My first short story in years and years and years...

alfa beta

A few years back I posted the first page of this story here and said I'd post the rest when I finished it - and then for a long long time I did nothing with it - until the other night - when I decided to finish it!!

I dunno if it's any good - it's been decades (quite literally) since I last wrote anything creative (that's what having kids and stuff tends to do to your hobbies) so I've long since lost any kind of self-made benchmark to judge its standard. I think it hangs together as a story though - and even if its a bit rough around the edges, it does feel good to actually complete something relatively substantial again!

See what you guys think of it anyway. If you want to comment or critique, go ahead - I probably won't do anything with it - just treat it as practice and try and get back into the habit of writing again - with the aim of eventually doing something bigger.

Thanks.

---

---

‘What are you thinking?’ she asks.

Her voice is as soft as the skin on the back of her neck. And her words float in the perfumed air like petals gently blown from a beautiful flower.

‘Nothing’ I say.

She’s not looking at me. We are both looking in the same direction, towards the half-drawn curtains and the hazy shafts of light that spill through the gap between them. Under the sheets our bodies touch at the hips and the feet.

‘Are you thinking about us?’ she says.

I am, I think. I am thinking about ‘us’. I am nearly always thinking about ‘us’.

‘No, not really’ I reply.

She waits and says nothing for a long moment. There’s no need. The conversation is punctuated perfectly by the gentle rise and fall of our breathing. It’s not one to be hurried.

Her head turns towards me, just a little. ‘You are thinking about something. I can always tell when you are. You get all tense.’ She prods me gently in the arm with her index finger and in the sound of her voice I can sense a growing smile.

I keep my lazy focus on the window. The curtains are lilac with a leafy pattern. We’re in her room. A rented room in a shared house.

If I look at her now I’ll see the most beautiful face in the world. And I’ll see my own guilt reflected in her eyes. I want to see neither so I say, ‘You really want to know what I’m thinking?’

‘I do’, she says.

‘Okay then.’ I pause. ‘I’m thinking about how when we were kids we used to play football off the side of the church during confession and it really annoyed the priest.’

She laughs. ‘What?’

I love her laugh. It’s elegant and light and carefree. It’s all the things I want it to be.

It makes me smile.

‘You asked for it,’ I say, ‘That’s what I was thinking.’

She leans over and kisses the side of my neck. Teasingly.

---

Now I am in my car. Alone. It is late in the evening, the same evening. I am going home to where I belong. The weather has changed. The tension of electricity hovers high above the slick city streets and teeming rain distorts the myriad of red and green lights that flicker outside my window. On the pavements, umbrellas are raised and heads are lowered. Those walking quicken their pace in the gathering gloom - a futile effort to combat the inevitable.

Still she is all around me. I can feel her hands in mine. Her flesh pressed against mine. I can hear her short, sharp, gasping breaths. Touch her hair as it falls across the pillow. I can taste her lips and the promise they bring, moving from my mouth to my neck to my chest. My fingers tingle with feverish excitement as they hold the steering wheel. My heart races and my mouth is dry. I have never felt like this. I am frightened by what I am doing and I am exhilarated by what it is doing to me.

A cyclist throws out his right arm and swerves across the lane in front of me without a glance in my direction. I brake heavily. Too heavily. I am snapped from my reverie. The lights of the car behind me swarm all over my rearview mirror. Its horn blares. My mind races back to reality, my left hand scrambling for first gear, missing, foot lifting off the clutch too soon, too quickly. The engine dies with a whimper and the little red battery light flickers to life on the dash. Like a learner driver at a busy junction I’ve overreacted and stalled. For a moment I am stupidly paralysed, sitting motionless in the car not knowing what to do. A queue quickly builds. More horns blare. I take a deep breath, turn the key and restart the engine, I let out the clutch with determined ease and pull off slowly.

I am shaking ever so slightly. Memories from more than a decade before flood into my mind, vivid memories whose familiarity I despise. The mess where his face should have been. The grey blood stained jumper. The sound of sirens in the cool night air and the hollow, empty, sinking feeling that accompanied their increasing shrillness. No light. No hope. On a country bend with the glare of an oncoming car in my eyes I had simply ploughed into the unlit cyclist and driven him into the fatal welcome of an old limestone pillar. A small cross now marks the spot.

