A Silent Drowning by Jane Spirit, a tepid cafeteria coffee

Bob knew that this would be a difficult visit. His big brother was at death’s door apparently bracing to push through it decisively to the other side. That was his style. Five years the elder, Ron had always been determined to move forwards at school, in work, with his trying marriage and taciturn kids. He’s not buckled once under the weight of diagnosis, treatment, prognosis, whereas Bob’s composure had been crumbling since he’d found out that they were running out of time to put things right between them.

Bob lingered in the cafeteria, staring into the tepid coffee he’d bought himself as a treat, its remaining sudsy bubbles still buoyant on the beige liquid. Soon he must toss the cardboard cup into recycling and join the tide of visitors flowing through the hospital’s corridors. For now, he just sat, occasionally patting the damp exercise book he’d jammed into his raincoat pocket. He thought about how he had given the writing class a go last year. Asked to scribble down a childhood memory, the day that he had killed a man had come back to him in flashes. He’d remembered the homeless man standing on the towpath as if waiting to taunt him and his brother. Tasting mingled fear and anger in his gullet, he had shoved past the greybeard, catching him off guard. How quietly the man had fallen from the bank, sinking without protest into the canal’s murky waters as they closed over his unmarked grave. Bob had been left standing there, whilst Ron had speechlessly grasped his hand, looking around to check that no-one else had witnessed Bob’s push as he’d pulled him away.

The bad things that had happened to Bob afterwards had begun to make sense to him as he’d continued to write his life story from that memory onwards. How proud he had felt when he’d handed his autobiography to Ron. He had wanted to show Ron that he could finish something and that for once he had faced up to his past. But when they next met, Ron had made no mention of the canal incident. He’d handed the notebook back, muttering something about there being too much damn crazy nightmare stuff in it for him before shambling off to the fridge for their beers. Discussion dismissed. What was there left for Bob to say?

Buoyed up by adrenalin and caffeine, Bob got to his feet now. He navigated himself towards the room where his brother lay dying. Would Ron finally level with him about what had happened all those years ago? Perhaps Ron thought he should still protect his pathetic little brother, or maybe he genuinely believed it had all been some weird dream.

When he reached the ward entrance, Bob hesitated. He hated himself for that reluctance far more than he’d ever hated Ron or loved him. Finally, Bob wrestled the notebook out of his coat pocket and pushed the door open decisively.

About the author

 

Jane Spirit lives in Woodbridge, Suffolk UK and has been inspired to write fiction by going along to her local creative writing class. 

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A New Letter In The Alphabet by Rebecca Coles Lee, coffee

For thirty-four years I thought I was a sea lion. It must have started off as some childhood game, but I still don’t remember the specifics. Somewhere along the way, when I wasn’t paying attention, the idea became a fact.

I was not a real lion. Not like the kind that scream and hunt and chase things they catch with their perfectly padded paws. I preferred the sea. In part this was why I couldn’t believe my identity was something I’d made up for fun. If I had created myself a brand new body surely I’d make myself a lion.

But the sea lion made more sense. I liked the weightlessness of swimming underwater and I wasn’t flashy like a seal or otter. It was natural to be linked with this kind of animal. This was my lot in life. 

Though I didn’t catch animals, the fish were good. This was what I explained to my partners. At first they took this as some kind of joke, but then came the weight of our differences.

I wasn’t like the people they had dated, but I never pretended I was. Most of them hated when I finally met their parents, caviar presented by mistake. 

I would tell them ahead of time, don’t let them serve fish. I told them I’d definitely go wild. Whether they believed me or not, they never told their parents. I was a spectacle, blemishing their judgement. 

I carried on. I kept in touch with the girls. I had my own set of friends and I enjoyed them. Sometimes I offered advice to my friends, but we didn’t have much in common. They couldn’t understand, as much as I explained, I was always going to be a sea lion. 

