It was the sort of blue sky day when anything seemed possible.
The doorbell rang at number 47.
“Only one today, Mrs A, you’ve been slacking! You know the routine - sign here …”
She closed the door and switched her mind to the new arrival. Silk trimmed, scooped, cropped – the clothes all looked fabulous on the virtual model, whose smile when sporting the ‘flattering for any body shape’ outfit was sterling duplicity. Lime, crocus, fuchsia, aquamarine, hibiscus, vanilla – the names were so seductive… She would be one of these women. She would go to the ball and Larry would be proud.
Cuddling the promise held in the parcel, Gail’s excitement gathered. Released from the confines of its packaging the fabric floated, its rich shades vibrating in the sunlight. Gail stroked it, purring with anticipation. Wriggling from her own strictures, she willed herself not to glance in the mirror.
Braced, she stepped into the skirt whose price tag was surely insurance of perfection. Marshmallow thighs exposed she teased the skirt upwards. At least she tried to but it took more than a determined shimmy to get it over her bottom. She hesitated between on and off, not ready to let go of her dream of the perfect outfit. She reached for her glasses, ensuring that the fastenings were unfastened. They were. Gail then checked the size on the packaging - 16 regular – her size – they must have put it in the wrong bag. She coaxed the satin pools of aubergine around her lower body, hoping for the skirt to settle perfectly. She shot a look at the label truly imagining it would reveal a size zero or at least a 14 but no, 16 it was…And she had chosen the relaxed fit, bias cut, dark coloured option suggested for her size.
“I wish I was slim...… if only I was thinner…”
Her hollow entreaty faded and Gail could now barely tell if it was sweat or tears across her ruddy cheeks. It would have to go back. Her eyes skimmed the decimated packaging and a silent maroon howl let rip.
As Gail flung the window open, her jaw tightened sensing not a refreshing breeze but grasping arctic tendrils wrapping themselves around her neck. There was someone else in the house. She warily rose from her summer pudding slump.
“Hello” called Gail “Larry – is that you...Larry?”
“No Gail, it’s not Larry, it’s me”
She scanned the room, seeing nothing.
“Surprise!” squeaked the voice “your wish, my command…you know how it works…don’t you? People generally do. Damsel in distress, I come to the rescue. You are a damsel in distress, right?”
Damsel? – Wish? Command? What was this?” As she moved from the window she saw an unfamiliar reflection. She looked remarkably like the catalogue picture of the model in the mirage flippy skirt. Her shoulders relaxed and she strutted. With a twirl she gave a sultry pout to the imaginary camera.
Good heavens…the perfect fit, THE PERFECT FIT…
Wednesday, 9 June 2010
It Will Kill You or Make you Stronger
The ringing phone pierced the brittle darkness as they lay side by side. Mike reached over the chasm between them and picked up.
Estelle heard a demanding voice
“Yes” mumbled Mike “Yes, yes…I do realise that, Friday…this Friday…I understand”
He put down the receiver.
As seconds yawned into minutes Estelle turned to her husband
“It’s bad, isn’t it?”
“About as bad as it can get. If I can’t seal the deal on Friday then that’s it Estelle, we’re sunk.”
Estelle Franklin believed in her husband. He might have got them into this mess but he was an accomplished chancer and she remained confident that he would get them out. However Estelle was no shrinking violet, and maybe after all their years together she could draw on her reserves and show Mike that she too had valuable skills.
As she lay there the anxiety spread across Estelle’s back and her forehead settled into deep furrows above her red-rimmed eyes. It was critical that Friday was a success. If there was no reconciliation then the future would be bleak for all of them. The house would definitely have to go along with the lifestyle. Despite her reassurances she knew Mike was dwelling on whether his misjudgement would shatter the foundations of their long marriage.
“It’ll kill you or make you stronger” had always been Grandma’s teasing riposte to any crisis, large or small. Her family was made of strong stuff and the cure for all ills - medical, emotional or practical was well known to them. Granted, none of them had been married to Mike but they would get through this in the way they always did, Estelle would blindside them with some culinary magic and Grandma’s chicken soup was just that.
Inspired by memories of her grandmother the next day she went to work. “Dig deep Estelle” she told herself. She moved through her kitchen gathering the ingredients from her arsenal. The ground was familiar here and whilst the stakes were too high to feel that she could settle into her comfort zone, the tension started to ease.
She took the expectant chicken from the worktop (no good straight from the fridge, it needed to be at room temperature) and placed it into the large pot. She covered the flabby white flesh with water and brought it gently to the boil. First stage over she was in the groove, Estelle deftly peeled off the scum (without shuddering as she once did) and added carrot, turnip, celery, leek and parsley (the crisp vegetables all finely chopped) a good dose of salt and white pepper and she sighed. Her shoulders sank, beads of sweat mushroomed on her blushing face as the familiar smell wooed her. Game on. She had 3 hours at least for the alchemy to happen, adding only her love as the pot simmered. There were no precise timings the gift of generations guiding her to know when to turn off the heat. She was soothed by the fug of her kitchen and she rejoiced at her heritage.
