Mary Morgan's story
358 words
Ephemere
How strange. I feel myself dissolving.
The boundaries between myself and the outer world are melting.
All my senses are gone.
And yet, I breathe, slowly in and out in this thick, heavy soup I am a part of.
I try to shift, to turn.
I can no longer move.
I cannot tell whether it is night or day.
Time goes by but I don’t know how long.
I have time to think.
Everything is vague. I float through many lives,
chasing my thoughts of other times, other forms,
but they slip away like forgotten dreams.
Colors, sounds and smells swirl together.
I have no sense of space.
I am large as the universe and small as a cell.
My boundaries dissolve.
I am a part of everything,
of all the worlds I have ever known.
Of all times gone by.
Slowly I feel my body changing. I writhe.
I do not know this strange shape.
Time passes.
Thoughts form.
My mind is awash in color and scent!
I dream of my past, fields of flowers:
Blazing Star, Black-Eyed Susan, Phlox and Heliotrope.
And my favorite, yellow roses. Oh, the scent of roses!
And Leaves! Leaves soft, silky green, glaborous leaves!
I wake to a loud, shrill shriek.
Trembling, I search my mind, scanning…
Ah, it is a siren, an ambulance,
waking me from my stupor.
I bend a leg. It is stiff and tight. Ahhh! I try to stretch out.
I am trapped. I twist and turn.
Desperate to escape.
My body feels like dry winter twigs crackling,
then slowly, slowly filling with sap.
I push through,
first my legs and then my abdomen.
I crawl.
Damp petal wings droop from my sides.
My body pulses with blood.
Wings harden and grow.
Old lives fall away.
Suddenly an epiphany.
I am of the order Lepidoptera,
a Papillio, a butterfly!
I flap lightly and float up and up
into my ephemeral life.
All around me is a mineral world.
Gray, blue buildings flash like fish scales, undulating for as far as I can see.
I search for a scent, a hint of green, a spark of life.
Nothing.
I must go on.
Searching the void, of this ephemeral world.
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Geraldine's story
As the ambulance took a sharp curve on this narrow road, Melanie opened her eyes and started moaning.
- Where am I, why does my head ache so much, what happened, where am I going ?
- Don’t be afraid. You’re all right. It’s going to be all right. Just keep still and relax if you can !
There was this deep calm voice, coming from a long way a way, reaching her ears : who was talking ?
- We’re not too far now. We’ll be reaching the Hospital in a few minutes and you’ll be taken care of and taken in charge by them.
She wanted to talk but not a sound came out of her mouth. She felt light and heavy at the same time. She saw this glaborous face leaning over her, taking her hand and very gently trying to bring her back to life ! But she felt alive, only she couldn’t find a way of letting him know !
So she closed her eyes again and started trying to make sense of all this, trying to remember who she was, what had happened that landed her in this critical situation. A few moving images came towards her, but they were so blurred they couldn’t make sense and she passed out again.
The next thing she knew was she was being transfered to a stretcher in front of this huge modern building that looked like a hospital. It was a hospital ! The deep voice of the man with the glaborous face came through to her :
- Here we are. We’ve reached the hospital now : they are going to take care of you. I’m off again there has been another accident. Do take care and recover : you look so young !
The stretcher rolled quickly on a cold stone floor through many corridoors, two doors burst open and she just had time to see all these creatures with green blouses and white masks and gloves bringing a mask to her face. She was « out » !
Melanie was sitting up on her hospital bed, talking to a couple of people who seemed happy to see her. Who were they, why were they there ? The young man, brown eyes and dark hair, tall and slim was holding her hand and a middle aged women with whitening hair and a very soft look was smiling.
- At last we’ve been allowed to come and visit you ! How do you feel ? Do you remember anything about the accident, how it happened, what happened ?
Melanie smiled back at them. How nice of you to be here ! Could you tell me who you are ?
- But darling, I’m your husband, Eric, said the young man looking very disturbed ! And your Mum is here along with me. Don’t you recognize her ?
Melanie’s Mum’s face went white, but she tried to put on her best smile and leant over to kiss her daughter. But Melanie moved hastily backwards, looking afraid.
So they just sat there with her for quite a moment, not talking, just showing their warm feelings and trying to hide their disconfort. Melanie’s eyes were going from one face to another and back again : who were these people she thought ! Well, she laid back on her pillows and her eyes just closed again, she felt so tired, all these new faces to have to face, all expecting something from her she couldn’t pay back !
When these strange people left and she woke up again, a nurse came into her room and said :
- Were you happy to see your family ? They were so worried about you ! And pleased to see you were doing better, but they still are a bit worried as you seemed not to have recognized them ! Do you remember them at all ?
