Misconceptions of what makes a good Wife.

We worked hard, determined I was, not to be ‘A Carried Wife.’ More worried about other’s perceptions, I got it wrong. Because he was a lawyer, earning big, didn’t mean people would expect me to slack. Engrossed in that thought, I took my eye of of the ‘us.’
Not seeing his palor, hearing that cough. I failed as his wife. Each night I fell into bed shattered, not fit for the part. Worked, unaware of his appointments. I didn’t hold his hand, wipe his head. Here I am now, clutching a cold yellowed hand, wishing … it wasn’t his deathbed.

Written in response to the picture prompt set at Charli’s Carrot ranch. Thank you for having me back. If you want to give her challenges a go, press the horse 🐎

Please comment I love to talk.

The Ebb Of Summer.

As I captured this mornings buds on the bush by the door. I was reminded of this writing from last year. After a tweak or two I repost it. A throwback Thursday; as relevant as it was back then. The last of my roses, still beautiful to me … even as they fade. Like the Ebb of Summer.

I shiver, pull my wrap tight about my shoulders. Evenings have drawn in; become sharper. Dew-laden mornings make my toes curl and the chill pinch my nose. Only two weeks ago we sat in the garden … way past ten. We sipped wine and listened to the night. We had no inclination to close the bi-fold doors, or to shut out the last of the warmth. Instead we jabbered about everything and nothing, until the light crept below the moon and purpled the sky.

As I flinch from the chill I know, my pyjama clad gardening this year has passed. Nor will we eat breakfast outside amongst the birdsong. I already miss him … reading aloud from the papers; while crunching toast. Tomorrow I will put flip-flops, sleeveless tops, shorts and sunscreens away. But today I will savour the last rays that warm my bones. The last of the peach Roses next to the door.

As the sun sits low in the morning sky; I see the Autumnal work to be done. The dust motes that dance in its lowered beam across the table, the streaks on glass that summer hadn’t seen. The Rhubarb’s last crumble waiting to be cooked. I see the rake that needs an oil before leaves hit its Tyne’s. There are beds to be made warmer. A sigh leaves my lips as I turn to go in. A season departs as I rouse another in its wake.

Thoughts of frosty mornings, warming soups, logs crackle and muddy boots. Rosy faces, knitted hats, harvest suppers, coconut mats. Shepherds pie served with peas. Suppers by the fire on cushioned knees.

Cuddles on the sofa under fluffy throws. Hear the crackle of a fire, taste hot chocolate laced with Brandy while warming our toes. Heathers pop their heads up to view Autumn’s arrival. Hedgehogs scurry past along the fence-line; like dryer balls, they roll up when the Cat flicks its tail. A memory beckons and Autumn has taken the Ebb of Summer away.

Could you taste the Autumn? Leave me a comment or two … just to please me.

Five Tasty Buttons.

Five chocolate buttons were the undoing of her.

There, on the saucer adjacent to her empty mug sat the five caramel filled white chocolate covered buttons. The child watched the door for Mothers return. A hand slithered surreptitiously towards the willow patterned saucer and grabbed. The woman snatched and stuffed them into her dribbling maw. A cacophony followed, the child shrieked, her Mother pointed … police were called.

Because of those innocuous chocolate delicacies … she finds herself in the Church hall attending addicts anonymous.

Gingerly she stood screwing her finger round a tail of escaped hair, “My name is Josy” she lied; they all did, “I am addicted to … she mumbled … dregs.” Her cheeks took on a shade of beetroot. “I have to eat or drink what others leave.” You could hear a fly attempting to kill its self against the Gothic Window, bump, bump it went.

Her breathy speak and wet palms were proof of her struggle. Tom the resident peeper began the rousing clap, congratulating Josy for managing to admit the shameful addiction, the first step is always the most difficult.

At the end of the share session, they mingled over tea and chocolate covered hobnobs. She didn’t accept a cup or plate. Tom thought it was her resistance technique. So quietly he lay his palm on her shoulder and nodded. Josy, startled, shrugged him away and scowled. People eventually said their goodbyes and drifted off. Except for one … Josy, she hid behind a pillar until they had gone.

The weekly rag ran with the headlines … Local woman detained for psychiatric assessment, The lady who so far remains unnamed had to be forcibly restrained after being found under a table in the Church of Mary and Saint Ethlereds hall. Beside her, saliva smeared plates and cups scattered willy-nilly across the newly laid oak floor. The distraught rector had to be sedated at the scene. Through his sobs, he told of being unceremoniously grabbed by the leg; pulled beneath trestles and forced to endure such an abomination. “She was sucking on my fingers licking my palms for the longest time; it was awful.” He cried.

The Jane Doe was held under section 136 of the mental health act for 72 hours to be assessed as to her competency to stand trial, this being her second arrest in as many weeks.

