FLASH FICTION FOR NOVEMBER

THE ART OF WRITING

This month's flash fiction competition theme was art and photography, and how these can be used to develop a story. Following on from our recent workshop, we received 12 entries.

The results announced at our meeting on 27 November and it's congratulations to Liz who took first place. The top 4 were as follows:

1st place: Liz Shaw - Angel of the North
Joint 2nd place: Sumi Watters - It's You; Louise Welland - Three
4th place: Andrea Neidle - Overheard in the Bar

Well done to everyone who entered.

ENTRY 1

ISLAND by Ian Welland

My island is a floating monolith on the surface of the deep azure Pacific Ocean. I saw it in a dream. My island and I are yet to be discovered, but one day we shall be, and I can only hope I have lived out my days and slipped quietly to my final resting place.

Each day I see the golden yellow sun rising in the east. There is no land mass, no trees, no hills, no barriers impeding my vision of this warm welcoming globe whose rays reach high and wide and are radiant and uniform. And at the end of each day, I see that same happy fireball set in the west – a prelude to a strange cooling transparency of crystalising lights that rain down and metaphorically bathe me.

My island, although floating, seldom moves position; and because it is situated exactly on the equator, the seasons can only be marked by the stars arranged in their constellations – the greatest of all timepieces.

On this island despite having no materialistic inputs or processed food, I seem to be able to enjoy a bounty of plenty – if I imagine fruit, then fruit appears. If I require nuts or edible flora, so these also appear. I merely order what I require and no more. And to quench my thirst, a flask of clean water can be reached for from an ocean that may in itself deliver more delights, of fish, should I wish this. But I ask nothing more of the beloved ocean.

You may ask what do I actually do on this island?

I look out and can occasionally see a distant ship. As the ship disappears, so my thoughts are to those ancient cultures who considered our beautiful blue planet as being flat! My imbedded knowledge tells me everything I need to know – the planet is round, not necessarily absolutely round, but round for the purposes of our discussion. And there is another clue, the Moon. I have come to realise that the Moon has no atmosphere – we can see craters, valleys, and mountains very clearly. Its motion travelling through the sky is so tracked that I can now predict when the different phases will appear and understand that it is our own planet’s reflection that is lighting the Moon’s surface. We are the Moon’s torch.

My island is not large. It measures just thirty metres in length and fifteen metres in width – size enough for my existence. Occasionally, when a storm builds up around my island, the waves of the Pacific Ocean, beach and retreat, but my island remains stable and calm; the storm always pulls away and is gone quickly.

Birds come and say hello – gulls of cream and white; rainbow parakeets, and curlews, stop on by during their long journey north and south every six months. They tell me of a hideous world beyond the sea, of wars, of conflict, of selfishness. They ask if I have any messages for the world. I never do

ARTWORK:

Island by Andy Burnett. 2023. Acrylic on canvas, Private Collection. Image used with permission of the artist.

ENTRY 2

GIRL BY THE WINDOW by Brian Bold

I am quite famous really. I’ve featured in many exhibitions and adverts but you probably wouldn’t recognise me.

I’m not unattractive, a slim 5ft 8ins, extensively curved. Age 26, currently blonde and normally garmented in the style of the art student I’m trying to be.

My fame comes from being the Signature Model for one of the leading digital artists, Dotto. The pixel painter, he calls himself. I don’t think I’ve ever appeared in his creations in one piece. He likes to use just bits of me, and today it’s my foot. I’m not sure which one; I’ve got to have them both suitably prepared. It’s probably for a shoe ad, or maybe a fetish magazine, I never get to know beforehand. He says this might influence my attitude. He wants to be the creator and says having me naked avoids clothes complicating his shots. For £200 a session, I don’t question him.

Appearing piecemeal has its benefits. At least my mother doesn’t get to see me exposed. I haven’t told her about my modelling. She just knows about my standard Art School stuff.

