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My contribution to the deadlinesforwriters short story challenge December 2022. Based on the prompt „strange“

You remind me of him

The old man looked at the ducks on the lake. “It’s very nice of you to share your bench,” he said.

Paul just nodded. It was a chilly November afternoon but dry and not too windy. He had always liked the park and this spot at the lake.

“Look! Someone from the home has given me grapes. I don’t even like those. See here, they cut them in half. Whole or halved, what difference does it make? These people are so odd.”

“Why don’t you give those to the ducks? Apparently grapes are good for them.” Paul remembered coming here as a little boy to feed the ducks pieces of bread. Things definitely had changed since then and you weren’t allowed to get rid of your stale bread like that anymore.

The old man stared at the container, then threw one piece at the birds. This caused a bit of a fight among them. “Huh, seems like you’re right,” he said and threw a few more grapes. Then he sighed.

“I wish my son would come and visit me. We could sit here together, him and me. Talking about the old days.”

“Sounds like you had some great old days together.” Paul smiled.

“They weren’t all bad. Mind you, we had your misunderstandings. Words were had.”

“Did you mean them?”

“I don’t actually remember. Maybe I did at the time? I really wish he was here. The people in the home tell me he comes to see me all the time but I just don’t know. Maybe they have him mixed up with someone else? Look at the grapes they gave me and I don’t even like grapes. You look like him a little.”

Paul could still hear his father’s angry voice. That had been so long ago and they both were very different people now. Those fights about really irrelevant little things were just so much water under the bridge now. He leaned against the back of the bench, watching the ducks who were still squabbling over the last bits of fruit.

“You were right, they really do seem to like grapes, don’t they? My son would’ve known, too, he’s clever like that. You remind me of him a bit, but I think he’s a bit taller than you.”

“So what has your week been like? Were the nurses nice to you?”

The old man’s face lit up. “They really were! We played Snakes and Ladders and the red haired nurse let me win!”

He went on to talk about his amazing board game victory while Paul listened to him.

The story had just about fizzled to an end when Paul’s phone rang in his pocket. After a quick look at the screen, he turned towards the man on the bench next to him. “Would you believe it, it’s 4pm already. Let’s go, it’s time for you to get some cake at the retirement home, I heard there’s going to be lemon drizzle today. Isn’t that your favourite, dad?”

Like my contribution to the story challenge Dezember 2022? On my blog you can find and read more of my stories!

My contribution to the deadlinesforwriters short story challenge March 2024. Based on the prompt „not my“

There is nothing like being good neighbours

There was a parcel on the doorstep when Helen came home. She bent down to pick it up and figured that the postman had misread the address. Theirs was number 13 and this package was supposed to go to whoever lived at number 31. Well, great.

She went inside to drop her bag and check the answerphone then left again, the box under her arm. It was heavy for its size and made a sloshing noise as she walked. It also gave off an unpleasant smell that reminded her of a hospital. Or, strangely, her compost heap. People ordered the weirdest things online these days.

Three quarters down their cul-de-sac, Helen’s stomach sank as she realised the proper owner of the package. She slowed down her steps and wondered if she should just put it down at the gate and hope for the best. Instead, she took a deep breath, ignored the goosebumps and said to herself “Oh, don’t be silly! What do you think is going to happen?”

She walked the last steps to the gate at the dead end of the road and up the path to the old house everybody avoided. Warm amber light shone from all its windows. Rose bushes bloomed abundantly in the crisp November air while soft smoke curled up from the crooked chimney. It all looked so cozy that Helen wondered if her neighbours had got it all wrong.

There was no doorbell so Helen was just going to knock. But before her hand connected with the door, it opened and a wrinkly face and pale blue eyes appeared.

“Mrs. Gray, this has been left at my door by mistake. So I thought I’d give it to you myself.”

The old woman had the wispiest white hair that tried hard to escape the bun at her neck. This seemed at odds with the blue jeans and dark purple hoodie she was wearing. Mrs. Gray beamed at Helen: “Oh, that is just so lovely of you! I bet it is quite heavy too. Won’t you come inside and have a cup of tea? The kettle has just boiled and these days so few people come to visit me.”

“Um,” was all Helen could come up with. She had mainly wanted to get rid of the package. “I don’t know. To be honest, I think I should go home and get started on dinner.”

“Come one, just the one cup! It would help me so much if you could carry the box inside, too. I have been waiting for it to arrive since the day before yesterday. I hope it is still alright anyway”

“What is it anyway?” Helen asked and then remembered. Whatever it was, it had probably gone off, judging by the smell. She cringed and hoped Mrs. Gray would not notice anything before Helen had left.

