Don’t see me

He peered through the window that was greyed with dust. His fingers gnarled on the frame, nails catching in the curls of leftover paint. It had been blue once, the colour of a crisp autumn sky. Blue windows and shutters as eyes on a crisp pale house. That had been long before last winter or even the winter before. The shutters had peeled back, copper hinges warped and bent. The heavy wooden panels beat against the painted walls, and the fragile glass shivered.

His nose pressed against the cool glass, smudged the surface. He would not breathe. The fine hairs tickled his face, because the dust moved. It smelt like damp coal; dark, earthy and trapped inside for far too long. No one came here anymore. Except him. Except her. Eyes lashes flickered and he blinked fast.

She visited the house every year, with the turning of the seasons. A tall woman with broad shoulders and inky hair. She wasn’t like the other women he saw in the marketplace, or moving through the town. Bold women who were loud, or joyous or sad or angry. Women who wore their hearts on their sleeves, or hid them. There were women who hid in shadows and cringed away from passers by. There were girls with long hair flowing down their backs as they skipped and taunted their classmates. There were older women, hands curled with aged and features haunted by wisdom. There was no like her though. The woman with hair cut with razor precision to her chin. She was bundled up in furs and kept her hands hidden beneath her long coat. Her dark eyes were narrowed as she came and stared, and studied.

His legs, bent beneath him, started to cramp. He was older now, and it wasn’t comfortable to bend beneath the window to watch. Every year he wondered, if he should come back and every year he decided no. Then the season would change and he would find himself, slipping through the shadows towards the broken house. He’d break the old lock on the back door and set the rusted chain to one side. He’d crawl along the dirty floor and he would wait, perched like a crow beneath the frame. He always worried that she wouldn’t come, the woman. Yet, he always hoped that she would.

The muscle in his calf caught fire, tight and seizing, flickering. He pushed back from the window, mouth clamped shut. He would not shout out, he could not! He wrapped his hands around his leg and pounded the muscle. The shutters banged against the pane. Eyes lifted skyward he stifled a groan and the pain began to ease. Slowly the burning ceased, as though a brand was removed from his skin.

Had he made a noise, or had she seen the movement behind the darkened pane? Ilyad looked up, tears streaking tracks down dark cheeks. The woman. She stood at the window she was staring at him.

This was a response to today’s daily prompt of: Interest

The prompt caught my imagination and I hope that you enjoy! Did I manage to hold your attention till the end? Let me know what you think!

Happy Writing,

Fibi xx

Scottish Thistle

photo

Over the weekend I was fortunate enough to visit the historic Hatfield House. Hatfield house is famous as a home to Elizabeth I. The spot that Elizabeth learnt that she was queen of England, and her Sister Mary wasn’t going to have her executed (as she was deaded) is also located on the grounds. I have to say it was a beautiful day and the grounds are beautiful. If you have a chance to visit, I recommend that you do. The entrance fee to the house is a bit steep at £15.50, but £3 to wander through the extensive grounds and gardens is well worth the money on a sunny Saturday afternoon.

I spent a few hours happily snapping photographs with my phone and have started to edit them, so they’ll start trickling onto this blog over the next few days.

I have to say at this point, that I love scheduling posts! I can go to work tomorrow, guilt free, in the knowledge that my blog is still receiving attention and fresh updates.

Now, the photographs. There were several bunches of thistles, and I took this photo for my dear Mother, the victim of my short story regarding her culinary skills.  My Mum’s family are all Scottish by blood. She was, however, born and raised in England. She’s as English as they come, but she’s not allowed to watch Braveheart. Mother + Braveheart results in several weeks of impromptu lectures about the English and Scottish freedom, neeks n’ tatties (leeks and potatoes) etc etc etc… and so it’s banned from the house. However, this thistle is for you Mum.

I seem to apply the same pixlr filters to all of my floral photographs and I’ll post up the order that I work in shortly. As ever, please leave me a comment and let me know which version you prefer, the edited version, or the raw image.

Fi

Thistle.Raw

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