Though sometimes, I feel I’d like to be pictured a full nude, be recognised, get some acclaim. It doesn’t impress people telling them that my thigh is on a Harley Davison or my hand on a toilet cleaner. Even if my breasts are exposed they aren’t recognisable to those who might know them - a select few I hasten to add - after Dotto has done his pixelating.

It's eleven o'clock in the morning and I'm in my chair by the window. Dotto insists I pose in natural light. When the wind gusts the aroma of baking bread comes from the bakers along the street. Briefly, it camouflages the stale smell of cigarettes and alcohol that hangs around the flat.

I’ve switched on the PC and webcam and logged onto the net. There’s nothing happening at the moment but I can see myself in the drop-down window. I pretend I don’t recognise the woman with the ginger wig, and I presume others won’t either.

There’s a buzz from the PC and the virtual room is open. Dotto’s on-line and I’ve become his exclusive view. I have to be submissive, bending and twisting to his command. I can hear the lens on the webcam turning as he’s zooming over me and, I assume, on my shoes. He wants images of them from every damn angle. He loads them into his Photoshop software, or whatever, rearranges my pixels, increases my colour balance and pastes my dots on a fictional landcape.

At least it’s still warm and I’m getting the full heat of the sun here. I could watch the screen just like Dotto but I’m daydreaming, thinking of sketching in the country, visits to galleries and meals in fine restaurants. Only a few minutes more and I can afford those treats. All the time, I persuade myself this is the modern way to be a muse.

ARTWORK:

Edward Hopper, Eleven AM, 1926,

https://www.si.edu/object/eleven-am%3Ahmsg_66.2504

ENTRY 3

WAITING by Kay Hall

As she came out of the cottage, Mary saw her granddaughter Maggie, waiting by the gate again. Mary’s brow furrowed, and she started to nibble her littlest fingernail. She was worried, and she’d never been able to grow out of this childhood habit, despite her over sixty summers.

Samuel, her husband, heard her sigh, and looked up from the patch of ground he was digging for a crop of potatoes. His back was aching; he’d been working in the garden for hours; it was time for his break.

‘What’s up, love?’ he asked softly. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve nearly finished… a quick sit down and a mug of ale and I’ll be as right as rain and ready to start planting. We’ll not starve.’

‘It’s not that I’m worried about, Samuel dearest. You’ve always been the bestest husband.’

She smiled briefly, before her face settled into a frown once more.

‘So, what is it my dear?’

Mary nodded towards their granddaughter. ‘I’m worried about Maggie. She’s there again. Waiting... I’ve tried talking to her, but she just clams up.’

‘She’ll be eager for a glimpse of her young man Thomas, I suspect. I’ve often seen him passing by at this time of day.’

‘But do you think his intentions are honourable? He’s a stranger to the village; we know nothing about him.’

Samuel thought for a moment. ‘Well, everyone I’ve spoken to has only good words to say about him.’

Mary sighed again. ‘I suppose you’re right. But I just can’t stop worrying. And …’ her voice trailed into a whisper, ‘…her waist’s thickening… I think she might be…’

Samuel smiled. ‘Mary, my dear, and what if she is? You know the child will be loved in any case. Think back, before we wed. Remember how you would stand at the gate, hoping to see me as I walked to the fields every morning, and back again.’

It was a long time ago, but she could still remember the butterflies in her stomach when they met, the exhilaration of their first kiss, their passionate embraces. And her worry over her own thickening waistline, before they wed. He’d been a stranger too, the man who had stood by her. He stood by her still; Samuel, her first, and only love.

Mary nodded. ‘You’re right, my dearest, I’d forgotten...’ A wry smile played over her lips, as her heart lightened.

‘Come, I’ll get you that mug of ale now.’

Mary and Samuel adjourned to the cottage kitchen. As they sat, there was a knock at the door. It was Thomas, Maggie hovering nervously behind him.

‘Come in, Thomas. What can I do for you?’ Samuel asked.

Thomas swallowed, took a deep breath. ‘I’ve come to ask for your granddaughter’s hand in marriage…’ He swallowed again.

