Amelia held her breath as she entered the town’s local pub. Being back home was always difficult, but this time — with the prospect of meeting her childhood sweetheart and eternal crush Mark before her — her return to Lincoln was more anxiety-inducing than usual. Childhood friends had a way of bringing out the worst in her, with the way their eyes saw right through her successes to the unpopular teenage geek she’d once been.

Deirdre was the first to notice her; she approached Amelia at a slow waddle, one hand curved protectively around her lower belly, her mouth already pursed with gossip. Escape was impossible.

“Fancy seeing you here for New Years’,” Deirdre said, crinkling up the outer corners of her eyes in what passed for a smile. “Geneva not cutting it for you anymore?”

How everyone would have relished her failure, to see her brought down to their level, a level of teenage pregnancies and university dropouts. “I’m just home for the holidays,” Amelia replied, adding, “I’ve been promoted to senior partner so my schedule’s become far more flexible.” Just saying the words made her feel small and spiteful, but there was a certain vicious pleasure mixed in with the guilt.

“Keep that quiet around Mark,” Deirdre replied with a sly smile. “Looking for a wife, he is, though as I hear it he’s already got someone in mind.”

Mark was still single? No amount of internal scolding could settle the sudden butterflies in Amelia’s stomach when she caught a glimpse of him, smiling right at her as he manoeuvred his way through the crowded room.

“Only you would be so brave as to come here alone,” Mark said when he reached her, his attention so obviously focused on Amelia that Deirdre excused herself and left.

Pleased, Amelia stepped that little bit closer to Mark, her stomach flip-flopping at their proximity. “Quite brave, yes.” Red had always been a good colour on Mark; he looked good — he smelled good! Small talk be damned, she wanted to close those final few inches between them, but did he?

“TEN!” everyone shouted, breaking the moment between them.

Under the clamour of people counting down the last few seconds of the year, Amelia felt her heart begin to pound. Very few women had held Mark’s attention for long, and Amelia was nothing like those that had: not blond nor leggy nor outdoors-y. Wife-seeking or not, would Mark even consider her as anything more than an old classmate and friend?

XKCD had a funny comic about this, she thought, trying to distract herself from the thought that he wouldn’t want to kiss her, that they were still “just friends”. Yet when she turned her head to the side to look at him, there he was, staring right at her.

“Zero,” Mark whispered, and then he pressed his lips against hers.

My favourite — the ABC Challenge!

There was a glitch in the automatic translator, but I didn’t realize until it was too late.

I got down on one knee, held up the opal engagement ring I’d been carrying around for weeks, and watched her face freeze halfway between shock and joy, the dimple in her cheek hesitant, her lips quivering with one word. I dropped my eyes to the floor, and out of my lips stumbled the carefully prepared speech, mangled beyond recognition.

Silence. Deafening silence.

When I looked up she was already gone.

Cross posted from Six Sentences.

“Writes longhand, ‘e does, with a pink pen,” the beggar said, one hand over his mouth as if to prevent the words from escaping. He looked up and down the street nervously, then added, “‘Twas his secret to victory last time, or so they say.”

The Challenger scoffed loudly, with none of the beggar’s discretion. “If the King writes with a pink pen,” he pronounced with a thick Cambridge accent, “then I’m a stillborn child!”

The beggar leaned forward, tapped his finger against the Challenger’s suit of armour. “Is tha’ why yer wearing the tinnies then?”

The Challenger knocked his hand away. “No, you fool! I’m hoping to intimidate him with this authentic eighteenth century armour. Took me an hour to get it on.” He said the last sentence as if it were something of which to be proud.

The beggar just stared at him expectantly, pulling his coat open to reveal the inside pocket, jam-packed with pink pens. “Whaddya say?”

“I suppose it would not to do go into battle poorly armed….” The Challenger sighed. “Fine, give one to me.”

“Tha’ll be a tenner.”

“What?! You quoted three pounds ten minutes ago!”

The beggar shrugged, unrepentant. “Need to make up for the time you spent thinking.”

“My thoughts are not worth seven pounds,” the Challenger replied hotly. “I’ll give you five.”

“Deal.” They furtively exchanged goods. Then, business concluded, the beggar scurried off, vanishing as quickly as a sideshow fable.

“Right,” said the Challenger, speaking aloud for no reason. “On to claim my crown. Those bellowing bastard brothers won’t know what has hit them.”

He marched proudly down the street, his metal feet loud against the pavement, until he reached house number 72, which had a green door and a gold lion-shaped knocker. He ignored the knocker and pressed down hard on the hastily-installed doorbell, a yellowed plastic rectangle that tilted to the left as if drunk.

A tired-looking woman opened the door, her hair pulled back into a messy gray bun, her neatly-pressed clothes already wrinkled. Over her shoulder, the Challenger could see that the living room was already teeming with other challengers, eager to take the crown.

“Mrs. H,” the Challenger said formally, bowing as best he could.

“Is that you Edward?” She readjusted her glasses, frowning. “Come for a spot of bingo?”

“Indeed I have.”

She stood aside to let him pass. “Between you and me, I hope you win. I’m fed up of having a dirty house.”

Inspired by Ergofiction’s old Search Term Challenge.

The cat warily poked her head out of the washing machine. The coast was clear. She put her paws up on the rim, tensed her legs to spring.

Then — a flash of movement in the corner of the kitchen! Sparkles hissed, ducked back into the safety of the washing machine. Her tail lashed back and forth within the limited confines of the metal drum.

She could hear it, snuffling around the kitchen, moving close to the washing machine. Its claws scraped against the tiled floor, making her skin prickle. If only her owners would come home and get rid of it, set down more traps….

When Sparkles heard it began to chew on a wire, she shook her head and curled up to wait for back up. Mice had always been a problem in London, but this was getting ridiculous.

******

Yet another ABC Challenge-inspired story. Slight cop-out by using lots of odd names, but oh well!