Summer – Trifextra week 72

I’m on a bit of a writing buzz today, so couldn’t resist my first entry into one of the Trifecta writing challenges – Trifextra. I’ve had my eye on this blog for a little while – it’s time to jump in!

This weekend’s Trifextra challenge is to write exactly 33 words on what summer means to the writer. Summer means many things to me, so my offering below is just one aspect.


As a late-leaving office worker, now I can enjoy my version of London in all its deserted, light-blessed glory. No crowds to dodge, just space in which to reflect on the glass-bound skyscrapers.

By Freya Writes

By Freya Writes

In a safe place

I told her not to come back. I told her – this is exactly what I said – “You must never come back here.” That’s what I told her. I didn’t feel safe.

I was terrified. I changed the locks. I checked the windows each night and every morning, just to be on the safe side, you know? I barricaded myself in. I changed my schedule, stopped walking the same way to work. I made everything different. Or rather, I tried to make it that way.

You see, there were things I couldn’t change.

I couldn’t stop what she did, how she behaved. She used to tell me that, all the time. She would say it just like that – “You can’t control me Chloe. You can’t put me in a box. You can’t file me away.” That’s what she would say.

She wasn’t neat and tidy, not like me. She was too noisy, too messy, too untidy. She scent-marked everything, like a dog.

So untidy.

I like order. It’s how my life works, how it makes sense. I like the quietness of everything in place. It keeps me calm, makes me feel safe. I like things to be clean. I like peace.

I wasn’t safe when she was around. She was always here, in every room at once. Nowhere belonged any more.

I told her not to come back, do you understand. I told her, just like that – “You must never come back here.”

She didn’t listen. She insisted on doing what she wanted to do, just like she always had done. I was very, very clear.

Now, she’s made even more of a mess. She made me. She made me make a mess. Just look, everywhere. Broken glass, shattered plates, wine, pasta, in all the wrong places.

All that mess, all that noise, all that disorder, oh it hurts so badly, it makes me cry.

I was so afraid. So, so afraid.

It hurts. It makes me cry.

That’s what she said – yes, these are the words she said to me, and she was crying too – “Look. Chloe, you’ve hurt me, you’ve really, really hurt me. It hurts so badly. Make it stop.”

That’s what she said.

I did what I was told. I’m so good at following rules and orders. I made it stop.

I made it stop.

I like things to be neat and tidy. I washed it, put it back in the drawer, in just the right place.

Everything is silent now. I shut the door to the kitchen. If I can’t see it, it isn’t there, that’s right, isn’t it? That’s what she used to tell me, when I got really stressed, when she made another mess – “Shut the door. You can’t see it. It doesn’t matter if you can’t see it.”

I’ve shut the door. She was right.

I can’t see her any more.

She won’t come back.

It’s so quiet.

Now, I am safe.

Trilby – Friday Fictioneers

Here is this week’s entry into the weekly challenge brought to us by the lovely Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Here are the rules: Use the photo as inspiration, write a hundred(ish) words – and share! Here goes my offering for this week – and I welcome your comments again!

Copyright John Nixon

Copyright John Nixon

– Trilby –

“He got so angry when I couldn’t sing in tune. He said I’d lost him the gift of trance, sir.”

“Trance? Who do these legs belong to, exactly?”

“You don’t recognise me, not all dolled up, sir?”

“Miss Trilby?”

“Yes, sir, if you please.” She fluttered her eyes – faint echoes of her stage presence. A tear slid down her cheek. “I didn’t mean to, sir. I just snapped, sir. He’s such a scary man, Mr Svengali.”

I patted her on the shoulder. “I think you mean ‘was’, Miss Trilby.”

Her answering smile haunts me, even now.


Click the blue froggy to read other writers’ offerings – and enjoy!