Creative Writing, Fashion, Fashion Flash Fiction

Bare Wrists

Her clutch fell to the ground unnoticed. Lucinda quickly swiped it from the floor and ran off through the closing doors of the tube. The District line at Victoria station was always a busy place. A place to meet up, a place to change lines, a place to blend in and a place to lose things. It was a busy place. Lucinda was shaking, from the adrenaline or maybe it was the crowds, large groups of people made her nervous. Yet she relished in them. She followed the signs to the Victoria line and she took a seat on the platform’s benches.
The bag wasn’t really a clutch, surely, it was too big and it didn’t have any handles however. Her blackened finger prints remained in contrast on the white leather. Lucinda pulled it open uncivilly. She found a copy of a British Vogue magazine in it folded opened on page 143, the August 2014 edition. Nothing else.
She put the bag beside her and sat up straight as though she were awaiting a train. She wasn’t waiting for a train because there was a train stood before her, doors wide open. The carriages were mostly empty too, but she didn’t take the getaway cart. She pulled her large, grey, felt hat down over her collection of blonde straw that tickled her eyebrows. Her hat and everything else she wore was grey and felt. Like an inmate of a grey- felt wearing secret society.
Lucinda chuckled and stood up for the pregnant lady who stood beside her. ‘Sit’ she said. The woman told her no because the train is now due, but Lucinda had walked away too soon to hear it.
She had decided she preferred the District and Circle lines and so she went back up to the platform. When she got off the stairs she stared up at the large gaping whole ever present in station celling. She changed her view to look at the information screen. The next train was delayed apparently. That was a first, she thought. She continued to stare until the information changed. And then she heard a woman crying and saying she was sure. Lucinda looked down toward the woman. It was her.
A few feet away the hysterical woman was pointing directly at Lucinda, shouting, “it was her she took my Lanvin clutch,” crying and clinging onto the Transport for London Customer Service Team Member. “I promise I’m sure. It was a big white bag with no handles. Get it back! Please.”
Bare wrist was a detail the grey-felt wearing inmates took pride in. And at that moment Lucinda was out, because a pair of sterling silver, metropolitan police hand-cuffs squeezed at Lucinda’s wrist.
page 143 (2)

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Creative Writing, Fashion, Fashion Flash Fiction, Flash Fiction

ZigZags and Selma

Tulisa had only a few minutes to pick a pair of shoes. Her pre-booked taxi driver had called 5 minutes ago reminding her of his presence. The extra charge was not the problem, her company directly paid for the costs, if he decided to leave, that would be the problem. Drivers had left her stranded in her closet on a few occasions. They often placed bets on which unfortunate soul would be summoned to drive Miss T. Rose to and from work in the week. She used to have one permanent driver, but he died and since no one would settle to be her driver. It was Abdullah’s week again. Miss Rose did not like Abdullah because he was the first driver annoyed enough to leave her stranded, which then set the pace for all preceding drivers.

 HONK! Tulisa frantically spun around to face the full length mirror that stood at the entrance of her closet room.  She wore a Tiffany white, cap-sleeved peplum dress and her hair fell down on one shoulder, like a fountain of lush chocolate. She thought about tying it up. The cough of the engine awoke her from her trance. She grabbed the brightest shoes that she could reach, her Nicholas Kirkwood Zigzags and ran barefoot through the hallway to the front door. She forgot her bag; she turned back to go to her room but immediately turned again to pull the door open. She waved at Abdullah and chucked her shoes on the floor. Holding up one finger she mouthed, ‘one second’. Abdullah gestured something back and put his foot down on the accelerator, the sound startled her.

 “Please,” she shouted, holding her hands together as if she was praying to him. Before he could accept or decline she was already back in her closet room, pulling together all the bits she’ll need for her day, into a pile on her bed. ‘iPad. Blackberry. Bank card. Keys. Keys, keys, keys. Oh my god, where are my keys. Okay. Ruby. Filofax.’ She stood for a moment motionless. Should she take the mandarin Selma because it was already out? Or should she take the white bag because her Kirkwoods were statement enough?

