Lapses

‘Kiss her on the cheek, tell her who you are, but be prepared to keep doing it, over and over.’

I hadn’t been ‘home’ in years. Since then, my 94 year old Grandma has been having memory lapses. Not many and not severely. But my father would visit her and she’d keep asking him, “Where are your children? How many do you have? Why don’t they live with you?” and my Dad would keep answering.

Every now and then he’d say “I don’t know, you ask me so often I forget!” Then they’d laugh and five minutes later, she’d start up again. Then one of my aunts would fetch the photo, the one where Grandma’s holding my Johnny, her great grandson, and she’d say, “Oh! Yes, I remember now. Show that picture to your sister.” And they’d laugh again.

“She’s already seen it Mum.”

Apart from that, she’s as strong as a water buffalo. Even when the freak cold front hit Bangkok recently, Dad got influenza, Mom got strange rashes and everyone was bundling up in jackets and scarves, but Grandma just wore a shawl around her shoulders.

While we’re eating lunch, Grandma starts up again. “Where are your children, why don’t they live with you?” Even as I’m sitting there.

Everyone points but Johnny and I look different now. Grandma squints, then smiles, then repeats the questions. She only asks them of my father. I look around the room at my uncles, aunts, cousins and realise why. They all live with her or within a few miles of her.

I think of my London flat, all the days I spend alone with Johnny, trips to the playground just the two of us, going to play groups to be with strangers.

I used to be relieved living so far away. I didn’t want all the noise and scrutiny, the crush of such familiarity.

I look at my Grandma as she waits for an answer.

“It’s a good question Grandma, a very good question.”

~
(333 words ~ prompt: "remembered" – from one of my books)

Red Suede

Beatrice had something to give me.

“I think you’ll like it,” she said, tapping fag ash onto the table.

“Mum! Ashtray!” Rafe said, blowing the cinders into his palm.

“Rafe, go fetch the jacket. You know the one. It will look good on her, no?”

Rafe rolled his eyes and mouthed an apology behind his mother’s back.

“Maybe another time Mum, Jin and I have plans.”

“Are you going to that party, at the school?”

“Yes Mum.”

“Well, she can wear the jacket. Why not? George – go fetch the jacket will you? The red suede one? It will be so nice, with your colouring and black hair.”

Rafe’s father sighed and left the room to fetch the jacket.

Red suede? Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, I thought.

George returned, holding the jacket between his thumb and index finger like it was a dirty rag.

“Ah, here it is!” Beatrice crooned. “This used to be mine when I was younger. It’s a little dusty but…” She began slapping it and clouds of dust rolled off it. She held it up across my chest.

It wasn’t red but a brownish maroon. It reminded me of the squares of pig’s blood my father used to eat with his noodles.

“Try it on!” she croaked.

With my most practiced polite smile, I slipped my arms into the jacket. After tugging it over my shoulders, the sleeves slid halfway up my forearms. I tried pulling the two sides together to zip it up, but it was too small. How the Amazonian Beatrice ever fit into it I can’t imagine.

“Ach! Look at you! It’s perfect! Isn’t it Rafe? Doesn’t she look wonderful?”

Beatrice tapped her Gauloise and ash fell onto her shoe. George left the room coughing violently. Rafe had nothing to say.

(Prompt: Give ~ 300 words)

Vacation

,not to another galaxy!”

“Oh really? Is that why you’ve packed this monster freaking BLANKET?”

“It is not a BLANKET. It’s a hypoallergenic, mulberry silk, summer comforter. It hardly weighs a thing.”

“Uh huh. So I’m paying through the nose for us to stay in a four-star hotel so you can bring your own blanket? I know it’s been awhile since we’ve had a vacation but it’s the 21st Century. These days, hotels have their own blankets.”

“Yeah, and do you know how many people will have used those blankets? Gloria used to work in a hotel and she told me that they never wash the blankets. All that dead skin and God knows what else.”

“But it’s going to be 100 zillion degrees. You won’t even need a blanket.”

