Mary looked askance at her husband. It was the second time this week that he had seen Veronica. "Darling!" she said, pouring a generous second half of the large gin and tonic into her often empty glass. "Darling" she said again. Mark looked rather tired this evening she thought. His collar was frayed. Oh dear, I meant to buy him some new ones but the day just flew by. She wondered if the financial crisis was contributing to his faded look. She wanted to cry out, "Oh for goodness sake! it's all in your imagination. Veronica took her own life you know that. I know her body wasn't found but the clothes were there; she took drugs: she was unbalanced." Mary didn't say anything. She was worried. Veronica. She glanced at herself in the mirror. Her hair was a trifle too brassy this time. I shall have to speak to Maurice, she thought. She took a big swig of her drink. She decided to be rational. "Where?" she asked, "did you see her?" Mark looked at her. He had not touched his drink. "At the Gare du Nord."
"The Gare du Nord? I didn't know you'd been to Paris. When did you go?" "Yesterday". "Yesterday?" Her mind raced. He never used to be secretive. She swallowed some more gin. " I saw her, Mary." She felt woozy from the information and the drink. She had loved her daughter of course. all mothers love their children but she had not liked her, her way of life, the drugs, the commonness, the vulgarity, the dreadful language. And when she disappeared Mary had her husband back to herself. She was a one-man woman. The trouble was he was not a one-woman man. Oh god, he was so attractive she thought. She reached out to touch him and stumbled against the sofa, caught her foot in the rug and fell heavily. "For god's sake, can't you control your drinking?" She felt miserable. She looked at him. "Please Mark, don't be like that. I love you." He got up and left the room. She poured herself another gin. " I wish I were not here," she said to herself, but she was there and it was time for dinner which she had not prepared. Mark slammed the front door. She knew things were bad. She must do something.But what?
Monday, August 8, 2011
Thursday, August 4, 2011
MARCHING ALONG
The sound brought it all back. Seeing her gaze off, knowing the symptoms of withdrawal Hillary said brightly, "Enid, let's go to see the parade," collecting her hat showing she wouldn't take no for an answer. Enid acquiesced though she didn't want to. Going out was difficult after what had happened. She shuddered recalling the man's hands clawing at her pantyhose, his alcoholic breath almost asphyxiating her, his vulgarity and commonness oppressing her. She had been completely exonerated by the police even though the man had bled a lot. She heard again his cry of pain, terror, surprise, an animal in a trap as he realized the tables had been turned against him. She thanked her grandmother for her fashion sense. Granny would have been amused that her old-fashioned yet stylish black velvet hat with the shady brim had been used to submit a man to the law. As he clawed at her, her hand reached up to her head and she drew out the amber-headed long hat pin that attached the hat to her luxuriant hair. Without thinking she grabbed hold of the pin and stabbed the man in the groin. He screamed and fell away shouting at her but she was merciless and kicked him as hard as she could in the testicles. The press labelled her a heroine. He was imprisoned for many years as he was an escapee. Boadicea strikes with amber hat pin, screamed a tabloid. Don't mess with Enid said another. All this was in her mind as they watched the largely amateur parade, patriotic for July 4 up in the small Maine town where she had gone to recuperate with Hillary. It was the fresh faced high school band marching along that brought it vividly back to her. They were playing a Souza march and that tune was coming from a window in the street that day when he grabbed her and thrust her into the deserted alley. What would Souza say to that she wondered?
She would write a story about it. Smiling, for the first time for weeks she said to Hilary."You know, I feel better. I shan't use a pin again but I shall wield a pen. She had made a step forward.
She would write a story about it. Smiling, for the first time for weeks she said to Hilary."You know, I feel better. I shan't use a pin again but I shall wield a pen. She had made a step forward.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
CINDERELLA
CINDERELLA
By George Holmes Copyright September 2010
I have always sympathized with the two ugly sisters. It must have been a great trial to come into a family where the new father was so greatly attached to his little daughter who sat at the hearth all the time. She apparently liked it and you can’t blame them when they saw how humble she was and then their mother had told them that she was really a servant and perhaps a changeling and anyway they needed a lady’s maid and why not keep it all in the family and save a salary. The sisters who were vain but not stupid took to the idea and it sort of worked out. Cinderella was a born charlady, a natural skivvy.