How are you, Jack? My friends were curious. To answer was to give myself away. Eventually I learned not to tell them my issues. Their opinions might have ruined my esteem.

The sea lion is majestical, but not majestic nor magical. It is too ugly to be royal and too boring to be mystical. It is, however, other-worldly. They are powerful creatures, not loners, but independent. Sea lions are particularly self-sufficient.

Except when it comes to paying bills. Or doing household chores. Or taking care of people with individualized needs. But when a life is so different that it cannot be compared, just surviving is a real achievement.

In part this is why the accomplishment of marriage was perceived as quite extraordinary.

I got married in winter because I was a sea lion. My bride was cold, but wore sleeves. She was 19 which should have been a warning, but I thought she was old enough for me. 

She was an ice queen. A monster in disguise. Once we married she grew sharp. Still, I thought, I would soften her up. I was not like all the rest.

We bought a one story ranch way out in Indiana where her parents and siblings were located. She had four nieces and four nephews, but not a lot to do. 

 

“Just try,” my wife said. “Just try to fit in.”

Naturally I felt out of place.

I told her this was not my idea of paradise and I didn’t know anyone like me. I did not point out my life was much harder, but did give her heavy thoughtful sighs. I thought she would catch on to my limitations, but she did not and wouldn’t try.

We played cards with the underweight neighbor with a mole. His wife was a roly-poly woman. I pretended to like their little cocker spaniel and never chewed on the cat. I would have offered to wash the dishes, but they knew I was just a sea lion. When they offered to drive us home that night, I said yes.

This was my mistake. Our downfall. The end.

I was grateful for the ride because the walk was just too difficult, but, this, my wife said, was unacceptable.

“We could have walked,” she said, slamming the front door. “We walked there, didn’t we?” Charity, she assumed, was never a necessary request.

 

“Mow the lawn!” my wife demanded. It was a week after the incident. I explained to her that sea lions can’t drive. 

“Find a job,” she demanded. We had lived there three months. I chose not to tell her the obvious.

After two years in our rented house we separated in July. It was bound to happen in the heat. I moved back to Bar Harbor all by myself. This was when I thought I was home.

I lay on the rocks and ate lots of salmon. I basked in a warm winter sun. But after sleeping and eating and enjoying my life, something unexpected occurred.

There was a silence. A deep and echoing quiet.

At first I thought I shouldn’t care. Sea lions were used to the quiet. But then I felt my entire body shut down.  

The rocks became jagged and left bruises on my back. I could feel a purple cold in my extremities. When all the fish started tasting sour, I was forced to admit the truth. I was not, and never had been, a sea lion.

My family was relieved when I told them the news. So were my old friends from college.

“It makes so much more sense now,” I told them over coffee. I am truly a Siberian Moose. 

About the author

Rebecca Coles Lee is best known for her medical poetry found in Harvard’s Third Space medical journal, The British Medical Journal, CHEST physicians, and Dartmouth’s Life Lines. Her essay, The Rules of Engagement, was selected as a notable essay in the Best American Essays anthology. 

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She said … He said by Graham Crisp, a glass of sparkling wine

 She said she wanted to go to the cinema, he said he wanted to go to the pub …

 

[they went to the cinema]

 

She said she wanted a big engagement party, he said he wanted just close friends

and family …

 

[they had a big party]

 

She said she wanted their wedding ceremony in Bali, he said he wanted the town registry office …

 

[they had their wedding in Bali]

 

She said she wanted their honeymoon in the Cayman Islands, he said he wanted to go to the Isle of Wight …

 

[they went to the Cayman Islands]

 

She said she wanted a big house in the suburbs, he said he wanted a small cottage in the countryside …

 

[they lived in the suburbs in a big house]

 

She said he should go for promotion, he said he was happy with his current role …

 

[he got promoted]

 

She said she wanted four children two of each, he said he wanted two children one of

each …

 

[they had four children]

 

He said he wanted a divorce …

 

[he got one]

 

She wondered why …

About the author

 

Graham is a retired SME owner. He has written two novels – Nicholas and the sequel Nicholas – The Final Phase. He also volunteers at a local primary school helping children to enjoy reading.

