Peacocks and Butterflies.

Deidre’s mother was a peacock: beautiful, colourful, breath-taking. Deidre’s sister was a butterfly: graceful, elegant, appealing. Deidre was neither of these things; she was a shadow, a black and white faded photograph of herself. She felt lost amongst their pungent perfumes and social gatherings.

Deidre didn’t fit in with the girls at work either, with their laughter, chatter, luminous cocktails and bubblegum pink lipstick. They didn’t bother with her; sometimes they forgot she was there.

Deidre had often dreamed of being a peacock or a butterfly but her shape was all wrong for electric blue mini skirts and scarlet high heels, so she became a caterpillar, eternally cocooned within her drab grey cardigan.

Deidre was shocked when Graham from the sales team had invited her out for a drink, how had he noticed her when she’d done such an excellent job of camouflaging into the office walls?

Two glasses of Merlot into the date, Deidre explained to Graham about peacocks and butterflies. He smiled with kind eyes and held her hand. He told her that she was a wise owl, much more impressive and higher up the pecking order. He told her that she should forget about the peacocks and butterflies, you have to unwrap a present to find the joy.

She asked him about the birds and the bees and he took her home and loved her gently. She shook off the moths and transformed into a contented little skylark, singing and dancing, their private duet.

Office Memo.

Nobody else would get away with it, not even Johnny Depp, not even Brad Pitt, but somehow, like magic, Adam can do whatever he wants, especially with the ladies. It’s almost like he was put on this planet to keep husbands on their toes. He strides into the office building, kisses the blonde receptionist full on the lips, grabs Sue’s ass in the lift, she backs into his hand. He’s had all of them in accounts. Maggie, his PA, wears short skirts and unbuttoned blouses, her breasts jiggle as she walks and spill over the top when she bends down. Everyone wants a piece of Adam and he has enough to go around, he’s generous like that.

Adam is the biblical first man, peeling back Eve’s fig leaves and touching her just there. Adam is whoever you want him to be, in the back of a cab, under the restaurant table, in your marital bed. He just snaps his fingers and you come running like teenage Beatles fans, like starving cannibals, like sex hungry zombies. Adam loves his life.

What it is about him that provokes this illicit response? Is he attractive? Sure, he has those dreamy peepers and that wicked and hypnotic slow smile. Is it the way he dresses? Probably, in his fine grey suit which belongs in a page of an expensive and glossy fashion magazine. Is it his way with the words? More than likely, he’s seductive with his language, sensual and then sometimes outright dirty. Words are whispered closely into a tickled ear, hot breath lingers on a sensitive neck, and the shivers are delicious and delightful. Is it his confidence? Yes, I do believe this is the key. Adam knows that he can have you, take you and devour you, so he does. The deed is done, he clinks the door shut before your head even remotely catches up with the rest of your tingling body. There’s a drop of swagger, a spoonful of cocky and a large helping of arrogance. You know that he’s a bad boy; maybe you could be the one to tame him? God, you’re all so predictable. But on you go, in frenzied drones, falling at his feet, asking him what aftershave he wears, giggling like idiots, flickering your eye lashes, offering up your kohl doe eyes and licking your pink lips. He’ll never change.

I know that because I’m his fucking wife.

     

Susan

Little Lorna Mae suffered with night terrors; her parents had bought her a large doll with a pale face, blinking blue eyes and blonde ringlets. She was called Susan, it said so on the floral box. Susan was supposed to make Lorna Mae happy and, hopefully, stop the hideous dreams and images that crashed around her mind during the night. But Lorna Mae didn’t much care for Susan; she didn’t like the odd clinking sound that her dead eyes made when they snapped shut. So she placed her in the white trunk, with the rattles and other baby toys she had grown out of.

