Stories

Listen here:

Story read by:

Menna Bonsels

About the author:

Susan Carey

Susan is a Brit living in Amsterdam. Susan has been a runner-up in the 2018 and 2017 Casket of Fictional Delights Flash Fiction Competitions, ‘The Plughole Picker’ was published online and ‘To See a Star’ was recorded as a podcast and published on a number of audio platforms.  Her writing has also been published and performed by amongst others; Mslexia, Liars’ League, Reflex Fiction and Writers Abroad. She has a love hate relationship with her adopted hometown and often dreams of living in a thatched cottage, far from the madding crowd. In 2020 Susan published her short story collection, Healer.

Susan Tweets @su_carey

Susan has an Amazon Page 

Only Half in Shade

Story type:

Flash Fiction
Podcast

Story mood:

Poignant
Thought-provoking

Image by Jörg Peter from Pixabay

July, a heatwave.  In the valley below, wind undulates across a ripening crop of barley.  A rivulet of sweat trickles down the well of my backbone.  You sit on a bench next to me in the shade of a Beech tree in Arley Arboretum.  The air sighs a potent whisper, like the breath of a sleeping lion.  In this stifling heat every breeze is a benediction.

Mesmerised, we watch the heads of barley bend and rise again.  Darker shadows ripple and weave into light.  We gaze at the abstract shapes turning into hieroglyphs which coil and dissipate, coil and dissipate.  Each time revealing a new message.

I reach for my phone to take a picture.  Perhaps I can capture this moment forever; carry it home and translate the wind’s words, prove that my training in linguistics has some purpose.  Folly, I know.  This will end, as everything ends.  Disappear as quickly as a flight of swallows over the horizon.

It’s been seven years to the day.  We don’t talk about marking the anniversary, but the way you move is eloquence enough.  Even in this oppressive heat your curved backbone makes me think of a cold horse hunched against the rain.

I rub my thumb over an inscription engraved on a brass plaque.  The bench we sit on is dedicated to someone who lived a long and fulfilling life.  Their longevity malignant now, because we only had five days with our son.

The blast of a train whistle makes us sit up straight, the spell cast by the wind suddenly broken.  A steam locomotive curves through the valley, bursting with sticky tourists on a summer jaunt, courtesy of England’s industrial past.  Parents will marvel at the quaint, outmoded technology while their kids lick ice-creams and misbehave.  I look away because our son would have loved a ride on a train.  We would be there in the midst of life and clamour, instead of here, alone, waiting for a sign.

An ant crawls over your sandalled foot and your thigh moves against mine.  In unison, we wriggle our toes.  I reach for your hand and we entwine fingers.  You have seen the writing too.  I know you know it’s only meant for us on this day, this hour, this minute, this second.  The breeze lies down and the words stop.  The sun is moving towards the day’s end and we are only half in shade now.  We should leave soon, but we wait, wait for the wind to return and show us our boy’s message just one more time.

THE END

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