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fiction Stories Writing

Dalliance (Part 3)

He was the first person to decide things for her. He was the first to control when she got up, what she did in a day, what time she left to go home and what time she would be going out again. He didn’t much care for fashion and particularly liked her style, it was one of the things he pointed out at the early stages when he was still trying to chat her up, but if anyone decided fashion for her then it was him. He controlled everything and in waiting on his command for them to leave the field she contemplated when and how it had happened this way. For the first time since her eyes clocked him in the office three months ago, part of her felt ashamed for letting this happen.

‘Ok, now we can go,’ he instructed.

‘What if I want to stay here a little longer,’ Lisa replied, with a flirtatious tone to her voice, not meaning a word of what she was saying.

‘Then you can stay here on your own.’

Sometimes Lisa got frustrated at how Darren held so much control over her and she thought about this as they walked hand in hand back into the city, knowing that this action must stop when they reached the second bridge. As they walked the same feeling that filled Lisa whenever in Darren’s company trickled through her body. A smile covered her face and warmth was felt in her heart, his hand strong in hers. The temperature of the air felt hot on their skin too as if they were on holiday in Barcelona and heading for the next bottle of under-priced wine.

The memory of how perfect their evening had been deflected all of this frustration and she forced herself to allow the worry to leave with it and merely enjoy the moments that they had left before they both returned home. Home to their individual apartments on different streets with different families to care for. It was gone ten, but Lisa would still have to contend with Mollie’s nightmares that were happening on repeat lately and Darren would return to a peaceful household, ready for his one-year old’s morning cries at around three o’clock in the morning.

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fiction Stories Writing

Dalliance (Part 2)

Tonight’s spot was a darkening skyline, an empty field and spiky grass on their bottoms. They had forgotten a blanket, or rather they intentionally didn’t bring a blanket for fear somebody would notice their plan and follow them. They always wished to be alone on these special occasions.

The sunset had been and gone in its deep orange glory and they had both captured it on their phones, purposefully not capturing an image of the two of them gazing into it and ensuring that they posted the pictures online at very different times. They felt a sunset post on Instagram looks far less suspicious than a selfie of the two of them, plainly stating their actions, but the memory of a wonderful time would still be there, captured on their phones.

‘Come on, Daz, we really should get going,’ said Lisa, noticing the dark and pre-empting the questions that she would receive on her return home.

‘Please. One moment more.’

Once again Darren’s authority had won her over and she remained seated for half an hour longer than she would have done if on her own.

Lisa had always been such an independent individual and never relied much on anyone else. Throughout her education she was thoroughly organised and depended only on herself for answers. She had a perfected morning routine from the age of ten which included making her own breakfast, her own lunch and her parents a cup of tea each, just the way they liked it. This ritual wasn’t even instigated by her parents because by the time she reached the age when they would have encouraged independence she already had so much so didn’t need their guidance.

When she started her first job, she never relied on her mother to wake her in the morning and in fact most of the time she was doing the wake-up rounds and getting her parents ready for the day.

She couldn’t understand when she went to university how some of her friends had a selection of meals made by their parents and stored in the freezer so all they had to do was microwave them each night. One of her friends’ mothers went as far as labelling each meal with which day of the week it needed to be consumed on, removing any need for thought there too. She couldn’t understand how people had got to the age of eighteen and didn’t know how to boil an egg. Nor did she see why they needed their mothers to ring them on the morning of an exam to check that they were awake in time. It was a different world and totally bizarre to the one she inhabited. Despite her advanced self-government skills, she was weak when it came to Darren.

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fiction Stories Writing

Dalliance (Part 1)

‘I’m tired. Shall we go to bed now?’

‘You’re always tired, love.’

‘I know, but the worrying makes me so tired I get sick.’

‘You worry far too much. Chill out, it’s all going to be fine.

‘Please, honey. My eyes are literally drooping shut. I might never be able to open them again, you know?’

‘Really?’

‘Really.’

‘You do have beautiful eyes.’

‘Are they your favourite feature of mine?’

‘One of many.’

‘Stop changing the subject. Bed.’

‘Ooh. Miss dominant. Let’s wait here a little bit longer.’

‘Oh, ok then.’

Darren poured the remainder of the wine equally into each glass and spoke with such charm in his voice and that same smirk on his face that Lisa had fallen for three months ago when they locked eyes on each other in the office. Nobody noticed at the time except the two of them who spent the best part of a week staring into each other’s desk space before acknowledging their admiration and suggesting meeting outside of work.

