A Flash in the Pan

by Lilian Kendrick

  At dawn she rises and dresses in her bridal gown, helped by her sisters. Then she is left alone for a while. She uses the time to pray.

  At nine o’clock, they will call her down to the chapel and before the Community she will take her final vows and leave behind her worldly possessions. She will start her new life as Sister Mary Bernadette with nothing except her memories.

  13. A Conversation

  “He was in love with you for years, you know.”

  “I didn’t know. He never said anything about that.”

  “He told me, many times. He was afraid to tell you. He thought it would spoil your friendship.”

  “I wish he’d told me.”

  “Would it have made any difference?”

  “It might have, but we’ll never know now.” I turned away from her, not wanting to let her see the tears.

  “You could always have anyone you wanted. You must have known he was just like all the rest.”

  “But he wasn’t like all the rest. He was my friend.”

  Johnny always saw beyond the boobs and the legs and the body to die for. He saw me with all my faults and stuck with me anyway. He listened to all my woes and insecurities. His shoulder was always there to lean on when I screwed up; to tell me that I looked prettier in blue than red; even to advise me about my disastrous relationships. Life without him was unthinkable and yet I had to start thinking about it now. Finding out, too late, that he had been in love with me was no help at all. He should have told me. You see, I loved him too. I realised years ago that everyone else would only be second best, but I had no idea he felt the same way and I didn’t want to lose his friendship by scaring him off. Men hate it when you get all serious, don’t they?

  I picked up a handful of soil and when my turn came, I dropped it into the grave where it rattled onto the box containing the last of my dreams. His sister put her arm around my shoulders and at last I let the tears fall.

  “Perhaps I shouldn’t have said anything,” she whispered.

  “I just wish you’d said it sooner, that’s all.”

  14. Sweet Sixteen and Never Been …

  I wanted a party, but the ‘olds’ didn’t think it was such a great idea.

  “We’ll go away on a family holiday instead,” said Dad.

  So there I was, spending my sixteenth birthday on a beach somewhere in the South of France. I don’t like heat; bright sunshine gives me migraines and being fair-skinned, I burn easily. Why anybody would think the Med in August would be a treat for me, I can’t imagine.

  My eight-year-old brother, the bratling, squealed with delight as he and Dad took turns at dousing each other with buckets of water and Mum was fast asleep, stretched out on a beach towel. I huddled on a sun lounger, under a parasol, bored and uncomfortable.

  “Come on, sis. This is fun!”

  “Yeah, right.” I said with as much sarcasm as I could muster.

  “Coming to get ya!” I couldn’t move fast enough, and the water from the bratling’s bucket hit home, soaking my chest and turning my bikini top practically transparent. I was mortified.

  “I hate you, Adam! I hate this bloody beach!”

  “Language, Eve! Your brother was only playing. It’s what people do at the seaside. Why don’t you have a swim to cool off? You’ll feel better.” Dad always wanted to keep the peace.

  “Leave me alone!” I was fighting back the tears and so they left me to it and went back into the water. I picked up my towel and wrapped it around me to cover my embarrassment. That was when I first saw Daniel and the day took a turn for the better. He was standing by my lounger with an ice cream in each hand; as I looked up he knelt down.

  “You are English, n’est-ce pas?” He handed me one of the cones. “It’s … fraise … er … stwobbewy – or I have vanille – if you prefer?”

  My bad mood was fading fast. This boy was a vision! Tall, tanned, blond and a sexy French accent into the bargain. Suddenly, I wished I’d been more attentive at school as I struggled to respond.

  “Er, merci. Strawberry … fraise … is fine. Je m’appelle Eve.” I felt like an idiot, but he smiled and my ice cream wasn’t the only thing that started to melt.

  “Je m’appelle Daniel. Tu parles français?”

  “ Un peu … a bit … not very well.”

  “Is okay. I speak English good. You are not content here, Eve? I see you are fighting with your brother.”

