Tristesse – Magpie Tales

July 27, 2014July 27, 2014freyathewriter 19 Comments

“So, Celine, the day has finally come. Are you ready?”

My heart is racing, I feel light-headed. I know it is just nerves, but I am scared.

‘Don’t be silly,’ I cajole myself sharply. ‘You don’t know what real fear is, remember that!’

Dennis puts an arm lightly around my waist, his hand resting comfortably just above my hip. My best friend, my closest confidante, it is as if he can feel my inner turmoil

“The reviews from the historical societies, the Egyptologists, the international museum curators have been unanimous, my dear. It will all be just perfect. Ah, look, the big hand is on the twelve – opening time here we come!”

The museum clock strikes sonorously above our heads, 10 deep rings of the bell. Mr Adams, the doorman, pulls open the vast mahogany doors and a sigh rushes from my lips. The crowd outside the Nile Rooms is beyond my imaginings. My first solo curating experience, my first international collaboration – what a relief that the public also wants to know about the artefacts sourced from the depths of the Hidden Pyramids. I stare at the Boy King’s statue, glowing gold in its central spotlight. I hope I look as serene as he does.

The day passes in a whirl, the museum rings with the echo of constant footfall and awed whispers. It is just as I had hoped.

I am taking a rest, leaning against a wall behind one of the vast doors separating one exhibition room from another, when it happens.

A tall, elegant man, probably in his mid sixties, strides towards me, a look of shock, surprise and disbelief mingled on his striking features. He reaches out, takes my hand and bows. “F-fraulein?” Miss Sarah Masters? Mademoiselle Elodie DuPont?”

I stare. I haven’t heard these names for so long, not since my father had decided to confess to killing my mother all those years ago. I feel weak, oh, I need to sit down, I sag against the wall.

“No,” I whisper, looking around desperately for Dennis. Where is he? “She was my mother, Sarah Masters. Who are you?”

“Was? She is.. ah, tot? Dead?”

And I realise that it’s now my turn to be the bearer of bad news. Herr Gunther Weiss needs to understand his part in my mother’s murder.

——

Here’s my latest entry to Magpie Tales. It’s a continuation of what was going to be a trilogy, then seemed to expand and take on a life of its own! Here are the four previous instalments in orderr: Croix de Guerre, Collborateur, Oubliette and Verité.

I hope you enjoy this week’s entry- and please do visit Magpie Tales for amazing poetry and prose!

Deluge – Five Sentence Fiction

July 20, 2014freyathewriter 12 Comments

The raindrops pelt my hair, my face, my arms, my hands until I am drenched.

I stand in the empty street, arms outstretched, palms turned upwards, embracing the clouds above.

I know eyes are watching me from behind nets, behind doors held slightly ajar and deep in the shadows just out of reach of the streetlight’s glare.

I know they are whispering behind hands and underneath raised eyebrows – to them I am the woman who has lost her mind with grief, for nobody sane stands in the street, in the rain, in her nightgown.

But I do – it is a relief to feel something other than the weight of profound loss – it is a relief to feel so refreshed.

Resurrected – VisDare 66

June 19, 2014freyathewriter 2 Comments

I grew up in silence, a hindrance to my parents.

The woman would stare at me. I soon learned to disappear like the morning mists.

They didn’t want me, and yet the times that I left were countered with them hunting me down.

Irony dogs me now, its reprimand fiercer than any they could ever inflict. My heart is barren and blasted and yet here I am, in charge of this child.

I don’t know who she is. We could be the only people left alive after The Burning. The land is scorched and skeleton trees pierce the white-hot sky.

Who is she?

She is terrified. I remember such a feeling.

I allow the carapace around my heart to crack. I take her small hand in mine. I am awkward, lost in my own wilderness.

“Will you look after me?”

The words fall from my lips, not hers.

——-

Here’s my latest entry into VisDare this week, the prompt run by the lovely Angela. The response came to me almost immediately – it’s a beautiful, heart-wrenching image. Please do pop over to her blog and read the other submissions – no two will be alike!