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Sunday Serial: 280 x 70 by Gill James, 60. The Man in the Suit, cola

 Introduction

This collection is a collection of seventy stories, each 280 words. They were inspired by the first picture seen on my Twitter feed on a given day. 

60.  The Man in the Suit 

He seems trustworthy, the man in the suit. He is in his early fifties, perhaps.  His hair is grey and his eyes look sincere. His skin is wrinkled. He could be a headmaster, a GP or somebody’s dad. They can all look the same. I’ve heard him use some common sense before but now he is being questioned. We've all trusted grey-haired men with clear blue eyes and they've let us down.

Now he's saying free trade everywhere is not such a good thing though others are saying it creates economic growth and helps to end child poverty.    We need the growth and child poverty must end, though what we mean by it isn't all that clear.

Twenty-eight countries, closely situated to each other, trade freely at the moment. Our wines and cheeses, our fruit and vegetables, our butter and milk are not taxed and don't travel far.  Do you remember when the Mediterranean crop failed for a few weeks and we had to import peppers and tomatoes form other continents? The price trebled.  Some of it was tax, yes, but much of it was transport costs. We want that? Really?

And this group of twenty-eight countries has great trade deals with other nations and continents. They're probably better than we can negotiate ourselves.

Can you hear the roar of the jet taking off? Do you know how much damage each flight makes? Can you see the smog hanging over most big towns?

In the capital a man is arrested for arguing that we are about to become extinct. Some men, like the one in the suit, shout vile words at an angry but sincere young woman who demands change.               

About the author

Gill James is published by The Red Telephone, Butterfly and Chapeltown. She edits CafeLit and writes for the online community news magazine: Talking About My Generation. She teaches Creative Writing and has an MA in Writing for Children and PhD in Creative and Critical Writing. 

http://www.gilljameswriter.com 

https://www.amazon.co.uk/-/e/B001KMQRKE 

https://www.facebook.com/gilljameswriter 

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Saturday Sample: Days Pass Like a Shadow by Paula R C Readman, builders' tea

 

The Meetings

 

As I sit on a park bench I trace the words engraved on the small metal plaque with my fingertips. By doing this simple act I recall the happiness I witnessed so long ago. 

Every day I come here to watch others enjoying the park. As I sit, I reflect on an unknown person who was once so strong and so full of life, all those years ago. Maybe the plaque could be a marker for my life too. As crazy as it may seem, I used to watch him and her, while I was busy working among the flowerbeds and borders.

Most mornings the young woman would arrive via the side road into the park.  Bohemian in her dress she walked briskly, her long, blonde hair streaming out behind her, like a veil of sunshine even on the dullest of days.  Her footfall on the gravel was so light it barely made a sound. If I happened to be busy either weeding, hoeing or planting I would miss her arrival.

Sometimes while I straightened my back I would catch sight of her waiting patiently at this bench. On seeing the unknown man’s arrival, her face would brighten and with a laugh she would rush to his open arms. The man, tall and elegant in his posture, dressed quite casually in chino trousers and a light jacket.  Some mornings he would arrive so early that the mist hadn’t time to clear to wait for her. He always came via the main entrance, with its large ornate gates of black and gold. A couple of hours later she would arrive with her beautiful smile. 

I never quite knew what time of day they would arrive. Sometimes if the weather was awful in the morning they came in the afternoon, but I never saw them arrive together.

At first, I wasn’t sure about their relationship, whether they were lovers, or not?  Not that it was any of my business.  I just saw them as two happy people enjoying each other’s company. 

