Flash fiction - Afterwards

Time has changed its meaning for me recently. This time, right now, is precious because I don't know when I'll get it again. So, get those words on the page (furiously! furiously!) and on we go. Here's this week's write for the wonders over at Studio 30+ who kindly used my writing from last week - Newborn - to source their prompts: 'chamber of secrets' and/or 'stars'. I went for the double whammy this time. 

Afterwards

“When we are old, will we still love each other?”

“Of course, only more.”

They were sixteen when they had had that conversation, laying in the sand dunes, under the stars, high on life. Now, some sixty-odd years later, they held hands against her life’s setting sun and she asked him again.

He looked over at her. Her eyes were still roaming and sparkling and as curious as they had been at birth. His friend. His confident. Later, his lover, his love. His wife. Mother of his children, grandmother of their children. He briefly wondered how much more wonderful could a person be before answering,

“Of course, only more.”

Despite the enormous pressure of the pain from all corners of her body, she grinned, wildly and openly. Laughing hurt, but smiles could be a good measure of their time. One more smile. He always had that to go for.

“Darling, what do you think will happen. Afterwards?”

He looked out over the fields stretching past their bedroom window. He thought of his return to the world out there, alone. Though this room had been stifling at times during the past weeks, it was their last space together, their comfort, their chamber of secrets. Yes, it was also the end of her life, but he took great comfort in the fact it was he and he alone who was passing her on. No doctors, no smiling strangers.

“You will wait for me in a place where, when I go, I will know exactly where to find you.”

“You romantic, you.” Another smile.

“No? Then tell me, where are you going?”

“Nowhere. I’ll stay and haunt the house. I’ll be in the teacups and the bathroom taps and the pots in the shed.”

He laughed. “Still nagging me no doubt?”

The last smile. “Of course, only more.”

Flash fiction - The Anniversary Cake

I have no idea what I've been doing these past couple of weeks which has meant I haven't been able to write, but well, this maternity leave must have left me busy! Anyway, here I am again joining up with the cool peeps over at Studio 30+ and their writing prompt of the week. My offering is called The Anniversary Cake and uses one of their prompts, iron. Thanks for reading and let me know what you think! 

The Anniversary Cake

The cake didn’t look like it had all the other times she had made it. The lemon glaze was less shiny, was her piping unsteady, unsymmetrical? Martha laid her hands either side of it and stared down. It smelt as it always had with the hint of ginger poking through her trio of citrus flavours. Thirty-eight years ago, David’s mother’s face had cracked a smile, gliding her fork through Martha’s cake. Crumbs had fallen into her lap, and she had left them there, devouring her plate, eyes skyward. Martha had beamed at the sight.

               But looking at it now, it didn’t hold the same attraction and Martha felt a tear spring up and roll down her cheek. It wasn’t good enough. She glanced at the clock. She didn’t have time to make another one. It would have to do. David was so busy, maybe he wouldn’t notice the shaky piping or the lack of lustre on her fruit topping. She left the cake to cool and hoped on her way upstairs it would at least taste the same.

               The iron was now hot enough and she laid out her dress, the pale blue linen one she saved for special occasions. Friends remarked how wonderful it was she could still fit into her clothes from times past. It wasn’t something Martha thought about much. She had always been slender and enjoyed her daily walks on the grounds with the dogs, weekly swims and Pilates classes. Her friends said she was dedicated, and they lacked the commitment to exercise. Martha didn’t remind them that they had children and busy lives, while she had little to do. She enjoyed the compliment too much to open the discussion and her life to more scrutiny.

               She took the dress through to the bedroom and hung it on the wardrobe door while she undressed, sprayed a rose scent over her body and ran almond cream over her arms and legs. She paused, looking at the mirror. Why not? She thought. She dipped her hand in the cream and rubbed it into her breasts and belly. Maybe, just maybe, David would want to make love tonight.

               It hadn’t gone well. Five phone calls interrupted dinner. He didn’t even notice the present beside his plate until she pointed it out. He hadn’t got her even a card. Then, once the cake was on the table, he started on the fact she always made that “bloody cake” and didn’t he give her “enough money to buy new clothes? Why was she wearing that old thing?” Martha tried to take him back to a place on the seaside and a cosy little Italian where she had worn that dress; to a mid-afternoon picnic when she had surprised him at the office many years ago with prawn sandwiches and her cake. He wasn’t interested. He took his brandy to the study, leaving the door slightly ajar, like a dare.