“Ah, you know,” Mrs. Gray flapped her hands. “Stuff. Hobby related ingredients.” She opened the door more widely and grinned waggling her dainty white eyebrows. “There may even be cake. And please, call me Edith.”

By now, the parcel felt like a stone in Helen’s arms, so she shrugged. “Alright, but I don’t need any cake. Or tea. Just show me where you want me to put this and I will be out of your hair in a minute.”

Edith led the way inside. The corridor was much darker than the brightly lit windows had promised. The lack of light may have been the reason why it also felt longer than it realistically should have been. There was an open door to the left, which Edith slammed shut before Helen could even think of peeking through. They entered a room via another door straight ahead. There was a table on which Helen dropped the box. She tried to cover the sloshing sound with a groan of relief.

“So what would you like? How about trying my own homemade herbal infusion mix?” Edith bustled away in the direction of what seemed to be the kitchen. “Make yourself comfortable on the sofa!”

“I really can’t stay, so there is no need at all for you to go to any trouble!” Helen called after Edith. She rolled her eyes, stared at the ceiling for a bit and then went over to try and sit on the sofa. The two tabby cats and the brown animal that looked a bit like a lizard presented a bit of a problem. Helen did not mind pets usually. These three, however, did not bother to hide their displeasure at having a visitor in their territory. The lizard stared even harder than the cats.

“Oh, you cheeky little rascals, let the nice lady sit!” Edith shooed her pets to the left, so she and Helen could squeeze onto the newly liberated part of the sofa. She pushed a chipped mug at Helen who sniffed its steaming brown contents gingerly.

“So, when did you two move here? I remember when all the area was forest, before the street was paved and the properties developed. Back then my house did not even need a number.”

“A couple of years ago,” Helen said, her eyes scanning the room for somewhere she could place the mug without having to lean over too obviously.

“It’s good to see you are not superstitious about your own number. Quite a few people did not want to move in at number 13.”

“Oh no, neither of us believes in that kind of nonsense,” Helen laughed. Out of the corner of her right eye she noticed Edith looking at her intensely then quickly breaking into a grin and clapping her hands.

“Well, it is a good thing that you came here to deliver the missing ingredients for my latest experiments. I had run out a while ago but now I can get back to work at last. So thank you very much again!”

Edith stood up and walked to the table, fishing a big knife out of the front pocket on her hoodie. She used it to cut along the side of the box which released a cloud of greenish vapour. At the same time the cats crept back up towards Helen, hissing. The lizard seemed to have materialised on the back of the sofa directly behind Helen’s neck. When its tongue shot out to touch her skin, Helen jumped up.

“I really, really have to go, I am sorry Mrs. Gray!”

“You haven’t even touched your tea, Helen! How am I supposed to-”

Helen felt a cold creep up her spine. She pushed past Mrs Gray who put up a surprising amount of fight and hurried through the long dark corridor. Helen heard Mrs. Gray tumble to the floor and at the same time something small scurrying after her.

At the gate she stopped to catch her breath and look back at the old house. It was completely dark and half covered in ivy, some of its windows broken. In the light from the street lamps she saw that the bushes on the front lawn had totally wilted away.

Helen stared in disbelief for a while, then decided she did not want to know after all, and ran all the way home.

Like my contribution to the story challenge November 2022? On my blog you can find and read more of my stories!

My contribution to the deadlinesforwriters short story challenge September 2022. Mia’s prompt was „False“.

Who are you?

‘I keep telling you, you have got all this totally wrong!’ Paul can hear Helen shouting through the open front door. He rushes in and there she is, paler than usual and face to face with a man Paul has never seen before.

The man wears a suit made from matte midnight blue material. He also wears an earpiece and black sunglasses. He leans forward into Helen’s personal space which does not seem to impress her or make her move away from him.

‘Is there anything wrong?’ Paul asks. It takes both Helen and the visitor a few seconds to look away from each other.

‘This only concerns your wife’, the man says, making air quotes around the last word. ‘I am only here for a couple of questions. Depending on your cooperation we will decide on the next steps.’

Paul feels a cold shiver creeping up his neck. ‘Wait, cooperation with what? What steps? And who is we? Helen, what is going on here? Do you know this person?’

Helen crosses her arms, staring at the man in the suit. ‘No idea. I have never met him in my life, he just turned up here and wants me to agree to this totally ludicrous story he made up about me.’

Paul is impressed by how she manages to look imposing even in her soft greyish tracksuit with her sandy brown hair in a messy bun. Still, the strange man does not seem too intimidated.

