Cherry Picking (with my daughter, aged five)

Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor, rich-man, poor-man … It’s not fair. 

Cheer up.  Next year, sometime, never; this year...  Baby, gypsy, queen; lady... And you’ll go to church in a carriage, wearing satin.

But, I want to marry Mr. Bridle.

Why? He’s not rich.

He’s my dentist.  He’s a tooth fairy. 

© Sophia Roberts

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A Visit to the Dentist

“I'm afraid this means root canal work,” the dentist said.

“Good,” I replied.

Her china blue eyes widened.  “Of course, I’ll try to make you as comfortable as possible.  There will be an additional charge, though ...”

“It’ll be worth it.”

It was. 

All I felt was my heart beating.

© Tim Scott

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The Dentist

Memories of the metal contraption

entering my soft, vulnerable mouth

grinding up inside my brain.

Tightening to brace each

rhythmic sear of pain. 

Captured, tortured.

Sixty years pass and the

fear is coffined in my veins

in spite of the jolly Glaswegian man,

who is so kind and whom I cannot understand.

  

© Valerie Taylor

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A VISIT TO THE DENTIST

‘Is it Painless you have come to see?’

The Receptionist’s expression is one of glee

Painful eyes are focused on my jaw

Observing closely whilst I close the door

‘Please rinse’, are the words I hear him say

When his injection comes into play.

© Kenneth Campbell
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The tailor’s daughter

Overcome by the pleasant lassitude of a warm summer afternoon, hers was a condition of indolent indifference. 

Francesca climbed up and into the hammock.

She was not inclined to sew a felled seam, the raw edges flattened, turned under, and stitched down.  

The old man could repair his own trousers. 

© Sophia Roberts

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Felled by Lassitude.

The lecture begins at eight.

An atonal voice dredges facts and figures through my head, fudged, unfocussed. As the bee bumbles on I fidget until words morph into palms whispering on far-off shores; soft sand cushions my rump and sea-sirens sing alluringly...

I drift.

It's 9.30. I am awake. And alone.

© Sheila Rogers

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The Three Strangers

She sips her coffee, peering askance. He lowers his book, stares. She smiles provocatively. He looks away, eyes vacant, bored. 

A pretty blonde steps up. Glass quivering in mid-air, over-spilling, he ogles. She slows, grinning. He half-rises. 

"Salut cherie," she breathes, sweeping past him into the arms of her beloved. 

© Sheila Rogers 
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Felled by lassitude...

The post-coital Bond stroked the honey-coloured shoulder of Gretcha Legova, an oligarch’s plaything.

His encrypted iphone buzzed.  Reminder from M of Punitive Equality Realignment Values training (PERV) following strained diplomatic relations with the Swedish Ambassador, Astrid Bonk.

Pouring champagne, he texted back: Regret, tied up.

Then the bomb went off.

© Tim Scott

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Felled by Lassie, chewed

B Wing, Holloway Prison 

I was so sure I had got away with it. The planning meant his murder went like a dream, or so I thought. Imagine my surprise when I was caught, outwitted, brought down by the long haired legend, the criminal shame of being felled by Lassie, chewed! 

© Liz Redfern

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