It was a sentimental journey. A journey back in time. She searched for the street. Was it here? No, perhaps it was around that corner over there. Yes, back home at last, back to the street in which she grew up. Back to the street filled with memories, happy memories because she was happy then.
But it wasn’t the street she remembered. Those apartments weren’t there back then, Auntie Julie was. And over there, what happened to Jamey’s house? It didn’t look like the one that stood there now. Jamey’s house was a friendly house that smiled. This was a cube which frowned. What happened to Jamey?
She’d played in this street. Marbles, hopscotch, chase … ‘you’re it’! She remembered the time they played ball and she kicked it through Mrs Mason’s window. The sound of breaking glass rang in her ears as the memories flooded back. But Mrs Mason’s house was no longer there. They’d run away and hid behind the massive oak tree on the corner, that corner over there. What happened to the oak tree, why was it gone?
As she turned the bend in the road a terrace came into view. Her heart leapt. It was the row of houses where she’d lived. Her little house was still there, right in the middle. She walked a little faster and then began to run. Her mind filled with images and her ears filled with sounds. Sounds of laughter, for she was happy there. Oh, how she longed to feel Tibbles the fat black cat brush against her legs. She so wanted to hear the chiming bells of the ice cream van as it sat across the street.
But why were there boards over the windows? Why wasn’t grumpy Mrs Brown next door peeping out from behind her net curtains? Why couldn’t she see the bright yellow door on the house she grew up in? Why did it say ‘Keep out, condemned’ where her door used to be?
Condemned. She’d returned to her street to relive her memories. It had been the only place she’d ever been happy. Since she left, her life was condemned. Tragedy, sadness and despair waited around every corner. Now it was as if her happy memories were condemned too.
I work in a soulless office performing mind-numbing chores. My colleagues think I’m boring. Little do they know that come nightfall I swap clerking for twerking!
How do I look? Lipstick’s perfect. My bouffant? Another swoosh of hairspray I think. Off with my cardigan and slippers, on with my slinky dress and highest heels. I’m on my way!
My favourite club. The noise, the lights, the people! Look, there’s handsome Rob from work chatting up Sally from accounts. Called me dreary yesterday. What’ll he make of me now? Move over gall, I’m coming!
I need a pee first. I must remember to use the lady’s room not the men’s!
Thanks to Rochelle for hosting and to Trish Nankivell for the picture.
For Ragtag Daily Prompts which for the final time is hosted by Christine. Thanks for making our Sundays such fun! The given word is Adieu
I try not to reuse stories from the past, but this one from 2015 seemed too fitting to resist!
Suddenly the lights of Paris shone less brightly. The laughter of happy times past, nothing more than a fasding memory. Eyes which once sparkled with joy now streamed tears of anguish down ashen cheeks.
She pressed her hand against the glass as did he. Although close they felt a million miles apart, cruelly separated by the carriage window.
With a menacing roar, the train began to inch its way down the platform, slowly at first as if to prolong the agony of those final heart-wrenching moments. He choked on his emotion; she sobbed and gasped as she tried to speak. But they heard nothing.
He ran beside her until the end of the platform dragged them apart. The monster headed out into the night taking with it his very reason for being.
He stood alone, at one with his thoughts, the platform deserted. Then, in the chill of the midnight breeze, he heard her whispering voice. ‘Je suis désolé mon amour’ she wept.
He stared out into the darkness as tears of rain began falling from the sky. ‘Adieu mon amour’ he cried.
He sank to his knees. “Pourquoi me as-tu abandonné? Pourquoi?”
I enjoy nothing more than luxuriating in a bubbly bath, don’t you? Candles here and there, gentle music wafting ‘twixt drifting clouds of aromatic steam. With of course, a glass of red wine to hand.
Last I night I had a slight accident whilst wallowing. I knocked my glass of Tempranillo Grande Reserve ‘09 into the bath. Such a waste, but the blushing water got me thinking. Surely, the ultimate soak extravaganza would be to bathe in red wine!
That chap Anonymous once said (and he said an awful lot of things) ‘where there is plenty of wine, sorrow and worry take wing ’. I like that. To lay there in a cheeky little Chateau Branleur with a hint of blackberries and plum, inhaling an aroma reminiscent of balmy summer nights (as it says on the label!) is quite appealing.
Actually, it would be more like marinating than bathing, and I’d probably emerge looking like a life-sized strawberry! So perhaps beer might be a better idea, a well crafted pale ale perhaps. That might even give me a tan!
In the meantime, I’ll make do with my usual squirt-and-a-bit of citrus dishwashing liquid, and pretend it’s gin, with tonic and lime!