'The paramedics found it strange that before they had even arrived on the scene someone had left a bunch of flowers next to the tragic accident...'
It had been a tiring week and Laura wasn’t looking forward to the drive home. Whilst consultancy work was well rewarded, she was fed up with living out of a suitcase and could barely remember when she’d last spent seven days in her own bed.
At 5pm on Friday Laura shook hands with the finance director and thanked him and his staff for their hospitality, a false expression of gratitude given the icy reception that she had received over the past five days from all but one employee, a lanky IT technician who had taken it upon himself to interrupt her every two minutes asking if she wanted yet another cup of weak, unpleasant tea. It was pouring with rain and the winter sky was already black so she ran to her car, coat over head. She threw her bags into the boot and was just about to climb in when she realised that she had left her scarf inside. She was tempted to leave it, every minute she delayed setting off adding another minute to the time until she would be back in her flat with the bottle of chardonnay that had been chilling all week in anticipation of her return. The scarf however had been a gift from her mother and would no doubt be expected to be paraded in front of her at their next meeting, so reluctantly she ran back inside, leaving the engine running in an effort to shift some of the ice glazing the windscreen.
Within two minutes Laura was back in the car and the ice had cleared sufficiently for her to set off. Eyes heavy from too much work and not enough sleep, Laura cranked up the radio in an attempt to keep herself alert. As the DJ played an eighties classic she started to sing along, head bobbing in time to the music. She would never sing in front of an audience, the thought of karaoke mortifying, but nothing could beat belting out a cheesy song safe in the knowledge that no one could hear.
As her route snaked into the country, Laura turned her headlights to full beam. In such treacherous conditions she hated this kind of road; windy, unlit and full of potholes.
Fortunately she only had a couple of miles to go before the motorway that would carry her all the way home. The rain seemed to be getting even stronger, and Laura turned the radio up further in an effort to drown out its hammering rhythm.
Coming around a bend at considerably more than the speed limit Laura was suddenly faced with a red traffic light on a crossroads immediately in front of her. Slamming on the brakes she managed more by luck than judgement to screech to a halt parallel to the light, the lack of traffic that she subsequently noted in every direction making her wish that she hadn’t bothered.
There was a loud thud from the back of the car which she assumed was her suitcase in the boot careering forward. This assumption was however quickly proved wrong as she heard an expletive come from behind her seat, and felt a hand grab at her knee. Screaming, Laura looked up into her rear view mirror to see a shadowy figure peering at her. Her first instinct was to get out and run, however it had been at least a mile since she had last passed a house and other road users seemed to be few and far between, so she decided that running away from a would-be murderer was not the wisest idea. On the passenger seat was her handbag; a huge leather contraption which held not just keys, wallet and phone but also a spare shoes, a litre of water and a fat novel. Recalling how her boyfriend had always said how she would do herself damage lugging around that vast weight all day, she decided the best course of action was to test its to potential to do damage to someone else. Laura grabbed the bag and swung it with all her strength at the unwelcome passenger, hitting him squarely in the nose, which started bleeding all over her upholstery.
“Ouch!” squealed the would-be murderer in a frankly unfrightening manner. As he looked up, blood continuing to spill everywhere, Laura suddenly recognised him and felt her feeling of terror give way to immense anger.
“You? What the hell are you doing in my car? I could have crashed and killed us both!”
The IT guy looked somewhat pathetic as he tried to stem the flow of blood with his sleeve.
“I’m so sorry, I never meant for this to happen! I followed you out as I wanted to give you my number – and these”
He bent down and pulled out from underneath Laura’s seat the most bedraggled bunch of flowers that she had ever seen.
“It was raining so hard that when I saw you run inside I thought I’d sit in the car until you got back – to protect the flowers, you see. Then when I saw you coming back I got nervous, and for some stupid reason decided to hide. I hoped you’d go to the boot or something so that I would get a chance to sneak out without you noticing, but that never happened. I was planning on making my getaway as soon as you stopped; I never meant to scare you, I promise!”
With fury in her eyes Laura swung the bag at him again.
“You weirdo, I wouldn’t have wanted your flowers before and I certainly don’t want them now. Get out, now! Before I call the police...”