‘Mr Taylor, what do you know about your wife’s family? About her childhood?’

‘What does that have to do with anything?’ Paul responds at the same time as Helen’s face loses the last bit of colour. ‘She didn’t have any family left when we met but so what? Who goes around calling on people who have lost their parents? Who are you and on whose authority are you here anyway?’ Paul can hear his voice going up both in volume and in register.

The man pulls an identity card out of his pocket and holds it up for Paul to inspect, but really only long enough for him to catch the name J. Hunter. ‘I have already identified myself to Mrs. Taylor here. She should have known better than to drag this out for so long. You needn’t have witnessed any of this.’

Mr. Hunter takes a small folder from inside his jacket. It opens to reveal photos of a girl with braids the same brown as Helen’s hair and eyes the same bright blue. ‘You remember this, ‘Mrs. Taylor’?’ The man manages to enunciate the quotes now that his hands are busy holding the evidence. ‘We have spent decades to find you, I have to give you that. But then your kind has always been good at vanishing in plain sight, hasn’t it?’

‘Okay, what do you suggest is my kind?’ Helen growls, even though Paul can see she has taken a step further back.

‘Mr. Taylor, the person you think of as Mrs. Helen Taylor is, unfortunately, a completely different person. A different being, to be precise.’

Paul reaches out for Helen and she grabs onto his hand hard. He can feel how cold her own hand is and smaller than he remembers it. They look into each other’s eyes.

‘Whatever you are suggesting, Mr. Hunter, there is nothing wrong with Helen. She does not vanish nor is she a ‘being’. Helen is my wife and I trust her. She has never done anything wrong for as long as I have known her.’

‘Precisely.’ Mr Hunter stows the folder away again. ‘Let me tell you about Helen Taylor: What you see here is not a human. Not even someone from this planet. This individual was planted here about thirty years ago. Most likely to spy on us, but new intelligence has come up which we are currently working on.’

Paul stares at Helen who seems to have shrunken a couple of inches. He looks at their hands, still clasped together.

‘Have you ever wondered about her parents or when and why they died? Why she does not have any other family?’

‘No, and I don’t care! I see no reason to—’

‘Have you never asked yourself why you two have never had any children?’

‘Bit personal, isn’t it? We agreed that we did not want any, that’s why! We don’t have to justify our private decisions to you! Who do you think you—’

‘Where was your wife born? Have you ever visited any of the places from her childhood?’

‘No, I haven’t! Well, but—’ Paul looks at their hands again. Looks at her ashen face. Helen is the one who lets go first. She crosses her arms and sniffles.

‘Paul, don’t listen to him. I don’t know what these people want. Just because I don’t want to go back to where I came from does not make me an alien. You believe me, don’t you? Paul?’

He takes a deep breath and faces Mr. Hunter again. ‘She is the smartest person with the biggest heart I know. She has always supported me, back when we met as students as much as today, every day. I don’t know where I would be without her. If anyone here in this room is definitely human, then it’s her.’

‘In all those years it never occurred to you that she might be too perfect? That her level of cleverness is unnatural? That she might simply be presenting you with an image she wanted you to see?’

For the first time Paul wavers. He remembers their friends starting families. They never actually talked about any of their own. Neither has he ever asked Helen about her childhood. If she does not want to talk about it should that make him suspicious?

To him, she has indeed always been perfect. But too perfect? No. What makes him love her are all her imperfections. Not how bright she is but how she does not have all the answers all the time and how she does not expect him to either.

‘I am sorry, Mr. Taylor. You are not the first human I have had to have this talk with. I don’t enjoy this, but you have to face the facts. And even if you don’t, we will have to take measures soon. This situation must be dealt with.’

‘I am not a situation!’ Helen shouts at Mr. Hunter who turns away and raises his left hand. Not to protect himself, as Paul at first assumes, but to touch the device in his ear.

“What? The wrong— No, not again! You know, just for once I wish I could send you lot out here by mistake and have you make them forget! We will discuss this!”

He sighs, turns back to Helen and Paul and says: “Mr. and Mrs. Taylor, I am very sorry about the inconvenience.” Then he pulls out a small black sphere and holds it in front of him.

“I am sorry love, of course I do believe you!” Paul starts walking towards Helen to pull her into his arms but before he can reach her, a bright light blinds his vision and he collapses.

Like my contribution to the story challenge September 2022? On my blog you can find and read more of my stories!

My contribution to the deadlinesforwriters short story challenge August 2022. The prompt was „Child“.

