the finished work.  Painted transparent images laid one over each other like each were on a gossamer film.  Stewart knew he had developed an exquisite and deceptive technique that took the eye to depths of perspective and wonder.  He knew he had broken new ground, he knew he was doing something the art world would eventually recognise. This canvas, the one he’d titled ‘Inspiration’ was one of four in a series but he knew it would be this one that was going to make his name.

The Scottish Academy submission dates were three days away from closing and this work was complete, along with three lesser but related works.  Stewart cleared a space to prop them.  Working without the uncertainty of previous years he placed one beside the other and finally took the final piece off the easel to take it’s position next to the triptych.  The display was stunning, pleasing, fulfilling, a justification of dedication and a clear reflection of the faith and support Jillie had given him.  The four works were also an acknowledgement to the facility that Glenn had invested in him by providing a stipend, a goal and a contract for publication of his work in limited edition.

One never knows if an artist will become popular but Glenn had a better eye than most dealers when it came to commercialism of contemporary art.  He had a strong gut feel that Stewart’s unique style would tap a niche of collectors to be milked.  There was no way he could have known that six weeks after signing Stewart to his company that the Scottish Academy would award ‘Inspiration’ its highest praise and award.  There was no possible indication that from that endorsement the Savoy in London would offer Stewart the chance to be Artist in Residence for 2013.    Until 2012 The Savoy had not had an artist in residence since Claude Monet so the appointment of Stewart, a little known, no, an unknown Scottish painter had set the art critics into a spin.  Estelle Lovatt on the BBC  has been quoted to say Stewart was the one new artist for speculators to invest in for now and for the aesthetics of the future to marvel and comment on. 

Stewart had always known.

ITS A SECRET

Leeds Savage Writing task 10/7/13  ‘Secret’.  Each attendee was asked to write a real or fictional secret and swap it for someone else's secret.  I got the following one.

‘I am the only person in the world (as far as I know) who knows that another person is not as happy as they appear.  In fact they are very unhappy.  Telling anyone would hurt many.  So I keep it to myself and offer counsel.’

So my story went;

ITS A SECRET

‘I am the only person in the world (as far as I know) who knows that another person is not as happy as they appear.  In fact they are very unhappy.  Telling anyone would hurt many.  So I keep it to myself and offer counsel.’

Vicky cut and pasted it to a word document, saved it to her desktop and grouped it with her selection from the raft of ‘Dear Dorothy’ letters and emails.  The magazine sucked out hundreds of notes to Dorothy from the angry, defeated, forlorn, lonely and heart-smashed members of its reader base.  Every week from now on a flood of painful confessions, ignorant questions, life-worn vitriol, adolescent whining and general moaning was going to land in Vicky’s inbox. Being Dorothy for one day a fortnight was just part of her loosely described journalist’s job.  She had to select five bits of correspondence that she thought would make fuel for interesting replies.

 The last Dorothy, her predecessor, Steve, a bald, fat 40-something Glaswegian used to carp on endlessly to her about the archaic tradition of magazine agony aunt columns.  Unlike Vicky who was on the celebrity watch team, he was the magazine’s sports reporter.  His Dorothy responses were in thinly veiled condescension or gave incongruous advice bordering on the incredulous.  The Dorothy column was becoming a parody under his hand.  Vicky couldn’t stand to think people might actually take Dear Dorothy’s advice and she had eventually summoned the courage to suggest that Phil have a word to Steve about CitiLife magazine’s long tradition of the Dear Dorothy column and the depth of its reader loyalty and trust.

Phil had smiled patronisingly at her saying Steve was the only schmuck he could get to write the shit and unless she wanted to take it from him she’d best shut the fuck up and get back to digging up celebrity gossip. 

That was a month ago, two issues of bile drenched Dorothy advices to the love-struck and life-wary readers of Citilife magazine.  Then, last Monday, Steve simply stopped coming to work, no phone call no letter of resignation, he just didn’t come in.  Phil had tried to contact him but no one knew where he’d gone.  Anyway that’s a police matter now, as far as Vicky knew Steve could have fallen in a canal or been shot by an enraged reader.  She didn’t much care, the Dorothy role had immediately fallen to her with Phil’s blessing of ‘Congratulations Dorothy, don’t let it distract you from your real job here.’    

And Vicky had taken to the fortnightly task with her usual commitment.  New Dorothy intended to become once again a voice of reason and comfort.  It was proving a good balance for Vicky, to escape the vapid world of celebrity and sit for a few hours with the thoughts and fears of real people with real problems.  Although this one was tempting her to do a ‘Dear Steve’-style reply.

For shit sake, who in this world thinks they have the sole right to solve global happiness?  Or.  What sort of person thinks they are responsible for judging the sincerity of happiness.  And.  Who the fuck said it was wrong for someone to project a happy demeanour?  Then again, Vicky considered, was this letter a diagnosis of self-depression?  Was it a deluded pre-suicide note?  Bugger it. Five muniutes. She had been thinking about this bloody letter for too long already. Pulling off her ‘Steve’ hat and slipping into ‘Dorothy’ she started to draft a response.

Dearest  Secret,

I know you are wanting to do the right thing. However, in this modern and fast paced world people develop their own methods to cope with life’s demands.  Projecting a pleasant persona is an effective and practical protection of self.  There is a benefit to acting happy in as much as it is a preferable state in society and one can achieve much with a pleasant demeanour.   There is also the happiness theory that you can make it if you fake it.  Every one of us faces challenges that others could see as either inconsequential or insurmountable.  We all have our own perspective.  I am sure the person you are offering counsel to values your relationship and I can only presume from your note that they have actually confessed their unhappiness to you.  People do rise and fall in contentment at times in their life due to events or bio-chemical changes.  You do sound like a caring person and if you do have the person’s confidence I suggest you keep your counsel, do not discuss this person’s emotive state with others and direct the person to seek professional advisors.  It does not fall to you to resolve the happiness of others.  You can be happy in yourself and you can care for others but we are each responsible for our own wellspring of contentment and the actions we need to drive our happiness must come from within.

Vicky was satisfied this was a pertinent Dorothy-like response, formatted it for edit and sent it through to publication.

