The Babe Magnet (In Dialogue)

“Call me old-fashioned but I like my pants clean, pressed and swishing.”

“You’re old-fashioned.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re very welcome, gramps.”

“There’s nothing wrong with looking and feeling smart.”

“And there wasn’t in the seventies, either, eh?”

“Cheeky sod.”

“Look, I’m telling you this as your friend, purple velour pants and an orange crinoline shirt’s only gonna get you one thing.”

“A date?”

“A beating.”

“So you’re saying I should compromise.”

“I’m saying you should change, it’s different.”

“But this is me.”

“I refer you to my previous statement.”

“You said you liked them.”

“On a muppet.”

“Goddamn it!”

“No need for that. We can soon sort you out. I’ll lend you something fabulous. Something of mine. Top draw stuff.”

“But I don’t want to look like you. And stop winking.”

“Kid, you’ll never look like me.”

“I’m a year older than you.”

“Potato potahto. You leave it to me.”

Fifteen minutes later

“I love it.”

“Black leather never fails. The bright red Nikes set them off, the gold chain finishing the ensemble. You’re a babe magnet.”

“You think so?”

“Sure do. Where’re you going, anyway?”

“Seventies disco.”

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50 Word Stories – The Dance Macabre

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We danced with the spirits and twirled with the ghosts, we two breathers who’d stumbled upon them mimicking their ways. White tee-shirts pulled to our eyes, we danced till we dropped, then danced some more. The thrill was in hoping we’d tricked them, but knowing we’d not. Best night ever!

50 Word Stories: Just Dancing


We twirled in the tide with nothing but the ocean and our breaths for an orchestra. Above, the moon waltzed with the stars as if captured by the mood. Time was an afterthought, sunrise and sunset distant memories. Even the night paused. Why? Because sometimes you just have to dance.

Unnoticed

Her feet were tiny. Actually, that’s an overstatement, they were minuscule. She reminded me of a swallow on the wing, its little legs tucked up into its feathers, its claws going unnoticed. Where you and I might meander, she tottered. Where you and I might run, she staggered. To even balance in her children’s shoes was an achievement. In truth, I marvelled at her. 

Her appearance was construed as comical by the populace at large. Women would point at her then talk behind their palms. Men would frown and then turn to other more complete figures. I imagined it might have broken some people, destroyed them, even. Not her. Not by a long shot.

No sooner had a man taken in her long, flowing hair, her exquisite torso, her curvaceous thighs, then followed it down to her stilted ankles, then he would mutter and move to the next prize on the boulevard. I didn’t though. I followed her down the avenue where the silver birches glinted in the midsummer sun and the shop windows reflected a world neither of us was meant for. Around several corners, she paced like a flamingo, before turning into a side street and the single unadorned door in a wall. She entered; it locked with a click.

With no other option, I retraced my steps onto the high street. No one paid me any attention, for I was singularly unremarkable myself. Looking around like a lost child, I eventually spied the entranceway I searched for. Hanging above a double door adorned in faux leather were the words Le Théâtre du Cygne. I hadn’t a clue what it meant, but forced the doors and crept inside.

She pirouetted across the stage in circle after circle of exquisite dance. She moved like a blizzard on a mountain, a white force of nature. Her feathers swished like cracked whips, their elegance breathtaking. She bore a mask of porcelain and ebony inlay, a swan to top all swans. Only if she slowed did one notice her toothpick legs and tiny, pointed feet. But who’d look other than someone who loved her for her, every bit, every inch? 

I left the theatre but returned each night for a year. She never changed her dance; she was always a swan. And although she went unnoticed in the street, or at a bare minimum, disregarded, in that theatre she was a queen amongst birds. One day, she’d be my queen. That, however, is a story for another place and time.

The End.

50 Word Stories: Red Shoes

The jukebox clicked over: Bowie, Let’s Dance.

The tips of her long, auburn hair twitched, then shuddered, then shook. Her head swayed as her arms loosed themselves from her sides. Freedom. She was free. Lost and found. I watched her red shoes, a scarlet blur, and smiled. She deserved it.

50 Word Stories: She Moved

Beneath lights that stroked her skin in vermillion, cobalt and liquid gold, she danced. Her hair, black as night, dark as oil, swished from side to side like Medusa's snakes, alive and uncontrollable, the others revellers giving her beauty the room it demanded. When I pierced that room, she moved.

Rhythmic

It's a rhythm felt
Through the floor
An all-encompassing beat
Sending atoms all aquiver
Destined to reach minds
And swamp them
Engulf them
Electric, the buzz
Transcendence, the goal
We embrace with eyes closed
Hearts on sleeves
Pumping out blood
Slick on the dance floor
It's rhythmic
A million perfect moments
Tied with silk bows
We wish it were never ending
It can be
It is

Havana

Havana, where the girls have cocoa skin,

Dancing while the paint flakes from orange peel walls,

Twirling in the warm rain, sea spray at their backs.

Old men recline at tables discussing not a thing,

Cigars twisting beneath bushy moustaches;

Not one is tired of the other.

The tip tap of children playing 

Does nothing to diffuse their freedoms,

As the sun shines on Havana the same as every day;

Linen and Cadillacs proliferate

Amidst the smiles of all.