Write...Edit...Publish February challenge -- Back of the Drawer. My #flashfiction, The Avalanche

Howdy!

January has scuttled off into history and here we are, February 2017! Un-be-liev-able! February is kick-off month for WEP (Write...Edit...Publish) where a friendly group of like-minded bloggers astound each other and random readers every second month with wit, wisdom, talent, sincerity and dexterity, depending on choice of subject.

February WEP is entitled 'Back of the Drawer'. Wide open to interpretation and genre. Everyone's welcome to have a crack at it. It's too easy. 

We accept flash fiction, non-fiction, poetry, photo essays, artwork...1,000 word limit (but who's counting?)

We offer an Amazon gift card of $10 to the winner (sorry, folks, that's all we can afford on writer's incomes) and fabulous badges to the winner, runner up and an encouragement award. These visual delights created by Olga Godim, badge-maker and cover-maker extraordinaire, can be posted on your blog to show everybody your brilliance!

As per usual, I've gone the flash fiction route. Sit back and giggle along. I guarantee you'll be reaching for the duster if you make it to the end...

All characters and events in this story are fictitious, and any resemblance to a real person is deliberate. 

The Avalanche

I’m one of those people who can’t throw anything away. You’ve seen me on telly. I'm called a "hoarder". They say I'm suffering from anxiety, depression, obsessive-compulsive disorder.

Whatever.

They don't understand that having my things around me makes me feel safe, secure, euphoric. Woooooo! But. God. I’m shaking when I remember this, but recently my husband gave away a box. Our daughter was moving out and needed some things.

I was furious.

Ranted.

Raved.

No. One. Takes. My. Stuff. Pfft!

When I came home from work, I noticed straightaway that a box was missing. How, you might ask? Well, every day I check my stuff when I leave and when I return. The coffee cups he gave away were in that bright orange box of six I bought in the sixties. The illustration on the side showed the cups were orange stonewear with lime green stripes. I’ve never opened the box, but one day I might need them.

My husband told my daughter to bring my coffee cups home.

And she did.

Ungraciously.

She’d opened them! I ran for my packing tape as soon as she was out the door.

***

Today I worked overtime at the warehouse when the fork lift driver who relieves me didn’t turn up. 

By the time I get home, I'm in a high state. My stuff’s been untended for ten hours. There’s construction in our street. My boxes will be covered in dust…again.

I drink one restorative glass of bubbly after another, loving the pretty French wine glass from a new set I just opened. My old glasses finally carked it. Well, I do like my after-work swig. But the euphoria of opening that box that was three layers down for, what, twenty years! I recall the trip to the Champagne region where I bought boxes and boxes of the glasses over my husband’s protests.

‘Rachael, Rachael, think of the excess baggage charges!’ Pfft!

He doesn't understand. I have to collect things or I’d go crazy.

Drinkies done, I wobble to the spare room vacated by my daughter and hunt for the stepladder. It’s not easy, cuz I’ve been on a spree. I have this eight by twelve space to fill. There was a linen sale in town yesterday and I went crazy seeing all those gorgeous Moroccan-styled bedspreads. 

I go to the corner where I’ve stored them and pat the boxes. My husband better not think he's giving them to our daughter. I know she doesn’t have much, but she’s not getting my stuff. Why did she have to move out anyway? 

Kids these days.

I slip my hand under my daughter’s old creaky bed and pull out the little box of drawers I hide there. These treasures got me started. My husband would rant if he found it. And my daughter hasn’t done a day’s housework in her life so no chance of her finding them. She says she can’t work in a junk house. Junk house! Youth is wasted on the young! Pfft!

I plonk down on the threadbare carpet and open my box of odds and ends right at the back of the tiniest drawer. I’m not sharing this stuff with anybody. It's mine, mine, mine.

I pull out the napkin, now falling apart, but I can still read the poem my first lover wrote me when we were celebrating Valentine’s Day at Billy Bob’s. The words don’t quite rhyme, but they still make me cry when I read them.

"Will you be my Valentine?

The answer my friend

Is blowing in the wind."

(((sniff, sniff))) I still miss Willie. He blew off in the wind shortly afterwards.

