Jillian Chantal

This week, the writers of Tuesday Tales are writing to the word prompt Tough. I am working on my short story set on the Thames River in London.

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Gliding farther downriver, more swans were hefted out of the water and inspected. A group of seven floated by. It appeared to Clark they were the same little family he’d seen the day before as he made his way to the pub. A set of parents and five cygnets. Of course, they probably weren’t the same. There were a lot of baby swans at the moment it seemed but he liked to think these were the same group. He’d taken the ones he’d seen as a good omen for his first time in the lead boat, so he chose to believe they were those.

They moved along at a slow pace for the next few minutes. Once in a while, Clark would spy the little family from the corner of his eye. No one had gotten close enough to tag them yet. Hoping his boat would be the one to reach them first, Clark kept his steady pace of tagging, assessing and releasing, calling out information to Mavis as he went.

A loud squawking startled him.

“What was that?” Mavis darted a glance around.

Clark also searched for the source of the sound.

It came again. This time louder and longer. And more like a chorus than one voice.

Mavis let out a screech and pointed to the edge of the river.

As soon as Clark saw what was happening, he didn’t stop to think or consider anything other than the safety of the two swans who were trapped at the edge of the water in a thicket.

He dove in without any hesitation and swam toward the group of swans.

Five swans were frantically calling for the two who were in the grasses.

When Clark reached them, he realized what the problem was. They had become entangled, not in merely grass and reeds, but in some kind of plastic netting. How did that get in the water?

Furious that the birds had been put in such danger by someone’s carelessness, Clark treaded water while he tried to dig his small knife out of his pocket. It would be tough to cut off the plastic with the birds so upset and flailing to try to get free but he had to try.

He was vaguely aware of people calling out to him but he tuned them out as he tried to focus.

As he moved closer to the two swans in distress, he realized the other five were closing in on him. He couldn’t let that bother him. These two were in danger of drowning if they didn’t get free.

He was finally able to get hold of the leg of the one closest to him.

As he grabbed hold, someone yelled, “Watch out, Clark.”

This week, the authors of Tuesday Tales are writing to picture prompts. I chose the brie one. I am working on a short story set in London in July when the swan upping is done. The posts are limited to 300 words.

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“We did.” He pointed to his friend Nigel. “It was Nige’s idea. He’s always been a clever one.”

The bartender waved Clark’s lager. “You going to pick it up, mate?”

“Sorry. Sorry.” Clark turned to Tabitha. “You can join us if you like. I’m not planning to stay long but I’m sure my mates won’t mind if you hang out.” He smiled. “Since none of your pals are here.”

“Thanks. I think I will. At least until some of the regulars come in. I hate to sit alone. I think it attracts the wrong sort of bloke when a girl is alone in a pub.”

“You’re probably right. I know some of us can be insensitive to women. Not that I think that’s okay. I just that I know it happens.”

“Too often for comfort, to be honest. Safety in numbers and all that.” Tabitha followed him to the table where his friend Nigel sat with several others and he pulled a chair out for her.

When she was settled in, he took the seat opposite and introduced her to everyone.

“Are you ready to lead us all tomorrow, Clark?” Nigel asked as he eyed Tabitha across the table. He cut a slice of the brie on the table and put it up to his mouth.

Of course Nigel is attracted to the blonde. She’s just his type.

Afraid he’d brought Tabitha to the attention of the very kind of bloke she was trying to avoid, Clark had a moment of regret for his efforts to befriend the girl. Hoping Nigel wouldn’t be a jerk, he said, “I’m not technically the leader, you know.”

This week, the writers of Tuesday Tales are writing to the word prompt luck. I finished my story I have been working on and will start something new next week. This is the last of this one to be shared here.

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Before he could voice the rest of what he intended to say, she said, “I owe you an apology.”

His heart sunk before he even knew what she was going to state next. “Why?”

“I have seen you around the school and town. I wrote to my mother that you were here and mentioned how odd it was.”

Dread rolled down his back like sweat on a hot day in July. That man he thought he recognized in the cafe had to be who he thought. It would be too coincidental if not. “And why does that warrant an apology?”

The music stopped. Henry released his partner and returned the gramophone. “All right, ladies, switch roles.”