‘…she’s said yes, and we’d like to get the banns read next Sunday…’

‘Of course, my dears,’ Samuel answered, a broad smile over his face as he winked at Mary. Mary smiled. Maggie would be waiting no more.

ARTWORK:

Inspired by The Girl at the Gate by Sir George Clausen 1889

https://www.tate.org.uk/art/artworks/clausen-the-girl-at-the-gate-n01612

ENTRY 4

THE SUN KING by Chris McDermott

Louis XIV had gone completely bald by the age of 23, but no-one knew, even those within his inner circle of servants. Louis had dealt with the issue by making wigs fashionable, ‘Le nouveau cool’ as he called it. Each morning he would put on his wig before greeting the world.

But one morning, in mid-summer, the sun was beating down so hard that Louis knew he had to act. Checking that no-one was about, he went out on to his royal balcony to remove his wig and enjoy the sun. He had only been there a short time when his most trusted servant, Rene, came to attend to his majesty, forgetting to knock before he entered.

What greeted Rene was the back of a shining, reddening pate, perched like a globe on the top of a pair of royal shoulders. Shocked, Rene blurted out, ‘The sun’, before the startled King spun round to meet the eyes of his unexpected intruder. In that split second, and despite the heat of the day, Rene was cool enough to say, ‘Your great majesty, you shine on us all like the sun’.

In spite of his fury at his secret having been discovered, the King recognised the impact that such a statement could make. That moment of quick-wittedness had saved Rene from possible execution and created a legend that has crossed the barriers of time.

‘You recognise that I have been created by God to rule over you all. You have understood my prowess, my power, my presence. From now on you shall refer to me as ‘‘Le Roi Soleil’, ‘The Sun King,’’ announced Louis, as Rene humbly promised to tell no-one of the truth regarding the King’s baldness.

‘Oh, your majesty,’ said Rene, ‘You are indeed a genius. No-one else here on Planet Earth would have the imagination to create such a name for himself. But your deep modesty doth make all your servants humble,’ he said on bended knee.

Louis smiled, before putting on his high heels, which were fashionable for men at the time. ‘Even commoners recognise my true genius,’ he thought.

‘Do you have some powder for my royal visage?’ he asked, and Rene duly obliged.

‘You are so handsome, your majesty,’ came the reply.

‘This is the way the world should be,’ reflected the King.

Later that day, Louis XIV addressed his subjects, announcing his new title.

‘From now on you are all to refer to me as ‘‘The Sun King’,’ he told the assembled throng, and that name has remained to this day.

But only a few know the real truth, that the Sun King received his title because a humble servant had been unable to see properly because the King’s shining pate had blinded him, just as the King was blind to his own arrogance and historians blind to the real story of how Louis XIV got his name.

We say ‘merci’ because things are so different for the privileged few today.

Or are they?

ARTWORK:

Hyacinthe Rigaud, Portrait of Louis XIV, 1701.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Portrait_of_Louis_XIV

ENTRY 5

IT'S YOU by Sumi Watters

She appeared in a dream. Winsome, wholesome, ethereal.

She appeared in a dream, but I know she is real. My rational brain could never conjure a creature so lovely.

I must find her.

My family—How they laugh when I speak of her. ‘Son, for a man of science, your head is in the clouds,’ Father once said.

My colleagues at the Institute tease. ‘I suppose you’re hoping for a chemical reaction or an intense electrical charge when your eyes meet hers from across a smoky room? Haha.’

The joke’s on them. I wouldn’t be caught dead in a smoky room.

And my friends … . Who has time for friends?

Over the years, they’ve all tried to steer me towards others. Exceptional young women with charming smiles, maternal urges, and intellects to rival mine. Women who would make a fine wife. For another man.

She appeared in a dream. She is real. I will find her.

‘Will you be gracing us at the Christmas party this year, Professor?’ Rachel asks hopefully. She’s never given up. Not in the five years since she’s been my lab assistant. ‘It’s going to be a banger. Frank from Infectious Diseases is bringing his karaoke machine.’