Happiness is a rare thing these days. I considered myself lucky a silent witness to the pleasure they shared as I worked among the flowerbeds and borders. Not being a good judge of age I did think the man looked slightly older than the woman. The sun highlighted the passing of his years in the changing colour of his hair. However, in all honesty, I couldn’t begin to guess the woman’s age, as I hadn’t seen her close up, well, not at first.

I used to see them strolling, arm in arm around the park. The woman gazed into the man’s face as though she’d never tire of it. Occasionally, I would stumble across them standing close together down by the fountain, or up on the rise overlooking the town. 

He stood with his arm around her narrow waist, talking in his easy, gentle way while pointing out something of interest to her.  Like the multitude of colourful butterflies that fed restlessly on the globe buddleia bush. Sometimes, as if by magic, the man would produce a bag of bread. The young woman’s laughter carried on the air across to where I was working among the perennials. Together like children they would race along the path to the pond.  Her gentle, laughing voice was conveyed on the light summer breeze as she called back to him.

“I win again!”

At the pond, the swans were the first to know there was food on offer. They would haughtily swim over as the woman attempted to throw the bread to them, but the smaller, more agile, comical ducks would get in first.  Together the couple would laugh at the antics of the swans and ducks until all the bread had gone. 

Some days while I trundled about with my wheelbarrow I would come across them, sitting with their heads intimately close. They were especially fond of the bench under the spreading oak tree on a rise overlooking the town.

On one occasion while I dug out a flowerbed ready for the seasons planting I watched as the man produced a bag of nuts.  Within minutes as though by some sixth sense, from nowhere, squirrels appeared and came down from the branches above to feed on the nuts the woman held out.

The unexpected look of pure pleasure that crossed her face was a remarkable sight. It seemed to me the man brought a sort of enchantment into her life. I know he did mine, and I began to look forward to their visits, to share in the magic of their happiness. 

It makes me smile even now.  I remember sharing her birthdays and Christmas celebrations on this bench. The gentleman was like a magician conjured brightly coloured balloons and ribbons out of nowhere to decorate the bench before she arrived. 

As she came up the rise towards him, he produced a cake with lighted candles. Once she was seated, he’d arrange her flowing bohemian skirt around her sandaled feet and then set up his camera to take a photograph of them together while she blew out the candles.

 

The autumn seemed to arrive quite quickly that year. You could smell the changing of the seasons in the air.  I had only just unlocked the park gates when he appeared out of the early morning mist.

He walked much slower, unsteady on his feet and with the aid of a stick. He seemed embarrassed to see me and nodded his acknowledgement before making a slow progress up the slight rise to wait as he always did on their bench under the oak tree.  Shocked at the sudden change in his appearance I quickly turned my attention back to raking the first of the falling leaves. Their absence from the park went unnoticed by me, I’m sorry to say, with too many jobs needing my attention.

***

As the flowering season ended I began cutting back shrubs, digging out the annuals, dead heading the roses and splitting some of the large plants to make new ones. As I worked my way through the list of jobs my mind was already planning next season’s planting. The weeks flew by as I continued working my way around the park, tidying the edge of the pond and pulling out the invasive weeds. Soon I was clearing the flowerbeds, borders and urns ready to plant up with the winter flowering plants and bulbs.

Early one morning I woke to find the first snowfall of the season had fallen overnight.  After I had bought a pint of milk I hurried to the park as the snow began to fall again. As I turned the corner, on reaching the shelter of the park keeper’s hut, I found the young woman sitting huddled in her coat outside the hut door.  

On seeing me she rose. Tears stained her face. With a weak smile she greeted me like an old friend and held out a small, brightly wrapped parcel. Words tumbled from her lips in-between uncontrollable sobs. All I could understand was that she was trying to explain something.

“Please, come in and have a cup of tea. While you’re warm up you can explain.”

On unlocking the door the warmth of the hut hit us, adding colour to her cheeks and hands. I gestured for her to sit on an old park bench I had just finished repairing. While we waited for the kettle to boil she repeated what she had said outside.  As I passed her a mug of tea I noticed the fine lines around her eyes.