As the IT guy clambered out the car Laura pushed her foot to the floor, desperate to get to somewhere well lit and where she could compose herself. As tears flooded her eyes she saw nothing other than the road ahead, the road that would lead her to civilisation and away from the creep who had scared her half to death. By the time headlights illuminated her face and the bellowing horn filled her ears however it was too late – he may have scared her half to death, but it was the ten tonne articulated vehicle speeding towards her would take her all the way.
Showing posts with label FridayFlash. Show all posts
Showing posts with label FridayFlash. Show all posts
Thursday, 25 March 2010
Sunday, 21 March 2010
Writing.....
I didn't get the chance to write a Fridayflash short story last week but have just put the finishing touches to next week's contribution - watch out for the dreadful pun in the title!
In the meantime, here's a somewhat daft poem that I wrote for the most recent Leeds Writers Group meeting. The brief was to write a piece with a theme of Resurrection / Second Life. I think that this poem probably works best read out loud - imagine the narrator as a world weary woman of a certain age entering a new chapter in her life....
Resurrection
“It’s been a while”, she said, and sighed
“Since I walked down the aisle, a virgin bride
Full of hopes, and dreams, and wishes
Far more exotic than ironing and washing the dishes;
Darning his socks and cooking his tea
The original goddess of domesticity.
Dreams of adventure quickly faded with three mouths to feed
And yet, I was happy, he gave me all I could need
I felt like I’d found my vocation in life
I was born to be a mother, born to be a wife
He would always protect me, of that I had no fear
Until that day - that fateful day! - when he gave me gonorrhoea...
I’d been blind within my romantic bubble
Ignored the signs that the man was trouble
Those late nights at work, those anonymous calls
I never questioned his life beyond our four walls
My friends asked with disbelief ‘Did you not suspect a thing?
When he’d ‘accidentally’ leave the house without his wedding ring?
When he started dressing smartly, when he bought a new cologne
When you found a blonde hair in the wash you knew was not your own?’
In the bedroom there were no clues, I saw no changes in his habits
Although after several decades of marriage we weren’t at it like rabbits
The end, when it came, was swift as could be,
Infidelity I may have forgiven, but not that STD...
I climbed into the attic and retrieved from a case
That once loved confection of satin and lace
Ripped apart each and every yellowing thread
A sacrificial ritual for that marriage now dead
Oh, if I could turn the clock back twenty odd years
I could save that virgin bride a tsunami of tears
Yet I would not choose to have lived without this pain
For the greatest benefit of death is the chance to be born again
Yes, my husband’s blatant disregard for protection
Has led to this red-blooded woman’s resurrection
Out of the darkness shines a fierce burning light
And thanks to him, if I’m lucky, I’ll be on fire tonight....
In the meantime, here's a somewhat daft poem that I wrote for the most recent Leeds Writers Group meeting. The brief was to write a piece with a theme of Resurrection / Second Life. I think that this poem probably works best read out loud - imagine the narrator as a world weary woman of a certain age entering a new chapter in her life....
Resurrection
“It’s been a while”, she said, and sighed
“Since I walked down the aisle, a virgin bride
Full of hopes, and dreams, and wishes
Far more exotic than ironing and washing the dishes;
Darning his socks and cooking his tea
The original goddess of domesticity.
Dreams of adventure quickly faded with three mouths to feed
And yet, I was happy, he gave me all I could need
I felt like I’d found my vocation in life
I was born to be a mother, born to be a wife
He would always protect me, of that I had no fear
Until that day - that fateful day! - when he gave me gonorrhoea...
I’d been blind within my romantic bubble
Ignored the signs that the man was trouble
Those late nights at work, those anonymous calls
I never questioned his life beyond our four walls
My friends asked with disbelief ‘Did you not suspect a thing?
When he’d ‘accidentally’ leave the house without his wedding ring?
When he started dressing smartly, when he bought a new cologne
When you found a blonde hair in the wash you knew was not your own?’
In the bedroom there were no clues, I saw no changes in his habits
Although after several decades of marriage we weren’t at it like rabbits
The end, when it came, was swift as could be,
Infidelity I may have forgiven, but not that STD...
