butter pecan and flavour of the day with butterscotch and a cherry
Story: Timeless { backstory | index }
Title: Tricks
Rating: G
Challenge: Butter Pecan #25: tight, FOTD: thimblerig
Toppings/Extras: butterscotch, cherry
Wordcount: 387
Summary: Siobhan Tynker works another night.
Notes: I’m back! Now, let’s start on these flavours of the day. Thimblerig: To cheat or swindle. This is Jacob Graham’s mother (though not yet).
My old man’s the most tight-fisted blackguard in the whole of the traveling carnival. He owns the stall with the coin board; the mark has to throw the coin over one of the ink drawings on the wooden board to win something, covering it completely. The game’s gaffed, of course-the only time anyone wins is when Pa wants to give the impression that it isn’t. Or sometimes someone gets really, really lucky.
He’s not a nice feller but he’ll punch anyone that calls me or my sisters scummy Irish pikey whores, so at least he’s useful for something.
“Siobhan, get yerself out there!” he bawls at me over the stall when his most recent customers lope away, pockets lighter than they had been. “Thunderin’ Jesus, yer about as useless as tits on a bull.”
For a minute longer I keep scratching our gaggle of mongrels and lurchers ‘twixt the ears. My favourite’s Lochlann-I’m not supposed to have favourites, but he’s a real vicious-looking one with an ‘eart of gold. He’s mostly grey, light and dark mixing like stormy clouds, with bright white eyebrows and a big white strip going down his muzzle and neck. His nose is like a little jewel and all.
Hoiking up the front of my red corset-it’s tied tight enough to kill a gal but it loves to slip down at the front-I wander out amongst the carnival-goers. Marks, we call them. Time to do what me and my sisters have been trained to do since we were old enough to know what it meant; go out and catch some marks.
With cheap perfume and glaring lipstick, we’ve just got to walk around, latch onto some moneyed-looking feller and try steering him to where Pa’s stall is. It’s all about being giggly and coy-pretending we’re not part of the carnival. Which is a bit silly really ‘cause we all talk with the thickest Galway brogues and we’re in Blackpool. It doesn’t take a lot to work it out.
Sometimes men can be really dim.
Oh, sure, they’re after something-but Pa would kill anyone who tried to do more than a bit of innocent kissing or arm-linking with me. Anyway, I’m a good girl and I’m not letting them pull any tricks with me.
I’m sensible, you know?
Title: Tricks
Rating: G
Challenge: Butter Pecan #25: tight, FOTD: thimblerig
Toppings/Extras: butterscotch, cherry
Wordcount: 387
Summary: Siobhan Tynker works another night.
Notes: I’m back! Now, let’s start on these flavours of the day. Thimblerig: To cheat or swindle. This is Jacob Graham’s mother (though not yet).
My old man’s the most tight-fisted blackguard in the whole of the traveling carnival. He owns the stall with the coin board; the mark has to throw the coin over one of the ink drawings on the wooden board to win something, covering it completely. The game’s gaffed, of course-the only time anyone wins is when Pa wants to give the impression that it isn’t. Or sometimes someone gets really, really lucky.
He’s not a nice feller but he’ll punch anyone that calls me or my sisters scummy Irish pikey whores, so at least he’s useful for something.
“Siobhan, get yerself out there!” he bawls at me over the stall when his most recent customers lope away, pockets lighter than they had been. “Thunderin’ Jesus, yer about as useless as tits on a bull.”
For a minute longer I keep scratching our gaggle of mongrels and lurchers ‘twixt the ears. My favourite’s Lochlann-I’m not supposed to have favourites, but he’s a real vicious-looking one with an ‘eart of gold. He’s mostly grey, light and dark mixing like stormy clouds, with bright white eyebrows and a big white strip going down his muzzle and neck. His nose is like a little jewel and all.
Hoiking up the front of my red corset-it’s tied tight enough to kill a gal but it loves to slip down at the front-I wander out amongst the carnival-goers. Marks, we call them. Time to do what me and my sisters have been trained to do since we were old enough to know what it meant; go out and catch some marks.
With cheap perfume and glaring lipstick, we’ve just got to walk around, latch onto some moneyed-looking feller and try steering him to where Pa’s stall is. It’s all about being giggly and coy-pretending we’re not part of the carnival. Which is a bit silly really ‘cause we all talk with the thickest Galway brogues and we’re in Blackpool. It doesn’t take a lot to work it out.
Sometimes men can be really dim.
Oh, sure, they’re after something-but Pa would kill anyone who tried to do more than a bit of innocent kissing or arm-linking with me. Anyway, I’m a good girl and I’m not letting them pull any tricks with me.
I’m sensible, you know?