“Yes I will, because the room will be air-conditioned. And don’t even think about switching it off and leaving the windows open at night. We’ll bake AND be eaten alive by mosquitoes.”

“What’s a zozigo Mommy?”

“Mosquito darling. It’s a flying insect that bites people.”

“Will it bite me Mommy?”

“It bites everyone with sweet blood, so yes, it will probably bite you and me both kiddo. But not Mommy.”

“Ha ha.”

“But I don’t want zigo to bite me…..”

“It won’t bite you darling. We have special medicine to chase the zigos away. And we’ll keep the windows closed so they can’t get in. Okay?”

“Kay…”

“Wait a minute, what are these doing here? Where are the boots I told you to pack?”

“Right. With your frigging monster feet your stupid frigging boots take up half the frigging case! We’re going to the Maldives,

~
 
(275 words ~ Prompt: galaxy)

Masks

Everyone wore their masks except me. I pretended I’d forgotten it at home. No one would check my bag, and if they did, I’d pretend I’d forgotten to look there. “Remember to wear the mask Junie, the strength of the costume is in the mask. Otherwise, what are you?”

I was a kid in a sheet. It covered my whole body except my feet, which were shoved into old sneakers. I’d never felt so many people looking at my idiot face.

I knew Elsie would tell on me. I’d seen her face when we were parading through the quadrant. She’d furrowed her brows, mouthed, “Where’s the mask?” I pretended not to understand.

They’d spent hours on it. Elsie’s Dad and my Mom. Hours planning it. Hours making it. Hours. On a stupid skeleton face. I could’ve drawn it in 10 minutes, 20 tops, even to make the holes and tie the elastic. All he’d used was black marker on white card. Hours laughing, drinking ‘lemonade’, eating cookies.

“Mr Connors did such a good job on this Junie, wear it and be proud!”

The morning of the parade, I went to the toilet and ripped the mask into pieces. I would have flushed it, but I was sure the pieces would float. So I stuffed them between the pages of my science book.

Mom would be livid, but I knew what to do. I’d spent hours in front of the mirror, perfecting my sorry face. I’d wear it and be proud. (250 words)

~

(Prompt: strength from oneword.com)

Connected

Kelly rubbed her arms faster. It worked. Within seconds, his green fleece jacket was wrapped around her shoulders, his warmth settling instantly on her skin. She shivered.

“Still cold?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Thank you,” she said. She knew it pleased him, even though he was stamping his feet, rubbing his hands together. “I didn’t think it would be so cold,” she said. “That sun’s weaker than it looks.”

He frowned. “The sun is never weak. Only people are.”

Kelly’s heart sank. “Of course,” she muttered.

She scrabbled round her mind for something to say, to get back on course. “It’s just, my faith. It hasn’t been so strong lately.”

He turned to her, his eyes warm again. “That’s why we’re here. There’s nothing like being in nature to feel the immensity of His Love. This was a good idea Kelly.” He squeezed her arm and she wished away the images that came up whenever Todd said the word Love. Her mind did as she wished, gave her an image of barbequed sausages instead. She laughed. She could feel Todd’s eyes on her. “I think I just connected to the joy of the Holy Spirit!”

“Really?” Todd asked. She nodded.

Todd raised his palms to the sky. “Praise Jesus!” he shouted, as he punched the air. The hem of his shirt rode up, revealing skin.

“Praise God!” Kelly yelled.

She closed her eyes and sent off a prayer. That shirt’s coming off, whether you like it or not. 

(250 words)

(Prompt from showmeyourlits.com)

Dive

Chris didn’t think anything of it. It was just what he did. Two hours a day, six days a week. He thought that was how everyone lived. Or should live. What else was there to do with time but fill it with purpose? Better than wasting it. “You’re very determined.” That’s what she threw at him. Just as he was pulling himself out of the water. Didn’t even introduce herself. He’d seen her before, sitting in the stands. But he’d never made the connection, that she was there for him. Why should he? She’d never smiled, never spoke. Just sat there, shirt untucked from her skirt, hair a mess, black leather jacket at her side.

