Category: Stories

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fiction Stories Writing

Flight (part 2)

That was the great thing about this happening to a person like my Mam. She is such a strong lady that she made her cancer some sort of joke. A joke for her anyway. She’d constantly go on about how much we’d all miss her because she is possibly the greatest person to walk this earth.

Of course, she was exaggerating, she didn’t love herself like most politicians out there or celebrities who have been born into fame and constantly told by people around them how perfect they are. The hilarious thing about these situations was how everyone around her would be hysterically crying, genuinely sad tears and she would just laugh it off and tell everyone to man up. That was easy for her to say. She was the one that was going to die.

My mother’s dealing with her stage four diagnosis was what made the horrific scenes at the hospital easier. The tubes going in and out of each and every vein. The photos Daddy sent me after her first few rounds of chemo and the news that it wasn’t working. The more upbeat photos of her sat with a large gin and tonic in the hospice more recently. It was all of this that encouraged me to book my flight to Paris on September 4th. Today.

However, today is different. I’m not feeling as cocky in my ability to handle the loss of my mother which will inevitably happen. Initially I thought that exploring Europe would set me free from the pain that is about to come but then I feel the pain will creep up on me sooner and I’m not ready to handle it alone.

I have had such an intensely beautiful month spent in Dublin with my family, visiting Mammy every day and making memories that I am going to hold on so tightly. The same way a toddler would squeeze onto their Mum out of jealousy while she was breastfeeding their new born brother. So many memories yet not enough. I am not ready to go.

As I sit and pack the last of my survival kit into a bag that already looks too big to lug around station after station and up numerous sets of hostel steps, I stare at the photo of Mammy and I from graduation. The proudest moment of my life so far and one of hers. I look to the right of me at Jenna and consider where it all went wrong. I wonder what she is doing right this minute and a part of me wants to speak to her. Though it was her decision to leave, to allow her life to go off track, she still may silently need her older sister.

Categories
fiction Stories Writing

Flight (part 1)

It is the big day I have been looking forward to for so many years. For so long have I wanted to spread my horizons further than London’s south bank and the memories that I have of Dublin as a child. A place that I recently felt urged to return to yet I didn’t really know why so I booked a cheap Ryan Air flight number FR115 a month ago and headed home for the first time in thirty years.

It wasn’t only to visit Mam in the hospice because that didn’t need to be done for a month continuously. I have been preparing for the outcome since her diagnosis and realistically could get there when needed to say my final farewells. There was something pulling me to my home town, like a gust of gravity that whooshed like a tornado over London grabbing only me and taking me over the Irish Sea to my place of birth.

I am off to Paris tomorrow on an adventure around Europe. I booked my interrail pass the day after I found out about Mam’s cancer as if to stick my two fingers up to the world for cutting another life short to that awful disease. Though travelling had always been at the back of my mind, at the bottom of my to-do list, I had always been waiting and making excuses about why not to go. Not having anybody to go with was usually the main one but for some reason also the world seemed a bit scary, scarier still each time I started browsing flights and hostels.

Receiving the painful news about Mammy removed this fear because nothing is worse to fear than death, the fear she had been instantly faced with, which could crop up at any time. On that day I headed straight to the nearest travel agents and paid one hundred and eighty pounds for my ten stop Euro rail pass inside three months.

‘Don’t you think you should wait until…’ Uncle Jimmy had remarked on the phone once Mam had told him my exciting news.

‘Wait for what?’ I replied. ‘My mother to die?’

I felt harsh saying this and even more so when Jimmy began to sob on the other end of the line, but I knew that Mammy wouldn’t have wanted me to wait. She’d have wanted me to go out and explore knowing that I could return at any time when things got really bad. She never wanted me to put my life on hold for anybody not even her and she was even more persistent about this after her diagnosis.

‘You’re twenty-two.’ She’d say. ‘Don’t hold out for me to die. It won’t be easy and no time waiting in expectation is going to make it easier.’

