The Longest Day

I'm still catching up!  Here is my first person story, more of an autobiography really.  It's the first time I've tried writing an autobiographical piece.  Previously I thought I would always stick to fiction, but I have to say it was an enjoyable experience.  

The Longest Day

This may sound like a Second World War story but it isn’t.  It does involve invading Germany, but only for a short break in Munich!  Like any day long story, it starts the day before.  August 1977, twenty three years old; my first adventure abroad.  Travelling alone will always create some interesting scenarios.

I travelled to London by train, continuing on the tube to Liverpool Street station.  Catching the boat train to Harwich, leaving around seven o’clock in the evening.  I was making use of the generous travel facilities afforded to railway employees, which included the ferry crossing.  I’d never been to Harwich before, in fact I think it was my first venture into Essex.  There I was directed through passport control to the boarding area by a multitude of multi-lingual signs.  My ferry was due to leave for the Hook of Holland at ten o’clock.  Darkness had descended on the Essex port, the harbour lights shone brightly illuminating the cranes, sheds and dockside areas.  Forklift trucks shuttling backwards and forwards.

I’d booked a berth in a four berth cabin for the overnight crossing, sharing it with three other intrepid explorers, sadly all male.  It was a calm sea but I still felt queasy with the rocking motion.  Sleeping was virtually impossible, the noise of the engines was a constant drone.  My cabin was on a lower deck, near the engine room by the sound of it.  I thought the gentle rocking of the waves would help me sleep, but my stomach thought otherwise.

We arrived around five o’clock in the morning; bleary eyed, my head pounding, arriving in a foreign country felt strange.  I’d chosen Germany (West Germany in those days) because I’d studied the language at ‘O’ Level.  After three attempts I gave up on the exam, getting a worse grade each time.  Not quite fluent, but I knew a decent number of phrases and sayings that would no doubt be useful.  This was Holland though, and whilst the language may have similarities to German, it is pretty incomprehensible.  My train left around seven thirty in the morning so I ventured into the station buffet to find some breakfast.  From memory (it is almost forty years ago) I had a strong coffee and something resembling a croissant filled with cheese, probably Edam.  This was in the days before Euros, the Dutch currency was Gilders; odd shaped coins, some very tiny ones as well.

I boarded the Rhine Express which would take me all the way to Munich in around eleven hours.  Travelling through Holland looking at the architecture of towns and villages, steeply pitched roofs, not too many windmills.  Cycle paths everywhere; women riding heavy ‘sit up and beg’ type bikes and sportier men riding lightweight racing machines.  The friendly guard (ticket collector) wore a dark blue uniform, jacket and trousers with a low slung tan coloured leather satchel carrying all his money, tickets and such like.  The train pulled into Venlo, the border station with Germany.  On the platform German police seemed taller, broader, meaner looking, some with large Alsatian dogs.  Once over the border the style of architecture changed to a distinctly German style, apartment blocks in the towns and larger individual houses in the villages. 

The Polizei came down the train, opening the compartment door and barking ‘Pass’.  A fearsome sight; sharply pressed olive green trousers; automatic pistol holstered but intentionally on view.  His shirt was a pale brown / dark yellow colour again perfectly laundered, complete with officious looking peaked cap.  He looked at my passport photo, checked my face and handed it back to me.  He asked where I was travelling to and I managed to reply in German; ‘Munchen’.  He closed the door firmly without a ‘dankeschon’ or acknowledgement.

The journey dragged, the sun had risen to a warm, pleasant summer day.  The train stopped at Cologne with its impressive black stone, twin spired cathedral.  The city was an interesting mix of old and new buildings.  The new ones presumably as a result of the wartime bomb damage.  The train took its name from the middle part of the journey running alongside the famous river.  Steep sided valleys with dark forests, endless vineyards on the hillsides.  Elegant white steamers ploughing up and down the river offering cruises, calling at the riverside towns for wine tasting and sightseeing.  Rounding a sharp bend, the infamous Lorelei rock towering up overlooking the river.  This is where the river is apparently at its narrowest, most shallow point.  Lorelei was a distressed maiden who awaited the return of her lover but eventually threw herself into the river.  Her spirit is said to sit combing her golden hair luring passing sailors to be shipwrecked on the nearby rocks.

