The Imperfect Couple

“Oh my God, oh my God” she screamed.

I ran from the kitchen into the hall thinking she must have had an accident or something. Instead I found her with an open envelope in one hand and what looked like an invitation card in the other.

“What on earth’s going on”, I asked.

“We’ve only reached the final” she shrieked.

I was used to Lauren talking in riddles but did get frustrated at times when she assumed I knew what she was on about.

“Got to the final of what”?

“Ah, I hadn’t mentioned it because I thought nothing would come of it.  I entered us in “the perfect couple competition” several months ago.  I’ve been filling in forms, sending photos and even footage from our holiday last year”.

“And this”, she said waving the card around, “is our invitation to Brayford Manor for the finals.  It’s an overnight stay, all expenses paid for us and three other couples.

“Unbelievable”, I thought, most of the time I need a crystal ball to unravel what she is talking about and now she’s entered us in this competition without telling me anything about it.  If the judges are looking for compatibility, they were going to be sadly disappointed.

“When is it”, I asked.

“Friday week, so we have plenty of time to brush up on what answers we should give.  I assume they’ll be asking us things like, what our favourite foods are, favourite holiday destinations, you know the sort of thing”.

“Well that should be a real walk in the park, its in the bag if that’s all they want to know”.

She totally missed the sarcasm in my voice.

Last week her favourite food was Italian, the week before it was Indian.  Then there were the diet fads, first it was the low carb diet followed by the Atkins diet, at the moment the 5:2 diet is favourite.  What chance do I have of answering anything correctly.

There was an upside though, a free night of luxury at Brayford Manor sounds good.  This is a place which is well out of our price range so it will be nice, to, instead of seeing how the other half live, to be the “other half” if only for one night.

The day finally arrived, Lauren had been on a high ever since the invitation arrived and I must admit to feeling excited about the trip.

We arrived at the Manor about 6.00pm and were escorted to our room.  After the long drive, the first thing we did was to take advantage of the luxury en suite bathroom where it seemed every type of toiletry was available.  Lauren turned into an eight year old.

“Look at this, look at these” she was picking up soap, shower cream, talc , eau de toilette, these were in sets of lavender, rose and magnolia, each of course being her favourite.  She decided on the Lavender fragrance.

I chose Aramis.

When we were ready, we were lead into a small reception hall where champagne had been laid on and we were introduced to the other three couples, all of us feeling very nervous.

Not sure about the others, but the champagne certainly gave me courage and my nerves seemed to disappear.

The judges were to speak to each couple as a couple and then individually after which we were to be served dinner.

The judges would give their decision about 10.00pm.

There were four prizes up for grabs, the first being a whopping £10,000, the second £5,000 and the third £2,500.  As a consolation prize the fourth couple would receive a weekend break at Brayford Manor.

We were the third couple to go in front of the judges. 

The first question, “if you won first prize what would you spend the money on”?

“A new car”.

“Put it towards the wedding”.

We both answered simultaneously.  You can probably guess which one of us gave which answer.

I looked at Lauren, “what wedding”, I whispered, I just couldn’t help myself.  I thought as the perfect couple, we didn’t need a wedding.

It all went downhill after that, each of the answers we gave couldn’t have been more diverse.

I was asked to leave the room whilst Lauren remained, I couldn’t bear to think of what replies she would come up with and just hoped the judges would be able to understand her.

My turn came and all I could do was answer truthfully, being absolutely certain that our interview as a couple had scuppered any chance of us winning or even coming third.  Any way the fourth prize of a weekend at Brayford Manor wasn’t to be sneezed at, that would do me.

The dinner provided was nothing short of a banquet, both Lauren and I tucked in, the other three couples pushed each course around on their plates, hardly eating anything.

After the meal there was about thirty minutes to spare before we all faced the judges again.

Although it was a bit chilly, Lauren and I decided to have a wander outside and found ourselves in a beautiful courtyard, although it was 2013, it could have been three hundred years earlier. The setting was perfect, the Manor had been built in the 18^th century and it was clear that the courtyard today remained exactly as it was all those years ago. The whole area was illuminated by a bright white moon shining from a clear night sky.

