Writing Challenge - Day 23
To all who are reading this,
Another Monday is upon us. They are bittersweet, aren't they? It means you have to wake a little earlier than you had the previous day, look smart instead of comfortable in whatever your comfortable clothes are, and drag yourself into the day job. It's been a crazy day indeed, but we're still alive from it!
Here is the twenty-third piece of fiction!
Yours, with eternal ink,
Zoe
---
JUNE PROMPTS YOU TO... WRITING CHALLENGEDAY 23. - HOLLOW
"My condolences." She heard that a lot these past few weeks. Everywhere she went, those words seemed to follow her. Guests at her home, her family and friends, the local supermarket, the florist, the church. Even her beautician had said those words, and she was a bright young thing, with fake tanned skin, and blonde extensions in her hair.
Nancy was sick of those words. Very few of those people actually meant it. Most of them said it out of politeness and tradition. As Nancy stood at the bar, a wine glass in her hand, still more people said it. She ut on a thin smile, nodded her thanks, and returned to her business.
Oscar's funeral was filled with his friends. They crowded around a table, their heads bent low over their pints, murmuring words. Nancy knew in reality they were upset that they were missing their Sunday league football game and a bacon sandwich, and she could see their fingers itching to tap out status updates on their mobile phones and upload them to Facebook.
The younger crowd, the sons and daughters of the mourners, had clustered together. There was no way they were talking about school work, and she watched one of the older boys write something on a coaster and push it to the girl with the black floral headband. She grinned, slipped it in her satchel and mimed, "Call me."
Nancy should be upset, she knew she should be. It was her husband of six years that they had buried today. He had suffered a major heart attack and died before she had even had time to call the paramedics. And it was all her fault.
He never paid her any attention. Not any more. He was more interested in reliving his youth with his sad middle aged friends, and going to the pub. He didn't want to help her with anything, or eat home prepared dinner with her. He didn't want to converse with her. And his lack of interest in sex was another thing altogether.
And then she had found out his lies. She had found out that he had a mistress. She had found out that his footballing trips and business weekends with the boys, and work, had been nothing but sordid little dirty weekends. Marcy - even her name was horrible - was using him, and he just couldn't see it.
So Nancy had called him out on it, shouted a bit, and stood and watched as her husband died before her eyes. When he lay on the living room floor, still and stiff, Nancy had made herself a cup of coffee, had a cigarette, and finally rung for an ambulance, pulling out all the stops to make them believe she was a grieving housewife.
In reality, she was a hollow, horror show of a woman. An egg without a yolk, a chocolate figure with a centre. A woman without feeling.
COPYRIGHT - ZOE ADAMS (2014)
Currently reading: The Ballerina and the Revolutionary by Milla V
Another Monday is upon us. They are bittersweet, aren't they? It means you have to wake a little earlier than you had the previous day, look smart instead of comfortable in whatever your comfortable clothes are, and drag yourself into the day job. It's been a crazy day indeed, but we're still alive from it!
Here is the twenty-third piece of fiction!
Yours, with eternal ink,
Zoe
---
JUNE PROMPTS YOU TO... WRITING CHALLENGEDAY 23. - HOLLOW
"My condolences." She heard that a lot these past few weeks. Everywhere she went, those words seemed to follow her. Guests at her home, her family and friends, the local supermarket, the florist, the church. Even her beautician had said those words, and she was a bright young thing, with fake tanned skin, and blonde extensions in her hair.
Nancy was sick of those words. Very few of those people actually meant it. Most of them said it out of politeness and tradition. As Nancy stood at the bar, a wine glass in her hand, still more people said it. She ut on a thin smile, nodded her thanks, and returned to her business.
Oscar's funeral was filled with his friends. They crowded around a table, their heads bent low over their pints, murmuring words. Nancy knew in reality they were upset that they were missing their Sunday league football game and a bacon sandwich, and she could see their fingers itching to tap out status updates on their mobile phones and upload them to Facebook.
The younger crowd, the sons and daughters of the mourners, had clustered together. There was no way they were talking about school work, and she watched one of the older boys write something on a coaster and push it to the girl with the black floral headband. She grinned, slipped it in her satchel and mimed, "Call me."
Nancy should be upset, she knew she should be. It was her husband of six years that they had buried today. He had suffered a major heart attack and died before she had even had time to call the paramedics. And it was all her fault.
He never paid her any attention. Not any more. He was more interested in reliving his youth with his sad middle aged friends, and going to the pub. He didn't want to help her with anything, or eat home prepared dinner with her. He didn't want to converse with her. And his lack of interest in sex was another thing altogether.
And then she had found out his lies. She had found out that he had a mistress. She had found out that his footballing trips and business weekends with the boys, and work, had been nothing but sordid little dirty weekends. Marcy - even her name was horrible - was using him, and he just couldn't see it.
So Nancy had called him out on it, shouted a bit, and stood and watched as her husband died before her eyes. When he lay on the living room floor, still and stiff, Nancy had made herself a cup of coffee, had a cigarette, and finally rung for an ambulance, pulling out all the stops to make them believe she was a grieving housewife.
In reality, she was a hollow, horror show of a woman. An egg without a yolk, a chocolate figure with a centre. A woman without feeling.
COPYRIGHT - ZOE ADAMS (2014)
Currently reading: The Ballerina and the Revolutionary by Milla V
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