Satruday Sample: Soaring by NIcole Fitton, stewed tea

 

Introduction

Soaring is a collection of flash fiction short stories ranging in length and style from 70 – 1500 words. My stories are small chunks of life, perfectly wrapped and waiting for you to open!

I wrote my first piece of flash fiction in 2016. I knew I wanted to write but whether fiction or non-fiction, novels, flash fiction or short stories I wasn’t really sure. I chanced upon the Screw Turn Flash Fiction Competition who were looking for stories with a ghostly theme. I’d never entered a competition nor written a ghost story for that matter. A few days later I ended up with what became ‘6 months, 3 Days’ a 900-word piece with a ghostly theme. I didn’t win the competition but I was a semi-finalist and I received a lovely email. It was the kick start I needed and I wrote my socks off. This was followed by ‘Come Tilly Come’, a tale of love and loss: it was longlisted in the Exeter Short Story Competition 2016 and later went on to be included in the Arts Quarter Press’ anthology Words Catch Fire I was on a roll and didn’t look back!

The title of this collection is ‘Soaring’ which sums up how I feel when I write, it is also the title of one of my short stories. I do hope you enjoy my words and that in some small way they inspire you. Each story is a stand-alone piece, which can be consumed in bite size pieces until you’re full!

So, whether you are on a train or a bus or simply want to read in short bursts hopefully my flash fiction stories will fit the bill. I have had tremendous fun writing them and will continue to do so alongside my full-length novels. I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I have enjoyed writing them.

Nicole

Come Tilly Come

Long listed in the Exeter Short Story Competition 2016 and featured in the Arts Quarter Press Anthology Words Catch Fire

I try hard to keep my voice steady. I want to scream come here you naughty dog but I don't. My cheeks are reddening; I can feel the eyes of those with perfect dogs burning holes into the back of my head. I will not turn around. A hand is placed on my shoulder. Chris is by my side, his voice calm and controlled.

'Take your time Trish, take your time.'

I take a deep breath. You  had behaved perfectly all week. You  had walked to heel, displaying traits of a well-trained dressage horse. I’d arrived at training hopeful.

But now, in a field full of farmers, with their perfectly trained gun dogs, the walk of shame is mine, all mine again. I’m setting a club record for having the worst behaved dog ever. You are running at the top of the field without a care in the world with your  fluffy spaniel ears flapping wildly in the wind. You were  perfect up until the moment you were  meant to come back.  I watch you  go, and I’m envious. Your  oblivion to my anger is total.

It has been three weeks since Tilly and I  commenced our journey through the seventh circle of hell. It had seemed like a good idea when mum had suggested it.

‘It'll be good for you to get out and meet people, you can't stay cooped up forever,' she’d said, in that sage-like way only mothers have mastered.

Daniel has been gone for six months and fifteen days. Things seem slightly more bearable since Tilly arrived.

I no longer fill my time sourcing parking spaces close to the Cancer Unit, although toward the end I’d become expert at it. It was my thing, my game. It was my way of bringing normality into our fragile existence. I’d arrive at the unit early and drive once around the block eyeing up the parking possibilities before deciding on where to wait. I’d spent the best part of two years going around that car park.

If I found a space within five  minutes, Dan would do well. If it took more than 20 minutes, things would be bad. Those were my rules; after all, it was my game. I even gave it a name – Car Park of Death or CPD for short!

Everyone at the unit was lovely. I didn't want them to be lovely. I wanted them to be harsh and cold and horrid. I wanted to scream and kick and punch. My first childhood fight had been in infant school with Jade Carter. She had taken my pencil case and goaded me, telling me to come and get it, laughing incessantly as I tried to grab it from her. I remember her dark eyes, staring at me, bewildered as I landed a punch square on her jaw line. I wanted the staff at the unit to be like Jade Carter. I wanted a reason to land a punch, to feel the sense of temporary relief I knew it would bring. Instead, I just smiled and said thank you for everything.

Finally, the time we’d craved out started to slow. Each day stretched into segments of waiting, regulated only by rounds of drugs and hospital appointments. Was it Tuesday? If it was Tuesday it would be a trip to see the cancer nurse. No, it was Wednesday; Wednesday was chemo day and time to play CPD!

Our friends no longer visited us. Dan was always tired or his immune system was low, or both. His eyes had sunken so far back into his head he joked he could now see life from a whole new perspective!  His sense of humour was always dark and even now it was still deliciously funny.

