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    Plain Jane Grey an introvert comes to life

    Plain Jane Grey

    Copywrite Peter G Barnett (aka Peter L. Barnes) 2019


    The onesie upon the line, hung lifeless and unmoving,  undisturbed by any breeze. Jane sat by the window and stared at her spinning wheel and tried to imagine a finished article but could not even envisage the start. She looked out at the nothing day, no wind, no rain, no snow on the ground, just a grey blankness from which no magical images would appear.

    The path was not beaten to her door, the flowers had not bloomed; the bushes were withered and the leaves on the tree were very ordinary this year. Not the bright greens of spring, nor the vibrant dark greens of summer, and certainly not the red and orange colours of autumn. For all intents and purposes the outside world was merely a black and white version of normality.

    Her heart was empty, a dark hole in her chest where love should preside. No matter how hard she tried, no-one came up to her standards, which were already pretty low. But even that was a lie, she hadn’t actually met anyone who had a vague interest in her. Her last date had been on the school bus where even her ‘boyfriend’ had sat in another seat and occasionally glanced her way. Well she supposed it wasn’t even a date, she just contrived to be on the same bus as he was.

    She used to marvel about some of her friends, well acquaintances to be more accurate, who used to pick up boys at the drop of a hat. And then dump them as quickly, knowing there were more fish to hook at a moment’s notice. To try and improve her appearance she went to a colour match consultant but was given a simple array of greys and blacks, with the occasional white highlights.

    She opened up her computer to see if anyone had responded to her friend requests only to be disappointed once again. She followed a few tweets of the soap opera stars, wondering why their lives did not reflect the story lines, before remembering that TV was not all reality shows. She didn’t enjoy the animal planet programmes because viewed in black and white, it made the commentary seem ridiculous and out of touch with her as a viewer.

    Articles in the newspaper made painful reading, not only for the content but her eyes seemed to be taking an undue strain these days. She decided that she needed new glasses as her vision seemed to be losing focus, whether this was a euphemism of her life or reality she didn’t know.

    Her visit to the optician was an eye opener. Besides being a bit of a dish, he diagnosed an unusual problem with her eyes, after a session with the Ishihara charts. The reality was that she didn’t see colours at all, in fact she could only see in black and white.

    He gave her a pair of tinted glasses.

    “Now look at the garden.”

    She looked out at the rose garden behind his clinic and was astonished to see a row of pink roses.

    “That’s wonderful.”

    “I will make up a special pair for you for your next visit which will show you even more colours.”

    Jane’s life steadily improved from a dull grey outlook to a more colourful one even if it was only pink tinged. She looked forward to next week but thought a new outfit might be in order. Looking through the clothes shelves for ‘pink’ on the lable she finally found what she hoped would be a matching outfit.

    Arriving at the clinic the optician gave her an odd stare at the new outfit.

    “I think we can improve on your look once you have your new glasses.”


    “Well it still doesn’t colour match,” he said in a kind voice. “Did an assistant help you?”

    “Oh no I wouldn’t want them to be bothered with me,” said Jane. “I just looked for pink on the lable.”

    “You do know that ‘Pink’ is a designer trade name?”

    “No, I didn’t. Oh, dear is it awful.”

    “No,” he said, “But we can do a lot better I’m sure.”

    Did he say we, thought Jane?

    “Now I need you to relax on your side and rest your head between the supports,” said the optician. “You’ll feel a tiny sharp pain, it’s only a local anaesthetic.”

    “Now is that numb,” he said, touching the side of her head.


    She felt some pressure on the side of her head.

    “There, that’s done.”

    “What’s done?”

    “I’ve inserted two sensors into your brain where colour is detected,” he said. “They will make contact with these glasses.”

    He showed her the frame he had chosen, with two gold contacts behind the ear hook.

    “There are two cameras in the frame to give you a 3d vision, with colour.”

    He fitted the glasses. “Now close your eyes for a second.”

    He turned the chair around and sat her up. “Now open them.”

    Her vision was assailed with multi-coloured hues and startling bright flashes. Greens, reds blues and yellows and all the colours of the rainbow, shone in the bright sunshine. A variety of roses and pretty flowers in the garden, made tears flow from the corners of her eyes.

    “The glasses only have tunnel vision, so you can only really look forward to get the best effect.”

    She looked down at her outfit and understood why he had said that there could be an improvement. “Oops orange and pink don’t really go do they.”

    “No, but it could have been worse.” He said. “I’ll tell you what why don’t we meet for coffee at the local shopping mall? I’ll be finished in an hour and we can look through the clothes at Hollisters and see what we can find.”