She had a most unhealthy relationship with her dad. He was quite good looking and well off but never could resist a pretty woman so when the mother of the two sisters set her sights on him he was ground meat, totally at her mercy with her perfumes and satins, her posh speech and little ways of tickling his fancy with her little shoes, pink bonnets and low cut dresses.
Cinderella was a bit of a prig. It is true she was quite nice to look at if you bothered to look under the grime that is but no one saw that and no one cared. She was strange you see. I mean she had friends who were mice. Mice! Do you know people who know mice? I for one don’t and have no wish to. The other sisters were not really ugly. No woman is. They are just beauty and taste challenged. These two were slaves to fashion but try as they may they had no style at all. Poor things. They were the ones that needed a helping hand, an Oprah or a Martha Stewart to guide them along but they did the best they could. Now Cinderella had this friend, a social worker she said though I suspect there was a hint of Lesbos there and she probably fancied our Cinders. The prince was a complete washout as a leader of his country and moreover had a playmate called Buttons who advised the prince to wear silk stockings, a little dove-gray jacket with flared collar and a Robn Hood hat. Well, it screamed gay. His peasants were starving, there were no jobs and he was swanning about with glass slippers Give us a break.
Of course the poor ugly ones for want of a better name had to live with what nature had given them. They were completely besotted with the prince and bought a subscription to his PR magazine that of course was a tissue of lies and innuendos from beginning to end. The also drank far too much wine. It was after a particularly boozy night that they decided to cut off their toes to get into the slipper. Can you imagine the mess? Poor things spent months in hospital and plastic surgery after that mad bout. And then the prince must have been obtuse not to notice the smell of Cinderella, ashes, mice and worse. But once she got that ring on her finger she was away. Her model was Eva Peron she said, she’d come from nothing and was first lady and now I am. So watch out.
She was corruption incarnate. Her first act was to ban mousetraps. The writing was on the wall I can tell you.
Oh boy you really know how to kill a good story don't you?
By George Holmes Copyright September 2010
I have always sympathized with the two ugly sisters. It must have been a great trial to come into a family where the new father was so greatly attached to his little daughter who sat at the hearth all the time. She apparently liked it and you can’t blame them when they saw how humble she was and then their mother had told them that she was really a servant and perhaps a changeling and anyway they needed a lady’s maid and why not keep it all in the family and save a salary. The sisters who were vain but not stupid took to the idea and it sort of worked out. Cinderella was a born charlady, a natural skivvy.
She had a most unhealthy relationship with her dad. He was quite good looking and well off but never could resist a pretty woman so when the mother of the two sisters set her sights on him he was ground meat, totally at her mercy with her perfumes and satins, her posh speech and little ways of tickling his fancy with her little shoes, pink bonnets and low cut dresses.
Cinderella was a bit of a prig. It is true she was quite nice to look at if you bothered to look under the grime that is but no one saw that and no one cared. She was strange you see. I mean she had friends who were mice. Mice! Do you know people who know mice? I for one don’t and have no wish to. The other sisters were not really ugly. No woman is. They are just beauty and taste challenged. These two were slaves to fashion but try as they may they had no style at all. Poor things. They were the ones that needed a helping hand, an Oprah or a Martha Stewart to guide them along but they did the best they could. Now Cinderella had this friend, a social worker she said though I suspect there was a hint of Lesbos there and she probably fancied our Cinders. The prince was a complete washout as a leader of his country and moreover had a playmate called Buttons who advised the prince to wear silk stockings, a little dove-gray jacket with flared collar and a Robn Hood hat. Well, it screamed gay. His peasants were starving, there were no jobs and he was swanning about with glass slippers Give us a break.