The day before the print run Phil did his edit and published the following;

Dearest Secret,

I can only presume from your note that the person to whom you refer has actually confessed their unhappiness to you.  If not, then butt out.  I can tell you, people are more perceptive than you give them credit for, fake happiness sticks out like the proverbial. .  Have you not considered everyone pretends to be happier than they are?   It does not fall to you to resolve the happiness of others.  I agree with you on one thing you say, you shouldn’t discuss this person’s happiness with others and if you are intent on doing anything, you may suggest to the person they should seek professional help. Be prepared though, they may be told to stop talking to you.

Citi Life hits the streets every Monday, Vicky receives her copy via email 3 hours before the print run. 

Vicky didn’t go to work on Monday, when the police gained access later that week her phone was found on her bedside table.   

Balls

a short story about something to play with if you can't sleep



INSOMNIA

Its a word not a sentence they say, but to Jane it was a sentence, a complete sentence, a life sentence. 

It came any time  that a weariness flooded over her and demanded she recline.  The very second she succumb and laid her head to rest, her mind would become a shattered mirror of recollections. Shards of thoughts , glinting images, ideas, solutions, problems flashed behind her closed eyes.  Her body would drench itself in a hot sweat of anxiety and cold shivers of fear. 

This was not normal for a normal person.  

But Jane was a normal person, as normal as anyone she knew, she fitted into society, had friends. 

The red leather sofa was reclined again tonight, the TV showing a drama repeat with the sound muted.  A smart side-table light stained the room with a dullness that softened edges and blurred the colours she had so carefully chosen.  The sofa had turned out to be Jane’s workbench.  It was intended as a place of comfort, of composure, a place she could fall to when there was a hope she may slip away without her brain ambushing her.   She saw the sofa though as her workbench for the simple reason she so often ended up working here. It was where she would be most nights, pecking at the laptop, prodding at an i-screen, social surfing, emailing, looking at stuff.  Sleep again, as usual, had once more failed to claim her mind.  Jane was considering her 2 bedrooms a complete waste of space.

As it turned out, this night was to be a night of inspiration as she had decided to use her keyboard to bore herself to sleep.  Just to keep writing stuff brainlessly on a blank word doc until her fingers paused, her eyes drooped and the screen dimmed.  It was a plan. She started …

“ It used to be the pounding at letter buttons, smashing inked keys into paper, now we are still clicking letter buttons and pushing digits around a screen, same old thing though, same way of data capture for, what, nearly two centuries?  Yeah, Wikywords says 1819 was the first practical    typewriter.  Wonder when keyboards standardised as qwerty keyboard.  This was done because typewriters used to have levers throwing type keys at paper.  Qwerty key order came about so that frequently used key levers didn’t jam as they swung past each other.  At least that is what I understand as the reason.  There was another theory, one that said some blokes changed the order to slow down female typers who were more proficient than the men. I don’t know about that, is typers a word?  Should be.  Typist sounds such a female term , or is that just me?

 I remember, later on, maybe in the 1970’s there were sort of golf ball type-heads, but they still got thrown against paper.  A carbon ribbon flew up and down between the paper and the type head.  The ribbon was textile, later a plastic film.  Copies were made by carbon paper being put between pages, the copies at the back got fuzzy.  Photocopiers didn’t happen till the late 70’s IBM had a thing called a CopierII . It was massive and used huge rolls of heat sensitive paper.  There was lots of paper.  Typewriter paper came in different thinness’s so more copies could be made.  Is that the right use for an apostrophe in thinness’s?  Spell-check, what a marvellous thing.  And thin carbon paper was more expensive.  Any errors were made in duplicate, triplicate and more.  Corrections were re-typed or pages thrown away, some machines had sticky tape so a backspace and retype would pull the plastic film letters off, didn’t fix the carbon copies though.  I can’t recall when   the carbon     paper     got         replaced by   pressure sensitive           duplicating paper but        the          back pages        still      got      blurry           an 

Hey that’s good.  Dozed off, clock says only for minutes though.  Where was I?  Oh yeah.  That’s all I’ve got about keyboards, but here I am still using one. Although predictive text, that’s nice.  As is punctuation correct, capital letter after a full stop, I rely on that.  Ive tried,  …  oh look it doesn’t recognise Ive for an apostrophe but it does for doesn’t . I’ve. Ive.  No it doesn’t learn … Voice recognition does learn, that’s getting so much better too, I use voice recognition a lot now, texting, I even use it to draft notes.  It is getting so good pretty soon we will be able to use it for most writing and form filling. That will be nice.  Then we could talk our texts, letters and emails into existence.  If the person receiving them had the same voice recognition thing they could hear them read out.  Maybe we could have a program that mimicked our voice tone.  It would be like text-talking to each other, or at each other.  But texting voice to voice would be like a machine solution that would allow us to have something I will call textversation  where we speak into a machine and almost immediately, or even immediately, the person could similarly reply.  I’d call it textiphone, or voicelink  or something like telephonnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn 

Oh, another nap. Twenty minutes that time.  I’m getting to think this may just catch on.  I wonder if anyone else goes to sleep while keyboarding.   I really hope voice to text to voice doesn’t,  ooh,  look that was  another auto apostrophe,  Ive, nope still hasn’t  learned, but it does know hasn’t has an apostrophe.  I must think of more apostrophised words…. Later though.  I wonder if touch screen and skype could be developed so you could feel the person you are talking to.  Oh my god, imagine porn sights then.  Have to develop some pretty impressive waterproofed touch-screen tech though.  Wet-wipe tolerant.  I would call it datafeel , or  smutversation.  No hang on, this isn’t working.  My brain’s going all mirror-shatter again.  I’m seeing talking appendages and orifices with dialogue pulsing under my handprint, hot skin throbbing to my touch                                     .”

Jane stopped writing and went to her bed, she had things to do there now and bed was the best place for it.

the root of all ....

It had been a full week he'd been taking her maximum dose.  Despite his body being flushed with the drug, Vinny had kept his hidden corruption. 
He endured the dull throbbing agonies and the searing pain she had promised him.
Vinny had been determined, until now, never to give it up to Frieda,  it was too valuable to lose the very thing that allowed him to encase it. It was part of his identity, it made him complete, he couldn't bear thinking of living without it.  He knew if he allowed her to get it from him, every day he would feel the gap it would leave. 
But, as he considered living through more days with the ever-increasing agonies, he knew that Frieda had won.  He had already suffered too much and she had promised him the fierce tortures would be his until he relented.  Now he was again reluctantly led to her lair to be laid out once more under her control.
Frieda as always  remained  detached from her victims but never failed to be delighted by practicing her craft to perfection.  She smiled smugly down at the face now staring nervously up at her.
She'd hoped this one would be lain here again for some further ministrations of her skills. There was so much more she could now do to him.  He was such a sensitive victim, scared beyond measure of the pain.  It was good therefore that she knew just where to attack for the best result.