It was towards the end of February and bitterly cold when time stood still for Dan and me Ironically it was not the cancer but pneumonia, a secondary infection that ended our time together. He’d wanted to see the snow on the Moors. It had been such a perfect day. We sat in our Mini, wrapped in silver space blankets. We had hot water bottles and two thermoses full of tea. I’d packed your dosette box full of morphine sulphate and multi-coloured pharmaceuticals, and off we went.

Dan wore two sweaters, his now oversized favourite jeans, two pairs of socks plus a pair of bed socks, a thermal jacket, a silly woollen hat with ear flaps and the silver space blanket. He was but a remnant of the man I’d married, but I loved him more than ever that day.

With the cold biting at his bones, we made the trip. He asked me to play Queen's greatest hits and ‘Don't stop me now' sang out as we bumped our way towards Dartmoor.

A journey started by the two of us was completed by only me. It had been bright and crisp as we sat in silence, our hands sealed together. Never before had the snow-capped Tors looked so radiant. Dan’s breath became shallow and patchy.  It had been his way to die, and a part of me was happy he at least got that.

As I drove us back ‘Another one bites the dust' started to play. Inappropriate? Yes, but Dan’s kind of deliciously funny and I knew somewhere he was smiling at the absurdity of it all and that comforted me.

I lived in eternal winter for a while. Numb, lost and wholly unhinged. I didn't feel anything. I would wake up sweating, suffocated I think by sadness, but still, I felt nothing.

Only when mum poked her head around the door, that windy April morning, carrying you Tilly, did I feel anything. And so that is how you  came into my life.  You  saved me that day. I should have named you  naughty dog then, but I fell for your  charm and named you  after a sprightly old lady I had once known. I excused your  bad habits, and odd smells.

*

It's now June and the farmers are out in force, ploughing, and planting. They eye me cautiously as I'm dragged at full pelt through their fields by a flash of liver and white fur. On Sundays however, they are all standing in the same field as me, radiating an inner smugness. They and their obedient mutts are the crème de la crème. You and me Tilly we are called ‘work in progress'.

The lesson won't continue until all dogs are under control. All dogs are under control, except for you!

‘Call her again' Chris encourages. I use my I'm not mad with you voice, as I utter that well-known call, now widely broadcast across the county…

‘Come Tilly come'.

You  eye me cautiously. I’ve been down this road before - I do not hold out much hope. But then, as if you know (you always know), you bow your head and slink towards me and sit up perfectly. I want to kiss you and smack you at the same time. Instead, I deftly slip the leash around your neck and breathe heavily. I look at you proudly. I have now joined the smug farmers club and it feels good. You look up at me, panting. Your tongue is flopping to one side in a slapstick kind of way. If you could talk I know you would say ‘I did it because I could'.

Chris has offered to give us extra obedience lessons. I can hardly refuse after yourOscar-winning performance Tilly can I?At least I didn't have to jog up the muddy hill like last week so things are looking up.

For all your faults, and believe me I can recite a list as long as your tail, I love you. You listen to my ramblings, to my outbursts of anger at the complete and utter randomness of it all. I know you sense my sadness. The way you lay head down between your paws and stare up at me. When I feel as if the darkness will never lift, you nuzzle up close, your wet nose warm, reassuring me I'm not alone. I know you understand. You have fed both my heart and my soul.

Tomorrow we’ll go to the beach. Dan loved the beach. We'd wander for hours breathing in its salty beauty. I wonder if you will love it too?

I shall tell you about the time we got caught out by the tide and we had to make a run for the dunes. How, somewhere along the way the car keys were lost, and how, a rotund man and his metal detector saved the day. You will pad along beside me - yes, you will be on your lead! You will give me a look that says I'm listening intently and understanding every word, now let me off this darn lead so that I can chase whatever takes my fancy…Oh, look a seagull.

  I may think it is I training you, but we both know the truth don't we my girl?

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Mustard Sunshine by Nicole Fitton, Peach Bubble Tea with passion fruit pearls

 

I’d had fifteen winters to dispose of your socks, but somehow time had slide silently sideways, and they had remained in place. Black with brown, and blue with cream were the only anomalies, you’d been a stickler for uniformity. Yellow was your favourite all time colour. Every Christmas a new pair of Mustard Sunshine crew socks would make an appearance and you’d act surprised and genuinely pleased.

