Flashes
Flashes
by Mary Maclaren
Copyright 2012
ISBN 9781476243108
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A miscellany of Short Stories, Flash Fiction, Poetry, Anecdotes and Quotations, this book is ideal to fill that odd moment between travelling and waiting for a connection. . Or whilst on holiday lounging by the pool. In fact, any time you need a short break.
a flash in the dark often stuns you….” Anon
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TABLE of CONTENTS
Short Story MIRIUM
Poem HOW I LOVE YOU
Poem Nonet GRIEF
FLEETING THOUGHT
Poem - URGENCY
Flash Fiction BEWARE OLD LADIES
Flash Fiction BAG LADY
Poem CONFUSED
Short Story THE STRAWBERRY SELLER
Dedication
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MIRIUM
Mirium walked past the coal pit ponies’ stables, by balancing on the small rail tracks that the wagons used. She had done this several times a day during the last few war years - a lonely nine yearold evacuee, with beautiful balance. Her younger sister, Pat, who had also been evacuated from London to South Wales, had happily blended in with the Welsh family where they now lived. After all, it was with Mum’s sister Aunty Hefty, Uncle George and their daughter, Mary.
But the mining valley seemed black, to Mirium. Mountains littered with grubby sheep, had detritus from the mines piled on top... Stonework and windows of three-storey houses tiered from the valley floor, was monotonously grey. The fast-flowing river emanating from the top of the valley, having passed through the mines’ coal-washing sheds, was black, and on occasions, when the sun shone in the summer, it resembled liquid ebony.
Mum sent a parcel every week for each of them. It always contained comics, sweets, crayons or a colouring book, and sixpence pocket money. One week, when their parcels were late, Mirium had explored the dark stone pantry under the stairs. Had they been withheld as punishment for something they had done? Instead, on the top shelf, she found a package addressed to her and Pat, marked TO BE OPENED IF WE ARE KILLED. It was written in Mum‘s handwriting and for many weeks after, she was tortured by her find. On her tenth birthday last week, she had bravely asked Aunty Hetty about the package, fully expecting another punishment for prying. Instead, her auntie had cuddled her gently and explained its significance Mirium hopped off the rails and continued to the Square, where the bus arrived several times a day and twice on Saturday. As always, she peered through the iron railings down to the river, hypnotised by its tumbling flow. Sometimes she wondered where it went to, but not for long. She climbed the steep mountain behind the Square, her navy plimsolls scuffing the grass softly. Her favourite spot where she could lay beneath the swathes of bracken ferns beckoned. Once there, she regarded the sky above - it was a seldom seen blue and it comforted her. She could dwell on Mum's next visit, or drift far away from the valley and imagine going home to London.
The bracken fern smelled warm and exotic to Mirium as she lay deep in thought. Then she sat up and regarded the river a fair way below her now. Its gushing progress could still be heard as she looked beyond it over to the Square. She could see people queuing at the bus stop - they were heading down the long road to the nearest town and shopping centre. All shopping had to be completed before the last bus bought them back at 5pm, or they would be stranded in the town. Pacing in front of the queue, she could make out Old Evan. A small, bent man in a khaki greatcoat and scruffy cap, he watched his worn collier’s boots and counted the steps they took. After ten steps, he about-turned and muttered as he took ten steps the other way. Rain or shine, Old Evan spent his entire day like this, gaining wry amusement mixed with sympathy from the onlookers.
Everyone knew that many years before, there had been a fatal explosion underground, for which Evan had accepted responsibility. The loss of the ten miner’s lives immediately twisted his mind, and he had suffered ever since. Whether or not it was his fault, was never made clear.
Mirium saw a tall girl called Vicki Tudor approach from above her .Vicki's father owned the farm on the top of the mountain. “Hello, Mim. Up here on your own again?”
Mirium drew back slightly, still wary of the older girl. The Welsh lilt sounded foreign to her despite the fact that her own Cockney accent had been mellowed by years in the local school. The Welsh language was a mandatory subject in the school curriculum, and Mirium had revealed an enviable talent for learning languages. Pat and Mary thought it was precocious, and teased her mercilessly.
Vicki sat heavily beside her and continued, “Wasn’t it good last Saturday?”
Mirium flushed at the memory, but unwilling to challenge the older girl, replied, “Was all right.”
Seemingly oblivious to Mirium’s lack of enthusiasm, Vicki said, “They all ran a mile, didn't they?”
Mirium looked away and down to the river again. “Gotta go, now.”
Vicki regained her feet and said, “We’re havin’ jammy Welsh cakes for tea. Want to come home with me?”
Mirium shook her dark bob. “No, thanks.”
“Please y’self!”
The two girls walked in opposite directions, and as she half-ran downhill Mirium recalled the previous Saturday. All through the week before, Vicki had coaxed 3d out of any girl who wanted to meet up in her father’s barn at two in the afternoon, to learn how babies were born. About eight paid the fee, including Mirium, but only six crept nervously into the barn. It had been a very warm day, so the bales of hay smelled like trapped sunshine and the gloom of the barn was a welcome relief after a long climb up to Tudor’s farm.
