Clarissa, Cordelia and the Little Dog

[Today's snippet came from a prompt give to us by Jean Grimsey at one of the Chudleigh Writers' Circle meetings. I'm not going to tell you what the prompt was; let's see how successful I was at writing to it.]

Clarissa the Cat, Clarrie to her friends, curled herself up on the sofa, tucked her tail neatly underneath her and grabbed the bottle of chocolate milk sitting cooling in the middle of the table. As she filled her glass, she threw a quick glance around the room.

“He’s not here,” she pouted. “But he promised we’d meet up for a drink tonight. I’ve run all the way from my violin lesson so I wouldn’t keep him waiting.” 

“So, who is he anyway, this new wonder of yours?” asked her friend Camilla, who’d been through this scenario with Clarissa many times before.

“Oh, he’s just one of the guys I met at the gym,” said Clarrie, examining her claws and trying but completely failing to look nonchalant. “He’s a high jumper from the local athletics club. They’re trying to build him up for the big one.”

“Not the Lunar Leap,” said Camilla, impressed in spite of her misgivings, “wow, he must be some kind of superstar to try that one.”

The two were so engrossed in their chat, they failed to notice the young beagle at the next table. Buster had been shopping. His back hurt, his paws hurt — and his wallet definitely hurt — but he was so excited about being out on the town on his own, he’d decided to end the day with a quick drink and a bone before bedtime.

Suddenly, the noise in the bar dropped and everyone looked towards the door. The lights dimmed as a bulky shape moved into the room.

“Oh,” squealed Carrie, “it’s him.”

“What do you mean, him?” hissed Camilla. “That’s not a he; that’s a she! Honestly Clarrie, you can be so dim at times.”

Cordelia the Cow took one look at the two cats drinking their milk, then turned on her hoof and headed for the door. As she did, her tail caught the table, sending all the china and cutlery to the floor. A battered spoon stuck to the encrusted tomato sauce in a used pasta dish, and the two rolled away together, into the darkest corner of the bar.

Oh, how Buster laughed. It really made his day.

[So what do you think the prompt was?]

Danny's Jacket

Today's snippet grew out of  a writing exercise at Chudleigh Writers' Circle. We all wrote the opening sentences for short stories, then shared them with the group. The most popular sentence was then used by all of us - and, as is always the case with this sort of exercise, there was a wide variation in interpretations and resulting stories. I later entered this piece in the Worcester Literary Festival Flash Fiction competition and was delighted to be one of the finalists for the second year running.

 

 

The dog sniffed at the bundle, half-hidden in the seaweed, then turned back to Elsa, barking frantically. Elsa closed her eyes against the dizziness as her stomach rollercoasted.  She had prayed her suspicions were unfounded, but there was no denying this was Danny’s jacket. She’d seen the dragon transfer so many times before.

 

She’d met him on the first day of term, as she stood in the classroom doorway, tugging at the unfamiliar blazer, trying to flatten her unruly curls and wondering if anyone was going to talk to her. He’d been sitting on a desk, tapping his foot in time to whatever tune was playing in his head. He’d looked up and grinned at her.

 

Everyone told her he was trouble. He came from ‘the wrong side of town’, whatever that meant, his family always moving, never in one place for long. All she knew was he was kind to her, which was a first.

 

And then one day, he wasn’t there. There were rumours at school, snide comments in the coffee bar: he’d been arrested; he’d run away to escape arrest; the family had run off without paying the rent; he’d joined the army (although everyone agreed that seemed highly unlikely). Elsa didn’t believe any of them — and when he appeared again three months later with tales of a sick grandmother in another country, she’d been so pleased to see him, she hadn’t looked too closely at his excuse.

 

But now, with the printout of his rap sheet in her back pocket and the sniffer dog’s find as evidence, Detective Sergeant Elsa Jones knew she was going to have to talk to Danny one more time. And this time, there would be no excuses.