Categories
fiction Stories Writing

Descriptive fiction

Thankfully the sun was shining, already brightening my mood for the day and I had just started a new book on recommendation by Eileen who I can always rely on when it comes to good reads. It was one that she had found in a charity shop which is where she finds a lot of her suggestions if they don’t come from the book club that she irregularly attends and it was by an author that she loves which is usually how she picks out the good ones. She is a very loyal reader and once she finds an author that she likes she reads every book written by them until the list has been completely exhausted.

This one was complex from the start and had me gripped instantly. I love books that have that effect and I knew that I wouldn’t be able to put it down until my eyes began to droop with tiredness later that evening. The protagonist had experienced a death of someone close to her, a relative I felt, though it wasn’t clear who had died. She was sorting through the will while trying to sort out the house with a useless brother and intrusive friends to make matters worse. Three chapters in, she had discovered so much about her life that she never knew, and each chapter ended on a cliff-hanger forcing my addiction to the story line to continue.

I was so engrossed in the novel that I hadn’t noticed Jack set up his chair beside me with his iPad and headphones in. He must be playing a game, I thought to myself, but didn’t start to ask him because we were both content in our own worlds but sharing a happy space in our garden, together.

The sky looked like one in a perfect world, clear blue with just a few fluffy white clouds dotted about, perfectly shaped. The breeze came at intervals that provided just enough cool air but never too much that we had to get jackets on, and the warmth continued to make our skin smile. The birds seemed to be enjoying themselves with subtle sounds coming from the trees but apart from that everything was still.

The first smells of freshly mowed lawn came over the fence as our neighbours started to perform their initial garden tidy up of the year and the sounds of the lawnmower and laughter from their children hinted strongly that summer was well on its way. As I started to think that the length of the last warm period on my skin was considerably longer than the last, I looked up to see that most of the clouds had vanished and the sun shone down on its own.

‘Here, you two. Put some cream on,’ Eileen shouted from the kitchen, a tea towel in her hand and clearly emptying the dishwasher while listening to Randy Travis on the stereo.

I had attempted to introduce her into the world of Spotify, claiming that it would save her a lot of money, time and space on her shelves, but she disregarded my efforts and instead wanted to keep her old habits alive.

I lay in silence beside my brother reading my book and my attention only became slightly interrupted when passers by walking their dogs and their children were in loud conversation that interested my brain. The topics were never that interesting at all and they were talking about people I didn’t know but I felt it was natural for a girls brain to focus on any form of gossip, whether it involved me or not.

Categories
Adulthood fiction Stories Writing

The Disagreement

Jane and Oliver knew that they were late for lunch at the new pub that opened in the village last night, but they couldn’t leave during the debate. Both of them were very excited to try the new menu and see how the place had been transformed from its old ragged self into a shiny new upmarket venue. Yet they also didn’t want the onlooking villagers to gossip over their table mannerisms showing quite opaquely the row that they had prior to arriving.

He’s certainly having an affair with the accountant, the rumours would begin, Jane knew the village too well. They had to settle it before leaving the house.

‘Look, all I’m saying is that he would be much better off in a care home. It’s for the best,’ Oliver said with the same irritatingly calming tone that he always used during arguments.

‘What if it was your father? Would you be happy just to lock him away?’

‘Jane, it’s not a case of locking him away. We will visit him all the time and some of the homes are luxury these days. To be honest I’d prefer to stay in them rather than a posh hotel.’

The playful shift in Oliver’s manner wasn’t reciprocated by Jane who merely stared at him disapprovingly.

‘I’d personally want to live my last years in my own space, my own home, without old folk making me feel twenty years older than I am. He’s not even ill!’

‘Jane, we’ve been through this.’

‘Don’t.’

Holding back the tears, Jane soon realised that lunch was going to have to wait until another day.

Categories
fiction Stories Writing

Chapter 3, Erin

Of course, I worried a little initially about the horror stories I had heard. The trolls, the glamorous accounts of false lives to make me feel awful about my own, the mass of uneducated opinions, the dangerously fast addiction and everything else in between, but I never thought much about it all after a while. Besides being sixteen in 2019 meant that I had a firm grasp of what lay before me and felt strong enough to cope with life on social media.