All too soon, we were called back by the judges.  In good competition tradition, the prizes were awarded in reverse order.

We waited expectantly to hear our names but they weren’t our names called our, nor were the next.

Finally, “it gives me great pleasure to present the first prize of £10,000 to Lauren and Paul” the senior judge said.

We stood rooted to the spot, the scream came suddenly at the same time as Lauren launched herself into my arms, how I managed to remain standing upright I’ve no idea.

The judge continued, “each couple presented great merit in their relationships but to be a Perfect Couple there has to be complete honesty and this sometimes means when honesty by one is not always popular with the other.  Lauren and Paul gave honest answers even when a number of these were at total odds to each other.  The body language exhibited by each of them clearly showed their love”.

“The Perfect Couple doesn’t mean they always have to agree with each other but living in harmony whilst not having the same views gains special merit and makes for a strong relationship”.

The remainder of the evening past in a dream but I was wide awake when I asked Lauren to marry me.  Her reply, “oh, I thought we might buy a new car”!

By Christine Williamson.

Prompt words: Champagne  Courtyard  Envelope  Moon  Soap

They Would Never Meet Again

She was so nervous, clinging on to Rob’s arm as they walked into the consultant’s room.  Mr Lee was sat waiting for them.  Jenny thought she would be able to tell from the look on his face whether the news was good or bad but in fact his face was an unreadable mask.

“Please sit down”, he said pleasantly giving nothing away in the tone of his voice, “as you know we’ve carried out tests to see if the bone marrow transplant has been successful, we were concerned that the donor wasn’t an exact match but it was near enough for us to go ahead taking into consideration how weak Emma was becoming.  We did explain that this drastically reduced the success rate....”

Jenny couldn’t stand any more, interrupting with “just tell us, has it worked?”

Mr Lee’s gaze dropped to his desk, he looked up again and there was no mistaking the sympathy in his eyes.

“I’m sorry, tests carried out show that the cancerous cells are increasing rapidly which indicates that the transplant has not been successful”.

“So what happens now”? it was the first time Rob had spoken.

Mr Lee looked uncomfortable, “it might be best if you take her home, let her enjoy her own surroundings, when the time comes, we can arrange for a children’s hospice where you can stay too and where you know help and support will be on hand 24 hours.

“You mean that’s it”, choked Jenny, “we’ve just got to watch her die without doing anything else?”

“If there was anything, please be assured we would be doing it.  Emma’s Leukemia hasn’t responded to any of the usual treatments, the transplant was the last resort”.

“You can go on to the ward, you’ll see that although she is very weak, she is her usual cheerful self.  There will be occasions when she feels better and you must make the most of these”.

“But what are we to tell her?”

“Ah, that is something only you can decide.  I can give you some guidance leaflets specially written for parents in your circumstances.  Please don’t think you need to quote from the texts written, but the information might help with the words you need”.

It was two zombie-like parents who walked on to Emma’s ward, rictus grins fixed on their faces.

“Mum, dad”, she exclaimed, “are we going home now?”

“Come on sweetheart, lets get your things together”, said Rob.

A wheelchair transported Emma to the car, she had tried walking but her legs were very weak and she faltered after a few steps.

Back home she was made comfortable on the settee watching her favourite DVDs.

Whilst Rob took Emma’s things upstairs, Jenny went into the kitchen to make a drink.

“It’ll be alright”, Jenny looked around, “I’ll watch over her”, it was a mere whisper, the words spoken were clear but there was nobody there.

“I’m going mad”, thought Jenny, not really surprised considering the stress she was under.

She carried the tea tray into the lounge with orange for Emma who was beaming all over her face.

“Why the big grin?” asked Rob who had just walked into the room, doing his best to sound as normal as possible.

“Nanna Grace was here”.

Rob and Jenny stared at each other and then at Emma.