I button up my coat and shake my head. The thought of Frank belting his rendition of She Blinded Me with Science or some other banal 80s number is enough to turn my stomach. Besides, everyone at the office will bring a date—life partners or flavours of the month. ‘Maybe next year,’ I say.

‘You say that every year,’ she says, pouting her thin lips.

‘Well, perhaps things will be different next year.’

The 6:24 train is more crowded than usual. I stand against the door, my face mere inches from the glass pane, a 1.2 meter-wide petri dish harbouring myriad germs of unknown origins. The train lurches when it crosses the Ara River overpass. I lose my footing and tumble forward; my forehead presses against the filthy glass. That’s when I see her. Gazing up at the stars from the river bus below.

I’m miles from home, but I must be there to meet her on the off chance she disembarks at the next terminus. I have to be there. I’ve searched for far too long.

When the doors hiss open, I push through the crowd on the platform, clamber up the narrow stairs, and sprint towards the gates. I turn on my heel to get my bearings out on the unfamiliar street. Shimmering lights reflect on ripples along the river downhill from where I stand. In the distance, I see the river bus pull up to the dock.

I run. Like I’ve never run before.

As I peruse the faces of her fellow passengers emerging from the bus, my mind races. What if I’ve missed her? What if I’m wrong?

An electric charge runs through me when my fingertips brush against another’s.

I turn around.

Her eyes meet mine.

‘It’s you,’ she says. ‘It’s you.’

ARTWORK:

The River Bus

ENTRY 6

MARRIED LIFE by Susan Bennett

‘1, 2, 3, how many more are we expecting?’ she asked her husband as he passed her with a bottle of his finest red.

‘Just one more dear. I will collect you when Hendrick arrives and we can all go into dinner – after they have seen our portrait’.

‘Is that why you wouldn’t let me change out of this dress, and why you are still wearing your big hat?’

‘Yes dear. I wanted them to see how well the artist captured our finery. These four men are my most important clients and I need to impress them with my good taste’.

Shortly afterwards all four men were shown into the main reception room, where Giovanna was waiting, and her husband, with a little flourish, unveiled the painting. They expressed their pleasure and joked that they must have been paying him too much, but they complimented their host and hostess on their fashion choice. Hendrick enquired as to when the baby was due much to Giovanna’s exasperation, as she was yet to conceive. She let her husband explain that his wife had gathered up the material of her green dress as she walked into the room and the artist had asked her to pose like that so that he could show the fine wool lining.

Thankfully the smell of roast goose drew the men into the dining room, and soon she heard deep voices rumbling as they clinked their glasses. Giovanna could finally escape to her room to remove her statement dress and have her meal in private. She finished her dinner with one of the costly oranges that her husband had insisted were in the portrait.

When their guests had left Giovanna took the opportunity to ask ‘why did our portrait show us in the bedroom, our inner sanctum?’

‘I wanted to show that we were a stylish couple. That our room is well lit by the stylish bronze chandelier, and that we even have a fine mirror in this secluded room. Your little dog seems to approve. No one will think us as the poorer relative when they see this portrait!’

Giovanna sighed and retreated to her boudoir. Why was it that men were such show-offs, she wondered. At least he had chosen her when she came of marriageable age before her distant country cousin had a chance to formally express his interest. All her prayers had been answered when this wealthy merchant unexpectedly asked for her hand, and now she had a quality of life she had never imagined.

[Little did the couple know that their portrait would become one of the most famous and intriguing paintings in the world and can now be found on public display in the National Gallery of London. (The Arnolfini Portrait by Jan van Eyck, 1423)]

ARTWORK:

Jan Van Eyck, The Arnolfini Portrait (or The Arnolfini Wedding, The Arnolfini Marriage, the Portrait of Giovanni Arnolfini and his Wife), 1434, The National Gallery. London.

https://www.nationalgallery.org.uk/paintings/jan-van-eyck-the-arnolfini-portrait

ENTRY 7

THE MILKMAN by Mike Lansdown

It had been a long night at the end of another long week. The sirens had been on more than they had been off and the southern horizon appeared to be constantly welcoming the rising sun: the fires blazed, and London burned.

