Worthing Flash

Patricia Feinberg Stoner I love him. He is so handsome. His beauty gleams, it seems to mock me as I yearn from my obscure corner. He is so elegant. The suave lines of his physique draw gasps of admiration from all who are fortunate enough to find themselves in his presence.   An invitation to a murder www.paw-prints-in-the-butter.com    

Patricia Feinberg Stoner Intruder. The pond gathered itself protectively around the frogspawn stirring in its depths. ‘Begone!’ it murmured. ‘You don’t belong here. Leave us to our rest.’ The cat raised a brindled head, then continued filling the hole it had dug among the tulips. It stayed a while longer, grooming its flanks, before jumping the fence to disappear into the night. An owl and the moon sailed noiseless overhead, blessing house and garden once more with peace.   An invitation to a murder www.paw-prints-in-the-butter.com      

by Patricia Feinberg Stoner Her little face was pressed against the glass pane. Her ears lay flat against her skull and moisture dripped from her whiskers. The conservatory door was open – how could she not tell she was on the wrong side of it? Grabbing a towel from the airing cupboard I walked out onto the rain-darkened boards of the terrace. I scooped her up and hugged her till the shivering stopped. ‘Silly cat,’ I said.   An invitation to a murder www.paw-prints-in-the-butter.com      

  Morning conversation. Patricia Feinberg Stoner Bark, bark, bark! Eat your breakfast. Grrf? I said eat your breakfast. I’ve eaten my breakfast, look, the bowl’s clean. Is it time now? No, I’ve got to make coffee. Awww. Bark, bark, bark! NO! no more barking. Bark And no more rebellious little woofs. Is that coffee I smell? I can smell it! It must be time now. Is it? Yes, all right, it’s time. Bark! Bark! BARK! Stop running round in circles. How am I going to get your collar on? There now. WHOOPS! Will you stop towing me out of the door? Silence.   A tale of accidental expatriates   http://mybook.to/Athome Tales of love and laughter in the land of vines http://mybook.to/TalesDoc Patricia Feinberg Stoner  

Rennis and Istan were strolling in the Garden.  It was still in riotous colour, although the first hints of the August slump were beginning to make themselves felt.  The lawn was roseate with fallen poppy petals and the bells of the petunia were tinged with brown.  A distant memory were the over-arching branches of the Solomon’s Seal, and even the herb Robert was sparse on spider stalks. Coronavirus was in its 19th week, and Rennis who had felt a quiet pride every time he watched the news, was becoming bored with the tragedy now.  Istan was in philosophical mood.   ‘Nothing to be done,’ he murmured, unconsciously quoting Ireland’s greatest playwright.  ‘And what is worse, nothing to do. Even the clapping has stopped.’ Rennis stroked his sable goatee and passed a cautious hand over the landscape of his black and shining scalp. ‘How about this,’ he suggested.  ‘A wager, or, if you like, a challenge?  We will address the locked down, the furloug...

A California Wedding It was the talk of the season. The little chapel in the orange grove was crowded, the fortunate guests agog. Finally, Lulu and Butch were to be married. Across the valley, through the smog, fragments of the iconic sign swam in and out of view like pale ghosts. H-LLY---D. In a corner, a blonde B-lister pouted as a hundred Canon Sure-Shots snapped her way. Butch looked just darling in his tux, with the dicky bow snuggled into the dark, curling hairs on his chest. Lulu was frou-frou – all pink and white tulle with diamanté and spangles. Mother of the groom was fussing and fretting, petting and smoothing. Mother of the bride was all a-flutter, fixing, primping, adjusting a bow here, a jewel there. Suddenly the bride lost it. She was hot and uncomfortable and Momma had been squawking and pawing at her all day. Enough was enough. Teeth bared, she flew at her groom’s throat, coming away with a mouthful of dicky bow and black cu...

Over time without measure, for indeed time was not yet born, over distance unimaginable, or perhaps densely confined within an atom’s core the attraction grew. In the dark - for light, too, awaited birth In the heat – or in its absence the attraction grew. Tighter and tighter the embrace, deeper and deeper the thrust and pulse, all into nothing, nothing into all until where there was nothing, there was all. The climax hurled stars screaming across the all. When? Where? How? All we know: it was the biggest of Bangs and we are its children. Patricia Feinberg Stoner follow my mewsings at  http://www.paw-prints-in-the-butter.com laugh with the ladies at   https://youtu.be/_70Qys5zOpc see my books at  https://www.amazon.co.uk/-/e/B00O36LKRE

There was gloom in Mission Control. Opportunity was dead. After 15 years of Mars exploration, the plucky little rover stopped communicating on in June 2018. On February 13t of the following year, NASA announced that its mission had come to an end. Now Curiosity, launched in 2011, would take up the baton. Then, at two o’clock on the morning of February 14 th , a solitary computer blinked into life. When the scientist whose computer it was logged in some five hours later he gasped in disbelief, then gave a whoop of exultation. This is what he read: Hey, NASA. I hear y’all have been worried about me these past few months, so I thought I’d touch base one last time. I’ve been up here 15 years now, and I’ve been pretty busy sending you pictures of where I’m at. And thanks for giving me the credit for discovering water on Mars, it’s nice to get a bit of recognition for a job well done. I haven’t seen any signs of actual life, though, and I have to admit it was getting ki...

Somewhere, a woman is writing a poem. She’s calling the poem ‘Somewhere’ because she doesn’t know where she is. The food pushed through the hatch in her door is unfamiliar: hard flat breads with a taste of unknown spice, thin stews with lumps of what might be lamb, might be goat or… she prefers not to think what the lumps might be. She dreams of Friday night feasts at home: a take-away Chinese, a pizza. Her room – cell? – is sweltering in the daytime and freezing cold at night. She has no blanket, only a thin mattress and the clothes she was wearing when she came here. She is given water to drink, a grudging cupful twice a day, neve enough to wash with. Her hair is matted and she knows she stinks. What does she remember? Hammering sun on a brutal street, a car crashing to a halt, dirty hands snatching her phone, her notebook. Snarled words in a corruption of English she can barely understand. Her photos are gone, her precious sel...

There was a noise. It was not the rattling gurgle of the hot water bottle as the woman rolled in the bed, pulling it with her. That was a known noise, a safe noise. The house held its breath. The radiator plinked the last of the day’s warmth, and the wardrobe creaked companionably, sharing a memory. The books had been reading. Now they paused in their discussion of Kafka’s Metamorphosis. The rustle of debate was hushed. The bathroom light, which had been flirting with the mirror and the taps, quietly switched itself off. The pull-cord swung for a moment and was still. In the kitchen, the eggs had been dreaming primal dreams of sunshine and worms. Disturbed, they shifted slightly in their basket. The basket was shaped like a chicken, but the irony was lost on the eggs. The milk, forgotten on the counter top after the evening’s last cup of tea, yearned towards the refrigerator and cool slumber. The fridge smiled fatly back, containing yoghourt, cheese, mayonnaise, non-da...