Vicki led each girl to sit on one of the hay bales she had set out, then clambered to the top of her stack and looked down on her 'audience' imperiously. A shaft of bright sunlight pierced the barn roof and fortuitously landed on her red hair, giving her a regal air.
"Now," she began, and then swept her gaze around the girls, who shifted uncomfortably. "You allknow that babies grow in their Mam's belly, don't you?"
Some nodded, others weren't too sure if this subject should be discussed.
"Well," - she paused again for effect - "when the baby is ready, that line bursts open."
The word 'bursts' came out with the required emphasis which caused a few small squeals and mouths covered with hands.
"And if the baby is stuck, and can't get out..." Vicki's dramatisation reached a peak - "The doctor gets a sharp knife, cuts the Mam's shoulder open and gets it through there."
That was enough to send the girls streaming out of the barn yelling, "You're a little liar, Vicki Tudor!" and "You're horrible."
Mirium held back and when all the others had disappeared, she said, "You were kidding, weren't you, Vicki?"
Vicki tossed her red curls and said, "They soon ran, though, didn't they? Come on, let's go down to the Italian shop and have a big ice cream." Magnanimously, she added, "I'll pay."
Mirium shook her head. "I'd rather eat cold chips, thank you!"
Vicki laughed loudly as Mirium stalked away and called, "Coward!"
As she reached the bottom of the hill this time, Mirium vowed to have nothing more to do with Vicki, even if she had been taught to respect older people.
****
I have changed the names in this story, but events are autobiographical
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HOW I LOVE YOU
A thousand miles I would walk to be near you
A thousand smiles I would share with you
A thousand kisses I would rain on your red lips
A thousand wishes I would make come true
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A nonet poetry form is one where each line's syllable count reduces from 9 to 1. The reverse is
also applicable - the one below is an example.
GRIEF
Do you know how much I miss your love?
The touch of your hands on my thighs
How your fingers stroke my cheeks
Your soft breath in my ear
Now you are gone
Broken heart
Sadness
Guilt
Hurt
Tears shed
No return
Did I fail you
Did you have to die
Your love was only mine
A passion that we cherished
Our two lives were bound up as one
Do you know how much I miss your love?
****
Quotations: “You can’t shake hands with a closed fist.” - Indira Gandhi
FLEETING THOUGHT
Keep saying, "My glass is half full." That way you won't have to wash it up!
URGENCY
I want to write about the places I have seen and not been back
I want to write about the people I have met along the track
I want to write about my family, my neighbours and my friends
I want to write about these things and how the stories end.
I must do this before the chance to write is gone.
I want to write about this lovely world of scenery
Of waterfalls and rivers, lakes and brooks I've swum with glee
I want to write of people who have passed along my way
Of loves and mere acquaintances that brightened every day
I must do this before the chance to write is gone.
I want to write of babies that I cherished, nursed and fed
The games we played and tunes we sang before they went to bed
I want to write of birthdays, Halloweens and Christmastides
And all the gifts that I received that made me swell with pride
I must do this before the chance to write is gone.
I want to write of hobbies that I found to claim my mind
Playing the piano, painting pictures, pressing flowers I could find
I want to write of souvenirs from places I have been,
Silver spoons and pottery, show-rides that made me scream.
I must do this before the chance to write is gone.
I want to write of many things that made my life such fun
The fancy dress, the circuses and snow fights with everyone
I want to write so much, my friends, you'll wonder how I can
sit here merely talking thus, instead of getting it done!
I must do this before the chance to write is gone.
****
****Visits always give pleasure - if not the arrival, the departure! Old Portuguese Proverb
****
BEWARE OLD LADIES
Iris was reading on a park bench when a man approached, sat down, and whispered, "Do as I say and you won't get hurt!"
She looked at the knife in his hand and full of disbelief, she stared back into his eyes. In all her seventy-nine years, she'd never been confronted like this and couldn't find a smart enough remark to set him back on his heels.
He didn't give her time to answer him, continuing, "D'you live around here?"
Iris nodded.
"Take me to your place."
Iris picked up her cane calmly and when she nodded to her friend Helen, who was walking towards them, he moved in closely tucking his arm under hers. "Not a word," he hissed.
Helen drew level and Iris said, "Morning, Helen. My nephew here is coming home with me to have a cup of tea".
Helen hesitated for a moment, then smiled and said, "That's nice, dear. Talk with you later."
"Well done, old woman," the offender remarked softly. "Come to think of it, I could do with a cuppa." He tucked the knife into his belt and steered her forward. . "If anybody comes, remember I've got a gun, too."
He patted his pocket, and Iris nodded. She unlocked her front door when they arrived, and he brushed past her into the highly polished hallway. At that same moment, Iris whacked his shins with her cane. He toppled over yelling, then slid violently on the hall rug until his head crashed into the kitchen door.
"Mum," her policeman son said later while he was taking her statement, "I told you that it is dangerous to have such a polished floor!"
