SKFlashes

Love, mum

The next letter arrived on a Saturday morning in June. I was on the front porch, picking up the fresh bottles the milkman had left.

The postman handed it to me with a grin, ‘There’s another one for you, son.’

I turned over the postcard and read ‘Greetings from Venice’ scrawled across it in swirly writing. A gondola sailing down the calm waters. It was sunset, and the rows of houses on either side of the canal were a burnt orange. It was a pretty postcard. Mum had probably spent some time picking it

out, making sure it was the perfect one. Pity, she didn’t do that when choosing husbands.

I walked back into the house.

Gran was in the kitchen, ‘Is that another one? Where are they now?’

‘Venice.’

This was the sixth postcard I had received from her. She always seemed happy in them. Holidays do that, don’t they? They make you forget about real life for a little while. I wonder how long that will last when they get back.

Mum has a habit of falling in love. And then out of it. This was her fourth marriage; my dad was her second attempt but that one soon ran its course. I liked number 3: Andrew. He was a dentist, and always had a lollipop for me after work. But when I was 11 they divorced.

I’m 13 now and mum’s just married Rick. ‘Slick Rick the salesman’ Grandad calls him. She went out for a new dishwasher and came home with a new boyfriend. Gran says she’s always been wild. I heard her and Grandad talking one night, just before the wedding. They sighed a lot. They always sigh when mum’s around. So do I, if I’m being honest. She has that effect on people.

I threw the postcard into a box of about a dozen others, most of them dating back to her honeymoon with Andrew. I wondered, how long will it be till she’s sending me another batch of these? I’ll probably need to invest a few more boxes.

Sleepwalking

For the last two months, Carrie’s been sleepwalking. She would rise, usually around 1am, and I would watch her from my bed on the other side of the room; her dark figure making up her bed before wandering into the bathroom across the hall. There, she would stand in the dark, scrubbing her hands red raw with mummy’s new lavender soap. Her empty eyes unblinking in the mirror.

I would ask her, ‘Carrie, what are you doing?’

Her response would be delayed. She’d stop and turn to look at me, the water gurgling down the drain behind her, ‘I have to get it off. It’s sticking to me.’

‘What is?’

‘The mud, Maddie. You should wash your hands too, or mummy’ll be mad.’

She’d then float down the stairs, as if possessed by a ghost, her feet barely touching the steps. When she reached the backdoor, that’s when I’d stop her. But tonight was odd. Something told me to let her out into the garden. I waited for Carrie to turn the key and place her bare feet on the concrete.

‘It’s over there, Maddie.’ she said, pointing to the grass.

‘What is?’

‘My secret. I buried it over there.’

We both walked over to a fresh pile of mud Carrie had been telling daddy the dog had dug up. I fell to my knees and began sifting through the dirt, my fingers becoming caked in it. There, in the hole were the carcasses of dead birds; pigeons and crows mostly. Some were more decomposed than others. And our cat, Felix, who had gone missing a week ago. I covered my nose and mouth with my elbow.

‘Maddie,’ Carrie whispered from behind me, ‘I’m sorry I hit you.’

‘What?’

As I turned around, Carrie swung a shovel at my face. Everything went black.

Trotting Roger

At 12:30pm every weekday, Roger spends 30 minutes flushing the office toilet. Like clockwork, he would rise from his desk, push his cushioned chair back into its place and stroll to the toilets, magazine tucked under his arm and whistling as he went.

Now, it never took Roger too long to finish his business. Disposing of it – that would be the tricky part. Roger would flush and flush and flush but to no avail, breaking into a sweat by the end of it. Each time worrying he would be caught.

He knows he’s being watched; with every step, her eyes burn into the back of his fleeting torso. She’d never forgive him if she found out.

Hurriedly, Roger would return to his desk, eyeing his wife who was looking at him expectantly from behind her own computer.

‘Thank you, dear. Those sandwiches you made were lovely.’

Christie’s Hell

‘Pick up the pace!’ Sounded the shrill whisper of a woman.

‘I’m trying. You try going backwards!’

‘I asked you which end you prefered!’

‘Doesn’t mean I have to be the one to walk backwards.’

‘Fine – we’ll swap.’ With a deep sigh, the two women began to rotate, the heavy load balanced between them swaying slightly.

‘Stop!’ Called the first woman again. She had a deeper, more mature voice compared to her companion. ‘It’s not going to work, we’ll just have to keep going.’

‘You did this on purpose, so you’d have an easier job.’

‘An easier job? Jesus Christ, Christie, none of this is easy!’ There was silence for a moment. ‘Christie, darling, I’m sorry for snapping. I know this is hard for you. I’m sorry I dragged you into this.’ The two stopped walking, the darkness around them shrouding the panic on their faces.

‘Come on,’ Christie replied, ‘before everyone wakes up.’

Birds chirped outside and the first signs of morning cracked through the windows.

‘How far to go?’

‘Not far. The car’s parked right out front. Once we’re in it we’re in the home stretch.’

‘I just want this over with.’

‘Me too, darling.’

The two arrived at the front door, a large, silver chain bolting it tight.

‘Here, christie, you open the door.’ Slowly, Christie put her half down and tiptoed over the wooden floor, a slight creaking rising from underfoot. ‘Quick!’

‘Erm, mum, where’s the car?’

The little colour left in her face drained completely as she stood by the staircase, her arms lodged tightly in the underarms of the man she suffocated an hour previous.

‘Jesus Christ!’

Stress – A poem

Im falling through a trapdoor.
A voice in my head 
picks at my brain,
curdles my stomach.
It pulls my hair, 
shines a torch in my face, screeching 
IS THAT EVERYTHING

I have to stop myself. 
I scrape at the walls,
boney fingers gripping for a ledge that isn’t there. 
I’m falling faster. 
I can see the rough terrain below - 
there’s no stopping me. 

Even in my final moments, 
it is not my life 
flashing before my eyes, 
the golden days of a child 
playing in the sun.
It is my to-do list. 

Sarah Keenan

What of Innocence?

That’s what you said while we walked by the sea. I didn’t know yours had been taken by a familiar shadow who stalked you through the woods. The grand, old owl your keeper; His bright eyes watching over you as your youth was tossed into a shallow grave. A great oak marks where it lies. I’m sorry. You needed me and I turned away, ignored your wails and your petrified eyes. Now I walk by the sea, alone, thinking of how you dived in. Pockets heavy with betrayal, you sunk to the bottom.

Sarah Keenan