               She didn’t take him up on it. She quietly took her coat and slipped out of the front door, crossing the curved driveway armed with huge lavender pots and onto the lawn. Clouds crumbled the moon’s light. She heard an owl in the distance and wondered how long it would take to reach that owl, and fly into the night with it. Somewhere, anywhere.

               Martha headed towards the thicket at the bottom of the lawn and crossed the style. The wooden beams were slick with moss and dew. She made no sounds on the wet leaves as she took the path which eventually opened up at their little lake.

               Martha looked at the water and thought of the vows they had made on the pontoon opposite thirty-six years ago. She thought of David’s disbelieving mother who would give up the rights to the house; of his father, distracted by the illegitimate child the cook was carrying; of her parents’ puzzled faces at the beauty that some people lived in; of David’s seriousness and her own, complete joy.

               Now she understood her parents’ confusion about how the poor girl from the village would make it work with the rich, handsome gent from the house on the hill. She understood why they had cast her adrift, quietly and unceremoniously, setting her off on this path they couldn’t follow. But it had only led her here.
               She stepped towards the water’s edge. 

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Flash fiction - Joined in Holy Matrimony

This week over at Julia's Place the prompt is a good one: ... it was just a sea of faces ... I'm not sure where this story came from at the start, but let me know what you think. Click on the 100WCGU icon to read more takes on the prompt or have a go yourself.

Joined in Holy Matrimony

Standing in front of so-called friends and family, she glanced back. She felt nothing, just the desire to run. To her, it was just a sea of faces and they didn’t matter. Except one. The one who was going to shout out, to save her, to embarrass her briefly and hide her away. And then give her all the happiness he owned. 
The priest continued, mentioned something about God’s work in bringing them together. She stifled a laugh. The man next to her, a rock, eyes down.  
The priest asked the question. Silence. 
Her heart burst. This was it. Say it! 
She turned around.
He was gone.

100 words + prompt

Lapsus Linguae - Marriage

Over at The Queen Creative this week's prompt speaks for itself. We are told:

Lapsus Linguae: A noun that refers to a 'slip of the tongue'. 

Here is a short story. Sometimes slips of the tongue are not unintentional.

Marriage

Bernard and Cath sit on the park bench. Cath knits. It's still warm enough to do so. She thinks maybe in a couple of weeks she'll have to get Bernard to find their gloves and scarves, but for now her hands are warm and happy to be busy and in the fresh air. Bernard watches the ducks. Or, he pretends to be watching the ducks because he's really following an aerobics class on the other side of the pond: eighteen (he's counted) miniature ladies bouncing up and down. They are far enough away for him to not see their (probably disappointing, he thinks) faces while he can still appreciate the way their bodies move as they jump in all directions.

A jogger runs past and nods at Bernard. They see him most weeks. Well, Bernard does. Cath is usually with her head down, knitting and talking. Bernard is glad she has never driven a car. He thinks the amount of people she would have killed would be quite high.

"But if they are going to charge two pounds a raffle ticket, what do they expect? Jean's grandson ended up with a box of soap. You can imagine. Did you see Mohammed painted his gate? Yellow of all colours."

Bernard hears the colour yellow and thinks about their honeymoon in the south of France. He can't remember how the hell they afforded that back then, but he can remember the yellow of the sand, the blue of the sea and the wispy white clouds stretching to Africa above. He is reminded of the pedalo and how Cath nearly ran over a swimmer while she was imagining the back story of their breakfast waiter.

"If you need a tin of peas, you need one tin. Not three. Three tins make a bag heavy. Julie can't carry things like three tins now. And that son of hers isn't going to help out. She won't say of course, but since he ran off with his secretary I think he must come and visit under the cover of darkness. Have you seen him? Well, I wouldn't show my face again."

