Tag: short story

Stage fright

Silence rang across the room, ricocheting off the jelled heads and cloaked shoulders. As Mary scanned the room, too fast to linger on any particular eyes, a dry lump swelled in her throat.

Urgently, she gulped it down.

She knew how important her audience was, and as she struggled to make a connection with the faces looking back at her with piercing judgemental looks, she knew they were anxious to hear her speak.

Only she wasn’t ready.

She tightened the grip on her chair, stretching the sheen of skin that clothed her knuckles. Despite the wintry breeze that raged beyond, beads of perspiration lined up on her forehead.

They were all looking.

Will she stumble? Forget her lines?

Breakdown and cry?

No way. She wouldn’t cry. She was an adult now, and this wasn’t her first grade school play. This was real life.

They waited patiently. Impressive, she reminded herself, considering she’d arrived ten minutes late. Though with straight faces and pursed lips, they’d welcomed her with the respect she deserved.

And it’s only fair that she spoke. Now.

She took a deep breath and, “Let the proceedings begin,” permitted the newly-appointed High Court Judge.

Normal

Henry had a perfectly fine life.

In the small river town of Carr, home to no more than 200 people, he was the only person who travelled twenty minutes to work. He was the executive accountant for a law firm in the city. And no one in his town knew anything more about what he did. He didn’t mind.

Every morning, he’d catch the same 6:55 bus that dropped him off in front of his office. And at 4:30 every evening, he’d get off at the same stop outside the cafe, enjoy a good natured conversation with anyone in the vicinity, and walk home with a cup of black coffee.

It was his thing. It was his routine.

Every Friday, he’d show up at the supermarket where he’d always say hello to everyone. He’d get a bottle of wine, wave cheerily at the casher, and head back home.

That was Henry. Mysterious and nice to be around.

“It’s unfortunate he died.”

“They say it was a heart attack.”

The whole town whispered condolences at his funeral. He didn’t have any relatives that they knew of, and Henry’s employer in the city didn’t either. So the town mayor had taken it upon himself to organise the ceremony.

No one would miss Henry, of course. He was a simple, exotic young fellow who lived and then died without a fuss.

But when he didn’t show up the next few days, the swans and squirrels knew something was amiss. Henry had never missed a walk by the lake before.

The woman who knitted

woman knitting

“Oh, it’s just nice to get away from all the noise at home. You know?” Her eyebrows had curved up while her fingers paused in mid air. I’d nodded politely even though I couldn’t possibly fathom why someone would go to the library every day just so they can knit. 

I’d just started working in the library when I met her for the first time. The curious stares never perturbed her, and neither did the incessant shuffling of feet.

People came and went. Since only a handful of them regularly spent time reading, the knitting lady soon became an icon you couldn’t miss.

In the following years, I spent occasions wondering what drove her away from home and into the library. I mean, I’d go when I wanted a book. Or to work or to attend a meeting. Theories constantly whirled my head—perhaps her neighbours were loud and rowdy, I mused turning on my cassette player at home one night. Or maybe her husband was a messy gardener leaving dirt marks all around the house to annoy her. Or perhaps, I wondered remembering my own grandparents, her grandkids were a pain in the ass and a torment to the ears.

But I never asked her.

“I should’ve,” I wrote in my diary the night after her funeral.

It wasn’t people that’d driven her way from home. It was lack there of.

Photo credit: Imani on Unsplash.

Scars

She had an unmistakeable spring in her step. It was a new town and a new life, yes but she would make it work. She was nothing if not adaptive.

She slipped into her new sweater, pulled on the boots, buckled up the coat, adjusted the hat, and walked out the door. Winter was fast approaching.

Hello, world! Her soul yelled. Show me what you got!

As if they’d heard, two boys came up from hind her. With watermelon heads and noses the size of grapes,”Yo!” one of them called out. A large cap sat on his head while chains dangled round his collar and fake tattoos plastered his temple. He leaned forwards, shoving her nostrils with the nauseating scent of long-packaged cigarettes, “you got cash?”

Before she could react, the other boy grabbed her backpack and shook her. Hard. Stumbling on the walkway, she mutely watched him fish her wallet and grab her buffer money. 

He thrust the bag at her, while tattoo face ruffled her hair, “Good girl!” He leered before walking off.

It was now an old town and accustomed life. But she still doesn’t look at a man’s eye without shivering within.

Walk me down the aisle

Walking down this aisle - by Lake Ginninderra in Canberra
Walking down this aisle – by Lake Ginninderra in Canberra

Dear dad,
as I walk down this aisle
with my eyes streaming
and my soul dreaming
my heart is filled with joy
with every step I take
freshness breezes through my hair
and a chillness numbs my knuckles
as I clench, I know it’s only fair
that you join me with chuckles
as twilight chases the winter noon
arm in arm, as father and child
dipping toes in a solitary lagoon
watching the sun set himself
down below in Down Under
dear dad, wish you were here
to walk with me down this aisle
as I move on to an all new home

P.S: I just relocated to Canberra, Australia, and this poem was inspired by this wonderful walkway.