After taking a sip, she said, “I’ve been unable to face coming here, to our special place, since the funeral two months ago.” Tears bubbled up in her brown eyes as she picked up the parcel and handed it to me. 

On opening it I was unable to speak after reading what was written on the plaque in my hands.  I met her eyes and she smiled at the shock that must have registered on my face. 

“Yes,” she said with a rueful laugh. “He was my father. I was only able to search for him after my mother passed away.  On our first meeting my father promised me we would do all the things we had missed doing when I was a child.  So we flew kites, visited the zoo and built sandcastles on the beach, but mostly we enjoyed spending our time here in the park. I recalled coming here with him as a small child before my parents divorced and my mother took me away.  My father had remarried, but unfortunately, they were unable to have children. He kept me a secret from his new wife only wishing to protect her from any upset that might have arisen from our meetings.” She took another sip before continuing.

“Three months ago I received a call from Dad’s wife to say he’d been rushed into hospital. As his health was deteriorating fast he’d told her all about me. She phoned to ask me to keep her company at his bedside, wanting to share his last moments together. We’ve since become good friends and I spend my time visiting her now. I would like to have a reminder in the park of the wonderful times I’ve spent with my lost father and to remind other people of their fathers too. If it’s possible could we fit the plaque to the bench under the tree?”

I nodded picking up my screwdriver. Together we stepped out in the snow making our way to the rise. As the young woman held the plaque I fastened the last screw in place before she read the words aloud:

‘In memory of all the lost fathers everywhere: One day may your children come back into your lives so you can relive their childhood years together again.’

As I watched her leave by the main gates I recall the happy times I spent with my father playing on my sledge on sunny wintry days so long ago. As I made my way back to my hut I saw our footprints were the only ones in the freshly fallen snow and wondered whether I would see her again. 

 Find your copy of the book here 

About the author  

Paula R. C. Readman is a prolific writer and has penned six books and over a hundred short stories. She lives in an Essex village with her husband, Russell. Blog: https://colourswordspaper.blog or just Google Paula R C Readman, and something’s bound to pop up.

 

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Soldier Doll by Rob Molan, whisky sour

They sit facing each other. His long legs are stretched out and she is in a hunched position.

‘I understand how debilitating the anxiety attacks must be for you, Margaret.’

She wipes her eyes with a tissue.

‘We can stop for a few minutes, if you wish,’ he says gently.

‘No, I’m happy to continue.’ She runs a hand through her red hair cut in a short, pixie style.

He leans forward.

‘Tell me what happens in the recurring dream you mentioned.’

            She takes a sip of water.

‘I enter a classroom in my old primary school and say ‘good morning’ to the other girls but they ignore me and talk amongst themselves.’

Her lower lip starts to tremble.

‘And then?’

‘The teacher, Miss Donovan, comes into the room, and greets us before sitting down at her desk and opening the register. She calls out the names alphabetically and the other girls respond when theirs come up but mine is omitted. I stand up and say ‘I’m here too, Miss” but she looks through me and tells the class that there is now a free desk and a new girl will be coming soon to sit in it. I start to shout ‘no’ and that point I wake up in a sweat.’

Margaret tightly grips the arms of her chair.

‘That’s an unsettling image,’ he says. ‘Going back to the anxiety attacks, did anything unusual happen before they started?’                                                     

‘They began after an unexpected encounter.’

She shifts uncomfortably in her seat.

Tell me about that occasion.’

 

Relaxing on the bench, Paul takes a sip of ice-cold lager as he watches a boat sail by. The breeze off the river ruffles his blonde hair and takes the edge off the heat.

He is conscious that a woman wearing a white linen dress and sun glasses sitting on the other side of the beer garden has been studying him but he pays her no attention.