Of course the poor ugly ones for want of a better name had to live with what nature had given them. They were completely besotted with the prince and bought a subscription to his PR magazine that of course was a tissue of lies and innuendos from beginning to end. The also drank far too much wine. It was after a particularly boozy night that they decided to cut off their toes to get into the slipper. Can you imagine the mess? Poor things spent months in hospital and plastic surgery after that mad bout. And then the prince must have been obtuse not to notice the smell of Cinderella, ashes, mice and worse. But once she got that ring on her finger she was away. Her model was Eva Peron she said, she’d come from nothing and was first lady and now I am. So watch out.
She was corruption incarnate. Her first act was to ban mousetraps. The writing was on the wall I can tell you.
Oh boy you really know how to kill a good story don't you?
SURRENDER
SURRENDER
By George Holmes Sept 2010 copyright
Gleaming iridescent dragonflies, gold, crimson, blue and emerald swirled about her. She felt drowsy as though of hemlock I have drunk she thought remembering a distant lesson about Keats. She seemed numb but not unaware. She gave into her drowsy state, into that surrender to rest, to find that undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveler returns. How proud Miss Tiddington would be of her, she thought. She had played Ophelia with Miss Tiddington giving her private lessons. She had loved poetry and romance. She let go her worries, her cares, her anxieties so often assuaged with pills; she abandoned them and suddenly was alive in the moment, carefree, light as she faded into the reality of the present, where the light was. In front of her, a door, old, studded, gnarled and heavy, the top rounded, a large metal ring for a handle. Slowly as if drawn by her own desires and perhaps something else she put out her hand and grasped the large cold iron ring. She gave a push, more unconscious than aware and slowly opened the door. It creaked and swung wide revealing a room suffused with soft amber and peach light. The room seemed to glow on its own and especially over the long dining table in the center; like the door it was made of wood and bespoke great age. And on the table she saw a groaning board of cakes and fruits, candies and sweets, custards and jellies, pies and puddings, biscuits, ladyfingers, macaroons, rich fruitcakes and petit fours. Huge platters of fruit invited. Peaches, oranges, lemons and limes, bananas, kiwis, salads of fruit, strawberries, blackberries, raspberries, gooseberries, loganberries and black and red currants.
Where am I? She said out loud.
No one answered. Was she alone? Why was the table ready for a feast? Where were the guests? She looked down and saw to her astonishment she was wearing beautiful sandals and a long silk gown in shimmering colors. A golden mirror revealed her hair dressed in plaits and loops, woven with golden thread. She saw she was beautiful. Something she had never seen before. People won’t pity me now she thought.
How beautiful I am. But am I alone? Is there no one to see me?
Stretching out a jeweled hand to take a peach she was stopped by a sound, a sort of mew, half human sigh, half slither, half song. Looking up she saw at the head of the table a large caterpillar wearing horn-rimmed glasses and a green hat.
What is your name? commanded the caterpillar.
Puzzled, she shook her head. I don’t know. I have no name, she said.
No name? said the caterpillar. Then I shall call you No name and you shall be my servant and do as I say.
She moved forward in a daze, sliced the peach and placed it in front of the caterpillar.
Thank you, No name. That’s a good beginning. He smiled. Was it a smile? She shivered but she was not cold.