There was no punishment because there was no guilt – according to the law.

But guilt doesn’t need to be proven to be felt.

---

Home. My wife is sitting comfortably on her side of the couch. She is watching the television and texting a friend. Smiling as she does so.

‘You’re later than usual’, she says, but in a way that makes it an observation rather than a criticism.

‘Sorry, was chatting to a few of the lads, didn’t realise the time.’ I walk over to her, lean down and kiss her on the lips. There is a hint of coffee. I go and sit in the armchair I always sit in.

She talks about her work and I talk about mine. She asks me how the rehearsals for the play are going. I tell her they are going well and I wonder - just for a fleeting moment - if there is any way she can tell I’m lying.

Later in bed we lie comfortably side by side. In the room next door our small son sleeps soundly. Tomorrow we will get up and go to work. The childminder will come. The sun will shine and everything will be perfect.

Tomorrow I will end the affair.

---

‘Jesus John’ she almost screams, ‘you said you’d finish it.’

‘I know, I know,’ I wince, ‘I just can’t, ok. Keep it down a bit.’

‘For Christ’s sake, you said…’ she shakes her head and is staring at me, her eyes drilling a hole in my averted stare. Sarah never swears. She never, ever swears.

Sarah is a primary school teacher. She’s also my sister and my best friend. She’s the one person above all others whose advice I listen to and trust and act on. And she’s angry as hell with me now.

All around us there are glances in our direction. I’m cradling a large, strong black coffee in my palms. The girl behind the counter called it an Americano. I didn’t ask for an Americano. I asked for a strong black coffee.

‘I can’t believe you’re…I can’t believe you told me….why did you tell me?’

I answer honestly. ‘Because I want a way out I guess. I needed to tell someone.’

‘You didn’t. You just…I don’t know.’

Sarah is staring intently at her cup. It’s not actually a cup. It’s a tall glass. For some reason Lattes are served in glasses and Americanos in cups. She breathes out slowly, lifts her head and looks me straight in the eyes.

‘End it,’ she says, ‘it’s that simple, go to her house as soon as you can and tell her it’s over. I don’t know what you two have got going on, but whatever it is it’ll **** up your marriage and your whole life unless you come to your senses. Do you hear me?’

Sarah never swears.

---

She’s right of course. I know that. I know what I’m doing could mess everything up. But I also know I like it. I like the secrecy, the intimacy, the simple, unjustifiable pleasure that comes with each button of a blouse undone, with each touch of a fingertip on my skin.

I like it. I just like it too much to stop it.

That’s the simple truth. I’m too weak to say no. What man wouldn’t be?

Her name is Lilly. She’s twenty six. Her eyes sparkle. Her smile makes me smile. And when she looks at me, I feel alive. Totally, utterly and completely alive.

I can’t give this girl up.

But I know I have to.

---

Three nights ago I called her on my mobile. Lilly, we need to talk, I said.

She said that sounded bad – she never liked it when people said they needed to talk. Needing to talk always meant talking about something you didn’t want to talk about, she said. Then she asked me what we needed to talk about.

I said it would be better face to face.

She was quiet then for a long time. I could hear the sound of the TV in the background. The news was on. A story about an airline going bankrupt.

When she eventually spoke she simply said ‘You’re done with me, aren’t you. You’ve had enough of your little fling?’ Then she waited for an answer.

I didn’t give one. Didn’t know how to.

‘I knew this would happen’, she said, ‘from the moment we got involved.’

‘We should never have, I guess’, I replied. The sentiment sounded crass and negative. I stopped talking quickly.

‘No,’ she paused, ‘affairs always turn out badly’, she sounded pensive but not overly upset as she spoke. ‘Usually worse for one person than the other.’

‘I’m sorry, I really don’t mean to hurt you’, I said. I meant it. I genuinely meant it. I was sorry.

‘No need to be’, she said, ‘I’m not talking about me.’

I smiled. ‘Oh I’ll be fine’ I said, ‘but I’ll miss you – you do know that.’

Again there was silence. A crackle on the line. A pause for thought. The TV had been turned down. I was walking and I could hear the echo of my own breath in the earpiece.

‘Why now?’ she said.

