Unshackling into Summer.

Greetings fellow WordPressers—Do I sound like an alien addressing earthlings? Given my absence, it certainly feels like it. How are all your creative endeavours progressing?

Of late I have been subdued because I have been working towards deadlines. Also, quell surprise, a brief involvement with National Flash Fiction Day culminated in my story, Arrivals and Departures, being accepted for publication in an anthology entitled Kissing Frankenstein and Other Stories, now available from Lulu.com for a nominal price.

As I developing writer, this was my first submission and thank Rachel Carter and Martha Williams for all their hard work in producing the first edition of Flash Fiction South West, a division of National Flash Fiction Day spearheaded by Callum Kerr whose forthcoming pamphlet is due to be published this summer by Salt.

For the next couple of months, like Martha and I suspect Rachel, I will be taking time out to focus on other pleasures, like gardening, photography and ankle nippers. It’s going to be so liberating to escape the shackles of the grey slab on the desk and breathe more than poetry and prose. Wet summer days will also present an opportunity to devote some time to reading and enjoying the diversity of your your blogs and writing.

‘We do not know what is around the bend, except life itself.’

On that note, I wish you all happy holidays and for those of you who are not in the best of health, may the warmth of sun across your back bring you a much welcomed benefit.

Yours poetically and most sincerely Talia.
 

Photography: Talia Hardy.

Touching Truth

Touching Truths

From the circle seats, aged and worn through to the horsehair that sticks out to spear the sitter, Laura watches her husband preform the scene The Garden and the Castle. The lighting is set so that the shadows elongate, stretching far across the stage, pointing finger-like towards Laura.

‘Shall I deny you? No. Farewell, my lord.’

The long brocade gown worn by the lead lady hides her legs and she appears to glide towards him, her skirts swishing as she walks.

‘Farewell, my Desdemona. I’ll come to thee straight.’

His dark-skinned hand travels across the smooth pallor of her arm as she passes.

‘But wait, what was that?’ Laura questions as Desdemona disappears from view with Emila. What is wrong with that scene? The lead character’s fingertips touching. Then, static for a second before all bodily contact is broken.

‘It is the green-eyed monster which doth mock.’ Iago says from the stage, knowing full well that the lady in question is unblemished in her allegiance to his lord Othello.

She shifts from one buttock to the other, telling herself that she must not listen to the voices in her head. She should learn to trust. Her husband loves her. Why else would he marry her and want to honeymoon in Barbados with her? Damn her paranoia. When will it ever end?

The rustling skirts signify that Desdemona, played by her husband’s ex-girlfriend, is returning to the stage. It becomes the clapper board noise that transports Laura back to the wedding day.

In the doorway of the grand hall, she had seen them pass each other, neither one of them aware of her presence. And there it is, in freeze frame, their fingers, the fingertips touching, lingering a little too long before his ‘one-time lover’, wearing an eight–gore skirt, heads towards the bathroom, her net petticoats crackling with unspoken electricity.

Copyright©Talia Hardy 2012.

Photography David Andrews

Closing the Divide

On a darkened dock, it is time to demob, time to go back to his native land.

At six foot-two, he stands, at arm’s length, in his American G.I dress suit, his bow tie at a slant caused by the jitter-bugging in the mess hall. And one by one, stars pierce the twilight water-coloured sky.

He had never said it, although she wished he had. He had not asked, although she hoped he would.

‘I guess this is goodbye Brian,’ she says slow and stilted, stretching out her hand.

She feels him press something round and warm into her net-gloved palm.

‘I know it aint gonna fit, but we sure as hell do.’ he says, his body shaking slightly.

She looks down at the brass curtain ring and her eyes pool with emotion.

And he, stepping forward, breathing hard, crushing her into his three-star pipped chest, lifts her from blue satin stiletto shoes,  and murmurs, ‘Iris, I will never let you go.’

The Story behind a Pair of Vintage Shoes.

For Christie. Brodheadsville, Pennsylvania.

 Copyright ©Talia Hardy 2012.

Running to Seed.

 

 He had finished his work, the wallpapering over the cracks complete and the damage was done. She now knew who and what he really was and that, very probably, she was just another casualty on his long road of places to lay his head.  Standing on her front step she watched, as the car wheels propelled him into the future, his arm from the window stretching backwards, giving her the impression he wouldn’t be back.