“When will it ever end, Fred?”

“I’ve told you before, Mabel; it’ll end when those buggers stop dropping their flaming bombs and nae a moment sooner.”

“And when will that be, Fred?”

“Who knows, hen, who knows? Here, tae your tea, then try to get some sleep.”

Fred added a splash of milk and a half teaspoon of sugar, then handed the cup and saucer to his wife.

“Ta Fred. Where would I be without you?”

“And y’can have my ration, love. I’m sweet enough without.”

“Well, you are a sweetie! And where would we be without you brave milkmen? Out in all weathers, picking your way through the rubble. I don’t know.”

“Och, it’s nothing, hen, and we’ve all got tae do our bit.”

Outside, the distant rumbling rolled north to Fred and Mabel’s Barnet semi. Fred lifted the blind a half-inch and peered through the blackness, five or six miles to the East End and the London Docks.

“They’re really copping it tonight, poor blighters.” He turned and shook his head sadly. “Just thank the Lord we’re here, and not there.”

Mabel sipped her tea and placed it on the bedside table, then took a deep breath before speaking.

“And what about your family, Fred? They’re not too far from Glasgow, you say.”

Fred fixed her with an icy stare and put his cup down hard, tea slopping into the saucer.

“What have I told you? I’ve nothing to do with them now, and I haven’t heard a bliddy peep from them since afore the war! They kicked me oot, so that’s it as far as I’m concerned. I dinnae wanna know!”

“I’m sorry Fred, it’s just that I worry-”

“Aye. Well. There’s no need to, not on my behalf at least. You stay here. I’m just going to check on the shelter,” he said curtly, slamming the bedroom door.

The sound of bombing intensified and over London searchlights formed a silver lattice as they scanned the pitch-black dome of the sky. As the minutes passed, Mabel slipped further down the bed, finally pulling the pink candlewick cover over her head.

“I’m frightened, Fred,” she whispered into the void, “I’m frightened...”

The door of the shelter creaks open, and Mabel appears, her dressing gown clutched to her throat. Fred is sitting, his back towards her, a faint light illuminating the simple bunks and wooden table.

“Fred? What on earth are you doing?”

He turns slowly, one ear hidden by the headset.

“It’s Freidrich, actually,” he says coldly, then aims the Luger at her chest.

“Poor Mabel, mein Liebling, remember what I always told you? ‘It’s war. And the first victim of war is…?’”

“Truth,” says Mabel, faintly, as her lifeless body slumps to the floor.

ENTRY 8

THREE by Louise Welland

12th April

Dear Sarah

As you know, it is coming up to the anniversary of the loss of our dearly loved son James. You are invited to join us at St. Francis Church (Wendover) on 12th May to celebrate his short life. Please arrive at 3pm. There will be a short service, followed by afternoon tea.

We hope you can join us.

Lucy and Julian.

***

13th May

Dear Julian and Lucy

I just wanted to thank you for allowing us to be part of your celebration of James’s life yesterday.

We are still heartbroken for you all, and it was wonderful to be able to share the day and the beautiful happy memories with you.

The service was wonderful, full of joy yet sadness at the same time. Who would have imagined that a three year old child could have inspired and touched so many lives? The nurses who cared for him were so lovely, and what a beautiful tribute they gave to both James and other patients that they have cared for. I hope that the collection raised a good donation to the hospital, they are so deserving, and their dedication is obvious to see.

The most poignant moment for us was the balloon release. Three beautiful bright blue balloons, one for each year of James’s life. I watched and watched as they flew upwards dancing towards the sun. Even through my tears I could see that they were travelling far into the distance, towards the heavens. I couldn’t bear to take my eyes away until they had totally disappeared from view.