Lisa found it incredibly difficult to disagree with anything he said so she simply went along with it all, as naughty as she felt. They would sit in the seediest spots, but it all seemed fine because she was with him and he was with her.

They rarely spoke much when in these places, they just sat and enjoyed each other’s energy pressing so closely onto their skin that it remained with them when they were apart. This could be for the next few hours, the next few days or once it was a whole week but the energy impression remained on their frame throughout the time, so it felt as though they were never truly separated.

Lisa hadn’t had many lovers in her time and certainly nobody that she loved quite in the same way as Darren. It was a different kind of love altogether. A love that grabbed her by both hands and would never let her go, she knew that. The sort that would simultaneously get you in to trouble, whilst keeping you out of it as well. It was like a friend who was a bad influence, one you knew should be ditched but you also knew your life would be significantly worse off without it.

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fiction Stories Writing

Delay (part 2)

“Hey darling!” I said as I greeted Sam, masking all my thoughts and feelings.

“Hello, love,” he replied with his sexy voice that I always wished I didn’t adore.

An awkward pause occurred when I racked my brain for an excuse as to why Sam absolutely could not enter my home on this occasion. My home that he was always most welcomed into and usually would walk in without the politeness of a knock first. Sam. My best friend. Nothing was happening inside my head, so I had to back down.

 “Can I come in?” Sam said, confused as to why he was still outside waiting in the cool October air, luckily it wasn’t raining.

“Hi er. Sorry. Sorry.” I couldn’t think quickly enough with a plausible excuse. “I – er – now really isn’t a good time. Sorry mate.” The look on his face broke off a piece of my heart but I held up the strength for long enough to shut the door behind him before letting out some more unexpected tears.

Pausing a moment, I instantly felt guilty for lying to my friend. I immediately started to tackle chores in a frantic manner so that technically my small fib became more truthful. Now wasn’t a good time, I was busy.

I poured a large glass of Sauvignon Blanc noticing that it was only ten past twelve, so I felt very naughty and set it aside while I began pottering about my kitchen. I realised quite quickly that as I looked like a woman with it all together, I certainly was not. In fact, I was acting crazy in the way that each dish was being washed within an inch of its life and mugs were almost breaking as I placed them forcefully into the dishwasher.

The dog came up close to me sensing my instability and I decided to stop a moment and take another large glug of my wine.

I love how dogs know instantly when you’re feeling down or anxious. When things get too much, I can always rely on her to be by my side. Mum taught me that. Mum taught me how to love animals so much. Mum taught me a lot actually.

She taught me how to walk, talk, eat, be polite. She was with me when I first rode a bike, first got on a horse, first drove a car. She was there at my school exam results day, my leavers do, my graduation. She held me through my first break ups, my friendship battles, when things got too much in general.

It didn’t take long before the tissue I was holding was sodden with the tears that I was unaware of. I was finding this harder than I expected, harder than I cared to admit. Swiftly I binned that tissue and wiped the remaining tears from my face with the back of my hand, slapping it gently as if to tell myself to get it together.

A happy song broke up the various chat shows on the radio, so I turned it up and shimmied around the kitchen while polishing some wine glasses in case another visitor came along and judged me. I was loving the feeling that I was experiencing and knew quite firmly that for four and a half minutes at least I could enjoy myself, my life. I was so happy that I even got the antibacterial spray out and began wiping the surfaces, the hob and even parts of the cooker that hadn’t been touched in months, my stubbornness refusing to except the idea of getting a cleaner into my thoughts. When I moved my phone, which was charging on the kitchen side to wipe around it, I noticed a missed call – Sandy.

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Adulthood fiction Stories Writing

Delay (part 1)

“Don’t you think, you know, you should maybe consider taking some time off.”

“Mmm,” Melanie grunted disapprovingly.

“I don’t think you realise how much you take on all of the time and this is just huge for you to cope with. Mel, you look tired. Seriously. We are all so concerned for you.”

“I don’t know.”

“Just ask at work, they are going to understand completely. They will. And you will feel so much better for it.”

“I just hate letting people down.”

“For God’s sake you aren’t letting anyone down!”

“I just think I’ll worry that I am though.”

“Mel.”

