OK, so this is my house. Your house isn’t very far away, you’re quite safe. Here’s a cheese sandwich and a drink. It tastes funny? It’s OK, drink up.
You thought I was a woman? Yes, I was wearing my wig then, but it’s OK…
Friday Flash Fiction |
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Mummy asked me to collect you from school at lunchtime for your dentist appointment. She didn’t tell you about it? It’s all right, you don’t know me, but I live nearby and I’ll look after you until Mummy comes. Make yourself comfortable in the back of the car and fasten your seatbelt. Happy? We’re off.
OK, so this is my house. Your house isn’t very far away, you’re quite safe. Here’s a cheese sandwich and a drink. It tastes funny? It’s OK, drink up. You thought I was a woman? Yes, I was wearing my wig then, but it’s OK… Editor's Choice He peeled the potatoes and put them in boiling water, then chopped the onions and began frying them with the mince.
Soon the kitchen was filled with the aromas of cooking. When the mince was ready he poured it into a dish, mashed the potatoes, spooned them on top, then put the dish under the grill to brown. He looked down at his wife’s drawn face and sparse hair, and she smiled. ‘Very good,’ she said. ‘We’ve got three months to make you into a cook. I think we’re going to do it.’ I've come down to the Whistle and Trumpet to settle the wedding feast fees, which've come to five hundred Mercian Shillings. It's a good long way to Crick. Halfway there I got a boot up on Tom Mercer's cart. He had Elspeth with him. She didn't say a word. Folks call her a slattern but I like her. I mean you can't help being poor can you.
I paid my dues, had a couple of pints and a bit of lunch and now I'm all in suspense awaiting Roger Penrose with that new collie pup he said he'd give me. "Put a penny in a baggie, fill it with some water, and hang it on your porch."
"And that gets rid of wasps?" Gertrude nodded. "It repels any pest that flies." She was full of outdoorsy, garden knowledge and, though it seemed odd, I gave it a try. The next day, a knock came at my door. I answered, greeted by my ex, the airline pilot, making a liar out of the welcome mat. I pushed past him, snatched the baggie from where it hung, and flung it in the trash. I knew it was too good to be true. Lenny’s parents told him the competition would be fierce.
Even though he was only eight years old, he agreed to a week of baseball training camp. It was hosted at a nearby university. His assigned room was on the twentieth floor of the dormitory, and he was too short to reach the elevator button. On the first scorching hot day of practice, he dove for a ground ball across the baseline. Dust covered his eyes, nose and mouth. As he lay on the ground, he heard the coach’s voice: “Was it worth it?” Lenny hesitated. “I don’t know,” he replied. Wilma sighed. There was another round robin letter from cousin Carolyn. She’d boast about her children, wonderful husband, and holidays.
Wilma went into her lounge. Fred slept. She smiled. She would chat later. Every day was a bonus when stage four cancer was at home but Wilma prided herself on just getting on and not burdening others. She wasn’t convinced Carolyn could do that. Was there a false jollity about those wretched letters? Wilma opened the letter. It only had one sheet instead of Carolyn’s dozen double sided pages. ‘Wilma, let’s talk. Ken’s run off with another woman. Now what?’ I’m travelling to before we get together, because if we haven’t, then you can’t be dead. We had to happen first. You had to kiss me, tell me you loved me, marry me. Before the worst.
2019, Bangor Pier, watching the sun fall. (Stop there, time.) Sweet stranger walking a pesky spaniel that I never thought I’d love. (Please, stop.) You ask if you may sit beside me. (Please, st-…of course you may.) 2023, Bangor Pier, leaning back on our bench to watch the sky bleed. If I avoided pain, I’d lose our joy. Come and join me, sweet man. I covered Harold in foil and closed the cage, before setting off for work.
His decline had started two days ago during my first date with Rosalind. Perhaps he’d been jealous? Yesterday, I’d received a call offering life insurance. Rosalind then popped round to ask about wills. Mine is organised – should Harold die before me everything goes to my partner (if I have one) or a national bird charity. Mustn’t be late. I noticed the car approaching but felt confident I had enough time to cross safely. However, the car sped up - Rosalind waving at me from the driver’s seat. While under the anaesthetic, old Bill started to recall friends and relatives who had passed away. There was no morbidity involved; in fact, as he recalled them, the room filled up with familiar faces, talking and laughing. He even got off the operating table to join them. It was wonderful, just like a party in the old days, except better somehow - more carefree. The only downside was that no matter where he looked, he couldn’t find any alcohol - but he was enjoying himself too much to give it much thought. Eventually, the truth dawned on him: Dead people don’t drink.
