Brown shoes! Why had he worn brown shoes? He was playing Death for Chrissakes. Everyone knew that Death wore black shoes. Black suit, black shoes. It said so on the costume list. Every year the same. Sister Concertina would never forgive him; that mouth of hers bunched up like a sundried tomato. And the bishop would be all for excommunicating him. After all, it wasn’t often that a member of the congregation was allowed to audition for the annual production of Everyman. He had given it his best shot and he hadn’t got the part. Father Flynn did; pompous git that he was. Joe got to be understudy. But then Father Flynn had tied on one too many at the yacht club last Saturday night, went out in his yacht, and hadn’t been seen since. That had worked out well.

Now Joe had his big chance. Everyone said he was perfect for the part with his rangy frame and his lugubrious disposition. But brown shoes? He would have to perform in his socks. Yes, that would do the trick. No one would notice. Joe looked around the empty church. Where could he hide his shoes? Kicking them off, he nipped up to the altar and stuck them under the cloth. Sure there was a bit of a bulge but no one would notice. They’d all be focused on the play. He tiptoed down the steps and sat again, waiting. The church bell tolled seven times. Wait a minute, where is everyone? With panic rising, Joe checked his mobile. Mon, April 12. Shite, the performance was last night. Why had no one called him? He’d missed his big break, him and his brown shoes.

Clo Carey – May 2020

Blog challenge @www.emilybowers.ca/ https://wordsbywhittall.blogspot.com/ @passionate_perspective @https://www.facebook.com/groups/1470587219691626 #amwriting

#WriteHereWriteNow writing prompt @inkwellHQ @themariamchale

They call it a golden parachute. I called it the get-out-of-jail-free card; the lump sum that hits you on the way out of the same door that you’ve entered all your working life. That was before my new reality landed. I was paid off, good and simple. Redundant! On the scrap heap. My office chair occupied by a cute young thing, niece of the CEO, goddaughter of the area manager, fluff. Thirty years of service but nepotism rules. Oh, they gave me the party. Pot-luck with balloons and noisemakers and Betty from accounting’s leathery lasagne. There were a few teary eyes; none of them were mine.

Richard Hughes image

The problem going forward was what to DO. I was single, not particularly attractive, not especially talented and just going on fifty. Half a century isn’t a whole life, is it? I have never DONE anything; always preferred to take my two weeks paid leave as extra days tacked onto long weekends during which I read books, caught up with my laundry, went out with the girls, patted the cat. Thirty years of nothing much at all.

As parachutes go it wasn’t exactly winning the lottery. One year’s wages and that didn’t add up to much. No recourse to getting anything more out of the tight-fisted bastards once I accepted it either, but it was that or the firing squad, so what’s a girl to do? Apply for another job? Sit tight until pension time? Invest the nest egg wisely? I’ve been sensible for thirty years. Time for a change in direction.

Now that I’ve got time on my hands, my hands turn to Google and I’m searching out all the places I’d like to see. Bucket list places, like Iceland and Italy and Ireland. A quick figuring of the cost of it all and I’m reckoning I could blow the parachute in six months, no problemo. Then I ease on over to thinking road trip. If I got myself one of those camper vans, me and the cat could drive across Canada and back across the US (political situation having hopefully improved); put my stuff in storage; save on rent. Yes, I could just about manage that. I cover my small dining table with maps and plans and notes and guidebooks, planning a future for the first time in my life.

And it all goes really well. My notice on the apartment is given. The movers and the storage unit booked. I find a cheap camper on Kijiji, a little worn around the edges but it’s mine. It’s a sort of pinky-beige and has a roof rack. I call it Moose. It even has a toilet and shower and a kitchen and a fold out bed which the cat dozes off on, so it is definitely cat approved. I take a week to clean it out until it sparkles. Then I drop some of the parachute on the mechanic who sighs a lot while inspecting under the hood and even more when he gets it up on the hoist.

Pinterest image no attribution

A week before we are to leave, my mother comes to ‘visit’. She arrives at the apartment carrying a chocolate mousse and a suitcase. She has left husband number five and came over as soon as she finished her bridge game. She will stay until she finds another man, she says. I explain that I no longer have a job and I will be leaving soon. The only thing that she takes from the conversation is the number of noughts in the golden parachute. My mother likes money immensely. She just can’t hang onto it. I tell her she can stay until the movers arrive. After that she’s on her own, even without another man. She hangs around eating chocolate mousse; drinking my beer; painting her nails; posting her profile on dating sites.