“Oh darling”, said Jenny, “you know nanna Grace went to heaven and whilst we believe she’s happy there, you know we can’t see her anymore”.

“Yes mum, she is happy and she says I’ll be happy too, she says I won’t have to take any more of those horrible tablets that make me feel sick and no more hospital visits, isn’t that great?”

Jenny dashed out of the room choking back a sob.  Her mother had passed away just over a year ago after a very short illness.  Her sudden death had been a terrible shock and came at a time when Emma had first started to show signs of her illness so Jenny felt she hadn’t grieved for her mother as she should have done.

She shivered suddenly as a cool breath of air touched her cheek, again came the whisper, “she won’t be alone, I can’t take away the pain of your loss but I can be with my grand daughter when she leaves you”.

Jenny looked towards the kitchen window where there was a very faint shimmering light, the light seemed to become more solid before finally fading.

Jenny took a deep breath and went back into the lounge, Emma had dropped off to sleep. Jenny cosied up to her, held her hand and stroked her head where tufts of hair were still showing, the rest of the flaxen curls having fallen out.

The next few week seemed to pass in a blur, Emma’s good days were becoming fewer and fewer and she was getting weaker and weaker.

Jenny persuaded Rob that they could cope at home, she didn’t want Emma to go into the children’s hospice.  Rob thought it might help if they did but Rob didn’t know of the help and support Jenny was getting from his late mother-in-law.

It was early one Saturday evening when Emma quietly and peacefully closed her eyes for the last time.

“What was she saying when she closed her eyes” asked Rob, “I’m sure she said something”.

Jenny held Rob’s hand tight and swallowing back her tears, “I’m coming nanna Grace is what she said”.

Hundreds of people, relatives, school friends, neighbours and even people who only knew the family slightly attended the funeral a week later.

Rob held Jenny close to him as they stood by the small grave.  Jenny’s eyes drifted to the foot of the grave, there was the shadowy figure which had been by her side for the last few weeks.  Through her tears Jenny managed the briefest of smiles in acknowledgement and in that moment she knew that they would never meet again.

By Christine Williamson.

Final sentence prompt: They would never meet again.

A Soldier's Crisis

He’s lying on his back staring up at the ceiling seeing nothing, well nothing of the room he is in.

The door opens, “come on Glen, time for your session with Doc Patterson”.

Glen turns over as if he hasn’t heard.

The orderly walks over, sinks down on his hunkers at the side of the bed, “come on lad, you’ve been doing really well, you know doc said you’d have good days and bad days, trust me with the help of these sessions you’ll start to have more good days than bad days, I should know, I’ve been there”.

Glen looked at him, eyes blank, he was back there, guns firing, shells dropping, he curled into a tight ball, if he kept very still they might just miss him.

The scream came suddenly, “Mike, Mike”, but Mike couldn’t answer, bubbles of blood spewing like a fountain came from a wide gash in his chest where the piece of metal shrapnel had torn it open. At this point Glen began thrashing about on the bed, banging his head against the headboard.

The orderly, pressed the security buzzer  which brought help within seconds.  An injection was administered and Glen immediately became calm, drifting into a dreamless sleep.

The following day Glen had his therapy session with Doc Patterson.  These usually followed the same pattern.

He started to describe how he and Mike were on patrol at the road block, a safety measure, in theory to stop radicals entering the village and thus keeping the villagers safe.  The field ‘phone rang, “I’ll get it”, Glen had said.  He hadn’t even reached the ‘phone when the shell hit.  He was knocked to the ground by the force of the explosion and suffered a broken leg, some cracked ribs, cuts and bruises.  He hadn’t realised this at the time, his eyes focused on where Mike lay on his back.  Glen dragged himself the short distance and sees his comrade in arms who over the months had become a close friend.

It was at this point Glen’s narrative ended, he was rocking backwards and forwards in the chair, both arms cradling his head.

“It’s ok, it’s ok”, said Doc Patterson, he was used to this happening at the point where Glen reached his dying friend.