By George Holmes Sept 2010 copyright
Gleaming iridescent dragonflies, gold, crimson, blue and emerald swirled about her. She felt drowsy as though of hemlock I have drunk she thought remembering a distant lesson about Keats. She seemed numb but not unaware. She gave into her drowsy state, into that surrender to rest, to find that undiscovered country from whose bourn no traveler returns. How proud Miss Tiddington would be of her, she thought. She had played Ophelia with Miss Tiddington giving her private lessons. She had loved poetry and romance. She let go her worries, her cares, her anxieties so often assuaged with pills; she abandoned them and suddenly was alive in the moment, carefree, light as she faded into the reality of the present, where the light was. In front of her, a door, old, studded, gnarled and heavy, the top rounded, a large metal ring for a handle. Slowly as if drawn by her own desires and perhaps something else she put out her hand and grasped the large cold iron ring. She gave a push, more unconscious than aware and slowly opened the door. It creaked and swung wide revealing a room suffused with soft amber and peach light. The room seemed to glow on its own and especially over the long dining table in the center; like the door it was made of wood and bespoke great age. And on the table she saw a groaning board of cakes and fruits, candies and sweets, custards and jellies, pies and puddings, biscuits, ladyfingers, macaroons, rich fruitcakes and petit fours. Huge platters of fruit invited. Peaches, oranges, lemons and limes, bananas, kiwis, salads of fruit, strawberries, blackberries, raspberries, gooseberries, loganberries and black and red currants.
Where am I? She said out loud.
No one answered. Was she alone? Why was the table ready for a feast? Where were the guests? She looked down and saw to her astonishment she was wearing beautiful sandals and a long silk gown in shimmering colors. A golden mirror revealed her hair dressed in plaits and loops, woven with golden thread. She saw she was beautiful. Something she had never seen before. People won’t pity me now she thought.
How beautiful I am. But am I alone? Is there no one to see me?
Stretching out a jeweled hand to take a peach she was stopped by a sound, a sort of mew, half human sigh, half slither, half song. Looking up she saw at the head of the table a large caterpillar wearing horn-rimmed glasses and a green hat.
What is your name? commanded the caterpillar.
Puzzled, she shook her head. I don’t know. I have no name, she said.
No name? said the caterpillar. Then I shall call you No name and you shall be my servant and do as I say.
She moved forward in a daze, sliced the peach and placed it in front of the caterpillar.
Thank you, No name. That’s a good beginning. He smiled. Was it a smile? She shivered but she was not cold.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
STETSON
STETSON
By George Holmes copyright Sept 2010
Do you like me in this hat?
Very nice, dear.
You haven’t even looked. It cost $225.00.
What! What? Two hundred and fifty dollars! I suppose you charged it. What’s it made of? Vicuna? And what are those feathers on the band? I bet they’re from an endangered species. Anyway it’s a man’s hat.
That is the point, silly! I am a woman. You do concede that? I see from your sly nod you do. I am very feminine but I am exploring my masculine side and that is why I am wearing this Stetson hat. And the feathers are not from any bird, endangered or not, but they are faux feathers, made to look real.
You spent two hundred and fifty dollars on faux feathers? I think they saw you coming. They said here’s one who’ll swallow this fashion, hook line and sinker if I may move from birds to fish to express myself. Here’s one who’ll fork out 250.00. She probably has a complacent husband. You know we could have used that money to pay off the vet. That mynah bird you bought is costing us a packet at the vet. Over 500 dollars last time I looked and I’m getting fed up with the refrain, Bugger off, you old sod. The vicar’s wife was quite taken aback but said the bird was one of God’s creatures-just corrupted by humans. I felt that was a bit pointed but I said nothing. Don’t upset the church I say unless you want a hex put on you. I offered her a check and she was ever sho gracious. You could have used some of the mynah’s feathers and added them to one of my trilbys. Free.
Well, I think it’s smashing. And the policeman did too.
What policeman?
Well, I was looking in the mirror adjusting the brim of the hat when someone banged my wing. Well, actually I banged his wing but it was only a teensy weensy scrape on his new Lexus. He was a bit peeved but the policeman said we could settle it between ourselves if I agreed to pay 700 dollars to pay to repair the scratch. I had to go to the ATM. And I had to give the cop something; just a couple of hundred. Officer Pierce was grateful I had not made a fuss. He added that he’d be happy if his wife had a hat like this. I told him where to get one. He was ever so pleased. So you see it all worked out….. …You’re very silent..
My breath has been taken from me. As I calculate it, that hat cost $1,1150. That’s an expensive hat.
Oh I know, I shouldn’t have done it. But you have to concede it suits me. Give me a kiss and tell me I’m forgiven.
