Ruthie

By Susan A. Eames 

double shot vodka

'Why do you always argue with me?' Ruthie slumped, plucking at her bandaged throat. 'Why can't you just say, “yes”?' 

'Because I care,' said Timothy.

'I'm fresh out of hospital and fresh out of smokes. And where's my vodka?' She pushed herself straighter in her chair, staring at Timothy with narrowed eyes. 'Did you drink it while I was in hospital?'

'Don't be ridiculous.'

'Please, mate.'

'I'm not going to help you commit suicide, Ruthie.'

'Oh, for god's sake, stop being melodramatic.' Ruthie pouted.

'Don't you get it? You ended up in hospital because of your addictions and now you want to sabotage your recovery.'

'Please, Timmy. You don't understand. I need my babies.'

'Don't ask me to do this.'

'PLEASE.' Ruthie began to tear the bandage at her throat.

'Jesus, Ruthie.' Timothy pulled a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and threw them on the coffee table in front of her. While she scrabbled to light a cigarette he went and snatched the vodka from under the kitchen sink. Wordless, he handed her the bottle.

'Thanks, mate.'

She grabbed a used, grubby glass from the coffee table and sloshed vodka into it.

He stared at her, expressionless. 'Knock yourself out, Ruthie.' 

Timothy left, feeling sick to his stomach.

Ruthie was too busy tipping the vodka down her damaged throat to mark his leaving.'Glorious,' she giggled, hugging the bottle while cigarette smoke curled overhead.

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/

Advent Day 15 2015

Advent Day Fifteen

December 15 2015

Susan A. Eames

Santaphobia

Mango Smoothie

Chloe hated Christmas. She hated the hype. She hated the premature TV commercials. She hated the shops with their unimaginative, repetitive decorations. She hated the annual regurgitation of Christmas music playing on a monotonous loop. Most of all, she hated Father Christmas.

            As a child, she had been traumatised by the large man dressed in red with his big white beard. She had been taken to see Santa in his grotto and forced to sit in his capacious lap. When two hairy hands enfolded her and stroked her hair like a creepy murderer soothing his victim, she froze. But when she smelt his sour breath as he chanted 'Ho ho ho,' she screamed in panic until her mother rescued her from his clutches.

            When she learned that this terrifying man was going to actually come down the chimney into her own home on Christmas Eve she refused to sleep alone. So Chloe's despairing parents told her the truth about the myth of Father Christmas at the tender age of four and a half.

Chloe never lost her fear of creepy Santa in his grotto and even into adulthood her loathing had developed into a full blown irrational, but very real, phobia.

            Of course, it wasn't difficult to avoid these pseudo-Santas when she grew up. She solved the problem by holidaying every Christmas in countries that had no such traditions.

            This year she chose Fiji, safe in the knowledge that a holiday on a South Pacific island was about as far removed from Santa with his sledge and snow-dusted reindeer as one could imagine. But Chloe had failed to do her research and didn't know that Christian missionaries had transformed the Cannibal Isles in the nineteenth century.

            She walked along the dusty main street in a shocked daze. Upbeat versions of traditional Carols blared. Tatty fake Christmas trees and limp tinsel adorned the shops. She turned a corner and was confronted by the most extraordinary Santa in his grotto that she'd ever seen. Her instinct to flee was overshadowed by curiosity as she stared at the apparition. This was an interpretation of Santa in his grotto like no other.

The grotto was a bower fashioned from coconut palm fronds, decorated with red and pink hibiscus flowers and sweet scented frangipani. Like many Fijian men, Santa was absolutely gorgeous. Built like your archetypal rugby player, muscles bulged under his red t-shirt and shorts. No faux white beard or big belly for this Santa. He wore the traditional red hat, but with the addition of red hibiscus flowers tucked behind his ears.

            Apart from his good looks, perhaps the most arresting difference was his cool dude sunglasses.

            He seemed to be enjoying himself hugely – laughing and beckoning to the children who willingly went to him, shouldering each other in their eagerness to sit on his lap.

            For the first time in her life, Chloe wanted to sit on Santa's lap too.

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 December 15 2015

Advent Day Two

Advent Day Two

December 02 2015

Susan A. Eames

Sex and Socks and Rock ‘n’ Roll

Glass of chilled Singha Beer

“You want see Ping Pong Show?”

“Good grief, no.”

Maud hurried to find Alfie. He was rummaging through packs of socks on a market stall. In the notorious Patpong area of Bangkok, surrounded by Go-go Bars featuring skinny girls in white bikinis gyrating to rock music, Alfie had nevertheless been distracted by socks.

            “Look at these, Maud. Five pairs for the equivalent of a quid. Do you think I should buy some?”

            “Forget the socks, it’s time to go. I’ve just been propositioned.”

            “Really? Do you want me to thump him?”

            “It was a ‘she’.”

            “Really? How… interesting. Was she, um… pretty?”

            “You’re disgusting sometimes.”

            “Maybe she was a lady boy?”

            “Hardly. She was a middle aged, bandy-legged crone, and she asked me if I wanted to see a Ping Pong show.”

            “And… do you?”

            “For heaven’s sake, Alfie. Why would I want to see girls doing unnatural things with ping pong balls?”

            “Well, you know. Just out of curiosity. We said we’d explore the local culture after all.”

            “Don’t be absurd. That isn’t culture.” Maud fixed Alfie with a hard stare. “You want to go, don’t you?”

            “Maudie, Maudie, I’d say you are just as inquisitive as me. And you’d have quite a story to tell when we get home.”

            “Good grief, I wouldn’t tell anyone.”

            “What happens in Bangkok, stays in Bangkok?”

            “Whatever would people think of us?”

            “OK, we won’t tell your friends at the gardening club. Where’s the show?”

            “Slow down, Tiger, I haven’t agreed to anything.”

             “Come on, Maudie-kins. Admit it. A little bit of titillation never hurt anyone.”

            Maud frowned. “We’re too old for this lark, Alfie.”

            “No, I won’t accept that, Maud. The day we admit we’re too old for a bit of slap and tickle is the day we may as well lay down and die.

            Maud looked at Alfie, shocked. Then she unexpectedly laughed. “All right, let’s do it… but you must promise not to tell.”

            “Don’t fret, old girl, I won’t tell a soul.” Alf suppressed an excited giggle. “Hang on while I buy these socks.”

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 December 02 2015