Fiction Friday: Dinner Party

fiction friday logoFriday 29th November 2013: Dinner Party.

You are invited to a dinner party by a stranger. When you get there, you find that you’ve been joined by friends and enemies. What happens? Why have you all been brought there? 

Write for five minutes and then, keep going if you can. Don’t edit, just post. 

Facebooktwittergoogle_plusredditpinterestlinkedinmailby feather
Laura
I’m Laura. I started Novel Kicks in 2009. I wanted a place to post my writing as well as give other writers like me the opportunity to do the same. There is also a monthly book club, a writing room which features writing prompts, book reviews, competitions, author interviews and guest posts.

I grew up by the sea (my favourite place in the world) and I currently live in Hampshire. I am married to Chris, have a cat named Buddy and I would love to be a writer. I’m trying to write the novel I’ve talked so much about writing if only I could stop pressing delete. I’ve loved writing since creative writing classes in primary school. I have always wanted to see my teacher Miss Sayers again and thank her for the encouragement. When not trying to write the novel or writing snippets of stories on anything I can get my hands on, I love reading, dancing like a loon and singing to myself very badly. My current obsession is Once Upon a Time and I would be happy to live with magic in the enchanted forest surrounded by all those wonderful stories provided that world also included Harry Potter. I love reading chick lit. contemporary fiction and novels with mystery.

One Response to Fiction Friday: Dinner Party

  • Rebecca Braunton says:

    (Slightly over the 750 limit, whoops!)

    It’s freezing outside, but I am breathing fire.
    I am livid; so angry that I imagine I can feel my hair bristling. I’m crushing the dial that I snapped off of my car dashboard against the steering wheel, and my breath is starting to fog up the windshield. As my Sat Nav warns me about the upcoming right turn, I miss it by a few metres and almost drive into a ditch. I swear and curse and slam on the brakes. The 4×4 behind me beeps and flashes its lights.
    I slam both gloved hands down on the wheel, regretting it as the knob I’m clutching in my hand smashes against my palm. “What?! What?!” I scream, as the massive vehicle indicates and laboriously pulls around me. I glare out of my window towards the driver, but I can’t see through my fog-glazed windows.
    I turn my indicators on and slowly glide off of the main road, seething. My indicators taunt me: tem-per, tem-per, tem-per.
    As I wind down the country road, walled in by frozen shrubbery and with barely any light to guide me, the invitation on the passenger’s seat flaps gently with the motion of the car. I glance quickly at it before my Sat Nav tells me I have reached my destination.
    I turn the corner, killing my speed, and find myself driving up a gravel pathway towards a small cottage with a thatched roof. Strange. I didn’t know Luke lived here.
    I park the car directly behind a red Mazda, pull off my gloves and check the card again. It’s definitely Luke’s handwriting; it looks like he crushed a line of ants over the page.

    Liv – please join me and a few friends for dinner. You missed Christmas. You owe me. Luke.

    He’s right; I did miss Christmas, but only because after considering his offer of a countryside Christmas for about a week I realised that you probably shouldn’t have Christmas with an ex-boyfriend. How on Earth would I explain that to my nosy colleagues?
    “So, Christmas with the ex?”
    “Yes.”
    “…Are you getting back together?”
    “No.”
    And then usually they say something like “You seemed like a lovely couple” and I desperately want to slam their head in the photocopier.
    I grab the cheap red wine from the floor of the passenger’s side and get out of my freezing car. Through the thick red curtains in the window I can see there’s lights on in the main room, and just before I ring the doorbell I hear a smattering of laughter that I vaguely recognise.
    Luke opens the door as eagerly as always. He is wearing a grey jumper with blue wintery designs on the shoulders and sleeves, and dark trousers – I can’t tell if they’re navy blue or black in the lack of light.
    “Hiya Liv,” he says, digging one hand in his pocket nervously. I raise my eyebrows. “How was the drive?”
    “Shit,” I say, faux-cheerily. I thrust the bottle of wine into his chest. “Here, sorry I missed Christmas.”
    I put my boot up onto the narrow porch, desperate to get out of the cold, but he seems to hesitate. I push towards him, expecting him to move out of the way, and just as I’m about to stand right up next to him, he takes an awkward step back.
    “Er, let me take your coat.”
    I shrug off my plum Whistles coat and throw it towards him. He catches it clumsily and drapes it over the arm holding the wine.
    “Wait here a min. Can I get you a drink?”
    “I’ll have some of my wine.” I’m checking the walls of the hallway: mushroom grey, curved up to meet the ceiling, two of those chunky wooden box frames into which Luke has put an array of pictures. There’s one of his mum, one of his brother Steve in his graduation cap and gown, some older people I don’t know, and in the one on the left hand side there is a small picture of him and me at a party someone threw while we were at Uni. I’m sitting on his lap. The person taking the photo didn’t know that Luke had his hand up my skirt.
    He comes back down the hallway with a glass that he’s clutching as if it was scooped from the Fountain of Youth. He hands it to me delicately and slides a hand behind me, placing his palm flat in the small of my back. His hand is trembling. Maybe he’s going to try and make a move on me.
    Before I can decide whether or not I’m going to throw him a yuletide quickie, he leads me into the living room.
    For a moment, all I can see is a huge triangular tree-shaped blob before I am blinded by bright lights. I throw my arm over my face.
    “God, why the hell is it so bright in here?” I say, and the end of my sentence is interrupted by a tiny gasp. I move my arm away slowly, revealing a Christmas tree in front of the big window to be the source of the dazzling light. Stood around the tree, illuminated from behind like the angels that appeared to the shepherds in Bethlehem, are the two biggest bitches in the entire world.
    The wine glass slips from my hand and falls onto the carpet with a dull ring that echoes around the silent room.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

Novel Kicks is a blog for story tellers and book lovers.

Facebook
Twitter
Google+
Pinterest
LinkedIn
INSTAGRAM
RSS
Follow by Email
Book Club
Book Club
Twitter
Poll
Archives
Categories