Tag Archives: Love

The Saturday Shed: Summer of ‘69

Posted on by
7
Image source: pixabay.com

Flash Fiction from the Saturday Shed.

Fred shut the windows and drew the curtains, but the sound of next door’s party still thundered around the room.

“Bloody kids,” he muttered as he slid under the duvet.

Joan appeared in the doorway. “You’re only young once, darling. And they did give us plenty of warning.”

“When did they get so loud?” grumbled Fred. “I’m sure we were never that annoying when we were teenagers.”

“I think we were,” Joan smiled. “Remember the night we met?”

“That was over fifty years ago. But how could I forget?” Fred tucked his hands behind his head and stared up at the ceiling. “Me and my mates were passing by, we heard the music—”

“Courtesy of my old Dansette record player.” Joan kicked off her slippers.

“And we snuck in the back door.”

“Where my then-boyfriend tried to throw you out.”

“But someone locked him in the kitchen cupboard,” Fred laughed at the memory.

“That was my sister,” Joan admitted. “And it was her fault what happened next.”

“She winked and gave me a glass of cider,” said Fred. “Strong enough to strip paint.” He sniffed as if he could still smell the tart aroma of fermenting apples. “And you and I ended up in a bedroom, snogging under a pile of coats and jackets.”

“Glory days,” said Joan, draping her dressing gown over the foot of the bed. “No point trying to sleep. We might as well read.” She picked up a Jilly Cooper paperback.

“I have a better idea.” Fred got up and padded out of the room. He returned five minutes later with a wicked grin, an armful of coats and two cans of Blackthorn. “Fancy reliving the past?”

“And we can go all the way tonight!” The book and Joan’s nightdress hit the floor.

The Saturday Shed: Cinderella Drops the Shoe

Posted on by
Image source: pixabay.com

Flash Fiction from the Saturday Shed.

Blanche stood at the bus stop, fuming. Apt word, she thought, because she could kill for a cigarette. Even though she didn’t smoke, had never smoked in her life. But honestly, this day would drive a saint to dark deeds, including murder.

Was she being unreasonable? Probably. Was he an arse? Definitely. Although, to be fair, she knew he was an arse when she married him. And presumably, he’d overlooked her quirks and foibles when he said I do. Which left her where? Apart from waiting in a rainstorm for the number twenty-seven to turn up. Keep calm and carry on, or divorce the bastard? The latter was becoming an attractive option. Thank God they didn’t have kids to worry about. Or a mortgage. She could cut and run with minimal damage. But did she want to?

She closed her eyes and wriggled her wet toes in her too-tight shoes. The bus pulled up, but Blanche let it go and squelched over to a park bench, collapsing on the seat without a thought for her dress. She kicked off her white stilettoes, wondering why anyone in their right mind would choose to wear such hideous and uncomfortable footwear.

That was it; she’d lost her marbles, gone doolally. Why else had she agreed to, arguably, the worst half hour of her life? Thanks to all that ridiculous planning and preparation, which ignored the essential essence of their beings. Deep stuff, and only themselves to blame for getting carried away with a crock of marketing bollocks. The pressure to conform scrambled their brains, and they embraced the overpriced charade that blighted many a wedding day.

Blanche shifted uncomfortably, aware that her knickers were getting damp, and kicked off the hateful shoes, wishing she had her comfy, old Reeboks to hand. Or to foot. As if conjured up by her thoughts, a pair of old trainers dropped into her lap.

“Thought you might need these,” said Jed, her husband of twenty minutes.

“You look like a psychotic penguin in that get-up.” Blanche waved a hand at his morning suit.

“And you look like a drowned rat,” he retorted. Then he grinned. “But you’ve never looked lovelier.”

“Stop taking the piss.”

“Sorry about that.” Jed joined her on the bench. “And for putting you through today.”

“Your brother proposing to his girlfriend just before the ceremony. Then, my dad’s third wife trying to drown his second in the font. And the row about seating arrangements. I think everyone joined in that one.”

“They’re still fighting in there.” Jed nodded at the church. “We should have stuck with our plans to elope,”

“Or not bothered at all.”

“Don’t say that.” Jed took her hand. “Our wedding was a disaster, but I still have hope for our marriage.”

Blanche looked into his eyes. “So do I.”

The Saturday Shed: Joining Forces

Posted on by
Image source: pixabay.com

Flash Fiction from the Saturday Shed.

