Is Sex Really Better Than Chocolate...? (Friday Fiction)

I wrote the original version of this humorous short story quite a few years ago, and was lucky enough to have it accepted for publication.  Having resurrected and rewritten it this week, I thought I'd post it here and (hopefully!) give you a good laugh.  Enjoy!

BETTER THAN CHOCOLATE

“Yes yes yes!” Sheila punched the air, then kissed the letter repeatedly. Unable to keep the good news to herself a second longer, she snatched up the phone and rang Graham.
   “Sorry,” said his secretary, “your husband’s in an all day meeting. I’ve got instructions not to disturb him unless it’s an emergency.”
   Damn! thought Sheila. She tried her sister’s number, but there was no reply.
   “Blast!” Sheila put down the phone. Who else could she try? Not her daughter – she was sunning herself in Spain. And her friends were in jobs where private calls were frowned on. But she had to tell someone before she exploded. There was always her aunt, but…
   What the heck, Sheila decided. Aunt Hester would be proud of her. And the chances of her ever reading it were zero. She picked up the phone again.
   “Hi Hester, it’s Sheila. How are you?”
   There was a gasp, a brief pause, then a whisper in her ear. “Shirley? Is that really you? What’s it like there, dear? Is it really like the vicar says?”
   Sheila was speechless for a second. Hester, hard of hearing, normally shouted down the phone. And who on earth was Shirley? Then she remembered. Shirley had lived in the sheltered flat next to Hester’s, until she’d passed away last month at the ripe old age of a hundred and two.
   “It’s Sheila, your niece!” she yelled.
   “Sheila!” Hester’s voice flooded with relief. “Why didn’t you say so?” she shouted. “You frightened me half to death.”
   “Turn up your hearing-aid, Hester. I’ve brilliant news – I’m almost a published writer.”
   “Hold on a minute, Sheila – hearing-aid’s playing up again. For a minute there I thought you said you were a published writer, hahaha!”
   Sheila ignored Hester’s guffaws. “A women’s magazine’s publishing one of my stories next month.”
   “Oh…! Oh, how lovely. Which one? Your Woman? Woman’s Monthly?”
   “Er, not exactly... It’s Women’s Whims.”
   “Women’s what…? Hold on, I’ll fetch my pencil.”
   “No, no, don’t worry, it’s not your kind of thing.”
   But Hester had gone. Sheila chewed her nails while she waited, beginning to wish she’d curbed her excitement. This wasn’t turning out to be such a good idea.
   The handset clattered at the other end and Hester was back. “Tell me again, Sheila. Women’s what?”
   “Um, it’s really not your cup of tea. I just wanted to share the news with you.”
   “Don’t be silly. You know I read anything.”
   “Yes, but... it’s a little bit... naughty.”
   Hester roared with laughter. “Sheila, I’m a spinster, not a nun!”
   “Yes, but...”
   “Sheila, I’m proud of you and I want to read it. Now stop stalling, and give me that name again.”
   Sheila gave up. It didn’t matter anyway. Her aunt’s memory was almost as bad as her hearing. She’d have forgotten all about it in a day or two. “Women’s Whims,” she said resignedly. “W-H-I-M-S.”
* 
A complimentary copy of the magazine arrived a month later. Sheila tore off the wrapping and flicked through it in a frenzy of excitement. There it was, on pages nineteen and twenty, complete with photos. Before she could begin to read, the phone rang.
   “I’m at the hospital,” said a familiar voice. “I want you here right now.”
   “Hester? Are you all right?”
   “Now, Sheila!” Her aunt slammed down the phone.
   Panic-stricken, Sheila grabbed her jacket and purse, and dashed down to the bus-stop, praying it was nothing serious. Hester had never been in hospital. What if it was life-threatening…? Since Sheila’s parents had passed away, Hester had been like a mother to her.
   The bus arrived belching diesel fumes. Sheila paid the driver and, once in her seat, took a few deep breaths and began to calm down. Hester had sounded as loud and as well as ever on the phone. If she was seriously ill the warden in her sheltered housing complex would have called, surely.
