by Icy Sedgwick
“Happy or not, we can’t afford for you to quit there. Not unless some moron decides to actually buy one of your paintings”, sneered Jonathan
He dropped korma on the sofa. Ignoring the insult, Christa fought the urge to retch as he rubbed it into the fabric in the hope he could rub it out of existence.
“You could always get a job again. In the City”.
“I dropped out of that rat race long ago. Unless you want me to get ill again”, he replied. He looked at her through narrowed eyes. “No, I’ve decided to become a writer. So I need time to create. I can’t do that if I’m working”.
An explosion of rage rattled through Christa with a surprising force. A plan took root on the furthest edges of her consciousness, and she smiled. She enjoyed the look of bemusement on Jonathan’s face.
“What are you smirking for?”
“No reason. I just want to offer my support in your chosen career. Creative types need time to stretch their wings”, she said.
Bemusement, confusion and the smallest trace of fear chased each other across Jonathan’s once handsome features, features warped by cruelty and apathy. He expected her to cry, or maybe start shouting – not this. She saw the frustration and petulance in his eyes that he couldn’t start a fight. Still smiling and inwardly cheering at her tiny victory, she sashayed out of the room. She waved to the tiny feline silhouette at the window as she left.
***
Christa climbed out of bed at 3am. She slid her feet into her fluffy blue caterpillar slippers. Aside from the muffled sound of the clock in the living room ticking away the minutes, the flat was completely silent. The bedroom curtains were drawn, but the moonlight cast the shadow of a cat through their thin material and across the bed. Jonathan was fast asleep, his eyelids flickering as he no doubt dreamed of busty blondes serving him cocktails on a yacht in the Caribbean. Christa double-checked to ensure he was asleep, before lifting back the duvet covering his feet. He stirred, moaning in his sleep, before turning over and settling back down.
“I used to love you, you know”, she whispered, her heart heavy with the pent-up emotion. “But you changed. You’re not the man I used to know. You’re selfish, you’re thoughtless, you’re malicious, and you’re a total pain in the arse. Worst of all, you’re completely irredeemable. If I was a Christian, then I would tell you to burn in hell”.
With that, she retrieved the box from its home at the bottom of the wardrobe. She emptied out its cache of gold earrings, bracelets and necklaces. She slipped his foot into the open box, closing the lid against his ankle. She smiled to herself as she patted the box, before climbing back into bed.
***
The following morning was a crisp October Tuesday. A bright sun hung low in the sky, completely lacking in warmth. Christa watched her breath curl away into the cold air as she locked the front door behind her. People hurried past the flat on their way to work, swaddled in thick coats and scarves to keep out the cold. Christa didn’t feel it. Instead, she felt joyful, and warm. Her heart felt light, free from its burdens, and Christa felt like a newborn.
She walked to the bus stop, clutching the handbag that contained her notice for the boutique. She planned the great work she would begin when she returned home that afternoon. She already knew that she would call it ‘Liberty’.
She smiled as she thought of the cold, hard, lifeless statue lying in her bed. Jonathan was finally worth his weight in gold.
In The Shadows
Silver Blade
Silence reigns. Darkness drifts through the forest, wrapping the trees in its warm comforting blanket. It scatters sleep as it goes. A low mist patrols the forest floor, keeping watch over the animals secure in their homes. The forest breathes as one, safe in night’s embrace.
One by one, they appear. Tiny lights flicker and dance in the shadows. Pinpricks of daylight pierce the solitude of night’s dark fabric. Musical laughter rings out in the clearing as they gather in the toadstool ring. More and more lights flare into life and soon the ring is awash with a rosy glow of an early dawn. It is midnight, and the time for the fairies to play.
Three fairies break off from the group. The trio settle on a log grown thick with moss, and launch into song. Crystal notes tumble through the air like liquid music. Their matching golden sashes mark them as fairies of importance, and these minstrels herald the arrival of the Queen.
