FF – Rebellion

Photo Copyright belongs to Na’ama Yehuda

Rebellion

“We’re rebels in our family,” Grandma used to say. Her own mother wore trousers and cut her hair short; Grandma went to university and became a Doctor. I worried I disappointed her – I wasn’t sure what to push against when so many doors were open thanks to them. I tried to hold the door for others, but it never felt much like rebellion.

She’d love my children though: blue-eyed boys who like to wrestle and climb trees… in pink sequin dresses and glittery rainbow cowboy boots.

The best thing about their rebellion is they don’t even know it’s happening.

Extroduction

Not so much a story, more of a musing from a fictional person whose experience is similar to (but not identical to) mine. The challenge of the millennial feminist was that so much had been done, and yet so much remained. Some of the more obvious doors were wide open to us, or at least appeared to be so, and invisible barriers may not be harder to knock down, but it is perhaps more difficult to form a consensus about which to attack and how to remove it. As a feminist, though, I believe in equality and that means building up men too – to be the best they can be and to have greater freedoms than their forefathers. So my greatest acts of feminism start with two little boys.

The Coming Dawn

Last week I told Sylvie’s life story – it was interesting to see two perspectives on her experiences – some of you saw the hope and others the misery. She’s popped back this week with a single moment in time, inspired by this photo from Roger Bultot.

The Coming Dawn

In the distance, Sylvie watched the day arrive. Layers of crimson, magenta and gold brightened into white and then blue. Over there, people could already see the way ahead.

For her, it was still night. The baby was just asleep, but not enough to put down. Her eyelids drooped, but she daren’t let them – and him – fall. Instead, she watched the sun rise and hope creeping across the sleeping city.

When Glenn’s alarm chimed, she felt him take the baby. He kissed her forehead as she finally let sleep take over, knowing it would be light when she woke up.

FF – When…

Photo credit Sandra Crook

When…

Sylvie sat at her desk, ignoring the quadratics that swirled across the books there. “When I grow up, I’ll never do Maths again,” she said to the man singing on her radio.

At college, she told her friends “When I leave here, I’m going to travel the world,”

“When I get married, I’ll put my feet up,” she said, elbows-deep in suds at the job she got afterwards.

Now she tries to calculate the bills, ignoring the sink full of dishes, staring at the calendar photo of a place she’s never been. “When the kids leave home,” she sighs.

Extroduction

There’s a path going up that hill in the photo, and it caught my eye because it looks really challenging. This last few months we’ve done a lot of just getting through, but I’m also aware that while the view from the top of that cliff is probably stunning, but it’s the climb that makes the experience memorable and worthwhile.

There are loads of songs that try to capture this sentiment, “The Climb” being one of the more famous. The link below is another. And as a mother, I’m used to being told to enjoy the moment, so I know how deeply upsetting that type of advice can be and how important hope is. That being said, I hope we can all learn to live in the moment, even when we don’t enjoy it. After all, tomorrow never comes.

FF – Carousel

Take it as you will, here’s my contribution to Friday Fiction this week. Our photo is from Ted Strutz and reminds me of an old prompt, but I can’t find it now, so maybe I dreamt it…

Carousel

“I always liked the carousel,” said Jo, as they stood waving, at regular intervals, to their passing sons.

“But all it does is go round and round,” Lucy sighed. “It doesn’t go anywhere.” Much like life, she almost added. “It’s the most boring ride at the whole fair.”

“Even the ones that seem to go somewhere finish near the start,” Jo smiled. “The trick is to enjoy the view.”

The boys passed by again, hands in the air, smiles on their faces. The whole world spread out below, like they could reach out and grab it as they flew.

Friday Fiction – Behind the Facade

I nearly didn’t get to contribute something for C.E.Ayr’s FF prompt today. Although the boys gave me a hands-free naptime, I had to use it to mow the lawn and then the cat decided to take advantage too. Plus the prompt said a whole lot of factual stuff to me and not a lot of fiction. But eventually Pepsi decided it was time for a wash, so I started typing and this is what came out. My story is under the prompt – feel free to skip the random non-fiction musings that precede it. EDIT: Oooh, I forgot – language warning!

The first thing that sprang to mind from the picture was how much it fits the FF motto (from Henry David Thoreau) “It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see”. I also wondered whether the mural preceded the dilapidation of the building, and whether it was put there as a sort of graffiti or an official attempt to prettify the neighbourhood. And I wondered why there aren’t more things like this around.

And then I went back to the Thoreau quote and I started thinking how what might be true for writing prompts isn’t necessarily true for everything. Take the Seaworld debate, for example, where what you see is an amazing and fascinating whale show, but what you’re looking at may (or may not, I’m not trying to open a wound here) be torture and animal cruelty.

Which got me thinking about the wider scope of that too. At the weekend we saw a snapping turtle by the banks of the lake where we happened to be walking. Jon and I were probably more excited than Sebastian, because he couldn’t really be expected to understand the novelty of the situation. He’s seen turtles in the zoo, roughly that close, and he’s never been on a lakeshore walk and not seen a turtle, so how could he know this was special. Even I don’t know how special it is – are snapping turtles a fairly standard occurence in Ontario’s cottage country? Or were we extremely lucky to find one? (Here’s what Ontario Nature says about that)

All of which ponderings didn’t lead me to a story. Luckily, the old “start typing and see what comes out” trick did. 😉

Behind the Facade

Isla smudged “mardi gras” across her eyelid and blinked at the mirror. Not a bad job, considering she hadn’t worn makeup in almost two decades. It wasn’t really her colour anymore; she might have felt more comfortable with a subtler shade. But comfort was for cowards and prisoners. Tonight, Isla was wearing a dress that came up too far on the leg, down too far on the cleavage, heels that said she wasn’t walking and mardi-fucking-gras eyeshadow.

