WOE: Freedom

She slipped out of bed and into the clothes laying out ready on the chair in the corner of the room in movements so fluid and easy that the first uncomfortable niggle starting signalling that this was some disturbing unreality to her mind.  The clothes were High Street smart, simple, ordinary work clothes.  Then she headed into the kitchen reaching the cereal down from the shelf and pouring the bottle of milk in those same fluid, easy movements.  She watched as if she was some other external being from this body that was apparently she, accepting the reality but still bemused.  She ate, browsing through a magazine, glancing at the clock.  She washed the bowl and spoon out in the clear and tidy sink then left them on the side to drain.  Her coat and bag were hanging ready on the hooks by the door and the shoes underneath were High street smart, black court shoes like millions of women wear every day.  She took the key down and unlocked the door. Time to go to work.  A day, a routine just like everyone else’s.  It would be a beautiful day.

Her subconscious was fully disturbed now and her conscious started to clamour too, causing her to shift painfully and rouse slightly, calling her back to reality.  A reality where there would be no going to work, where there would be no easy slipping on of ‘normal’ clothes.  A reality where there was only pain and limitation.  The tears smarted in the corners of her eyes as, now fully conscious, she realised the vicious trick that her subconscious had played on her, luring her, deceiving her.

It would have been a beautiful day in that reality.  A day of freedom.

She lifted herself carefully, resting automatically for a moment before stiffly swinging her legs out from under the covers and letting them rest carefully on the floor.  She sighed then chuckled.

‘Normal’ women would have got up and had a shower in the morning, spending time on their hair and makeup before heading out of the door.  Even her subconscious had forgotten what freedom was.

She sighed again.  Ah, freedom.  She missed it when she could remember it.

The dream left her morning tinged with bitterness as she slowly navigated the reality that made her a prisoner in her own body.

 

Related Articles

 

• WOE:  To the Moon
• So You Call this Walking?
• What it Means to be Tired
• ME Information

WOE: Sand

The beach was clear of people, the dank weather was keeping people away, but she hunkered down between the dunes staring out at the sea beyond, running her hands across the cold sand, appreciating the moment of isolation.  She had played and lounged on this beach in and out of season all the years of her life, it was her beach, their beach.  She drew her breath in sharply, some barely conscious thought paining her although her eyes still hadn’t lost their focus on the distant, rolling waves.  The clouds seemed to merge with the water, grey and leaden as her heart.

She dropped back onto her bottom, never caring for the dampness and crossed her legs, brushing back the slightly crunchy curls that form in that specific combination of dank weather and sea spray and drawing the hood of her jacket over her head.  Her thoughts were a blurry fog of emotions, tears slowing forming in the corners of her eyes, smarting.  She stared out.

Slowly she picked up a handful of sand from beside her, letting it drift from her fingers, catching slightly with the wind and spraying out.  She smiled slightly, calling to mind a distant past when she had the freedom of childhood and had tossed handfuls of sand against the backdrop of a fantastical blue sky.  She picked up another, letting it drift again slowly.

Apparently all she had to do was let go, such a simple aphoristic sound bite of modern life that, she felt, was tossed about a little too freely, as if there was a button in front of her and she could reach out and press it and everything would be ‘let go’.  Instead, she reached out for another handful of sand, something tangible, something manageable.

Tense and lost in her flurry of thoughts, she crushed her hand over the sand; it compacted into a loose, damp ball.  She sighed again, letting go of the sand, this time it landed with soft thumps.  Her eyes drew to the soft sound, looking at the scattered piles.

She picked up another handful, letting it drift away before picking up another, holding it tightly this time.

Maybe it was her after all; maybe she wasn’t ready to let go, maybe she was holding on too tightly.  And maybe it was just as simple as opening her hand and letting it fall, however it landed.

~

This prompt response came to me in the middle of a night this week before speedily disappearing from my grey cells, it’s the story of my life at the moment.  This version feels very much second best but it does come in bang on the 400!