On The Way Down

He realised he had not touched his toes with his legs straight in decades. There had never been any reason to. Now he found himself among a couple of teens, some middle-aged women and one man well in his eighties, all of them managing to at least reach their ankles. His own fingertips were not even down to his knees. And even this made it hard for him to breathe.

Mia, the teacher in front, made it look effortless. She had the same sandy blond hair and blue eyes as Helen, which had instantly made him like her. At least until she started making them bend over, twist and move into a lot of not exactly comfortable shapes.

Two years of sitting while homeworking and then sleeping in a tent for the long-awaited festival weekend had done a number on his back. The orthopaedist had said that there was nothing wrong with his spine and it was due to muscle tightening from lack of motion. It had been an education reading up on all the things that happened to you just by sitting.

He had been advised to take up yoga, so here he was, finally rising up again into a standing position. He had spoken to the teacher about his lower back and she had told him to listen to his body and take breaks whenever he needed them. Paul really could have benefited from hearing this advice two years earlier and then also following it.

“Try and lift your toes any amount while breathing in. Try and lower them to the ground one by one and breathe out,” said Mia.

Paul stared down, only managing the breathing part. His toes just would not budge. On his left, the elderly guy repeatedly moved his toes up and down in an elegant dance. With his eyes closed. Eventually, Paul remembered he had to breathe out. At least his diaphragm was willing to cooperate here.

“Now, try and feel your centre of gravity and move it back and forth a bit, then left to right. Find a position where your weight is balanced evenly across your feet.”

Paul had never spent much thought on where his weight had been leaning. Then again, he had not been aware that standing upright could be called Mountain Pose. Giving it a name made it feel more intentional somehow. They had gone through all the cues twice before, but apparently Mia believed in repetition.

Paul felt beads of sweat forming on his forehead when he struggled to lift his sternum up while at the same time keeping his ribs back in, widening his collarbones, drawing his shoulder blades down and inwards and on top of that to relax his arms and keep breathing. Standing had never felt so complicated and strenuous before.

“Remember to not lock your knee joints and keep breathing,” Mia instructed them.

Right, the knee joints. Paul willed them to go soft, damn it! He very nearly fell over from the effort. When he was happy with his Mountain Pose at last, he saw that everyone else had bent down again. His lower back slowing him down, it took him a few seconds to join them.

“Right, now you have two options. Find Down Dog and breathe in. Either you wait here to follow my instructions through another series of Warrior Poses or you exhale lowering your knees to the ground, spreading them as wide as the mat.”

Paul observed the other students. None of them lowered their knees. Paul inhaled consciously. Then he let go and sank down with a sigh.

Mia beamed at him. “Rest your belly in between your thighs and see if you can lay your head down on the mat.”

Paul’s body just melted into the mat. He had expected this class to be a lot easier and at the same time to be much more difficult. Feeling so much at home in this simple posture was a welcome surprise. Paul had not known his body even had a sense of home like this.

“Stay here for as long as you want. I have a quote for everyone to focus on for the next couple of minutes. It is by Jigar Gor and goes ‘Yoga is not about touching your toes. It is what you learn on the way down.’”

Paul’s body decided to stay like this for the rest of the class, blissfully ignoring the other students and forgetting all about his back and his toes.

Like my contribution to the story challenge August 2022? On my blog you can find and read more of my stories!

My contribution to the deadlinesforwriters short story challenge July 2022. The prompt was „As long as“.

Conditioned

Helen lay dozing in her hammock on a warm July afternoon, when she heard a strange chomping sound from about three feet away. She was wide awake instantly. Paul had left for a business trip, and the neighbours did not usually turn up unannounced. Even if they did, they would call for Paul and Helen instead of go munching on the vegetation.

Okay, just stay low and take in only very shallow and quiet breaths. Do not make a sound and hopefully it will aaall go away by itself. Oh, God…

Unfortunately, the chomping did not go away. From the sounds of it, its source moved even closer to her cocoon of cream-coloured cotton. Torn between panic and curiosity, Helen lifted her head just enough so she could peek over the edge of the hammock. To her surprise, there was an elephant in her garden. An elephant. In her garden. It was close enough to her that she could see the wrinkles in the dark grey skin. She imagined she could even feel the warmth radiating from this unexpected intruder. It was quite small, so it fit in relatively well between the shrubs. But not so small that Helen felt totally safe with the situation. Very slowly and very quietly she withdrew again, her thoughts racing.

Okay, this is what an elephant looks like from up close. I like elephants. In theory. Right, shallow breaths, shallow breaths. Oh God, I need some oxygen. Hope it hasn’t seen me. It looked quite preoccupied with my plants. Aaaw, the plants! And they were starting to look just like I had wanted them. All the digging and grooming and the patience. And I am not exactly good at patience! Please, let it at least not eat the roses!