For days, that became weeks, that rolled into months, her bed became a place of loathing, her sleep patterns alternating between thirty minutes or a few hours pierced with pictures of him, and always awakening to the of wanting him, the needing to hear his voice, if only to explain why he had taken the route he had.

In early spring, Donna arrived on her doorstep, clutching a gift bag and card.

‘Hey you, happy birthday,’ she said pressing her large bosom into Tash’s sternum, ‘but, tell me why it is the birthday girl is still in her nightie at four o’clock in the afternoon. You should be up, lippy on and ready to rumble.’

Tash, passing through to the lounge, caught sight of herself in the hallway mirror. Her chestnut hair hung lank, her eyes eclipsed by dark moons.

‘Just because.’ she muttered. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

Donna looked into the kitchen, the sink submerged under copious cups.

‘You know what I think you need Tash?’

‘What?’

‘You need to get yourself out there again, put your wares back on the market. You’ll be fighting them off.’

‘No, Donna. Don’t you see that’s exactly what I don’t need, another bloody predator.’

‘They’re not all like that, look at me. The guy can’t get enough of me, always attentive. If I want a pair of shoes, he buys them for me. Plus, he’s an artist too.’

Donna stopped short of her pep talk, when she noticed the mist in her friend’s eyes seeping over her lower lashes.

‘Look, come for supper. It is your birthday after all. Your life has to start again somewhere.’

‘Well okay, give me an hour to apply the spit and polish.’ said Tash, her bare feet slapping over the over the porcelain tiles in the shower.

***

The tyres crunched over the gravel in Donna’s driveway, mowing down weeds that had begun to emerge after the winter thaw.

‘Oh, he must have slipped out.’ she said noting that her Volkswagen coupe was absent from the garage. Tash’s throat tightened when she saw a well-worn green corduroy jacket hanging on the hall stand.

‘I’ll be with you in a minute. I’m just going to kick off my shoes. Crack open a bottle of pink fizz if you want.’ Donna said hobbling into her dressing room.

She emerged, her face white, her hands travelling hard across her heavy hips.

‘What is it Donna?’

‘He’s gone. None of his clothes are in the closet. Hell, he’s even taken the silver photo frame he gave me for Christmas.’

‘Have you tried ringing him?’

‘Yes, and it goes straight to answer phone.’

Tash flipped back the flap of her tote bag and handed Donna a tissue. From under her lashes she looked again at the jacket and when she was certain of what she needed to do next, with her heart banging against her breastbone, took out her mobile and called the Emergency Services.

 Copyright © Talia Hardy 20.01.2010

 

Four Days Late.

Four Days Late.

This day came no customary call, four days late.

For as long as I could remember, sometime towards mid-afternoon, I, lost in the process of my own life, would stop, surprised that the landline was ringing. Then I’d be subtly reminded when I picked up the handset and spoke, just how much you loved my sister too.

Often, I’d try to explain to her that even though he had called me, it was her he was thinking of. In response, the shrew, who could never be tamed, would claw apart the well-meant intentions, denouncing them as nothing more than worthless.

‘But don’t you see, the fact it was your birthday he phoned on, meant that his muddled mind could still do the math, that he had two daughters, not one.’

‘Nope. No. It was you he had the relationship with. He never bothered with me.’

The image of her many carrier bags, filled with the junk of her young life, hanging from door handles, hiding in copious corners, dumped under the table he crafted himself, or  halfway up the un-bannistered stairs, that reverberated with her stilettos stomping up to bed when the rest of the world was rising, told me different. I believe, until the skip finally comes to cart away the veiled secrets in the attic, they are still there, skulking.  

Last year after you left and before she finally made it to your door, when I told her of your priceless collections, the screaming was worse.

‘It holds no value to me. He was never there. He just didn’t care.’

But, I knew that behind the bluff and bluster, how somewhere in the dark recesses of his fractured mind, the contents of a shuttered room, complete with unfinished projects, had made the message clear. 

This year, I, sick in heart and lung slept the day away. Apart from a spambot selling fraud protection, the telephone stayed silent.  Knowing the call, for both of us, would never come, I reached into the cloud, hoping to hear your voice once  more, a compensation for four days late that would be forever.

Of course, I could not reach you. You were not there. Technology cares not for the needs of the human condition. Unlike; attics, carrier bags and the muddled mind, finally letting go with a call, four days late, with ‘This is goodbye.’

And, I guess Dad, there is no protection against emotions that make frauds of us all. 

Copyright © Talia Hardy. 10.01.2012.