WOE: To the Moon

He had been so proud of her that first day, watching her pick out the perfect outfit and making up a packed lunch for her, hearing the shake of nerves in her voice and sending a text message at lunchtime just to make sure all was well.  He was the one who believed all along that she could do the job, who encouraged her to apply, who told her to reach to the moon.

He remembered those first few months when she would hurry home and they’d cook some dinner and spend the evening together.  He loved those moments, something precious to look forward to at the end of his own long day.

Then she started spending time with her colleagues, coming home later, not eating with him.  For a while he had been glad that she had friends, something and someone outside of the narrow confines of home but it had become a niggle.  He still wasn’t sure how he felt exactly, maybe there were words that he wasn’t prepared to admit to, things like ‘lonely’ and ‘abandoned’, maybe even jealous.  He hadn’t been jealous; he knew that.  But now?  He mentally pieced together the jigsaw and realised how her attitude had changed completely.  It wasn’t just how much time that she was spending outside the house but how she was so eager to leave, how she didn’t seem interested in what he had done that day or how he felt.  Then there was the whole thing with her mobile.  He wasn’t allowed near it, snapped at for passing it over when it sounded, suspected of always looking over her shoulder when she texted.  She’d withdraw and take a call, reply to a text message.  He was hurt, he admitted.  But not jealous, she had promised him that it was only work friends.  He had to believe in her still.  Thinking otherwise would itself be a betrayal.

There was no telling anymore what time she’d come home but he always made dinner ready, hoping.  He missed the evenings that they used to spend together, chatting or watching something on the television.  He missed her.  Something had changed in her but he didn’t know what, not yet.

She had told him that she needed space.  Space for what?  Bemused, he’d agreed all the same, letting her go and do her own thing with people he’d never even got to meet.  At the weekends when they had always planned to something particular together, they used to have so many shared interests, she was always going out now with these friends, leaving him behind.

It was nearly time, the earliest that he could expect her.  He sighed, feeling heavy in his heart, unformed and unbidden questions rising for which there were no answers.

He wheeled himself up to the window where he could see the road, see her coming.  He would ask her how her day had been but expect no conversation.  Whenever she did come home.

~

I haven’t written any fiction for so long, you’ve got to have the right ‘head’ on but this story has been whirling through my cobwebs lately and this week’s Red Writing Hood prompt gave me the encouragement to share, all I had to do was fit in the phrase ‘to the moon’ and aim for 500 words.  495, I must be getting better at this word count business!

Apologies to my subscribers for another double dose today!

Related Articles

 

• Trifecta:  Thunder (it’s been a whole month since I last wrote fiction!)
• WOE:  Core
• WOE:  A Rainy Night in Dusseldorf

WOE: Core

The last time he visited it had been early fall, the first of the cooler days, and as usual, Ma Alwright had been sitting in her rocker, feet on the railing, watching the world go by.  As he climbed the increasingly rickety steps to the porch, he passed the steady line of apple cores balanced on the rail by her feet.  Always apples.  She’d been surprised to see him yet graceful and he had felt no embarrassment.  When she decided to make them coffee and started easing herself out of the chair, it was his turn to feel surprised.  Somewhere along the way, Ma Alwright had aged and despite her remonstrances, he took her arm, further surprised, and shaken too, by the thin, papery skin and weak limb, and helped her up.  He didn’t say anything.

Now it was spring, still cool, and he hadn’t made it back.  As he left the last time, he’d told himself that he would visit more often but that’s what he always did as he got into his car and drove away.  But he’d quickly forget his self-promises and time would continue on by.

As he climbed the porch steps this morning, it was the absent apple cores he noticed first, and felt deeply, the news becoming a sudden, fierce reality.  The rocker was abandoned too now, forlorn.  He hurried inside and was going to the stairs when he noticed the open door to the back room.  He paused on the threshold, briefly wondering when she had stopped using the bedroom above, respectfully holding back as he would have done when he was a boy.