Two polecats dash into the clearing, drawing a small coach made of twigs and foxglove petals. A hush descends across the fairies, holding their breaths as one. A short fairy with a mop of golden hair and matching beard flits forward. He opens the door of the coach. The Queen takes his hand, and steps onto a bed of moss.
Her silvery hair cascades down her back like a waterfall frozen in time. Clad in a gown of finest violet, she flickers her velvet wings and hovers above the clearing. A smile plays across her lips and dances in her pale eyes. The Queen opens her arms wide, gazing down at her subjects.
“My people!” she cries. “I have been gone too long, and words cannot express how much I have missed you all! But tonight is the Winter Solstice! Let us put needless differences aside, and celebrate as the family we once were!”
A loud cheer rises from the fairies. Caught up in the moment, several pump their tiny fists in the cold night air. Fairies clad in green break open tiny baskets of food. They fill bluebells with nectar and lay out plates laden with sweet treats and fairy fancies. The host descends on the feast as the minstrels play their song again. The air grows lively with the sound of celebrating.
The Queen has returned.
The Crossing
#74 of Gloom Cupboard
Miles of golden farmland stretched as far as the eye could see. The old railroad snaked through the empty countryside. It cut a line through the fields as it meandered across the state. Hardly anyone used it any more, save the occasional express goods train speeding its way west. Transportation had long since switched from the railroad to the highway that cut across it on its way north.
It had been a highway in the 1950s; now it was just a glorified dirt track. Of course, that didn’t stop young men driving up and down it all night, showing off their cars. The parade of Jeeps, Corvettes, Chryslers and Porsches grew more expensive as the years flicked by. The young men liked to play chicken at the crossing, waiting for hours for a train to pass. They proved their masculinity by throwing their hot rods across the track just as the freighter bore down on them.
The crossing claimed fourteen men over the years, two less than the crossing eight miles west. It lost notoriety as fewer men raced there. Still, it could be patient. As the last car departed at dawn, it hunkered down, ready to wait.
Left
Everyday Weirdness
The red front door stood wide open, thrown back in the haste of departure. Scattered clothing littered the hallway floor, leaving a trail of odd socks and forgotten shirts from the staircase to the door. Plates lay abandoned on the kitchen table, glasses knocked on their side. Empty wardrobes and chests of drawers stood open in the bedrooms, silent witnesses to the nocturnal flight.
Amelia looked around in astonishment, wondering where they’d gone. She picked through the upturned furniture, straightening the crooked pictures on the walls. Collecting clothes tossed aside by careless owners, Amelia tried to erase the havoc wreaked throughout the house.
Rocking back onto her heels, she sighed deeply.
What use was a doll’s house without dolls?
The Thwarted Stalker
Salt River Review
A fine rain spatters the streets of Ealing as he follows her to the train station. She holds the handle of a blue umbrella in one hand, and the hand of her boyfriend in the other. This is the first time he has seen him, but he does not like her boyfriend. He strains to hear their conversation, but he doesn’t like to get too close. He only catches occasional words, and her laugh pierces the cold night air.
The station looms on the far side of the green, and their pace quic
kens. They cross the road, and she puts down her umbrella as they head into the station. He is not far behind, dodging the number 65 bus as he runs across the road. He curses mentally, reminding himself that he must still use the crossing. He ducks behind a pillar when he enters the station. He watches as she kisses her boyfriend goodbye, before passing through the barriers. The boyfriend waits until she disappears from sight onto the bridge to the platforms, when he turns and leaves the station.
He takes his chance and follows her.
She boards the train sitting at the platform, waiting to depart. He gets on further down the carriage, burrowing into his ample coat. He sneaks occasional glances at her, unable to believe that only a few yards separate him from her. She snuggles into her long black coat, before pulling a book from her Nintendo satchel. The bag strikes him as being too geeky for someone so beautiful, but he decides to let it pass. He squints, trying to see what book she is reading. The cover is black, with ‘Neil Gaiman’ emblazoned in white. Her left hand blocks the title. He thinks he will pick up a copy tomorrow. Reading it himself will make him feel closer to her.