As midnight approached, Lorna Mae’s small six year old frame jolted upright. Her parents rushed in, wearily clasping dressing gowns around their bodies and went through the motions. Lorna Mae’s eyes remained wide open as her brain was caught in a horrific trance. She couldn’t wake up, nor go back to sleep, so she cried and screamed, not even recognising her tired mother and father. There was nothing they could do but hold her, forgive the pushes and scratches she bestowed upon their faces, and find Susan the doll, tucking her up close underneath the lavender bedspread.

Susan the doll wet the bed. Lorna Mae knew it couldn’t have been her, her pyjamas were bone dry and she hadn’t done that since she was three. Susan had a mean smile on her stupid face, she looked different today. She tried to explain but her mother scolded her, slapped her legs for uttering silly fantasies and wicked lies, as she bundled the stinking sheets into the washing machine. She wasn’t allowed dessert, which made her cry as it was strawberry cheesecake, and she stomped up to her bedroom to stew and sulk.

Niceties returned with kisses and the usual bedtime story at 7 o’clock. She brushed her teeth and snuggled into the freshly laundered bed linen. Susan the doll was placed beside her head on the pillow. Her eyes snapped shut and made that clink noise that made Lorna Mae feel a little bit sick. As soon as she heard her mother’s steps on the creaky stairs fade, and the living room door softly shut, she got up, stuffing Susan back into the trunk and pitter-pattered back to bed.

She fell asleep, sucking her thumb despite the regular chastisements from her mother. It helped for a while, she felt soothed and serene in her dream time. But the monsters in her head awaited their nightly frolic and so they arrived, laughing and closing down the hatch behind them. Susan was there, devilish grin, pulling at her bed covers and this was just too much for her brain to behold. Like clockwork, in trooped her exhausted parents, securing her down as she thrashed and sobbed.

‘It’s Susan,’ wept Lorna Mae.

‘She’s here, tucked up next to you, just where I left her,’ explained her mother, stroking her hair.

‘I hid her away. She came back. She’s alive,’ the little one cried.

‘Don’t be silly, you’re just having another bad dream.’

‘I don’t like her,’ Lorna Mae sobbed, salty tears racing down her flushed cheeks. Her mother snapped.

‘I don’t know what to do with you any more; you’re such an ungrateful girl.’ Her mother bustled out of the room, slamming the door, leaving her young daughter trembling and afraid. This wasn’t a night terror. Lorna Mae was wide awake.

She looked down at Susan, who had a wet face, like she’d been crying too.

‘I don’t want the bad dreams. I don’t want them to be cross with me,’ she announced.

Susan smiled.

‘I wish I was you,’ she added.

‘Do you really want to be me?’ asked the doll, causing Loran Mae to gasp in shock and jump out of bed.

‘Well?’ asked Susan.

Lorna Mae considered the question.

‘Yes I do,’ she replied sadly.

‘Go to sleep now. You’ll get your wish,’ beamed the doll.

Susan clinked her heavy lids shut. Lorna Mae thought that she looked like a dead person with her rigid arms sticking out by her sides. She shivered, pulling the covers up to her chin and closing her eyes.

When her mother came in to wake her for school, Lorna Mae saw her body rise from slumber and leave the room. She tried to follow, but as she had become the doll, she was rooted to the spot. She watched her mother make the bed, but she couldn’t speak to her. It was a very long and lonely day.

When Susan, in Lorna Mae’s human flesh and gingham uniform, returned from school, she was full of joy, chattering non-stop about what a wonderful day she’d had, skipping in the yard with friends, how juicy the lunchtime apple tasted. She noticed the wet face of the doll, but pretended that she hadn’t.

At bedtime, her mother came to tuck them in, Susan said, oh so sweetly ‘I’m sorry for what I said about the doll, I do like her really, and she is helping. I don’t think I will have a bad dream tonight.’ Lorna watched a beautiful smile emerge on her mother’s face.

‘Goodnight darling,’ she whispered, kissing the top of Susan’s head, padding out on to the landing, feeling hopeful.