“Hey, I’m talking to you. Have you got things in your ears? Like those plugs those synchronised swimmers put on their noses?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

But she put her fingers on her nose and pinched so he shook his head.

“It’s not determination,” he said. She stops, her fingers frozen on the bridge of her nose. “It’s practice.”

“Oh” she says and her voice comes out funny. She lets go of her nose and laughs.

“Did you happen to be counting?” he asks. “Was that the 10th or 11th?” The corners of her mouth settle back into seriousness. “Actually it was the 12th.”

As he walks past to get to the board, she says, “You want to watch that arch in your back.” He turns and sees a smile in her eyes.  (250 words)

(Prompt: determined, from oneword.com)

4-ply

Adequate napkins.  This is the measure of integrity for my mother. And by adequate, she means the very best. Not cheap paper squares imprinted with blue swirls. Just feel that, too shiny, they won’t absorb. They’ll be useless in the face of her fried pork-bread triangles. So go back out he must. I feel sorry for him, but I remember the hours I spent on the roof, watching over the drying bread triangles, shooing away the birds and I don’t like the feeling I get, of his thoughtlessness. There is already no time to send him out for a proper table cloth. She has already come to terms with the sheet. It wasn’t an elasticated one, thank god for small mercies. Once she ironed out the creases, it could pass. But shiny paper squares? Pah! 4-ply or not!

He’s late getting back, too late for the cream-coloured linens. Someone has opened the 4-ply monstrosities he’d left on the side table and they are spreading fast among the crowd. The pork-bread triangles are a hit, but when they leave, all she remembers are the greasy chins and fingers and the places she will have to wipe down again in the morning.  (200 words)

(Prompt: integrity, from oneword.com)

Puffs

Joanie's plan for the alumni reunion was this: stand near the creampuffs (that she herself would be bringing) and stuff as many in her mouth as possible if anyone approached her and asked if she was married, what she did for a living or how many brats she’d produced in the last 20 years.  It was possible of course that no one would recognise her.  When she’d gotten Ryan’s varsity jacket out of the attic, it ripped when she tried to force it over her shoulders and left her smelling of mothballs and dust. 

She could take her Mom’s advice and not go at all but that would be losing without even trying and that was just pathetic.  The least she could do was aim for maximum spatterage. 

She’d talk with her mouth full of green food coloured cream filled puffs then cough at carefully judged intervals, at close range.  Discretely at first, but then, as the night wore on, more violently, ending with the coup de grace of spitting out half a dozen chewed puffs (she’d been practising and could easily tuck that number away in one cheek in preparation) onto a napkin square perched daintily on her hand. 

(200 words)

(Prompt: alumni, from oneword.com)

Fiction Project flashes

A couple of weeks ago I mentioned that I'd start posting my stories here, the ones I wrote for the Fiction Project.  These are very short flashes, 350 words or under, and were written around the theme of Jackets, Blankets and Sheets. 

I find it easier to write if I have some rules and restrictions so I decided I would write 24 stories (each one to begin with each letter from Jackets, Blankets, Sheets - including the commas), and that each one would not only mention a J, B or S but would also be written around a prompt chosen at random.

In some cases, there is mention of a towel or a sleeping bag instead of a J, B or S.  And in some cases, I didn't choose a prompt. 

I'll be posting one of these stories a week.  Thank you in advance for reading.

Nearly there

So I managed to write all 24 stories and copy them into my notebook.  Now I just need to do the drawings (about a dozen), and I'm all done with the Fiction Project. 

I'll start posting the stories here (one a week) in May.

And if anyone is interested, the arthouse co-op has just opened The Sketchbook Project 2012 for sign-ups.  ANYONE can take part, wherever you are in the world, no matter how old you are.  (I've heard of schools signing up and having children fill in a few pages each for example.)  You have until 31st October 2011 to sign up and until 31st January next year to complete.  PLUS, for this project, the sketchbooks are going on a World Tour (rather than just a US tour), which will include London!!  I wasn't gonna sign up for this, but now that I know the tour's coming to London - how can I not??

What to do when you have 48 hours to spare...