During the journey, he wonders how she cannot notice him looking. He even musters the courage to openly stare, but her book proves too engrossing. She looks up only as the train pulls into the station at Hammersmith. Standing up, she shoves the book into her bag and waits for the doors to open. He remains seated, waiting until she jumps down onto the platform. Once she heads up the stairs, he too leaps from the train and follows at a distance.
The rain has stopped, and the streets of Hammersmith are quiet. He takes extra care to hang back, to stay out of sight. He knows that he has every right to walk these streets and that if anyone asked, he could say his following her was purely coincidental, but he does not wish to draw any attention to himself. Not yet.
He follows her up the Shepherd’s Bush Road, watching as the freezing wind catches the tail of her long coat and fans it out behind her. He feels his ears grow numb and he pulls his collar up around his neck, as if he could somehow blot out the cold. He wonders if she feels it, too. Halfway up the road, she pulls out a set of keys. She opens a large red door between a greasy spoon cafe and a 24 hour laundrette. His heart leaps into his mouth. He cannot believe that he now knows where she lives. He can begin to send her gifts. He is sure she will like them. Then she will love him.
He slows to a stroll and passes the door, hoping to spot the number. Disappointment hits him when he sees the intercom. Six flats lie beyond the door, and she could live in any one of them. True, he is closer to knowing where she lives than he has ever been, but he is not close enough. He peers at the intercom, wondering if the buzzers are attached to names. They are not - each buzzer is simply numbered, nothing more.
He steps back, hoping to see a light come on in one of the windows above. He thinks that it will give him a clue. He forgets about the flats at the back of the building. The rooms remain dark, the empty windows glaring down at him with disapproval. His heart sinks. He wonders if this is a sign. Perhaps she is not the one.
He shoves his hands in his pockets, and turns away. He pouts, feeling sullen. Head down, he trudges down the street, back towards Hammersmith. A woman coughs on the other side of the street. He looks up and sees the most beautiful woman in the world waiting at the bus stop. She wears a white coat, and her blonde hair is tucked into a white beret. He waits for a pause in the traffic and crosses the road, sidling up to the bus stop. She looks at him as he checks the bus timetable, but dismisses him as simply another commuter.
She stands up as the 220 to Wandsworth pulls up at the stop. He decides to follow her.
Last Orders
Ficshun
Living in London, there is always something new to see, some unique quirk of architecture to discover. Forgotten tube stations lurk beneath the pavements; angels and lions lambast the sky in crumbling graveyards; Art Deco palaces press themselves against Edwardian elegance. The eye never wants for something splendid.
Yet sadness lives alongside the spectacular. An abandoned pub sits quietly beyond the hustle and bustle of the high street. Forlorn and stripped of glory, the Ralston Arms looks lonely amid the expanse of empty, puddle-stained tarmac. Faded white chipboard covers the ground floor windows and doors, though it hardly deters the more persistent drifters. Jagged holes punch through the dusty windows on the upper floor, yawning like demonic mouths. The early morning daylight does not reach the upper rooms. The darkness inside looks thick and menacing, yet it taunts me all the same. “Come, look inside, and see what treasures I hide,” says the darkness.
Staring at this relic of a shrinking pub culture, I wonder for how long the Arms has stood empty. Advertisements are tacked to the outside walls, promising sweet abandon at the bottom of a bottle, but they look new. The signage bears none of the flaking sadness of other forgotten pubs, still proclaiming its existence in burgundy and gold. Perhaps it closed recently, another victim of the dreaded economic meltdown, a ‘good time hall’ cast aside when the good times became too expensive.
I think about all the celebrations once held inside; birthdays, engagements, anniversaries, or wakes. The passage of human life witnessed by walls that now stand silent, quiet observers struck blind by the departure of the pub’s occupants. If I listen carefully enough, I can hear the laughter, the drunken sing-a-longs, the good-natured rowdy banter, and the clanging bell marking Last Orders.