The urgent need for more detailed information outgrew her sense of doom and eventually Helen gave in and ventured another look at the animal, which seemed to be absolutely relaxed and happy to sniff at the leaves of the plants around it. I bet they have excellent hearing with those ears, Helen thought at the same moment as the elephant turned around and looked directly at her.

Don’t move. Stay very quiet. How good is their eyesight again? Those eyes look pretty small, don’t they? Wait, elephants are vegetarians, but I think I read something about attacks on humans. How dangerous can they be? Really? What do you have to do to make an elephant attack you? Does it depend on their general mood? This one looks pretty chill to me.

Helen realised her phone was on the table nearby. She had placed the hammock so that she could swing a bit, should she feel like it. This meant that the phone was probably just about out of reach. Helen and the elephant stayed locked in a weirdly calm staring contest for what felt like another minute, then it turned away again to pluck some petals off the rose bushes.

There go the roses. What a shame.

Neither Helen nor Paul had the greenest of thumbs. They tried, however, and the garden was the one thing they were tenacious with. Through the years they had managed to get the combination of shapes, colours and textures just right. Since their garden had a lot of shade from the neighbours’ tree, they had chosen mostly brightly coloured flowers: Creamy roses, white and light green hydrangeas, pink begonias, light blue violas. All of them easy to spot even in the shade. Even if your eyesight was not excellent. Maybe the dark red cherries were safe. They grew on the small tree near the hedge at the back end of the garden. The hedge with a brand new entrance, roughly the width of a medium-sized elephant.

Helen somehow gathered the courage to lean slowly over towards the table, her eyes not leaving her visitor for a second. When her hand was just a few inches away from the table, the elephant looked at her again and blinked. She froze, wondering if she should pull back her arm slowly or quickly. Eventually she went for slowly and hid again behind the cotton wall.

Should I call the police? The responsible thing would be to let someone know, right? We can’t have a wild animal running around in the neighbourhood. Why did it chooseour garden anyway? Why didn’t I hear it? What is going to happen, when all the flowers and shrubs are gone? When it eats something it doesn’t like?

A grey trunk reached over the edge of the hammock, ruffled and sniffed Helen’s hair. It began probing her left ear, which to a person whose only plan had been to lie in the shade in peace and quiet turned out to be unpleasantly loud. The trunk felt like it was all muscle, mainly because it was. The tip was a bit wet and left a trail of snot behind. It pulled at her shirt for a bit, prodded her feet, and eventually disappeared again. This did not seem to be too dangerous after all, even if a bit yucky. At this point, Helen remembered where the animal was most likely to have come from.

Oh yeah, those posters advertising the bloody circus all over town. Poor little creature, I wouldn’t want to be in your place. Dance like they tell you and there will be no trouble. Let people drag you up and down the country and parade you in front of others who see you as nothing but entertainment. Judging and punishing you for what they think of as misbehaving. I can kind of relate, you know.

Feeling more sympathetic than scared by now, Helen sat up so she could look at the animal again. It really did not seem to want to cause any trouble, just chew up her flowers. That seemed kind of fair, even though Paul would not love the new look of their hedge. Or how their pond got a thorough stirring around right now. Good thing they had decided not to put any fish in there.

I don’t blame you, Helen thought, anyone would try to escape that kind of life. I hate when people assume their expectations are more important than what others need. You know, society in general: As soon as you are a bit bigger than people would like or whenever anyone decides to trumpet a bit differently than the rest, things can get ugly so quickly.Okay, I admit that my problems don’t exactly compare to yours.It’s just, a lot of the time I feel like I could do more or be more if I did not hold back so much. Or if I maybe decided some decisions are not really mine to make and worry over. If I didn’t get into knots over nothing.

The elephant had started on the cherries by now. It was plucking them slowly, one by one from the branches, really savouring them with its eyes closed.

“So what is your name? Your real name? I wish you could tell me about your life and what you would want to do, if it was up to you. Apart from eating my cherries.”

The elephant did not answer, but it paused and stared into Helen’s eyes again for a long few seconds. It appeared to sigh and went back to the cherries.

“I know I should alert the authorities somehow. It’s the adult thing to do in a situation like this, right? Not that I have ever been in a situation like this one before. But what if I don’t? Would I be responsible for any damage you do elsewhere? You could stay in my garden for a while. Until all the edible plants are gone, I guess, but still. You would just have to keep the noise down.

