Daisy. Beagle Ballerina

An orchestra of whiskers frisson in anticipation as dusk washes across the hushed meadow. A distant church tower intones the hour; the ballet begins. The cohort whisper through embroidered curtains and take their place centre stage. With a hop, a skip and a clutch of cowslip they entertain until a glimmer of snowy tail and a twitch of white stocking thigh are all that remain in the dark. In deep sleep a little down the lane, the memory of rabbit haunts the charcoal nose of a beagle and with a mere wriggle of toes she too is dancing with them.

 

Sent as an email to a Beagle living on the other side of the world. A bedtime tail.

 

Generation. Gap

Her bile writhes between false teeth and tongue, a feral response to the union of her son to a shop floor harlot who caught him in her web of false lashes and uncouth urban charms. Uncontained disgust lurks like penny lemon drops, acidic in the sheen on her bone china top lip as her fingers whiten their grip on the starched antimacassar that Nana insisted adorn every chair. A well-mannered woman who spared her words and not the cane. Edith practices her rictus grin as she waits for the centre of her world to usher the bride to be in.