I knew as Cassie was speaking with that same affirmative tone that I’d heard so many times before she meant what she said. It was like being spoken to by a teacher at school, a decision-making boss, or, worse, my mother. As irritating as it made me, I also realised that such seriousness in Cassie’s voice meant that the care was so genuine and that my situation was probably more serious than I treated it.

I knew I buried most issues under the carpet. I knew it was a trait that I would always possess. Yet I struggled to see quite how this proved to be such an issue to so many people around me. An interest almost. I failed to see that my getting annoyed at their care was wrong and how I was extremely lucky to have so many people looking out for me, irritating me daily when all I wanted to be was alone.  

“Here you go, another cup of the good stuff will sort you out.” Cassie passed me a perfect cup of tea, just how I liked it.

Cassie always knew to leave me when I fell into one of my unique zone out moments, but she always knew how to welcome me back into the world with such warmth.

“Thanks.”

“Here, I’ll stay for another one of these then grab a bottle on my way back, shall I?”

“Sure.”

After consuming our warm brews, Cassie left for the long list of chores that her Sunday had in store for her, but she was sure to be back by six o’clock, prompt as ever. Her hugs were so tight and true that it left me wiping the tears that I didn’t know existed away from my face. I had finally broken a little and began to feel ashamed for it when the doorbell rang, again.

“One moment!” I shouted, straightening myself up and powdering my nose as fast as I could so the guest wouldn’t notice my sadness.

I hoped it would be the postman but then remembered it was a Sunday. Then I prayed for a delivery man, the milkman working extra, a supermarket van driver for an order that I had sent for while drunk and had then forgotten about. I hoped it would be anybody except for who I knew that it would be. Somebody else offering their deep concern for my wellbeing and somebody else wishing to sit for hours telling me that I needed to take some time out, to rest, to look after myself for once in my life.

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fiction Stories Writing

The Divide

Jamie stood shivering as he awaited her arrival.

“The train from Manchester Piccadilly is delayed. It is expected to arrive in twenty three minutes on platform 7B. We are very sorry for any inconvenience caused.”

His nerves seemed to wobble more at this announcement which was given in such a mundane and unapologetic manner. The usual excitement was also present but currently nerves took over.

He tried to notice things to sway his focus from the bitterly cold air but his teeth continued to chatter. A couple to his left greeted one another with a simple peck on the cheek and an unenthusiastic hello which indicated to him that they had been married far too long.

Some children were running to get a train, fretting in their own chaos. They had probably never been left to their own devices until now, he thought. Bless them.

Two guards were stood chatting to the side, not doing much signalling. One had a litter picker in his right hand but he was more using it for the gestures that accompanied his story rather than picking up rubbish.

As he glanced around he saw many happy couples together, perhaps travelling to relatives, travelling home, heading into work or possibly out for the day, but they would all have their own story. None would be as private as his. He was sure of it.

Fifteen minutes had passed when he saw the lights of the approaching carriages, hoping that it would be the one and looking to his fingertips to see if they had begun to turn blue.

The train edged towards the platform until it came to a halt and he tried very hard not to cheer. Finally.

Among a mass of people exiting the doors, it was hard to spot her. Most looked disheveled from obviously a stressful journey south. Some looked furious and he wondered why they had stuck at it and not given up.

Butterflies began to outdo the nerves as he waited while racking his brains for a decent bar to start their time together. He always lover their time together though it wasn’t very often these days.

A couple barged him out of the way rushing to catch their connection that they would have had masses of time to catch if it wasn’t for the delay.

“Sorry mate,” the man said in a friendly manner, while the wife dragged him in the right direction huffing as they went by.

He looked to his side and caught eyes with an elderly man, obviously waiting for somebody as well and waiting more patiently than most people on the platform. He smiled at him and the man smiled warmly back.

As his eyes returned to the focus of the door he saw her. There she was in her neat blonde glory, stood with her bag in one hand and her opened purse in the other, the photograph of her children almost falling out with a photo of her husband tucked behind it.

Categories
Adulthood fiction Stories Writing

Follow Me

“Don’t look back, stop being stupid,” Alana whispered to herself as if that would make the moment more reassuring. Except she was terrified. Utterly terrified.

Her steps were speeding up as were those of the tall, slim figure behind. She broke into an almost run and so did the silhouette following her.

“He’s not following me, it is just a coincidence,” she repeated aloud.

