MINISTRY OF YOUR SILENT SMILE (a.k.a. A Belated Valentine Day's Token)

            I love the way you look. It's tax deductible. It's a corner, an unexplored niche in an unexposed market.

            I started off proceedings with the initial twitching of your lips. I bought the office space, a small building at first but this enterprise has an implicit potential for growth.

            Currently it is just me but I'm already running interviews for PAs. They all seem to meet the specification. The sparkle in your eye will indicate which one will best suit the role.

            I've kept on the cleaners from the last use of the building, they've been doing an outstanding job at upkeep. They leave the walls and floors as clean and tidy as the crow's feet on your face but, just to be certain, I've shown them the new aim for which they're now expected to reach.

            I've got rid of all the white walls, chosen a cream that approximates the colour of your midday skin. I've reshaped the windows so that they look out on the city below a la your clear gaze. The carpet is, of course, of a similar consistency to your auburn hair immediately after a shower. I even managed to incorporate the coconut extract.

            With the building on its way to being sorted, I've since turned my attention to how we'll regulate numbers. If your smile turns out lopsided we'll be wary but if it's full we'll rest assured. Considering the general lack of middle-class employment in this area, I'm sure we'll see these offices fill up soon enough.

            Yes, I can hear it now. Walking down from my office patterned with your light green iris and desk the salmon of your lips, pre-stick, post gloss; I will hear only the slightest hum of life as if from within a closed mouth: inhalation, exhalation. The front, what the world will observe, will only be silent. They won't see the productivity but they won't be able to take their eyes off the product.

            It'll be complete adoration. It'll be quiet communication of the fact. Your smile keeps me running and now the world.

101 WORD STORIES (a.k.a. Promotion of an Awesome Website via Shameless Self-Promotion)

Hello all,

So I've been published online again recently: two flash fiction stories this time. Most recently:

BIG NEW BUMP - https://www.101words.org/big-news-bump/

and before that:

HOURGLASS - https://www.101words.org/hourglass/

I wish to thank 101 Words: a tremendous website for tiny creative gems; so much variety, many better than my own admittedly meager offerings. Your fantastic promotion of my work keeps me writing. You can surely expect more from me in the future.

In the meantime, why not pay them a visit?

https://www.101words.org/

HAIR BECOMES A SILVERY GHOST (a.k.a. The First Thing I Wrote in 2016 - A First-ish Minute Gimmick)

            Kelly scoops up some of Mrs Eastwood's yellow hair, holding it taut between her fingers. She brings the scissors to it.

            'This is a lovely colour now,' she says before cutting. She turns back to Jackie at the other end of the room. 'Well done, girl.'

            Mrs Eastwood stares at them both through the mirror in front of her. 'Doesn't she usually do dyes then?'

            'Not really for such fair hair.' Kelly lets the trimmed hairs trickle to the lino floor.

            Jackie switches off the taps at the rinsing sink. 'Usually just touch-ups, you know?'

            Mrs Eastwood nods. Kelly loses grip of her hair.

            'Sorry, love,' her customer says. 'It looks lovely.'

            Kelly returns to her original grip and carries on cutting.

            'Ooh,' Mrs Eastwood remarks suddenly. 'You know Leigh?'

            'Yes.'

            'It's her 51st today!'

            'Is it?'

            'You sound shocked.'

            'Sorry. If I'm honest, she always seemed older than that.'

            Mrs Eastwood waves her hand. 'Everyone says it. I think it too from time to time.'

            Jackie wanders past. 'What do you mean?'

            Kelly pauses, sharing a conspiratorial look with her customer. Should we let her in on the tragedy, Kelly's slow blink asks. I prefer to think of it as an in-joke, Mrs Eastwood's raised eyebrow replies.

            She holds Jackie's gaze through the mirror as she rummages around in her trouser pocket. Eventually she pulls out her phone and flicks through some pictures before settling on one.

            'Here,' she says, passing the phone to Kelly who passes it on to Jackie.

            'God,' she mutters, 'I mean, Oh, bless.'

            Mrs Eastwood laughs. 'She's a sweetheart. She just looks tired.'

            'She must have led an exhausting life,' Kelly says.

