Spirit Spinner

 by Susan A. Eames

camomile tea

 The first time I saw Jodie she was twirling on John's lawn. Her hair was long. Her feet were bare. Her dress was flimsy. A throwback from the 1960's, she looked like one of those girls dipping and swaying on the grass at Woodstock.

I stood watching her, in a trance. John came up behind me. 

 

'Don't be fooled, Steve,' he said. 'She's a fruitcake.'

 

But Jodie beguiled me. 

 

I moved slowly with her because I sensed she could be easily scared off by the wrong approach. By the end of John's party I had made enough progress to become her fledgling friend. Jodie told me she was an artist and invited me to her cottage.

 

'I made these.' Jodie showed me dream catchers, delicate and ethereal. 'I adore the idea of capturing dreams. Don't you, Steve?' She gave me a dimpled smile.

 

I nodded sagely and told her, 'yes.'

 

'That's my Spirit Spinner.' Jodie pointed to a contraption in the garden. We went outside to examine her spinner: a filigreed wire basket suspended from a tree branch by thin chains. 

 

'It allows my spirit to dance freely on the astral plane when I sleep,' said Jodie. She lightly touched the basket and it spun softly as if caught on a breeze. 

 

'Did you make this too, Jodie?'

 

'No, I bought it from a Wise Woman.'

 

'I see.' 

 

I was privately mad with the self-professed 'wise woman' who had fooled her into parting with money. But Jodie was young and sweet and who was I to dispel her beliefs? So I accepted her naivety and said nothing more. 

 

Despite my physical attraction to her, Jodie and I never became romantically attached. Certainly I was in love with her, but I knew our relationship would change if we shared a bed. Jodie possessed a magic I didn't want to destroy. 

 

Instead, our friendship strengthened until we were bound to each other by something greater than carnal pleasures.

 

When Jodie became sick my world splintered. There was nothing I could do except stay with her until the end.

 

Her Spirit Spinner is in my garden now. I let myself believe that Jodie is out there, dancing freely on the astral plane.

About the author 

Susan A. Eames left England over twenty five years ago to explore the world and dive its oceans. She has had travel articles and short fiction published on three continents. After several fascinating years living in Fiji she has relocated to West Cork in Ireland.

Susan blogs at: http://susan-a-eamestravelfictionandphotos.blogspot.ie

King Kong

by  Susan A. Eames 

banana shake

Soft focus. The city coalesced out of the murk. She sat in the back of the yellow taxi, straining to pick out famous landmarks as they crossed the bridge. Landmarks she had seen in the movies since childhood. But they paled into insignificance against the one particular building she had come to see.

'Your first time?' said the taxi driver.

'Yes. I must see the Empire State Building.'

'Why?'

How could she explain how her first cinematic experience had impacted her life? How she had screamed in unison with the beautiful actress Fay Wray when she saw King Kong for the first time. 

Eighty years!

And there it was. Breaking through the fog. So majestic.

'Could you slow down, please?' she said.

'He doesn't exist, Ma'am.'

'Pardon?'

'The big ape. You won't see him up there.'

The old lady laughed in delight. 'No, you're wrong. I can see him already.'

About the author

Susan A. Eames left England over twenty five years ago to explore the world and dive its oceans. She has had travel articles and short fiction published on three continents. After several fascinating years living in Fiji she has relocated to West Cork in Ireland .

Susan blogs at: http://susan-a-eamestravelfictionandphotos.blogspot.ie

The Warning

by Susan A Eames

whisky sour 

I waited around the corner, just shy of the zebra crossing. I knew his habits well. 

He left the Off-Licence with a bag. Wine? Or perhaps she preferred champagne? I started the car.

He strode towards the crossing. I eased onto the main road, smooth as cream. I knew he wouldn’t notice me. That was the problem. He never noticed me. 

The fact was, despite my efforts, he never saw the real me - never noticed the smart, sassy woman who lived inside this plain-Jane skin: a woman smart enough to know when something was wrong and have the guts to investigate. And despite being side-swiped by his betrayal, a woman still smart and brave enough to make a difficult decision.

He stepped onto the crossing. I accelerated. For a split second our eyes locked - his widened in alarm and realisation. Too late, mate.

Bodies don’t bounce. They thud and crunch and roll away kinda slow. It surprised me. I smelt whisky, not wine – that was a surprise too.