Vinny lay helpless on her alter, mortified and becoming immobile.   A syringe, half emptied of it's load was balanced in her hand, it's pointed shaft already slightly smeared with his blood.  His head, braced as it was, meant all he could see were her ice-blue eyes watching him coldly from her mask.

Her domain was designed with meticulous method.   The instruments of her torture were stacked and racked, laid out to intimidate and for tauntingly easy access. Tools were there to pierce flesh, to grip, constrict and tear.  All displayed to instil a terrible fear in even the most bold. Central in her den was the workbench upon which Vinny found himself supine. Just by itself this visually grotesque piece of furniture bought dread to any occupant. Those who found themselves here knew many before them had suffered on this altar of fear and pain, and many would follow.

On a given day, Frieda's targets for torture would be brought to her lair and exposed to the horror of it's contents.  Each would be tortured in varying degree depending on their level of corruption.  As her door was opened for them the apparatus on which they were to be laid was boldly presented in the centre of her den.  It would threaten them simply by it's design and form. Immediately apparent were it's lights, electric weapons, the ominous tubes, clubs, tools, hoses and pipes. Attachments were arrayed for the binding, grinding , flushing, inserting and suctioning of things best not contemplated.
 
Vinny lay with his fear and searing pain, enduring the residual agonies that Frieda had coolly told him would be returned on him, relentlessly, unless he agreed to her wishes.  She had only ever wanted him to give up his treasured possession, and now he was here, for what he thought would be the last time, and she was going to break his face to drag it from him.

He looked across and could see she had set out before her the weapons she would use on him for torture and his sensory defeat. Spikes and band vices, wheels with teeth, probes and rods with points and grooves. Pliers and forceps.  He was powerless to prevent the inevitable. Her tools lay in obvious threat, ready to pierce, compress and to pull relentlessly so as to extract from Vinny the demon he had contained for months.

In a way he had already relented, just by being here he had provided Frieda the upper hand. It was from a sense of the inevitable that he had fought against her up until today. Fought through his doubts, fought through his fear, but finally he accepted he would have to surrender to his nemesis.

'So, Vinny,' Frieda said cloyingly, a sickening calmness. She looked down on him in triumph. 'Let me explain, in detail, vhat I am going to do to get this out of you'
'Omnmphff ' Vinny dribbled, his face not able to respond as the drug took rapid effect. His terror heightened.
'Today, I am not going to take your looks from you.' Her eyes were sparkling with glee, her thick Scandinavian accent smoothing the words.
Vinny looked at her, not comprehending, it was not a sentence he had expected.
'Vhat I am going to do is dig at your nerve.'
This was worse.
'You see,' she continued from behind her mask, 'It is going to dead you.,.   No.,.   I mean, it is dead to you'
Vinny tried to get his stressed-out mind to comprehend what she was saying. He knew he must keep aware.
' Ay bontd undafand.' Vinny mouthed
'What don't you understand?' Frieda stared, her eyes wider now, somehow surprised he would question. Then suddenly a hint of soft expression in the icy stare, she glanced at a chart.  'Oh, I'm so sorry, let me explain,' She condescended. 'I looked at the x-ray again and think it possible to can save the tooth.  But it requires scraping works to root canal. I thought receptionist has told this to you when she take the booking for you?'
'Yogody shed anifing oo e'
'Nobody said anything to you?'
Vinny was amazed how dentists could understand, perhaps they took Novocaine language courses as part of their training.
'Again, I sorry.' Frieda said and leaning back she lowered her face mask. She was pretty for a dentist and Vinny, attempting his most winning smile, gurned up at her.
'Oh, good.' she smiled back,  'You must be fully numb now.  Tell me if you feel this?' She enquired as she re-raised her mask and deftly picked up a vicious probe to stick into his gum.

little things are complicated

(This story was again a result of automatic writing, that's when I have no idea what to write on a subject and just start writing something. The topic this time from the Leeds Savages was 'free for all' or whatever you want. I like the story but probably need to smooth the edges a bit, this is a first draft.)

LITTLE THINGS

Alan pushed his nose against the cold glass and exhaled.  His breath formed two dewy patches on the school bus window. Pulling back, he watched as they slowly evaporated  leaving just the smudge mark where his nose had been.  The driver looked across and smiled, saying "Nearly there now Alan.  Its still a bit cold out, but look,  you'll have a lovely sunny spell to walk to your house today".
Alan glanced out past his nose print at the fields passing by and saw the stone walls and barns were casting crisp shadows in the afternoon sunlight.  The trees and hedges along the roadside had started to brighten with fresh leaves flapping slowly in the crisp spring breeze.  Small piles of windblown late snow remained at the foot of the stone walls and it white-filled the grassy hollows shaded from the sunlight.
Alan lived at the last stop on the school bus route and for the last five minutes of the trip he was always the only one on the bus.  The driver, Mr Rahmer, usually talked about the weather during this time. He also usually talked about Leeds United at least once. 

This term Mr Rahmer had also taken to asking Alan about his day at school and to waiting and watching Alan get off the bus and walk all the way up the lane to his house.  When Alan reached his front gate he'd look back. Mr Rahmer would wave and turn the bus to head up along the lane to the depot.  Alan thought Mr Rahmer was a nice man.   Alan's mother had asked Mr Rahmer to make sure Alan got home okay through the winter term because she was going to be working afternoons for a while.

This afternoon as he got off the bus Alan noticed Helen was standing by her front gate. He started to get nervous because he'd have to talk with her again.  She was wearing a pink puffer coat with white fur around the hood.  The fur framed her face but let a few strands of hair escape to drift across her cheek and chin.
She was very nice. 
Helen was doing the same lessons as Alan but at a different school , one just for girls, and she was always home earlier than Alan.  Her family had moved into the big house a few months ago and Helen's mother drove her to and  from her school in a big silver car with soft leather seats.

