‘I wish you wouldn’t come in through the back door, Louise.’
‘I was bringing Jenny in,’ she said and pulled back the lurching dog.
‘Give her to me. I don’t want her jumping all over Esther.
Mrs Gibbons pulled Jenny away and led the panting animal out of the kitchen. She paused at the door. ‘I’ll take her for a walk to calm her down. Will you be okay for half an hour with Louise?’
Louise flicked her blonde shoulder length hair away from her round freckled face and said, ‘’Course she will. I’ll look after her Mrs G.’
Esther’s mother frowned. ‘Fine, but I don’t want to see any of that chewing gum you have in that mouth of yours end up on the floor, or under the table top.’
‘’Course not.’
‘Right, see you later. And be good.’
‘Mum!’
Mrs Gibbons left and both girls stayed totally still until they heard the front door slam. ‘Finally,’ Louise said, plucked the pink gum from between her teeth and pressed it against the table leg. Esther shook her head. ‘What? I’m saving it for later.’
‘Yeuk.’
Louise pulled a chair out from the table and sat down. She smiled at Esther, put her elbows on the table, resting her head between her upturned palms. Then let out a sigh and yawned. Esther shuffled slightly and grimaced as a stabbing pain shot up both her legs. Louise moved her eyes in her friend’s direction, and then sighed again.
‘I’m going to the dance.’
Louise sat up. ‘You can’t be serious?
‘I am.’
‘Who are you going to go with?’
‘I don’t know yet. I thought maybe you could ask…’
‘Me? Oh no. I’m not going around like a mong asking morons to take you to the dance.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I’m not being mean, it’s just that, well, no one wants to go out with a cripple,’ Louise said and pointed at Esther’s strapped up legs.
‘I’m not a cripple. I can walk.’
‘Look, I’m not being funny or anything, but…you look like a Spaz. You can’t go to the dance. You can’t dance.’
‘I can sit and watch.’
‘Oh no. I mean that is really embarrassing. I’ll have to sit with you and everyone will blank me and…no, you can’t go. I’ll never live it down.’
‘But, Mum’s bought me a dress and everything. It’s okay you won’t have to sit with me. Mum says she’ll come and…’
‘You cannot bring your mother!’
Esther did.
***
Red, blue and yellow lights swirled around the dance floor, slapping necks and faces with multi-coloured spots. Esther watched her school mates bend and twist, nodding her head to the disco drumbeat. Mrs Gibbons read a book. She screwed her eyes up each time the DJ turned up the volume. Esther glanced around the room and caught sight of Louise, chatting with a group of girls. She waved, beckoned her over, but Louise turned her back and walked away. Her mother looked up, and tutted.
‘What?’
‘I thought Louise was your friend? Why doesn’t she come over?’
‘Maybe she’s busy.’
Mrs. Gibbons closed her book. ‘Why don’t we just go home?’
Pushing down on her chair, she wobbled to her feet. ‘No. I’m going for a dance.’
‘What?’
Esther took a step and nearly fell. A fair-haired youth all legs, arms and trousers that didn’t fit, turned in her direction just as she stumbled forward. He caught her in his arms and smiled a gap-toothed smile. Esther gazed into his blue eyes. ‘Thanks,’ she said. Her mother pulled her away and sat her back down.
‘Yes, thank you for helping Esther. She’s fine now, you can go.’
‘But mum?’
‘Sshh. You know what? It’s getting late we should go home.’
‘But mum, it’s only eight thirty.’
‘I don’t care. I’ll get the coats,’ Mrs Gibbons said and walked towards the cloakroom.
‘I’m Peter.’
‘I know who you are. Would you like to sit down?’
‘I’d rather dance,’ Peter said and offered her his right arm. She held onto his wrist and lifted herself up. Peter put his left hand on hers and they shuffled slowly towards the dance floor.
Esther felt the heat of the bodies that swayed and stomped around the room. The pungent smell of adolescent boys, sweating in their polyester shirts made her cough. Peter pulled her close and wrapped his arms around her waist. The lights dimmed. A glitter ball sent hundreds of tiny stars spiralling across the ceiling, walls and floor. Esther raised her face to Peter’s and saw a galaxy of silver lights whip across his upper lip. ‘Up Where We Belong’ thrummed through the speakers. The voices caressed her disfigured legs, crept up her thighs, stomach and into her open mouth. Peter held her close and she let him move her body slowly to the rhythm.
The afternoon sun cast an orange glow across Esther’s face. The rays touched her arms giving them the appearance of bronze. She held them out and took a sideways glance at her pallet of oils. There was nothing there that could match that colour. There was nothing that came close to that first intimate touch between her and Peter. Esther turned her head in the direction of the staircase.
She wiped her eyes, blinked and looked at the overturned canvases scattered across the floor. She bent down and picked a small one up. It was blank, except for dust. Blowing the cobwebs away, she brushed it clean with her fingers, then took hold of a paintbrush that stuck out from a pile of newspapers. Lifting a piece of scrunched up rag, Esther found a horde of unused oils. She unscrewed the cap of a tube and squeezed it onto the floor. Then placed the tip of the brush into her mouth, moistened it with her tongue and dipped it into a mound of burnt umber.