I wasn’t sure. I told her I didn’t know. It just felt like the right time to … I didn’t want to say ‘end it’. In my heart I didn’t want to end it. I let my words float off into the night time air unfinished.

Then she simply said ‘oh well’ and sighed – a long, resigned sigh.

‘I am sorry’ I said again.

A small laugh came as a surprise. She told me to stop saying sorry and grow a pair. I told her I already had a pair. She laughed again and said that she had noticed.

And then we talked a while longer. About this and that. About us and how it looked like there soon wouldn’t be an ‘us’.

I didn’t want to be doing this at all. I loved being with Lilly. I loved talking to her – even now. Loved her sense of humour, loved so much about her. Loved her, perhaps. Perhaps not.

As our conversation naturally started to draw towards a close, she said ‘You’re right though.’

‘What do you mean?’ I said.

‘Face to face’, she replied. ‘We should meet and talk and say goodbye properly. We both knew this was only ever going to be… a bit of fun. So why don’t you come over, we’ll open a bottle of wine and bid farewell to our bit of fun.’

I said I liked the sound of that. I did like the sound of that.

‘Thursday’ she said, ‘I’m away for a couple of days, but come over on Thursday at seven.’

‘Thursday’ I agreed.

We hung up. This was for the best. I tried to convince myself.

---

‘It’s for the best’, Sarah says in her matter-of-fact voice.

‘I know…I know.’

It doesn’t feel like it though.

The Americano is bitter and strong. And I’m spending too much time in cafes with my sister.

---

The night is warm and still. I’m lying in bed, awake but not looking for sleep.

Her breathing is slow and steady and regular. Her back is facing me and I watch as her body rises and falls with each intake of air. On the bedside table the clock says 2.17am – its little electronic green display casting a oddly calming glow over my wife’s hair.

I know I’m doing the right thing.

I know where I belong. And I know who I belong with.

I will miss the excitement of course. The passion. The newness of it all. The sense of unexpected elation that Lilly brought into my life.

But I will miss it the way I miss being on holidays the first week I am back home. I’ll get over it.

I turn over in the bed and settle my head on the pillow. I wait for sleep to come and it does softly and easily.

Tomorrow I will see Lilly for the last time.

---

I park about a hundred yards from her house. I’m not sure why. Habit I guess. I get out of the car and walk back the way I’ve just driven. It’s five past seven on Thursday evening. I’ve come straight from work. The street is quiet – like it usually is. I take my phone out of my pocket and switch it off. Another habit. No reason to anymore I figure. Nothing to hide now.

The disappointment I had expected to feel at this moment hasn’t materialised. If anything I’m filled with a sense of what I imagine to be relief. For that I’m glad. Maybe I knew our relationship would never really last, never really amount to anything. Maybe I simply didn’t want it to.

A fling.

She’d used that word on the phone.

Just a fling. A curious trifling word. Not something serious like an ‘affair’ or something sensuous like a ‘romance’. Rather, a fling. A throwaway word for a throwaway action.

Was that the way she had seen it too? Was she now also feeling relief? Was she anticipating the end of our relationship in the same curiously comfortable way that I was? Of course I had no way of telling. No way of answering. I didn’t know her well enough to second-guess what she might be thinking.

To be honest I didn’t really know her at all. And I most certainly didn’t know what she saw in me.

I was more than fifteen years older than her. I was at best average looking. I wasn’t rich. Nor would I have considered myself particularly charming. But it seemed that she’d seen something. And she’d liked something. And she’d let me know she liked it in no uncertain terms.

Both I and my ego were happy to go along with that. The fewer questions asked, the better.

I’m at the door now. I raise my hand and press the bell and then wait. I wonder if she will open it. I expect she will. I hope she will.

There is movement inside. Keys jangle and are turned in the lock. The door is eased back from its frame. One of the hinges creaks. ‘Oh hi – it’s you.’ There’s a hint of mild surprise as the door is drawn open fully.

Her name is Karen. She’s one of two housemates that Lilly shares with. That’s all I know about her. I have never spoken to her. We were very discreet.

‘Hi’ I say. I’m looking over her shoulder to see if there’s anyone else in. ‘Is Lilly there?’

She looks at me with both eyebrows raised and the most obvious expression of curiosity I have ever seen in my life. Then she smiles. ‘Oh is that what you call her?’