            'Actually, no,' Mrs Eastwood replies, wagging her finger, 'It's hereditary. Leigh looks much like our aunt did. Unfortunately she didn't get as far as fifty.'

            'Oh dear,' Jackie sighs, passing the phone back.

            'Yes. We Sedgwick girls go grey early.'

            'Not you though.' Kelly holds up some of Mrs Eastwood's hair.

            Her customer shakes it loose.

            Jackie arrives at the front counter. 'It's horrible what ageing does to some people. Can't be just genes, there's got to be some cruelty to it.'

            Mrs Eastwood smiles sweetly. 'Well, all I know is that it happens regardless. So don't you go wasting that bright, soft skin and beautiful red curls!'

            Jackie fingers a strand. She's a natural blonde but Mrs Eastwood wouldn't know that. Jackie checked the roots just this morning.

            'And you,' Mrs Eastwood says to Kelly, 'You have the right idea, love, you found yourself a handsome entrepreneur.'

            'Hank's just setting out on his own.'

            'Still. He's not a brickie.' Mrs Eastwood's husband was a bricklayer. 'You used your supermodel cheekbones well. I wasted mine.'

            Kelly tries to figure out the best way of denying this; to say that Hank was more beautiful without implying that he doesn't quite love her the same way, to state that his job doesn't really come into it without giving away that things aren't really going so well for him at the moment.

            'Can I see that photo again?' she asks instead.

            Mrs Eastwood brings out her phone with the picture on it. Kelly examines it closely.

            'It is unfair but if you let your hair go that poorly-treated you're going to look permanently exhausted.' She resumes her scissor position. 'Hair becomes a silvery ghost of itself if you don't keep it up.'

            Mrs Eastwood puts the phone away. 'I'll be seeing Leigh in a few hours. Of course, I won't pass on any comments.'

            'Thanks.' Kelly smiles. 'Tell her our door is always open.'

            'And our appointment book is currently wide open,' Jackie mutters.

            Kelly glares back at her but then sees the clean, white pages she is flicking through.

            During this distraction, Mrs Eastwood finds herself frowning at her reflection. Underneath her golden tresses she can feel her hair curling up and slowly giving in. It is, of course, gone as soon as Kelly turns back around.

            Kelly cuts in thoughtful silence for a while, pretending to focus on each lock of her customer's replenished hair.

            Jackie closes the appointment book and straightens up. 'I had my first grey hair recently.'

            Both Kelly and Mrs Eastwood look up.

            'I won't say where it is.'

            They all laugh.

            The amusement brings on a rush of truth in Jackie. 'I've also started to wear slippers a lot.'

            'Oh dear,' Mrs Eastwood says.

            'Bless,' Kelly adds.

            Jackie shrugs. Solidarity.

BE RESPECTFUL...NOMINATIONS NOW OPEN! (a.k.a. The Last Thing I Wrote in 2015: A Last-Minute Gimmick)

            You're under consideration. Your manners have been noted.

            The Be Respectful awards are coming up. They're looking for a poster boy and girl, chemistry not essential but please reserve judgement of one another before, during and after allocation.

            You've heard about the ceremony, of course. Smart-casual: no exceptions in either direction. We want a level playing field. It's a big auditorium.

            Categories include: Politeness in Unlikely Awkward Social Situations, Due Course in Outwardly Emotional Matters, Best Moral Exercise of the Golden Rule and Silver Rule (respectively) etc.

            Full silence needn't fall throughout, just maintain a small and considerate murmur. By all means chat among yourselves but please mind what you say.

            Any slight, perceived, intended or otherwise and you'll be asked to leave; not just the proceedings but the ceremony, the venue itself. We will not abide such terseness. 

            Look at the title: Be Respectful. No ifs, no buts, no coconuts. This, of course, has recently been decreed the least tolerant fruit.

            We look forward to seeing you in action. Please look forward to hearing the nominations.

            Above all, reciprocate.

GIN GIRL, BILL ROOK (a.k.a. 260 Words Inspired by a Misheard Christmas Song Title - Can You Tell Which One?)

            I found her talking to a shelf stacker about carrots.

            She was looking for a 'thick knobbly one' and, when the kindly old fellow found such a one, she volunteered why: 'The snowman's knob should be nice and thick and really, really orange.'