'Hello Alan.' Was all she'd said as he approached.  Alan cringed inside. Helen always had nice things and she was often out playing in her Wendy house.  Alan lived in the first of the terraced houses behind the big house, right next door to her yard.  Because she lived in the big house he always worried when he met her that she would be more clever and he might say something silly.
'Hello' he replied, hugging himself against the cold wind that cut through his school coat.
'Did you get told today that our schools were going to join up for a sports day?' Helen seemed quite excited.
'No, we didn't get told that. Where?'  Alan looked down the lane to see if Mr Rahmer was still waiting, he was. Alan waved at him and Mr Rahmer waved, after a moment he drove the bus away.  Alan knew he would be asked about Helen on the bus tomorrow afternoon.
'Its going to be at your school because there will only be thirty of us and there are too many from your school to come to ours.' Helen had a way of delivering a stream of facts with great authority that made Alan feel small.
'Oh.'  He couldn't think of anything else to say as he stared at her.  She looked nice.  Nicer than the girls at his school. And she didn't make fun of him.
'Do you do any sport, will you be going, do you think?'  Helen hoped he would be going.  She wanted to make friends with this gentle boy. He was not cruel or rude like the boys in Harrogate.
'I run and I swim okay. I suppose.  I guess my teacher will tell us if we are going.' Alan was getting nervous again,
'I run too. We should race each other to see who is fastest!'
'Yeah.'  This was frightening now, Alan didn't know what to do
'Do you want to run now?'
'Um, I can't. I have to go home 'cos Mum always phones to check I'm home.' Alan lied.
'Oh, could you come out if she says its okay?'
'I suppose so, but I have to go now.' Alan wanted to show how fast he could run but didn't know if she would be upset when he beat her. He decided he would ask his mum when she came home.

Alan stepped back onto the path and walked to his front door. Helen stood and waved once as he opened the latch and went inside.  He closed the door, dropped his school bag beside the stairs and went up to his room.  He peered out of the window and watched Helen going from the gate back to her playhouse.  She didn't look as happy as she had been when she was talking to him and he wondered why. She had a bike and a trampoline and lots of things in her yard and he would love to try them.

Helen was disappointed Alan didn't seem to want to play with her.  Perhaps he was just shy. It wasn't much fun playing in the yard by herself but from the porch of the Wendy house she could see if Alan came out again.

Alan sat looking down at Helen and was feeling guilty that he'd lied.  He could go back, he supposed, and they could run the length of her yard to see who was fastest. She was only sitting in front of her playhouse moving things around and looking out at the lane every now and then.  He wondered if she was waiting for him. 

The window started to fog in two dewy patches from his breath and as he moved to wipe it he saw his Mum standing at the entrance to the lane way. She was back early, mustn't have been given any extra hours work today.  That usually made her a bit sad but today she was smiling and talking with someone around the corner that Alan couldn't see.  His mum laughed and lent forward to push at the someone.  Then  an arm went around her waist and she stepped back a little as a man came into view and ran his hand through her hair, laughing and planting a kiss right on her lips. 

It was Mr Rahmer. 
Alan's head smacked against the window making a bang loud enough for Helen to glance up and see him pulling a horrible face at her.
She didn't know Alan had been there watching her all this time. 
She'd got it wrong, he wasn't a nice boy.
She got up to go inside, not looking at him again.

Alan didn't know what to think, his Mum and Mr Rahmer. 
Why hadn't she told him? 
What was he to do now that he'd seen that?  She'd be walking through the front door any minute.

Life gets so complicated when you turn nine years old.

The eternal hedonist

This topic came from a discussion one night over a few pots of ale down the PackHorse pub in Leeds.  I can't recall what the discussionn was but it was agreed that it should be the next task for the Leeds Savages.  

 
The eternal hedonist

The afternoon noises wafting up from the beach fell on her ears in waves of pleasurable cries and happy shouts. Sarah smiled wistfully at the thought of the dad, wife and kids dancing and mucking about in her sand and surf.

She'd lived so close to the beach for the past two years she had come to think of this piece of coast as hers. The mornings usually saw her walking at the edge of the waves, trailing her toes through the sea foam, ankles swished by the thrust and draw of the salty water. She was endlessly amused at the way her feet sank ever so slightly into the sand as the wash retreated to its tempting depths.

Unexpectedly falling into a life of beach combing had turned out to be endlessly rewarding and surprisingly fulfilling.  Her life-long opportunism and antipathy to goal setting was completely satisfied by the way her days rolled simply along.

 Granted, the small, weathered timber house with its permanent  gulls and occasional leaking roof was not how she had imagined surviving her fourth decade on the planet , but from the first night she had slept there it had enveloped her with a nurturing calm and a welcome solace.  Cosseted by its patched walls and protecting her from the elements it also provided her the privacy she craved.  Sarah was  enthralled by the dwelling's proximity to her beloved beach and she was not at all motivated to seek a more substantial alternative. 

There were other ways in which she preferred this slower life, for one, there were much fewer daily demands placed on her.  The tailored bankers suits, Jimmy Choo shoes, bespoke silk lingerie and latest fashion blouses of her past life never called out to her to release them from their vacuum packed flatness.  Loose cotton throws and cheap bikini bottoms were her current wardrobe and on some days these exceeded her clothing needs. 

Sarah's mornings mostly broke to the rising gleam from sub-tropical sunbeams cresting the horizon.  The rare rainy days provided a welcome waking novelty of patter on the tin roof and gurgles falling to the water tank outside her room.  Such a wonderful change from her time-structured life in the crushing city.  Now she woke when she felt like it, no make-up or hair protocol to be managed, a slow breakfast and  a long soak if she felt like one.  The only routine, at some time in the day, depending on low tides, was her collecting walk along the beach to deftly swoop on left treasures. 
It was an enduring bemusement to her that people thought leaving their valuables in their towels or shoes was the pinnacle of beach camouflage and security.   Sarah never stole, but it was amazing how grateful people were when she ran up to them, at the right moment, saying she had stopped the local kids and had recovered the wallet or valuable.  It was key to allow enough time prior to the return for confusion, anger and acceptance to be played out.  It was a fun game with many subtle skills she had perfected over months,.  Not the least of the skills was the remembering if she had targeted the person before.  Early on she had nearly come a cropper by almost playing the game twice on the same girl, so now she kept records on the phone hooked to her bikini.  She made it a point too of picking people she was certain were international or inter-state tourists.  Wallets, purses or identity had become her prime target.  Returning loose change and trinkets was not sufficiently rewarding.   A girl can't live on thank-yous.  Besides, she needed  their I.D. it let her check notes on her phone that she had not hit this target before. 