The young doctor, a newcomer in the town, was with her still.  A good-hearted fellow who had taken to calling on Mrs Alwright on his rounds, just neighbourly like.  It was the doctor who had been the one to find her.  Fortunately.  Goodness knows how long it would have been before one of the children had visited.

The doctor looked up:

“I’m glad you could come,” then added “she passed peacefully.”

He nodded, still shuffling awkwardly in the doorway, guilt overwhelming him.  As he had grown older, he realised more deeply how much maybe that she had given up, how life maybe hadn’t gone to her plan when first she had to raise her siblings who had later flown the nest without a second glance then she’d taken in the unruly brood that his own siblings were.  Life hadn’t exactly been kind to Ma Alwright but she’d been the centre of their world, a comforting stability, and her passing was incomprehensible, he was totally shaken to the core.

~

This piece is for Red Writing Hood who asked us for 450 words (441!) exploring ‘core’.  Core has many meanings and as an amateur logophile, I worked in apple cores, the idea of something or someone being indispensable and/or central and the idiom ‘shaken to the core’.  Friendly concrit always welcomed!

WOE: A Rainy Night in Dusseldorf

AKA – The Dangers of Fairytales

“It was a rainy night … in … Dusseldorf …”

“Dusseldorf?!  What kinda place is Dusseldorf?”

“It’s a cool place with all sorts of cute houses and a big castle.”

“Huh.  Sounds lame.”

“Do you want me to tell you a story or not?”

“OK, OK.  Dusseldorf.”

“Right.  Now it was a horrible rainy night in the faraway kingdom of Dusseldorf but a princess was born …”

“It’s always a princess!  I bet there was an evil witch too.”

“No there was no evil witch, just the princess.  You don’t want a princess?”

“No, princesses are silly.”

“OK.  So who lives in this faraway kingdom?”

“A prince.”

“OK.  What’s this prince like?”

“Oh he’s brave and handsome.  They always are you know.”

“Right.  So on this rainy night in Dusseldorf a prince was born … “

“No you don’t want him being born, that’s no fun.”

“Right, OK.  So no young prince then in this story that I’m supposed to be telling you?”

“No.  Being a baby is kinda boring, you know, they just cry and lie there.  See?”

He did a remarkable impression of something that could have been a baby lying on its back, or maybe it was a beetle stuck on its back, limbs flailing.  I nodded, it seemed best to agree.

“See when they grow up they have much more fun, they go fight dragons and they can ride horses.  There’re lots of things princes can do but babies are stupid.”

“OK, so this grownup prince does what?”

“Oh, he goes riding into the forest, because they always go hunting.  I’ve read this you see but I didn’t know it was in Dusseldorf. The book doesn’t say.”

I nodded at this mysterious development.

“Yeah, that’s right, he rides into the forest and sees this beautiful swan and marries her.”

“Marries the swan?”

“Yeah and then the swan comes to live in the castle with the prince.  And they live happily ever after.”

“Oh.”  My mind pursues a more adult course of logic.  “Does the swan like living in the castle or is it rather difficult?”

“No, I expect they feed it cake.  We fed the swans at the park cake, they liked it.”

I nodded, still doubting whether feeding swans on fudge cake had been a good idea but my repertoire of entertainment for small beings was rather limited.  Then he added with deceptive innocence:

“I like cake.”

I nodded in agreement, the way he had polished off two slices of the stuff just an hour ago had rather confirmed this.  He looked expectantly at me and I looked back at him.  He sighed and added:

“Maybe I could have some cake.  I’m rather hungry you see.”

Ah, the penny clicked.  Well I might not know much about these small beings but I’m pretty sure that I’m not meant to feed them cake after bedtime.  Besides, there was plenty of things I was looking forward to watching on telly, I checked my watch.

“Uh-uh, bedtime for you mister!  Night.”

I clicked the light out quickly and rushed away downstairs, a small voice echoing behind me.

“Your story sucked!”