She took the mandarin Kors Selma bag because Abdullah had made her. He started shouting something into the house. She threw everything into it and ran to the back to the door, frowning. Shaking her head at him she lowered herself to pick up her shoes. With her large Kors bag unconventionally clutched under her arm and her Kirkwoods dangling from the other hand she attempted to pull the door shut with her calf. But her middy dress would not let her separate her legs enough.

Abdullah looked on from the car. Tulisa dropped the pair of shoes onto the floor once again, while she slipped her foot into one of them she pulled the door shut with her free hand. She turned and smiled at Abdullah as though she had done something genius. With both shoes on she headed over to the cab. Abdullah pushed a button on the steering wheel and the back door automatically opened as Tulisa approached it.

“Miss Rose” Abdullah said.

“Hi” she replied. 

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Fashion Flash Fiction, Literature

Flash Fiction: Fashion: Spectacular Spectacles

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Don’t make a spectacle of yourself in those spectacular spectacles” Mr Alan chuckled to himself as he hurried passed Meg in the corridors. Mr Alan thought he was hilarious, and his chuckle turned into a session of intense laughter. He didn’t really think Meg was doing herself any harm in wearing her ‘spectacular spectacles’. They had a sleek thick black rim, and they had someone signature on the arms, they were what you might call chic. As a matter of fact he thought they did her justice. They complimented her peachy, narrow face and her shiny cropped black hair. He had always had an eye for Meg but, that eye took control over his voice box and he could never express to her in words what his eye had become so fond of. He thought she was perfect, she was all that a young woman should be. Her clothes were always clean and they always fit. He believed the way one dressed reflected their inner person, and so he knew her inner person was clean and well sized.

He was an English teacher and his favourite thing was words, and so he had a very witty way of talking and thinking. He was very fond of talking and thinking, he almost never stopped doing one or the other. It was weird that He had never said anything to Meg before this.

Meg found it weird that Mr Alan had spoken to her in such wondrous verse. She felt spectacular. Mr Alan had finally noticed her. Although, she wasn’t entirely sure what he meant, but she was pleased that he meant something. She was the newest member of staff at school, but she had been there for the good part of a year, and Mr Alan had never known, before now, that she existed. She had made really good friends with all the other English teachers, and some of the teachers from other departments, but Mr Alan was a difficult task.

Her spectacles became her statement piece. She wore them every day, and every day Mr Alan would say the same thing, ‘don’t make a spectacle of your self in those in spectacular spectacles’. The funny thing was that she wasn’t required to wear spectacles for any reason. God knows why she wore them on that day, but it gained her a friend and so she would continue to wear them.

Eventually, on the last day of term Mr Alan plucked up the courage to say something else. “Miss spectacular, would you like to meet up over the holidays?”

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Fashion Flash Fiction, Literature

Flash Fiction : Fashion : The Monochrome Shirt

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Kara sat tapping her long foot against the table leg. She stared at the clock until it struck 8:40. She had been late herself but the thirty minutes she spent waiting alone said more than enough. Glasses chattered, smoke filled the room, the dim blue light shone on the stage where the lady sang the latest Jazz blues. Conversations were going on all around, at every other table there was at least two people sat together.

Kara began to converse with herself. ‘What a fool you are girl’. She sipped her drink, and breathed out deeply through her heavily painted red lips. ‘Never again will I entrust my time to anyone else’. She took a second, thought about it, and decided never again will she trust her heart to anyone else.

She didn’t care that eyes were on her from all around, even though there was no certainty why they were all watching her. Had it been because it was so obvious she had been stood up? Or because her name and face was printed in all the papers almost everyday last week? Or was it simply due to the fact that she looked so stunning in that monochrome shirt?

The waiter floated over to the table were the lone women, in the monochrome shirt sat. He made sure not to smile too much. They had been given a script to use when they were dealing with victims of a stand up, but Roberto knew he was a very very charming man.

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