This morning was an ideal example of the payback from her accurate record keeping.  The driver licence had said George Roberts, a very forgettable name but it did have a city address which should have been a memory trigger.  The phone quickly matched up the details with her code for a very generous reward from last summer.   So, a counter-ploy was needed if she was going to work this donor again.  Maybe another gift or even a meal could be solicited if she played it right.  Sarah replaced George’s driving licence inside his deck shoe and made sure she was sitting within easy sight when he returned. She gazed out towards the horizon, slightly away from her target, sure she could be seen but certain she appeared unaware of him returning.
George noticed her as he reached down for his towel.  'Sarah?' his voice immediately recognisable.  She slowly turned her head, it was a  small thrill to her that he had remembered her name.  As she saw him walking towards her in the flesh she remembered money was not the only reward he had given her last summer.  Her phone's note system didn't have a code for that though.  

‘My god, Sarah?  Is that you? It is, isn’t it!  You still slumming it here?  Gees, how have you been?  I thought you said you were heading back off overseas.'  The flood of questions streamed out as he helped her up and gave her a connected kiss on the cheek.  
Familiar but demure, Sarah thought, considering their past passions.  She responded by giving him as shy a smile as she thought appropriate under the circumstances.  
‘Yep, things stayed good here. I decided to hang around.  How about you?  What are you doing back here?  You told me you thought the south coast was hateful, if I remember.’ 

‘Yeah.  May have said that.  Truth is, my old dad lives down here and I drag the wife and kids down every year.’

‘Shit , you didn’t tell me you were married.‘

‘Well I wouldn’t, would I?  Had a good time though didn’t we?'  George rested his hand briefly on the rise of her hip. 'And , wasn't as if you were without the odd fib were you?  Have you left me my keys this time?’ he grinned conspiratorially as he glanced towards his  shoes.

Sarah flushed.  ‘ What are you talking about?’ 

George's grin turned to a smirk.  ‘Huh.  Whatever.  Anyway that bit of fun’s not going to happen this time, Lizzy is bringing our kids down soon, so for the kids sake, best we leave that all aside don’t you think?’ 

Sarah was rapidly working her angles, ‘Yeah.  I guess.  I do recall some very pleasant afternoons though.  Your wife must be a happy lass, all being well in her garden so to speak.  It wouldn’t be that nice for her to learn about us I suppose.’
No cloud drifted across George's face as he responded quickly.  ‘No point thinking along those lines there Sarah, Lizzy’s the eternal hedonist,  fantastic mum , great wife, fun to be around, and there is no exclusivity for us, we are quite open about all that,.  She’s a happier lass than you could imagine. Playing away is who we are. All is well in both our gardens.’

‘Oh, Okay then. I guess. I suppose I am happy for you.’ Sarah lied.

‘I doubt you care Sarah, but anyway, its been fun to see you again, good memories huh?’   George smiled again, a genuine smile, slipped on his shoes  and with a cheery wave headed off to the car park to gather up his family.  

 Sarah watched him disappear down the path as she tried to think of another angle.  Nothing came to her. 

She cast her eyes back to her beach and spotted, not far away, the snow-white flesh of a new arrival neatly rolling his possessions into a union flag beach towel before heading with enthusiasm into the waves. She waited for him to dive in, waited for him to look back to check no one was near his treasures, then she waited some more until he began to pay the necessary attention to the waves.   Another bit of beach combing fun had started.  

Inconvenience

 Inconvenience was another topic from the writer's meeting in the pub.  I used it as the first of my stories to be loaded onto www.ReadWave.com and it got some interesting comments so I loaded up some of my other tales.  My story 14 got subsequently listed as a 'Staff Pick' so that was nice.


Inconvenience

  It’s always the same at the bloody festival, stupidly long queues, banks and banks  of portable toilets all occupied with people taking stupid long inside them.  Mike stood shuffling in his chosen queue, rocking from one foot to the other, fighting back the cramps and knowing he wasn’t going to make it. He could see himself ripping down his jeans and squatting to release right there in the line. 

 Just as he was considering taking that very action, the performance stage and  speaker towers suddenly errupted into the intro to the Frantic Dukes' latest hit.  The lines of toilet people let out a group moan acknowledging they were stuck in these stagnant queues for the headline act.