BAG LADY
I was enjoying a cup of cappuccino coffee at an outdoor table of my favourite cafe in Sydney's Darling Harbour. The sun was brilliant, the temperature encouraged sleeveless tops and shorts, and the atmosphere was carefree. Darling Harbour and its attractions had many visitors from all over the world as well as locals, and universal laughter filled the air.
It was getting a bit too hot for me - (the sun's rays are most vicious around midday) so I picked up my coffee cup and moved inside the cafe. After removing my sunglasses, my eyes adjusted to the different light and I settled into a corner seat where I could watch the passing parade - one of my favourite pastimes. I looked around the cafe first, and observed various paintings hanging on the wall. One was titled Fisherman. An evocative picture of an oriental fisherman in his long boat, drifting on placid water. It reminded me of a documentary I'd watched on TV, about such fishermen who train their birds to dive and catch their fish. The amazing fact is these birds make no effort to eat their catch, but dutifully swim it back to the fisherman.
Gradually, I became conscious of another customer sitting in the corner under the painting and couldn't stop staring at her. Dressed in black, voluminous clothes with what seemed like six or seven layers of long grubby skirts, I couldn't guess how many neck-high tops, and an old army greatcoat. Atop a thatch of grey hair that had evidently never been washed, she wore a mashed straw black hat It had a pathetic velvet rose sitting amongst torn black netting.
I caught my breath in a mixture of disgust and incredulity. Why on earth did the management of this upper-class cafe allow such a travesty to occupy one of their red leather seats? She glanced in my direction, obviously in reaction to my gasp, then blankly looked away again, as if I was the Bag Lady, and she was royalty. Her leathery face was drawn and deeply lined, her right eyelid drooped as if from a recent stroke and she had a resigned expression. She wrapped grubby fingers of both hands around the cup in front of her and lifted it to her lips. They were thin and cracked and what looked like a cold sore wept at the corner of her mouth. Saliva stretched away from her mouth as she moved the cup away and put it on the table again.
My passion for watching passers-by was interrupted. What was evidently her entire life, was jammed into a green plastic bag beside her, and I was amazed to see a copy of the well-known Peoples Friend magazine sticking up.
A slim and blonde waitress approached me and I could not help but whisper a query about the Bag Lady. "What's she doing in here?" I asked. "How come you haven't thrown her out?"
The waitress cleared up my empty coffee cup and asked, "Would you like anything else?"
"Well, no thank you," I said.
"Don't let her put you off," the blonde said, nodding in the direction of the Bag Lady. "She owns the joint, and loves causing a sensation. She's a kangaroo short of a paddock, I'd say!"
"Well, I'm..." I was stunned
"And she painted that picture over there. She paints a lot."
I looked again at the picture then at the Bag Lady. She appeared to be unaware of my curiosity and picked up her cup to take another sip.
"There's nothing in her cup, y'know," continued the waitress. "She sits there all day, 'getting inspiration' she calls it."
The bag lady looked in my direction as I left, and smiled. The muses have a lot to answer for.
****
BIG IS BEAUTIFUL
"I've done what?"
Jilly ju
ggled her cabin bag and balanced her wet suitcase against her knee while she fumbled for cash to pay the taxi-driver. Pleased as she was to back to her country cottage after a disastrous week in Wales, she wished she hadn't brought the Welsh rain with her. To top it off, her sister Kelly chose that moment to ring her mobile and was literally screaming down the line at her.
"You've won the competition!"
"Keep the change," Jilly said to the driver. He tipped his forehead and drove off as she pulled open the trolley handle at the back of her case. She hoisted her cabin bag more securely on hershoulder, and lugged her case through the gate and up the flagstone path.
"Hang on, Kelly, until I get inside, please," she begged and popped the mobile phone into her pocket. She could still hear Kelly... a tiny, excited voice at fever pitch as she hurried to the porch. The key to the front door of the pretty cottage in South England was in her other pocket. Jilly let herself in, and dumped her case and cabin bag without ceremony onto the tiled hallway floor. She extracted the mobile phone from her pocket and leaned against the wall
Kelly was still shouting. "Jilly, Jilly, are you there? JILLY!"
"Calm down," instructed Jilly breathlessly, "Let me catch my breath, f'goodness sake. Now, what's all the fuss...what competition?"
Finally, having her sister's full attention, Kelly spilled over with the news that a competition they had both entered in the local newspaper had been judged and Jilly's entry was pronounced the winner in this morning's edition. Entrants had been asked to write twenty-five words about the item of clothing they would most like to possess. It was sponsored by a department store in the local town, and while they were having coffee after a day's shopping there, Jilly and Kelly had enjoyed filling in the form.
Kelly had a sylphlike figure and Jilly was the complete opposite. Giggling and teasing each other like a couple of schoolgirls, they'd exchanged their entries and read them before putting them into the provided barrel at the store's entrance. Kelly had written she would love a rose-coloured linen suit to go to her friend's imminent wedding. Jilly had written, "Because I am so big, I would love to find a pretty aqua blue bra and panties to match. Hard to find in my size."