He knew the young man continually relived the moment in his head but struggled to speak of the devastation which had met his eyes.  Added to this, he also knew Glen had massive guilt issues.  If Mike had gone to answer the ‘phone, he would still be alive.  Whether these thoughts extend to the fact that it would have been him laying with his chest ripped open, Doc Patterson had not yet been able to ascertain.

Glen had been in the unit for six weeks, he had initially been sectioned following a spree of destruction.  This had started in his own home and spread to his garden and that of his neighbour where he had destroyed anything and everything in sight.  He’d finished up barricading himself in the neighbours garden shed shouting for everyone to get down and take cover.

His girlfriend had pleaded with him to come out, that it would be ok.

“Liar, liar,” he’d shouted, “its a trap”, for he hadn’t heard his girlfriend’s voice but the voice of the enemy telling him to give himself up.

His state of mind when first admitted to the unit changed from uncontrollable violence, believing all the staff were conspirators spying for the enemy, to complete lethargy when he refused to move from his bed.

Over the weeks with the aid of medication which they were now trying to reduce and sessions with Doc Patterson who tried to get him to open up and speak of the carnage he had witnessed whilst at the same time discussing the guilt he felt.

Strange as it may sound, Glen calmed down when music was played, he had a CD player in his room and would listen to classical music, something he would never have dreamed of listening to in the past.

Doc Patterson discovered from his family that he had a talent for art so artists materials were provided.

At first the paintings produced were a crude attempt at showing the devastation caused by explosions with red paint being splattered haphazardly over the whole canvas.  Gradually the paintings were becoming less angry, the subject matter was still the same but there was a calmer feel to the paintings even though his latest attempt was showing a body lying close to a road block against a back drop of Afghanistan’s rugged mountains.

Doc Patterson was optimistic that he was getting close to Glen speaking about what this painting depicted.

Glen had come to accept that he was suffering from PTSD and whilst he couldn’t blot  out what had happened, he realised the visions he kept seeing were visions and he at least was safe.  There were times though when he felt he had no right to feel safe.

When these dark thoughts entered his head, he put on a CD which had the power to calm his troubled thoughts.

Both men knew it would be a long haul but with Doc Patterson and his teams help Glen was determined to conquer his demons and this determination had been boosted by the fact that two of his paintings were to be exhibited, only locally, but to Glen it could have been the Tate.

The paintings were of scenes in Afghanistan , not the war torn parts that are normally seen but the stark strange rugged beauty of its unforgiving landscape.

By Christine Williamson.

Prompt Words: Bubbles  Buzzer  Liar  Phone  Spree

Martha

She sits, in the darkness, haunting the corner of the room where the shadows dance. The fire flickers and illuminates her pale face. She is beautiful, as ever; timeless, forever young, but her large dark eyes appear increasingly fuller of a silent sorrow, which she carries around upon her strained shoulders.


‘Martha.’


I call her name, but my love does not reply, or indeed acknowledge that she heard me, perhaps she didn’t, as her eyes gaze forward, in another intense daydream.


‘Martha.’


I call again, but I am interrupted by the domineering chimes of the grandfather clock. It breaks the spell; Martha has returned to the room and her sweet face turns to face me.


‘It is time, my love,’ I tell her gently.


She nods, her eyes are now void of emotion and it is difficult to tell what she is thinking. I don’t understand her disinterest, my body yearns for the blood of another. The tips of my sharp fangs can almost taste the scarlet nectar, I crave the metallic red, the pierced skin of a slender human neck. But, not her. It’s as though she is giving up, surrendering and collecting dust. It seems as though she doesn’t enjoy it any longer. I hope this isn’t true.


I race out into the liberating, cold night, the chill of the wind is exhilarating as it runs through my hair. I tightly clasp hold of Martha’s hand, taking her with me, showing her that this is us, what we do, and what we love. She seems to remember, at least for a short while, as her eyes twinkle with that irresistible glimpse of danger and thirst, and her fangs are visible underneath that luscious, soft top lip of hers.


