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Joan Eardley, 1921-1963 is best known for her landscape paintings of Catterline, on the north-east coast of Scotland, and portraits of children found on the streets of Glasgow.
‘Andrew’, painted 1955, [ https://www.thefineartsociety.com/exhibitions/146/works/artworks-1923-joan-eardley-rsa-andrew-1955/] was one such. I’d like you to study it as if he is a youthful version of a character you intend to make the main character of your next novel, then write no more than 500 words describing where he has got to, what he is doing, or is about to do, twenty years on. Deadline 31 July (but I’ll not get round to judging them until 2nd August)
THE LIBRARIAN
“Come here.”
Mayrie tensed at the grave, inscrutable timbre of his voice. Some would call it a salt-of-the-earth voice but she was under no illusion about the nature of the man seated before her. The slight narrowing of her eyes all but said, if it’s just the same to you Guv, I think I’d rather remain right where I am.
Andrew Lennox huffed a sigh, and with a lenient smile insisted, “You need not be afraid. Come here.”
She took him in as she moved, the predator-prey response roving molten in her blood causing her to stiffen as she drew closer. Grave, inscrutable eyes watched her in turn as she neared the heavy, mahogany desk behind which he sat.
“They’ve a new errand for me, I take it?” he asked, glancing down at the loose sheets and open books spread before him. He looked into her eyes again, smile as gentle as it was deceptive, and incongruous with the hard line of his jaw. “And a new messenger?”
“That they do, Mr. Lennox. My name’s Mayrie.”
“Mayrie . . . ?”
“Mistress Mayrie, Mr. Lennox.”
Like hell she would ever offer up her last name to the likes of him. He would have her catalogued – addresses to her family residences and familiar haunts in hand – before she even so much as left the building.
The sphinxlike gleam in his eyes did not dim as he reclined in the dark, rich leather of the wingback chair in which he sat and rolled the stiffness from his own shoulders. Shoulders hunched from pouring over too many books; and yet he held his spine ramrod-straight for all the books that spoke to him of strong posture in a fight.
“Tell me.”
Mayrie placed a simple note on the desk.
“You are to travel to this location in Stromness and retrieve a parcel from Clarence McDornan. You may collect this parcel after McDornan has been dispatched.”
Mayrie flinched as Andrew Lennox rose slowly behind his desk. Her breathing hitched at the sight of his immense mass fitted with a tailored suit, the trim pants covering impressively long legs, an ensemble ending in shoes sharp as knives.
The corner of his mouth kicked up in amusement that never quite reached his eyes as he slipped one hand into his pants pocket, leaving the other free to fiddle with a pen. It might as well have been a sword.
“Tell me,” he repeated, tone congenial. “Are you always so easy to startle, Mistress Mayrie?”
The man before her – with his unfashionably long chestnut hair and healthful, ruddy appearance – was beautiful, and at one point in time innocent, a young boy. He could kill her where she stood.
Not appearing to need an answer, Andrew exited the thick, oak doors that led from the library’s inner sanctum to the public sphere beyond; recalling the day an unkempt urchin of only ten years was summoned through them, taught to read – taught to kill – off the streets of Glasgow.
A Sneeze with Open Eyes
Everything is a lie. Even the sky being blue is a lie. It’s violet. I read that on the Internet. The problem with lies is they’re easy to tell. Like yesterday, a man claimed he sneezed with open eyes.
The easiest five hundred dollars I’ll make. That was a lie.
“So, you want me to believe you didn’t know the contents of the trailer?” The police officer devoured sardines for lunch if his breath was to be trusted. Burly, and with a toupee which wasn’t fooling me, he drummed his fingers on his chest.
In the distance behind him, red flags lined the beach. The calm sea glimmering under the midday sun revealed the flags’ dishonesty.
“It’s the truth.” I slouched in the driver’s seat.
“How could you leave your workplace without knowing what’s in your truck’s trailer?”
“That’s someone else’s job.”
I eased my hand off the sticky steering wheel.
“Keep your hands on the wheel, sir.”
“I was going for a cigarette. I’m warning you, I’ll get crabby without one.”
His penny-brown eyes darted around the truck cabin. The radio was muted at his request, making me miss lively debate on Automotive Answer’s Sports Talk.
“I don’t think you understand how much time you’re facing, sir.”
“A year.” I shrugged. “I’ve done longer.”
Three years. That was before I moved here, if you’re wondering.
Steel handcuffs dangled from his belt loop. The black slot on them revealed they were double-lock.
“Twenty-five years, no parole,” said the officer. “So, I advise you to fix your attitude.”
The officer cracked his knuckles. “Our prisons aren’t like your first-world prisons. They’re nowhere for a Scottish man to be.”
“Doesn’t bother me.”
“Are you sure? It’s scorching outside and you’re shaking.”
A red car coughing black smoke sputtered down the street.
“How dumb are you to ignore a red light, openly smoke marijuana,” asked the officer. “While driving without a seat belt and talking on your cellphone?”
“I plead the fifth.”
“I plead the tenth,” the officer rolled his eyes. “Step out the vehicle.”