Nothing sharpens the senses like pain and as Mike bent over to another gut-stabbing cramp he noticed  there was a gap in the fence.  The chain wire formed a rough barrier enclosing a yard where toilets from yesterday were locked and lined up waiting to be hosed and pumped out .  Stacked tightly together the backs of the full loos formed a solid blue green wall to the performance paddock and people stood and lent against them to get a clear view.  Through the gap in the fence Mike spotted a toilet on the end of one line had its door ajar.  Desperate times call for desperate decissions and he abandoned his place in the queue, slid through the gap and stumbled across the yard to dive into the open cubicle. 
The bowl was soiled but the seat was clean enough, the floor though was awash in crud.  He closed the door and the trapped air turrned instantly foul.  With as much speed as his cramps demanded, Mike pushed down his pants and sat.  This change of position triggered forces to blast an acidic stream from his bowel into the noisome bowl. 
The foot pump thankfully had flush but regrettably the cramping urge increased rather than subsided and Mike realised he’d be locked in this stinking cabin for some time. 
Too much bloody fruit.  Up until about thirty minutes ago it was a fantastic idea to bring only fruit so it wouldn’t matter if it got wet, and he wouldn’t have to wait in mile-long queues to pay a fortune for something greasy, cold and stale.  He was also pretty sure no one would steal fruit.  With a sense of his own brilliance he’d jammed a backpack full of oranges, apples, figs, dates, sultanas and a yellow- green hand of supermarket bananas.  In the outside pouches of the bag he'd tucked away as many boxes of Tropicana as he could carry without getting a hernia.  
As he sat now miserably contemplating the error of his brilliance and managing the cramping as best he could.  Over the blast of the music he heard angry yelling people being pushed and jostled to bump against the back of the toilets especially the end one which he was in.     
The Frantic Dukes were punching out their latest release at an ear-tearing rate.  Mike’s intestines matched the beat by wracking him with stabbing pains and releasing squirting burn and splatter.  Deep cramp and gut compressions heralded every debilitating cycle.  Mike grew exhausted but as the music increased its fervour he did notice the angry people had stopped thudding against the side of his toilet box.  
The sounds from the stage pulsed through the plastic walls setting up a sickening vibration in the rank interior.  Reflux rose into Mikes throat.   
A juddering thump.   Not in his gut but from the toilet box.  The whole thing suddenly jolted and swung.  He was being moved by some lift or hoist and Mike screamed out and pounded the walls to let them know he was inside.  No use, the Frantic Dukes were in crescendo and no man on earth could out-scream their vocals.  On cue another gruesome cramp shut Mike up and made him jamb his feet and arms against the walls to lock his arse onto the rank hole and release the inevitable spray of shit.  Desperatly pumping the chemical flush he felt the box swaying in an arc then rock slightly backwards.  Then a thump and slosh of waste beneath him as the cabin dropped hard on a metal surface.  Another cramp overtook Mike’s attempt to rise and get out and he fell back onto the hole to release an explosive mist of burning air. 
That’s it, it didn’t matter now, he had to get out of this box.  Fumbling with the dispenser he realised there was no paper,  he tore off his T-shirt and used that to roughly scrape the flush and crud from around his raw and stinging sphincter. Leaving his shirt in the bowl and dragging his jeans up he was reaching for the door latch at the instant when he felt the unmistakable thump and shudder of another toilet cabin colliding with his.  His door release would not open.  If he pushed out the bottom corner it might force the catch .  Problem was he was weakened and when he tried to lever the door it was obvious the toilet that just landed was hard up against it.  He was trapped, the Frantic Dukes increased their lunacy and his feeble shouts and thumping against the walls was never going to be noticed. 
Through the vented roof panel he could see the sun was deciding to shine through the clouds, almost immediately the temperature inside his prison began to rise, the fetid smells concentrated in the humidity and Mike became nauseous to the point of feinting, he stumbled and sat on the edge of the seat trying to catch a breath.  The thump of another cabin landing against his made him scream out and pound against the walls again but to no effect.  The cheers and whistles of the crowd paying homage to the Dukes drowned out all. He slumped back against the bulkhead throwing his head back.  Looking up he saw the roof was far less robust than the walls, there were panels joined by clasps and small fixtures around the vent  panel.  Mike gathered some strength and stood on the seat, pushing against the vent.  It popped and Mike could force out the centre part at an angle.  Cool fresh air fell on his face as the Dukes gave no reprieve by launching immediatly into their classic number one hit and the crowd vented another wall of cheers and whistles  in anticipation of speaker-blowing chords.  Mike punched the other edge of the vent and the whole section cracked and flipped up, he tore it off its last clips and the whole roof piece slid away, clouds and scraps of blue sky were framed in the square over Mike’s head and he tried to lift himself up.  Not tall enough to get a grip. 
He looked around and lodged his foot against the door release, other foot on the small ledge and with every effort he could muster his head rose from the cabin, he took a deep breath of vibrating air and felt some strength return.  Lifting both arms he managed to support his weight by his elbows on the edges of the cabin and lifting himself further managed to get a knee then a foot out as well,  but the attempt drained him and he sort of allowed himself to be jammed there for a moment while he gathered the strength for a final effort.  Pushing up with his foot he leveraged himself out the top of the box just in time to see another cabin flying in over his head.  Ducking in reflex to avoid it Mike overbalanced, slipped and crashed down the side of the box, slamming the edge of the truck bed and falling in a heap on the trammelled and muddied gravel of the service road.  He lay bleeding, stinking of fruit shit, and redolent of chemical flush. The flying toilet swung ominously overhead as the hoist man locked his controls and rushed to Mike's aid.   

Mike went right off fruit after that and for years will talk of his afternoon in a convenience.

14

14 Harrogate Road,  Leeds.

The weathered timber step let out a creak under his weight and made Chris stare down.  He was surprised that even in their current state of decay the front steps held to their old task and warned the house of people arriving.  There had been no one making their way up these gapped planks of wood for years though, rotting leaves clung together filling the corners of the stairs, the cracked and open grain of the wood lay exposed and scared by relentless years of weather.  In the past Chris had climbed these porch steps thousands of times, moving over them with no pause or consciousness.  As he stood looking at his feet on the steps, his smart Italian footwear contrasting against the rotting planks,  what he saw was the boy and man, a wood and leather allegory to his life of pretence.  

Glancing  up at the derelict facade of his old home he was glad this was the last time he would ever open the cracked front door and enter the hallway with its bent staircase and worn-down floor.  He was relieved he would never have to return again, never have to pretend a kindness to the people who once occupied the place, never have to justify abandoning a place which reminded him of the secret event and that hid the evidence of his deed.
When he'd received the final notice of approval for demolition from the city planners  this morning, it had bought him both concern and delight.  It was a surprise to him as he had not received notification the process of dereliction had been commenced.  It was great news, finally a finish, a razing to the ground, an eradication of past passions and a wiping of his hateful history.  Then a concern fell over his delight sucking warmth from the relief like a dank cloak,  it meant he could no longer avoid taking action, he had to return to the place. 

He picked his way up the edge of the weakened steps and made it on to the porch, here he had to take extra care to avoid gaps where the boards had rotted and fallen through.  The old screen door sagged ajar, blown open to slump, bent against the cracked brickwork… As he pushed the old front door open an arc of Minton tiles were exposed through the old mail laying on the floor.  The weakened door jammed itself, a mound  of litter pushed behind, Chris didn’t bother about closing it behind him and walked  over the crackling piles of paper.  To the right, the home's twisted stairway had retained its handrail but not its wrought iron lacework.  Some enterprising and energetic thief had liberated that classic bit of artistic value.  Thieves couldn't steal the memories though and looking at the stairway Chris recalled sitting secretly,  his head pressed against the steel flowers of the balustrade, nervously eavesdropping on the discussions of his parents and their adult guests.  That memory and the things he had overheard when he should not have been listening took him back to some more innocent  and then to some much darker times. 
Peering in to the left, the old front room discouraged his entry and telegraphed danger with its plaster ceiling hanging precariously from the rafters.  The leaves and rubbish blown in through the gaping window left no place for his childhood memories of christmas trees, grandfathers' laughter or the warming log fire.  On the floor too, destroying all recollection of domestic harmony, an old crime scene tape wove its confused path through the filth.  Looking over, Chris was struck by how the stains and shotgun blast remained so starkly evident on the mouldy wall leading to the dining room.  Broken from his reverie by the ugly mental images he turned and made his way through vandalised spaces, through to where the kitchen was and quickly out through the utility room and into the coal store.  He didn’t want to linger, he should spend as little time here as possible to retrieve the evidence.