At the beginning I tried to remain strong anyway. It was more to prove a point to my mum but a fraction of it was fear of the inevitable. I could feel instantly the addiction looming. After two days of having access to the virtual social world, my phone was the first thing I went to pick up in the morning and the last thing that I put down at night. I spent hours scrolling and still do, but I don’t know why because after doing so I have never gained anything more or lost anything – my life remains exactly as it was.

On days when I feel bad about my own image, Instagram strengthens this sad emotion when I witness the accounts not of celebrities but of my own friends looking like celebrities. Their accounts fill my newsfeed with perfection and no flaws. The perfect brunch, the most exotic holiday venues, the prettiest new haircuts that look better than I looked that time when I had my hair and all my makeup done by a professional for a family wedding back in Ireland.

At the weekend I see friends and acquaintances out having fun. I always think to myself how they are doing the things that I should be doing when I am visiting Mummy or at work. Friends who have gone to places without even asking me so of course I feel totally left out and forgotten. Acquaintances who I don’t even care about doing things that make my Saturday night look so boring and suddenly I am deeply involved with care for the comparison.

On a more distant level, I see opinions all the time that I completely disagree with or that make me so angry that I can feel my face going red. I see people being horrible openly in their statuses or indirect Tweets and I laugh a little inside in agreement, but never would I say it to their face. I don’t wish to be involved with that kind of negative behaviour, but it is too easy to get sucked in.

When it all began though, I didn’t and still don’t feel I got too involved. I always stayed back and never posted much on my own accounts. The last picture I posted on Instagram which I also posted onto my Facebook account was wishing Jack a Happy Birthday in May. I made a collage of photos of the two of us from when we were very little up until our holiday in Ireland last year.

I am finding it very hard to see how my involvement affected anything. I guess you never know what is happening behind somebody’s eyes. Their thoughts and feelings are totally invisible which is the danger when they don’t discuss anything going on inside their head. I have been over all our accounts since finding out, even hers which is hurtful to do, and nothing seems too awful, but it must have seemed awful to her.

Categories
Observations Stories

The fury, frustration and flagging humans – the petrol station

It was a Sunday, a very hungover Sunday but a decent Sunday nonetheless. It was a day off after all and I don’t think it’s possible to have a bad day off.

A cup of tea in bed to finish my book. A very very unpredictably good ending. A do-gooder trip to supermarkets where I bought presents mostly and a few snacks to feed my ever strengthening throbbing head.

Some sunshine and a good mood. A podcast. A nap. Friends and more naps. Finishing off with a burger to keep the hangover at bay.

I decided to venture out in the evening to see more friends and to ensure that I refrained from consuming the four pack of Magners laying so enticingly in my fridge. I looked at my petrol gauge and oh, great – I was out.

I pulled into the BP station and saw a mass of cars fueling up for the working week ahead and I tried so desperately hard to keep my good, calm tempered mood with me. It was a Sunday after all and who loses it on a peaceful Sunday?

I realised early on that I had chosen a bad time to come to the petrol station but with five miles to empty and on a dark November night, I wasn’t prepared to take the risk.

The pump at which I was waiting had the car parked by it that looked as though it had been there the longest. That’s always a judge that I make upon entering. I then look for the driver who looks the youngest and most able, thus moving faster and leaving first.

Usually I am totally right. This time I was completely wrong.

I had assumed by the mucky looking Ford Fiesta parked up that the owner was of a younger age than the posh cars with personalised number plates that occupied every other pump, and that the driver in question would have more awareness of other people’s time, not thinking he was the most important.

I prayed for each person who exited the building having paid for their petrol to come to the pump I was waiting behind. I was even teased by a man forgetting where his car was and thinking that the car I was parked behind was his – it wasn’t.