“Officer?”
“I’ve had enough of your mouth. Get out.”
I whispered, my gaze on the asphalt. “Check Banyan Avenue at four-thirty for another green truck.”
His eyes widened. He tried to compose himself, but his flushed cheeks betrayed him. “I’ll let the prosecutor know you cooperated. If that turns out to be true.”
“I swear it’s true, but please don’t tell the prosecutor I cooperated.”
The double-fisherman’s knot secured around my chest for the last twenty-one days loosened. It fell to the pit of my stomach. Burnt in the acids there.
How many times had I sped through that red light? For three straight weeks, I drove with a busted taillight. With fraudulent plates. With a spliff. Finally, he’d caught me. Maybe I could now look myself in the eyes. Look Carla in her eyes if she visited. Or maybe, forgiveness was a lie.
Word Count: 486 words
Sorry Sandra, I copied it in from my phone and forgot the ever-imperative word count: 500 words excluding the title.
Andrew, 1975
It’s February, and evening is upon us. Andrew goes unnoticed. Pedestrians streaming by the Palace Theatre barely even see a youth leaning against the wall. Some look towards him, but they are peering through the glass doors. Maybe they are wondering whether Jesus Christ Superstar is worth the ticket price. The traffic sweeping around Cambridge Circus has no time for pedestrians—less for some anonymous layabout.
He’s a thin young man. Closer to, it’s apparent that he’s not the youth he seemed. Maybe approaching thirty. But luck has gifted him a few years, so we will acknowledge the plump cheeks and the pink skin, although the eyes tell a different story.
Time to move. Cold.
Pushing back on the rough stone, Andrew eases himself forwards. Though it is time to move, he has no obvious way to go. To his right is Shaftesbury Avenue. He has just come from there. To his left is Charing Cross Road where there is an art school, and almost opposite, a bookshop. He would like to go that way. Somehow it reminds him of good people, or maybe, something he aspired to be once.
‘Follow your heart,’ his mother said.
‘Get out of my house,’ his father said.
His father was stronger.
His father showed him that there were people in the world that he didn’t understand. His father was a blank to him: a thing driven by passions and forces; unpredictable and frightening. Later, when he met Mac and Stu who ran the three-card games along the Charing Cross Road, he recognised them straight away as the same stuff. It’s Mac and Stu he’s thinking of as he crosses Moor Street. He does not want to run into them.
The Spice of Life is filling up, but it is not for him. Ahead he sees the jewellers where he had his ears pierced the day he arrived in London. That was the day he met Eileen and Stick. Stick found him a room in a squat and Eileen introduced him to pot, grass, weed, Mary Jane, blow, dope, you name it. What a day and a night that was. Later, Stick introduced him to something else to smoke, from tinfoil.
Along from the jewellers is the door to the upstairs bar of the Cambridge. Andrew heads towards it. He pauses. He has less than a pound in his pocket. Thirty-five pence for a pint. Listening to the barman, Ray, with his soft Irish voice—so interested, so concerned. Almost as good as a fix. Make sure to save thirty-five more for the tube to Morden. Stick’s floor is better than the street. And he is so tired, and so cold. Stick may have some, to keep the cold away.
Andrew steps through the door. He no longer sees further than a few hours into the future. He doesn’t look.
All this will change.
482 words with title
Only three entries depicting Andrew’s possible future, but each of a quality and breadth of imagination that makes the judging, the choosing of a “winner” extremely difficult.
Knicks opening sentence an instant hook, her choice of verbs ¬– “breathing hitched”, corner of mouth “kicked up” – is inspirational, and Andrew initially appears to have come a long way from his boyhood.Alex’s inclusion of a police officer with “sardine breath” and a toupee, and the description of Andrew’s “penny-brown eyes “ add to the detail of his mis-spent youth, giving him the ability to slip into and out of trouble in the course of a life of precarious living
Athelstone tells of the influence of Andrew’s father on his current thinly-surviving circumstances . Heartbreaking, but the final sentence has me hoping for another, more up-beat chapter.
And so, I have to choose. Not easy, but I think Alex’s slithery, conflicted small-fry villain deserves top place, and look forward to hearing what August’s challenge will bring.
Congratulations @Alex!! ??
I too am a fan of the penny-brown eyes. Well done, you ?
Also another stunner from Ath; Top-shelf characterization in a small pinch of words. #howdoeshedoit
Sandra, this was a marvellous prompt and I fully enjoyed it! Can’t wait to see what Alex comes up with, for August :)✨
Well done, Sandra. Another great competition. And well done to my co-competitors. Two top-notch entries. Congratulations, Alex. A nice twisty yarn!
@Sandra, thank you! I enjoyed this prompt.
@Ath, really enjoyable story with a subtle air of menace
@Knicks, I liked the idea of a librarian having such a double-life.
I’ll post the prompt for this month now.
Congratulations @alex . Well deserved.
I loved Ath’s and Knicks’ stories too. So atmospheric and full of life’s complications.
Thanks @Libby. It was fun to write.
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