This pause was part of the process. Normally Estelle poured herself a large glass of merlot, put on the radio and enjoyed a steamy moment before she continued with her other work. This, however, was not routine. She was cooking for their survival. She wavered between the kettle and the wine rack before reluctantly making a pot of tea tempered with a plate of Jaffa cakes.
The flirtation over, Estelle eventually took the soup from the stove whilst they both cooled-off. This could not be rushed, there was a rhythm to be obeyed, the same process followed for generations. It was late but before she went to bed she removed the chicken from the stock, strained the vegetables from the liquid and prepared to
place the fledgling soup in the fridge. Her heart raced into tomorrow as she checked she was alone. Estelle then pulled the final ingredient from the back of the cupboard and gently stirred it into the warm mix.
Estelle awoke early on Friday, she was calm and focused unlike her husband. As evening descended Mike dodged in and out of the kitchen bringing with him his black cloud of apprehension.
He had watched Estelle stroke the congealed fat from the surface of the soup that morning, as he had watched many times before. She now placed the pot on the hob, stirring the golden soup to perfection. The unexpected intimacy of the rising heat reminded them of what they were playing for. They looked at each other and smiled. Mike reached for Estelle, stroking her arm and caressing her fingers.
“Our future in your hands” Mike said “of course everything will be all right!”
Estelle heard a demanding voice
“Yes” mumbled Mike “Yes, yes…I do realise that, Friday…this Friday…I understand”
He put down the receiver.
As seconds yawned into minutes Estelle turned to her husband
“It’s bad, isn’t it?”
“About as bad as it can get. If I can’t seal the deal on Friday then that’s it Estelle, we’re sunk.”
Estelle Franklin believed in her husband. He might have got them into this mess but he was an accomplished chancer and she remained confident that he would get them out. However Estelle was no shrinking violet, and maybe after all their years together she could draw on her reserves and show Mike that she too had valuable skills.
As she lay there the anxiety spread across Estelle’s back and her forehead settled into deep furrows above her red-rimmed eyes. It was critical that Friday was a success. If there was no reconciliation then the future would be bleak for all of them. The house would definitely have to go along with the lifestyle. Despite her reassurances she knew Mike was dwelling on whether his misjudgement would shatter the foundations of their long marriage.
“It’ll kill you or make you stronger” had always been Grandma’s teasing riposte to any crisis, large or small. Her family was made of strong stuff and the cure for all ills - medical, emotional or practical was well known to them. Granted, none of them had been married to Mike but they would get through this in the way they always did, Estelle would blindside them with some culinary magic and Grandma’s chicken soup was just that.
Inspired by memories of her grandmother the next day she went to work. “Dig deep Estelle” she told herself. She moved through her kitchen gathering the ingredients from her arsenal. The ground was familiar here and whilst the stakes were too high to feel that she could settle into her comfort zone, the tension started to ease.
She took the expectant chicken from the worktop (no good straight from the fridge, it needed to be at room temperature) and placed it into the large pot. She covered the flabby white flesh with water and brought it gently to the boil. First stage over she was in the groove, Estelle deftly peeled off the scum (without shuddering as she once did) and added carrot, turnip, celery, leek and parsley (the crisp vegetables all finely chopped) a good dose of salt and white pepper and she sighed. Her shoulders sank, beads of sweat mushroomed on her blushing face as the familiar smell wooed her. Game on. She had 3 hours at least for the alchemy to happen, adding only her love as the pot simmered. There were no precise timings the gift of generations guiding her to know when to turn off the heat. She was soothed by the fug of her kitchen and she rejoiced at her heritage.
This pause was part of the process. Normally Estelle poured herself a large glass of merlot, put on the radio and enjoyed a steamy moment before she continued with her other work. This, however, was not routine. She was cooking for their survival. She wavered between the kettle and the wine rack before reluctantly making a pot of tea tempered with a plate of Jaffa cakes.
The flirtation over, Estelle eventually took the soup from the stove whilst they both cooled-off. This could not be rushed, there was a rhythm to be obeyed, the same process followed for generations. It was late but before she went to bed she removed the chicken from the stock, strained the vegetables from the liquid and prepared to
place the fledgling soup in the fridge. Her heart raced into tomorrow as she checked she was alone. Estelle then pulled the final ingredient from the back of the cupboard and gently stirred it into the warm mix.
Estelle awoke early on Friday, she was calm and focused unlike her husband. As evening descended Mike dodged in and out of the kitchen bringing with him his black cloud of apprehension.
He had watched Estelle stroke the congealed fat from the surface of the soup that morning, as he had watched many times before. She now placed the pot on the hob, stirring the golden soup to perfection. The unexpected intimacy of the rising heat reminded them of what they were playing for. They looked at each other and smiled. Mike reached for Estelle, stroking her arm and caressing her fingers.
“Our future in your hands” Mike said “of course everything will be all right!”
Without Conflict There is No Plot
When I grew up I would be a writer. I had always known this. The only obstacle was growing up.
I had spent years imagining the garret, the years of torment followed by my bestseller and international renown. Decades slipped by and I kidded myself that life was getting in the way but with another milestone birthday on the horizon it was time to “get my shit together” as my friend Celia would say.