The aerobics class has finished. A couple of the women have parked their cars on this side of the pond and Bernard sees they are older than he thought. It surprises him than women with wrinkles can jump about for so long. They look good though. He would like to see them in fine dresses, like the one Cath wore to his mother's funeral a month after they met. She looked mighty fine that day. He could hardly think of his mother, cold and grey under that heavy wooden top.

"It's not just the children. They are good children, I know that, and Pete and Sarah do their best. But they don't help out either. We have to do everything. I mean, I don't mind, but it's the extra work they don't think about. They just assume. And we can't say no, can we? Would they come and pick us up and take us to London? It's all so time consuming for everyone."

A dog comes over to sniff around Bernard's feet. It isn't a fan of the crumbs from his two morning digestives. It licks his trousers quickly and then toddles off, its big flat paws clipping the concrete path, its tail hovering just above the puddles. Bernard wonders why there are always puddles on the path, even though it hasn't rained for over a week.

"Now if we get Jessica that cooking game, Nicky isn't going to need something better than a football. Remember the havoc last year with the trampoline? We're not going through that again. Polly had the same trouble with those twins, and they are even younger. I don't know when children got so needy and possessive of things. If we take the bus one Wednesday there's those coupons to use in that big store and it sells some toys."

Bernard's stomach growls. He searches the park for distraction but it has nothing left to give him. He wants to go home and have leftover pork chop for lunch with some green beans from the garden. But this is his part of the day and he also doesn't want it to end.

"And cramming herself into those cream jeans. Well talk about mutton dressed as lamb. She's nearly sixty for crying out loud -"

"Yes, I'd like green beans."

"And ... What? What did you just say? Bernard, she was wearing something so silly for her age, and she's not a small lady as we know."

"Shut up."

"I mean, I'm not one to talk, we could all lose a few pounds. What? What did you say again Bernard?"

"Nothing. Slip of the tongue. Lapsus Linguae."

"Sometimes I think you talk Chinese, I really do. You get it from that crossword I suppose. We'll have to pick up my magazine on the way back. Julie said there's a lovely story in there this week. About a couple who fall in love during the war. Except he speaks French and she speaks German and they don't understand each other. Can you imagine? This jumper is coming along very nicely indeed."

Bernard finally looks back to his paper. Fourteen down. I am in rage after a singular Mars wedding. 

Marriage.


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Flash fiction - Valley Girls Episode 4798

Greetings Trifectans and fellow readers. It's a perfect writing day today - grey and drizzly - and I thought it was time to post once more over at Trifecta. They give us one word, its third definition and 332 other words to write. Go over and have a read of the other entries. There are some brilliant writers over there: www.trifectawritingchallenge.com 

This week's prompt word is MASK:
3. a : a protective covering for the face
    b : gas mask
    c : a device covering the mouth and nose to facilitate inhalation
    d : a comparable device to prevent exhalation of infective material
    e : a cosmetic preparation for the skin of the face that produces a tightening effect as it dries

My effort is called Valley Girls Episode 4798.

Valley Girls, Episode 4798

The adverts arrived. That would have been 15 minutes, Doris decided. She tucked her thick, white nails under her chin and slowly, carefully, started to peel away. She wanted to keep the mask intact, like a peeled apple skin that winds back into the perfect fruit. 

Ralph glanced over and huffed. He felt giddy watching his wife taking off that thing – it made her a ridiculous mannequin, dead except for the eyes. She would usually have commented on Jean’s terrible behaviour in Valley Girls – Jean was always trying too hard – but Doris couldn’t speak. So Ralph had said something. It wasn’t right. He sighed. He didn’t like change.

Doris felt the flaky paper pull away. She hooked it around her jaw, up her cheeks. She imagined her wizened face being gently lifted away, leaving something wise and worn, but smooth and elegant. Valley Girls started again. She kept creeping her fingers underneath, keeping her old, ancient face whole. She listened to Jean from Valley Girls. She was behaving terribly again. Marcus the painter was never going be with her. She was being a fool. Poor Jean, suffering the same as every woman. Doris should be kinder. 

Ralph said, “Are you watching this or not?” His voice was low and faraway, childlike. He didn’t look at her. 

Doris laid her old face on her lap. It was creepy, staring at the dirt and little grey hairs. Doris patted her own face with her fingertips. Yes: plumper and firmer. Softer. She hadn’t expected that. She settled back smiling and finished watching Valley Girls. She didn’t comment on Jean’s silliness.