- No, I don’t know these people, but they seem to be nice !
- Well I’ll tell you what happened now if you are ready to hear your story !
You were driving on a road you know by heart, after work, to fetch your baby Roseline at the nursery. There was this big lorry driving towards you and apparently, the driver was answering his phone and lost control. He pumbed into your car –it was a red Toyota- and smahed it to bits. His only good reflex was to call the police immediately telling them an ambulance would certainly be needed. So, when you reached the hospital, you were diagnosed with head trauma with blood clots that needed removing immediately. They operated you within minutes and saved you. But apparently you’ve lost your memory, you’re hit by amnesia : we’re going to help you recover : this often happens after accidents, but we try and find out circumstances that can help.
- Do you remember anything ? The accident, your car, your baby, the ambulance that got you here ? Melanie looked at the nurse, didn’t answer, but you could guess a lot of things being stirred behind her forehead. She stayed silent for a long while, then the nurse very gently said « anything coming up ? »
- Well, said Melanie, I can see a glaborous head over my own and a deep warm voice trying to appease me. That’s about all !
- Do you remember where you were when you heard that voice ?
Another very long lapse of time went by before Melanie seemed to come back to life.
- I think I was being driven somewhere… I was lying down…. This voice was so ephemera… but helpfull, so helpfull… It’s such a long way a way !
The nurse thanked Melanie for her help, then gave her her injection, pulled her pillows together, gave her some water with a couple of pills and asked her if she would be OK for the night. Melanie smiling told her she would be fine. And fell asleep.
Two days later, a big tall man with a glaborous face walked into Melanie’s room. As she looked up at him, he asked her :
- Well, how do you feel today ? I really thought you wouldn’t get through when I escorted you in the ambulance after your accident. I did so hold your hand to try and keep you alive untill we got here ! Do you remember ?
Melanie’s face enlightened ! That voice, your voice….I can only just recall I wanted to hear it again ! and here it is ! It was so, so… strong ! I know it pulled me through… where did we meet ?
- I was with you in the ambulance after your accident, do you remember ?
He sat with her for quite a while, telling her his version and making sure she was listening and trying to recall images, sounds, situations…
- I have to go now, but I’ll be back in a few days. Bye bye.
The ambulance man came three times a week to see Melanie and talk with her.
On the other hand, he was seeing her family giving him lots of details about their previous life, he would use for the following meeting. When they all felt she had enough « stuff » to cope with, they decided it was time for her family to pay her another visit.
Eric walked into her room with a lovely big bunch of yellow roses (her favourite flowers) and her Mum followed with Roseline in ther arms.
- Hi darling, how are you feeling today ? Roseline was handed over to her and she picked her up and they both started laughing, then she rocked her delicately, the way she used to do.
- Well, if your are feeling ok, the hospital has decided you’re ready to come home.
Melanie smiled at them all : « I think I’m ready now ». At least I know who you are !
Let’s say next Sunday then « It’s Epyphany » , the day we’ve always loved to celebrate together…
___________________________
Annemarie's story
What do Words Mean?
Mimi sat up in bed…alone.Unlike her friends she was happy to wake early, to indulge in a full hour of preparation before revealing herself to the world. How grateful she was to have her own home, her own mornings, despite the wonderful Max. Yes, they were an item but they agreed to keep their separate homes. It kept the magic going.
He took her out to restaurants, weekend painting experiences, trips abroad, stately homes, museums, and what a mine of information! Didn’t she have an ephemera of tickets and souvenirs in an intricately woven basket (bought from an eco women's project on their 2021 trip to a Botswanan village).
Yes, her home time was me-time, time to recover, time to replenish, time to rejuvenate body and face.
She opened her vanity case and selected her Anastasia Beverly Hills Precision Tweezers from an array of beauty aids laid out in readiness like a surgeon's operating tray - eyelash curler, scissors, cotton wipes, miniature massage machine (no chin-sag for Mimi). Underneath a cavern of jars and tubes with a veritable dictionary, nay, a thesaurus of age-defying, beauty-enhancing minutely printed words. Picking up her 5x magnifying mirror she checked for errant hairs on her pretty little chin.
She chose a honey-potion-plus-ceramide-hydration mask and smeared it over her face. While it dried and extracted yesterday's pollution, while it tautened and eliminated wrinkles, she examined the ingredients on one of the tiny, plum-sized, thick glass jars containing a teaspoon of defiant anti-ageing cream; at least thirty words printed on the the 2 x2 centimetre label. She examined the recently acquired eyelash conditioner. What an earth was chlorophenesin? A quick search on Google assured her that it was 'a little helper ingredient that works as a preservative. It works against bacteria and some species of fungi and yeast. It's often combined with IT-preservative, phenoxyethanol.' So that was good. £89! But worth it as her lashes after 20 applications were, for the first time in her life, flutterable.
