Self Control

She tugged the elastic on her wrist once again as she stopped the car. A deep sigh as she focussed and made her decision. Her coat felt tight even as she released the seat belt and that caused a frown.

They said it was always worst at the start, but from experience she knew every day was the worst until the new habits bedded in. She flipped the band again, this time so hard she winced. Like it was the penance she had to serve already. The punishment before the fact, she laughed.

She felt the neon drawing her in through the half empty lot in the late afternoon gloom. As her hand touched the door handle, she questioned herself again. She reflected that even such awareness was a small positive.

He recognised her with a smile to put her at her ease as she pulled out her money. She looked around to make sure no one was looking and satisfied that the rain was keeping her secret, smiled a little nervous smile back at him.

“The usual?”

For a moment there, she might have chosen differently. She had that split second of control that might change her life.

“Yes.”

She missed her opportunity in that knee-jerk response. For just a moment, she had her buyer’s remorse.

“No can do.”

She looked at him in puzzlement. How could he do this to her?

“I’m right out.”

She scanned him closely and was met with two upturned palms of apology.

“Nothing showed up this morning.”

As she turned to leave, she reflected. The rain; the half-empty parking lot; the drive from home. They were all sign. She had been saved by out-of-stock pain au raisin.

She never wanted it anyway. Twang that elastic. Run from the coffee shop.

Diet back on.

So Irresistable

His earthy fragrance draws me to him once more. I cannot resist it. Ever.

I must be close for it to envelop me. To take me to his places and my places together. The innocent moments in my recall. The thoughts that are only forever mine. The thoughts that will die with me.

I remember his nectar on a beach in Texas. And on a funfair in Oklahoma. I seek it out every night in his bed. I eat with it; dance with it and belong in it.

Forever, as far as I know. But who am I to decide?

A Sense of Smell

It was the smell that caught my attention first, that wet Saturday afternoon. I’d caught her out by arriving early and she was still drying her hair.

The sweet-shop smell of her shampoo still fresh in her warm hair as she came to the door.

Over the years, I’ve rarely experienced that delicate bouquet, and when I have, a vision of her, half-dressed in her bedroom when we were together.

And I smile inside a smile I secretly hold dear within me, all these years later.

And then, I chose to end it all, after all we went through.

Sunrise, Sunset

The sunsets were dazzling, every day that I was with her. It was as though all the difficulties in the world faded from our perception on those days and we were filled with only delight.

When she left, on that cold November evening, that life ended, seemingly forever for me. I found a life that was only bleak and numbing. A life that has remained that way for the last 17 years and counting.

Until yesterday, when she returned at last. Even though she was broken, I could work with that and, once more, the sun rose each morning.

His Father’s Son

The ring of empty seats that surrounded him was an indication not only of the nits he was supposed to have in his wild red hair, but of how they all shunned everything about him. He had gotten used to being ignored by the others. It wasn’t the first time he’d experienced ridicule and loneliness in a classroom.

As the fire alarm bells rang, Miss Dufour put in motion the well-rehearsed drill. It was not Friday at 11 am after all, it was Tuesday.

They didn’t do drills on Tuesdays.

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On The Other Side

She could hear the seagulls crying. Or were they laughing?

They could hear Gilly crying. Or was she laughing?

It’s all made up, for each of us, man or beast, by our subtle perceptions. We make the most of what our senses tell us. That deciphering of sensory stimuli that protects us through our lives, sometimes helpfully; sometimes not.

In Gilly’s mind, she was wearied of seeing both sides. One for her reality and one for the individual clients she worked with every day.

Her mind was made up. She would taste the dark side. She would cross over.

Living in the Moment

The problem with going through life one day at a time, each in order, was that Michael had no past pleasures to enjoy, nor any hope for the future.

Gurus might tell you that this is the only way to live – ‘in the moment’ – but he found it isolating and shallow. He found no depth to his life.

It was without worry and without regret, of course, but it was without the magical moments of memories.

It provided no possibilities that his world could improve and that there might, sometime, somewhere out there, be other humankind left.

Repayment Time

When I was born, the only person who knew, other than my mother, was the Earl.

He kept us well fed and hidden in the warm barn for several days, respite from the worst of the winter.

I was ever grateful and if he hadn’t, I would not be at the auction. I would not be buying that very barn, as well as the Hall and the grounds. I would not be able to repay the old gent by clearing his debt.

I would never have survived to let him stay there, warm, for the rest of his days.

Blood Bank

As I left the donor centre, annoyance rose inside me. So many people had told me that a white car was not going to work and how I’d argued. But here I was, spitting on a clean handkerchief and wiping another mark off the door panel. As I stood, I sawthe something under my windshield wiper. A shiny white card, with writing on it.

Like all bits of advertising that get stuck on my car in car parks, my first instinct was to throw it away. For some reason this time I didn’t, but placed it on the passenger seat.

As I would find out later, it was one of those decisions where your life shifts in an instant.

 

 

Thank you for giving blood today.
As a regular donor,
we want to specially honour you.
Come along here at 10 tonight,
and go to the first floor

I’d always been very proud that I committed to donating, so this was wonderful. I would be recognised for my contributions at last. I had no doubts that I would be there.

Over the rest of my day, I forgot about the date I had that evening. Work was busy and it was not until I packed my bag and saw the card that I thought about it again.

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The Value of Short Stories

Previously published at  The Writer’s Fun Zone by Beth Barany

As a business writer, I came to writing articles late in life. Eventually, from 2004 to 2013, I wrote over 400 and posted them out there in the world — on my own blogs; on other peoples’ websites, and on article banks. They have been read by over 630,000 people (at the time of writing). If you’re so inclined, you can read them here

During that time, I wrote – and then stashed away – a little anecdotal book about Leadership, called “Conversations with Juliet” and published it in 2015, as an e-book and a real book on Amazon.

I don’t know when it occurred to me, but at some point, I realized that as much as I enjoyed writing for business, my articles and books were often built around incidents or people that I came across. I did not need to be burdened by the context of business anymore. I did not need to show off my perception or ideas by writing for business, as I had enough work already.

So I began to toy with writing fiction.

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