Late afternoon the train calls at Stuttgart before the final leg of the journey.  It was just after six o’clock as we pulled in to Munich.  Further reminders of the war just outside the station, passing dark, bullet riddled buildings.  I’d chosen an hotel in the city centre close to the station; I knew I’d be tired from the near twenty four hours journey.  Setting foot in Germany for the first time I soon got my bearings and found the hotel in a matter of minutes.  After the virtually sleepless ferry crossing and virtually twelve hour train journey I was looking for an early night.  I was on a bed and breakfast deal, so needed something to eat, especially as my food intake during the journey had been frugal.  

Once I’d left my bag in my room I took to the streets to find a reasonable eating establishment.  I was so tired I just headed back to the station to try the food there.  Not the best choice, I ended up with a mediocre salad and a cup of heavy duty coffee.  I headed back out into the city centre around seven thirty or eight o’clock.  I decided a medicinal beer would be good to help me sleep.  Munich is after all famous for a variety of beers and the Oktober Beer fest.  I soon realised that they didn’t have pubs like England, the only places seemed to be restaurants. 

Just around the corner from my hotel a neon sign advertised ‘Bar’, this seemed to be what I was looking for.  There was only a door off the street in between two shops.  I thought it odd, but accepted that maybe it was the norm here.  A quick mental resume of how to ask for a beer and I pushed the door open and ventured inside.  From daylight out on the street it was so dark when I went through the door.  It closed behind me and was difficult to see anything at all.  I couldn’t immediately see a bar, or any other customers.  As my pupils adjusted to the darkness, I could make out something that looked like a bar.  It was small; the size of a desk or small table and no one behind it serving.  Looking around I could now perceive couples in even darker alcoves. 

I approached the bar and stood there for a moment; out of nowhere a tall blonde woman appeared behind the bar.  It was not easy to see her face; she seemed attractive and I think she was smiling at me.  At last I was going to get a drink, although mystified at the customs in their hostelries.

‘Ein beer bitte,’ I proudly asked in my best German.

‘Beer und schnapps oder beer und cognac,’ came the reply.

Bemused by the concept of such a potent combination, I tried again.

‘Ein beer bitte.’

‘Beer und schnapps oder beer und cognac,’ she replied again.

This seemed weird to me, I’d never heard of mixing drinks like this, and surely it wouldn’t hurt to switch a couple of lights on.  I tried again, thinking it was maybe my Yorkshire accent that was confusing her.

‘Ein beer bitte!’ I stressed.

At last this prompted a different response, this time in English.

‘You drink the beer and I drink the schnapps.’

In today’s idiom it could be called a light bulb moment.  I now appreciated that they weren’t selling beer, and what the couples in the alcoves were doing!  Panic would be a good description for my reaction; I headed for the door quickly.  As I took those few steps I expected to feel a knife being thrust into my back.  Opening the door I rushed out onto the street; daylight again.  I kept moving, incredulous that I had not been stabbed!  I didn’t look back. 

It had been the longest day.

Twisted Cinders

Yesterday's prompt was to re-write an alternative version of the Cinderella story.  This is an excerpt, although I have still to write the beginning and ending, but hopefully it gives a flavour of the setting and likely outcome.

Twisted Cinders

Cinders stepped out of the pink Mercedes, Buttons in a pink chauffeur suit holding the door open.  The fairy godmother’s choice of outfit was not really to Cinders’ liking.  A sensible trouser suit in a neutral or pastel colour would have been preferable, but she wore the flowing white evening gown with the white high heels to humour her.  She’d obviously been in too many fairy tales!  Cinders’ elder sisters, Esmeralda and Tabitha had already arrived and were enthusiastically devouring the canapés and imbibing the free drinks on offer.  Prince Charming was stood at the top of the steps welcoming his guests.  He wore a bright blue tuxedo, white shirt with a large yellow bow tie.

‘What a jerk,’ thought Cinders.

His false smile, deceptive eyes and brilliant white teeth made her want to puke.  He shook her hand and tried to kiss her on the cheek; she turned her head away from his garlic smelling breath.  His hand was cold and sticky.

‘A typical man,’ she thought.