Nothing seemed amiss until the eyes started following him around the room: literally, not figuratively. They bounced along on squidgy bits of flesh, which he guessed was the optical nerve. Keith tried to shoo them away, but they jumped around his feet like playful puppies. He gave up and left the art gallery, trying to ignore the slip-slap-slop noises behind him.

A further surprise awaited him in the corridor: it stretched on into infinity. But this was his grandmother’s house: a tiny, two-bed semi-detached. Which, Keith remembered, was demolished years ago. He checked his watch once, then twice. Yup, four thirty-five and then a picture of Mickey Mouse. He stared at the wall, closed his eyes, and opened them. The wallpaper hadn’t changed, but the wall had gone.

He forced himself to remain calm. Last night, he got so excited he woke with a start and fell out of bed. But this time, he controlled his breathing and thought about flying. A delicious feeling of weightlessness enveloped him, and he floated up to the ceiling. Using the picture rail as an anchor, he air-swam into the kitchen, only to find himself in front of the bandstand in the park at the bottom of his road.

“Coo-ee!” Came a female voice. “Over here.”

He looked around, and his heart sank. It was his next-door neighbour. He fluttered over and sat in a deck chair.

“Isn’t this nice?” She pointed at the bandstand where Jimi Hendrix was playing: The trumpet.

“What are you doing in my dream?” said Keith.

“How do you know you’re not in mine?” Marge nudged him in the ribs.

“Shut up, will you?” Jimi shouted. “I want to watch the snow.”

A blizzard hit them, blowing Keith and the deckchair into the side of the Albert Hall. The next thing he knew, he was lying on his bedroom floor, gasping for breath.

“Bugger,” he said after a few minutes. “Just when I was doing so well.” But he perked up when he realised he was lying on a sandbank. Everything else in his bedroom looked right, except the carpet, which was no longer a mottled green shagpile. He crawled to the wardrobe and stumbled into a ballroom complete with a full orchestra, a glitter ball, and hundreds of couples whirling around. Keith wound his way through them, heading to a door he could see on the other side of the room. It was one of many, but this one had two disembodied eyes hopping up and down in front of it. He swore he heard them squeaking.

“Hi, guys,” he said with genuine pleasure. “What have you got for me?”

They leapt up, landed on the handle, and swung the door open.

“This is more like it!” Keith stepped out onto a tropical beach paradise. Just ahead was a sun lounger with a woman lying on it. She took off her sunglasses.

“Jacey!” He ran towards her.

“Keith!” She cupped his face in her hands. “I love you, my darling.” She pulled him close for a kiss, and he melted into her embrace. The fleeting moment of joy evaporated when he realised he was snogging his pillow. No need to check this time; he knew he was awake. With a sigh, he climbed out of bed, noting the return of the carpet, and shuffled into his slippers. After breakfast, he drove up to the hospital. The situation was unchanged: she still lay in her coma, but he sat next to her bed and held her hand.

“Thank you, Jacey,” he whispered in her ear. “Maybe I can make it last longer tonight.”

The doctors warned him not to be fooled by involuntary muscle spasms, but the gentle squeezing of his fingers brought a rare smile to his face.

The Saturday Shed: Dream Lover

Posted on by
Image source: pixabay.com

Flash Fiction from the Saturday Shed.

Nadia never closed her windows at night: no fears about monsters under the bed for her. As a child, she never parkoured her way to a night’s sleep with flying leaps from the doorway to the bed. And all thanks to her great-aunt’s journal. Nadia found it hidden in the basement. She suspected her parents would be horrified at its content; she was at the start. But Nadia was a curious child and soon discovered how easy it was to conjure up daemons. As long as they had a way in and out, they came in their droves. And after she curbed them of eating her bedding, they became her preferred playmates. She found other children so dull.

It wasn’t until puberty that she understood the intent behind the darker spells in her book. They were tricky to pull off, but soon after her sixteenth birthday, she had a most illuminating experience. She snuck the stained sheets through the washing machine when her parents were out and looked forward to many more exciting night visits. But Nadia couldn’t replicate the results for another five years. By then, she was working in a shop and living in the attic flat of a narrow townhouse. Nadia liked her job well enough and even enjoyed going out with friends. But it was the nights she lived for.

Every evening, before she went to bed, Nadia opened all the windows and doors; except the front one. She wasn’t stupid. Then, she lit candles and chanted certain passages from her book. When he came, she slowly undressed and let him pleasure her until she thought she might faint with delight.

She and her phantom lover enjoyed six passionate months without the arguments, guilt trips and other horrors her friends experienced. Nadia congratulated herself on finding the perfect relationship: until the day she discovered she was pregnant. After that, she never saw him again.