Love Letter - You are my world

It might be too little, too late. But you have been around a lot longer than I have; I think you'll understand. You see, when we first met I wasn't sure about the love I would have for you. You've always been there and I guess I needed to grow up, find out more about myself, and more about you, before I could fall in love.

Now, I'm honoured just to be around you. Truly. To see you every day through my own eyes. To breathe your air, marvel at what you do. You confuse me and fill me with wonder in equal measure. But

I've learnt that it's OK. Perfection isn't something you strive for, you've lived too much for that. Peace, yes, like for us all, is a goal. It's not easy. There are always bumps in the road.

You shine at dawn and shimmer at sunset. You are so beautiful I simply sit and stare, wherever I am. Even in your darkest moments, stars shine. They can't help it. It's a way for us to move on. Life is for living; we always have to carry on.

There is nothing about you I would change. Only to know you more. And every day, I do. Thank you, World: my world, our world. You are amazing and I love you.

Laura    

Photo Credit: futurepath.org 

The prompt this week over at The Queen Creative was that of a love letter.

We are told: Sometimes called a billet-doux, or a love letter, a love note is a personal letter to a loved one expressing affection.  The loved one does not necessarily have to be animate, human, alive, or known.

That was mine. Go HERE and read more. 

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

Flash fiction - Overtime

Today I discovered a new flash fiction competition and inspiration has flowed. What a joy just to be and write. Over at Trifecta you are given a word and its third definition as it appears in the. This time you have between 33 and 333 words. Here's my first Trifecta attempt. The prompt and definition is below.

Overtime

She saunters into the room. All eyes turn to her. Her long limbs settle into a chair. She makes it looks like nothing to wear a dress like that. She folds one leg over the other and rests her hands in her lap. Her fingers sparkle with jewels from her travels. She only wears one earring. It’s so fabulous she doesn’t need two. She makes living look so easy.

Our boss starts talking. I am supposed to be writing, but all I can do is look at her. She is wide-eyed, looking at him with her head slightly tilted. She isn’t smiling, but she looks happy. She seems to be listening. I try to do the same. After a while my neck hurts. I obviously don’t tilt my head enough.

She stands and speaks. She doesn’t go to the lectern and use the microphone; she just stands there, amongst us all, speaking to us like she knows us. We’re all friends. Her hands often move about in front of her. One of her rings matches her lipstick and another matches her watch. Does she know this?

Later, she sends me an email. It’s about finance, but her writing is so open and friendly. She should have emailed my boss, but maybe she’s seen something in me. I start her request immediately. I’m not going until I’ve finished.

I’m the last one in the office, but I’m happy. I’ve done a good job and tomorrow she will see that. Maybe she’ll invite me for lunch. We’ll become friends. We’ll go shopping. We could go on holiday together. She’d be great to wander round markets.

I turn out the lights and stop by the toilet. Someone else is still here and she’s in a cubicle crying. It can’t be her. I peek through the crack in the door. It’s the boss’s fat PA with her head in her hands. Phew. It’s not her. I turn and leave, still happy. 

328 words

CRACK

1a : a loud roll or peal  

b : a sudden sharp noise 

2: a sharp witty remark : quip

3a : a narrow break : fissure      

b : a narrow opening —used figuratively in phrases like fall through the cracks to describe one that has been improperly or inadvertently ignored or left out 

4a : a weakness or flaw caused by decay, age, or deficiency :unsoundness  

b : a broken tone of the voice  

c : crackpot 5: moment, instant 

Go to www.trifectawritingchallenge.com to read more entries. 

Learning curve #1: Birds of the Floating World

I love being surprised. I recently returned from a trip which took me and a friend from Vienna, Austria to Tirana, Albania, via Croatia and Montenegro. It surprised me every day. Bliss.

When you are on the road, the worst thing you can do is not learn. The second worst thing you can do is not laugh at yourself and your situation. If you travel like I do, you find yourself in situations you haven’t thought through; those which are unexpected, often difficult and hilarious and… a complete surprise.

These moments teach you something. They teach you about yourself and more about life and what’s out there. I’ll be sharing some stories from the trip that upped my learning of myself, my friend and life in general. Here is one of them.