Word count: 524

WOE: Pick a Number

My husband chose my numbers.  It was difficult explaining why and then how.  We got there eventually.  2,4,6, 8.  Yeah, original.  So in that order, an actress, in a restaurant, at midnight, facing a family emergency.  Then he got inspired and starting coming up with the bare bones of a plot.

NYC, heart of the city, it’s pouring down with rain – absolutely chucking it but no thunder or lightening just a rainstorm, she (the actress, who’s just made it, first big part on some low scale TV series) has been stood up by her date, it’s late – one of those late night places that you find in the big cities and then she gets a text.  He abandoned me there, his overworked imagination needing to go to bed.

Other than the fact that he deals in clichés, I have to admit that he has a braver imagination than I do.  I spin what is safe and close to home.  This prompt was always going to take me out of my comfort zone so hey, I’m going to roll with his idea.  (One moment, I’m still having a few extra details being thrown at me.  Apparently she’s wearing a ‘little black number’ (my sarcastic reply was ‘why would any woman want to wear a digit’ didn’t go down well) and looks like Catherine Zeta Jones.

So, in a partnership, I bring you:

 ~

The rain slashed against the plate-glass windows, fierce and relentless, pooling on the hard, dark roads, splashing up as the occasional taxi drove past, bearing late night revellers home in a sodden blur of yellow.  She swirled the remains of her wine, staring deeply but unseeing into the ruby liquid and knocked it back before placing it firmly down on the bar.  The barman, hearing the glass go down, looked over at her, his eyes had been following her long luscious curls and amber eyes for all the time that she had been here and she knew it.

The junior was placing chairs on the tables, sweeping the floors.  He looked over at the mysterious, sultry woman who had been in the corner of the bar most of the evening.  He was not worthy to lock eyes with hers; he kept his head down but dreamt of making it big.

She had made it big.  She tossed her curls back, her mood reflected in the maelström outside.  What better way was there to celebrate than a date with the most attractive lead actor in the most successful musical on Broadway?  It was all coming together; she had nailed the part, signed the contract and was on her way.  Small town girl made good.  That was the story anyway.

But he never showed.  She had waited until long after the lights had gone dark in the theatres and the clock hands ushered in another day.  She was bitter but not surprised.  A faint superstition held her back from outright confidence this evening.

Her tiny clutch gently vibrated and she whipped out her phone.  He had better have a good excuse.  She looked down at the screen, staring at the words, bolts out of the blue.  Maybe there was a good reason to be superstitious, troubles always came in threes and here was number two.  Maybe it wasn’t meant to be her lucky day after all.  But tonight of all nights?  It wasn’t fair.

She reread the message, wondering why she had still kept the same number when all she had wanted to do was run, to be something bigger and better than all that she had grown up with.  However, there were some things that you couldn’t hide from, this summons from the hospital was one of them.  Her past clawed her back.  She knew where she was heading next, although she had no idea of the consequences.

She popped the phone away and slipped down from the high stool, leaving a rolled note for payment.  Her heels marked a staccato beat across the wooden floor.  The noise made both men look up but she was gone, slipped into the night and its storm.

For a moment, the barman partly wondered if she had been there at all, a shadowy presence in the most shadowy corner of the bar.  Then he sighted her glass and knew she had been real, no figment of the imagination or sprite could knock back red wine like that.  He picked the glass up, twirled it between his fingers and wondered at the black lipstick mark.

~

521, oh yeah!

WOE: Music

I’m back but my head is still out of shape so bear with me!  This piece was inspired by an anecdote about a pregnant concert pianist, truly.

~

It was the last day of term.  Mrs Winter popped a CD into the classroom music system, something light and bright, to go with the radiant sunshine that was dancing off the walls and the euphoric mood of the children, eager for summer holidays.

A couple of tracks later, several eras of frothy pop tunes later, she looked up, catching giggles and jeers in a corner.  She was surprised, confused.