Then I find the "Dear Rachael" note from my next lover who said he’s leaving me cuz I’m not right in the head. That really hurt. Then there’s the rusty old hotel key from that dirty weekend with Krispin. I don’t know why I want to be reminded of that disaster, but that's what happens when you can’t throw anything away.

Without my stuff, I wouldn’t know who I am.

I close the lid and slide it back into the bottom drawer. My daughter’s only been gone a month and already my stuff is growing up the walls, on top of her dresser, even in her bathroom. Soon, I’ll love this room as much as I love my living room, my kitchen and my garage. Surrounded by my stuff, I’m so happy. I’m never happy in the bedroom, though, because my mean husband won’t let my stuff grow in there.

‘We’ve gotta have one room in the house where I can breathe,’ he’s always said. Just yesterday when he left for work, he waggled his finger. ‘If you ever put stuff in there, I’m outta this tip.’

It’s getting late. He should be home. Maybe he’s found the stuff I hoarded in the back of our wardrobe. I tossed out some of his old shoes and suits to make room.

Why isn’t he home?

I need to move some of my stuff off the stove so I can throw dinner together. He rolls his eyes if I haven’t got dinner on the table when he walks in.

Where could he be?

I go to the kitchen, but I’ve forgotten to dust my stuff. Back in the spare room, I pat my new boxes, then drag the stepladder into the kitchen which gets the worst of the construction dust. I move to the living room, but it’s so full of my lovely stuff I can’t quite reach the top of the pile. I stand on a tall box of wooden toys I’ve bought in case my daughter ever has children. 

Damn. 

It’s flimsy. 

Everything comes from China these days. It wobbles under me. I lurch to the side, but there’s nothing to grab except boxes. I end up horizontal under a ton of stuff with boxes raining down on me.

Plop! Thud! Flop! 

How will I ever pack them right again? Ouch. That hurt. My poor head. Probably the box of tools I’ve been hoarding for my husband in case he turns handy. Then more boxes, and more... Another bang on my head. Oh, sweet boxes, don’t do this to me.

I’m completely squashed. I’m buried in an avalanche like those poor people in Italy last week. I hurt. All over. I can’t...breathe. I’ll have to conserve oxygen until my husband comes home.

I’m drifting into unconsciousness, then a terrifying thought hits me.

‘What if he found my stuff in the bedroom?’ 

Pfft.

WORDS: 1091 - sorry, but it was so fun you didn't notice, right?

FCA

With thanks to songwriters: Chely Wright / Liz Rose, for your inspiration. And a young friend who told me the coffee cup story (her mother is a hoarder).

CLICK on the list in my sidebar to read more entries...

Thank you for reading!

Announcing two very special blogfests -- The Lost and Found blogfest...and WEP's Valentine blogfest!

Hi there!

If you've had time off blogging, welcome back! Hope your holidays were awesome! But...no easy little segue back into the fun and games that blogging offers us, no indeedy. We know this is IWSG week (and a little birdie tells me that the Anthology winners are to be announced), but some of us have been banging our heads together to come up with a welcome treat for you all. Not one, but two, blogfests for February, to make sure we get right back into the swing of things. February is historically the month of romance, so what would a February blogfest be without romance?

So, numero uno...

A special blogging event  inspired by a collaboration between Arlee Bird and Guilie Castillo-Oriard (thanks Guilie for the cute badges).   Joining these two romantics will be Elizabeth Seckman,  Yolanda Renee,  Denise Covey  and the ever-romantic (cough! cough!) Alex J Cavanaugh. 

Lost and Found:  Valentine's Edition - February 1st!

Here's the guff:

Do you remember  that special feeling of love found?   And who hasn't experienced the emotion of love lost?  Some of you might have even lost a love only to find that person later for another go around.

This challenge asks you to tell your fictional/non-fictional story about love -- lost or found -- in the first special Valentine's blogfest for the month of February.  

Your post can be a short fiction, an essay, poetry, or even a song--let your imagination run free.   Any genre is fair game, be it romance, historical fiction, memoir, fantasy or science fiction.   After all there are no limitations when it comes to love. There's no word limit, but common sense shows that short and sweet is the go!