Birds of the floating world

Maria and I rented a boat to explore Dugi Otok (Long Island) in Croatia and its surrounding coves and islands as well as Kornati National Park nearby. The boat’s owner was a big personality by the name of Branco who knew everything about everything. And he didn’t trust two girls with his boat.

“You realise I am stuck here in case I have to rescues you?”

“You MUST behave!”

“No rocks! Something goes wrong, you have to pay.”

“No, I do NOT trust you.”

“We see if you survive.”

I know it sounds as if we were taking away his speed boat or prized yacht, but it was simply this:

Sally rests in her bunker after a heavy day out on the seas around Dugi Otok, Croatia

For lunch on the first day, we anchored Sally (above) near an island. After our picnic and beer on board, we swam in the clear, warm waters, marvelling at how far down we could see and enjoying following the fish with the goggles. At one point we both looked up. "Does Sally seem to be moving away?" I put my head down and swam after her. Sure enough, the anchor was being dragged along the sandy bottom far down and Sally was swishing away with the current. I got hold of her and we pulled her into shallower waters. We needed to get better at anchoring. 

Once we had clambered back into the boat (not for ladies, it’s truly ungraceful) we decided to go round the island and dry off en route, then anchor again and grease up with sunscreen. This we did. Except when I went to pull up the anchor, I couldn’t. Captain Maria (I was deck hand) came to help. It wouldn’t budge. We had suddenly become anchor experts. 

The island of spectacular swims and
an anchor situation

At this point, there was still no need to panic. At least we were safely stuck and not drifting out in the open ocean without fuel. We tried revving Sally to the max in all directions to budge the anchor, but power wasn’t one of her strong points and we got nowhere. So, I donned goggles and jumped in to have a look.

It was choppier on this side of the island and I couldn’t see all the way down, so I decided to have a go at following the rope and diving. One deep breath and down I went. The goggles filled up. And it wasn’t such a deep breath. I got so far before coming up. But I had seen just three arms of the anchor: surely if we shot Sally in that direction it would definitely budge?

It didn’t. The sun was still high in the bright blue sky. This anchor situation wasn’t a problem. We had options:

• ·       Keeping diving until we got the anchor free
• ·       Wave at another boat so they could do the same to free it
• ·       Cut the anchor rope (we would never hear the end of it from Branco)
• ·       Call Branco (we would never hear the end of it from Branco)

So, I decided to have another go. Long deep breaths; last one; and down. I got further this time, tugged the rope, ran out of air and went up swallowing the ocean. “There’s nothing holding it down! I can see all four arms!” We had no idea what was going on down there. 

I clambered back in the boat with seawater rushing out of my nostrils. “OK. I'll have a go,” said Maria, getting the goggles off me. A couple of years ago we did a personal training session together at a pool with a guy who made us swim in all sorts of styles and do random lung enhancing exercises. We were very hungover and rubbish at the time. But it turns out Maria was paying attention. She might not be the most elegant of swimmers, but when it comes to diving, she’s got it covered. She filled up her lungs and dove down. I watched her fade into the wobbly blueness. And then the rope was loose. She came back with our anchor! “Drop it before you sink!” I shouted, pulling the rope. It had been 5-6 metres down. Go Maria!

Back in the boat, all we could do was smile and laugh to ourselves. We were saved. The anchor didn’t sink us! And, more importantly, Branco would never know! As Sally took us back to our island past a seagull colony and other green islets we took a look at the clouds high above the mainland in the distance.

“Look at those clouds. Don't they say something?”

“They do. They say LIVE.”

And we sure know how to do that.

Learning: Sometimes the one thing you need to rescue you is right in the boat with you.

Surprise: Anchors really work. 

A Window on Venice

The American author and poet Ella Wheeler Wilcox wrote: "Let there be many windows to your soul, that all the glory of the world may beautify it."