I climbed into the attic and retrieved from a case
That once loved confection of satin and lace
Ripped apart each and every yellowing thread
A sacrificial ritual for that marriage now dead
Oh, if I could turn the clock back twenty odd years
I could save that virgin bride a tsunami of tears
Yet I would not choose to have lived without this pain
For the greatest benefit of death is the chance to be born again
Yes, my husband’s blatant disregard for protection
Has led to this red-blooded woman’s resurrection
Out of the darkness shines a fierce burning light
And thanks to him, if I’m lucky, I’ll be on fire tonight....
Friday, 29 January 2010
#fridayflash - 9 to 5
My first attempt at Friday Flash fiction....
9 to 5
“This is a customer announcement. Please step back from the edge of the platform. The next train does not stop at this station.”
As the Manchester Piccadilly express thundered through the station, Mark folded the free tabloid, slipped it into his laptop bag for later reading and rose to his feet in anticipation of the arrival of the somewhat more leisurely 7.27. It always amused him to think that the passengers on the fast train could cover 40 miles in less than half an hour, whilst for he and his suburban compatriots a journey of no more than ten miles took the same if not longer time. He’d considered cycling to work, but had always looked with some disdain at those commuters who rock up at their office encased in lycra and beaded with sweat like some kind of Olympic hopeful only to make a Superman-like transformation into just another suit.
Mark had never wanted to be just another suit, his student days – and nights – were passed with guitar in hand and books on shelf, academic study always taking second place to dreams of rock stardom. He’d had plenty of dreams in those days, dreams and ambitions of becoming a household name, of living a life outside of the 9 to 5 box. Dreams, however, do not keep food on the table, whereas a respectable job in a bank –not just a job, as his mother always reminded him, but a career – pays the bills.
Mark’s mother was terribly proud, telling everyone she met how her son worked in banking in the City. She never elaborated further, leaving her audience to make their own assumption of a glamorous London career, work hard play hard, pinstripes, braces and big fat bonuses. The reality of the Northern Bank regional office in Manchester was nowhere near as exciting, so she tended to keep these details to herself. Mark himself quickly gave up on correcting her and instead would play along; “Oh yes, it’s a very important role, so much responsibility, I’d tell you more but it really is very complicated. They call us the unelected rulers of the world, you know, and it’s true. It would all fall apart without us, that’s the honest truth.” Then, of course, it did all fall apart, and whilst his mother’s pride did not diminish whatsoever, the story was all of a sudden spun in a somewhat different way; “Our Mark works in financial administration. He’s a manager you know, six people working for him. We always knew he’d do well, our Mark. Takes after his father, rest his soul; always such a clever man. Only twenty-four and six people working for him, imagine that!”
The train was relatively empty so Mark slid into a window seat and dumped his bag beside him. As the train lurched forward he retrieved his laptop from its case and fired it up. When the background photo of Rosalie appeared he smiled; he’d always loved this picture, taken at sunset overlooking the Mediterranean Sea on their first holiday together three years ago. She looked so happy, cocktail in hand, sun-bleached hair swept in a messy ponytail, strappy dress revealing a deep tan. His Mum had a photo of the two of them taken on the same holiday sat pride of place on her mantelpiece. “Such a beautiful looking girl;” she would tell her guests, gesticulating towards the documentary evidence in the mahogany frame. Mark often wondered what his Dad would have made of Rosalie. “Beautiful girl like that, what’s she doing with our Mark? Can’t be for his looks!” Five years now and it never got easier. Day in day out Mark would wonder what his Dad would have thought of particular situations, would imagine the advice that he would have dished out in his usual stoic, unjudgemental style.
For the past four months since the unusually balmy day in September when he waved her off at Manchester Airport, photos were as close as Mark had got to seeing Rosalie in the flesh.
"Such a pity she’s working abroad at the moment;” his Mum would tell visitors. “Six months she’s going to be out there, helping to set up a branch in Spain. They must think very highly of her, she’s only been at there a year and she’s in charge of their operations in a whole country. Thirty years I’ve been working at the supermarket and I’ve never even crossed the threshold of the manager’s office, not that it bothers me. Such a shame she’s away though; it’s not like me to speak too soon but I wouldn’t be surprised if an engagement was on the cards when she gets back, you mark my words.”