A waiter in shiny black trousers and a crisp white shirt offered her a glass of sparkling pink champagne from the silver tray he was carrying.  Cinders had never tasted alcohol, the bubbles went straight up her nose, causing her to almost sneeze and giggle at the same time.  Such a strange sensation; she tried it again. It tasted so good, giving her a warm feeling inside; she sought out another waiter for a second glass.On the stage, a long haired trio of denim clad musicians were plugging in guitars, tuning up and generally messing about.  The drummer constantly thumping his bass drum and tinkling his cymbals.  Cinders circulated sipping her second drink slower, the inner warm glow releasing her inhibitions.  She’d heard that Prince Charming’s younger sister Princess Delightful was making her first appearance at the ball now that she had turned eighteen.  By the stage she saw her, a slender youthful body, beautiful raven hair falling in ringlets over her naked shoulders.  A figure hugging sky blue dress with sparkling sequins on the bodice.  Standing there politely holding her glass, very nervous and shy.Feeling flushed with champagne, the alcohol coursing through her veins Cinders meandered across the ballroom towards the young princess.

‘Excuse me, are you Princess Delightful?’

‘Yes, I am.  What is your name?

‘My name is Cinderella, but you can call me Cinders, everyone else does.’

‘Have you been to the ball before, Cinders?’

‘No, this is my first time too.  It’s exciting, isn’t it?’

‘Can we find somewhere to sit down and talk?  It’s so lonely here in the palace.’

‘I’d love to, that would be cool. I have to leave by midnight though.’

‘That’s OK Cinders, Mama says I have to be in bed by twelve too.’

Blind Date

This story is inspired by Monday's prompt to write a story told almost completely in dialogue.
This story is set in a time before the invention of the mobile phone; things were more straight forward in those days.  A phone was one of those devices that sat in the hallway or a room of your house, which occasionally rang; it was usually a wrong number.  When you were out of the house (or office) the only availability of a phone was a public pay phone, for which you probably didn't have any change, or one of those pre-paid phone cards.  How wonderfully primitive!

Blind Date

‘Hello, is it Tracy?’

‘Err … no … sorry.’

‘Oh … sorry.’

That was embarrassing, quickly I walk round the concourse.  I knew she liked horses, I thought the horse necklace was a dead giveaway.  People rushing for a train, looking for a bus or a taxi home.  Stood where she can’t see me, then she’s approaching me, looking sheepish.

‘I’m sorry, I am Tracy, I lost my nerve.’

‘That’s OK, I was sure it was you.’

‘I’ve never done this before; I told some of my friends, they said I was stupid.’

‘I know it’s difficult, but we’d chatted well on the phone.’

‘You were easy to talk to, we seemed to have things in common,’ she said.

‘Do you still want to go for a drink?’

‘Well we’re here now, we might as well.’

I’d parked in the station car park; she directed me to a nearby pub she knew.

‘So, have you been riding today?’ I asked.

‘Yes, my horse Candy needs to be ridden every day.’

‘I’ve had some riding lessons, I’m not very good, I’ve fallen off a couple of times.’

‘It takes a lot of practice, I started very young.’

‘Do you have any other animals or pets?’

‘I got an Alsatian puppy four months ago, she’s adorable.  She’s got such big paws, you should see her.’

Yes, I like dogs, I’ve always had one.  Mine’s a bit of a cross breed.’

The first drink eased the nerves, both hers and mine.  No awkward silences.

‘Would you like another drink,’ I asked.

‘That would be good, I’ll get them but can you go to the bar? I’ll give you the money.’

‘OK that’s fair enough; white wine again?’

Drinks bought, we carried on as before.

‘I’ve had a few boyfriends, but I never manage to keep them for long.  That’s why I thought I’d try this.’

‘Me too.’

‘My horse takes up most of my time, I go out with a group of friends most Fridays.  I told them I was meeting you tonight.’

‘I see, what did they think?’

‘They think I'm mad! They said you’d be a weirdo.’

‘Oh! Do you think I’m a weirdo?’

‘No, not at all, we got on well when we spoke on the phone.’

‘Yes, I was pleasantly surprised, that’s why I suggested meeting up.

By ten o'clock the pub was busy; background music was louder and conversation became more difficult.

‘I’m really tired, I've had a long day. Would you mind taking me home, please?’

‘Sure, but it’s still early.’

‘I need to be up early in the morning to ride Candy.’

‘I understand.