   The bus dropped her outside the hospital and she hurried inside. There was a shop selling cards, flowers and gifts just off reception. The flowers looked as if they’d been caught in last night’s frost, so she picked up a box of chocolates instead. Dark chocolates with soft centres, Hester’s favourites.
   She gave the receptionist her aunt’s name. The woman ran a finger down her computer screen and shook her head. “No-one here with that name, I’m afraid. I’ll just scroll down again to make sure.”
   From the corner of her eye, Sheila saw a white-haired figure plodding through a set of double doors. “Hester!” She rushed towards her and threw her arms around her, almost dropping the chocolates. But she might as well have hugged a block of wood. A shiver ran through her. She stepped back quickly and looked into her aunt’s watery eyes. “What’s wrong? Are they keeping you in?”
   Hester pushed her aside and turned up her hearing-aid. Her face creased in grief. “Mabel’s dead! And it’s all your fault!”
   “Mabel? Who on earth’s Mabel? I don’t know any Mabel.” Bewilderment always made Sheila gabble.
   Hester was crying now. “You’ve killed her, Sheila!”
   The double doors swung open again, and a young nurse hurried towards them. “There you are, Miss Gillgrass.” She smiled at Hester and took her hand. “We wondered where you’d gone in such a hurry. Don’t you want to see your friend?”
   “No.” Hester wiped her eyes with a crumpled tissue. “I just want to go home and remember her as she was.”
   The nurse looked at Sheila with questioning eyes, then, seeing she’d find no answer there, turned back to Hester. “But she wants to see you. We’ve arranged an ambulance to take you both home, once Mabel’s feeling up to it.”
   Hester stared. “You mean... she’s not dead?”
   The nurse laughed and patted her hand. “Of course not, silly. She passed out, that’s all. She has a pacemaker so the paramedics were right to bring her in. But we’ve checked her heart and it’s fine.”
   “But the doctor said... he said he couldn’t save her...”
   “I think you must have misheard. He said he’d given Mabel an injection to stabilise her.”
   Sheila sighed with relief. “Come on, Hester. Let’s have a cup of tea. We’ve both had a shock.”
   They sat down in the hospital’s cafeteria and sipped sweet tea in silence for several minutes. The colour slowly returned to Hester’s cheeks, and Sheila reached for her hand.
   “What did you mean about me killing Mabel? I don’t understand.”
   Hester smiled ruefully. “I’m sorry, Sheila. It was as much my fault as yours.”
   She nibbled her chocolate biscuit, and Sheila waited, trying to hide her impatience.
   “I’d forgotten all about it, you see.”
   “Forgotten what, Aunt?”
   “Our newsagent said he’d never heard of it but he’d try to get it for me. I forgot all about it.”
   Light began to dawn in Sheila’s confused brain. “Are you… are you talking about Women’s Whims, by any chance?”
   “Of course I am! I was proud of you. But it went straight to our dayroom, along with the daily papers. I’m possibly the only one who hasn’t read it.”
   Sheila’s breath whooshed from her lungs and she grabbed the table for support, afraid she might faint. She visualised the story pages and the photo on the front cover – the one of the hunk wearing nothing but transparent boxers. And she visualised a room full of elderly ladies with weak hearts. Somehow she managed to string together a coherent sentence. “But I thought your own papers were delivered direct to the flat," she squeaked.
   “They are, but I must have forgotten to give my name and flat number when I ordered the magazine.”
   Dear God! thought Sheila, dragging a hand through her hair. Was the newsagent out of his mind? Still, at least it meant her aunt hadn’t read the story; Sheila knew she'd have heard about it by now if she had.
