Sunday Photo Fiction – Sharing

Copyright – Al Forbes

Read the rules and submit your own story based on the prompt here. I’ve actually started writing up a new novel. This isn’t an extract, but it’s a short segment based on another character’s point of view.

She never smiled. I only noticed it after a couple of weeks of knowing her. It wasn’t obvious straight away. She didn’t give off this vibe of being completely miserable or anything like that. It was more like there was always a little part of her that was dwelling on something else.

I guess I really wanted to fix her. I was arrogant enough to think I could just talk to her and she’d suddenly open up. I imagined her smiling, and I thought it would be like the clouds suddenly parting and the sun shining through, or a similar cliché.

It never happened. I took every opportunity to be alone with her, and I asked her a million questions. I wanted to know about her home, her family, and why she’d come to the academy. Her answers were always half-hearted and she didn’t look me in the eye. Eventually she began avoiding me altogether.

Years later, when I found out the unremarkable truth, I wondered why she’d been so reluctant.

In another few years, the issue of what truths are better left unshared would almost tear our marriage apart.

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The Library Book Project – 18 June 2010

To read more about the library book project, click here.

I take the brown bottle out of the paper bag and place it on the kitchen counter. I stare at the label. The paper bag crackles as I scrunch it into a ball, and the noise seems to be obscenely loud. I throw it in the bin, almost angry with the bag for making such a racket. My mouth is dry as I walk back to the counter, where the bottle sits. My expectations aren’t heavy but my desperation is. The brown glass shows my face, contorted like my emotions. I’m not even strong enough to summon self-hatred, just more self-pity that rains down from the clouds of my consciousness, free flowing and plentiful.

I struggle to even open the bottle. After a couple of attempts I laugh at myself. I sound hysterical and wounded. The noise is so pathetic it spurs me on, and eventually the cap gives way and I’m looking at the little white pills. These are not my saviours, I know. But they might help. And at this point I’ll try anything, anything at all. The doctor thought they might work. But they might not. And I wonder if I can wait long enough to find out.

Because I can’t do this. It is now 5 o clock. He will come home in an hour and I will make dinner and then I’ll clean up and then we will watch TV and then we will lay in bed together without touching. I will lay there and think. And think. I will try not to shake as I cry. If I wake him, he’ll be annoyed. Silly woman. Yes, yes, I am a silly woman. Nothing more. The thought makes me want to consume every last tablet in this bottle, so I can escape.

I can’t escape.

I’m trapped behind this face. This face is not depressed. This face calls the children and chirps cheerfully down the phone at them. This face goes to work and natters with the office staff. This face is a regular at the local library.

This face swallows a pill.

Alastair’s Photo Fiction – I Can’t Hand Out Happiness.

Copyright – Alastair Forbes

This prompt came from Alastair’s Photo Fiction Blog.

My name is Paul, and I grew up in Bridlington, in a squalid, one-bedroom apartment. My mother used to tell me, “It’s you and me against the world, Paul, it’s you and me.” It never felt that way. No, I was on my own and I knew it. Throughout my childhood, I wasted hours on the beach, walking along the litter strewn front. The foil of empty crisp packets reflected stony clouds. During the peak season, I stayed away from the smells of waffles and the sight of children with their ice cream cones, or the jealousy would crush me.

I went into the army when I left school, made a few friends who still visit me now and then. When I returned, I had enough money to buy the cart. I painted it up, bought stock, and I somehow made enough profit to survive. Sometimes, when cycling around, I see a lonely looking child. I give them an ice cream, and hope it’s enough to get them through the day.

The Library Book Project – 9 April 2008

For more information on this project, click here.

They say that you can better tell someone’s age by their hands than by their face. As I chop these salad vegetables, I feel a renewed love for my fingers and palms, despite their bulging veins and arthritic swell. I’ve settled into a new rhythm with my body over the past few days. I can live with the imperfections and the aches, all the sags and wrinkles which would have horrified my younger self. It’s my body, and it’s pure.

What I couldn’t live with was all the poisons. Not just those cancerous cells in my breast, but the chemotherapy, the radiotherapy and the surgical drugs as well. I felt so invaded. I knew the doctors were only trying to treat me, but it felt like they were part of the assault. The night after the mastectomy was the worst. I couldn’t bear to look at myself, I couldn’t bear to be myself. I broke down to Richard. “What did I do to deserve this?” I cried. Richard put his arms around me and told me that I was still the most beautiful woman he knew.

Being given the all-clear was the sweetest victory I’ve ever tasted. I fought for this body, how could I not love it? Richard’s been very protective, a little too protective perhaps, so the trip to the library yesterday was the first solitary, unnecessary excursion I’ve had in a while. I watched Richard and Judy almost every morning during my recovery, so I picked out some of the books they endorsed, as I’d meant to for such a long time.

I haven’t started reading yet, I’ve been too busy. Some family and friends are coming over tonight, to celebrate my recovery. I smile. It’s going to be a good party.