            She stopped bothering him when she saw me.

            'Do you really need that carrot?' I asked her.

            She dropped it in the trolley and we went to the booze aisle.

            'Why's it having a piss?' she asked me, 'Why an indefinite article?'

            I pulled out two bottles of gin: Gladhouse and Viddick's.

            'I mean, usually it's just piss,' she carried on, 'A verb.'

            I sighed. 'Verbs into nouns isn't an uncommon thing.'

            'But how about taking a piss?' She tilted her head. 'Taking and having. What a difference a verb makes.'

            'Choose,' I said, holding up both bottles in front of her.

            She took the Gladhouse one right away and put it at the front of the trolley, where the fragile cargo usually goes.

            'You still call me Wilma,' she spoke up halfway down the frozen vegetable section. Quite frankly I was expecting to hear something about the carrots here as well. Chopped up.

            'I'm not calling you Bill,' I replied.

            'I like Bill Rook.'

            'Well, I still like Wilma Rook.'

            She folded her arms. 'You can't keep change from happening.'

            I shook my head. 'Love might.'

            We didn't talk again until the checkouts and then that was in response to the girl there. She had inquisitive eyes and tightly-packed hair. She held up the knobbly carrot.

MAYOR EAST'S BOAR CHIDE (a.k.a. 250 Words Inspired by a Misheard Christmas Song Title - Can You Tell Which One?)

            The hog had the Mayor's chain. It even sat on his velvet-cushioned chair.

            'It doesn't suit you,' East said, arms folded behind his back, 'Black matted fur or whatever it is you have over your pork, it doesn't suit gold. Certainly not the chain of office.'

            The boar snorted and padded its two front hooves. East turned sharply.

            'You're Christmas dinner, you realise that! No, wait! You're not even that, you're Boxing Day leftovers! Ham sandwiches! Pigs in a blanket! Now give me it back!'

            He clawed at the pig's neck but its tusks were out. East raised his hands and shifted over to the intercom near the office door.

            'Beatrice,' he spoke into it, 'How could they do this to me? They deliberately sent a malevolent boar.'

            It hummed and clicked before responding. 'The farm people are on their way, sir. Traffic's bad on the M3 apparently.'

            East sighed.

            The hog snuffled one of the chair's armrest.

            'You better not get snot on that lacquer! Foul beast!'

            East collapsed in a guest chair.

            'As far as power plays go, I have to remark this is the longest I've ever experienced. So, well done in that respect.'

            The boar gazed at him with its black beady eyes.

            'You wear that for much longer, you'll be in the job, you know? Officially.'

            The pig stood up again. East rubbed his eyes. A clack, a rattle, another clack. The chain was now on the carpet.

            Mayor East's laugh was delayed. 'Good choice.'

MISSILE-TOWED ANN VINE (a.k.a. 240 Words Inspired by a Misheard Christmas Song Title - Can You Tell Which One?)

            Ann strapped herself to the rocket. It was a solo job, fastening the safety harness to the underside, laughing as she hooked up.

            'Safety,' she said.

            Launch happened an hour later. The stars were out, clear weather for December but still with a nip in the air. Things heated up soon enough.

            There was, of course, an objective but reaching the highest point in the atmosphere would be enough for her. She wanted her breath to catch, giddy tingles in her brain. A perspective change.

            Ann clung onto the rocket, her chin pressed against the cold metal of the tube. The vibrations rattled her skull. Her eyes were already watering. She couldn't quite tell all that from the tears.

            Ascension. Her eardrums shattered. The pressure exerted outside her head overpowered the pressure from within. She screamed but couldn't hear it. All that ringing and rattling: she didn't anticipate it.

            She hadn't been thinking. Even her objective was hazy now she thought about it, something so close to fiction it suddenly lost all worth.

            The sky that was once above her was now around her, thin veils of cloud swirling just below. There was a peculiar scent to the air: iron and salt.

            She felt herself loosening. The tether lasted just long enough to catch her, to hold her upside down.

            Ann glimpsed something. There was little oxygen up here and her view was wrong.

            Nevertheless she mouthed 'Santa' and fell.