I am reminded of this when I think about my little photography project while I was in Venice: its windows. They did so much to beautify and personalise the city. Each street of this magical city is a new world. Houses, hotels, cafes, shops, gondola yards and stacked together in a colourful rugby scrum, all different characters in a beautiful play. I became interested in their different windows; their shapes and colours, sizes and beauty, flowers and materials. Just like people, it seemed, they told their own interesting stories of the worlds on both sides of the glass.

Looking in or looking it out, no view is ever the same. It's good to remember that.

Here is my photo set of A Window on Venice.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/lbirdalonso/sets/72157631403697816/

The Bandage, part two

This is the second half of the short story I posted on Friday, The Bandage.

The Bandage, continued.

*

“Michael, stop fidgeting. You’ll make it worse.” Abigail put a calming arm on his plaster cast. At least it used to be calming.

“It itches. How much longer does it have to be on for?”

“Two more weeks. Then you’ll be as good as new. Christina, sit back down please. We haven’t finished.”

“That will be the end of the season! I was going to get player of the season for sure. This is shit.”

Christina looked at her father and Freddie looked up from his plate. Abigail closed her eyes a second too long.

“Michael, language.” Her husband’s voice surprised her, although it was too soft for her liking. She added, “It’s making you better, Michael. It’s not just for show. Christina, please.”

Christina slumped back into her chair. “You shouldn’t have been such an idiot then.”

“Whatever.” Michael shovelled more food into his mouth with his good arm. Peace again.

“Dad,” Christina said, “can I go to Russ’s band’s thing this weekend?”

“Where and what time is it?” Freddie pushed his plate away and sat back. His hands went behind his head.

“Why should she get to go out, she never finishes her dinner, never tidies her room.” Michael had suddenly finished as well and threw his fork down. It missed the plate and crashed into his glass.

Freddie turned to his daughter, incredibly thin and incredibly beautiful. She reminded him of an energy he had lived by a long time ago. “It’s a good question, Teenabopper. Why aren’t you eating?”

“Not hungry.” Arms folded like swords across her chest.

Abigail hunted her daughter’s face. Seeds of shame had been sown somewhere. She couldn’t think why. “Darling, you need to eat.” She said it as gently as she could.

Christina got up and glared at her. “What? So I end up like you?”

The kitchen door slammed. Freddie stood up.

“Please don’t go after her; that was rude.”

“I’m not. I’m going to the gym and then I’ve got a call with Japan. Back soon.”

Michael felt sorry for his mum. He wished he could take away the sadness in her face. She looked defeated. “Shall we have some ice cream, Mum?”

*

“Doctor, I love my wife. Or I used to. No, of course I still do. But she used to be so different. I couldn’t get enough of her. What do you mean in what way? In every way. I’m a man. I have needs and she filled each one of them. Oh, she was so beautiful. And she taught me things. We used to play this word game after sex. I don’t know why we stopped. Yes, the kids came along. She was always seeing to them. She was perfect and then I just didn’t notice her. The affairs? Not really affairs. They weren’t anything. I suppose so, they were fun and exciting. No, it didn’t mean anything. The weight? Not really. It just crept on. It did annoy me, but I had to keep the money coming in. Sex? Not much. Maybe she was getting it elsewhere.”

“No, Sarah, I never even looked at another man. I always loved Freddie. He remained so beautiful, so handsome. That’s why I felt so ugly and betrayed. He didn’t have to tell me he was disgusted with me, I could see it in his face. The diets helped, he started to notice me again and that felt good. But it was like so much time had gone by. He wanted me back to my university days. That was impossible, we were different people. The kids had finally gone and it was just us again. That was better for him, he got all the attention. What do I want? I just want him to love me for me. I’m fifty-six years old. I’m not nineteen. Yes, we’ve been having sex again. Better for me than him. I do feel guilty about that.”

“Of course I feel guilty, Doctor, but we’re past that now. And I think it’s great she’s back to normal. I mean, I didn’t leave her because she got fat. I’m still here, aren’t I? No, I’m doing this because she wants me to. OK, I can make this easy for you. Perfection. That’s what I want. I love her. So much. Yes, I’m sure about that.”