‘You can see Lucy, my puppy when we get there.’

‘Yes, I’d like that.’

We got back in my car, it was dark. I was in a strange city, so she directed me once again.  It was only a couple of miles away.  It seemed a large house, had a courtyard at the rear.  We went through the back door, into the kitchen.

‘Wait here, I’ll get Lucy.’

The kitchen was cold and quiet, there didn't seem to be anyone else in.

‘Here’s Lucy.’

A playful Alsatian puppy came bounding up to me, brown and tan with massive fluffy paws.  Fussing and sniffing, Lucy wanted to be my friend.

‘How about meeting up again?’ I asked.

‘I’ll give you a ring next week, I’ve got a few things on.’

Next week, she didn’t ring.  So I phoned her, we chatted.  It had been a nice evening, we had got on well, all friendly stuff.  Couldn’t arrange another date.

I never saw Tracy again.

One more finished ...

I've now finished yesterday's story, set in Noo York, a criminal pursued by a female cop.  Now for todays attempt.

The Pool Hall King

Friday night, holed up in the basement of O’Malley’s bar.  Corner of forty second and second, rock music blasting from next door.  Dark corners contrasting with the flood of light over the pool tables.  A smoky haze in front of the bar as punters drink the night away.  The weekly pool tournament in full swing.  Only five guys this week, on a good week maybe up to twelve or fifteen.  Five bucks to enter, winner takes all, poor pickings tonight.  Keeping a low profile after last week’s bank job, waiting for my pay out.  That guy shouldn’t have tried to be a hero, what else could I do?

Stuck in a murky one room apartment on the Lower East Side, watching TV all day and making a couple of beers last all night in backstreet bars.  Into the final of the pool, no sweat.  These guys don’t realise I used to be a pro.  Usually one or two hookers hanging round, ready to make a play for the winner, and his winnings.  Since I crashed out here three weeks ago, I’ve cleaned up every week.  What else can you do?

First week the blonde one chatted me up after the semi-final.  Older than the other girls, maybe thirty something, taller, longer legs shown off well in her short red skirt.  Difficult to see in the dark to see her face clearly, but pretty for a hooker.  Twelve guys that week, a sixty dollar haul.  Bought her a drink; she followed me back to my place, only charged thirty bucks.  Boy, was it worth it!  Called herself Lola, but I guess that wasn’t the name she was born with.

Second week there she was again, loitering in the shadows.  Only six guys showed up for the pool, but it was like taking candy, again.  As soon as I sunk the eight ball Lola was by my side.

‘Hi big boy, looks like you’ve cleaned up again.’

After I’d bought us both a beer she took the rest of my winnings.  The money didn’t seem to matter to her.

Last week she never showed, thought I’d lost my touch.  Another poor turnout for the pool, twenty five dollars winnings and five of those were mine to start with.  Just on midnight as I walked downtown to my block, she appeared from a shop doorway across the road.  She was stalking me now!  Having bought a round of drinks for the guys I only had ten bucks left, but she was happy with that.  How had I managed to find the cheapest hooker in town, who didn’t look as though she’d been hit by a tram?  Afterwards we chatted, she was more inquisitive; wanted answers.  Where was I from?  What did I do for a job?  How long was I staying?  She left about three in the morning, said she needed another couple of tricks before she turned in.  

Before the pool kicked off tonight I was watching the Nick’s game on TV in the bar.  The news headlines in the break; they’re interviewing one of the NYPD cops about the Bronx bank robbery and shooting.  A blonde female cop; DI Marie Tomkins, a mean looking broad, but it was definitely her.  Winning tonight was tricky, I had too much on my mind. Looks like I’ve got to head west in the morning.  Catch a train to anywhere away from here.  No sign of her at O’Malley’s tonight, hope she doesn’t come round later.

Midnight back at the apartment, ten minutes and my stuff is packed ready for take-off in the morning.  I can’t sleep, too many nightmares.  I keep the revolver under my pillow.  All quiet outside, not much traffic.  Outside I hear footsteps … heels clicking … woman’s footsteps.  I clicked off the safety, swearing that if she showed her face here tonight, my room would be the last one she ever entered.

Catch Up

First of all a catch up from yesterday. I am not twitterate so unable to post a tweet, but have written one all the same.  Using the 'shame' prompt, this must be my first tweet!

