Daily lines -extracts from draft writing by Lynne M. Collis

    ‘You always arrive on the rim of your wheels,’ Tom said, kissing Maggie hello. ‘I know, too many projects; it’s hard to let go.’ She grinned and turned to kiss the others.  Bella asked, ‘When did you leave England?’ ‘Yesterday; I stayed with my witches near Troyes overnight.’ ‘Ooh, how are they?’ ‘Mad as ever, with great art everywhere. They’ve got herbs drying in the kitchen and their new kitten keeps climbing up to them. I told them they’d never stop her as long as they’re drying catnip but they just laughed.’ ‘Is it still a guesthouse?’ ‘No, they’ve retired, so they just have a few guests who’ve been before, these days.’ ‘Wow, you’re privileged, then,’ Bertrand sounded jealous. Maggie shrugged and turned to Tom. ‘How’s the harvest this year?’  ‘Looking good. That rain we had between the heatwaves filled the grapes nicely, and we’ve kept the mildew off.’  ‘ Allez , A la soupe,’  Annie called, ringing the bell kept by the door. ‘ J’ai un faim de loup ,...

  No-one saw it start. It was just there, hanging above the edge of the cliff in Folkestone. Because it was Folkestone, people initially thought it was an installation for the local Triennial art exhibition, one of those anonymous expressions of virtuosity like the spray-painted stencils often seen in the town. “But it’s alive,” the Triennial director said. “How could anyone put it there?” This was certainly true. It was a huge teardrop-shaped cloud of butterflies, deep, bruised purple and black in colour, fluttering but remaining as a cohesive whole. She reached out, but the cloud stayed out of range. The feeling around it was of incredible sadness. She moved away. The ache was just too terrible to be borne. The local TV news channel sent a crew, with Jayne, on her first assignment as a trainee reporter. She interviewed a wildlife expert. “Could you tell us about this species, Dr Ellerby? Is it normal for them to mass in this way?” she asked. “I’ve not seen this species of butterf...

 “ I’m bored!” I kick the edge of our tarpaulin. “Jojo, you knew I was coming to sell necklaces at the market. Why don’t you go for a walk?” “No-one’s buying these though, are they? Maybe you should have strung the stones on chain rather than leather, Tino.” “Look, little bro, leather is cheaper and more hip. We’ll see.” At that moment, a girl carrying takeaway coffees trips over the edge of our tarpaulin and nearly tumbles straight into my lap. I steady her and she looks down to thank me. She is drop dead gorgeous. Light brown curls frame a heart of a face, currently pink with embarrassment. Big blue eyes, with tears on their lashes, look straight at me. She straightens. “I er… must get back.” And she is gone.   A group of stupid tourists blocks my view, and I can’t see her. “Tino, did you see her?” “See who? I was just mending this pendant.” “An angel just nearly lands in my lap and you don’t even notice?” “What?” “She was so beautiful, so perfect. She ...

She’d heard of the Paris flea markets, and went up to Porte de Clignancourt on Saturday for a look round. North of the metro stop, at the end of line 4, there were lots of expensive-looking stalls for tourists. Jewellery was everywhere but with no age or quality. There was an edgy feel to the street, with gaggles of young men lurking in corners, watching the passers by for any carelessly exposed wallets. Ellyn crossed her bag over her chest and buttoned her jacket over it. Everywhere, stall holders thrust goods at her, trying to catch her attention. She’d read up that the true Marché aux Puces didn’t start until after the road bridge for the Péripherique ring road, so she kept her head down and kept going.  Beyond the overpass there were signs to the various markets, so she struck off down the rue des Rosiers. The vintage clothes stalls had more tourists than she’d see grandmothers at an English jumble sale, and the elbows looked as sharp.  She turned into the Marché Vernaison...

The grumpy stallholder turned Ellyn away and she walked off, dejected. Was this ever going to work? An old man waved to her from the other side of the aisle.  “Never mind Alain, he had his cashbox stolen last week,”he said. “it makes him wary.”Ellyn had discounted asking this man if she could pitch her stall in the gap next to his, despite his kind eyes, as he was laying out display cases of jewellery. “What is it you sell, petite?”   “Bracelets I made.” She held one up to show him. “Silver Byzantine bracelets.”  He looked closely at it. “May I?” She held it out. He scrutinised the jump rings which made it up. The joints were smooth, barely visible.  “Silver?” he asked? “Yes, recycled.”   “They’re really well made.” He cupped it in his hand. “At that weight they really should be hallmarked.” “I have no resource for hallmarking, Monsieur. Where I’ve re-used a silver clasp it’s hallmarked.” “Never mind, so you’re looking for a corner to set up a stall, is tha...

  The Man Who Couldn’t Mend Himself           A short story entered in the annual HG Wells Short Story Competition   Old Josef Kubitt lived next door, over his shop. He had always kept odd hours, so I wasn’t surprised to see his shop lights on in the evening as I came home from my legal practice. People would bring things for him to repair, and he would spend hours fixing them, making them look just right. The shop was rather dowdy, shelves ranged with boxes of items awaiting repair, brown, curling labels identifying each client. A big workstation at the back was well lit, but the corners were dim and dusty. He used to mend clocks a long time back, teasing them back to a tick tock regularity after people had overstretched the mainsprings, or making them chime sweetly again. People tend not to have mechanical clocks anymore, though, so he moved onto other things, repairing toys and heirlooms. He had a way of gluing porcelain back together that...