Creative Writing, Flash Fiction

Baby on Board

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This is a District Line train to Upminster. The next station is Gloucester Road. It was lightly air conditioned and artificially bright. It was early but not rush hour early, a little later than that perhaps. Only a few people stood but every seat was filled, so she stood there with her long, wiry, white hair wisping around her golden-bronze face. She was bent over a little reaching and shaking. It was as though it were winter and she’d forgotten to wear a coat. Most noticeable was her head which was bobbing up-down side-to-side involuntarily. Her lips were thin and cracked and very pink with a brown outline. Pocahontas!

Her hands struggled to find the green pole as the doors closed and the train jilted to commence the journey. She stumbled forward but did not fall. She had grabbed the pole for safety. Eyes were on her from all over and from above. Everyone watched the show of the hundred year old Pocahontas.

I looked away from her to scan my surroundings again. Eyes flitting between the show and the cats. Between the show and the makeup mirrors. Between the show and the Kindles. Everyone hoping that she might not fall, God forbid they delay this train for her sake, but all the same, noone willing to give up their seat.

The next station is Sloane Square. The train stopped. She went chest first into the pole. Someone gasped from the far end of the carriage. The seat behind her became free as a young man got up at the last minute and ran off the train. But before she could notice, for she was soothing her bruise with gentle strokes from her aged brown fingers, another young man jumped in the seat. He quite literally jumped. He had been inches away from her ever since South Kensington, holding onto the same pole she struggled with, never thinking to give her a hand. Thoughtless.

The girl opposite me saw it as well. She tutted, and when I turned to look at her tutting self, she pulled an ugly face as if to say what a shameful thing that was to do. I glared at her, stood up and pulled my whale of an ass over people’s feet to the old Pocahontas. It’s been too long.

“Hi,” I said to her in the softest voice I could conjure up. I was fuming. A single drop of warm water fell from my tear duct and crashed into my hand. I wiped it away. She pulled her arms around the green pole, holding on for dear life as she turned towards me. My legs, as wide as I had positioned them, could no longer support us so I was grabbing for the pole too.
“Hello,” she said to me with a croaky voice.
“Take my seat, please.” I said to her turning to point at the ash-white girl with pink lips sitting prim and proper with her A-line midi covering her knees and her breast bulging up out of the corset she wore with it. She was smiling and fiddling with her almost invisible necklace.

I don’t know where she came from, or how she got to my seat so quickly but I would get her out!

“YOU…” I began, addressing every dumb, ignorant and selfish ear that could hear me. Everyone who was not pregnant, disabled or elderly.

The old Pocahontas rested her paw upon my shoulder. “Don’t worry about it my dear,” she said, “leave them be. They’re not so bad, just preoccupied.” she said. I spun around to look at her again and held the rest of my disgust in my mouth. Once I had swallowed it down again, I felt faint. I pressed my hand into my back and then the train pushed my baby into the pole. Still, noone stood for the old Pocahontas or for me, the child bearing whale. Although her age was well etched into her face and my bulge was bouncing around and bruising, it was not enough for them.

The next station is Victoria, please change here for the Victoria Line, national rail services and Victoria coach station.I found that Pocahontas and I had the same stop. We made it on our feet until Victoria. Although we shouldn’t have. As she stood beside me and we stepped off the train onto the platform, I flooded both of our feet and crashed into my knees. She slipped on my waters and fell to her end in a moment.

It is true what they say. As one life comes into this world, one must go.

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Creative Writing, Flash Fiction

Bedroom Mess

She liked having a tidied bedroom because it compensated for her untidied mind. When she came around from a night of violent passion and naked limbs, she woke him up and told him to leave.

She pressed her bruised thigh and sighed as he got up. She threw a bloodstained white shirt at his face.

She breathed slow and imagined a tidy room. It settled her. She took a shot. She began to pick up and put away and sweep and tie and throw out all of yesterday’s memories. He’d left and she was alone, in the midst of her thoughts.

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Creative Writing, Flash Fiction, The Fine Line

Greeting

“Hi, back here hey. How was your weekend?” he said.

I smiled. I stared a little at his plump lips smiling back at me. I grabbed his extended hand. My right hand flat against his palm while my left clasped his wrist. As I ran my fingers through the hairs on his forearm he pulled me to him.

We were in a dance. Swiftly yet graciously our greeting stance had become undone.
On my right, his left he laced his finger with mine, simultaneously unclasping my hand from his wrist, slidding his hand down my palm and along my arm. My shoulders bore the beautiful burden of an embrace. I could feel my heart pounding in his chest. I stared into his eyes as he reached down. His beautiful face drawing nearer and nearer to mine. His breaths dusting my face like a summer wind. He was a master in the intimate embrace.

I was excited by him so my pulsing body was tense. I swallowed and he heard and he turned that pout into a smile. He drew his face back, away. I remembered to breathe. ‘Don’t go away’. He thrust his face foward again and his neck rested in the crescent of mine. His warmth, my warmth – we were two whole beings whose embrace had made us one. Love. There was nothing between us.