Absent-mindedly she read other promises and assurances printed on jars and tubes: Face-pack packets of natures wonders - aloe Vera, cosmos organic in fresh pressed leaves to clean, clear and hydrate; hyaluronic acid serum is a great choice for those looking to improve the appearance of their skin; miracle golden-glow to illuminate the cheeks (more than 41 ingredients in that one; surprising there was sufficient cheek on which to spread the stuff); sublime energy skin- smoothing anti-age primer. The beauty industry was a place where hyphenated words existed in hordes. So many scientific words, unpronounceable and no use for writing; words merely to wipe, to layer, to plaster, to sculpt and paint upon her face. She pushed aside the bottles and jars to think about which exercise outfit to wear. Ten minutes later Mimi sluiced off the mask, ten minutes to instantly feeling ten years younger. She had to hurry now as she had the first of her body-enhancing classes. Just some lipstick to go on - yes, this was the one: “Shimmer bomb, a dusky rose, infallible 24hr lipstick of intense colour and boosting balm.” If only da Vinci and Rembrandt had such age-defying palettes of colours what more could they have achieved, she mused.
Thursday was her 'Grit' class which entailed short, sharp bursts of high intensity training so it was as well that she had her Body-Balance class in the afternoon, an altogether less strenuous class, a yoga, Tai Chi and Pilates inspired workout to keep her long, strong, calm and centred… and she could quietly observe the latest exercise outfits worn by the younger 'Gritters'.
All those meals out with Max were revealing themselves on her waistline. They had celebrated (did she really mean celebrated?) her seventieth birthday last year - with a surprise trip (from Max) to Amsterdam. How could she forget the 70 red roses in vases around their room. He knew her preference was for yellow but as he informed her, yellow roses symbolised jealousy, infidelity and dying love whereas his red roses were a symbol of his commitment, faithfulness, and loyalty.
To counteract the meals out and bottles of gin thoughtfully sent during Covid, she had enrolled on Tuesday afternoon on a ViPR (pronounced viper of course) class - a whole-body workout to help build muscle and burn calories. She hoped it wouldn't be too aggressive; reading the blurb Mimi learnt that one ' can undertake a wide range of movements with this adaptable fitness tool - it can be lifted, dragged, rolled, thrown and even stepped on…' a long, hard rubber cylinder. The new ViPR class had been surprisingly active but Mimi had kept up with the best of the younger-than-Mimi women. Not only that but she had looked as good as them; she wallowed in the “Gosh, you don’t look anywhere near 70…”, “what a fantastic figure you have…” “ what? Four children? I don’t believe you!” comments which were scattered at her by her fellow 'Vipers'.
She arrived home slim, sweaty, satisfied. Time to try her new shampoo. Her hair had been somewhat lank lately. She remembered when she was a sweet sixteen, having curled her hair in a topknot on her head and that the boy she hankered after had mocked her, laughing and saying it looked like a chicken's bum… in front of all her friends! She’d been mortified but to be honest she thought the same thing about her friend who didn’t bother to put her false teeth in; although she'd never said so she thought waking up beside her must be like waking up to a hen's hole. Perhaps that’s when she had her epiphany; she would always make every effort to look after her svelte body and enhance the beautiful face nature had gifted her. The new shampoo pledged drop-defying bounce and body and a languished-after lustrous sheen to tired, lank hair.
Before stepping into the shower she looked at the bottle to check how long to leave it on…
thallium, mercury, selenium, and colchicine … just some of the ingredients, no wonder her hair would be thick, bouncy and lustrous. After her shower and feeling relaxed, fit and beautiful Mimi had a bowl of carrot and fennel soup and went early to bed. Tomorrow was another day out with Max - to visit, to be informed, to be fed, to be loved and she must look her best.
The following morning Max failed to get an answer when he rang the doorbell. Quietly he let himself in. No Mimi downstairs. He tiptoed upstairs, peered round her bedroom door only to find her sobbing in bed, clutching handfuls of Caracas iced-chocolate-coloured hair (not lustrous) and her scalp a dome of bald patches. Overnight Mimi had gone from glamorous to glabrous. So worried by the vicious scarlet patches Max took out his phone…When the ambulance arrived Max led her gently downstairs.
“And don’t forget my phone,” she said to Max, thinking to herself, I’ll need to research some decent wigs.
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Jackie
It really is fascinating this business of writing. Words become ideas and sentences, thoughts flow (well, normally) and stories are created magically.