Finally after what felt like days of waiting my driver approached. He ambled along as if the place was empty stopping occasionally to check his shoes. Perhaps they were new, perhaps he thought he’d stood in something. I couldn’t care.

He reached the car after a while pausing to let other cars go before him and unlocked the car. Finally, I thought, as he let yet another car go before him. Yes, despite having legs to run forward, he decided to retreat back.

He opened the door which again took minutes rather than seconds (please tell me why?!) and proceeded to check his phone, straighten his hairstyle, eat his sandwich, probably cook a bloody roast dinner, do anything before putting his seat belt on.

I was beginning to lose my strength.

He then sat for another few minutes as if he were waiting for the place to empty before pulling off.

He was finally gone. I was furious. My calm, good mood was destroyed.

Wanted: ignorant human behavior. Found: at petrol stations across the UK.

Categories
Stories

The dramas we face when getting from A to B

I’m writing this now because I am filled with adrenaline and feel in shock about what just happened. I am writing this now because for me writing is my sanity. I may not post it, I may do. But right now I need to get this story down, a story about my journey home from visiting my Grandad.

It was a beautiful sunny day. Unexpected as rain had been forecast but a bonus on all accounts. I’d been outside a lot throughout the day, though the morning was spent sat at my desk so I didn’t feel so bad for soaking up some rays from 1pm onward. I’d been on a gorgeous dog walk with my friend, sat in another friends garden peacefully catching up and then headed to Bury St Edmunds, a twenty minute drive down the road. “Simples,” as Sergei the Meerkat would say.

We’d received a text from Mum saying ‘be careful, the roads may be slippery’ and with the hospital blinds being shut for the duration of our visit, we thought she must have gone mad. Instead, she’d preempted the fact that we’d been enclosed by West Suffolk Hospital and so were totally unaware about the storm approaching.

We soon realised how very right our Mum was as we peeped through a gap to see the black clouds quickly replacing the blue skies and I got a text from a friend in our village twenty minutes away saying that the storm had already arrived. Dressed as we were as if holidaying in Spain, my sister and I rushed to the car in attempt to avoid getting soaked.

This we achieved and thought we’d beaten the storm until we approached the dual carriageway to a wall of white. I honestly thought that was it, we’d never make it home. I couldn’t see the car in front, I couldn’t even see the road. At this point my sister decided to introduce me to the concept of aquaplaning which I found highly inappropriate as the panic strengthened and my legs felt weak.

Bearing in mind we were travelling on the inside lane, I saw lights among the mist to the left of us so gathered people were pulling into a lay-by. I guessed right, luckily, and proceeded to join the queue of traffic neatly (somehow) and patiently (who knows how) awaiting the storm to end.

We followed the leader and pulled back onto the carriageway when the rain had lightened. As we continued driving on discussing what had just happened and trying to calm down, I looked into my wing mirror to see a black piece of my car hanging at right angles off the side and flapping aggressively in the wind.

Panic continued and we hazarded our way off to another lay-by to ring the person anybody would ring in this situation, Mum. She hadn’t a clue other than to take the next exit and go home via country lanes. Great plan. Solid effort Mum. Genuinely.

This was great until we realised most country lanes aren’t level meaning most would be flooded. We weren’t wrong which we discovered on the first road we drove down. We came across practically a river in the middle of the road which the 4X4 could happily go through but our tiny Ford Fiesta could not.

We demonstrated a level of listening in our driving tests, did the first three-point turn since passing and swiftly backtracked in search of a different route. As we drove along and I got progressively more uneasy about this black bit of car flapping about, we pulled over at which point it fell off. Sorted.

Onward and upwards, and hopefully a new car soon! Filled with adrenaline, we made it home and I sat in the car a while after we’d parked trying to bring myself back down to earth. As scary as it was, it could have been far worse. We managed to remain calm and nobody got hurt.

Moral of the story is never to rush. Always be careful when driving, no matter how desperate you are to get somewhere. The road can be a very dangerous place and it’s times like these when that becomes evermore apparent.