“Hi,” I said, “yep we’re back here. I had an okay weekend. The in laws were over. Ha. What about you?”

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Creative Writing, Flash Fiction

Happy Birthday

Dear ex lover,

I just remembred it was your birthday and thought I’d drop a quick message.

I hope you are well and I hope you are happy now, because I am. I am so happy. It’s been two years since we last spoke (you know, besides the Christmas message I left for you a few months back. Did you get that?) and it’s been four years since we last dated.

I just want to thank you for everything,  the fun times and the hard times, and that time when you held my hand when I found out my real father was dead and  it was my stepfather who had raised me. I mean we went through a lot together. But most of all I want to thank you for leaving me like you did.

I was beaten down and heart broken, I was in a mental ICU and it seemed as though all my nurses had died. I couldn’t believe how much of myself I gifted to you, and when you left and didn’t give me me back I was a little bit lost. A lot lost.

But like I said I am happy now, I have moved on. I put myself through uni, and I am moving to LA to do some modelling.  I have an amazing boyfriend, who is thinking about proposing to me – but my move has postponed all of that for a little while. So I thank you because if you hadn’t left me like you did I would have never ever progressed.

I think about you sometimes, enough to almost call you but not so much that I actually hit send. I am glad we ended on good terms, it helped with the consolation and so I know everything between us is okay. Anyway, I’m rambling. ..

Now. Your new girlfriend is pretty, how old is she? Is she a Capricorn like me? I remember you always said your soulmate would be a Capricorn. And I love that she’s a flight attendant (yep, I admit I stalked her page a tiny bit). How’s the distance thing going?

I really hope it is working well. That’s what tore us apart. I was fine with it, I waited for you to come home on holidays and some weekends. I was fine with you being away. It was only a few years. I still don’t know why you thought that I needed more. I don’t understand.

Ah, rambling again…

Anyway, happy birthday.

C x

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Uncategorized

Untamable

I have my reservations. They are not enough to keep me restrained though. I mean when I have stepped over the line of some unrelenting friend or foe and I find myself sprinting away from them through the forest with he or she but a moment after me and I come up again the edge of a cliff, I may think, what about my clothes, there’s no time to take them off. And my phone? I pull it out from its hiding place. Hide it in the shrubs. I leap.

The moments, the adrenaline, the reservations, the threats all behind me. Looking down at me falling through the air, with a scream in my throat and a smile on my face. And I crash!

The water is cold and shocking. Something swims just under my chest.

I drag myself and my clothes through the cold fresh water onto the rocks. All the while screaming up and about my rush of emotions. Sharing with nature my joys of being free in its presence.

The water trickles down my face and the wind blows through the parts in my dreadlocks.  Untamable.

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Creative Writing, Flash Fiction, The Fine Line

Confession

The moment I allowed myself to perceive the image of him was an incident I have very little to say about. Words fail me. The essence of that one tiny act seems but a mustard seed. And that is all there is to it.

I was like small child, in a white dress, who had found a trinket. It had colours like lavender, and when the sun shone on it one might have seen glimpses of mauve, aubergine and crimson. Beautiful it was, but minature. I put it in my pocket, told no one about it and forgot. I woke one day to find that this trinket, inside my pocket, had been put in the wash. Swimming though and though the waves and bubbles contaminating everything.

It was a disaster when my modest family came to find that all their whites where now purple.  There was really no telling.

It was best not to say anything for a number of reasons. For honesty’s sake the truth could be told  in some months when everyone’s hearts were restored. But, perhaps maybe, I shall make my confession now.

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Creative Writing, Momentary, The Fine Line

A Moment

For a second, just one, I was not concerned remotely about his thoughts. In that moment I was no longer wandering, wondering in my minds unfaithfulness. It was my own thoughts I had to battle with. My thoughts that had been indefinitely lost and indefinitely entwined with his, or the possibility of his.

I never knew, because the very words I once was so intimately involved with had failed me. I had no trust in them and they were messing with my heart.

For hours I would sit still, and ever wander through every possibility. In unconsciousness the day would unfold before me, my mind always asleep to my reality. I was an insomniac also, ever wondering. Pondering.

Then I would wake to my reality. When I would rise I would find that I was down. Way down. And I would have to set about climbing. Although, when I would rise and find that I was down I was disinterested in climbing. So I would sit and ponder, once more. At some point in the midst of that I would succumb to doing it all over again. Never knowing really and never intentionally.

That’s when he began to fade. No longer did his thoughts protrude into my mind. Neither did thoughts of his body against mine. If they did, I did not notice. I must mention, however, that this is when the pain of it all became my passion. The moment I was no longer entwined inside his mind I was alone in my own.

I was down but I was free. I breathed deeply and made a habit of it. My heart slowed a burned with heat. It was fabulous. It was fabulous.

And now, although the darkness of this depth surrounds me, I can breath into my mind whatever it is I wish to. And for a moment, just one, that is exactly what I will do.

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