  “It’s the sun … le soleil. Je n’aime pas. Je suis chaude.” I was really proud that I’d remembered so much, but Daniel was looking at me oddly and laughing.

  “What? Did I say it wrong? Chaude is hot, isn’t it?”

  “Yes – but it’s not so simple. To say ‘I am hot’ is ‘J’ai chaud’ like … er … I have heat.”

  “But ‘Je suis’ is I am.”

  “Oui, certainement. But in French when you say ‘Je suis chaud’ you are saying like ‘I am … er … hot stuff’ that is why I laugh. I am sorry.”

  For just a second I wanted to die of embarrassment, but then his eyes met mine and I laughed too.

  “I think I’ll give up trying to speak French if I’m going to get it wrong.”

  His smile was incredible!

  “Well, is not exactly wrong, Eve. If I can say … tu es chaude … you are hot in every sense. I will buy you a Cola, maybe? There is a café not far.”

  Mum was still sleeping; Dad and the bratling were still playing in the water. The hottest guy I’d ever met wanted to take me for a Cola. What did I have to lose? I scooped up my beach bag, slipped my feet into my sandals and took his proffered hand. It was only as we stepped off the beach onto the footpath that I hesitated and looked down.

  “Daniel, I can’t go into a café dressed like this!”

  He laughed. “Ma petite anglaise! You are so cute. Pink bikinis and blue towels are très à la mode here.”

  I felt the blush rising all the way up from my waist to the roots of my hair.

  “I … I just can’t.”

  “You have clothes in your bag, perhaps?” I nodded. “Then you can get dressed in there”

  He pointed to a telephone booth a few yards away. It was one of the really old-fashioned yellow ones that you rarely see nowadays. It was a bit of a squeeze, but I managed to pull my sundress on, comb my hair and place my sunglasses on the top of my head. I emerged after a few minutes feeling a little more presentable. Daniel was leaning against a lamp post and he seemed to approve of the change.

  “You were a long time,” he mocked, flashing that killer grin. “I missed you.”

  I faked indignation. “Do you have any idea how difficult it is getting dressed in a phone booth?”

  He took my hand, pulled me towards him and kissed me. It was my first proper kiss and when he released me I was weak at the knees.

  “Now we will ‘ave Cola, or I might ‘ave to show you how Clark Kent becomes Superman.”

  Still breathless from the kiss, all I could say was “Oui, Daniel.”

  15. The Devil on my Shoulder

  I read the message twice before the implications actually sink in; then I close the laptop, walk around the room a few times, drink some more coffee and sit down – exhausted from my workout.

  I’ll have to get out of it, somehow. I haven’t written an original word in weeks – leastways, none that I’m admitting to. I can’t get out of it, of course. That would be to concede defeat and this lady is no quitter. So I open the laptop, start a new document and try to get myself into the ‘zone’ where my imagination takes over and the story writes itself. That’s when SHE takes over – the devil in a red dress. I’m not writing the story at all; SHE is and I’m incapable of stopping her once she has started. She’s out of control. I mean, just look at what she’s written:

  Jennifer looked back over her shoulder as she let her white silk robe slide off and land at her feet. Satisfied that Leon was taking the bait she undulated towards the bathroom, feeling the heat of his gaze with every step she took. She pa
used at the door, without turning, and reached behind her, skilfully unfastening her bra and throwing it across the room. Then, hooking her thumbs into the waistband of her tiny white lace panties, she bent forward as she pushed them down her long, slender thighs …

  What kind of story is that, for Heaven’s sake? Why can’t she just go away and let me write a real one, with a plot and characters and stuff? I’m an author, not some sex-crazed weaver of erotic fantasy. Oh Lord! Here she goes again.

  Leon stood transfixed in the doorway. He’d tried not to follow her, but the unspoken invitation had been irresistible and now as he gazed at the flashes of pink through the steamy glass panel of the shower cubicle, he found himself struggling to breathe. He found that if he squinted he could just about see her shape; her hands moving across her body spreading soapy foam over her full, firm breasts …

  Make her stop it! Stop, right now! That’s not my story. I don’t write that stuff! I’m going to email the editor right now and tell him to forget it. This time I can’t meet the deadline. Unless … I take over and … take control. That could work … maybe. What was his name? Ah, Leon – yes.