Don't be left out!   Sign up to participate by adding your link to the list wherever you find it...it's up there in my sidebar or on any of the bloggers' sites mentioned above!

Numero due...

Most of you are familiar with WEP (Write...Edit...Publish). Yolanda and I have got it together for February and are saluting, you guessed it, Valentine's Day. (And rousing applause for Yolanda's awesome badge-making skills!) 

Now some of us love Valentine's, others hate it. Our blogfest gives you a chance to write about this 'romantic' day in whichever way you wish. 

Some ideas to get your creative juices going...maybe the angst of young love waiting for a Valentine's card from a school yard crush...the outsider who misses out and sees all her/his friends getting loads of cards (not that she's/he's worried about that)...the nasty boyfriend who texted her on Valentine's Day to break up with her...or, the husband who surprises his wife with a secret Valentine's Day trip to the place of her dreams...etc etc.

Endless possibilities.

The WEP linky will go up soon on the WEP website, as well as further information for this challenge. Posts are on the third Wednesday of the challenge month. This time it's February 17 - 19. Please consider joining us for our first challenge of 2016. There is an Amazon Gift Card of $10 for the winner. Judge yet to be confirmed.

Thank you for coming by!

Prepare to be HAUNTED. A real-life haunting in Beijing. Three Halloween blogfests.

Hello everyone!

Well, it's October which means all kinds of awesomeness. It's the month where writing prompts abound with the theme of haunting. Halloween or All Hallows Eve, isn't much of a deal in Australia, but it is gathering momentum. What better way to celebrate than to write ghostly stories, or to post stories about ghostly happenings?

I was intrigued by a story I read in a newspaper today and I'll share it with you. For those who have entered a haunting blogfest, it may give you an idea...

Chaonel No 81

It happened in 1949. The Communists had just defeated the Nationalists in the Civil War in China. Legend has it that in the rush for the losing army to evacuate to Taiwan, a high-ranking Nationalist official based in Beijing abandoned his wife, leaving her to fend for herself as the Communists marched on the city. This was a bloody time in China, perilous if you did not belong to the Communist Party. 

Understandably, the wife was terrified--it is rumoured she was a Concubine--she chose suicide over her well-founded fear of being slaughtered by the communists. She hung herself from the rafters of the three-story French-Baroque style home. 

Locals say the spirit of the spurned woman haunts the mansion to this day. With its floor-to-ceiling cobwebs and crumbling floorboards, Chaonel No 81 certainly seems like the perfect breeding ground for paranormal activity. 

"Always, people thought the house was haunted," claims Li Yonjie, who grew up in an alleyway behind Chaonel No 81. "As children we would play hide and seek in the house, but we didn't dare go inside by ourselves." Li claims the Red Guards who used the house during the Cultural Revolution got scared and left. I wonder what scared them?

Despite the building's location in the centre of Beijing where a small courtyard home sells for several millions of dollars, there are apparently no official plans to do anything with this abandoned building. The building is on the historic list, so cannot be torn down, but can be renovated. There are no prospective buyers rushing to buy the home, which may be due to the Chinese tendency to avoid all things related to death. Who wants to live in a haunted house? Not too many of us.

The local police and the Catholic diocese (the owners of the building) reject the ghost tale, claiming there is no Kuomintang official living there.

There are conflicting histories regarding the building's provenance, but the most popular is that it was built in 1910 for a French manager of the company that built the railway between Beijing and Hankou. Whatever the history, locals are convinced it is haunted, so it sits there, crumbling, unloved and abandoned, much like the Concubine who hung herself in 1949.

You know what they say...truth is stranger than fiction...

Here are three Halloween bloghops I know of. Perhaps one entry could suit all three.

First, if you would like to post something just before Halloween (October 30) you are welcome to join my Write...Edit...Publish blogfest---theme--HAUNTING. Francine Howarth is donating a Kindle book to a random WEP entry and I am donating a $10 Amazon Gift Card to the most captivating entry.

Francine Howarth is running her own Halloween blogfest, where authors, writers and readers will be TRICK or TREATING. 