‘Is that not her name?’ I say.

‘No, it’s Adele’, she says – as if this fact should be obvious to me when it’s clearly not.

‘Right.’ I’m uncertain. ‘Adele’, I repeat. ‘Adele, so… is Adele in?’

Again the look of curiosity. A look that says ‘Are you for real?’ while her voice says: ‘No, I thought you’d know.’

‘Know what exactly?’

‘That she’s gone.’

‘Oh’, I’m taken aback but then I suddenly realise what she means. ‘Yes but she said she was back today. Thursday.’

Karen pauses as if double checking something in her mind. Then she shakes her head. ‘No, I mean gone , gone – as in ‘not living here anymore’ gone.’

‘Gone?’ I say. There’s nothing else I can say. Things are not making sense. Adele. The name is familiar. Why is the name familiar? ‘Gone…where?’

‘I don’t actually know’ Karen says, ‘She was only living here for, what, a few months and because, you know, of my shifts and stuff I hardly got to know her. I think she said she was going back home.’

It hits me again – only with more force this time - I know almost nothing about the girl. ‘Where’s home?’ I ask, instinctively.

Karen has no idea. She shakes her head. She assumes I know.

I don’t.

I begin to turn around. There is no point in me trying to get any more information from Karen. It’s clear she doesn’t have it. I’m going to call her or text her. This has to be a misunderstanding. Lilly or Adele or whoever she is will sort it out. I mumble an apologetic thanks and switch my phone on as I begin to make my way back down the path.

‘Oh, I nearly forgot’, Karen calls and pulls the door open again. I turn my head. ‘Now that I think about it, she did say you were going to come by. She said you left this here and that you’d need it.’ She‘s waving an envelope. ‘Sorry’ she smiles, ‘nearly forgot, I’m…you know…’ She doesn’t finish her sentence. Just holds out the envelope for me to take it.

I hadn’t left it there. But I still take it. I am hoping it’s a good-bye note. A keepsake I can hide in a place where only I can find it. I am not so sure though.

‘Thanks’ I say. She nods and smiles uncertainly. She is as confused as I am. She closes the door just as my phone beeps into life. For the briefest of moments I stand and stare at the closed door in front of me, before turning again and walking again. I’m not sure what’s happening. And I’m not sure that I like it.

Adele…Adele. Why is that name familiar?

I want to rip the evelope open and explore the contents immediately. But I wait a few seconds until I am clear of the house. It is very light. I’m guessing a single page. My phone rings. I take it out of my pocket. My wife’s number is on the screen. Not now, I think. I call her back in a few minutes. I let it ring until it goes to voicemail. Then it begins to ring again – straight away. Same number. I stuff it back into my pocket and I stop walking.

Something is wrong. Something is very wrong. And I have no idea what it is.

I’m standing still on the edge of the pavement as I tear open the envelope. I am right. A single page. A single page torn from an anonymous copybook. A few lines written in blue biro. And a signature. I look at the signature first and as I do so I feel my whole world crumble and fall apart. Adele O’Connell.

The cyclist all those years ago. Mark O’Connell. The young girl outside the courthouse. Thirteen at the time. His daughter.

My phone is ringing yet again. I now know the reason why. It’s staring me in the face. In the simple form of neat, joined-up handwriting. Devastatingly neat.

I can’t answer it. I won’t answer it. Not yet. And when I do, it won’t be to offer an excuse.

Because there won’t be one.

I read. Slowly.


Dear John,
I’m sorry that this had to end badly for you. Affairs often do. You’ll now know who I am of course, and why you find yourself in the position you do. And in case you’re wondering what exactly she knows – the answer is pretty much everything – video cameras are very discreet these days. In fact you were shot from all sorts of angles – some quite unflattering it has to be said.
I dropped the DVD off to your wife just as you were expecting to see me here – so she may have been in touch by now – or she may want to have a chat when you get home.
Thanks for ruining my life all those years ago. I hope you will now understand in some small way how it feels to lose someone you love. Because, take it from me, that’s what’s going to happen

Farewell, Adele O’Connell

pickarooney

You're a chronic procrastinator and I can only wonder what you'd be writing now if you had been practising for the last few decades. This is a fantastic piece, beautifully written, wonderfully paced and with a nice twist at the end. You could sort of see it coming but still the tension was very nicely dosed.