  ‘Leon pulled off his shirt, losing several buttons in his haste. His wife had given it to him for Christmas and she was going to be mad as Hell, but right now she was the furthest thing from his mind. In seconds his jeans and boxer shorts joined the ruined item on the floor.’

  Not so difficult after all, is it?

  “You think this is easy? Let’s see how you get on once he steps into the shower! We’re not writing Psycho here, you know. The punters are expecting rampant physical interaction with soap and sponges and body parts. You’ll never be able to handle it.”

  ‘He took the four paces to the shower cubicle, his quivering manhood pointing the way …’

  “His what? You cannot be serious, girl. No real writer ever uses a phrase like that. ‘Quivering manhood’ – Oh my God, my sides are hurting now from laughing so hard! What’s wrong with erection? Or penis even? You wouldn’t have to use a ‘rude’ word like cock or …”

  “I know the words. I just don’t choose to use them. They’re not suitable for public consumption.”

  “You crack me up! ‘Cock’ is not suitable for public consumption? How about private consumption? Forget I said that – which of us is going to finish this? I’m getting bored.”

  “I’ll do it – I didn’t want you involved in the first place.”

  ‘The steamy water coursed down her luscious curves, and Leon could no longer control himself. He stepped into the shower and took the sponge from her hand.’

  “Then what happened? Come on, this is supposed to be an adult story. The readers want to know what happened next.”

  “If this is an adult story – then I imagine most of them can fill in the rest, and if they can’t, well maybe they need something a little longer than Flash Fiction. I’m not writing any more until you go away and let me do it my way.”

  *

  Oh, she’s gone. What am I supposed to do now?

  16. Come on, Eileen

  At some point in her thirtieth year, Eileen decided that her virginity had lasted quite long enough.

  “All good things must come to an end,” she announced.

  The only problem with her decision was that she didn’t quite know how to go about ridding herself of her encumbrance. Of course, she knew the theory and the mechanics involved, but there’s a world of difference between thinking about something and actually doing it.

  “Doing it!” she giggled at the very thought. Then she strapped on her safety helmet, straddled her moped and made her way to work at the City Library.

  Over lunch, she discussed her decision with Annie, the receptionist from the Museum and her long-time confidante.

  “You mean you’ve never done it? Not even once?”

  “Not even close, and keep your voice down. I don’t want the world to know!”

  “Seriously,” Annie’s tone was now that of a co-conspirator. “Just how far have you gone before?”

  Eileen lowered her eyes and her face turned a deeper shade of beetroot as she mumbled. “Nowhere, really.”

  “You’re kidding me, right? Oh my God, you’re not! You’re a real innocent. Oh, this will be fun!”

  “Don’t laugh at me, Annie. I need your help.”

  “You’ve got it, hon. This is a mission I’m looking forward to. I’ll meet you at six outside the shopping centre, bring your credit card, I’m giving you a makeover.”

  After work, the girls hit the shops and pretty soon Eileen’s credit was maxed and she was sporting a chic new hairstyle and staggering under the weight of the shopping bags that contained her new ‘seduction’ wardrobe. Lessons on how to proceed started in earnest the next day.

  With Annie’s help, Eileen soon learned how to apply her make-up with a little more finesse and how to wear her new clothes with something resembling self-confidence. A week after their shopping expedition, Annie made her announcement.

  “All you need now is a man! We’re going clubbing tonight, girl. This is your big chance.”

  Eileen dressed with care, from the skin out. She looked stunning, and as they entered the club, heads turned. Annie squeezed her elbow.

  “You can do this. You’re a knockout.”

  At the end of the evening, however, Eileen was alone. She had not been short of dance partners, or offers of drinks, but after a few minutes of conversation, the young men would make their excuses and vanish. Something wasn’t working. A text message informed her that Annie had “pulled” and would call her in the morning.