Really it wasn't me, I couldn't hurt you. It was an accident, you'll soon feel better, it won't leave a scar. Jasmine, I'm sorry. #shame

Magnetic Poem

Not enough time or planning for today's 2000 word  story.  But love the prompt, passion and obsession, will have more time tomorrow.  So here is my 100 word randomly generated poem.

I hold his hand there through sweet language,

Come, my pink goddess will listen near,

Then touch as gentle angel tear felt,

But must love in the morning charm by full,

When she ask, do you devote with spirit?

Share all, bread & chocolate are always favourite,

Best time at fun is under sun,

Be true and grow if two join at heart,

Could she ever fascinate?

Find nice song, give it hope,

Did you keep glad?

Receive at faith, get soul on sky, belong,

Think lift me here, been by kind gift

Want little and tell not which need.

Lost

I thought this would be easier with more words, but just a different type of difficulty.  I'm pleased with story, worked out almost as I expected.  A mystery and exactly 640 words.

LOST

The final rays of sun sank below the dark clouds on the horizon. Orange bled into vermillion then deeper still to purple with a glowing streak across the rippling water.  Martha sat on a spiky tuft of grass watching the sunset, sharp blades attacking her pale white bare legs.  Six days he’d been gone now, tomorrow Sunday, a week without him.  The disc dips below the water line as darkness descends, slowly she forces her legs to push her up, kneeling a moment she says a silent prayer. 

‘Let him be safe, he knows that I love him.’

Carefully she picks her way back from the shore, up the narrow uneven path.  Back on the road, no traffic, no streetlights.  A short walk to the old fisherman’s cottage she calls home.  The heavy wooden door creaks as she opens it and again when it closes.  The reassuring metallic click as the lock is turned.  A haven of peace.  Her hand reaches out for the light switch on the small brass lamp.  His chair still empty, his musky fragrance still hangs in the air; she breathes it in; a living reminder.

In the corner she looks at her easel by the small window.  Subdued light gives the canvas a monochromatic quality.  The yacht on the lake, the hills grey in the background.  She lies on the couch, her mind filled with conflicting thoughts.  Memories of yesterday, hopes and fears for tomorrow.

She wakes to the cold morning light drifting in.  Bleary eyed she makes her way into the bedroom, climbs into bed and wraps the heavy blue blanket around her cold and tired limbs.  Hours later, a heavy knocking on the door.

‘What time is it?  Who is it?’

Martha jumps up and hurries to the door.

‘Good morning Martha, gosh you look as though you’ve just woken up.’

Ruth, her old school friend who now runs the village café.

‘I thought I’d see you in church this morning.’

‘Oh … I forgot … its Sunday, sorry Ruth. Come in and I’ll make us a drink.’

Ruth sits in his chair; Martha in the kitchen, kettle boiling on the stove.

‘How are you my dear?’

‘I feel as though I’ve lost a part of me.’

The room falls silent, the grey stone walls offer no warmth; the ash and embers of the fire lie still and cold.  Martha’s seascapes decorate the walls, her life is water, but now the vessel is empty. 

‘Maybe he’ll return one day, there’s always hope.’

Martha stares into the blackness of her coffee, a solemn tear escapes and slowly trickles down her milky white cheek.

‘He’s gone, I know.’

Ruth’s words of comfort have all dried up, nervously she looks at Martha’s pictures for inspiration.

‘The sea can be such a lonely place, the wind, the waves, the sun, the rain.’

‘I love the sea, I could never leave.’

‘But you could make a fresh start, a new beginning you have your paintings.’

‘I can only paint the sea, it is a part of me,’

‘You could paint the hills and the valleys.’

‘Ruth, the sea is blue, I am blue, I can only paint blue!’

‘You can come and help me out at the café.’

‘No Ruth, my place is here.  If he returns how will he find me?’

Martha opened the door to look out at the landscape.  The winding road up from the beach, past her house to the village two miles distant.  The long grass swaying gently in the breeze.  Today the sky is cloudy, grey and overcast to match Martha’s mood.  All is quiet, not a car in sight.  Movement in the distance, she strains her eyes to see.  A dark, lonely figure walking towards her cottage.

‘He’s back, he’s back!’ Martha shouts running down the path and onto the road.