Devin Berglund has her own Haunting October Blogfest. Each day she posts an image to stimulate your writing juices. Go to Devin's blog to learn more. 

You can sign up here for the WEP blogfest in my right-hand sidebar and visit the other ladies to check theirs out.

I'd like to recommend an excellent book I bought on writing ghost stories--Ghost Stories and How to Write Them by Kathleen McCurl.

Write...Edit...Publish Blogfest - MOVING ON - to Paris!

Hello everyone!

It's time for the second Write...Edit...Publish blogfest, the prompt, MOVING ON. The only rule is that stories remain around/under 1,000 words. The monthly blogfest is open to all, so watch the prompts and sign up. You're most welcome! OCTOBER is HAUNTING! 

In August I began a story with the premise that a young girl has arrived in Paris to look for her mother who has run away from home. (A little twist, yeah?) Willow meets a young French man, Jacques, whose intention is to help Willow solve the mystery. Today my entry is from the mother's point of view.

If you need me, I’ll be in Paris. Y

Today is the first day of the rest of my life.

Cecelia woke with the corny quote swirling round in her head like some bizarre jingle once heard, never forgotten. She opened one eye just a slit—the other was swollen shut. But she could see enough to know she was alone in her bed. Her tormentor had left.

He’d tormented her one last time.

She reached for the clock on her bedside table. “Owwee!” She screamed as pain burned like a lightning bolt. Tears ran down her face as she focused on the dial, but the digits wobbled in her vision, a distorted mirror image. No matter. It was nearly light. It was probably the closing door that had woken her. Thank God he had drawn early shift at the factory today.

Did you ever lay in the dark and sing? Someone had once asked her that question. No, I can’t imagine doing that, she’d replied at an time when she had no hope.

But as she lay in the semi-darkness, arm throbbing, eye throbbing, heart sobbing, she started to sing away the pain. The notes reverberated around the room like one of her father's cracked ’78 records, but as the words welled up from her heart and passed her lips to the outside world, her spirit strengthened. The tense space of the bedroom filled with positive tones; the darkness receded.

Battered and bruised, but not beaten, Cecelia rose from her bed to meet the new day. Her knees cracked, her calves ached from the vicious kicks. She fell back onto the bed and nearly screamed with the pain of it. She reached for the photo frame with her favourite picture of the Eiffel Tower. She found comfort in its strong, sleek lines. She sat awhile until the pain lessened. How tempting to fall back onto the pillows and lay there all day! No! Up she got again. And again. Until finally, she stood strong on legs like steel springs.

The first day of the rest of her life could now begin.

Everything was ready. She’d been planning her escape for years. Her luggage in the basement, hidden in the old fire recess, her travel documents squirreled away in her make up case. She was pretty sure it was safe there. Ewan hated makeup. “A little bit of powder, a little bit of paint, makes a girl look what she ain’t”, he always sniped when she made the effort to hide the bruises, to hide the evidence of his brutality and her weakness from the world.

But her most important stash of all was hidden in plain sight—her precious books stacked on her bedside table would take but a moment to pack. She couldn’t leave them behind after the years spent building her collection. They would give her a kick start in her new life. She ran her tongue over her mouth, remembering the smacks when Ewan saw she’d added another book to her pile. “Spending all our bloody money on books! What good did books ever do for you?”

“Mum? You all right?” 

Darling Willow at the door. How could she leave her behind? What kind of mother was she? But the time had come. She couldn’t take her daughter with her. Not yet. Willow needed to finish her schooling. Ewan adored his daughter. She’d be safe.

“Mum?” The old wooden door creaked open. Willow tiptoed across the space between door and bed.

“Mum? Why are you standing there?” She snapped on the bedside light. An eerie glow seeped into the pre-dawn shadows. 

Cecelia shivered. The floating white curtains had always reminded her of a shroud. She took deep breaths. She couldn't afford a panic attack now. 

Mother and daughter stared at each other, wrapped in light and fear. “Mum…your face. Dad said you fell in the bathroom. He’s hit you again, hasn’t he?”

Willow’s voice was raw with pain…and something else…realization? Her saintly father a sinner after all.

Cecelia couldn’t find words.

“I heard you singing just now, Mum. You sounded happy.”