“You can put lipstick on a pig,” said her husband’s voice, but she couldn’t hear him. Six feet of earth saw to that.

Friday Fiction – Washed Up

This week’s Friday fictioneers picture comes from Janet Webb. As usual, our cruise is piloted by Rochelle.

Next week, I won’t be able to respond to the Friday Fictioneers prompt, but those who enjoy my writing will find a second story prompted by this week’s photo. I hope you’ll nip back to read it.

Washed Up

Washed up. That’s what he’d called them. Washed up.

Not shiny and clean. But like a body on a beach: the flotsam of life. That’s what her husband, Tom, had meant when she told him her plans. It’s too late to travel the world, Janine. We’re washed up.

Janine squeezed sand between her toes and watched the sun setting far out to sea. She took a sip on her pina colada and smiled.

If she was washed up, she was a pebble. Yes, buffeted by the waves, and the sand, and the journey, but only to make her more beautiful.

Inspiration Monday – This is How it Starts

I’m a bit late today – visitors just left and I got distracted by life! But it’s still Thursday, so here’s my response to this week’s prompts. It’s a first draft, so I’ll be particularly grateful for your feedback.

This is how it starts

I know myself well enough. He’s got dazzling blue eyes, and a smile that lights a fire inside me. His accent is clearly an affectation, to make him seem less rich and intimidating, more approachable. And I know that, just as everyone around him knows it, but like the rest, I let him get away with it. I tease him instead, about something harmless – the colour of his tie – to show that I’m relaxed in his company, and he laughs to prove he knows I’m not.

This is how it starts. This is how it always starts.

It will end very differently, of course. The eyes will be steel blue then, and his smile will burn. His affectations will annoy, and my comments about what he wears will be bitingly sharp, or at least perceived that way. The deceptions will be more numerous and more brutal; the honesty too.

But for now, it is just beginning. He turns that smile on me and I grin back. He takes my hand and a little part of me melts into him. I know how it always ends, but I wonder if this time will be different, an end just like the beginning.

Inspiration Monday – Invisible Sky

It’s been a while since I joined in with Inspiration Monday, so this week I’m trying to make up for it by covering two prompts in a single 100 word story: view from the gutter and invisible sky. It’s not necessarily a very unique take on either, but I hope you like it and I’d love to hear your thoughts.

View From The Gutter

I’m underfoot. You can see it in their faces: these people who walk about the city in smart suits and high-rise heels: hurrying to the next meeting, or a lunch date with a married admirer. They barely see me, only to ensure I don’t infect them, drag them down somehow. If they throw something in my cup, it is to avoid having to look at me; to save themselves from the danger of awareness.

And I know how it feels to tower with them, close to the invisible sky: hope and future and promise. Do they even see it themselves?

Inpiration Monday – Borrowed Heart / Waiting to Live

Another Thursday, another story inspired by BeKindRewrite’s Inspiration Monday thread. This time I managed to get two of the prompts in, which is something I rarely do. It’s also quite a personal piece, because I had a condition a few years ago that made me have to fight for each painful breath. I’ve tried to capture something of that in this piece although with a different POV and a much more severe medical prognosis.

I’d love to hear what you think of it.

 

Catching Breath

If you’ve never watched someone you love fighting for breath, you can’t begin to imagine how it feels. You dare not drag your eyes away in case they lose the next battle, in case that rasping desperate sound is the last rasping desperate sound you ever hear. It doesn’t even occur to you that everyone else breathes quietly, or that the first time you heard that the troubled breathing you wanted never to hear it again.

But hope. That’s the thing. The greatest blessing of humanity, and sometimes its greatest curse. To go from hoping she’ll breathe normally again, to just hoping she’ll breathe again, to just… Hope without knowing what you’re hoping for.

And now I have a new hope and it’s almost too much to bear. She’s waiting to live again. Someone else’s hope died today, but sometimes hope is competitive and I can’t grieve for them when I think of the borrowed heart that will make her live. That will take her breath away and give it back a hundred times stronger. That will allow me to hope once more to hear the last of those desperate painful gasps.

You think I am selfish. That I should think of the dead and the grieving. That I should be grateful, humbled, sorry. But you’ve never watched someone you love fighting for breath; you can’t begin to imagine how it feels.

Friday Fictioneers – Fix It

Back in the land of stable internet and my own computer, it’s amazing the difference it makes. I’ll be going back and updating some recent posts with pictures etc when I have chance, but for now here’s my latest Friday Fiction piece. As ever, it’s inspired by Madison Woods’ picture prompt, and you can find lots of other great stories linked on her page. Critique is welcome – this was a little rushed for me today, so I’m intrigued to hear how well (or not) you think it worked.

Fix It

“There’s a hole in my bucket, dear Liza, dear Liza,” Dad sang as Chantal wiggled the tap again.

“Could you possibly do something more useful than singing?”

“Like fix it?” he asked, adding “Dear Henry,” under his breath.

She tried to smile. Singing was better than the gloom he’d been in since Mum left. But he looked manic: seven-week beard, shirt Mum hated. Perhaps that’s why she left: his dress-sense.

Or perhaps it was this infernal tap: dripping at all hours like the incessant tick of time. Maybe if she fixed the tap, or changed his clothes, Mum’d come back.