Paul and Jake are away for the weekend.  Jake's visiting his "grandma and dad with white hair on" (as opposed to the grandma and dad he only sees through the computer). 

It's the first time I've had two whole days and nights to myself in...well, forever.  Some people have been asking me what I'm gonna do. 

So! What are your plans? 
Uh....writing? 
What, all weekend?
Um, yeah.  Sort of.
Aren't you gonna go out?
I have been out.  The garden IS out.

Ok, so my social skills might be in decline.  Big fat hairy balls.  If it makes you feel better, I will not be spending any much time on Facebook.  And, I really did spend 40 minutes sitting in the garden today.  Just sitting and being in the sun. It was bliss. I had my eyes closed for most of the time, just listening. I find it's easier to listen-observe than look-observe without thoughts and words interfering, without the need to identify and name. 

I've also factored in some time with Maggie O' Farrell, a chick flick (possibly Eat, Pray, Love - despite the fact that it is bound to be "cheese on toast" as my yoga teacher so wonderfully put it), and Pistachio kulfi.  No one needs to know that Maggie is a book.  Don't ask, don't tell.  Oh, and there are also some (dancing) prawns waiting for me, right this minute. Yes, dancing. And they're Mexican. Ok?

Sooooo....What am I writing?  How nice of you to ask.

Well....remember the Fiction Project I mentioned a few months back?  (The arthouse co-op website is being remodeled at the moment, so I don't have a link for you.)  It's the one where I had ooodles of time to fill a themed notebook (with words AND pictures!) then post it to New York by May 1st?  I don't know if I happened to mention that I signed up to complete two notebooks, but that is indeed what I have done. 

I've finished one (Nighttime Stories) and had just about decided that there was no way I was going to finish the second one (Jackets, Blankets and Sheets) on time, since I didn't even have any ideas on how to fill it.  Then I had the stroke (of inspiration).  I know, I thought, I'll write 26 24 micro stories (250ish words, maybe more), each beginning with a specific letter, each written to a random prompt and each mentioning a jacket, blanket or sheet.  Fandabydosy right?  YEAH!!!! 

Well, I've written 8 stories so far.  Not all today I might add.  Today I've managed two.  TWO!!!!  Did I mention the deadline is May 1st?  Except, that's a Sunday so really it's April 31st though the post offices are only opened for half a day on Saturday, so really, it's April 28th to be on the safe side, since there's some big shebang happening on the 29th and the post offices will inconveniently be shut.  Uh huh....better get to it then!*

In the meantime, I leave you with my cover for Nighttime Stories.

*If I somehow manage to write them all, I will post them on my blog - one a week for 24 weeks.  There you go, something to look forward to ;-)

15th January ~ 100 word diary

Been having flashbacks reading the ignorant and defensive comments my brother’s getting on Facebook after having posted that he’s going vegan. He’s been inspiring me though and as soon as the meat in our fridge is eaten (2 bacon slices and 1 smoked mackerel fillet), I’m going back to vegetarianism, for a while anyway. Just made a gorgeous smoked mackerel risotto with spinach and peas served with a squeeze of lime juice. In other news, I finally started on my Nighttime Stories Fiction Project notebook today. One page down, 99 to go! All those empty pages are giving me palpitations.

Eeeeeek!!!

I've signed up for another project!  No need to panic though, I have until May to complete it.

I came across this website via Geninne's blog.  The Sketchbook Project is no longer open for participation, but The Fiction Project is. 

The Art house Co-op is based in New York, but for most of the projects, anyone from anywhere in the world can take part.  Once you sign up and pick a theme or have one assigned at random for you, they send you a notebook to fill based on the theme (the fiction one combines writing & art) by the deadline.  You then send it back, all the books go on tour and are then entered into the Brooklyn Art Library for the public to look at.  You do have to pay an entry fee but it isn't much, the project is entirely run by two people and solely funded by these fees, they receive no other funding, and what a fantastic opportunity to get your work out there. 

You have until the 31st March 2011 to sign up for The Fiction Project.  Anyone care to join me?  Let me know if you do!!