Arty said I should’ve given your things to the homeless, and filled your socks with compost and planted seedlings. Admittedly it would’ve made for a colourful display, but I couldn’t do it, it was important to me to leave everything as it you’re your socks helped to fill the space you see.

At night when fear choked at me I’d peer beneath the bed. In between the dust and the empty suitcases, there they were, all neatly flyped just as you’d left them.

The red ones you’d worn on the first day of your new job; the job that had consumed every last part of you until only your shell had remained. The light blue cashmere pair you’d worn on the day we’d received your diagnosis – too much sun and your Celtic skin had not been a good combination. The single blue sock paired with the floppy cream one always brought me a smile. Your face had been a picture of confusion as we’d left our holiday laundromat with a randomly gifted pair of mismatched mid-calf socks! That had been when we’d first noticed the change in a patch your skin.

Over the years, on our anniversary I’d added to the beneath bed collection. I’d brought new offerings and assigned future unlived memories to them. I’d painstakingly catalogued the remnants of our life together and interspersed the newbies year on year, it was bittersweet watching the collection grow. They sat displayed in glorious technicolour beneath our bed. The essence of us was never far away from me as I slept, and I was grateful for that.

Only your Mustard Sunshine socks would continue to remain drawer-bound. They had carried your frame away from me, I didn’t need to be reminded of that.

About the author

 

Nicole Fitton is a short story and novel writer based in Devon. Her first short story collection 'Soaring' has recently been released. She is currently working on her third novel. Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

Saturday Sample: Forbidden Colours by Nicole Fitton, spring water

 

Katzuko Yates eyed her daughter thoughtfully. A sense of apprehension gripped her. Those years in Japan were long ago; she wondered if she could be clear with her explanation. Even though buried, her memories continued to breathe under the mountain of life she'd lived. Dare she even speak of them? Could she speak of them? Their place of residence had become an unmarked grave in her history. Her family had a right to know, after everything that had happened. His world was dark and full of shadows; where would she begin? For over 25 years she had told no one. Now she was being drawn back into his world. It was a time she wanted to forget. The tie that had been bound to her so tightly was about to be broken.

Staring from the window, she hoped to find the words she needed. The right words to explain, at least in part. Autumn was coming. The leaves on the trees were now in full transition. A kaleidoscope of seasonal colours danced outside the window. A procession of translucent red and orange flares, delicately framed, melted in and out of the landscape across Central Park. The last drops of sunlight polished the trees before becoming woven into a tapestry of cyclical splendour. Autumn was a special time. A nip in the air followed by a sharp intake of breath, it reminded her of those first few autumns in England. A long time had passed since then. The season would bring about change. It had been Autumn when she had met him and it had been Autumn when she'd escaped. It was Autumn once again. Now it was time to explain.

 

One Year Earlier….

 

Midori Yates had graduated from Kings College London with a 2:1 in Biomedical Science. What had seemed an all-consuming three years was now over. She could finally get her life back - but back to what? She had absolutely no idea what to do now. Pretty soon she would have to leave her digs. Moving back home didn’t really sing ‘career woman’. If she didn’t find a job quickly she'd be out of options. She had concentrated more on completing her dissertation than finding a job. Coffee in hand, she scanned the web. She wasn’t fussy, any job would do. She uploaded, amended and hit send to anything that had ‘graduate’ in the title. Living in London was not cheap, and she was running out of reserves fast. Three years at Uni and still no bloody job, she thought. The future was not bright, but it very well may end up being orange. At this rate she’d really end up working in a bloody phone shop. How could life already be this hard? She was 23 and felt as if she was carrying a basket of bricks towards the edge of a cliff, with no way back. She had stopped counting applications at number fifteen. Her personal statement shone brighter than silverware from Tiffany's, thanks to her university tutor. It resembled an entry for the Nobel Prize, minus the all-important medal and prize money. Two cups of coffee and an almond croissant later she was ready to embark on another soul-destroying round of “pick me”.

Weeks of silence followed. Of those courteous enough to respond, their rejection spiel gave no insights into why she did not get the jobs. From what she could see it boiled down to probability. 'Due to large a volume of applications' or 'an overwhelming response'. No one said 'your application is rubbish', or 'you don’t have the right skill set'. Maybe the bright orange phone shop back home in Somerset was as good as it was going to get.