I’m sure that if James is watching down on you, he will be happy and proud of such a beautiful gesture showing just how much love he is being sent.

It is difficult to know just what to say to comfort you, but please know that you are in our thoughts every day, and in our prayers every night.

With much love

Sarah

***

16th May

Dear Editor

A few days ago, I lost my beautiful baby dapple-grey foal, Rascal.

He was so wanted and so loved by his horse and his human families. We watched the miracle of him being born and his first wobbly footsteps. We watched as he learned to feed from his mother. Then we watched as he took his last painful breath. We had no idea what had caused this tragedy, until the vet rang me this morning.

On the outside, Rascal looked totally healthy and in excellent condition. When they operated on him it was a different story. The found a deflated blue balloon, with string and message still attached. It was caught in Rascal’s intestines; he didn’t stand a chance. We believe that the balloon had landed in the horse’s water trough.

Rascal was three weeks old, and that very morning had taken his first drink of water. Water is meant to be life giving, but not in this case. In this instance the natural curiosity of a young foal killed him.

Rascal’s mother is pining, she is refusing to eat and will not be comforted. She is wandering around looking for her baby. As a family we are totally devasted.

I am hoping that you will be good enough to publish this letter, in the hope that it may educate people. I wouldn’t want to stop anyone from wanting to honour their family members in a public way - but urge your readers to find a safer way of showing their love. Perhaps planting a tree, or lighting candles. Maybe hold an event or raise money for a charity in their memory.

I just pray that Rascal’s life and death will help to raise awareness, and that this letter will make at least one person realise the dangers of releasing balloons.

I enclose a photograph of our beautiful Rascal with his mother. It was taken three minutes after his birth. I would be happy for you to publish the photograph with this letter.

Yours sincerely

Jodie Mercer

ENTRY 9

MEDUSA by David Elliott

1818

Theodore baulked at the stench. Paris had taught him to turn his nose, to shut out the rotten food waste and faecal debris that even the water that sluiced down the cobbled gullies to the Seine couldn’t flush away.

He shouldered his sketch book; full of the colour and texture of flesh of the deceased. With the barest of nods to the undertaker who unceremoniously slid the cadaver home and then slammed the door to the morgue cold store shut.

He needed a drink. So without ado, he transported himself to his next appointment coincidently at the Bar Henri. Two canvasses one brush.

Infront of him on the rickety table propped up with a bar mat, stood a curvaceous absinth glass. Theodore placed a slotted spoon over the rim and dropped a sugar cube into place. He then took a jug of iced water and poured it all over. The cube crumbled and dissolved, trickling down into the body of the glass to form an opalescent pool, la louche, bloomed and anis and fennel struck his nostrils.

His informant, nodded to him and sat at the table. The ex-matelot called for a more brutal Caribbean rum, which the barmaid thumped onto the table with a positive distain. ‘Pah artists!’

Several intoxicated hours later and Theodore had returned to his studio. He carefully placed his notes and sketches next to the scale model so delicately crafted by a shipwright imported from the coast for that exact purpose. The sea and sky studies painted at Le Havre; the still life of the severed head ‘borrowed’ from the lunatic asylum stood on easels; as still as a mouse. He contemplated the room. all now was ready. He could begin his opus.

***

1990

‘Come on. we don’t have to queue. I have a cunning plan.’

‘Why do we have to do the Louvre? I told you I’d rather do the Musee d’Orsay.’

‘Look buster we are on honeymoon and it is what I need to see for my dissertation.’

‘Exactly... we are on honeymoon and this is such a tourist thing to do!’

‘You know that I need to see this particular painting.’

‘More than that inconsequential waif? Or the Venus de Milo ?’

Julliane, pumped the automatic ticket booth full of Franc coins till it spat out two billets. She handed one to her new husband Mark, that rolled of the tongue rather well. New husband.

They leapfrogged the queue and charged down the escalator into the depths, beneath the huge glass pyramid. The Three Graces shot past, as they rushed, quickly coming face to face with the inconsequential waif.