The reality was that my weapon of choice was a bottle of wine rather than the pen. I had fooled myself that experience of life could replace learning how this craft worked. Things had to change. Reluctantly, with my only piece of writing, my precious story of lost love clutched to my chest and addled brain cranked in gear I signed up for a creative writing class confident that this would provide the tools for my success.
“How bad can it be?” encouraged Celia.
With one look she was reminded of having said the same thing before sending me off to that ill-fated speed dating session. We arranged to meet later for a post-mortem.
“I’ve got you a large one” was exactly what I needed to hear
“Jesus, Celia, no wonder I haven’t made it on my own. You wouldn’t believe this stuff. Apparently there’s only 7 plots. All those novels and only 7 bloody plots. I need a hook, conflict, exciting language whilst saying as little as possible. She’s taken my life’s work home but has already said that I will need to get rid of every other word, less is more apparently! And…we’ve got homework!”
The weeks sped by as our tutor attempted to instil the basics into a bemused class. Our characters needed to jump from the page, we needed to know every detail of their lives even if the readers didn’t, our plot needed pace and originality, we needed to find our voice.
Meantime I had received my reality check
“I like your perspective but this needs re-writing, the pet phrases need to go along with all those adjectives. Show don’t tell! The plot must be strong, simple and compelling, the character sorely tested” she told me using, beyond, what I now knew to be the requisite number of adjectives to make her point.
I put my life’s work to one side and tried to concentrate on the homework exercises. I found that I actually enjoyed the concentrated form of writing to a formula. The discipline of a haiku, mini saga or flash fiction really focused the mind. It left nowhere to hide!
I decided to distil my blockbuster using the methods I had been taught. I tried to remember all the rules and pared my story down to its bare bones. I made the plot and location as small as possible. I had to change the characters considerably, ensure that there was conflict in my plot and add a twist, but at last I could do this – I knew these personalities like the back of my hand. Satisfied I had used the prescribed criteria, there it was, 100 words, job done!
The other woman
He hadn’t been home for days when Daphne spotted him sidling up the street, head held high, rump swinging suggestively. She watched as he made his way to the door in no great hurry, not a care in the world. She flung the door open and took a deep whiff of cheap perfume. He had been with that floozy again! Alan smirked and slunk through the door making no greeting whatsoever, heading straight for the kitchen. It was then she saw the new glitzy collar he had round his neck.
“Get your own bloody cat” she screamed down the street…..
I had spent years imagining the garret, the years of torment followed by my bestseller and international renown. Decades slipped by and I kidded myself that life was getting in the way but with another milestone birthday on the horizon it was time to “get my shit together” as my friend Celia would say.
The reality was that my weapon of choice was a bottle of wine rather than the pen. I had fooled myself that experience of life could replace learning how this craft worked. Things had to change. Reluctantly, with my only piece of writing, my precious story of lost love clutched to my chest and addled brain cranked in gear I signed up for a creative writing class confident that this would provide the tools for my success.
“How bad can it be?” encouraged Celia.
With one look she was reminded of having said the same thing before sending me off to that ill-fated speed dating session. We arranged to meet later for a post-mortem.
“I’ve got you a large one” was exactly what I needed to hear
“Jesus, Celia, no wonder I haven’t made it on my own. You wouldn’t believe this stuff. Apparently there’s only 7 plots. All those novels and only 7 bloody plots. I need a hook, conflict, exciting language whilst saying as little as possible. She’s taken my life’s work home but has already said that I will need to get rid of every other word, less is more apparently! And…we’ve got homework!”
The weeks sped by as our tutor attempted to instil the basics into a bemused class. Our characters needed to jump from the page, we needed to know every detail of their lives even if the readers didn’t, our plot needed pace and originality, we needed to find our voice.
Meantime I had received my reality check
“I like your perspective but this needs re-writing, the pet phrases need to go along with all those adjectives. Show don’t tell! The plot must be strong, simple and compelling, the character sorely tested” she told me using, beyond, what I now knew to be the requisite number of adjectives to make her point.
I put my life’s work to one side and tried to concentrate on the homework exercises. I found that I actually enjoyed the concentrated form of writing to a formula. The discipline of a haiku, mini saga or flash fiction really focused the mind. It left nowhere to hide!
I decided to distil my blockbuster using the methods I had been taught. I tried to remember all the rules and pared my story down to its bare bones. I made the plot and location as small as possible. I had to change the characters considerably, ensure that there was conflict in my plot and add a twist, but at last I could do this – I knew these personalities like the back of my hand. Satisfied I had used the prescribed criteria, there it was, 100 words, job done!
The other woman
He hadn’t been home for days when Daphne spotted him sidling up the street, head held high, rump swinging suggestively. She watched as he made his way to the door in no great hurry, not a care in the world. She flung the door open and took a deep whiff of cheap perfume. He had been with that floozy again! Alan smirked and slunk through the door making no greeting whatsoever, heading straight for the kitchen. It was then she saw the new glitzy collar he had round his neck.
“Get your own bloody cat” she screamed down the street…..
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