When the credits rolled, Ralph groaned out of his chair and shambled over to his wife. Already bent, he slid his glasses up his nose for inspection. Doris closed her eyes. 

“Well. You look exactly the same.”

Her eyes shot open. “No change at all? Oh, Ralph!”


Ralph shuffled towards the kitchen. “And that’s the way I loved you yesterday and will tomorrow. Tea?”

332 words

Marriage

I sit in the darkness, typing, near midnight. The Argentines sleep around me. Do they ponder, as I ponder, the how, the how, the how?

How can two people truly spend their lives together and still love each other until death do us part? Are we really animals of lifelong monogamy, or as usual are we being blinded into these things? In the green corner we have the condors, squawking away about the bliss of mating for life. Sharing a nest, a view, the upbringing of chicks, is unique and wonderful, they claim. Together you make some thing, grow something and make it fly, they say. It's special. And there's always someone there, warming the nest for when you return.

It's interesting that many animals that do mate for life are birds. I mean, they have more freedom than most, being able to fly away whenever they want and not come back. And yet they do.

In the red corner we have the elephants. No one hardly ever messes with them (except those human bastards) and they do OK. They get it done, with hard work and patience. Their time spent in pairs is sporadic, yet with purpose. I applaud that. It reminds of being at university.

With two weeks to go until 'I do' why am I dreaming about all my ex crushes, boyfriends, trysts and lovers? During the night my mind is somehow dealing with my upcoming nuptials in a way that during the day doesn't even occur to me. How many lines must be drawn? People I haven't even thought about for years pop up and must be buried in the sand. That's fine, I don't want to build a castle for them. But the more this goes on, the closer it gets, the more every breath with the word marriage strikes me across the chest and my heart stops beating a second longer.

It stops beating because I love him, adore him, am in love with him. It stops beating because I've never done anything so enormous with anyone else. It stops beating because this is the most serious thing I'm ever going to do. It stops beating because there was me and him and now, always, there will be us.

And then I breathe again. Another second passes and I am still me. And I can still fly.

So I do.

Little thoughts for a big 2012

So, we are over the bump that turns one year into another and here are some thoughts already on 2012 and what might be in store.

Fireworks

If you did not see London's New Year's Eve fireworks display, I urge you to watch them - there is a version here. They had us gobsmacked and forgetting to drink our champers. They also gave me goosebumps. Not just because they are fireworks and I turn into a kid around them; but also because this city gave such an amazing show anyone not excited about the coming Olympics this year in London must be living in a ravioli (stolen Argentine idiom).

Weather

The week prior to New Year, I spent skiing in the Alps. One day, as I had to rest a pulled Achilles, I was on the balcony of our apartment sunning myself in just a towel. Two days later we were skiing in such snow and cloud, we couldn't see from pole to pole going down the piste. And the temperature had obviously nose-dived. The first day of 2012 here was grey with torrential rain. My pots are flooded, yet my bird bath has filled up nicely. The second day of 2012 had bright sunshine and blue skies - a perfect winter's day.

I guess it's like my grandma always says: "You just can't predict the weather in this area." Or anywhere, anymore.

Marriage

Today I found out that one of my friend has got engaged. And with our wedding at the end of this year in Argentina; and being bridesmaid for another friend in October, there is a whole lot of wedding planning, talking, decisions and excitement to be had.

Of course, a wedding has nothing to do with a marriage, and I am sure that during the course of the year, we will lay even stronger foundations so that our wedding day will be the start of a long, happy and healthy marriage.

Olympics

I have been accepted as a London 2012 Games Maker, one of the 70,000 volunteers who will help in some way to run the show. I am really excited; I twitch just thinking about it. I've got my training for my Spectater Entry post at the Athlete's Village next month. Bring it on.

The Run of a Lifetime

In 33 days, I will be having my last sleep in a tent with my friend Maria before we set off on Cruce de los Andes.

Legs will burn, blisters will pop. Stomachs will churn, bums will flop. Sights will reveal, faces will grin. Fatigue will heal, hearts will win.

Happy New Year