   Hester took another sip from her tea-cup. “I saw the ambulance pull up by the dayroom from my kitchen window and went to see what the commotion was. It was coffee morning so the dayroom was packed. I couldn’t see a thing. Then they brought in a stretcher, forcing everyone aside, and there was Mabel, lying on the carpet.”
   Sheila closed her eyes. Visions of a frail old woman, unconscious on the floor, Women’s Whims open in her limp hand at page nineteen, hurtled into her mind in glorious technicolour. Her dream of being published had been realised, but it was fast becoming a nightmare.
   Hester’s cup chinked against her saucer and Sheila reopened her eyes. Hester answered her burning question before she could articulate it.
   “It was lying underneath her. I saw what it was as soon as they moved her, and stuffed it in my bag.”
   Sheila’s heart plummeted as Hester patted the handbag on the seat beside her.
   “In all the excitement,” continued her aunt, “I don’t think anyone noticed.”
   Sheila decided there was nothing she could do but grin and bear it. “I should have been honest with you from the start, Aunt. I should have told you what sort of magazine it was.”
   But she couldn’t quite pluck up the courage to tell her the rest. Not yet.
   Hester struggled to her feet. “It wasn’t quite what I was expecting. But never mind. Let’s go and see Mabel.”
   Sheila would have preferred not to, but Hester was already dragging her along the corridor towards Casualty.
   They found Mabel sitting on a trolley in a curtained cubicle. Her pale face lit up. “Hester! They told me you were here.” She examined Sheila with interest. “Who’s this?”
   Sheila smiled back weakly. “I’m Sheila Platt, Hester’s niece.” She remembered she was still clutching the chocolates she’d bought for Hester. After a brief hesitation she handed them to Mabel. Hester nodded approvingly.
   Mabel looked pleased but confused. “Thank you, Sheila, but it wasn’t necessary.”
   A blush rushed up Sheila’s neck and into her cheeks like a tidal wave.“It’s the least I can do. Hester tells me it’s my fault you’re here.”
   Mabel frowned. “Your fault…?”
   Hester smiled an apology. “I’m sorry, dear. It’s my fault too – I forgot to give the newsagent my name when I ordered that magazine. Or my flat number. I’m getting more and more forgetful these days.”
   Mabel giggled through her fingers. “Hester Gillgrass,” she whispered, “I’m so glad you did. It’s the most excitement I’ve had in years. I’ll order it myself from now on!”
   Sheila couldn’t stand it any longer. She had to know. “Mabel, did you read the story?”
   “Of course! That’s why I fainted. It’s the most stimulating thing I’ve ever read.”
   Sheila groaned inwardly. She had to get out of there.
   Mabel selected a chocolate, savoured it for a few seconds then swallowed. “Some daft woman on the telly said eating chocolate is the same as having sex – something to do with it triggering the same brain chemicals. What a load of hooey. She should take a look at Women’s Whims!”
   Beads of sweat had formed on Sheila’s forehead. Her heart thudded like a jackhammer and it was getting hard to breathe. She checked her watch. “I ought to go. Graham will be home soon and wonder where I am.”
   Mabel beamed at her. “You get along, dear. We’ll be fine. While we’re waiting for the ambulance, I’ll get Hester to reveal a few trade secrets.” She winked conspiratorially. “A dark horse, your aunt!”
   Hester’s benign expression changed to one of deep suspicion. “What’s going on here...?”
   Sheila hastily kissed her cheek. “I’ll ring you later. Must dash.”
   As she hurried from the cubicle, she caught a glimpse of Hester reaching for her handbag. If I’m very quick, she thought, I’ll be out of here before she finds my story…
   No such luck. As Sheila dashed through the double doors into reception, Hester’s voice boomed down the corridor behind her. “Sheila! Get back here, my girl! Right now!"
   Sheila told herself she really had been incredibly stupid to use that pseudonym. But how was she to know that a friend of the real Hester Gillgrass would read Women’s Whims…?