    “That’ll be lovely,” said Jane, her heart thumping for no reason at all, or more probably every reason.

    She went outside, mounted her old-fashioned motorbike and kick-started it into life. “Now is that another euphemism or what,” she said to a startled patient entering the clinic.

    “She sat at the Costa Coffee shop sipping her dark brown hot chocolate, wondering at the array of colourful outfits on the bright young things.

    The chair opposite her scraped backwards as the optician sat down. “Sebastian by the way.”

    “Jane but you knew that.”

    “But no longer a calamity we hope.”

    “Absolutely not,” said Jane, grinning like a cat. “Have I got chocolate on my lips?”

    “Only a little chocolate smile,” he said, gently wiping the tops of her lips with the serviette. “Right let’s get over to the shop, shall we?”

    They went for a mix of ‘born again, flower power’ tops and sparkly jeans. Some twinkly trainers finish off the look.

    “I have to go,” said Sebastian. “Can I take you out this evening.”

    “Uh not sure, I mean of course yes.”

    “I’ll see you at seven then.”

    Jane watched his honed body walk out of the mall and caught several other yummy mummies following his every move. He’s mine she thought, keep off.

    She rode back to her cottage, panier bags full of packages. A small shower threatened to spoil her mood but the sight of her first rainbow that seemed to be resting on her roof where the chimney gleamed yellow reflecting the sunshine.

    She was ready far too early but couldn’t help admiring her looks in the full-length mirror, normally kept hidden by a blanket draped over the top. Finally, the doorbell rang, and she flung open the door to find a vison in front of her. Gone was his white jacket from the clinic and instead an equally bright shirt and a red bandana showed off his holiday tan. He held out a flower and placed it in her hairband. They both looked straight out of the Woodstock and Free Love Era and they vowed to be hippy ever after.



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  • Short Stories

    Wibbly Wobbly Oak Tree

    Wibbly Wobbly Oak Tree


    © Peter L. Barnes 12th June 2019


    Victoria sat under the ancient oak, enjoying the warmth of the summer sunrise, marvelling at the twisted, turning boughs above her head. A gentle breeze rustled the bright green leaves, swinging the outstretched boughs about, like an upside-down octopus.

    Something dropped into her lap, and opening her eyes, expecting to find a fallen twig, she marvelled at the exquisite flower laying there. A pale pink flower lay on her dress, dotted with a pink pattern, drawing her eyes to the long bright stamen topped with a purple head.

    “Oh, how lovely.”

    A shadow loomed over her.

    “Morning princess,” said an instantly familiar voice.

    Looking up, she recognised the expected figure of Thomas, son of the head gardener, the sun forming a halo around his head and twinkling in his unruly mop of golden hair.

    “Step away from the sun or I shall freeze.”

    Thomas stood to the side.

    “Thank you for my morning flower, Thomas,” she said. “You know I love the rhododendrons.”

    “They are particularly beautiful this year,” said Thomas. “Sadly, it will be the last I’ll bring you.”

    “Why, has the tree died?”

    “No, my father has been transferred to your father’s estate in Scotland.”

    “That’s terrible,” said Victoria. “Who will I talk to each morning?”

    “I think our little talks are part of the reason.”

    “I don’t understand.”

    “Lord Stanstead feels that we have become too close over the years.”

    “But there’s no-one else to talk to here,” said Victoria. “We are so far away from everything.”

    “And everyone,” said Thomas.

    “I will be bereft without you,” said Victoria, trying not to cry. “I have learnt so much from you about the plants and animals.”

    “But I do think it’s for the best,” said Thomas.

    “No, it’s not,” said Victoria, standing up and brushing the grass off her dress. “I’m going to talk to father right now.”

    “Pleased don’t do that Victoria,” said Thomas. “Otherwise he might fire my father and then we’ll become destitute.”

    “Oh, I hadn’t thought of that,” said Victoria. “But we’ll still keep in touch, yes?”

    “Of course, I’ll send you letters when I can,” said Thomas. “You’re reading and writing lessons won’t be wasted.”

    “Are you leaving today?”

    “I’m afraid so. Bye.”

    “No hugs then?”

    Thomas looked up at the window of the mansion on the hill to see two faces watching them closely. “I don’t think that’s wise.”

    Victoria gazed after his disappearing form, as he slowly made his way down to the farmhouse and out of her life. If he did write then they were intercepted by her parents and she was worried that if she did bring the subject up, it would have repercussions for Thomas.