Cecelia touched her eye, wiping away a tear. “Give me a hug, darling girl. I am so happy right now, you can’t imagine. I have the sweetest daughter in the world. I love you so much.”

“It’s going to be all right, isn’t it Mum?” Willow’s embrace tightened. Cecelia winced at the sharp stab in her ribs. “I have an early class, but don’t worry about dinner. I’ll cook. Dad ordered steak and potatoes, but said he won’t be home till late. Overtime.” She frowned at Cecelia, studied her face. Did Willow sense the change in her mother…a fresh determination after all these years?

Willow held her close. “Another hug, Mum? I love you.”

Cecilia wanted to stay in her daughter’s embrace, but she had a busy day ahead. If she didn't make the break now, she doubted she'd ever gather courage again.

When her daughter read her note tonight, she wouldn’t understand, not at first, but Cecelia knew her Willow. She would struggle with her loyalty to her father, she would struggle with the decision her mother had made. But then she’d recall the yelling, the blows, the brokenness of it all. She’d remember her mother with love and acceptance…eventually.

But Cecelia had to take that first step to a new life. She'd leave the picture of the Eiffel Tower behind. She'd have the real thing instead.

Paris. Here I come! 

WORD COUNT: 810

I am happy for a full critique. All constructive criticism welcome. Just play nice.

Click on the names below the WEP image in the sidebar to read more stories. Thank you!

LINKY WILL GO UP EARLY OCTOBER AT WRITE...EDIT...PUBLISH Start dreaming up something scary, wicked or just plain fun for Halloween!

Write...Edit...Publish monthly bloghop - my flash fiction - Interrupted in Paris

Welcome to the inaugural Write...Edit...Publish regular monthly bloghop. As you visit participating bloggers, you will find all sorts of stories and other creative postings. Anyone is welcome to join us! Entries close Friday August 23. If you've missed this one and would like to join in for September...theme -- Moving On...the linky will go up early September. Would love to have you on board!

Here is my entry for VACATION...a flash fiction set in Paris...

Interrupted in Paris

Willow leaned over the parapet of the Pont Neuf bridge, ignoring the wind that snatched her long blond hair from her face. She strained for a better view of the redheaded woman in the orange hat who was yelling at one of the booksellers along the Seine.

‘Alors, not planning to jump?’ a voice asked in perfect French.

Willow hadn’t expected to be interrupted in Paris—Parisians ignored you, she’d been told.

The guy was a bit older than she was, about twenty. Would have been the perfect Gallic specimen except for his Harry Potter glasses and cowboy boots.

‘Merde, are you crazy?’ she snapped in her schoolgirl French. ‘Jumping into the Seine would be like jumping into a swimming pool.’

Harry Potter pushed his glasses higher up his nose with a leather-gloved finger and laughed out loud. She liked the sound. It was nice hearing someone laugh instead of yell.

‘Mademoiselle, it would be like diving into an ice rink. Don’t jump in head first. Such a pretty head.’ He slipped off his gloves and handed them to her.

He folded his arms, studied her while she slipped them on. ‘Well?

‘Well, what?’

 ‘Why are you standing on the Pont Neuf this freezing winter’s day, with only that, uh, flimsy thing between you and becoming an ice sculpture?’ He removed his cashmere coat as he spoke. Was this a Paris striptease?

‘Not your business.’ She backed away. ‘No, it’s okay. Keep your coat on.’

‘It’s fine. I’m wearing another underneath, see?’ He indicated a uniform jacket,  with an embroidered ‘B’ on the pocket. ‘I keep a spare for damsels in distress.’

He seemed harmless enough. Willow cracked a smile, then tossed the cashmere over her battered army-surplus jacket. Bliss!

‘Come, Mademoiselle.’ He took her hand.  ‘I’ll buy you coffee. There’s a cafe nearby that the bouquinistes use.’ Bouquinistes? Later.

She searched for the redheaded woman in the crowd, but all she saw was black coats moving through snow like extras in a movie.

☁☁☁

‘Mercy beaucoop.’

‘A plaisir, Mademoiselle. Bon appetit!’