‘She does have an enigmatic smile but she’s sooo small.’

‘So, lets go see something worth seeing.’

‘Look behind you.’

Mark turned and gasped at the sixteen-foot by twenty-three-foot monstrosity.

‘The raft of the Medusa. Theodore Gericault.’

A captain’s incompetence, starvation, thirst and pleading to the Brig Argus a dot in the distance filled the whole wall.

‘Wow. Now that’s a painting.’

ARTWORK:

Théodore Géricault, The Raft of the Medusa, 1818-19. Louvre, Paris

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Raft_of_the_Medusa

ENTRY 10

ANGEL OF THE NORTH by Liz Shaw

My arms are not raised up high in anger or in defiance. They do not bend and curve to cherish and protect. Nor do they hang in despair or in defeat. They stretch out wide, wider than I am tall, parallel to the earth. My arms are winged and spread to catch the wind. I am genderless and ageless. My face is emotionless and featureless. Like my sister in the South, with her scales and sword of justice held aloft, I was created blind to your existence, deaf to your voices. I watch unheeding as your traffic and trains stream below me.

Born in a blast furnace, forged in steel, I am municipal, magnificent, agnostic, secular, classless.

And yet. And yet. You leave your hopes, fears and prayers at my feet. Slips of paper sealed and curled within my iron ribs. Nearby trees hang heavy with your memorials, charms, ribbons and fairy lights. I have become a road-side shrine, an altar, a minaret, a bridge of sighs, a wailing wall.

You conceived me, you built me, you know this. So why do you believe that I have power over your fate? Do you hope to see me spark to life and stride the fields like a modern-day Prometheus, take flight to intercede with the Gods on your behalf?

My feet are planted in a landscape once blighted by industry. I feel the souls of the colliers who mined the seams beneath me. I feel their heaving lungs and their black coal-ingrained scars. Your messages seep into me with their raw emotions of hope, grief, love and hate.

And now the sounds of my structure will be added to your voices. Your memories and stories will be forever entwined with the rush of the wind as it wails around me. The eerie groans of my metal body expanding and contracting with the summer heat and the winter ice will be added to birdsong and the sound of children playing at my feet. The gentle rustle of the leaves will blend with the tinkle of your votive offerings. A soundscape will be created of what I have come to mean to you.

Are you hoping to wear away at my cold rusting heart? If your wishes came true, if you were wealthy, loved, cured, avenged, then what? The deep scars of your life will fade in time as will your life itself. I cannot bring them back, the people who you mourn and grieve. They will not return from death.

Better to stand tall and strong with arms wide open to accept your future, to feel your feet firmly planted in history, to gaze ahead to the distant twinkling northern city lights.

ENTRY 11

OVERHEARD IN THE BAR by Andrea Neidle

I was sitting at the bar like always.

This chap was staring at me and I gave him the eye right back. I let him buy me a drink or two. One thing led to another and before I knew it he was escorting me out of the door – well carrying me more like. And we didn’t walk anywhere. Not he. He held up his arm and a cab pulled up just like that.

I fancied him alright but I’ve also got to earn my living. We went back to his home. And what a place he had. I’ve never seen anything like that apartment of his. It was more like a house. So many rooms. Pictures on every wall. Beautiful damask curtains and brocades. The carpets were so thick I was almost too scared to walk for fear of spoiling them with me shoes.

And then this guy, Edward was his name, drew me a bath. Steaming hot fragrant water. Flowers everywhere. Even in the bathroom. Oh and such fluffy white towels.

And the bed. Such fine sheets. You know I could’ve fallen asleep straight away but of course I had to thank him first didn’t I for his hospitality.

Then this morning his manservant – well of course he would have one wouldn’t he – made me coffee and served me the most delicious, freshest croissants I have ever tasted.