Mark initially moved the computer cursor towards the folder marked ‘Work’, but after a brief moment’s hesitation redirected it to the icon for the game Solitaire. Immersed in the game, it seemed as if barely minutes had passed when the intercom crackled into life and announced that they would shortly be arriving at their final stop. Frustrated at having failed to successfully complete the game, Mark snapped the laptop shut and wandered towards the carriage door, negotiating the usual obstacle course of buggies and suitcases en route.
On a bright morning like this the walk across the city centre was almost pleasant, although the bitter wind meant that Mark walked at a swift pace, not resting on his favourite park bench or lingering to look in estate agents windows as he had done in the autumn. In the absence of Rosalie Mark could not single-handedly afford to keep up the rent on the apartment that they had shared, and so it was that he had found himself like many of his generation back in the home that he had grown up in, slipping back into old habits and reaping the benefits of a home-cooked meal on the table and a freshly laundered shirt folded neatly at the end of his bed each night. The department stores that Mark sauntered past loudly proclaimed ‘Final Sale, Everything Must Go!’; however the promised bargains failed to stir his interest as he marched onwards in the direction of the office. The journey took about ten minutes, and with his fingers having become numb with cold Mark was relieved when he reached his destination.
Stood outside the bank, Mark looked up to the third floor window next to his desk, or rather next to where his desk used to be. Turning his back on his former place of employment, Mark entered the coffee shop where he’d spent the past twelve weeks trying to make an Americano last as long as possible whilst listlessly searching for jobs, composing (but never sending) lengthy heartfelt emails begging Rosalie to rethink her decision and take him back, and losing game after game of Solitaire. Loosening his tie he sank back into his usual seat and closed his eyes. Since his father had passed away, his Mum had taken so much comfort from her son’s successful life and perfect relationship. Hiding the truth had, at first, come so easily, but with several months’ efforts having failed to secure a single interview and his savings almost all gone, it felt as if he were drowning in the lies that were keeping his mother afloat. Of one thing he was sure, he could not go on like this much longer, but whenever he contemplating telling the truth he could not help but picture the disappointment on his mother’s face. She’d been through so much having nursed his dad for all those years; she didn’t deserve this.
“Please step back from the edge of the platform. The next train does not stop at this station”.
Eyes still closed Mark pictured stepping forward into the 80mph embrace of the Manchester Piccadilly Express; a disturbingly comforting vision that had been invading his mind with increased frequency of late. However this time, instead of experiencing the usual falling sensation, Mark was jolted awake by a female voice.
“Hope you don’t mind but I’ve bought over your usual. It’s on the house.”
Mark looked up to see a young woman holding out a steaming mug of coffee. He had seen the girl before, but never really paid her much attention.
“Thanks, that’s kind of you;” he replied gratefully.
“No worries. Apologies if I’m intruding, but I’ve seen you here a fair bit recently and wondered if you’d perhaps be interested in this?”. She held out a sheet of A4 paper which Mark instantly recognised as a poster that he’d seen on many occasions but, like the girl, never really looked at, never given the attention that it deserved.
‘SITUATION VACANT – ATHENA COFFEE, ASSISTANT MANAGER’
“What, me?” He shook his head. “Why do you think I’d be interested in this?”
“Well, you clearly know the menu inside out, and as you spend a lot of time here anyway....” She paused. “Look, I’m sorry, I’ve clearly got the wrong end of the stick. But what about meeting for a drink, not now obviously, but later, after I’ve finished my shift?”
Mark was about to knock her back, tell her that he was overqualified to work in a second rate Starbucks clone and not looking for a relationship, when his mind flicked once again back to 7.26;
“Please step back from the edge of the platform. The next train does not stop at this station”.
Mark folded the poster and slipped it into his briefcase.
“No apologies necessary. A drink sounds great and the other thing – well, I’ll think about it. Come and get me at the end of your shift – you know where to find me.”