A pretty maiden takes a wrong turn, though the right one for me as I grab her and take away her being. I hadn’t fed for a few days, and I was ravenous, I quite drained the young lady, finally satisfying my appetite.


‘Your turn, my love,’ I say.


I hold her hand again and we head, quietly and furtively, towards the town, full of sleeping residents and the odd intoxicated reveller, clumsily snaking their way back home, smelling of beer, which infiltrates our sensitive nostrils.


Martha peers into the windows of the tiny slum houses, she counts the people, so crowded into the small, oppressive rooms. Then, she stops, suddenly, and I don’t recognise her facial expression.


‘What is it, my dear?’ I ask, rushing to her side at once.


She points to a child; a little girl, she is fast asleep, her hair is a mass of ginger ringlets, spread out, over the pillow which rests her head.


‘I want her,’ cries Martha, in a whisper containing so much longing and pain that I am speechless at her request.


‘A child, I yearn for a child, Alistair. Please?’


She begs me as blood-red tears soak her perfect face.


‘Martha, no, not a child, you cannot think to change a child, this would be no life for her.’


I attempt to pull Martha away from the window, but I see that she is bewitched by the sleeping infant; her rosebud mouth twitches slightly as she dreams and Martha cannot take her eyes off her.


‘I could be her mother,’ Martha pleads.


‘No, my love, no.’


But Martha doesn’t hear my words, she opens the window and she begins to step inside.


‘Martha, don’t,’ I say, to her back.


She turns around, one last time, and looks right into my eyes.


‘Forgive me,’ she asks, and then she is gone.



By Laura Huntley.


Word Prompts - #ringlets #grandfather #spell

Twitch

When he saw his wife running around the farm, chasing the animals, and eating them, the raw meat, as they dropped to the ground, he couldn’t move or speak. It had been a frantic, sickening hour of bleating, squawking; pained animal cries. It had rained feathers and bloody insides. His feet had refused to budge, all he could do was watch, in pure horror, as his normally timid and demure wife had gone completely mad. When she’d turned on the kids, he’d leaped into action then, desperately attempting to shield them and keep her away, as her new-found lust for violence exploded, and their shrill cries echoed around the farmyard, their eyes wide with a cruel mixture of terror and confusion, fear and a rapidly failing sense of maternal love. She’d been too ferocious, even for him. She’d got to them in the end, all four of them. That’s why he was holding the blood-splattered teddy bear; some kind of shitty memento of his dead family.

He’d fetched the gun, last used on an unfortunate, deformed new-born calf. He’d shot his wife in the head, he’d had to. After that, the silence suffocated him and he couldn’t stand to view the horrific scene any longer, but his hands trembled too much to drive, and his head couldn’t remember where he’d left the keys for the truck. And, so, he waited, by the roadside, hoping for someone to come along and take him away from the massacre and the madness. He’d brought the gun, the radio had blared alarming words at him as he’d left: infection, brain, epidemic, attacks, shoot them in the head, shoot them in the head, shoot them in the head. The broadcasted words fired out and were loaded with panic. They had quickly turned into screams, and then the muffled, choking sounds of death, and then the frenzied sound of a most disturbing hunger; ripping, chewing and swallowing. Finally, the fuzzy off-air sound reigned as the radio show abruptly ended.

But, here came a truck tearing up the sandy path, a blessed familiar red one, belonging to Hank from the next farm up. He felt intense relief as it screeched to a halt beside him.

‘Thank God,’ he whispered as Hank opened the door.

He was about to get in, but there was a definite look of crazy in Hank’s old eyes, and blood dripped from the corner of his emotionless lips. There was part of someone’s leg on his lap, it still had a shoe on the end of it. Slowly, cautiously, with twitching fingers, he reached for his gun.

By Laura Huntley.

Word Prompts: Teddy Bear, Farmyard, Demure.

Always The Bridesmaid.