And I don’t know how much water you require. That might be a problem, because I would really like to keep the pond the way it is. Or, you know, there is a beach nearby. If you go back through the hedge and turn left, you just walk straight on for about a mile. Can’t miss it, and it’s just lovely. The sand is so soft and the water is quite warm this time of year. I bet you would like the beach.”

Suddenly, there was music coming from the table: “I don’t care who you are …” Helen leaned over and this time managed to grab the phone. “Where you’re from…” In all the excitement she had forgotten that she had set the alarm, in case she fell asleep. “What you do …” She hit the button to stop the music and switched on her browser. She half-heartedly searched the internet for information on who to call in case of a surprise visit by exotic animals.

“Is it okay, if I take a couple of pictures? Paul is never going to believe this otherwise. Well, he is going to believe that something happened to our plants, but this? Probably not.”

The elephant seemed to realise what Helen was about to do and lifted its trunk in an arc above its head. As if it was posing. Then it began a little pirouette. Helen winced.

“No, not like this! Stop! Just go back to doing what you did before! You don’t have to dance for me!”

The animal froze and made a small trumpeting noise. It seemed to shrug into a more natural stance, then remembered there were more of those nice little red things to eat.

Helen took a few photos. And there it was. Looking at the scene on the display, she saw this living creature as if for the first time. Without thinking about the why or the how or the why not. No rational thought in general, just taking in how the elephant got this much joy from the simple yet perfect activity of eating fresh fruit from a cherry tree. Without negotiating or waiting for things to meet any requirements. Helen took a deep breath and decided to deliberately not make a decision and instead to just watch and wait. The lack of guilt she felt made her strangely happy with herself.

When the tree was finally devoid of any fruit, the elephant gave it a couple of shakes to check for stray cherries it might have missed, then sniffed and trumpeted once more, a bit louder than before. It trotted over to the hammock to spread some more snot onto Helen’s outstretched hand before it turned and walked towards the back of the garden. It waved its trunk as it squeezed through the new exit in the hedge, then turned left and stomped away. Helen hoped it was going to love the beach as much as she did.

Like my contribution to the story challenge July 2022? On my blog you can find and read more of my stories!

My contribution to the deadlinesforwriters short story challenge June 2022. The prompt was „twice“.

Ellis wants out

When Paul came home, there was Helen on their sofa, her arms folded and her face grim. “What is it?” he asked. She huffed and handed him a letter. “I put my heart out there for them to look at, and they did not like it. I was afraid of being rejected. Which is what they did! What was I thinking, Paul?”

She slumped back into the cushions. Oh, dear. Paul had hoped for them to give Helen’s novel a chance. He loved most of what she did anyway, but this story was also bloody good in his opinion. Helen had something to say and a fascinating way with words. The novel was clearly based on her own life experiences, with a few unexpected twists on traditional story patterns. Paul had not expected a flat-out rejection.

He had been delighted when she had finally sat down and written this story living in her brain for ages now. He had been so proud when she had researched publishers and actually submitted her proposal to one company. Paul knew how big these mental hurdles had been for her. Neither of them had any experience in getting a book deal, which may have been lucky because this way Helen had also not had any previous rejection to make her even more anxious.

He unfolded the letter, which read:

“…, we are sorry to inform you that at the time we decided against accepting your submission for publication.

From what we have seen, you are an original writer and the premise of your story is certainly refreshing and unusual. However, the current reading trends make us doubt that your book would flourish. Ellis, your main character, has a captivating personality and her personal journey feels compelling. Sadly, we do not envision a demand for this particular type of tale with the wider public.

Another factor was the pacing, which could do with some restructuring and tightening. All in all, we feel we are not the right publishers for this book, but wish you the best of luck for your endeavours. Please consider us again in the future.”

“It’s not that bad, though. They did not exactly say they did not like it, did they?” Paul sat down next to Helen and put his arm around her. She sniffed. “First of all, they still rejected my book. And secondly, they confirmed what I had suspected: There are not enough people in the world interested in what I have to say!”

“But that is not a fact, is it? It is just one publishing company who are worried they might not be able to sell the book. They are not omniscient. There might be lots of people out there who would love to read Ellis’ adventure.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe it was all a bad idea from the start. Maybe I was delusional to assume anyone would want to get to know Ellis. Just because she has lived in my head for decades apparently does not mean that others would be interested in her too.”

Paul sighed. “I am interested in her. Or do I not count?”

“Of course you do! I just don’t want to go through this again. And risk rejection again! I don’t want to rewrite it all because also? I like it the way it is. What do they know about Ellis or me?”

“Let’s be clear: This is not a rejection of you as a person.”