    You will have to wait for the short story book to read the rest, sorry but copywrite doesn’t seem to be honoured these days


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  • Short Stories

    The Smart Dragon

    The Smart Dragon

    Copywrite Peter L. Barnes

    A slightly Corny story, but then do Dragons get corns?

    Trying to keep up with her classmates.

    Thank goodness she had been allowed to join the class, although the teasing that she was a ‘bit of a dragon’ in on-line posts, was a bit hard to take. She wasn’t a bit of a dragon; she was a full-blown dragon.

    The main reason that Georgiana had been accepted into the school in the first place was because she had been orphaned at an early age, too many Georges and ‘Game of Thrones’ fans having taken their toll.

    Seating arrangements had been a bit of a problem, but fortunately as a ‘special needs child’ they had been given a grant for a metal desk, instead of the usual wooden units. Typing wasn’t a problem as she had her own computer and clawboard. The screen saver was just that, a steel shutter that dropped like a guillotine in front of the screen, if there was any hint of a fire.

    She used the Dragonet for all her homework, and Tinder to try and connect to other dragons. Who on earth thought that Tinder was a good name for lonely dragons? And anyway, swiping left and right across her smart phone had ruined many a screen, she was thinking of going to court to force manufactures to improve them. Surely, it was against her dragon rights to have to spend so much money on new phones.

    The school was having their annual Christmas play this year and the teacher, Mr Johnston, who acted as the producer, had tried to find a part for her, but this was proving very difficult despite Georgiana’s obvious acting skills. Apparently, there wasn’t a dragon in the bible and Mr Johnson really didn’t think her donkey impression was going down well, something about straw being a fire hazard.

    “Life isn’t fair,” she said to Mr Johnson.

    “Well I’m sorry but I didn’t write the story,” he said. “Maybe next year we’ll do George and the drag… What??” as Georgiana growled at him.

    “And there’s no need to do dog impressions either, this is not a ‘dog in the manger’ story.”

    “Sorry but I’m a bit frustrated at the moment.”

    You’ll have to buy the book once published to read more


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  • Short Stories

    Chorizo, the Chocolate Dragon

    Chorizo, the Chocolate Dragon

    © Peter G Barnett (aka Peter L. Barnes)


    I met my Dragon on the way grandma’s house, well not my Dragon as such. It was flitting between the trees trying to look frightening, without much success. Chameleons are great at blending into the background but this Dragon had it all wrong. Red where there should be green and green where red leaves should hide her.

    “Come here you silly Dragon, you can’t hide from me.”

    “But I’m good at changing colour.”

    “Yes, but only changing to the wrong ones.”


    “Here, look at this,” said Melissa, pulling out some Ishihara charts, which she always took in her handbag. “What number do you see?”


    “Wrong,” said Melissa. “And this one?”


    “I thought so, you’re colour blind,” she said. “I suppose we should introduce ourselves, I’m Melissa.


    “Bless you.”

    “No Chorizo, the chocolate dragon.”

    “Chorizo isn’t a chocolate.”

    “Tell my dad that,” said Chorizo. “I had all the Italian lads chasing me with knives and forks.”

    “How horrid.”

    “I got my own back as I let off a few fire bursts.”

    “So why are you skulking around the woods?”

    “The other dragons mock me because of my short nose. So, don’t you rub my nose in it as well.”

    “What, your short nose,” said Melissa, ducking, as a puff of fire squirted from Chorizo’s nostrils.

    “Now, now, just a tease,” apologised Melissa. “Is there a reason for it being so short?”

    “You don’t know much about Dragon Law, do you?”

    “Well I do actually, it goes back to Baden Powell days, something about doing a good deed makes your nose grow.”

    “Yes, Pinocchio had it all wrong. Anyway, I’m waiting for a good deed to come along.”

    “I think you’ll find that good deeds hardly present themselves,” said Melissa. “You probably have to go out and find them.”

    “Would you help me?”

    “I’ll do what I can.”

    “Why are you off to see your grandmother?”

    “She’s got some baskets for me for the grand Easter Egg hunt.”

    “Can I help?”

    “I don’t see why not but don’t scare Gran with your big teeth.”

    Melissa knocked on Gran’s thick oak door, freshly polished and smelling of Lavender. “Friends here Gran.”

    “Melissa do come in but leave that sneaky Dragon outside.”

    “He’s fine, only a little misunderstood.”

    “Your baskets are in the corner,” said Gran. “What have you brought me today?”

    “I’ve picked some lovely berries and some chestnuts.”


    “Not yet, do you want Chorizo to roast them for you?”

    “Yes please, but put them in the grate first, I don’t want a fire.”

    You’ll have to buy the book once published to read more


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