There is a clarity of recollection that is burned into a mind by an event so traumatic, and despite the passage of years and all the events since, he recalled exactly where to go .  Chris stepped up onto the old brick stoop, removed the loose brick then reached confidently down into the cavity between the roof timbers and the outside wall.  His fingers brushed a rough, scaled form and he retracted his arm, thinking quickly.  It had been 14 years but stupidly he had still expected to feel the cold smooth oiled barrels of the weapon.  Obviously, he thought now, of course time would have eaten away and encrusted the metal evidence.  He realised it was probably an unnecessary, foolish and risky plan, his returning today.  With corrosion there was no reason, not after all this time, to come and remove the evidence.  Even if demolition workers do uncover the gun, the rot and rust will have clearly ensured no fingerprints would remain.  He paused in a dilemma, did he continue with his plan to risk taking it away and dumping it? If anyone finds him with the gun before he disposes of it, his involvement would be obvious.  He was still famous by his association to the event and only the real murderer would have known where the death weapon had been secreted.  So should he just leave it, trusting that even if the gun was found during demolition no connection to him could be made?  He could go back home, be the husband and father he had become since the trial, and continue to live his life as the innocent son of a drunken wife murderer… But then, he would always be thinking, some time, some how, that gun could lead to his discovery.  He watched all those forensic shows, what if the demolition men did find the gun, what if there was now a new scientific way to trace it to him as the shooter?  
Chris decided. 
It would be best, well worth the small risk in timing to properly destroy the evidence,  he'd retrieve the thing and destroy it, that was the best thing to do, he was certain.   

He reached back up and feeling down  into the gap got a solid grip on the rusty barrels.  With a few awkward tugs and a grinding drag he freed the corroded 12 gauge from its hide.   It had only taken a few seconds and the weapon was now his to destroy properly.  However time and worms had been harsh on the wood, his less than careful pulling had left much of the gun’s stock behind in the wall.   Chris swapped the rusted barrels to his left hand and stretched back in to find the rest of the gun. 
In mid-reach a cold shiver ran through him. 
He sensed rather than heard a presence behind him. 
Turning slowly he saw first the sneer on Detective Barron’s face, and almost simultaneously he heard the distinctive click of handcuffs opening in preparation for securing another life in custody. 

misheard

This is the first story I have posted that Gail has said she absolutely hates.  I don't hate it  so I'm posting it but I will probably write another to theme.

Miss Herd

It was a sweet thatched and lead glazed cottage, picket fenced and nudging the village green.     Sylvia and George had fallen in love with it the minute they drove through the iron gates of Lady Monde’s estate.  There were the usual delays and frustrations but within weeks the house was theirs and they started to do the repairs any old building needs.  

The villagers were welcoming to the new arrivals and approved that George was beautifying the exterior of the old cottage as the first stage of his renovations.   By way of its sumptuous thatch and fresh paint the cottage was again a key aesthetic to enhance one's stroll on the village green. 

George did fancy himself as a capable sort of fellow and undertook the job of stripping the internal walls and ceilings and removing the old kitchen and bathroom.  He had discovered it was best to wear a glove to pull at rubble while a bare hand was best to feel the weakness or solidity of the plaster.  To this one glove affectation Sylvia had sung him the Robert Palmer classic ‘you might as well face it you’re a dick with a glove.’ They’d chuckled at the old joke, Sylvia often got songs wrong and this was a classic George had corrected, embarrassingly, when they had first met.

The strip-out was turning into a much larger job than George had anticipated.  Areas he had thought fairly sound had turned into whole rooms of dust filled demolition.  His mood often failed and Sylvia’s cheery singing was a strange relief when ever she bought him a tea.  He smiled as she approached this time, he could hear her singing that ‘the ants are my friend, they're blowing in the wind’, that Dylan classic from the 60’s.
‘Hiya hon,’ George grinned at her and wiped the dust from his eyes. ‘You do know that you're singing your words to that song again don’t you?’
'Yeah, probably. ... When are you going to be through making this mess? The builder just rang me asking for start dates’. 
George sat on a pile of broken plaster and looked around his disaster. ‘You know, I don't think we can afford him to fix all of this.’
‘It’ll be okay, hon.’  Sylvia had no idea how it would be all okay but things had always had a way of working out. ‘You’re just spending your every spare moment in this muck, … what you need is a little break’
‘Yeah, maybe, but this won’t move itself into the skip’
‘Well, I can help, but you need a rest, let’s take a walk into town.’
George sipped his tea, stared at the rubble, the cracked plaster still clinging to the walls and decided a short walk in the fresh air may just be the best thing.

A typical day in Monde’s town is quiet at the best of times but on a Sunday the street is deserted, the shops that do open for the morning all close well before noon.  The high street was empty and they spent time looking through the general store window, at the charity shop's display and reading house prices in the local real estate agent.  Turning the corner they strolled beside the original facade of the bank, redundant now.  A modern glass entry on the new High Street provided the required security entrance now.  George liked these huge old carved doors which still hung proud but were only retained as a fire exit.  He stepped up off the pavement to run his hands over the fine carving and sadly pitted brass-work.  To his surprise the heavy doors gave to his touch. ‘Hey, look! Frank has forgotten to lock the back door!’    
‘Well just pull it shut then.’
George peered inside, the internal doors were also ajar.. He called out ‘Hello? You in here Frank?’ then turning to the street ‘Every door inside the place is open Syl, I’m going in to have a quick look.’

‘Just shut the door George, I’ll ring up and report it.'

‘Yeah, okay, you call Frank but I’m going in to check and make sure no one’s hurt in here.’ He pushed open the inner glass door and walked into the old marble lobby.  It was deathly quiet inside this old building.  Ornate brass-edged glass cages surrounded the four teller counters and George noted their security doors were open as well.  Behind the counters, the clerk’s desks and manager’s office were clear of any papers but every drawer and filing cabinet was open.  Strange, George thought, this isn't a robbery scene, there’s nothing strewn about, everything neat and tidy, but open.  Maybe this was how the bank was always left after closing time.