Janice hit the Print button, satisfied with the opening of her new thriller. She placed the draft strategically on her desk, knowing her husband would read it.

About the author:

Susan A. Eames left England over twenty five years ago to explore the world and dive its oceans. She has had travel articles and short fiction published on three continents. After several fascinating years living in Fiji she has relocated to West Cork in Ireland. Susan blogs at: susan-a-eamestravelfictionandphotos.blogspot.ie

The Elijah Project

The Elijah Project

Susan A. Eames

Coconut Water

When Elijah fell from the coconut tree his life changed forever.

            A kindly ex-pat called Chip heard about Elijah’s plight and organised a wheelchair donation. Now that Elijah could no longer harvest the coconuts for copra he needed some form of income, so Chip arranged a supply of trinkets for Elijah to sell to sympathetic tourists. But Elijah’s wife left him anyway.

Elijah lived in his wife’s village and her family exercised their right to reclaim the house. He now slept on the deck of his ex-marital home in his shiny wheelchair.

            When Chip and his charitable friends heard about Elijah’s situation they confronted the in-laws, demanding that they show Elijah compassion. Baffled by their interference, the in-laws turned away from the foreigners, unable to express the complexities of their culture: a culture which deemed their actions not only acceptable, but expected, by everyone including Elijah.

So Chip and Co. branded the in-laws as cruel and heartless. They built Elijah a house on the edge of the village and modestly congratulated themselves for solving Elijah’s problems.

            And they told people in their home countries about ‘The Elijah Project’ because people in the developed world should hear these heart-warming stories, shouldn’t they? Naturally, it wasn’t because they sought praise for being such wonderful, caring folk.

Meanwhile, Elijah sat in his shiny new wheelchair in his shiny new house with boxes of trinkets that no one wanted to buy, more outcast than ever before.

About The Author

Susan A. Eames left England over twenty-five years ago to explore the world and dive its oceans. She has had travel articles and short fiction published on three continents. After several fascinating years living in Fiji she has relocated to West Cork in Ireland. Susan blogs at: http://susan-a-eamestravelfictionandphotos.blogspot.ie

Published July 16 2015

Shark Bait

Susan A Eames

Shark Bait

Cup of hot sweet Rooibos Tea

The cage looks puny.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” I say.

“It’s OK, they never attack the cage,” says Frankie.

“Never?”

“They’re not interested in canned diver.”

The little boat smacks into the trough of every oncoming wave while we manoeuvre into position halfway between the mainland and Dyer Island in what is nicknamed, Shark Alley. 

Frankie cuts the engine but we continue to buck and bounce in sea-sickening lurches.

The boys get busy chumming the water with putrefying fish. Frankie tosses in a tuna head attached to a buoyed line.

They lower the cage into the water while I wriggle into my thick wetsuit.

Within minutes an immense shadowy figure begins to circle the boat. 

Once, twice. On its third circuit, the shark lunges for the bait which Frankie twitches aside to encourage it to stay and fight for its meal. Instead the animal spooks and vanishes.

Another Great White torpedoes in. Three metres of menace just off our stern churns the water into foam as it grabs and tries to detach the tuna from the line. The shark gives up and zig-zags away.

The top of the cage rides above the waterline. ‘Get in,’ says Frankie.

I hesitate.

“What are you waiting for? C’mon!”

I plop into the bobbing cage. Icy cold waves slap the back of my head. 

We wait.

Before long another Great White rockets in.

“Dive down!” yells Frankie.

I gulp a breath and sink underwater. Stunning silence. Unthinking, I hook my toes through one of the cage bars for balance. Eyes wide behind my mask, I look around. Where? 

Then the sun pierces the gloom. Backlit in a dazzling illumination, the shimmering shark slices, skims and skews towards me. 

Jesusmaryandjoseph 

With a spurt of alarm, I yank my toes back inside the cage. 

Up above Frankie jerks the tuna head and the shark slews past the cage like it’s attached to the line. 

And it’s so stupendously, unexpectedly beautiful, I am without fear. 

About the Author

Susan A. Eames left England over twenty five years ago to explore the world and dive its oceans. She has had travel articles and short fiction published on three continents. After several fascinating years living in Fiji she has relocated to West Cork in Ireland.

Published April 16 2015