© Rosie Rose 2012

Fast Fiction Friday - "Anosmia: The Pros and Cons"

This multi award-winning short story is probably the one I enjoyed writing the most. The first Fast Fiction Friday for quite a while, I hope you enjoy reading it. (©opyright, as always, remains solely with me, the author.)

(Removed to make space. If you'd like to read it, let me know via the Comments box.)

Fast Fiction Friday 9

Apologies for the delay, but here it finally is - The Wrong Room. ©opyright, as always, remains solely with me, the author.


THE WRONG ROOM

His current name is John. John Dale. An ordinary name, an invisible name, plucked from the air for that very reason. He lives inside his head and rarely speaks. He keeps himself to himself. It wasn’t always so, not before that last night in Basingstoke.
   He sits at a corner table for one, on a busy terrace overlooking a sea the same shade of blue as the Miro print on the whitewashed wall behind him. Though he belongs now on the fringes of society, he seeks the company of crowds. They shield him, like a locked door, from the horror lurking in the basement. They keep him anchored in the present. For a while, at least. Alone at night, in cheap no-questions-asked hotels, the past always wins, unless he’s drunk himself into oblivion.
   A black and white figure in a ridiculous oversized sombrero flits by his table, a tray of chinking glasses held aloft, blond sweat-dark hair fastened in a stubby ponytail. John lifts a hand to his own hair, blond too beneath the mouse-brown L’Oréal.
   Hey! Waiter! Any chance of some service here? Natives gone for a kip and left you to it, have they? Bleeding siestas. Good job you student types come here for the summer or we’d all die of thirst.
   Do they make you wear that hat for the tourists, then? Or was it your idea, to keep the sun off? Can hardly see your face. Good idea if you’ve only just arrived, mind. Sun’s bleeding strong here, even in the late afternoon. Course, I’m used to it. Almost a native now.
   Hey! I was here before them. Or was I. Maybe not. And anyway, they look like they need a drink even more than me. Frying on the beach all day, I expect. Can smell the suntan oil from here. Deep meaningful looks and holding hands under the table. Just wait till later, when the pink turns red. That’ll put an end to the shagging for a day or two.
   Speaking of which, it’s been a long time. Two years, to be exact. Can’t get it up any more, not since… Hey! Where the hell are you going now? No, no, you’re right. That old couple was already here when I sat down. Germans, aren’t they? Or maybe Dutch. Never was much good at languages. Well, what’s the point? Everyone speaks English. Except the bleeding French. They do it on purpose, you know, to piss us off. If I’d known, I’d have bought a phrase book at Dover. Needed all the help I could get, with the cops on my tail.
   Ah! You’ve noticed me at last. An apologetic glance that says ‘on my way’. And about time too.
   What the…? No, it can’t be… But it is, it is! Those amazing violet eyes, just like your ma’s! Scarred chin. Happened when you fell off your trike that time. Jesus Christ, you’ve come searching for me like I always feared you would. Close up, you’ll see through the dyed hair and brown contacts, right into my soul, what’s left of it. I have to – need to – get up and run. Run and run, across the sand and into the sea and swim to Africa. But I can’t. I’m frozen solid from the inside out.
   I love you, son. Please believe that. And I loved your ma, even after what she did. If I hadn’t got wrecked again that night, maybe we could’ve worked things out, me and her. She always said drink’d be my downfall and she was right.
   All that blood, so much blood. Everywhere, it was. Splattered up the walls, soaked right through the mattress. The Butcher of Basingstoke, they called me. Bleeding tabloids.
   I had no idea. No idea your ma was having an affair. I should have done. Even your Uncle Jack knew, and he was permanently bladdered. He told me, in the Feathers that night. Her boss, he said. Been going on for months. When I got home, there he was, her bastard loverboy, stretched out in our bed like he belonged there. At least, that’s what I thought. Bleeding drink messed up my radar good and proper. You have to believe I didn’t know. I didn’t know. Please, if you leave me be I promise I’ll never touch another drop, I promise I promise…
   I can’t stand it any longer. Do what you’ve come to do. It can’t be worse than all those terrible dreams and sleepless nights. Put me out of my misery. I’m ready, ready as I’ll ever be. Just make it quick, please make it quick…
   Wha…? I don’t believe it! You don’t look anything like my boy! Apart from the hair. Not even a hint of a scar. And I could’ve sworn, bleeding sworn…
   Is this my punishment, God? For running away? Don’t you think I hurt enough already? Don’t you? It was an accident, for Pete’s sake! I didn’t mean to kill him. It was the wrong room, the wrong bleeding room oh God...
   Don’t fuss, waiter, don’t fuss. Yes, I expect I do look like I’ve seen a ghost. For a minute there I thought…
   He lowers his wet face into shaking hands and forces down bile. Words form, fat and ungainly, on a tongue that feels and tastes like a slab of bloodless liver. “Get me a large scotch and I’ll be fine,” he croaks. “No, wait. On second thoughts, bring me the bleeding bottle.” 