As he finishes off his drink, he sees her approaching in the corner of his eye

‘Paul?’ she asks, as she gets close to him.

His beady black eyes study her. The voice sounds familiar but the face doesn’t register.

‘It is, isn’t it?’ She sits down on a bench opposite. ‘You haven’t changed much.’

She has a youthful air about her but the fine lines on her face make it difficult for him to judge her age.

‘It’s me, Margaret O’Donnell.’ She takes off the glasses and her bright blue eyes fasten on him.

He sits up with a start and blinks.                                                             

‘My God, it is. How are you?’

‘I’m grand. Fancy bumping into each other after all these years.’

His studies her closely with his mouth half open.

‘Don’t worry you didn’t recognise me at first. It’s twenty-five years since we last saw each other and my red hair probably threw you off the trail.’         

‘Do you live in London?’ he asks.

‘Aye. I didn’t return to Belfast after arriving here. I know there are more opportunities there now for people from my community but there are painful memories for me too. London’s a grand place to live in and I don’t want to be anywhere else.’

She shrugs her shoulders.

‘You certainly haven’t lost your accent,’ he says.

‘Holy cow, I’m never going to lose that!’ She laughs. ‘Are you still married to June?’

His eyebrows rise.

‘Yes, but I’m staggered you remember her name.’

‘It was a memorable evening when you mentioned it to me.’ 

‘Indeed, it was.’

‘Do you have kids?’ she asks.                                        

‘Yes, a boy and a girl who are now both in their early twenties. What about you? Do you have a family?’

‘No, I’m single. None of my relationships have lasted any length of time. Too much baggage I’m afraid.’

The noise of revellers on a passing boat catches their attention.

‘Looks like they’re enjoying themselves,’ she remarks. ‘We had some fun back then, didn’t we? Like those nights at Frankie´s disco and the craic we had with the crowd who went to the parties at Mary’s place.’

He nods his head.

‘We sure did and I was proud to tell the other squaddies you were my girl. No one else had hair like you, with those cascading curls of shiny black hair.’

‘Catch yourself on! Many of the other girls were glamorous too.’

She falls silent and looks at him pensively.

‘I remember the first time I saw you in the street in a uniform carrying a rifle. It took me a few seconds to remind myself you were my man and not just one of our occupiers. Telling me you were a soldier when we went out together was not the same thing as seeing it for real.’

             He straightens up and locks eyes with her.          

‘There were occasions when I regretted not suggesting that we cool things down until my tour of duty ended and then you could have followed me to England. That way, you wouldn’t have suffered like you did.’

She shakes her head from side to side.

‘Yeah, in a parallel universe. You wouldn’t have enjoyed the life you’ve had with June and your kids, if you’d done that.’ She takes a deep breath. ‘Look, we all have regrets about what we did or didn’t do in the past but have to find a way of living with them and often - as is the case with you - good things happen further down the line. Remember, it was others who decided of their own free will to do what they did to me and they’re the ones who should carry the burden of guilt, not that I expect any of the bastards to feel any.’

‘Fair enough. Can I get you a drink?’

‘I never thought you would ask! A gin and tonic would go down well, so it would.’

She watches him as he gets up and leaves their table. His straight back and broad shoulders bring back images preserved in an album in her mind which has remained unopened for longer than she cares to remember.

The bar inside is busy but he’s happy to be detained in the queue for a while to be alone with his thoughts. He’s a man who normally likes to choose his words carefully when having a delicate conversation with someone but this evening he has surprised himself with what he’s blurted out.

Returning a few minutes later with the drinks, he discovers she’s gone. He looks around the garden but there’s no sign of her.

‘Did you see the lady who was sitting here leave?’ he asks the group on the adjacent table.

A girl wearing tortoise shell glasses leans over.

‘She started sobbing not long after you left. I asked her if she was alright but she suddenly got up and departed.’

