Brentjp99 (completed)
Zantedeschia
They walked in the park every second afternoon. Holding hands, mother and child. The regulars there knew them well.
With her porcelain-pale skin and dark brown eyes and brows, Lily had always been rather proud of her striking complexion. Her 'contrasty' look, she called it. Attractive rather than beautiful, her light skin swam amidst her shoulder length dark hair, framing her deep umber irises which almost merged with the black of her pupils. It gave her a mysterious, unfathomable appearance. A look that still turned heads, even though she was now no longer a young woman.
Her daughter had inherited Lily's fair face. Even at five, she could see the resemblance with complete clarity as the child tugged at her arm, in the direction of the swings. The girl's fine hair was a deep chestnut brown against white and flawless skin. The only difference was the curls. Lily would wrinkle her nose every time she though about it; daddy’s genes. And god alone knew where HE was now. For the thousandth time Lily told herself (with a little too much venom at times, she thought) that she didn't give a rat's ass where the fuck he was. She put it out of her mind.
The late afternoon sun threw thin horizontal rays amongst breeze-flicked leaves, shimmering through the oaks. Their crazy, rich ochre of autumn fluttering down to the shifting découpage carpet below, where squirrels would fossick amongst the litter. Smells of freshly cut grass mingled with the heady, somewhat stale odour of an out of season flush of tiny daisies which covered half the rolling field. Lily wondered idly why only half the field had been mowed.
People watched them as they strolled past. Adults walking dogs, playing with children. Two teenaged girls were throwing a frisbee, back and forth. Leaping like lissom tumblers and whooping as they caught the disk behind their backs, or between their lithe legs. Young, carefree.
An old lady walked her dog. One of those tiny, shaggy things you couldn’t tell which end was the front. Lily always thought it looked like a mobile mustache on a leash.
A young, disheveled father was pushing a pram which contained a gurgling baby. The pram had a squeaky wheel.
Some young boys were kicking a plastic soccer ball at the edge of the park. Near the road. Too near. Lily looked away, shivering involuntarily, an icy claw gripping her insides. She put that out of her mind too, hurrying on and throwing a crooked smile at the frisbee-throwing girls. They pretended not to see her, in the infuriating manner rebellious girls reserved for middle-aged women.
A young couple was kissing under a tree, and giggling in the way that naїve new lovers do. Noses touching, they stopped as Lily walked past, and regarded her somewhat solemnly (Lily thought). Familiar faces.
A group of young children were playing on the roundabout; squeals of pleasure. Lily stopped and watched them, as she always did. She usually waited a while before moving on, but not once did they ever ask her daughter if she wanted to come and play.
The man pushing the squeaky pram with the gurgling baby raised his eyes suddenly as they passed. Lily saw a sticker on the pram that claimed: "Schumacher RULES". The man appeared to be startled, caught unawares. Lily smiled at him (wistfully, she always thought he looked rather handsome) but he just glanced at her in a flustered way, eyes a little wild. He pretended he had been going in a different direction, and accelerated the pram like Schumi off the grid at Hockenheim. Even the baby stopped babbling in its surprise. Lily watched them retreat, the pram cornering a tree in a manner quite dissimilar to a Ferrari.
Lily strolled along the perimeter of the park, her child in tow. Passing the old lady she said, "Good evening, isn't it lovely out?"
The old lady had been stooped over, scooping dog poo into a little plastic bag. She straightened with an alacrity that belied her aged frame. She froze for an instant, eyes darting to the left and right before her face softened, and she said in measured but kindly tones, "Hello dear, yes it is good to be out".
She added, "Lovely to see you... both… as pretty as a picture".
Lily walked on, head up, smiling.
The sun drifted to the horizon, as a flat yellow pebble settles to the bottom of a still, dark pool. Lily took her daughter by the hand and headed home. She pertinaciously followed the same route she had for the past eighteen months. A routine that did not fluctuate.
By the old wrought-iron gate she would pause. Every time. It hung ajar with flaking paint; weeds entwined at its rusty base, portal to a dirty gravel path. Eventually, she'd release the little girl's hand, and watch her child walk slowly amongst the moss-covered, crenate headstones of the cemetery. Lily would turn then and cross the street, alone. Never once would she glance at the tiny, withered road-wreath that she had put beside that busy way, eighteen months ago.
