The Key to the Magic Kingdom

“I know how much you were looking forward to it, darling, but I’m afraid we won’t be going to Disneyland this year.”

“But you promised, Mummy.” Tina pouted and stamped her feet.

“No tantrums, please, and you mustn’t be selfish.” Her mother gathered Tina up in a hug. “Besides, Tommy will need the money for a special wheelchair after his operation.”

“Can we go next year?”

“That depends on your little brother.”

“It’s always about him.” Tina pushed her mother away and stormed off into the garden, where she threw rocks at the birds until she felt better.

She thought of Tommy: A lifeless blob, with a tube up his nose, and a bag of wee hanging under his bed. Why did mummy and daddy bother with him? He was a useless, smelly lump who always ruined her fun.

Maybe next time she should hold the pillow down for longer.

Ticket to Ride

Photo credit: https://www.pexels.com/@athena

Every morning, I would watch when you left the house.

You’d cross the road with a rucksack over your shoulder and a cigarette in your hand.

Together, we would wait for the bus.

You always took the seat on the right, three rows back from the driver.

And I always stood at the window until you disappeared from view.

My private moment when I said goodbye.

Knowing you’d be back, and knowing I’d be waiting and watching, and loving you.

Today, I watch you leave.

The rucksack is the same, but a suitcase has replaced the cigarette.

I will wait with you for one last time.

Knowing you won’t be back.

Knowing all that we had is gone.

Stream of Consciousness Saturday: Nerve

LindaGHill hosts Stream of Consciousness Saturday.
The prompt this week is NERVE
The post must be stream of consciousness writing, meaning no editing
(typos can be fixed), and minimal planning on what you’re going to write.
Click HERE for the rest of the rules, and to play along.

The Best Man

‘You’ve got a nerve, coming here like this.’ Ash walked down the garden path, staring in horror at the dishevelled woman clambering out of an ancient ford escort.

‘No one saw me leave, and I wasn’t followed.’ Kayla stood on the pavement, rearranging her train.

‘I meant in that dress.’

This is a gown,’ she took a step forward and tripped over her skirts.

‘No time for semantics,’ said Ash, as he hauled her upright. ‘How long before someone realises you’re missing?’

‘Another ten minutes, if we’re lucky.’

‘And this will be the first place they’ll come looking for you.’

‘More than likely. But everything that could go wrong today has.’ She picked up a bouquet from the passenger seat. ‘Just look at these.’

Ash took them. ‘Yellow roses, very retro.’

‘And they’re plastic. I can’t believe he sent me fake flowers.’

‘I can.’ Ash threw them on the back seat and then paused. ‘Kayla, why is there a bag of money in here?’

‘This is going to be hard to explain—’

‘No shit, Sherlock. Just get in the car, and I’ll drive you back to the church. You can tell me everything on the way.’

‘I’m not going back.’

‘Yes, you are, I’m not waiting here for your future husband to find us and beat the living crap out of me.’

‘He won’t.’ She ripped the veil from her head and flung it in the air. The wind took it and blew it into a fig tree. ‘Where’s Hollywood when you need it?’ She shrugged. ‘So much for symbolism.’

‘I also had a Hollywood moment today; I found a horse’s head on my doorstep this morning. A plastic one. Do you think he’ll send fake flowers to my funeral?’

‘You are such a drama queen.’ Kayla patted his face. ‘But you are on the right lines. And that’s when I realised I was making the biggest mistake of my life.’

‘And mine by the sound of it.’

‘I’m so sorry, Ash, I’ve been a total idiot. Can you forgive me?’

‘You know I will, I always do.’ Ash took her hands. ‘Shall we try to enjoy our last few minutes on earth together?’

‘It won’t come to that if we get a move on.’ Kayla kissed him on the forehead. ‘If you grab the case from the boot, I’ll park the car around the back.’

‘Ready for a quick getaway? Christ, this weighs a ton. What have you got in here?’

‘My future husband.’

The Spirit of Christmas

The tree shimmered in the firelight, scented candles perfumed the air with cinnamon and orange, while Alexa played carols softly in the background.

Becky wearily set the mince pies on the warming plates and checked the wine, mulling in the slow cooker. Just the right temperature, and with another splash of brandy, delicious.

She stood back and admired her handiwork as the grandfather clock by the door chimed the quarter. Everything looked perfect and ready for the first guests who were due in fifteen minutes. Her sigh of relief turned into a squeak of shock at the sound of a booming voice.

‘Excellent work, Rebecca, but straighten those garlands.’

‘Yes, Mr Paisley, then can I go home?’

‘Why not, it is Christmas! Just tell my wife to get a move on and remind nanny to keep the kids upstairs.’

Becky hurried home to Jason and their boys. Together they would decorate a plastic tree with handmade decorations and stand it in pride of place by the gas fire. She smiled as snow began to fall.

Trends

‘Poor love.’ A copy of Hello! is thrust in my face.

The headline reads Kassie’s Ketosis Knightmare!

I have no idea who this Kassie is.

A manicured finger points to a glossy photograph. ‘Isn’t she beautiful?’

‘Only if Botox floats your boat.’

The woman glares at me, and we sit in stony silence until a gawky girl appears at my side. With a sigh of relief, I stand, only for her to brush me aside.

‘You can come to the basin now, Mrs Tate.’

‘Don’t forget the head massage this time.’ The magazine is dumped in my lap, and I am left alone.

I read about Kassie Knight, a reality TV star who married a footballer. They call her a Z-List celebrity and a media whore. At least they call her. My last job was a voiceover for a floor polish commercial. Before that, I had a minor role in a movie franchise until they killed off my character in the fourth instalment.

‘Sorry about the wait,’ the giraffe taps me on the shoulder. ‘Letitia is ready for you.’ She gives me an inane smile and ushers me to a seat.

‘Aren’t you Susan Leonard?’ The stylist stares at me. ‘I used to love your films.’

Another hairdresser looks up. ‘I thought you were dead.’