“They don’t know the half of it,” he opines, throwing a copy of today’s paper on the bar. “These reporters think they’re so clever but their sources are just tea ladies selling titbits for pennies.” He goes on, talking to nobody and everybody. He’s important, at least in his own mind; people will listen.
I don’t want to, of course. He’s handsome and arrogant and almost certainly an ass. But he’s spilling words like overfilled beers. If I make him feel I can’t get enough of him and his words and his self-confidence, he might drop something for tomorrow’s column.
By the way, genre for this one could be quite different depending whether you’ve just watched a Netflix / Hallmark Christmas movie (I started wrapping yesterday), or a political drama like Impeached: An American Crime Story, which is a weekly treat for me. 😉
Olivia glanced at the man across the table. Studio lights glistened off his forehead, but he wasn’t sweating. So many of her guests, even the seasoned ones, felt the pressure to perform, live, answering her questions before millions.
He smiled a serpent smile; she could almost see the tongue-flick, hear the hiss.
Sweat beaded on her brow. Not from nerves or anticipation, but revulsion. She was a professional, and prided herself on balanced reporting… on showing both sides of every debate. But his wasn’t a side she could stomach.
I haven’t really got time to join in F this week, but I’ve been away a couple of weeks and I miss it, so here’s my (slightly rushed) response to the prompt. I would love your feedback and I will make sure I get to a few other stories over the course of the week.
Thanks to Roger Bultot for the picture. If you’re wondering how it links to the photo, the fear that many of the stories would prominently feature the door thing in the centre as a tardis or portal sent me spinning off into a daydream about reading the same old thing over and over again, which in turn led me onto a political path about history repeating itself as the UK government prepares to plunge into yet another military intervention of questionable merit, which all led me to Chrissie, and her mother, and eventually Simon. I’m not looking for political discourse; I’m just giving you the short version of what Roger’s intriguing photo has to do with this story.
I am aware that the title and the use of this word in the story could upset some people. I hope you will read to the end for Chrissie’s (and therefore the author’s) justification for its use.
“Oh pur-lease,” sighed Chrissie.
“That,” My daughter indicated something on her phone and I pondered the return of single word + pointing. Thirteen years ago, I was desperate for her to speak in sentences and she did. Until recently. “Retards.”
“Chrissie!” I warned, relieved that her brother was upstairs.
“Proper ones, Mum. No condition, no excuse, just idiots.”
“I’d still rather you didn’t use that word.”
She saw my glance at the ceiling. “Simon’s not a retard, Mum. His brain didn’t develop like theirs and he’s still smarter. They should be pleased to be compared to my big brother.”