As the girl walked back towards the counter and a building queue of thirsty customers, Mark smiled to himself. Maybe it was time to stop lying and start actually living again. Maybe, just maybe, he would keep heeding that warning and stand back from the platform. And, he considered whilst paying extremely close attention to how his future colleague’s pencil skirt and blouse clung tightly to pin-up curves, maybe he’d actually been wrong all along. Maybe working 9 to 5 wouldn’t be so bad a way to make a living after all.
9 to 5
“This is a customer announcement. Please step back from the edge of the platform. The next train does not stop at this station.”
As the Manchester Piccadilly express thundered through the station, Mark folded the free tabloid, slipped it into his laptop bag for later reading and rose to his feet in anticipation of the arrival of the somewhat more leisurely 7.27. It always amused him to think that the passengers on the fast train could cover 40 miles in less than half an hour, whilst for he and his suburban compatriots a journey of no more than ten miles took the same if not longer time. He’d considered cycling to work, but had always looked with some disdain at those commuters who rock up at their office encased in lycra and beaded with sweat like some kind of Olympic hopeful only to make a Superman-like transformation into just another suit.
Mark had never wanted to be just another suit, his student days – and nights – were passed with guitar in hand and books on shelf, academic study always taking second place to dreams of rock stardom. He’d had plenty of dreams in those days, dreams and ambitions of becoming a household name, of living a life outside of the 9 to 5 box. Dreams, however, do not keep food on the table, whereas a respectable job in a bank –not just a job, as his mother always reminded him, but a career – pays the bills.
Mark’s mother was terribly proud, telling everyone she met how her son worked in banking in the City. She never elaborated further, leaving her audience to make their own assumption of a glamorous London career, work hard play hard, pinstripes, braces and big fat bonuses. The reality of the Northern Bank regional office in Manchester was nowhere near as exciting, so she tended to keep these details to herself. Mark himself quickly gave up on correcting her and instead would play along; “Oh yes, it’s a very important role, so much responsibility, I’d tell you more but it really is very complicated. They call us the unelected rulers of the world, you know, and it’s true. It would all fall apart without us, that’s the honest truth.” Then, of course, it did all fall apart, and whilst his mother’s pride did not diminish whatsoever, the story was all of a sudden spun in a somewhat different way; “Our Mark works in financial administration. He’s a manager you know, six people working for him. We always knew he’d do well, our Mark. Takes after his father, rest his soul; always such a clever man. Only twenty-four and six people working for him, imagine that!”
The train was relatively empty so Mark slid into a window seat and dumped his bag beside him. As the train lurched forward he retrieved his laptop from its case and fired it up. When the background photo of Rosalie appeared he smiled; he’d always loved this picture, taken at sunset overlooking the Mediterranean Sea on their first holiday together three years ago. She looked so happy, cocktail in hand, sun-bleached hair swept in a messy ponytail, strappy dress revealing a deep tan. His Mum had a photo of the two of them taken on the same holiday sat pride of place on her mantelpiece. “Such a beautiful looking girl;” she would tell her guests, gesticulating towards the documentary evidence in the mahogany frame. Mark often wondered what his Dad would have made of Rosalie. “Beautiful girl like that, what’s she doing with our Mark? Can’t be for his looks!” Five years now and it never got easier. Day in day out Mark would wonder what his Dad would have thought of particular situations, would imagine the advice that he would have dished out in his usual stoic, unjudgemental style.
For the past four months since the unusually balmy day in September when he waved her off at Manchester Airport, photos were as close as Mark had got to seeing Rosalie in the flesh.
"Such a pity she’s working abroad at the moment;” his Mum would tell visitors. “Six months she’s going to be out there, helping to set up a branch in Spain. They must think very highly of her, she’s only been at there a year and she’s in charge of their operations in a whole country. Thirty years I’ve been working at the supermarket and I’ve never even crossed the threshold of the manager’s office, not that it bothers me. Such a shame she’s away though; it’s not like me to speak too soon but I wouldn’t be surprised if an engagement was on the cards when she gets back, you mark my words.”
