Tag Archives: Teenagers

FF – Retards

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.

roger-bultot-2

Retards

“Oh pur-lease,” sighed Chrissie.
“What?”
“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.”

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Friday Fiction – Extraordinary

When I first glanced at this week’s photo, it looked like a fairly normal photo – it wasn’t until I looked on a bigger screen that I saw the roiling clouds. I’m sure this week we’ll get a few boiling skies and alien / Armageddon scenarios, but my story goes more with my original impression.  As usual, your feedback is welcome.

Photo credit goes to Kelly Sands, the words are mine, all other credit belongs to Rochelle!

kellysands

Extraordinary

That night, Libby watched Footloose with her sisters. While they mocked the Eighties hairstyles and fashions, she absorbed the lessons of the story itself. Freedom, independence, strength.

At school, she tried to carry her hips with a bit of a sway, like Ariel. The feeling lasted until she reached the classroom.

“Sit down, Elizabeth,” shot Mr Caber. “You’re not on the catwalk now.”

“Meow,” Iain’s voice snarled behind her. It crowded over her like a stormcloud, building into something dark and powerful. Libby thought about how one boy can change everything. She wished he was changing it for the better.

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InMon – The Doctor Is Sick

I hesitate to post this story for two reasons. One, it opens up a discussion about Dr Who, which I don’t follow and don’t want to follow; two, the post contains swearing, for which I can only apologise and blame the character.
However, when this week’s InMon prompts came into my inbox, I was caught by the phrase “The Doctor is Sick,” and this story wouldn’t go away until I wrote it. So here you are, please enjoy. And please don’t ask me anything about the Dr – Janice is much more up on these things than I am!

The Doctor Is Sick

“It’s Liz now,” her niece, Bella, had declared over the phone this morning. “Bella is a baby name.”

Janice hadn’t argued. She’d always dreamed of being the Cool Aunt: someone her niece and nephews would look forward to spending time with and be able to confide in when they couldn’t talk to their parents. So if Bella wanted to be called Liz, Liz it would be.

She carefully pulled the gift tag off the biggest parcel under her tree and wrote a new one. “Merry Christmas, Liz. Hope these are as sick as the new ones. Love, Auntie Jan x”

Sick, apparently, was a good thing and Janice was rather pleased with her gift. Last time she’d been over there, Bella had been glued to the television and the latest episode of Dr Who, so Janice had dug in the attic, pulled out all her VHS tapes of old episodes and had them put onto DVDs. Then she’d spent hours on the computer, making covers that were exactly like the old ones, but fit into the new sleeves. It had taken her hours, but this was finally a way they could reconnect, so she wanted to exploit it.

* * *

Janice left the other adults in the kitchen and wandered back to the living room. There was wrapping paper strewn everywhere. The boys were fighting with their foam swords and she realised she should have moved a few more ornaments, but resisted the temptation to grab them now lest it make her nephews self-conscious about their game.

Liz was curled up in the armchair tapping on her phone. She looked up at Janice.

“Thank you for my present,” she said, the lack of emotion clear in the spaces between the words. She was saying it because she’d been taught to.

Janice was confused. “I used to watch Doctor Who a lot, I thought you might enjoy a bit of the back-story.”

“They’re all on Netflix,” Liz muttered and looked back to her phone.

“Oh,” said Janice. “But there’s nothing like having your own copies.”

“No. Thank you.” Again, the tone was wooden, and Liz didn’t look up.

“I imagine Slyvester McCoy is a bit different from David Tennant. Not as good-looking, for a start.”

Liz seemed to realise she wasn’t going to get out of this conversation. She put her phone to one side. “He was the Tenth Doctor,” Liz said. “Do you actually know anything about it?”

Janice saw the opening, but not the trap within. “I know Daleks can’t climb stairs.”

“Jesus! Stop trying so hard to be my friend!” Liz stood up, grabbed her phone and flounced into the kitchen. “Daleks can fucking fly!” she yelled over her shoulder.

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Friday Fiction – Perms and Combs

I’ve been convinced it was Wednesday since Monday, but apparently today I’m finally right! I’m like a broken watch – correct twice a day 😉 So, in celebration, Rochelle has put up the prompt, her own photograph this time, and one that gave me several ideas. In the end, I went for this one. If nobody else, I think my Mum will like it. Those who read my post on Numb3rs might also wonder whether I was prompted by the episode I just watched (Season 6, Scratch) and they’d be right.

Anyway, enjoy, and – as always – I welcome your feedback.

dismantled-keyboard

Perms and Combs

“I can’t do it,” Shelley yelled.

“Do what?” I asked.

“’kin Maths!”

I ignored the curse.

“It’s pointless.”

“Pointless?” I needed a way to connect with her, then it came to me. The poster on her wall. “Maths is what makes The Slash a genius.”

Slash,” her voice dripped with contempt, “is a guitarist.”

“I know. How many strings on his guitar?”

“Six. I can count, Mum.”

“Six strings. And how many notes does he play? How many songs? All different. That’s Maths.”

She looked at me as though I’d flipped. But she looked at me. We were making progress.

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