Helen fidgeted. “They did not say Ellis and her story were interesting, just to be polite, right? You would have told me if you thought the story was mediocre or boring, wouldn’t you?”

He smiled at her. “You know I would have.”

“Then what exactly did you like about the book?”

“Honestly? My favourite moment was the scene when she wanted to give up, go home and forget all about the villagers and their problem, but then Wado runs after her and has that conversation with her. The way she at the same time realises she has this softness but also at the same time all this strength and power and especially the way you described it was just mind-blowing.”

“Not the sword fight? You don’t want to know the hours I spent on researching fencing rules and terminology. There is so much you can get wrong about fencing, and so many surprisingly boring details.” Helen grinned, then went serious again.

“Paul, you are almost always just so brave and unshakeable. How do you do it? How do I become unshakeable?”

“Firstly, you don’t have to become unshakeable. There is a lot to be said about being shakeable. Secondly, maybe you should ask yourself what Ellis would do. She is the one who went through this transformation while at the same time staying true to herself. I bet she has a lot to tell you. As for me, I believe in you, whether you do get your book published or never send it to any other company ever again. I am so proud of you because you did write your novel and found the courage to submit it.”

“Aww… Okay, let’s make dinner. There is some leftover pasta bake in the fridge.”

Since Paul felt peckish himself, he agreed to let the matter go. When they had eaten, they sat down to watch the news and later on check their various watchlists. They chose an old fantasy film they had not managed to see in the cinema. Fifteen minutes in, Paul got suspicious. Usually, he could count on Helen’s entertaining running commentary with anything they watched. He turned to see her staring right through the TV screen.

“Do you not like it?” he asked.

“What? Oh, yes, it’s great. Just… You know, I can see Ellis in my mind. I can see the village in the forest with all the timbered houses and the thatched roofs. Ilana’s lab with all those dusty books and Mibo’s kitchen with the big cauldron bubbling in the middle. When I close, my eyes I can almost touch and smell the blocks of wood Traki is stomping out to chop when he snaps again. This story wants out, Paul! I have kept it to myself for long enough! I just don’t know how to go through this a second time.”

Paul paused the film. Helen looked at him then back at the screen. “Right. Maybe I should just enjoy this evening with you now and let it all settle and sink in. Can we skip back by maybe ten minutes and restart the film?” Paul handed Helen the remote, and they went back to being absorbed in someone elses’s adventure.

When they went to bed, the last thing he heard was “She wants out this badly? She might want to help. Good night, Paul!”

Paul woke up in the dark. He was alone in bed, but could hear steps in the corridor and a door opening. He yawned and stretched, then got up to follow Helen quietly. When he peered into their study, there was Helen at the computer, her arms folded and her face determined. She unfolded, leaned forwards and said, “Ellis? Teach me how to try again!”

Like my contribution to the story challenge June 2022? On my blog you can find and read more of my stories!

My contribution to the deadlinesforwriters short story challenge May 2022. The prompt was „permanent“.

Nihil permanet, nec atramentum

Paul stared at the letter. He had not expected to win, especially not the main prize. He had only taken part because the riddle had been entertaining and there had been some interesting gadgets among the other prizes.

Paul quickly googled “painful areas body”. Not that he was going to actually do it. He had often wondered what it would be like but had never made a decision. Apparently, the face and the soles of the feet were out of the question. He laughed. As if that had been an option. Paul was not very sensitive to pain but also not that keen on it. But there were more green areas than he had expected. He saved the diagram to his phone fur future reference, just in case.

Paul took off his shirt and went to look at himself in the mirror. He was not unhappy with his body considering his age. His short brown hair was peppered with white and there were wrinkles around his eyes. In general, his skin had changed more noticeably lately. There was a lot more give but a lot less elasticity. Paul wondered if that would be a problem or if maybe it was even an asset that his skin had already matured somewhat.

Helen frequently told him how much she loved the way he looked. Like he had enjoyed life in a good way. Like there had been a lot to smile about. In the same way that he loved every single one of her white hairs, reminding him of all the years that they had spent together. She kept saying that from her natural mix of differently coloured hair, one day there would probably only be red and white left, and if he would love her still when her head was pink?

What would Helen think now? She was not exactly a big fan of his sometimes weird ideas, but would probably consider this particular predicament of his extremely funny. Paul could already see the tears of laughter running down her beautiful face. Not helping, but he could see her point. It was funny.

Apart from the placement, there was the question of which design to choose. Not that he was going to really go through with it. Just theoretically. He remembered that this was the main reason he had always put the idea off. What was so relevant and aesthetically pleasing and so much “him” that he would want it inked into his skin?