Oh all right. Fix the drinks.
By George Holmes copyright Sept 2010
Do you like me in this hat?
Very nice, dear.
You haven’t even looked. It cost $225.00.
What! What? Two hundred and fifty dollars! I suppose you charged it. What’s it made of? Vicuna? And what are those feathers on the band? I bet they’re from an endangered species. Anyway it’s a man’s hat.
That is the point, silly! I am a woman. You do concede that? I see from your sly nod you do. I am very feminine but I am exploring my masculine side and that is why I am wearing this Stetson hat. And the feathers are not from any bird, endangered or not, but they are faux feathers, made to look real.
You spent two hundred and fifty dollars on faux feathers? I think they saw you coming. They said here’s one who’ll swallow this fashion, hook line and sinker if I may move from birds to fish to express myself. Here’s one who’ll fork out 250.00. She probably has a complacent husband. You know we could have used that money to pay off the vet. That mynah bird you bought is costing us a packet at the vet. Over 500 dollars last time I looked and I’m getting fed up with the refrain, Bugger off, you old sod. The vicar’s wife was quite taken aback but said the bird was one of God’s creatures-just corrupted by humans. I felt that was a bit pointed but I said nothing. Don’t upset the church I say unless you want a hex put on you. I offered her a check and she was ever sho gracious. You could have used some of the mynah’s feathers and added them to one of my trilbys. Free.
Well, I think it’s smashing. And the policeman did too.
What policeman?
Well, I was looking in the mirror adjusting the brim of the hat when someone banged my wing. Well, actually I banged his wing but it was only a teensy weensy scrape on his new Lexus. He was a bit peeved but the policeman said we could settle it between ourselves if I agreed to pay 700 dollars to pay to repair the scratch. I had to go to the ATM. And I had to give the cop something; just a couple of hundred. Officer Pierce was grateful I had not made a fuss. He added that he’d be happy if his wife had a hat like this. I told him where to get one. He was ever so pleased. So you see it all worked out….. …You’re very silent..
My breath has been taken from me. As I calculate it, that hat cost $1,1150. That’s an expensive hat.
Oh I know, I shouldn’t have done it. But you have to concede it suits me. Give me a kiss and tell me I’m forgiven.
Oh all right. Fix the drinks.
Friday, May 28, 2010
REBIRTH
REBIRTH Friday, May 28, 2010
COPYRIGHT: George Holmes
“You know, Cyril, I am totally into New Age now. I have given up all that old stuff, religion and that, socialism, taking the Daily Worker. I live in the Now as Dr. Alundra said. We have to be reborn, he preached. Oh he was wearing a very well tailored suit. It fit him like a glove.”
Cyril looked at Maureen, with a rather cynical glance. He knew her from past whims and caprices, fads, diets and fashions and from her somewhat scatter-brained boyfriends. She was always a prey to a good suit. “Were his wingtips custom-made too?”
Still thinking of Dr. Alundra, she did not perceive his withering look and seemed impervious to sarcasm. Oh dear, he thought, she’s really into this one. Dr. Alundra eh? He’d have to research him a bit.
Maureen twirled around showing off her new silk pale green shift and her exquisite but totally impractical sandals. It was raining outside and they would be useless.
“Reborn or not, Maureen, how about some more of the bubbly?”
“Oh Cyril, you know my weakness. I’m not giving up everything. Certainly not champagne! And I’d rather die than be separated from my Manolos. They cost a fortune. Dr. Alundra said we must be reborn all the time. Not just once but all the time, total transformation, every month or week or day,” she burbled on, intoxicated not only by the champagne but by her new found philosophy.
“I’m even changing my name. What do you think of that?” she flung at him.
“Changing it to what?” he asked, somewhat curious at this new approach.
“I’m changing Maureen to Doreen.”
“Very subtle,” said Cyril.
She glared at him.
