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The Casket of Fictional Delights

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Hands and Rings and Other Things

by Alyson Faye

Flash Fiction Nostalgic, Reflective

I stare at the back of my hand, so sun-damaged, resembling stained parchment. It is the same but different. It is mine, but I don’t want to own it. The veins peek out, trailing blue rivulets and my once-slim fingers are laden with random knots and bumps. The evidence of the knocks, injuries, the wear and tear of over five decades.

See, right here, on my middle right finger, a knurl, birthed from holding my ink pen for seven dreary years at secondary school, of always scribbling furiously, filling grey feint-lined schoolbooks.

Here, on the right index finger, is the largest carbuncle of all, a veritable Vesuvius, whereas the right ring finger has escaped relatively unscathed.

How strange, I think.

However the right pinky is bent, curving outwards, although the left pinky is straight as an arrow. No longer pinky twins.

A memory – holding my mother’s hand – half a lifetime ago – on that last hospital visit – paper thin skin and attenuated fingers, and in contrast my own, so much broader; solid and strong. Mum stroking her index finger across the back of my hand, an old familiar gesture, at which my heart turned over.

‘You grow into your hands,’ she’d told me. It is true.

They reveal my work journey, the blithe carefreeness of sunny summers, a distaste for gloves, and a white crescent scar when the fruit knife slipped and bit deep.

Now there is a new mark – the indented circle created by my wedding ring. I’ve worn the gold band for over two decades, but I’ve had to free it from my finger. Its tightness upon my skin has made its removal a tussle of panic-making proportions.

It is mum’s ring which I have dethroned. She wore it for fifty years, so add my two decades and that makes seventy years – a span encompassing two marriages – two sets of vows, two markedly different couples linked by the same gold band.

The burnished gold has worn thin, its original pattern a faint memory. It is plain, narrow, downright unfashionable. Yet, it carries, in its eternal loop, heartfuls of my history.

An early memory – me fiddling, with mum’s ring as I hold her hand, walking home from infants school, finding comfort in the circle and its constant presence.

Now, I stare, uneasy, at the empty space on my left ring finger. It is denuded. Naked. The indentation fading already, like a ghost slipping away into the night.

I do not know what to replace it with.

There is no simple answer.

 

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About Alyson Faye

Alyson lives in West Yorkshire, UK with her husband, teen son and rescue animals. Her fiction and poetry has been published in a range of anthologies, (Diabolica Britannica/Daughters of Darkness) on the Horror Tree, several Siren's Call editions, in Page and Spine, by Demain Press (The Lost Girl/Night of the Rider), in Trickster’s Treats 4, on Sylvia e zine and The World of Myth. Last year she had stories out with Kandisha Press, Space and Time's July magazine and Brigid’s Gate Press’, Were-Tales anthology. Her work has been read on BBC Radio, local radio, on several podcasts (Ladies of Horror and The Night's End) and placed in several competitions. She works as an editor for a UK indie press and tutors. She swims, sings and is often to be found roaming the moor with her Lab cross, Roxy.

Alyson Tweets @AlysonFaye2

She co-runs the indie horror press, Black Angel, with Stephanie Ellis Black Angel Press

Alyson has an Amazon Page

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One response to “Hands and Rings and Other Things”

  • Irene Lofthouse says:
    April 22, 2022 at 6:36 pm

    Another evocative piece from Alyson. Hands are often overlooked in character descriptions, but tell so much about us, our lives, our genes.
    The theme of the ring, the ying/yang, the circle completing (or not), the ‘what next’, the ‘who gets the ring next? where does it go?’ – left to the readers’ imaginations to continue the story – and/or compare to own life stories. Heartfelt.

    Reply

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Starting in June and through to the end of September  The Casket of Fictional Delights presents more Susan Tate adventures.  Enjoy following a year in the life of Susan Tate the quirky librarian who lives in Canterbury with her cat Charles Dickens written by Joanna Sterling, read by Menna Bonsels and illustrated by Michael N Green.

There are many other short stories and flash fictions available to read and listen to in our Stories and Podcast sections.

Joanna & The Casket of Fictional Delights Team

 

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Text & stories © Joanna Sterling 2022
Stories © various authors
Editing by Joanna Sterling & Alyson Faye
Audio by Menna Bonsels
Brooch photography by Mark Colliton
Other photography by Rosie Marks
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