Then Ed dropped a bombshell. He told me he was an artist. I didn’t know what he meant at first. He paints pictures, he said and he would like to paint mine. He told me he had this idea that he’d been playing around with for some time. He wanted to paint the portraits of a group of friends sitting on the grass. But he wanted this picture to be different from all the normal portraits. Everyone, he said, was going to be dressed except for one. Me. He wanted me to be in his picture and he wanted me to be naked! I thought he was joking at first. I want to defy convention he said. I want to shock people. And this picture, he said, would hang in the finest galleries in France and all over the world.

Will you do it for me, he said. Well, after all he’d done for me, how could I say no?

And I did it. We all went to the park at lunchtime with a picnic. I undressed and sat there quite calmly with my feet in his friend’s lap.

By way of a thank you Edward said he’s going to treat me to dinner out every Saturday night for a year. I could hardly say no to that, could I?

Ed said he’s going to work on the painting in his studio over the next few weeks. I’m happy to play along though I can’t see anyone else ever wanting to see it – can you?

ARTWORK:

Édouard Manet, Le Déjeuner sur l'herbe, 1863, Musée d'Orsay, Paris.

https://www.musee-orsay.fr/fr/oeuvres/le-dejeuner-sur-lherbe-904

ENTRY 12

LA ROBE VERTE by Helen Nicell

‘The green dress’ she thought ‘Why did I wear the green dress?’

Taking the dress from the wardrobe the night before, Isabelle had hung it from the picture rail. She’d hardly slept, seeing the silhouette against the wall and remembering the last time she had worn the velvet frock. Should she wear something more suitable tomorrow? Was it an interview, was it a reprimand or maybe something else? She’d received the orders at Bletchley Park in the afternoon, report to an address in Whitehall at 10.00am the following morning.

Memories of making the dress with her sister Emeline replayed throughout the night. Both so excited at the cast-off pub curtains, using photos in magazines to style the latest fashion. They created puff sleeves with pointed cuffs, a round neck and the ruched middle. “Très chic!” they laughed, reverting to their mother’s language. The dress drew a lot of compliments at the American Air Base dance.

Isabelle arrived promptly in Whitehall the next morning. A middle-aged woman, wearing a tweed skirt and brown laced shoes, had shown her into this sparse room.

“Commander Jones will be with you shortly.” said the woman, shutting the door.

Isabelle sat on the wooden chair next to the window. ‘The green dress was a mistake’ she thought again.

She glanced at the red nail polish at the end of her fingertips, doing a dance all of their own, she tried to steady her hands. Spinning the green band on her finger, she remembered his words as he gave her the ring,

“A perfect match to your dress sweetheart. You will have something more beautiful when I return.”

The wall clock ticking was the only thing breaking the silence, she’d been waiting almost twenty minutes now. There was activity in the rooms above her, distant doors opening and closing. But nobody came. ‘The jinxed green dress’ the old feelings started again. Something awful was going to happen. Her palms were clammy, she smoothed down the front of her dress, regaining her composure. Her hazel eyes set with an empty look, not giving away any of her sadness.

The apple coloured curtains, lifted by a gust as the door opened, billowed out and distorted her view.

“Miss Johnson? Miss Isabelle Johnson? I’m Commander Jones of the American Military.”

Standing, Isabelle nodded, not trusting her legs to hold her.

“Thank you for coming here today Ma’am. Please sit down Miss, you look so pale.”

Isabelle sank to the chair.

“I understand you are carrying out important work to assist in the war effort. I also believe you were, or rather, are engaged to Corporal Swain and have been made aware that he was reported missing in action?”

Isabelle nodded, fighting back the tears.

“You speak fluent French?”

“Yes” she whispered.

“We have received intelligence that Swain may be alive and in hiding. Would you be willing to work undercover to assist us in attempting to locate Corporal Swain?”

Isabelle’s eyes lit up, “Mais oui. L’operation robe verte.”

ARTWORK:

Ethel Leontine Gabain, The Green Dress, Bushey Museum and Art Gallery

https://artuk.org/discover/artworks/the-green-dress-16227