COPYRIGHT: George Holmes
“You know, Cyril, I am totally into New Age now. I have given up all that old stuff, religion and that, socialism, taking the Daily Worker. I live in the Now as Dr. Alundra said. We have to be reborn, he preached. Oh he was wearing a very well tailored suit. It fit him like a glove.”
Cyril looked at Maureen, with a rather cynical glance. He knew her from past whims and caprices, fads, diets and fashions and from her somewhat scatter-brained boyfriends. She was always a prey to a good suit. “Were his wingtips custom-made too?”
Still thinking of Dr. Alundra, she did not perceive his withering look and seemed impervious to sarcasm. Oh dear, he thought, she’s really into this one. Dr. Alundra eh? He’d have to research him a bit.
Maureen twirled around showing off her new silk pale green shift and her exquisite but totally impractical sandals. It was raining outside and they would be useless.
“Reborn or not, Maureen, how about some more of the bubbly?”
“Oh Cyril, you know my weakness. I’m not giving up everything. Certainly not champagne! And I’d rather die than be separated from my Manolos. They cost a fortune. Dr. Alundra said we must be reborn all the time. Not just once but all the time, total transformation, every month or week or day,” she burbled on, intoxicated not only by the champagne but by her new found philosophy.
“I’m even changing my name. What do you think of that?” she flung at him.
“Changing it to what?” he asked, somewhat curious at this new approach.
“I’m changing Maureen to Doreen.”
“Very subtle,” said Cyril.
She glared at him.
BABY
BABIES (May 28 2010)
COPYRIGHT: GEORGE HOLMES
She finally landed a job as a cleaner in the Middlesex hospital. When they asked her for references, she gave Eric’s name and address saying he was a mechanic at Burnham’s garage. That was true and she would persuade Eric to put in a good word for her especially she knew he was the father of Doreen Fletcher’s baby who had been born with Down syndrome. She also knew that Eric had forced himself on mentally handicapped Doreen who had died in childbirth but who had confided in her during those last desperate weeks. She was always sympathetic to tragedy, other people’s that is. Doreen had found an old dog eared school notebook after Doreen died and in it she had written Eric’s name hundreds of times, and marked the pages with very incriminating evidence should it come to that. Yes, Eric could be relied on to vouch for her she smiled to herself. She also knew the hospital was desperate to find cleaners. No one wanted to do menial work nowadays. They were above such things preferring the dole to cleaning. She loved being a cleaner; especially in the hospital at night where she could wander at will when people were asleep and the nursing staff at a minimum. She loved the old men’s ward with its wheezing, snoring and groaning inhabitants but above all she loved the nursery. That always drew her. Those little new lives, some premature, guarded and cosseted so closely. She loved those new beings, full of promise and hope and expectations and yet as Marcy knew so well, so soft and fragile, so helpless and vulnerable.
COPYRIGHT: GEORGE HOLMES
She finally landed a job as a cleaner in the Middlesex hospital. When they asked her for references, she gave Eric’s name and address saying he was a mechanic at Burnham’s garage. That was true and she would persuade Eric to put in a good word for her especially she knew he was the father of Doreen Fletcher’s baby who had been born with Down syndrome. She also knew that Eric had forced himself on mentally handicapped Doreen who had died in childbirth but who had confided in her during those last desperate weeks. She was always sympathetic to tragedy, other people’s that is. Doreen had found an old dog eared school notebook after Doreen died and in it she had written Eric’s name hundreds of times, and marked the pages with very incriminating evidence should it come to that. Yes, Eric could be relied on to vouch for her she smiled to herself. She also knew the hospital was desperate to find cleaners. No one wanted to do menial work nowadays. They were above such things preferring the dole to cleaning. She loved being a cleaner; especially in the hospital at night where she could wander at will when people were asleep and the nursing staff at a minimum. She loved the old men’s ward with its wheezing, snoring and groaning inhabitants but above all she loved the nursery. That always drew her. Those little new lives, some premature, guarded and cosseted so closely. She loved those new beings, full of promise and hope and expectations and yet as Marcy knew so well, so soft and fragile, so helpless and vulnerable.
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