Here is the promised bit of flash fiction from last week's endeavors! I'm experimenting writing from a male perspective as a bit of unofficial research for my next novel, so why not share a piece of it with you all? Enjoy xx.
Short pajama shorts that were too wide. Her hips slid left to right rhythmically as she walked. The sound of bare feet gently thumping the hard wood could be heard from the kitchen.
Early mornings always left a haze of fog surrounding that old house, and through that cloudy filter the only sunlight that came in was softened, more gentle. Her nails were long and sharpened to points, opaque sky blue and tapping something on the side of her leg. There was something in her that was like music, always moving, never still, a repeated pattern that, when finished, turned back on itself and did the whole thing over again for the sheer enjoyment of it.
I remember what it was like to see her sit down at that computer, and even as I can see it vividly I cannot describe it. It was almost as if she dared you to get her up again. She had arrived at her dominion and she owned that chair just as much as anything else she touched, because when she touched something she took whole possession of it. It became her; it complimented her; it bent to her will. The old, ugly laptop opened again – the magic happened when the laptop opened, they had told me, and I watched closer as her fingers began to stroke the keys, first slowly and then a little faster, until she was writing with a fury. But it wasn’t steady. She would run on for a few minutes, pounding at the board (yet always with that nonchalance on her face) and then stop, abrupt, and it could be another ten minutes before she began to tap it again.
How can you describe a woman without looking at her face? But her eyes were shielded, and I could not get past the outer protection, nor the falsely pleasant expression that surfaced when she smiled at me. I knew that much of her, at least, to understand she was not generally pleased to be watched at her work – and who would like it, I wonder, being observed as a caged animal as though she were on display? “The Caged Writer, viewed here in her Natural Habitat.” No, I reckon I didn’t like it either.
“So,” I began, not wanting to interrupt that flow of words that I knew was uncertain in its consistency.
“So,” she responded. Her accent was clearly Northern. She was clearly not giving me the time of day. A grin crept up my jaw, however, because I knew this game and I liked the chase. I leaned back in the high-back chair, my arms folding across my chest. The pen and paper could wait, but my mind could not.
“It’s foggy this morning.”
“It’s always foggy in Ireland in the morning. Or at least, in Portadown.”
“It is less foggy in Belfast.”
“You’ve never been?” I knew full well that she had. But there were rumors, too.
“Are you going to let me write then?”
“Nope, sorry, I’ve got to write as well you see. And, pardon, I’ve got to get my information in order to do that.”
She muttered something about journalism and “real writing”, but I knew I was winning this one.
“Right then, Mr. Reporter: what is it you want to know about me?”
“You’re only the most popular, not to mention youngest authoress in Northern Ireland. I’m interviewing you for-”
“Yep, heard that bit. You have anything else, then, or are we going to go on repeating ourselves like a banjaxed record?”
“Has brilliant puss-face,” I wrote, verbalizing as I did.
“Oi! You can’t write that about me!”
“Anything else, Ms. Puss, or are we going to go on repeating ourselves like a banjaxed record?”
Her eyes were like slits, but I could tell she was pleased with my speed. I knew this game and I liked this chase - and she was brilliant at outdistancing average men, but I didn't count myself among them either.
"Would you like to know about Belfast?" she bent spectacularly.
"I'd love to."