He slowly sits down not sure whether to feel relieved or guilty, or a bit of both. The sun has now disappeared behind the clouds and there is a chill in the air which prompts him to reach for his jacket.

 

‘So what happened to you, Margaret?’ The therapist pushes his glasses up.

The colour drains from her face.

‘Paul was the handsomest boy I’d ever met and I fell in love with him. But, as a soldier, he was seen by many in my community as one of the enemy. My parents didn’t approve of our relationship but didn’t forbid me seeing him it until the day when my father took me to one side and told me what had happened to a girl on the next estate who’d got involved with a soldier.’ She wrings her hands.  ‘I still remember the pained look on his face as he pleaded with me to end things, telling me he and my mother couldn’t bear the thought of me suffering.’

‘That put you in an impossible position.’

‘It was hard but I decided to call it off and told Paul the following night. He was crestfallen and I felt awful about it.’

She exhales and looks past him.

‘Then, I was walking home from college a few days later when a van pulled up beside me and a couple of big lads jumped out and grabbed me, and bundled me inside.’ She swallows hard.  ‘Shortly afterwards, I was taken out of the van in a deserted warehouse and roughly tied to a chair, and two bitches cut off my locks and shaved my head.’ She touches her skull. ‘They told me to shut up when I started crying and, when they’d finished, the men freed me and threw me back in the van.’

‘How old were you?’

‘Only nineteen and my tormentors were all much older than me.” She grits her teeth. ‘The van drove for a few minutes before we disembarked on some waste land. I was tied to a lamp post and cold tar was poured over my head. Thank God it wasn’t hot as I would still have the scars to this day. Feathers were scattered over me and a sign was hung around my neck with ‘Soldier Doll’ written on it.’

She pauses to brush her blouse.

‘A crowd gathered and started jeering. The women were the worst. I kept my eyes shut but opened them when I heard my father shouting and saw him grappling with my kidnappers. They were too strong for him and pushed him to the ground. I was left there until darkness fell and the crowd dispersed, and my father freed me and took me home. That walk along the deserted streets felt the longest in my life.’

She reaches for the water jug, refills her glass and takes a drink.

‘I stayed indoors for months afterwards and didn’t have many visitors but a friend who called round one day and mentioned Paul’s regiment had returned to England soon after my ordeal. I bitterly regretted breaking up with him and decided to go over to London to try and patch things up. My parents tried to dissuade me but eventually gave in and bought me a short black wig to wear. I stayed with a cousin of mine. I had no address for Paul but remembered the name of his favourite pub in Ealing and spent several evenings there hoping he’d come in. One night he did and not surprisingly he was shocked to see me.  He asked what I’d done to my hair and, when I told him what had happened, his face turned white. I said I regretted splitting up with him and hoped we could start again. However, that wish was quicky crushed. He could barely look me in the eye when he explained he’d recently got engaged to an old flame called June who he had taken up with again and so there was no way back for us. I wanted the ground to swallow me up.’   

She looks down.

‘Margaret, it has taken a lot of courage to tell me what you have today. The unexpected meeting with someone associated with a past trauma appears to have triggered your anxiety attacks and I will try to help you to deal with them.’

‘I’ll come for as long for as it takes. I’ve taken time off work to sort myself out.’

‘What do you do?’

She lifts her head up and opens her eyes wide

‘I’m a fundraising manager for a charity which trains health, legal and policy professionals to work with female survivors of torture. It’s become a vocation for me.’

‘I’m glad we have some positivity to build on in our future meetings.’

He closes his notebook and takes off his glasses.

‘Absolutely. I refuse to be a prisoner of my past.’ She suddenly straightens up. ‘You can’t keep an O’Donnell down, as my old Gran used to say.’     

About the author

                                                 

Rob lives in Edinburgh started writing short stories during lockdown. To date, he's had several tales published by Cafe Lit and others in various anthologies. He likes to experiment with different genres and styles of writing. 

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