In the low light his eyes became dry and he rubbed some grit from their edges and at the same time George began to feel strange,  like something  was stealing the wetness from his mouth. ‘Hey, Syl. there's a weird smell in here, no-one's about and everything is open.   

‘Yeah, well leave it all alone and come out will you? ‘

‘I think the dust has finally got to me, I’m as dry as a nun.  Just going to find a drink of water.’ 

‘Okay, Hon. ‘there’s a bathroom on the right’ she sang the old Credence tune through the open door.  George would have laughed but he was feeling light headed as he set off to the tap.

Sylvia’s phone rang just as she was about to put her head inside and call out to George.  He had been taking a while to drink. ‘Hi Sylvia, Frank here, I got your message, the pest guys must have forgotten to lock it and put the sign up on the back door when they finished.  Make sure you stay away, we are fumigating the place, it’ll be super toxic in there…..’

Sylvia’s  scream was heard throughout the town and the fumigators packing up their gear at the main entrance to the bank were the first to get to her.  Donning their hazmat suits they saw George slumped beneath the hand basin, water running from the tap.  

                                                                        ~~

It was a pleasant sunlit afternoon when they retrieved his body and laid him on the green..  Sylvia's sobbing form was buried into George's chest, the scene of dismay disrupting the view of the picturesque thatched cottage with its dusty leaded windows.

                                                                      ~~~~

(okay, notes for the uninitiated; a Mondegreen is a word coined about 140 years ago by Sylvia Wright who misheard a poem's line which was written.... and they 'laid him on the green'.  She heard 'Lady Mondegreen' and memorised the poem as such. For the curious amongst you, google it. 
My favourite mondegreen is the tenth of Santas reindeer, Olive.  As in ... 'Olive, the other reindeer, used to laugh and call him names')

Water

Task was to write about water, thought I’d write about a hydrological cycle, but without using the word water. (re-edited 12/12/12)

Gentle wisps of white puff glide slowly across the sea blue horizon, morphing from wisp to spectre, vanishing then re-forming higher into a soft grey swelling form.  One gentle grey mound is unresistingly attracted to its neighbour and almost imperceptibly they stretch, glide and join,  melding into a darker grey.  This larger form begins to attract other passing grey wisps, and drawing in nearby puffs it ominously increases in size.  It darkens and becomes a broody mass gathering in all around and growing rapidly.  It has quickly become a burgeoning charcoal-dark lump and by an unseen alchemy it rises larger and dirtier, now grabbing and drawing in every spectral wisp and pillow in sight.  Its appetite is insatiable and it expands by the second becoming angry with its size.  The threatening mass is heard to moan as it lifts an enormous head heavenward in puffs and billows so high it captures and holds all warmth and light from above, trapping it within and casting a pall of gloom over the surface below.  It grumbles as the pain of the light flashes in its belly, clawing and arcing, trying to tear a way out. The churning hurricane wantonly grips the heat and light inside it’s demonic digestion .  A cataclysm grinds and builds, it groans and creaks expanding its girth to unimaginable enormity.  A victim of its own physics, demanding more growth, it rolls uncontrolled towards a smaller maelstrom, overwhelming and consuming with a deafening crash and belch.  It becomes a gargantuan agitating weight and hunkers downwards, pressing a wedge of air heavily onto the surface of the ocean.  Bleak and ominous it compresses the waves and holds this expanse of the world to task.

A solar flare slashes through the ionosphere to pock and prick at the billowing carapace.  The whirlpool churnings are tormented, the captured energy spiked and  excited can be held no more.  A massive gash of lightening rents a gaping tear, flashing destruction earthward and exploding within.  Wounded, it writhes and squirms, flayed and agonised it bleeds its viscera in a torrent to the sea. 

The ocean is pelted with jagged ice and a rain so intense it shatters the surface to a mist of impact.  The bombardment chills and shrinks the air and the leaden cloud falls closer to the surface.  Warm air from behind is sucked between sea and storm in a rush that skates the entity forward, pushing it towards land a hundred miles ahead.  The supercharged behemoth draws more turbulence from the warmth and magnifies its deluge and lightening.

The cloud has become a demonic engine of destruction, boiling and churning faster and faster, intensifying as it perpetuates momentum.   The shoreline is scared by the approach, a wall of ocean is being pushed towards it and fire and torture can be seen in the rolling mess rumbling above a massive wave.  There is no escape, no remedy, the beach and headlands surrender to the rushing tide.  A cruel shrapnel of spiked ice and sheets of flood are poured mercilessly on the land as, forced to rise, the angered storm heartlessly sheds its load to clamber, drag and smash itself into the coastal hills and cliffs.  Smashing, tripping, dumping and avalanching down, the flood carves  up coastal fields and rips at inland forests.

Streams and gullies are drowned in the deluge and living creatures struggle to find purchase or breath.  A wall of debris is torn from the land and flung, scraped and scoured over swathes of earth never before inundated.  The drowning flow races up valleys ,filling voids and consuming the landscape with turbulent writhings.

Like a rolling ball of lightening and destruction the storm front illuminates and rips a fiery path of apocalypse, slowly purging  the tempest of it’s weight. 

Gradually, in time, its load is released, it relaxes, its fires spent, its thickness diminished and it slowly lifts higher and expands, lighter, wider  and leaving a devastated land.  A brightness seeps through the softer grey, shining the sodden lands.  A sigh of sunlight slices through the centre of the cloud and the grey dissolves.
There are more breaks, the monster dissipates, pillows and gentle wisps break off and in the blue sky they thin out and waste into a rolling calm cloudscape that beautifies the terrain.  A gleam of silver reflects clear blue sky off the surface of a new wide lake.. 
From a sheltered ledge up high on a lee-side hill a life-form emerges to scramble down the stripped earth towards this trapped expanse of flood.   Reaching the lake and glancing around the creature rests on a tumbled boulder jutting from the edge.  It bends towards a clearing pool and lowers its head to drink deeply, warmed comfortingly by the sun on its back. 
To the east, gentle wisps of white puff glide slowly across the sea-blue horizon, morphing from wisp to spectre, vanishing, then re-forming …