Little Paul Rivers was literally bawling his eyes out.  It was the first display of emotion that she had ever seen from the boy.  It was a small school and although she hadn’t been his teacher all the way through the classes, she had seen his journey from reception up.  He had never cried, ever.  Not even that all-testing first day when his mother had let go his hand and let him walk into the playground all by himself, loosing him free to the hordes.

But children didn’t always cry, she knew that from her many years of primary school teaching.  You could never predict how a child would react and this seemed to be a case in point.  What on earth had happened?

She bustled over to his table, in the corner by the artwork, and came down low and looked at the six children.  The ripples were just starting to spread to other tables and she wanted to put a stop to it.  Paul was already looking a little uncomfortable.

“What is going on here?”  she asked sternly, looking at the other children but it was Paul who blushed deeply.

“It’s Paul,” answered a girl.  “He just starting crying!”

The other two boys on the table clearly thought that this was amusing and giggled some more at her statement.

“Like a girl!”  jeered one of them.

He quickly withered into silence after Mrs Winter aimed a well designed look at him.  She moved around the corner of the table and looked at Paul carefully.

“Paul, who made you cry?”

He wriggled uncomfortably but Mrs Winter held his gaze until he awkwardly surrendered the answer.

“The song,”  whispered low and with shame.

“Which one?  Why?”

“The last one,” his head hung lower.

Mrs Winter was even more confused.  The previous song, like all the others, had been a jaunty pop number.  She sent him out of the room to wash his face, silenced his peers and looked at the clock, grateful that there was only another fifteen minutes left of the day.  She would definitely be speaking to Paul’s mother this evening.

She asked Paul’s mother to step into the classroom for a word, singling her out from all the other parents bustling in the playground.  This wasn’t a mother who showed her emotions on her face but there was definitely a flicker of frustration, even embarrassment.  Paul looked embarrassed too.

Mrs Winter quickly explained the situation, appreciating the mutual feeling of having to wait around on the last day of term.

“I don’t know why.   I don’t recognise the title.”

Mrs Winter asked if she could play it, maybe it was something he’d heard as a younger child.  The song started playing.  Within seconds, the controlled mother too had tears pouring down her face.  Mrs Winter was embarrassed now, she hadn’t thought that she would cause that much distress by a simple song.  She apologised and quickly turned the music off.

“It’s Chris’ song,”  sobbed the younger woman.  “He’s never heard it, I haven’t heard it since I was pregnant with him.”

~

Yes, it’s a little over!  But I’m just glad that I found something to write, it’s been a tough week and the writing just hasn’t been happening.

WOE: Flavour Prompt

~ Trigger Alert ~

She popped the smooth pills out of their blister pack, the snap of each one clear and sharp, and lined them up on the worktop.  Methodical, taking control.

There was a bitter taste in her mouth that no amount of water would wash away, the acrid bitterness of shame mixed with the sting of guilt and the sourness of failure.  It had given her an ache in her head and a weight in her chest that no amount of painkiller could soothe away.

She kept popping.  Rhythmic, taking control.

Her career had been the roles that she had craved since childhood, her job was to love and care.  What had she left now?  Her baby had died, her husband had left her.  There was nothing.  Her whole world had come crashing down around her.  Twice.

She discarded the last pack and eyed up the columns of white pills, stark against the worktop.  She had had enough of the questions, the stares, the judgements.  She had had enough of waking with that taste in her mouth, of living with it day after day.

She picked up the first pill and placed it in her mouth.  It was smooth and cool.

Maybe no amount of painkiller could soothe this pain but she wanted relief.

She picked up the next.

Most people confuse flavor with taste. These two words are not synonymous. Flavor and taste are no more interchangeable than Pennsylvania and Philadelphia. The second word in each pair is a subunit of the first. Your sense of taste is limited in scope to what your taste buds can detect. Flavor is a composite term embracing taste, smell, and mouth feel. (This last word describes the sensory responses other than gustation that take place on your lips and within your mouth. Touch, temperature, pain, kinesthetics, and the common chemical sense all help determine mouth feel.)