Miss Billingsly joined him beside the gramophone. “I am sorry. My mother told others in Town where you are. I saw your father’s steward coming in the building on my way in here.”

Henry grabbed onto the table where the gramophone sat, his knuckles so tight they were white. He would surely be dragged home in shame. What a terrible thing to happen. And if he knew the steward—and he did—the man would barge right into this classroom and haul him out forcibly. Ah well. The nine young ladies would get a show to tell their friends about. And a firm laugh at his expense.

He could not go on with the lesson. He stopped the music and clapped his hands. “Miss Billingsly will lead you all for a few moments while I take a short break.”

“Have you got a tummy ache, Mr. Smythe?” Mary Ann asked.

“No. He has to go out and adjust himself from having held Miss Billingsly so close,” Cecily said with a wicked laugh.

“Cecily. Young ladies do not speak of such things.” Miss Billingsly appeared outraged.

Henry almost smiled at her discomfiture but he was in enough trouble himself that he could not.

“But they do, Miss Billingsly. I even wager you have done the same with your friends,” the scraggly-haired girl said.

Henry idly thought he should have at least tried to learn the girl’s name. Now it was too late. With his luck, he would be sent away in disgrace. He was surprised at how much that idea hurt.

This week, the writers of Tuesday Tales are writing to the word prompt bud. I am working on a short story set in the 1860s in London.

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As he walked on, his mind turned to the dilemma of the extra partner he needed in order to not have the same argument of the day before when the nine ladies each vied to be partnered by the dance master. He could see some of them were destined to play the flirt in ballrooms and some would be likely to be caught in compromising positions with some of the young lads who preyed on girls like them. Of course, being caught meant the marriage banns being read so it would be more likely one or two would be left in dire circumstances by some cad. He did not see how he could help them avoid that but did he have a duty to warn them as their dance master or was his only duty to teach them the steps of the reels and waltzes?

Henry knew he was not one to give lessons in morality to these young women. That was better left to their female instructors but he did feel a little bit as if he should warn them about how men could be. Especially the more forward of the girls.

Arriving at the door to the cafe, he snipped a bud from one of the rose bushes at the left side of the entry. He put it to his nose to inhale the scent before moving inside to the strong smell of the coffee on offer.

Tucking the flower into the pocket of his weskit, he went in to order his beverage.

Inside, he noticed a man in the far corner standing with his back to the door. The man was in deep conversation with two people seated at the table.

Something about the way the man stood and how he held himself jangled alarm bells in Henry’s mind. The broad back and tilt of the man’s head made Henry decide to back out of the cafe and miss out on breaking his fast. He would have to find something at the school to stop his belly from screaming at him in protest of the missed meal.

As he walked down the street toward his place of employment, Henry found himself chuckling after a few minutes. “There is no way, old chap, that that was who I mistook him for. He would not be in Manchester. He certainly would not be in the cafe I frequent. I am surely seeing things.”

This week is a picture prompt week and I am still working on my short story with the son of an earl hiding out as a dance instructor. Each post is limited to 300 words. I cut come conversation out of the middle of what I am sharing from my WIP as it would have put me over the word limit here. 🙂

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When Henry arrived at his boarding house and entered the hallway, he sniffed the air as a marvelous smell wafted down the hallway from the kitchen. He reflected for a moment about the home he’d been raised in. There were never delightful aromas invading the rest of the house from his father’s kitchens. Of course, he knew they probably existed, but since the cook did her work from the back of the manor and on another floor, they never made their way out of her domain.

He found he quite liked being greeted by a foretaste of what might be in store for the evening meal.

“Good evening, sir. I hope your day went well,” Maggie, the maid said as she passed by on her way to the drawing room.

“It was passable.” He knew she did not want to hear about all the young ladies who had tried to make his day miserable and speaking casually to maids was still new to him.

“What am I smelling? It’s lovely and making me hungry for the evening meal.”

“Oh, that’s Mrs. Richardson’s famous squash soup. It really is a hearty and wonderful meal. She serves it with her special cheese and herb crackers. You will be happy with the meal.” She turned back to the door. “But I must lay the fire in here. There are a couple of guests coming tonight.”