She spooned three teaspoons of sugar into her frothy brew, gave it a quick stir then gulped down a few delicious mouthfuls. She handed back the gloves.

‘Mercy. You’re a lifesaver.’ She held out a toasty hand.  ‘Willow.’

‘Jacques.’ He looked like he was about to kiss her hand, but refrained, unfortunately.

She crammed her face full of macarons—raspberry, triple chocolate, champagne drops dusted in gold—oh, the French! Her mother would be appalled at her table manners, but it was all her mother’s fault anyway…

                                                            ☁☁☁

Her mother had run away to Paris after the last blazing row with her dad. Natch Dad didn’t believe his wife could do such a thing, but Willow knew. But why hadn’t mum taken her too? No doubt she thought Willow should finish school. As if she could concentrate! She’d flunked her exams big time—too busy planning how she would solve the mystery of her mum’s disappearance…

‘Now, what brings you to Paris?’ Jacques interrupted her thoughts—again!—picked up his gloves, slapping them against the edge of the table--schlep, schlep, schlep.

‘Mum,’ Willow said without thinking. Whoops! What if he was fully a creepster? Stranger danger alert! ‘Er, it’s school holidays.’

‘Is your maman here?’

‘Uh…I…yes. She’s on a long holiday, er, in Paris.’

‘You mean you don’t know where your maman is?’

‘She has to be here.’ Willow pointed to the door. ‘I think I saw her…I’m not sure.’

‘Oh?’

‘When you interrupted me today. I think she hangs out at the book stalls.’

‘Why would you think that?’

Willow shrugged. Why not tell him? She had a good feeling about Jacques, and she had a great creep-o-meter.

‘Her life with Dad was pretty damned horrible.  She always said she’d run away to Paris, so I’m thinking she finally did.’ Tears pricked her eyes.  ‘She just disappeared one day. I’d hate to think anything bad happened to her.’

Jacques reached across the table and held her hand.

‘Books are her life. Maybe she got a job selling them here.’

‘I doubt it. You have to stand in line for years to buy a stall.’

‘How do you know? She could be working one, right?’

‘Doubtful. My father officially manages the bouquinistes, but they’re a law unto themselves. They have their own controllers.  I work with Papa while I’m on vacation from the Sorbonne.’  He handed back the gloves. ‘Come. Do you have a photo?’

‘Of course.’

                                                                  ☁☁☁

The bitter breeze chased them along the footpath under a grey and heavy sky. Puffs of white blew from tree branches into their faces. Willow opened her mouth and let the snowflakes fizz on her tongue. Jacques wrapped his scarf around her face. She’d be loving this day except for her mum.

At the curb of the Quai Saint-Michel, they paused to watch spluttering bateau mouches surge past Notre Dame like icebreakers. Tourists waved hello, their voices like squawking seagulls.

They reached the line of green metal bookstores. Willow was momentary distracted by retro postcards, Toulouse Lautrec posters, old books.

‘Je m’excuse.’ Jacques addressed a bookseller stooped over a metal box, the hem of his ragged black coat filthy with brown slush. ‘Paul, have you seen this woman?’

The old man squinted at the photo. ‘Alors, Monsieur Hoareau.’ His lip curled. ‘She was a thief. She tricked me into selling her an uncatalogued first edition. Gave me €500. Worth €200,000 at auction I since found out.’

‘The name of the book?’ Willow and Jacques asked together.

‘The Great Gatsby.’

‘That’s her favourite book!’ Willow yelled. ‘Mum’s been collecting different editions for years. Totally annoyed my father.’ She hugged herself. ‘So…where is she now, Monsieur?’

‘Probably at the bottom of the Seine. You don’t mess with the bouquinistes and live.’

 ☁☁☁☁☁☁☁☁☁☁☁☁☁☁☁☁☁☁☁☁☁☁☁☁☁☁☁☁☁☁☁☁☁☁☁☁☁☁☁

©DeniseCovey2013

I would like a Critique Partner who writes romantic fiction.

WORD COUNT: 976

FULL CRITIQUE WELCOME

I hope you enjoyed my story for the VACATION prompt. Click on the names in WEP's linky in my top right hand side sidebar to read more entries.