‘I’m going to be a much better you,’ Susan vowed, rolling over and settling into an undisturbed sleep. Lorna Mae clinked her eyes shut and her thoughts finally melted away.

There was much fuss and happiness in the morning, her parents relished their first uninterrupted sleep in a long time. They celebrated, decorating Susan with new pretty hair bows and kisses; they made her pancakes with golden syrup for breakfast, which had never happened before.

As the week went on, Susan slept peacefully. Lorna Mae’s parents looked years younger and she had to agree, Susan did do a much better job.

‘Mummy, thank you for Susan, she really helped. But I don’t think I need her any more. I thought it might be nice to give her away, so another little girl can love her?’

‘Oh my sweet girl, what a lovely idea. If you’re sure, we can drop her off at the charity shop in the morning?’

‘I’m sure Mummy.’

Susan went to school. Lorna Mae was left in the doorway of the charity shop. She felt dizzy, seeing all the legs and feet of the people rushing by, so she clinked her eyes shut.

The next thing she was aware of was a small girl prising them open.

‘What a beautiful doll! Mum, can we buy her? Please?’ she begged, stroking Lorna Mae’s curls adoringly.

The little girl’s mother patted her enormous belly full of baby aware that, any day now, her daughter would feel rather left out and envious at the excitement of the new arrival.

‘Yes Hannah, it can be your special present from the baby.’

Lorna Mae smiled.

Friday Night. Saturday Morning.

His aftershave lingers,

Smiles, embraces, sings,

Upon my satin sheets.

I inhale the masculine scent,

Musky, dizzying, sex.

It’s as though he’s still here.

The film runs in my mind,

Repeat, pause, play,

A flashback of desire.

I imagine his hands on me,

Strong, yet, gentle,

Toe-curling arousal.

I remember his skilled tongue,

Licks, tastes, devours,

And I sigh his name out loud.

I recall his fleeting visit,

Disappointment, hurt, pain,

That he couldn’t stay the night.

I think of his wife,

Lucky, married, to him,

And envy stains my face.

I picture his children,

Giggling, siblings, innocence,

And my blood runs a little cold.

I wonder what I am,

Casual, Fridays, Orgasms,

I hoped for so much more.

I wake up,

He’s not mine, together, always,

And he never will be.

The Queen of Hypochondria

The show begins, just as rehearsed, with a whimper of pretend pain from her pursed lips. Word for word, she recounts the symptoms. Every line is delivered perfectly with feeling, the desolate tones of the unwell, of this month’s feigned illness.

Crocodile tears flow freely, her incessant moaning voice pleads for attention and the very thing that she craves more than anything else in the world, the illicit diagnosis.

The doctor sighs; he allows her this moment of glory. After all, she’s far sicker than she attempts to portray with a deep mental malaise.

Bravo! A winning performance.

#Unzombietales Flash Fiction Entry

            My sister Rosie, preposterous, pompous, picky and unreasonable in life, is preposterous, pompous, picky and unreasonable after her death. She sits in a cage lined with pastel floral curtains in our living room, whilst others like her run amok, scooping out people’s brains in the streets outside. Despite the drama and the changes, she’s still very much her irritating self. I see it in her face, the disdain and the disgust at the fresh corpse I provide.

‘This is no Sunday school picnic!’ I shout, ‘Just fucking eat it!’

She primly sinks her pinkie finger into the ripped apart abdomen, pulls it out and tastes it. Her nose wrinkles, as usual. She holds out a string of intestine and looks at me, a flash of anger dances across her eyes.

‘No way, Rosie, I’m not cooking it.’

Honestly, if she had her way I’d be roasting it with vegetables and tarragon or whatever. She drops it to the floor and refuses to eat it.

She hits her hands on the bars of the cage. I sigh, and give in. I return with a plate, cutlery, and herbs. I toss them through the gaps, except the plate which I tentatively poke through. The little bitch almost bit me last time.

