Tuesday, 22 May 2012

Small Hands

Small hands, big thighs. That’s what he liked.

‘He’ being Stuart.

The lovable rogue, but only in his mother’s eyes and father’s pub-talk. Hated by most others. An imbecile, according to the graffiti scrawled crazily across the bus shelter up by Maud’s card shop. The gents’ toilets in the Hay & Scythe tell of other names that are not repeatable. Not out loud, in public. I have that on good authority, not having frequented them.

Stuart. A simple man with simple tastes. He likes to strike out, to hit; to offer a beating or two. Especially after a pint of Hamerton’s Ale. Definitely after several pints. Mostly to women. Almost exclusively, as it happens.
Certain types, though. Just those with small hands and big thighs.
Not that it’s an excuse I would offer up.

I only knew Stuart from afar. Like dentists with bad teeth, he was always best avoided. Mind you, I wasn’t really his type. I was a straight up-and-down kinda girl, which made my hands look larger than they actually were. Athletic, when being nice to my face; boyish behind my back. And probably worse.

He only wore black jackets and blue jeans. The two colours he shared with the skin of the women he picked up, out over Waldsley or Shetly way, once he'd finished with them. Places where his reputation wasn’t as tarnished as the brass on the handle in the back room of St. Mary’s church. News didn’t seem to spread fast, though; the girls, embarrassed, perhaps, didn’t talk. They hid and the bruises and blemishes faded even as their memories of Stuart personal brand of love remained strong and vibrant. Maybe the odd tattle here and there, but nothing that seemed to stop Stuart. Until that warm June Sunday evening. Then it all began to unravel for him.
And for the rest of us, implicated as complicit.

Monday, 14 May 2012

Perfect Circles

Perfect circles.
Alfie could draw them at will. He used it as a parlour trick in pubs, aged 14, winning shots of whisky that he’d share with me and Bird.
He could draw the different coin denominations. Perfect, every time.
The look on the punters’ faces when they laid down a coin: like they’d been at the Somme.

That was how we passed the days, back then. Before our relationships petered out, became lost in the labyrinth of life. Or maybe purposefully gotten rid of; left at the side of the memory road as we screeched away in a car, the smell of burning rubber assaulting the nostrils.
Yep, mostly abandoned.

In those days, we were carefree. Astounding drinkers was enough – or at least the reward of whisky was. Or so I thought. Our history through the eyes of hindsight is not quite as cosy.
Then again, whose history is?

What's This About, Then?

Stories come from anywhere. They are generally classified by genre. Although, in bookshops the books in which stories are contained are listed alphabetically. Wouldn’t it be nice if it was easy to find stories related to the letter which kicked the tale off? I think so.

This blog is open. Anyone can submit a story. It can be about anything. It only needs to be written.

Submissions can be sent to purplesime [at] gmail [dotcom] marked ‘Tales From The Alphabet’.