She knew that he was. She knew that this was not a moment of chance. Her gut was telling her so and since leaving her friend’s house, she had been watching the streets very closely.

He must have known she left at the same time each night. He must have researched her, worked out how regimental she was to routine. He must have waited for the clocks to go back before beginning his mission, whatever that was. To scare her? He was doing a good job of that. What did he want? How did she know that he was male?

She didn’t.

She edged her neck around realising that it would have looked less obvious if her movement had been faster, but she was too afraid for subtlety. The figure was still following her and speeding up accordingly to match her pace.

Her heart was racing and her legs felt numb. The cold air was biting the ends of her fingers and toes, but the rest of her body was overheating in fear. She wished she had taken her friend up on that drink she offered her. Maybe it would have relaxed her a bit, calmed her nerves.

Each time she reached a streetlight, which wasn’t often, she felt a bit safer. The figure vanished momentarily every time. She didn’t know where. Then, in the darkness, it reappeared as if it wasn’t actually there.

She knew that the alleyway would mark a long period of low glowing light so she hoped that the figure would change direction. Just before leaving the darkness it was so close to her that she could almost hear the breath. She picked up pace. She reached the light.

Scared to turn back she looked forward and ran. She ran until she reached the group of houses before hers. Feeling surrounded by safety, she built up some courage to turn. There it was. At the top of the road, standing. Still. Staring down at her, panting hard.

What was his intention. What did he want from her? If he really wanted to catch her then surely, he could have, she isn’t the fastest runner.

She turned her gaze forward again and stopped a moment to catch her breath. She didn’t want her mother to ask questions.

Feeling ready to resume her journey home she caught sight of the door to her house.

‘Hello, Katie. It’s been too long.’

The figure that had been so frightening behind her was terrifyingly in front.

She froze unable to consider what to do next.

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fiction Stories Writing

Flight (part 3)

One more visit to the hospice before my flight and I know this will be the hardest visit yet. I am borrowing our neighbour’s car because mine is back in England and we sold Mammy’s once she got too poorly to drive. It was an impulse decision which we clearly hadn’t thought about properly because it would have been very useful to have over the past month, a lot more useful than the two thousand euros that we got for it.

I load my gigantic backpack into the boot ready for Mary to take me to the airport after my visit and mentally prepare myself for one of the hardest goodbyes to date. Not one bit of me is feeling excited in this current moment. In fact, every bit of me is questioning whether this is the correct thing to be doing at such a helpless time. Then I hear Mammy in my ear telling me to go, spread my wings, find whatever it is I need in life and come back with lots of stories. I stop everything and smile for a minute.

I have done the journey to the hospice so many times that I don’t have to concentrate on the directions because I know the route off by heart. In fact, it scares me once I arrive in the car park and turn off the engine that I can’t remember half the journey as I was totally spaced out and unaware of my surroundings – my mind was elsewhere.

I carefully place my chip in my pocket and choke at the two-euro charge to park in a place where everybody is visiting somebody who is dying. It’s a lot better than the extortionate rates that they charge on the hospital side. I suppose you’re unaware in that case how long your relative will live so they may as well rinse you for as much as they possible can. It makes sense.

Mammy’s room is on the ground floor with a beautiful view of the bright yellow Wicklow gorse all in bloom outside in the courtyard. When she has fallen asleep during visits I have taking every pleasure in watching people walking around this space, savouring the last precious moments with one another. Be it husbands and wives, fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, they all look content in a beautiful final scene.

I walk down the long corridor to room seven where Mammy is. A nurse squeezes out of the door quickly before I can get in. She must be new because otherwise she would have greeted me. We all know each other now because I have spent so many hours in here lately.

I look over to Mammy’s bed and see a sight I have been imagining but hoping would never actually happen. The whole room stops for a moment and all goes quiet inside my head. Perhaps Mammy has been moved to a different room.

I gasp in shock though it is the inevitable. It is real. A nurse runs to me in attempt to comfort me with a hug, but I want to go over to her. To touch her. To give her one last kiss and say my final goodbyes. Real goodbyes not temporary.

The staff respect my privacy and leave the room telling me to take my time and call them if there is anything that I need. I sit on the bed next to Mammy in a space that is as if she had planned my visit and left for me. I lean over to kiss her cheek and see Jenna’s body out cold on the floor, a needle in her wrist and marks on her neck – dead.  

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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.’