“You can’t park here without a permit.”
“I’ve bin’ comin’ round ‘ere longer than them petty council laws were in place.” She hobbled down the steps clutching a walking stick. Continue reading “Painted Ruse”
Buckle-up bookworms, as we crack back the covers to follow the footnotes of this twisted plot that has more pulp than a paperback!
Once upon a time, on a dark and stormy night, a writer entered the fiction category of a book competition. Continue reading “Were the books cooked?”
“And your prognosis?” She leaned back, scrutinizing the male across the desk.
“Um…” He fidgeted with his wedding ring. “Err…”
“At this rate, I’m won’t be getting my fifteen minutes of quality time.” Arms crossed, she scanned the room with a huff of disdain. “Tick-tock.”
His fingers tugged at his too-tight collar. “Well, the reports and our tests—”
“Prove, what?” Her swinging crossed leg made her stiletto’s heel to glint in the light like the tip of a black dagger.
His mouth went dry, unable to swallow. “Um, well if you look at—”
“I don’t want to look at the images I can find at home. I’m here for a report. Your verbal presentation. Not a show and tell lesson. I want to know strengths. Weaknesses.” She shifted in her seat. “These chairs are so uncomfortable.”
“I can get you another one?”
“And waste my fifteen-minute time slot. Listen, Mr,” she said, checking her wristwatch. “I want to know the basics. Simple—failure or pass? Brain scientist or truck driver.”
“No one fails grade two and your son is doing well.” Relieved to see her smile, he dabbed at the sweat from his brow, mumbling, “I hate parent-teacher interviews.”
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