“I just want to be me, to be happy. He will still say some things. But I think he loves me, maybe too much. Sarah, there’s just a physicality with Freddie. It’s always been there. Oh, I relished in it when I was younger. But now. It’s just good to have my husband back. I know he won’t cheat anymore; we’ve reached a good understanding. It took a while to patch things up, but this has helped. We’ve healed and mended bridges, I think. But you know, Sarah, the plaster can always come off, you know?”

*

Freddie sat in the car outside the hospital. His thumb hovered over his mobile phone. He couldn’t do it. They could all wait. He threw the phone into the passenger seat.

“SHIT!” He banged his fists on the steering wheel, yelling at it, pounding it, crying to it. He rested his forehead and let the tears flow. He had never been afraid to cry. Tears dropped onto his trousers. He felt cold.

In one decisive moment, Freddie got out of the car. He ran over to the hospital. The woman on the front desk knew him and didn’t stop him as he tore past her, red face and clenched fists. He took a sharp left, running faster, crashing through doors, and bounded two at a time up the stairs to the second floor.

He collapsed at the nurses’ desk. “I need to see her. Please let me back in.”

“You can see her, Mr Balding. But you’ll have to wait. Give me five minutes and I’ll take you to her. All right? Take a seat just there and wait for me.”

Freddie sat and stared at his wedding ring. He hadn’t noticed it in so long. But it had always been there. It felt tight. He tried loosening it, turning it round in his fingers. He remembered first putting it on. It hadn’t been the done thing in those days, but he’d wanted to. Abigail had been right. She had been right about so many things.

“Mr Balding.” The voice was at the end of a long tunnel. He allowed his arm to be taken to a place, sterile, cold and shiny. He followed his arm. There was Abigail.

“I’ll leave you alone.” Someone closed the tunnel and there was silence.

Freddie stepped towards his wife. “Darling.” The vowels echoed off the walls. “Abigail.”

He reached out and touched her hand. There was no need to squeeze it, let her know he was there. He stroked it with his fingertips as he looked towards her face.

The bandage was still partly there. Her eyes and nose were both free, but her cheeks, chin and forehead were still hidden from him.

“I wanted it, didn’t I? Can I see you now? Can I know?” He brought his hands to her face and gently stroked her closed eyes. He felt his wife was there, all there behind those eyelids. That’s what he had first seen, that is where he had fallen all those years ago. He leaned down and kissed them, his own tears on Abigail’s closed eyes.

“You’ll get bored of me. You’ll find someone else.” Had she said those words, laying in his bed, half naked, totally beautiful? “No I won’t. You’re perfect, bloody perfect.”

Freddie rested his hands on her bandaged cheeks and kissed her mouth through it. Abigail would have to stay as she was; perfect inside and him blind to it as he always had been. He walked out of the room to go and call his children. No more cover-ups.

The Bandage, a short story

In The Bandage, I am interested in the notion of physical beauty and what it represents to different people; how it comes to define them in their and others' eyes. I wrote this short story a couple of weeks ago while working in the bookshop where there is peace and inspiration aplenty. I am going to post it in two parts. Let me know what you think.

The Bandage

“I can’t wait to see you.”

“I’m just here, Freddie. I’m right here. You can see me right now.”

“I know that, Darling. Don’t be silly, you know what I mean. The package. Everything all new again. It’s going to be amazing when the bandage comes off.”

“Right.”

Abigail sank back into her pillows and closed her eyes. Pain tingled around her face. Her heart felt like it wanted to escape her chest. She was hot, inside; not sweaty. She tried to think how she had gotten here.

“I brought you myself. Is something wrong?” Freddie went closer to the bed and leaned towards his wife, not quite reaching touching distance.

“I… sorry, did I say that out loud?”

“Get some rest, Darling. You’ll need it for the party on Saturday. I’ll be back in a bit.”

She didn’t open her eyes as she heard his soft leather shoes tap out of the room. It was just her, her pain and her unknown face.

*

“Abi, he’s a wretch! Freddie Balding? You serious?”

Abigail curled her fingers round the wine glass stem. Just hearing his name sent fire through her body. She sat more upright and looked at her friend, who was covered in frowns.

