Saturday Story: The Ghost Writer

 

The trouble with lying is that, eventually, one reaches a point of exhaustion, and then, once that point is reached, it becomes easier for the truth to emerge.

Friday Fable: Hay fever

The entire office was buzzing with the news of the recent engagements. Although seemingly unrelated, Daniel proposed to Dani and Andy had asked Cat, and there was much flashing of manicures and sparklers followed by guffaws and back slaps. The women and some of the queens all compared the rings they had seen to what their eventual band would look like if ever they were to be asked, if Mr Right ever got around to asking or if they finally were to meet Mr Right. The men quietly sweated into their undershirts because it is common knowledge that, once wedding fever takes hold, there is little else that their significant others would be willing to talk or think about while dropping some very heavy hints along the lines of thinking about the future and needing some advance warning to have their nails manicured (because who wants to have unsightly cuticles for the close-up of the ring, and Cat really should have known better than to let everyone see her hangnail).


It was on days like this that working remotely really appealed to Fionnuala (Fynn for short; she'd tried Finn for a while but soon tired of explaining that she was indeed a representative of the fairer sex). The only way she heard about anything that went down in HQ was by following the various chat groups in the company's internal messenger service. Working remotely meant that she could lurk and virtually eavesdrop without really having to contribute. Every so often she'd drop a comment just to see the astonished replies that betrayed how her co-workers had almost forgotten she was there. Today they'd uploaded pictures of the happy couples and their respective jewels, and she'd offered her congratulations. In one of the side chats, Brenda and Carine were debating rose gold over white gold (white gold was classier but rose gold was cooler), and in another Kristen and Rabakah (a posh pronunciation of Rebecca, Fynn joked to herself) were trading dating app secrets such as how to get more likes, when and how often to answer DMs (direct messages, duh) and which filters to avoid on Insta.

Thursday Tale: Skipping Generations

 

"Oh, I am so happy; I just want to hug the whole world!"

She watched the cursor blink, as though goading her to reply to the message with something supportive, kind or encouraging. The truth is that she didn't bloody feel like it.

Short Story Sunday: On the Windowsill

The hour of the party drew nearer, and she had not progressed beyond the salutation of her email. She kept staring at the daffodils bobbing out of their vases like excited puppies.

Short Story Sunday: Crossing Mrs Hardy

I dreaded speaking to Mrs Hardy. She never seemed to be able to look at any of my ideas without lacerating it with her red pen and telling me what she would have done or what she would have liked to see. There was so much riding on this writing project – my hopes for getting into Oxford depended on her approval. It was an open secret that because her son was the head of the faculty, he took all recommendations from her seriously. So far, I had failed to impress her. She didn’t like me. I had no idea why. I tried everything: handing in drafts for her to proof, asking for extra reading homework, volunteering as a peer tutor. Nothing seemed to change her opinion of me. She’d just look at me over the top of her spectacles with that smarmy expression at the corners of her mouth while she decimated yet another of my attempts.

“Ma’am? I have a question about our assignment.”

She was erasing poetry analysis from the whiteboard. “Speak.”

I looked at her back. “I have an idea I wanted to discuss with you. For question three? I’m thinking of submitting an essay on horses in World War I.”

Her erasing complete, she turned, her eyes on her desk. “Go on.” She began stacking papers and neatening the piles of books.

“I think I’d like to look at the equestrian side of war, ma’am. Ten million horses died and I wonder how the war would have been different without them.”

“What a pointless essay topic. If they didn’t use horses then it probably would’ve been oxen, mules or donkeys. Have you given this any thought at all, Eliza?”

She never looked at me. Not once. Bitch. “Ma’am, I think it would make for an interesting...”
“You keep saying ‘I think’, but there’s little evidence to support that. Honestly, you overestimate your chances of being a success in life unless you start.”

I began to shake and felt my nails piercing the leather of my binder. “With all due respect, I think you are wrong.”

That did it. She looked up, her stacked tyre neck tinged red.

“Might I remind you that my status in this school and in the intellectual community at large suggests otherwise?” Froth gathered on her lip.

“Yes, because you bully them.” The words were out before I could stop myself. “You’re not brilliant and people are too afraid to tell you so. You squash dreams and limit potential so that you can keep telling yourself that you’re the best.” Sweat gathered along my hairline and I was sure my binder looked as though it’d been scratched by a werewolf.

Two hard lines appeared in the tyre neck. “You insolent child. Who do you think you are to insult me? You’ve been alive for five minutes and suddenly you’re an expert on what makes good writing.” She shook her head at me. “You have no say here. Get out and come back with an apology and a better topic.”

“No. This topic is the one I want.”

She reached for a pile of papers on her desk and fanned through them before retrieving one. “‘Dear Mr Hardy’ – that’s the name of the faculty head at Oxford – ‘I should like to bring to your attention the application of Miss Eliza Frostrup. Miss Frostrup is, in my opinion, an excellent candidate for Oxford...’” She paused to see my reaction and then crumpled up the letter. The paper fell into her wastebasket along with my dreams.

“Come back with an apology and another topic.”

On Beginning

Beginnings are dramatic. Sometimes they're scary or ordinary. Perhaps there are moments when we don't know that we've begun until we're halfway there.

If you're anything like me, you're happiest in the middle of an experience: that's when the pressure is off and you've pretty much found your rhythm.

I am at the beginning of an exciting new chapter in my life. I've reached a point where I have two choices: either continue with my quotidian existence or take a risk on something which is both my passion and greatest desire. This blog, this beginning, equates to my first steps on the path of the latter choice. And what I hope to do here is write.

Writing is my comfort, my safe space, my expression. It allows me to have fun with words, play with characters and to live other lives and speak other ideas. Writing takes me places I have never been; it thrusts me into the vibrancy of my humanity and the authenticity and vulnerability of the human experience. Writing gives me a sense of purpose, of excitement, of deliberately creating a contribution to the world.

So, by way of introduction, here is a piece of my writing. And -- dare I believe it? -- this blog has officially begun.

Drawers

I left a chest of drawers behind

when the gods created me from

asteroid dust.  I remember the

oaken Babel with its brass handles.

Towards the top are smaller drawers,

a struggle to open and difficult to

reach; basal drawers slip ajar

and fit a grown-up inside them.

The inscriptions on the drawers

categorise my personality.

Near the top is one called Love,

the fullest drawer of my chest.

At our feet you’ll see Lessons:

it grows every day.  Friendship,

Family, and Fear – a block to my left.

My Hopes and Regrets are

disproportionate: that will change.

Look at Childhood, and observe those

labelled Secrets, Enthusiasm and Wit.

Some drawers are jammed,

but, the only drawer I’ll open to

share with you is marked Poetry.

In it is the workshop of my Self, where

words for this page are amassed.