I regret that evening every single day. If I could turn back the clock, I would, of course I would. The look on your face when I turned away for the final time, to follow my new, cool ‘friends’ to the party is forever etched in my memory.
I still remember when you held me in your arms, both of us illuminated by a full, bright moon determined to show us the best possible versions of ourselves. I was at once the most powerful and the most vulnerable creature in this world. Sometimes I still visit the tiny island where I felt your lips on my neck for the first time, and I can feel them still, a faint ghostly tingling as I turn my face towards the night sky, hoping, praying, that my home did not claim your life as my family insists. That I will see you, an unexpected surprise on the sand, mooring a boat with your head tossed back in careless laughter. But I have not seen you for almost twelve full cycles of that moon, now, and whenever I hear the waves crash against the rocks on particularly stormy nights, hope slips a little further out of reach from my heart. Continue reading
“Write yesterday’s fortune cookie. It got everything wrong.”
Er, might have missed the point of the above but it inspired the below short piece – enjoy!
Fortune cookies are funny things, aren’t they? They’re either ridiculously cryptic or they’re so simple they’re scoff-worthy.
Last night, I had the girls over for take away and mine said: “You will marry your lover”.
I, of course, had outwardly scoffed and inwardly glowed – that’s the other thing. If they’re what you want to hear, then you still get a warm fuzzy feeling. Continue reading
I want to lean back in the evening breeze, against a balcony framed by the setting sun. I want to smell citrus on the air, kissed by a faint hint of tobacco. I want to feel my pulse quicken as your fingers entwine with mine, firm and sure. I want to hear the soft thrum-thrum-thrum of a guitar in the distance, weaving gently through the laughter and chatter in the street below. I want to dance with you, and for you to catch me when I stumble with a laugh, a little drunk – on excellent wine, yes, but mostly on happiness. I want you, on this warm, perfect, sultry evening. I want you, forever and always.
Thanks for stopping by 🙂
I’m back! My super scary exam is over and I have more time again 🙂
So the prompt was as above. I adapted it slightly and came up with the following. I think this one is more an excerpt than a standalone. Tried not to pack too much in and went with the flow.
The sound of a key turning in the door made Rita jump. She hastily put the photograph back inside the tin, replaced the lid and stared at the logo for a moment – ‘Finest Shortbread’ – with her mouth still hanging open in disbelief.
“Rita? I’m home!”
She leaped up, kicked the tin back under the bed with her foot and hurried out of her parents’ room. She slowed down on the other side of the door and closed the door as slowly as possible behind her.
“Hi, mum!” she called, crossing the hall and running down the stairs, a smile fixed in place. She needed time to figure out what to do about her discovery, but that would have to wait a while. Continue reading
In the end, it was never about her, but me. Nobody stopped me from dancing – but she danced so well, all eyes drawn to her swaying hips and joyous expression, I gradually began to sit down more and just watch. I felt as though I was doing the right thing in joining others in their adoration, and ignored the small niggle saying otherwise, dismissing it as selfishness. The microphone always passed to me as well on the family karaoke nights, but she sang so well, with time I thought it best to just pass the mic along so that everyone could take pleasure in her voice for that much longer. That high school summer when we both qualified for the temp job in the library, I backed out of the interview so she could claim it, and told myself it was fine – she needed the experience. Continue reading
To be read in conjunction with ‘First betrayal…and revenge‘…
The only reason I come to the half-open window in the first place is because the wind is swooping through it with unseasonable force for this time of year, and when I catch sight of you next to the car, I freeze. A familiar, nauseating mix of guilt and fear envelopes my heart and a constellation of memories flits through my mind – embraces that have lost their warmth, your earnest protestations that everything will be just fine, a long-sought-for spark as her lips meet mine for the first time. The world quietens and slows for just a moment, as you raise a lit match – and then it speeds up again with a terrifying clarity. As you flick the match and I scream, anger enveloping fear, I realise that I have known from the very beginning what you are capable of. Continue reading
Sooo, after I scribbled this one, my brain started whirring, with lots of ideas stemming from this story – that can only be a good thing, right?
I stop at the doorway, listening, the photograph in my hand.
“He suspects,” Mum says. “Should we tell him?” Continue reading
So, I got the prompt from Jess’s blog followthevoid, which you guys should check out if you haven’t already. She runs writing workshops and her posts are always an interesting read.
She spoke about writer’s block in the particular post with this prompt…those days where you just can’t seem to put anything that seems of note onto paper…I think we all have them!
Anyway, I didn’t set myself any rules for this one, it’s ended up about 500 words and was untimed. I’m not sure where the ideas came from, this isn’t part of a bigger story or anything at present, but I feel perhaps this short piece could turn into something bigger? See what you think!
When she thought of home, she thought not of her mother’s beautiful suburban mansion or her father’s cluttered apartment, where her younger brother still lived. Nor did Harriet think of her own tiny studio flat, from where she was desperately trying to carve out a living from selling her artwork.
She thought, instead, of the tumbledown cottage in the countryside where all four of them had been happy. Despite her mother’s claim that she hadn’t ‘been happy in a long time’, when she was trying to justify her stupid affair, Harriet did not think this was true, unless ‘long time’ meant ‘a few months’. Her mother wasn’t a good enough actress to fake joy for years. That was why she had been found out only weeks after starting the affair.
At least the divorce had been an amicable one. This was, Harriet knew, due to her father’s impossibly calm personality. Normally, she admired this quality, but was very annoyed when it led to his offer of moving out, because she knew what would happen shortly afterwards – and it did. Her mother sold the cottage, which fetched a pretty price thanks to its location.
Harriet was heartbroken when she saw the ‘sold’ sign, when she realised she would never again be able to call the cottage home, and still felt as though she was grieving for a lost family member four weeks on. She had been refusing to answer all calls from her mother since. She loved her mother dearly, but she couldn’t forgive her mistakes just yet. Harriet’s father, of course, understood this feeling completely but encouraged her to let go of her anger, as he had done. Her brother, at sixteen, didn’t entirely understand but had kindly provided her a shoulder to cry on.
Home is supposed to be where the heart is, and she knew it was silly to have been so attached to the cottage, but she couldn’t help it. It held so many memories; she had helped her brother learn to walk in that living room, painted her first watercolour on an easel in that kitchen (it had the best light), been tucked into bed by each of her parents countless times in her bedroom…her mother didn’t think the same way. To her, there was a profit to be had and a new purchase to be made, and that was it.
On a day during the fifth week after seeing the ‘sold’ sign, after a notable absence of calls from her mother (she had been calling daily up until three days prior), Harriet decided to take her father’s advice and ring her. She had not been a bad mother by any means, and the fact that her marriage had failed and that she thought quite differently to her daughter about the cottage didn’t mean that all bridges needed to be set alight. It was time for Harriet to hear her mother’s side of the story, and maybe start on a path to reconciliation.
All constructive/polite feedback welcome, as always 🙂
Thanks for stopping by!