  Back home, disillusioned and disappointed, she kicked off her red high heels, and sat down at her desk. She turned on her laptop, but the damned internet connection wasn’t working and she really was too wired to go to bed yet. All the cables were in the right places, all the little lights were flashing. She picked up her phone and sent a text message, praying that Tim hadn’t retired for the night.

  ‘U asleep yet? ‘Net’s crashed – desperate.’

  The reply was almost instant. ‘There in 5. U no I nvr sleep. LOL’

  Tim had been her neighbour for three years and often helped with her computer problems.

  ‘Door’s open,’ she replied and opened the word file that contained her journal, pouring out her frustration the only way she knew how. She didn’t hear Tim come in and was surprised when he spoke.

  “Did your carriage turn into a pumpkin?” Tim picked up one of Eileen’s discarded shoes. Then, noticing her red mini-dress he laughed. “What happened to Prince Charming?”

  Eileen’s composure gave way, and with a loud sniff, she started to cry, burying her face in her hands. Tim went to her, and gently stroked her hair.

  “Hey, what’s up? I was only teasing. I didn’t want to upset you. Come on, Eileen. Look at me, and smile. You’ve got such a pretty smile.”

  Stunned, Eileen raised her head and turned towards Tim.

  “A pretty smile? Me?”

  “Yeah, well, you have. But don’t let it go to your head. The streaked mascara kind of spoils the effect a bit. Why don’t you go and wash your face and tell me what’s up?”

  Coming out of the bathroom, Eileen was greeted by the sound of music. Tim had fixed the computer and logged into YouTube.

  “Let’s dance,” he said, “this is one of my favourite songs.”

  Eileen laughed as Tim pulled her towards him and gently kissed her cheek. As she snuggled into his arms, he whispered. “I have a confession to make. I’ve just read your journal.”

  Eileen stiffened and pulled away but he drew her back towards him. She sighed, resistance would be futile and worse than that – dishonest. Their first proper kiss was charged with electricity. Eileen felt a tingling sensation take control of her spine as she lost all sense of embarrassment and apprehension. Tim unzipped her dress as he whispered again, “Listen to the lyrics, babe, they’re beautiful. It’s Dexy’s Midnight Runners”

  “
Come on, Eileen, I swear (well he means) at this moment, you mean everything. With you in that dress, my thoughts, I confess, verge on dirty. Ah come on, Eileen.“

  The rest is “too rye oo rye aye”.

  17. Close Encounter

  “I’ve always liked the dark, so that isn’t what’s creeping me out. It’s something else.”

  “You’ve got an over-active imagination. Go back to sleep.”

  “There’s someone outside, I tell you. Someone or something. I can hear the gravel crunching.”

  Dave groaned and hauled his bulky frame out of bed and over to the window.

  “There’s nothing there. You’ve been reading too much horror again.”

  June bit her lip as she realised that was all the support she was going to get. Within a couple of minutes, Dave was sleeping soundly when the sounds came again. She slipped into her robe and crossed the room, taking care to observe the garden from behind the curtain.

  She couldn’t see anything at first, but then the security light was activated and the figure on the path came into view. He was looking up and she instinctively pulled away from the window. The figure was motionless now.

  “If you won’t investigate – I’ll do it myself,” she muttered to her sleeping spouse, as she headed for the stairs.

  Armed with the bread knife, she left the house by the side door, intending to challenge the intruder by surprise, but he was nowhere in sight. Perhaps she’d imagined it after all?

  “Jeez! You’re beautiful. I knew you would be.”

  June spun towards the whisperer’s voice, but she still couldn’t see him.

  “Where are you, you pervert? Come out where I can see you?”

  “Throw the knife away, then. You can’t expect me to show myself while you’re intending to kill me.”

  She could hear the amusement in his voice.

  “You can’t expect me to throw the knife away when I don’t know who you are or what you want,” she retorted.