Paul went back to his phone to google some quotes. Which turned out to make things even more difficult because there were so many good ones. On the other hand, did he really want to read someone else‘s statement on life, the universe and everything every day? Did he want others to have to read it every day? What if he came to find it boring or lacking after a couple of years? Or find out the author was not a person Paul wanted to be associated with? What if the quote had been falsely attributed? Or misspelt?

Again, he could already hear Helen howling with laughter. He would rather pass on the prize than live through that kind of embarrassment. Even if Helen did not giggle about it, what if what sounded intelligent one day would later become contrived? Paul did not care if it was something exclusive to him, but neither did he want to be forever associated with something totally unoriginal.

Talking about original: He went back to the pain diagram. What if the arm, which was coloured in a friendly green, had already been done much too often over time? He looked for some more inspiration online. There was a range of blog posts and websites offering design ideas, in general and also for men in particular. Small drawings or just a couple of words were suggested as being “discreet”, minimalistic pieces as being “fresh and meaningful at the same time”.

He was not going to do this whole thing anyway, but if he was, he would not want to end up with something that was nearly invisible, would he? Skulls, crosses and stars were out of the question as well. And why would anyone want an image of a stack of bank notes? The blog claimed it would help to “remind himself of his ambition to attain his goals”. Paul scrolled on through the article.

Further down, the author recommended portraits for „honouring a loved one or a celebrity”. This was where Paul drew the line. Absolutely not. Not even to honour Helen. Paul liked taking risks, but he had his limits. Maybe the lettering idea had its merits after all, less potential to go catastrophically wrong as compared to images. Then again, the more he thought about it, the more options he saw himself having to go through: Simplistic or elaborate in style and font, colourful or just black, something just nerdy and funny, some timeless wisdom, maybe in Latin? What was ink in Latin? Something musical? Well, that concept might be interesting. He made a mental note to list his favourite song lyrics later. Just theoretically, of course.

He suddenly remembered seeing a collection of hilarious fails where what people had ordered had branched off into an unexpected direction somewhere in the process. Just for fun, he looked for such a list of pictures and immediately regretted clicking the link when he saw a drawing of someone‘s mum looking like the zombified version of Elvis Presley. In his opinion, the first mistake was to pick a portrait of one’s mother to begin with. His own mum had always tried to encourage him to keep his feet on the ground of hard facts. He could still hear her saying: “If you decide to do this, you will have to live with it for the rest of your life! Do you want that? Think it through, Paul!”

Back then, lasers had already been a thing, and Paul had known that nothing was as set in stone as his mum had made it sound. On the contrary, these days he would actually appreciate some solidity in his life. The older he got, the more he thought about his own transience and that he would love to leave something behind. Was that a bit pompous of him? Was it even realistic? And what did “something” even mean? For how long? A decade? A century?

Why would people even need to know of his existence a thousand years down the line? How would he even be able to check if they did? He had heard people say that this line of thinking only detracted from living in the moment. Which they thought was most important. Were they right? To him, it felt like wanting to make a lasting impression made him appreciate his limited time here on Earth even more.

He had wanted to write a book for a long time. Paul felt that he had a lot to say, but he had also always kept this idea theoretical, because he was not sure if he really had something original or meaningful to contribute. He had also never advanced beyond the very general stage of wanting to write “something”. There were so many decisions that followed on from there, that every time he opened this mental box, he quickly shut it again. Only for the time being, mind you. One day he would very definitely sit down and start writing without thinking about it too much.

On the other hand, neither paper nor skin were exactly the lasting kinds of materials anyway. Maybe the way to go really was to be remembered. Leaving an impression in people’s minds. Would that make a difference for him? For the world? Looking at it from another perspective, if he kept holding back needlessly just because he was not sure about the details, what would his legacy be then? Maybe he could just try to leave the world a better place without what he did having to be overly meaningful. Without being too serious. Maybe what he really needed to do was to be happy and see how things developed from there?

Today he had been inspired to accepting that all these doubts were not originally his after all. He did not usually believe it was a great idea to align his actions with what others thought was right or proper. However, he realised that a part of him often did just that. Maybe the point was to notice how he was so often suspended between conflicting beliefs. And then accepting them both as true at the same time as well as neither of them. Maybe this win was his sign to investigate where else he held himself back without good reason.

He was jolted out of his musings by the click of the front door. Paul brightened up and shouted, “Helen, you are back! Guess what!”

He ran down the stairs. “I am going to get a tattoo!”

Like my contribution to the story challenge May 2022? On my blog you can find and read more of my stories!