She would give it until Friday. After Friday all bets were off, and she would accept defeat.

Midori listened to the rain hammering at her bedroom window. The continual beating of the large rain drops against the window panes summed up her mood perfectly. She felt foolish, dejected, and almost beaten. She had given little thought to her future. Her rose-tinted spectacles had stayed firmly in place over the previous three years. Optimism to the point of blindness, her mother called it. Her mother's observations stung like hell but she knew she was right. She’d been so focused on getting her degree, the job bit had got caught up in the washing and was now going round and round in circles, hidden in with the sheets. The analogy of the one odd sock that no one claims said it all. Each day as she waited for the post, a sense of anticipation rose within her. Her spirits lifted to the ‘what ifs’ and ‘maybe todays’.

As she sat quietly staring at the computer, the familiar thud of the post landing softly but resolutely onto the door mat signalled its arrival. It was a sound she greeted cautiously. Flicking through the takeaway menus and double-glazing leaflets, she spied two plain typed envelopes that spoke of rejection. Rejection letters had their own special air about them. Without a ripped envelope between them they managed to convey their contents. Maybe it was the uniformity of the typeface or the blasé air of ‘open us or don’t open us, we don’t really care’ that she subconsciously breathed in. If nothing else she was becoming adept at guessing the contents. She wondered if she would be able to do the same with luggage? Now there was a job that did exist – who needed an x-ray machine! A large manila envelope caught her eye. She had almost placed it in the rejection pile but something about it differed from the rest. It was bright and sharp, and for manila that was a difficult feat to achieve.

 

Dear Miss Yates,

Thank you for your application. We would like to invite you to attend an assessment centre on Thursday October 8^th at 11am. Please bring with you 1 form of photo ID and your national insurance number. A map giving directions is enclosed. We look forward to meeting you on the 8^th.

Yours Sincerely

M Day

HR Director

KLD Pharmaceuticals

 

She wasn’t even sure for what or when she had applied. In fact, she wasn’t sure she had applied at all. Anyway, what did she care, she needed a job and she would do her absolute best to get one. The lease on the flat was due to end in three weeks. Right now, preparing for her interview with KLD would get her undivided attention.

 

Midori didn’t know too much about the workings of drug companies but judging by their offices they were doing well, despite the recession. Sitting in the corridor alongside five other hopefuls she felt small and inferior. Floor to ceiling glass coupled with ultra-white walls made her feel as if she had entered a space age waiting room. KLD’s Buckinghamshire offices were sited on the Green Shoots business park. Green Shoots was the equivalent of Monaco in the business park world. You had to be a certain kind of wealthy to even rent space. To be able to afford state of the art office space was one thing, but KLD had a state of the art research facility tagged on behind the swanky offices to boot. Everything shouted out ‘new’ and ‘au courant.’

The elevators had amused her the most. There were no buttons, only a symbol that, despite her best efforts, she struggled to understand. She stood confused for an age until she realised the symbol represented a listening ear. It was as simple as saying the floor number you wanted and then, as if by magic, you were transported to the correct level. She had to admit she was impressed. If the technology was cutting edge in the elevators what did that say about the serious stuff?

The interview had been tougher than she had anticipated. On reflection, she could have answered the questions set by the panel more fully but, overall, she was happy. She was still not sure what the job was. It would have been downright rude and inappropriate to ask during the interview: no, she would cross that bridge as and when.

The assessment had consisted of three parts – an interview panel of three, who had nodded in the right places, a written test akin to twister for the mind (an aptitude test by any other name), and a scientific paper she had to assess and summarise. Who turns up for an interview not knowing what to prepare? She was kicking herself. The more she saw of KLD the more she wanted the job – whatever it was! Not for the first time in her life, she was winging it. Midori had spent the weekend searching through her recent job applications but had drawn a blank. Not surprising really, usually she deleted applications after a month of not hearing back, they were too depressing to keep. A panel of three would now decide her fate. All that was left was to enjoy that elevator one more time, she may never get another chance, she thought.

'Ground floor', she said rather too loudly.

 

About the author

 Nicole Fitton is a short story and novel writer based in Devon. Her second novel 'Forbidden Colours' is a contemporary medical thriller with a large splash of romance. Her first short story collection is due to be published this year. She is currently working on her third novel.