He didn’t want to go out on such a night but he’d stopped having a choice long ago. Instinctively, he put on his shoes, sitting on the cold doorstep. It was a beast of a night, he threw on his coat, but he was soaked as soon as he’d reached his garden gate. The heavens had opened, the sky leaked the sort of rain that whipped your face with a ferocity. He could see the town up ahead, as that was illuminated by the amber blur of streetlights. Further on, he could see the lighthouses, one for each pier, flashing, reassuring, and guiding the late night boats to safety through the hungry harbour mouth. But he couldn’t see here, in the middle of nowhere, surrounded my rolling hills, long fields, rocky paths and dense woodland. Here, he could scarcely see in front of his own feet.

He slid the torch out of his pocket. He was okay for now, on the level ground, every bump in the road was etched into his memory, but when he needed to ascend the steep, winding stairs, leading up to the cliff-top church, he would need it then.

It was a dangerous route, particularly at this time of night and in this sort of relentless, heavy downfall. Mist began to follow him, to chase him up those rickety stairs. People had died here; walkers, climbers, depressed individuals who had chosen their own sorrowful fate. Every couple of weeks, the bright yellow helicopter growled over the pretty coastal town, bringing the residents down, as they knew nobody ever survived. He had to be careful, he couldn’t risk falling, she needed him.

She was all he ever thought about, night and day he pictured that cherubic face, the large pale blue eyes, the dimpled cheeks, the honey blonde curls and the smile which portrayed equal amounts of innocence and mischief. He hurried now, clinging to the side of the cliff as he made his way up. It would have been a beautiful view in the daylight, as heather became sand and sand became sea. But it was almost midnight now, and all his eyes could make out was the vast, shimmering blackness of the sea, like a billowing, gigantic dark blanket.

Almost there, he switched on the torch and tried to keep a steady pace, despite the biting ache in his calves now as he began the sharp incline. He saw the looming silhouette of the old church and the sprawl of ancient, broken and wonky gravestones which appeared as though they had been randomly dropped from above, scattering and stabbing into the grass.

There. He’d done it. He shoved the torch back into his pocket and strode up the gravel path and around the side of the building to the small door at the back, which was always left open, a tiny crack, but he slipped inside with ease. It was cold and dark, the same as every other night. He lit a few candles and seated himself on the front pew, and waited for her. He counted the seconds in a whisper.

‘One, two …’

There she was, walking down the aisle of the church in her, now dated, bridesmaid dress, posy of flowers in hand. She looked so content, so thrilled and utterly proud of herself. He smiled at her earnest little walk and he wept into his palms. She would have been twenty-eight this year, yet she remains six years old, haunting this place by night, playing out her favourite and most treasured memory, over and over again. He tries to pretend that he can’t see through her, his ghostly daughter, but he can. Until she fades with the morning sun, and he starts the walk back home.

By Laura Huntley.

Word Prompts: He didn’t want to go out on such a night ...

Just A Drop

At 9.05pm, he tentatively opens the bottle of whisky. It’s fine, he’ll just have a drop or two.

By 11.32pm, the bottle is half empty and he’s started smoking again.

‘Just one more glass before bed,’ he says to himself loudly.

Just gone midnight, he sobs into the cushion on the tattered sofa, missing his dead wife, desperate to have one last embrace.

1.04am, his crystal tumbler is smashed into hundreds of pieces, against the wall. Tears blur his vision. The drink heats his temper. The bottle taunts him, blames him, and chastises him.

1.48am, the whisky has gone, his legs won’t move and he wets his trousers. He stares at the empty bottle, ashamed, but far too drunk to feel it properly. It is the last thing he sees as he drifts into sleep on the living room floor, to dream jumbled dreams of life and death, of wedding days and funerals.

By Laura Huntley.

Word Prompt: Bottle of Whisky.

Who we are ...

We are a small bunch of people who love to write. We meet once every four weeks, at Woodseats Library, in Sheffield. We use a mix of word, image and opening sentence prompts to get us going. Here, you can find a selection of our work. Our next meeting is Tuesday, 11th of December 10am-11am.