The scent of jasmine, roses and nicotiana filled the evening garden; pipistrelles darted over the trees catching insects. Mimi walked along the beloved paths, the sound of Hugo’s viola weaving a Mozart concerto through the dusk. She joined him in the summerhouse, enchanted by the music. When he’d finished playing, Hugo wrapped the viola in a red velvet cloth before carefully putting it into its custom made case. Together they watched the dark blanket of night settle. ‘Wake up Mimi, time for your medica….’.The nurse saw the contented smile on her patient’s face and realised there was no need.
She sat amongst the empty boxes. She had drawn a line through each of her children’s names and written a new title: KEEP, CHARITY, RUBBISH.
She had emptied their contents in a circle around her. One by one she picked each item up and turned it over in her hand, memories came flooding back. A finger painting, a car, a favourite teddy and some well-read comics. She smiled with tears. How could she decide which box to place each memory. She wished for time, time to reverse, time to hold them, time to stop. She missed her children. Do you want to see inside? It’s a silly question really; we won’t stop long.
Strange huh? Like an old lady house frozen in time. These are all his Mum’s things even though she died a decade ago. Is that smell getting to you? Sorry should’ve warned you - that antiseptic does catch your throat a bit. Let me just show you the cellar... Can you feel it? Like a chill that clasps you? It’s like a normal place but your body knows some bad shit has happened here. We’d better go: I think I heard his car pull up. A couple of us horse-crazy women saw Billy jumping in an exhibition. He rode bareback, centaur-like. There was no space between man and beast, an intuitive connection.
“Oh, my heart! Gotta love that man,” I said. “Save your breath, girl. He’s gay,” said my companion. “Mine isn’t a colouring book life with lines and little tinted paint compartments.” I grinned. “It’s more an impressionistic Chagall painting, a beautifully blurred togetherness of pigment. The colour of love.” She shook her head. “I don’t understand.” “He mightn’t even know it, but I can love a gay man if I want to." We hopped off the bullet train at Tokyo station, submerging into a heap of human traffic. Weaving our way up to the surface, we knocked our enormous Patagonia backpacks into innocent salarymen. Kanji splayed every street sign. Not a lick of English anywhere. At the nearest bookstore, we butchered out chizu from the English-Japanese phrasebook. The shop-owner sputtered out directions in Japanese and pointed to the back. My boyfriend purchased a bilingual map and led us north. For thirty minutes, we circled and twined and somehow returned to the same bookstore. I snatched the map. Across the front said OSAKA.
“I have your test results.” The Doctor said. ‘How long have you had this?”
Henry thought about the arguments he’d had with Sally these last few years. She was always nagging him to see a doctor, to look after himself. “Not long.” Henry lied. “I only came because Sally insisted.” The Doctor nodded. “Is it serious?” Henry asked. “No, but it’s the sort of thing that can become cancerous at any time. Looks like we’ve caught it in the nick of time.” The Doctor looked at the notes and smiled gently at Henry. “Let’s talk about Sally, your late wife.” Bob and Joe, brothers, sat at the bar. It was the first time they’d been together since their father’s funeral.
“It’s strange,” Bob said, “but what I remember most about Dad at the end is how he never flinched or cried out when they gave him all those shots.” “Yeah,” Joe said. “Did he ever talk to you about the war?” “Never.” “Me neither. We’re a lot like Dad.” “No, we’re not,” said Joe, his voice breaking. Bob looked over and saw tears in Joe’s eyes. “We used to be,” Bob said, putting his arm around his little brother. “Yeah.” In the silence of the night, they watched as a man stumbled through the darkness. They intervened, celebrating his return from the dead and promising protection from lurking dangers. As they whispered about his demise, figures emerged from the shadows, warned him of looming threats, beckoning him back to the tomb. Impervious to the eerie effects of the night, they promised he would never escape their grasp. He lay motionless as the flowers stood still, a haunting arrangement watching his every move. They whispered and cackled, foretelling his capture and descent into the depths of the vault, never to return.