When the five words were decided on at the last meeting my mind started to roll. I think with glee about possible plots. My imagination clicks in and I start to invent all sorts of tales. So one morning, early, I sit down with tea and toast, trying not to get the marmalade on the computer, pushing the computer to the middle of the table so that I can reach the keys, eat breakfast and still type. Unfortunately the page remains blank, I’m distracted by France Info on the radio and getting up to push the bread in the toaster down twice before it develops the brown crispiness that I enjoy. Then there are the dogs, Daisy wants to go out. Its cold so I shut the door. 4 minutes later she wants to come in – then Rosco decides that he must also go out and so it goes on.
An email chimes, a phones blips all these distractions and its time to walk the dogs. 9:30. I’m back. Coffee time and change and get ready for my day. Coming back to my computer there is nothing on my page for my story.
Yellow roses and ambulance made me think of Cuba in the 1960’s. Where did that come from? Now, how is that possible?. Cuba? I’ve never been there. Do I know where it is? I check and yes of course, I knew all along. and so I started to write ; “1960 in Havana Cuba. The plastic yellow roses bobbed up and down on the grubby dashboard of this bright pink ambulance as it heaved its way through the potholed streets of Havana” It was a start so I did a little research and came up with this.
To learn that Fidel Castro cancelled Christmas Day.
“Because Christmas in Cuba was outlawed by the atheist Castro regime for nearly 30 years (1969-1997), so that celebrations wouldn't get in the way of the sugar harvest (which was the reason given by the goverment ) Instead of the traditional Christmas tree, palm trees with Chistmas lights wrapped around the slender trunks served to decorate the streets with strange, small, nearly round, glabrous, ribbed fruits on a sparsely flowered spike.
Santa, ruled Castro’s director of culture, Vicentina Antuña, is out because he is “a recent importation [from the U.S.] and foreign to our culture.” From now on Cuban children will expect presents from the Three Wise Men on January 6, the feast of the Epiphany. No cardboard Santas or reindeer will be permitted. “Decorations must be made of Cuban materials, with traditional Cuban scenes,” ruled Senora Antuña, “and Cuban Christmas cards must be used instead of imported ones.”
Cuba went without any officially permitted Christmas celebrations for decades. Christmas was banned by the Communist Regime in Cuba in 1969 and not again allowed until 1997.
6th of January, the Ephiphanie, the people were dressed in their best clothes as it was the equivalent of a western Christmas. Small ephermeral shops opened in the tiny streets in and around Havana and other small towns in Cuba.
Ladies dressed in tailored skirts, women wore stiletto heels, suits with short boxy jackets, and oversized buttons. They paraded up and down the boulevards with colourful full skirted frocks with low necklines and close fitting waists The men, elegant in suits and bow ties, Oxford lace up shoes which shone reflecting the very moon above.
Today, celebrating Christmas has been allowed since 1997. There is a huge Christmas Eve mass that takes place each year in Havana in Revolution Square. At the stroke of midnight, church bells ring out loudly and announce the Saviour’s birth. Also in the square are gigantic television screens, which display the mass performed by the Pope in Vatican City.
Most people spend several days decorating their homes, gathering the food for the Christmas feast, and getting ready for Christmas. For those who can afford it, it is a huge celebration each year.
So with just 5 words I have bored you with a story but perhaps learnt a lot about a country that I had never thought a lot of before.
___________________________________________Sarah's story
Yellow roses, yellow roses! Who can sufficiently extol the beauty of yellow roses? Their glorious brilliance, diffusing the sunshine throughout a room, warming the soul with their luminous colour! And what beauty could be more ephemeral? Pink roses keep their colour, even when they fade; so do red ones. But the yellow ones, whose colour signifies optimism, energy and friendship but also happiness and joy, though splendid at the moment of their full bloom, must be seized at once; their message must not be lost. If left to shrivel to a sickly shade and then to brown, they must be got rid of immediately; they should never have been ignored, allowed to reach this stage and leave an altered memory of themselves. Do not let the day escape your grasp, they seem to say.
A single rose, held under the glabrous chin of an Austro-Hungarian Kavalier, may be pink, white, silver, but if it is yellow, cannot be given to Sophie—it is for the Marschallin, surely, and will not be given in vain.
What an epiphany might have been hers if such had been the case: realizing that at thirty-five, she was not past love, she was only beginning, indeed, and the richest years were still before her! And when the ambulance, with its creaking wooden wheels, carted her lover off the heroic field, his last words would not be, “Long live the Empress!” but the surprisingly intimate “Marie Thérèse, ma Marie-Thérèse!”