For a moment, the doors burst open; a party is in full swing inside. Older men clutching glasses slop their pints across the bar as they sway to and fro, singing victory songs peppered with expletives and slanderous accusations. Younger boys in football strips mimic their movements, spilling soft drinks on the sticky floor in celebration. Even the pavement comes alive as crying girls stumble out of the pub, jostling for kerb space; they wail about infidelity, betrayal and lost purses.
A sleek sports car roars through the mist and shatters the illusion. The lonely ghosts disperse, shuffling away from the pub into the cold grey morning. The doors swing closed, the lights flicker and go out, and the pub stands empty once more.
Checkmate
Noctober
Kate looked at the clock, impatient for her shift to end. Noon; still two long, boring hours left before she could go home and relax in front of daytime television. As usual, the small café was almost empty. One young man sat in the shadows at the back. Kate could see his wavy white blonde hair over the top of his newspaper. Punctual to the extreme, he came in every day at 11:30am on the dot. He always ordered a slice of blueberry cheesecake and a small white coffee with pouring cream instead of milk. “It’s absolutely heavenly, like having clouds in my coffee”, he’d say, smiling that broad, easy smile. He always cheered her up.
Kate polished the coffee machine for the seventeenth time that morning and returned to mentally cursing the funereal silence in the café. Located on a narrow, quiet lane just off the busy town square, Kate was surprised they did enough business to stay open. Whole mornings would pass without custom, and the few customers that did drop by certainly didn’t spend the amount of money that Kate imagined the café needed to balance its books.
She asked Tom why they couldn’t play music, or advertise their whereabouts, but he just replied that “it wasn’t what my father would have wanted”. His father had been dead for nine years, but Tom inherited his fear that modernisation would turn the café into a noisy free-for-all. He did everything he could to stop the café becoming like the trendy coffee chains that sprang up throughout the town centre overnight.
A rustling roused Kate from her thoughts. Hoping to see a customer at the counter, she looked up. Disappointment set in when she saw that the café was as empty as it had been all morning. She looked around the small room, taking in the tiny floral displays on each table, the mini trays of condiments, and the rustic charm that seemed to beguile its regulars. All she really saw was the man in the corner put down his paper and glance impatiently at the clo
ck. 12:10pm. She was late.
The old woman was normally as punctual as the young man. Kate guessed that she was in her late seventies from the way she shuffled into the café at the stroke of noon. She’d order black tea and a Belgian bun before spending the next two hours playing chess with the young man. Kate assumed she was the young man’s grandmother; she was never late. Kate hoped nothing had happened to her.
The silence broke as the chimes over the door jangled and the old woman tottered in. Kate wondered if her eyes were playing tricks on her, but the old woman looked better than usual. Her usually ghostly pallor now a rosy-cheeked glow, she stood straighter. Fewer wrinkles clustered around her dark hazel eyes.
“Hello! How are you today?” asked Kate.
“I’m feeling very good, my dear!” replied the old woman, her voice stronger than ever. “Better than good!”
“Will it be the usual today?” asked Kate, reaching behind her for the jar of tea bags.
“Not today, dear. I’ll have a coffee instead. And a slice of that carrot and walnut cake, it looks divine,” she replied. She threw a glance at the young man in the corner.
Kate turned to make the coffee and fetch the cake. When she returned, the old woman already held the correct change in her outstretched gnarled hand. Normally she spent five minutes fumbling with the catch on her old snakeskin purse before tipping an assortment of paperclips, buttons and old coins onto the counter as she searched for money that was still legal tender.
She watched the old woman head over to the young man, whose cornflower blue eyes were hazy with annoyance. The newspaper was gone, the familiar chess set taking its place on the table.
“You’re late.” Kate heard the young man spit at the old woman.
“Oh hush, you knew I was coming. Don’t be so picky”, said the old woman
The old woman sat down and tucked into her carrot cake. Kate noticed that the young man’s cheesecake remained untouched, and he didn’t look at all well. He normally radiated an air of cool composure, but today he looked ruffled.