© Rosie Rose

Fast Fiction Friday 8

Today's short story, Locked In, Locked Out, has won several prizes. The chief judge of one competion commented as follows: "Of 338 entries, Locked In, Locked Out jumped to the front of the queue. This story has everything; sadness, tragedy and humour, not a word wasted and it has a great ending.” I hope you enjoy it as much as he did. ©opyright, as always, remains solely with me, the author.

(Removed to free up space. If you'd like to read it, let me know and I'll pop it back up. Alternatively, take a look at some of my very short flash fiction pieces. :-)

Fast Fiction Friday 7

Comments or constructive crit welcomed. ©opyright, as always, remains solely with me, the author.


UNFORGIVEN

In the vomit stink from the toilet bowl she opens up the plastic bag, its contents reeking of catastrophe. Max’s phone nestles there, in fabrics washed, pressed, brushed with love before he drove into the winter bearing clown-wrapped gifts for his grandson.
   Numb fingers scroll through the phone’s address book, unsteady and unready, till she finds what she’s looking for.
   “Dad!” exclaims the remote voice. “Where on earth are you? We had to light Ben’s candles without you, or Mum would’ve been late for work. Are you still coming?”
   Head fizzes and hospital sounds recede. She leans against the toilet door, afraid she’ll faint. “Susie, it’s Helen, your dad’s…” The word ‘wife’ sticks in her throat.
   Through Susie’s screamed insults, Helen somehow manages to tell her of the accident. “I’ll ring again when the funeral’s arranged. I’m so sorry, pet.”
   “Don’t you pet me, you cow! I’ll arrange my dad’s funeral, not you, you husband-stealing bitch!”
   A handheld circular saw is set between the corpse’s thighs. With the noise of a hundred giant mosquitos it splits the spine like a tree branch, pausing only when it reaches the grey-beard chin. Then, guided by the vertical centre of the cold dead face, it continues till the spinning blade clears the hairless crown in a whirl of tiny splinters. With surgical precision, the organs are removed and bisected. Two coffins await the undertaker’s handiwork...
   Half-wishing it could be so, Helen burrows into the yawning plastic bag and hides her face in the Jazz-scented folds of Max’s car coat. She cries till there’s no mascara left.

©Rosie Rose

Fast Fiction Friday 6

This week's tale is Better Than Chocolate. An early version was published in Scribble magazine a few years ago, not long after I'd found the courage to show my own scribbles to the world for the first time. Rather longer than my usual FFFs, but a light-hearted easy read that should (hopefully!) give you a laugh on this wet and grey Friday.

Removed on Sunday to save on blog space. If anyone fancies a read, ask via the comments box and I'll put it up again. Alternatively, check out FFF 5 in the archive. :-)

Fast Fiction Friday 5

©opyright, as ever, belongs solely to me, the author. Comments most welcome.


NOBODY DIED, DID THEY?

When I showed you the inventory, missing treasures highlighted, I first supposed you’d borrowed them, had forgotten to return them to the shelves. But your darting kohl-rimmed eyes told a different tale.
   Blind rage replaced numbing shock and I thrashed you with my latest copy of Book Collector – packed as ever with valuations and Wanted ads – till it fell in tatters from my aching hands. You cowered in a corner, cloaked in your oh so silky copper hair; hair you’d wrapped around my waking cock only that morning, like a Waterhouse siren in a pornographic shampoo ad.
   By the time I’d finished vomiting, you’d fled. I heard your car accelerate away, the silver sporty job you’d begged for, couldn’t live without. That Frostrup growl had me reaching for the bank cards every time.
   As you sit here now – taped to a dining-chair, napkin stuffed in your lipsticked mouth – it seems incredible that when the phone rang I prayed it was you. Oh yes, part of me longed to plunge these shiny blades into your throat – see how they glitter in the candlelight? – yet another, bigger, part wanted you back.
   But it wasn’t you; it was your mother: “All this fuss over a few old books," she said. "For heaven’s sake, nobody died, did they?” When she paused to suck on her cigarette, I heard you snigger in the background.
   After a long, punch-drunk moment I feigned acquiescence, remorse. And you thought I’d welcomed you home with open arms. Hah!
   Now, now, stop panicking; I’m cutting tape not flesh. Now I’ve got what I need to keep me warm at night, you can piss off. And stop that crying. You’re no Sinead O’Connor, but it doesn’t look half bad.

© Rosie Rose