I keep busy packing the camper. In go my food, my clothes, my cash, and treats for the cat. We are ready for the off. On the last morning I ride with the movers to the storage unit. Then I walk back through familiar streets. It’s sunny with a hint of Spring in the air. I breathe deep and stride along. The future awaits. I’m prepared, I exhilarated. When I round the last corner I break into a run. The camper is gone, and so is my mother, and so is the cat.

iStock image

Clo Carey – April/20

Blog Challenge One Word Prompt – Mousse/Moose

#SouthShoreScribesNS @www.emilybowers.ca/ https://wordsbywhittall.blogspot.com/ @passionate_perspective @https://www.facebook.com/groups/1470587219691626 #amwriting #writingprompt  #blogchallenge

Angeline’s last impressions were of a loud bang, shattering glass and antlers. She was oblivious to the blood seeping from her veins and the car flipping several times before    it came to rest in a gully. Her life did not flash before her eyes; it simply ended in black.

Truth be told she had been thinking about her life. The empty, non-event of it: the dreary, dullness of it. The more she thought, the closer the pedal crept to the metal, despite the horizontal rain, the buffeting wind, the slick conditions on the road. In the minutes before the crash, her mind was occupied with the lateness of the hour and how she had avoided handing out candy to the motley assortment of neighbourhood kids who swarmed their house every Halloween. Her mother would have reached a fever pitch of disappointment by the time she got home. The speedometer ticked 130 k.

Angeline’s mind had jumped, as minds do, to Halloweens of her own childhood and the costumes into which she was forced by her overbearing parent. Costumes designed to set off her princess qualities, not her tomboy nature. “Here is my beautiful little Tinkerbell/Cinderella/ Snow White/Aurora,” her mother would gush to assembled and assorted friends and relatives; over-compensating for the fact that Angeline was an only child, father unknown; attempting vicarious living through her flaxen-haired, blue-eyed child.

With high hopes, her mother entered Angeline in beauty pageants; losing interest only when, after years of froth and frill, Angeline stubbornly refused to don wigs and make-up. Her mother signed her up for modeling school but Angeline hacked off all her hair the day of the portfolio photoshoot. Her mother dragged her to theatre school but at last gave up the fight when Angeline refused to audition for starring roles, preferring to run the lighting cues.

“You’re a real disappointment to me,” her mother said.

It was uttered frequently enough as Angeline graduated high school with an 85% average and college with a degree in Library Arts. The lack of boyfriends, a glittering social life, a husband, house and babies were also real disappointments through the years.

Angeline struggled not to be a disappointment to herself but it wasn’t easy. Yoked by the burden of never measuring up, she buried her nose in books and escaped to happier worlds. She had done well enough in her career, it was true but she was now in her thirties, still lived with her mother and preferred the company of women to men. Despite her feisty childhood nature, her adult years had settled her into apathy. Escape was something she was incapable of contemplating.

“You’re a real disappointment…” and a great black shape lurched onto the road out of the fog. A real disappointment. Yes.

“…It was a dark and stormy night out there folks. Ha ha. Hurricane force winds and flooding were reported in several regions, so mind how you go. Hope you are all perked up ready to tackle a brand new day. This is Jerry Hound Dawg Spinner on CKJC bringing you the morning roadkill report…”

Dave Wiles switched off the radio and smiled. No need to listen today, he had already scored. He stopped the winch as the battered carcass of the stag swung over the bed of his truck. There would be weeks of good eating on this one despite the damaged flesh. He walked around to the off-road side of the truck to take a leak and noticed deep scores in the grass verge. He peered over the edge and was already dialing 911 before he reached the wreck. The woman inside was obviously dead, judging by the lack of a pulse, the grey-green pallor of her face and the rusty red stains on the interior. She looked otherwise unmarked, peaceful and serene. Dave sighed. She was beautiful, even in death, with her blonde hair and her dainty features. What a waste. Her purse lay on the ground where it must have fallen through the shattered windscreen. Dave checked the contents of the wallet and pocketed the bills. She won’t need them after all. There wasn’t too much else; none of the usual female clutter that his wife never left home without. There were a few tissues, a bookmark, some breath mints, a notebook, credit cards, and ID. He considered pocketing these as well but decided it wasn’t worth the risk. The face on the driver’s license stared out at him, alive but sombre. Angeline Murray, pleased to meet you. He opened the notebook more to pass the time than anything else. Every line was filled with the phrase ‘I am NOT a real disappointment’. Dave gazed at the beautiful, dead face and sighed. You wouldn’t have been a disappointment to me, Babe! And he clambered back up to his truck.

Clo Carey Feb/20

Blog challenge 2020 one word prompt: disappointment

#SouthShoreScribesNS @www.emilybowers.ca/ https://wordsbywhittall.blogspot.com/ @passionate_perspective @https://www.facebook.com/groups/1470587219691626 #amwriting #shortstory #amblogging #shortfiction #flashfiction

#write28days Feb24