- Judging Food

I’m afraid that my response took me down more of a ‘taste’ route as evidenced by the quote above.  Although I don’t like to write dark stuff like (well it’s not what I would want to read, I want escapism, solace and freedom from my reading), this just asked to be written down.  Thank you for reading.

Oh and the word count was 216, well under (for once!), but there wasn’t really anything more that I could add.

Three Two One

It was dark.  The last day of the last month of the last year.  It was probably raining but it wasn’t worth climbing up to the window to see out.  The last minutes were passing rapidly.  Perhaps it was time to start fiddling with the radio.

Brittle plastic and awkward knobs, the radio was old and needed persuading to tune to a station, crackle and music.

Tinned food stockpiled, first aid kit to hand.  Bunkered down in blankets.  The world was going to come crashing to an end.

That would serve all the fools right for trusting in this technology, they’d given over their lives to it, sold their souls and now it was too late.

It was safer in the dark but the matches and candles were to hand.

A voice on the radio.  A countdown.

Three, two, one…

Braced, tense.  What would happen?  Explosion or a grinding to a halt?

Silence then the first fireworks shot overhead.

The voice on the radio continued.

Nothing.

The world went on.

Wondered what the fuss had been about.

This week we asked you to write a piece of fiction or creative non-fiction about a countdown, starting with “Three, two, one.”

It could be about anything – New Year’s Eve, gathering your nerve, disciplining your kids. We wanted you to use your imagination and have fun with it.

 

I went for abstract this week and managed to get in beautifully under the word count, 177.  It’s got to be a miracle!

A Midwinter’s Tale

The doorbell rang, harshly rupturing the night.  It had been dark for hours but now the sky was gently being invaded by the gathering clouds.

She stirred, surprised.  She must have fallen asleep.  She pushed the blanket to one side and drew her jumper around her tighter, shivering.  The old gas fire glowed dimly, powerless against the worst of winter.

She eased herself up and cautiously made her way across the room, remembering the coffee table and the trailing lead of the electric kettle.

She flicked on the hallway light.  Who on earth could it be?  The bell sounded again.  She muttered to herself about patience as she looked out the key.  She opened the door, the chain still on.

“What on earth are you doing here?” she opened the door properly.  “You needn’t have come.”

“I left as soon as you put the phone down.  I had to leave the car on the top road and walk down, it’s so icy.”

She wrapped the slighter, frailer woman in her arms and they both breathed deeply, both secretly relieved to see the other.

“You better come in before we both catch our death of cold.”

The daughter released her mother and stepped into the hallway, noting the cold air.  She didn’t take off her outer things.

“I’ll make us both a cup of tea,” she said, heading to the kitchen.

“I brought the kettle into the living room, to make it easier.”

A standard lamp was switched on and the kettle filled.  They both sat down on the sofa, a little awkward for a moment.

“Why didn’t you say anything earlier?”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“Don’t worry, it’ll be alright.  We’ll get through this together, I promise.”

She drew her mother close and pulled the blanket over them.

“No one should be alone at a time like this.”

Outside, the snow began to fall.

We’d like you to craft a piece of fiction or creative non-fiction around the holiday season, keeping in mind that for some people “the holiday season” begins around Halloween and doesn’t end until well after the New Year is underway.  The piece should begin with “The doorbell rang” and end with “snow began to fall.”  The middle is up to you, and the entire thing should be under 300 words.

314!  I promise I have taken all your advice to your heart and I’ve been utterly ruthless to get it to this point.  It was about 450 when I first wrote it.  I started writing then stopped and let it stew for twenty-four hours whilst I decided where it was going.  Then I came back to it and wrote it all out before leaving it a while.  I attempted to whittle the beast into shape but had to employ my husband as an editor, he has no emotional attachment to my words whatsoever!  Having tamed it to more manageable proportions (350 ish!), I left it to stew for another twenty-four hours before merciless going on a back space button rampage before posting.  The irony is if I try to write a longer piece then it always falls short, can’t win.  (Oh and I’ve posted the original, wordy version separately!)