I love to hear your thoughts, it helps me hone my craft. Play along, tell me in the comments what other fabricated addictions could the people have … in this church hall.

Around The Garden.

I set the garden up first thing before the crow dropped feathers and the frogs sang. Tables, chairs, chests of drawers. Grandad’s binoculars and his upright teatime chair, the one with a wooden hinged cup tray at the arm. I piled and propped things to replicate rooms; polished and loved them one last time. I could almost hear them; Popa and Mama … discussing how this was; as needs must. By the time Chorley arrived with the mail, the lawn was an outdoor house. Trestle’s replicated the kitchen, displaying the silver with the willow- patterned service piled high. Sun crept between the Ash and sparkled the Copper kettles and pans. Grandma’s embroidery samplers, linens and her handmade lace filled the aged trousseau box, beside the Chaise longue … under the Apple tree. A copper slipper-bath nestled next to the herb garden. Laundered towels I draped on the oak airer; besides the pond.

By half-past three all was sold … except for the large mirror Mama used in her dressing room when I was three. It reflected more than Stupley’s walled garden. Memories of ball gowns, pirouettes and tiara’s, stopped me from accepting a bid. Satisfied, I took a last look around.

My stream of consciousness began with a word containing round and ended with it also as the prompt suggested. Thanks again Linda Hill for the opportunity. Press “HERE” to join the fun or read some wonderful posts.

Let me know what you think! I am thick skinned and love to chat. 😉

The Colour is Christmas.

Inside the tiny house that is nestled in the suburbs of London Emma looked up at her Mum. “Mummy the sunshine in my picture, ” she said pointing to the drawing on the fridge door “it is sunshine colour, isn’t it … And the grass with Daddy and Mummy, it is grass colour isn’t it?” A frown sat on her face as she pursed her lips; waiting for an answer. Mary crouched beside her daughter and explained about colour and name, she drew her a colour chart while her little brother straddled Mary’s hip. Mary told her the colours of their clothes and the cushions on the sofa. During the day they sang colour songs and told rainbow stories, drew rainbows to add to the already crowded fridge door. Emma and Tom Carpenter, went to bed that night tired and happy, knowing that tomorrow would be Christmas.

On Christmas morning Emma skipped into the Kitchen. “What colour is today mummy?” She lifted her head, wearing a huge smile Mary looked at the five-year-old who was clutching pencils and pursing her lips. Mary’s pride shone from her face, as she wiped her forehead with the back of her flour encrusted hand and bent to her daughter’s height. “What colour do you think it is?” Emma screwed her brow and as if contemplating the world and left the room.

Mary wiggled and hummed to the music on the radio as she cut the last sausage roll and wiped her hands on the tea towel stuck in her waistband. Throughout the house, the air was thick with the scent of pastry and cinnamon and the sounds of happiness. The question forgot in the excitement of the day.

Tom crawled up the hall chasing his new train giggling as he went.
Dad burst through the front door stamped his feet and brushed a light dusting of snow from his hair. Joe’s nose was red and he rubbed his hands briskly to warm them.”Kisses” he called as he smacked his lips and waved mistletoe above his head.”Kisses I want kisses” he roared. Emma and Tom rushed to be lifted in a sloppy lip smacking embrace.
There were lanterns, twinkling lights and paper decorations dangling from every space in the little house. Carols rang out from the kitchen radio and sparks snapped against the guard on their open fire.
Dropping everything Mary ran to join Joe for a kiss; Singing as she went. Flour covered kisses ended in chuckling and tickles. With all four sat breathlessly on the floor. Emma looked up into her Mothers eyes and quietly said
” I think the colour is Christmas mummy”.

This is a story I wrote last year revamped, extended and wearing its very best party frock. I hope you like it and it gives you all you need to be put you firmly in the seasonal mood.

Do leave me a comment I love to chat.

For The Longest Moment.

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For the longest moment the world stopped, the air became thick and the branch creaked. I watched the legs twitch as urine ran freely from the bottom of his trousers, there was a splash from the shoe that flipped and bounced off the lawn.

Not a sound could be heard inside our home, until the tick and click of the boiler the quiet roar that still makes me flinch today. I didn’t play with dolls after that, sudden noises made me jump, made Mummy cry and our house sad. That one thing dirtied our garden and spoiled our beautiful tree. My childhood was no more, that single day changed our world, and stole my Dad.

This is a hard subject to cover and I did not undertake it lightly. It is a fictional story and any likeness to any actuality is coincidental. Thanks to the daily prompt for leaving the word “Tree. press tree to read many more great stories. I first wrote this for a literary competition one that asked you to write the uncomfortable, this was short listed and I think worth another look.

Have you tackled a difficult piece of fiction? do you tread where your heart would never wish to go? Was this believable? Please leave a comment I will respond at speed, thank you and remember it is a story. 😇💘💕