Mark initially moved the computer cursor towards the folder marked ‘Work’, but after a brief moment’s hesitation redirected it to the icon for the game Solitaire. Immersed in the game, it seemed as if barely minutes had passed when the intercom crackled into life and announced that they would shortly be arriving at their final stop. Frustrated at having failed to successfully complete the game, Mark snapped the laptop shut and wandered towards the carriage door, negotiating the usual obstacle course of buggies and suitcases en route.
On a bright morning like this the walk across the city centre was almost pleasant, although the bitter wind meant that Mark walked at a swift pace, not resting on his favourite park bench or lingering to look in estate agents windows as he had done in the autumn. In the absence of Rosalie Mark could not single-handedly afford to keep up the rent on the apartment that they had shared, and so it was that he had found himself like many of his generation back in the home that he had grown up in, slipping back into old habits and reaping the benefits of a home-cooked meal on the table and a freshly laundered shirt folded neatly at the end of his bed each night. The department stores that Mark sauntered past loudly proclaimed ‘Final Sale, Everything Must Go!’; however the promised bargains failed to stir his interest as he marched onwards in the direction of the office. The journey took about ten minutes, and with his fingers having become numb with cold Mark was relieved when he reached his destination.
Stood outside the bank, Mark looked up to the third floor window next to his desk, or rather next to where his desk used to be. Turning his back on his former place of employment, Mark entered the coffee shop where he’d spent the past twelve weeks trying to make an Americano last as long as possible whilst listlessly searching for jobs, composing (but never sending) lengthy heartfelt emails begging Rosalie to rethink her decision and take him back, and losing game after game of Solitaire. Loosening his tie he sank back into his usual seat and closed his eyes. Since his father had passed away, his Mum had taken so much comfort from her son’s successful life and perfect relationship. Hiding the truth had, at first, come so easily, but with several months’ efforts having failed to secure a single interview and his savings almost all gone, it felt as if he were drowning in the lies that were keeping his mother afloat. Of one thing he was sure, he could not go on like this much longer, but whenever he contemplating telling the truth he could not help but picture the disappointment on his mother’s face. She’d been through so much having nursed his dad for all those years; she didn’t deserve this.
“Please step back from the edge of the platform. The next train does not stop at this station”.
Eyes still closed Mark pictured stepping forward into the 80mph embrace of the Manchester Piccadilly Express; a disturbingly comforting vision that had been invading his mind with increased frequency of late. However this time, instead of experiencing the usual falling sensation, Mark was jolted awake by a female voice.
“Hope you don’t mind but I’ve bought over your usual. It’s on the house.”
Mark looked up to see a young woman holding out a steaming mug of coffee. He had seen the girl before, but never really paid her much attention.
“Thanks, that’s kind of you;” he replied gratefully.
“No worries. Apologies if I’m intruding, but I’ve seen you here a fair bit recently and wondered if you’d perhaps be interested in this?”. She held out a sheet of A4 paper which Mark instantly recognised as a poster that he’d seen on many occasions but, like the girl, never really looked at, never given the attention that it deserved.
‘SITUATION VACANT – ATHENA COFFEE, ASSISTANT MANAGER’
“What, me?” He shook his head. “Why do you think I’d be interested in this?”
“Well, you clearly know the menu inside out, and as you spend a lot of time here anyway....” She paused. “Look, I’m sorry, I’ve clearly got the wrong end of the stick. But what about meeting for a drink, not now obviously, but later, after I’ve finished my shift?”
Mark was about to knock her back, tell her that he was overqualified to work in a second rate Starbucks clone and not looking for a relationship, when his mind flicked once again back to 7.26;
“Please step back from the edge of the platform. The next train does not stop at this station”.
Mark folded the poster and slipped it into his briefcase.
“No apologies necessary. A drink sounds great and the other thing – well, I’ll think about it. Come and get me at the end of your shift – you know where to find me.”
As the girl walked back towards the counter and a building queue of thirsty customers, Mark smiled to himself. Maybe it was time to stop lying and start actually living again. Maybe, just maybe, he would keep heeding that warning and stand back from the platform. And, he considered whilst paying extremely close attention to how his future colleague’s pencil skirt and blouse clung tightly to pin-up curves, maybe he’d actually been wrong all along. Maybe working 9 to 5 wouldn’t be so bad a way to make a living after all.
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