“He’s not.” Her voice was soft. “He’s the sweetest person you’ll ever meet. I know he’s got this reputation, but… oh, you don’t even want to see the poetry he’s written me. He’s passionate. He’s brilliant. When I’m with him-”

Lucy held her hand up and smiled. “OK, I don’t need to hear any more of that. If you’re sure. I just assumed what everyone else does about him. I mean, he’s been linked with some pretty famous faces around town.”

Abigail sipped the last of her wine. Lucy’s face was now full of smirks and questions. She would have to explain. Somehow she would have to tell her friend that Freddie Balding had fallen madly and passionately in love with her and that what had started out as a flirtatious adventure had soon blossomed into something real, something more than sex and pet names. There were now plans to live together after graduating, plans for them to get married on his parent’s ranch in South Africa, plans to have children and a long, wonderful life together.

Later that evening as she biked home Lucy thought about her best friend’s news. She choked on the thought and laughed out loud, full of wine and gossip. Her best friend was going to marry Freddie Balding! The bike hit a cobble and swerved. Lucy went flying into a lamp post. At the wedding that summer people were told Lucy was lucky to be alive, let alone wearing only an ugly bandage around her head.

*

He woke to the smell of sex and soap. The shutters were down, but the slits of light bursting in orange on the floor said it was another beautiful day.

Freddie rolled onto his side and ran his fingers through his hair before playing with Abigail’s nipple. She had been awake for over an hour, debating whether to leave him while he slept and enjoy the peace of their private beach, invigorate herself in the sea.

“Morning Sexy.” Freddie nuzzled into her side and came around to lie on top of her, his tongue stroking her collarbone and neck.

She shifted under him, he suddenly felt heavy.

“What?” He rolled off and she got out of bed.

“Let’s go outside,” she said, putting on a sarong and opening the blinds. The sun poured in with the sounds of morning birds and waves lapping.

“I’d rather stay here with you. Your drive me wild.” He softened his face. Blond curls fell over his forehead. His bottom lip, plump and pink, stuck out. His green eyes swirled, smooth like homemade ice cream.

Her heart lurched. She smiled at him and pushed it back down. There was no getting over his beauty, his love for her.

“Come on Abs, don’t leave me here all alone. I’d die. My heart would break. I’d bleed to death without you. You would come back and there would just be a pile of blood.” He laid back, hands resting behind his head. She watched his stomach muscles clench and ease and his shoulders relax into the pillows, his tanned skin like toffee over their snow.

Abigail took a step towards him. The sun was warm on her bare feet. It looked so beautiful out there, a whole paradise just for them. She slid onto the bed. He slipped his hands under her sarong.

“You can’t have a pile of blood. It would be a puddle.”

“Well, you saved me, Abs,” he murmured into her hair as she leaned in closer. “You bloody well save me.”

She kissed him on the lips and covered him with her body.

*

“I’m sorry, Mrs Balding, I can’t tell you where he is. I simply don’t know. The diary says Fletcher meeting, which is a new development south of town. He’s probably running late from that.”

Abigail wondered if secretaries all went to a special school to learn how to speak with the same clipped and feminine tone. And to lie for their bosses.

She put the phone down as Michael walked in the door. “Mummy, Christina’s spilled her milk.” He stood in the middle of the kitchen, a spitting image of his father except in Thomas the Tank Engine clothes. Abigail gathered her son up and took him through to the living room, where his sister was making hand prints from the milk which hadn’t soaked into the carpet.

“Puddles!” she cried when she saw her mother.

Abigail laughed. “Come on you two, come over here. Thomas the Tank Engine will be on in a minute. Wait there. I’ll clean this up. No more hand prints, OK Christina?”

Thumbs went in mouths and silence prevailed for some seconds until the theme tune started. Her children sat happy in their world and Abigail cleaned up the milk listening to the Fat Controller tell off a train.

“Mummy, is the Fat Controller your brother?” Michael looked over at her from the couch.

“No Darling, why do you say that?”

“You have the same faces, Mummy, don’t you?”

Christina shouted, “Mummy Fat Controller!”

Abigail looked at her children. “I’ll bring you some more milk,” she said.

*

The second part will be posted over the weekend.