I roll my eyes at the ludicrous scene. She actually sprinkles parsley on the sinewy mess, takes a bite and dabs her bloody lips on a cotton napkin.

My sister Rosie, preposterous, pompous, picky and unreasonable.

Olympic Fever

I reach over to give him a cuddle but he moves me out of the way, I’m blocking the television. I ask him if he remembers the time that we stripped naked and made love by the river, on that glorious summer’s day. He never even looks up, provides not even a grunted acknowledgement. I start to get pains.

They begin in my arms, my shoulders mostly. I tell him about it and request a massage but he shushes me and angrily snaps that I am disturbing his enjoyment of Team GB.

I don’t care about the Olympics, or sport generally. I guess he thinks that I’m being silly, attention seeking, trying to drag him away from his beloved, important sports events.

It’s just that the pains have rapidly become unbearable and I’m worried and can’t cope. I go out, shuffling slowly to the pharmacy, and purchase the strongest painkillers but, after several intolerable hours, they haven’t even dulled it. It spreads to my back and it’s so excruciating that I have to demand to see the doctor. My skin feels as though it’s burning and my bones feel like they’re growing, wishing to break through my tender flesh.

The doctor examines me and exclaims that it’s a curious case, but not the first one that he has seen this week. He tells me that I have ‘Olympic Fever’ and prescribes me a cream to rub in, three times a day.

‘But I don’t even like the Olympics!’ I protest, disbelieving his peculiar diagnosis with wide eyes.

‘And this is why you’re ill!’ He bellows, ‘You, and women like you, ruining your poor husband’s enjoyment. Do you let him watch Match of the Day in peace? Well, do you?’ He’s shouting now, he removes his spectacles to reveal mean eyes.

I silently weep. It’s true. I confess it. Every Saturday night I parade around in a corset, stockings and high heeled shoes in a vain attempt to lure him away from Gary Lineker and the sofa based boys club. It stopped working months ago. Tears race down my hot, crimson cheeks.

‘Collect your cream and for the love of all that is precious, let your husband watch his sports without the nagging and petty resentment.’

I nod meekly and scrunch the prescription into my tiny coin purse.

Upon my return, I gaze at my husband who is watching the tennis. He’s shouting obscenities at Andy Murray again. I zip my mouth and leave him to it. I make his favourite sandwiches, egg and cress, he doesn’t care or offer any thanks, but I still keep quiet. I attempt to apply the cream but it’s impossible to reach the most painful area at the top of my back.

I ask my husband to do it and he glowers, he’s trying to watch the gymnastics now and reminds me about what a selfish bitch I am. I throw the pot of cream against the wall but he doesn’t flinch, his eyes are fixated on the screen.

I run up the stairs, upset, slamming the door shut behind me with a temper. I crumple to the floor and the sobs arrive, choking cries stick in my throat. I’m sick and dizzy and I feel a ripping sensation in my back which is the most diabolical agony. I stand up, rip off my clothes and look in the mirror. I look different. I’m changing. I turn around and freeze. Out of the top of my back, wings are sprouting, white feathers cover me, and some fall to the salmon pink bedroom carpet. I can’t move or make a sound. Fear renders me useless.

As I hear my husband’s celebratory cheers from the floor below, my entire body contorts. I fall back to the floor and see spindly bird legs replace my soft, womanly ones. I touch my face and feel the sharp beak that used to be a button nose. It takes mere minutes and I am a bird. I perch on the window sill, timidly stepping forward on to the ledge outside. I’m not alone. Kirsty from number 24 flies out of her house and soars into the blue sky. Maureen from 32 follows her, flapping her wings with power and freedom. They coo in encouragement, I should join them.

One desolate glance back at my house and my mind is made up. I spread out my new-fangled, beautiful wings and gracefully fly to the mass of white bird wives in the air. We flutter and dive, making our way to our new lives, interrupting Wimbledon and sitting atop personalised golf balls.