She leaned against the handsome white stallion's warm neck and inhaled his essence. He had been at her farm for decades and she was now too frail to care for him.
The horse readily accepted the new girl, Bella, as she stroked his face and lightly ran her hands over the ragged scars just below his withers. The old woman knew Bella was a risky choice yet, reluctantly, gave her the amber glass container of salve. "Promise me, Bella, you must rub this on his shoulders every 45 days without fail. Understand? If you don't, his wings will grow back." A single bull, knee-deep in prairie grass, the curled black hair on its hump afflicted with mange. Ezra aims his Sharps .50 caliber and fires. The bull staggers, falls to its front knees, then collapses.
We ride up and dismount. The bull is still quivering, bloody foam snorting from its nostrils. “Ain’t never seen a buff by hisself before,” Ezra says, “And Two Feathers says that herd to the west ain’t but twenty head.” He spits out a glob of tobacco. “Time is running past men like us, young Davy.” I look at the dying buffalo and nod in agreement. You brightened every room, and it’s understandable others were drawn to your aura. A shining star and caring soul; no wonder everyone loved you. We were great together. Cheeky drinks, dancing, bowling; never a weekend wasted. I see us laughing as clear as yesterday. The happy yesterday of our innocent past visits me when I sleep each night, and has for the last fifteen years. You didn't deserve my jealous outburst. My fist. The broken bottle. Happy memories pulled from my grasp when I wake each morning. Wake to the grey of my cell. Wake to the horror of reality.
Songs with words in my head – each one a hit – I’m worrying beads between gnawed fingernails. I think I’m going deaf. She said I was Tin-Eared. Three weeks at 3,600 seconds per hour she’s been gone. Put like that…? As if I’d tell her this. Words won’t come out sweet.
Nothing on the phone. Nothing on Facebook; though she isn’t the type to destroy me in the public domain. Too classy. Values her privacy. I’m not the Tin Man, I’ll say, please God, if I see her again, I’m the Scarecrow. Be careful with matches around me. I love her. Like a banshee, Malcolm wailed along to Nazareth's Love Hurts. Wendy stepped into the den, where the music blasted from the refrigerator-sized speakers, stopped and stared at him.
"What's this?" she asked. Using the remote, Malcolm killed the sound and looked her way. "Rock & roll, baby," he declared rhapsodically. Wendy nodded. "I thought so," she replied, folding her arms across her chest. She'd just wait him out, wait until his menopausal seizure had passed. "Now, what've you got for me?" "Milk Bone," she said with a smile, holding it out. Malcolm approached, snatched the dog biscuit between his jaws, then licked Wendy's hand. "That's a good boy!" The shooter leveled his gun and touched the trigger but thank goodness Carl the custodian was on the scene. He started humming a tune, one the students had never heard, and as the bullets left the barrel they became sawdust, scattering over desks and the floor.
As sirens wailed and students and teachers fled the shooter howled and pointed the gun at his own head but only powdered himself with sawdust. The smell of cedar filled the classroom. Later the principal said what a mess but Carl just started humming and got to work. It could have been far worse. They had called out to her from the window as she walked past. She had picked them up, held them, smelt them, loved them. She had to ignore the want within her. While her head told her firmly ‘No,’ her heart told her otherwise, melting at the first glance. They were perfect. Her heart sank with disappointment. Shaking her head, tutting to herself. She forced herself to put one well-heeled foot in front of the other and walk swiftly away, not looking back. There was no more room, at present, in her home for even one more pair of shoes.
Mack smarted from his latest rejection. He had scraped the barrel bottom. The girls in his haunts all knew him much too well.
After a night of bourbon-soaked soul searching, he recalled a blissful interlude of a few years ago: Matilda, shapely, stylish, quick witted. Why had they drifted apart? OK. So she’d moved eight hours away. He’d drive over, just show up, knock her off her feet. Sharply dressed, combed, cologned, a little tired, he knocked. The door opened. Glances crossed, and they both knew. “Why is he here? He’ll never change.” “Why did I come? She’ll never change.” |
"Classic"
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