Zantedeschia
They walked in the park every second afternoon. Holding hands, mother and child. The regulars there knew them well.
With her porcelain-pale skin and dark brown eyes and brows, Lily had always been rather proud of her striking complexion. Her 'contrasty' look, she called it. Attractive rather than beautiful, her light skin swam amidst her shoulder length dark hair, framing her deep umber irises which almost merged with the black of her pupils. It gave her a mysterious, unfathomable appearance. A look that still turned heads, even though she was now no longer a young woman.
Her daughter had inherited Lily's fair face. Even at five, she could see the resemblance with complete clarity as the child tugged at her arm, in the direction of the swings. The girl's fine hair was a deep chestnut brown against white and flawless skin. The only difference was the curls. Lily would wrinkle her nose every time she though about it; daddy’s genes. And god alone knew where HE was now. For the thousandth time Lily told herself (with a little too much venom at times, she thought) that she didn't give a rat's ass where the fuck he was. She put it out of her mind.
The late afternoon sun threw thin horizontal rays amongst breeze-flicked leaves, shimmering through the oaks. Their crazy, rich ochre of autumn fluttering down to the shifting découpage carpet below, where squirrels would fossick amongst the litter. Smells of freshly cut grass mingled with the heady, somewhat stale odour of an out of season flush of tiny daisies which covered half the rolling field. Lily wondered idly why only half the field had been mowed.
People watched them as they strolled past. Adults walking dogs, playing with children. Two teenaged girls were throwing a frisbee, back and forth. Leaping like lissom tumblers and whooping as they caught the disk behind their backs, or between their lithe legs. Young, carefree.
An old lady walked her dog. One of those tiny, shaggy things you couldn’t tell which end was the front. Lily always thought it looked like a mobile mustache on a leash.
A young, disheveled father was pushing a pram which contained a gurgling baby. The pram had a squeaky wheel.
Some young boys were kicking a plastic soccer ball at the edge of the park. Near the road. Too near. Lily looked away, shivering involuntarily, an icy claw gripping her insides. She put that out of her mind too, hurrying on and throwing a crooked smile at the frisbee-throwing girls. They pretended not to see her, in the infuriating manner rebellious girls reserved for middle-aged women.
A young couple was kissing under a tree, and giggling in the way that naїve new lovers do. Noses touching, they stopped as Lily walked past, and regarded her somewhat solemnly (Lily thought). Familiar faces.
A group of young children were playing on the roundabout; squeals of pleasure. Lily stopped and watched them, as she always did. She usually waited a while before moving on, but not once did they ever ask her daughter if she wanted to come and play.
The man pushing the squeaky pram with the gurgling baby raised his eyes suddenly as they passed. Lily saw a sticker on the pram that claimed: "Schumacher RULES". The man appeared to be startled, caught unawares. Lily smiled at him (wistfully, she always thought he looked rather handsome) but he just glanced at her in a flustered way, eyes a little wild. He pretended he had been going in a different direction, and accelerated the pram like Schumi off the grid at Hockenheim. Even the baby stopped babbling in its surprise. Lily watched them retreat, the pram cornering a tree in a manner quite dissimilar to a Ferrari.
Lily strolled along the perimeter of the park, her child in tow. Passing the old lady she said, "Good evening, isn't it lovely out?"
The old lady had been stooped over, scooping dog poo into a little plastic bag. She straightened with an alacrity that belied her aged frame. She froze for an instant, eyes darting to the left and right before her face softened, and she said in measured but kindly tones, "Hello dear, yes it is good to be out".
She added, "Lovely to see you... both… as pretty as a picture".
Lily walked on, head up, smiling.
The sun drifted to the horizon, as a flat yellow pebble settles to the bottom of a still, dark pool. Lily took her daughter by the hand and headed home. She pertinaciously followed the same route she had for the past eighteen months. A routine that did not fluctuate.
By the old wrought-iron gate she would pause. Every time. It hung ajar with flaking paint; weeds entwined at its rusty base, portal to a dirty gravel path. Eventually, she'd release the little girl's hand, and watch her child walk slowly amongst the moss-covered, crenate headstones of the cemetery. Lily would turn then and cross the street, alone. Never once would she glance at the tiny, withered road-wreath that she had put beside that busy way, eighteen months ago.