I'll tell you one thing, when I was reading the first lines and got to "Under the sheets our bodies touch at the hips and the feet" I thought "that's really nicely put, but he's copied it from somewhere" but then I realised I'd actually just remembered it from two or three years back when you posted the first draft.

You need to do something with this, and you need to keep writing.

For the sake of balance, here are six tiny mistakes.

Lily/Lilly - the spelling varies

leave out the clutch - I know 'leave' is used to mean 'let' in some Irish dialects but this will just confuse most people as 'leave out' will mean 'omit' to them.

Sarah is (a) primary school teacher

(the) Thursday evening -not an error as such as you're referring to a particular pre-referenced Thursday but I don't think the article is needed

less questioned - I think it should be fewer questions but I'm not 100% what you mean

'discrete' should be 'discreet' in both cases.

alfa beta

thanks pickarooney - and thanks for the proofread - funny how hard it is to spot your own typos and yet other people's glare at you!

I'll make those edits as it's nice to present something clean and tidy.

Thanks also for your comments. Very happy to see the first response is positive.

echo beach

pickarooney wrote: »

You need to do something with this, and you need to keep writing.

I would completely agree. I really enjoyed your story. I'd say you have been 'writing' over the last few years but you did it in your head - storing ideas and phrases. Now you have to get them on paper. I know it isn't easy but look back over your day. I'll bet you wasted at least half an hour watching TV, surfing the net or whatever. Convert that into writing time. You have the talent to make it worthwhile.

Achillles

Completely agree with the sentiments above, it was a well written piece. It's not the type of story that would normally draw my interest, but the style of writing held me captivated. There are some lovely turns of phrase, and I like how you cut abruptly to each new scene.

I know 'leave' is used to mean 'let' in some Irish dialects but this will just confuse most people as 'leave out' will mean 'omit' to them.

I actually prefer the colloquialism of how you presented it originally, but I do suppose it might spell confusion for the reader. Anyway, well done on the piece and hopefully we'll have more to read soon!

alfa beta

By the way, can any of you more experienced writers suggest what I could do with this story, now that it's written.

It seems to be getting a pretty good reaction - both here on boards and from other acquaintances who've read it.

I can't imagine there are many avenues open in terms of potential publication for short stories (nor am I fully convinced that this piece is good enough for poblication in any case) - but y'know, it would be nice to explore the possibility of seeing it in print so if anyone here could point me in the right direction I'd be really grateful.

Ta.

pickarooney

Enter some competitions? Write more and self-publish a collection of short stories?

buyer95

Just read this, a brilliant piece of short story writing in my humble opinion. Anyone who says they saw the twist coming at the end, in my opinion are lying. It was completely unforeseen for me! Thank you for sharing this fine piece

Lplated

Enjoyed that.

If I had known what the topic was, I wouldn't have been interested - but you drew me in and kept me there until I had to know how the story would end - to me that's the highest praise I can give any writing!

Please write and post more...

Brian Lighthouse

It reads well.
Well done, Keep at it.

niall mc cann

Well done, it's nicely written.

Keep 'em coming.

Rubecula

That is terrible, no not the story , that is fantastic. What is terrible is the fact that I have only just read it.

Do more please because you certainly have a great talent.

Mr E

I just read this now. Terrific story.

Keep writing!

Mr.Nice Guy

I liked this too. It kept me engaged all the way. :cool:

FudgeBrace

I couldn't stop reading, it is fantastic.!!

steve9859

Only stumbled on this as it was at the top of the list of latest posts....not a chance I would have seen it otherwise. And thought "what the hell, I'm not tired, why not give it a read before I hit the lights"

And what a great story. You have a great talent!!

storker

Great stuff. I really enjoyed reading it.

Stork

stevenmu

Fantastic story and very well written, it really just sprung to life in my mind right from the start. It occurred to me about half way through that this isn't the kind of thing that I'd expect to have any interest in reading, but I was still enjoying the hell out of reading it.

For proofreading's sake, I think that

I call her back in a few minutes

should read

I'll call her back in a few minutes

alfa beta

good spot steven - will make that edit - cheers.



(that's strange - I don't have the option to edit the original post anymore - must be a time limit or something....oh well, not a biggie I guess)