She sat amongst the rubble of half drawn, nearly finished works of art, put the canvas on her lap, and smoothed the thick yellowish brown paste onto it. She unscrewed more tubes of paint and dotted the canvas with bright colours. A touch of yellow smudged in with her fingertips became a blazing sun that reminded her of Peter’s curly blond hair. Before it all fell out. Esther drew a tree with bright green leaves that curled up and around the canvas snake-like and cruel. She gave it a head, red eyes and ivory fangs, its mouth open, ready to bite anyone who came too close.
A bell jangled. Esther stopped painting.
‘Coming!’ she said and put her picture on the floor. Grabbing a handful of oils, she got to her feet slowly, limped out of her studio and closed the door. The paint on her fingers left a circle of dots on the handle that resembled a muddy necklace. Stepping into the beige hallway, Esther sighed. She looked down at her hands. They were splodged with oils, and the ones she held so tightly, oozed at the tip. The bell rang again, more insistently. Esther grinned. ‘Okay, Peter, I’m coming.’
She put her left hand onto the banister and heaved herself up the stairs one step at a time until she reached the landing. Pausing at the top, she stared at her reflection in the mirror that hung on the wall at the end of the small corridor. A lock of hair had come loose from her tight bun. She reached for it, ready to push the thick lock back in, make herself neat for Peter, but the blobs of paint on her fingers, and the tubes of bursting oils, dared her to leave it be. She sniffed the unctuous paints, and another Rousseau painting filled her head.
The bell rang, shrill and panicky.
‘Coming, Peter,’ she said and yanked the tie from her hair.
The grey tresses spread across her shoulders like slender silver snakes. Esther squeezed some yellow paint onto her index finger and spread it across both eyelids. Ignoring the bell, she smeared the rest of the paint down the front of her white blouse and grey skirt. It left streaks of burnt orange like thick smudges from a giant snail trail.
This time, Peter called out to her. ‘Esther! What’s taking you so long? You haven’t been doing any of your stupid pictures have you? Esther? You know I’m allergic to the oils.’
‘Coming, comin
g. Keep your shirt on,’ she said and took off her clothes.
She threw her blouse and skirt onto the floor.
‘Esther! Esther! Where’s my camomile tea? It’s after four. Did you bring the Rich tea biscuits this time? I didn’t like the spiced ones you gave me yesterday. Esther!’
‘Hush now Peter, I’ll be there in a minute.’
Esther took off her bra and knickers and held her arms out to the side. She let her head fall back and her mouth gape open, and squeezed the last remaining oils out of the tubes. The spent containers dropped from her hands. She knelt on the floor then placed her palms in the blobs of paint and drew her fingers across her flesh. She stood and stared at her reflection, at the coloured strips that went across her belly and breasts. ‘I’m a tiger.’
‘Esther!’
Esther walked into the bedroom.
‘What the…’
Esther grinned at Peter.
‘What have you done?’
‘I’ve started painting again. Do you like my new piece?’
Peter pushed the bedclothes down to his knees and leant forward. He coughed and wiped his cracked lips.
‘Where’s my tea? I’m still not well you know.’
‘Fuck your tea Peter.’
‘What?’ he said and pulled his head back as Esther put her wet hands on the foot of the bed.
‘Fuck your tea and look at me.’
Peter turned away.
‘Look!’ She banged on the mattress.
Peter glared at her. ‘I’m looking.’
‘What do you see?’
‘A crazy woman.’
Esther stood. ‘Good.’ She went to the window and drew back the curtains.
‘Get away from the window. What if someone sees you?’
‘Let them,’ she said and turned to face her husband. ‘This place could do with a splash of colour.’
‘No. Don’t be silly,’ Peter said and pulled the duvet towards his chin as Esther moved to the wall next to him.
She pressed her body against the magnolia wallpaper and slid up and down creating smears of colour.
‘Stop it. You’re being ridiculous.’
‘Good,’ she said, pulled away and stepped back to observe her creation. ‘Hmm. Needs something.’ Esther wiped the yellow from her eyelids and smoothed it into the other colour. ‘There, now it’s finished. What do you think?’
Peter shook his head. ‘I think we’ll have to redecorate.’
‘Look closer. What do you see?’
Esther sat on the bed. Peter flinched. She took his hand in hers and held on despite his wriggling. ‘What do you see?’
He stared into her eyes and gripped her fingers. ‘I see paint thrown, plastered onto canvas, wood and cloth ignite with tangled colours. The beginning and the end blur into a mesh of intriguing lines and shapes that baffle and beguile the eye.’
Esther smiled, pulled her hand from his and shuffled to the end of the bed. She lay sideways and propped herself up on one elbow. She pointed a finger at Peter.
He said, ‘Rousseau painted a naked woman draped on a chaise lounge in the middle of an abstract jungle. Her head turned sideways, she stares defiantly at two tigers looming from the undergrowth. The woman is fearless, in control and proud.’
The End
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Nicola McDonagh was born in Liverpool, the youngest of six children. She grew up amidst books, music and lots of animals. She originally trained as a photojournalist, but her love of the theatre and story telling, saw her gaining an Honours Degree in Drama and English Literature. She spent many years as an actor, scriptwriter and workshop leader, but gave it up to concentrate on her writing. She is a creative writing/photography tutor, and editor.
Nicola gained a Diploma in Creative Writing from the UEA, won the Suffolk Book League’s Short Story Competition, and was shortlisted for The Escalator Genre Fiction Competition. The following year her debut novel, Echoes from the Lost Ones, book 2 in the series, The Song of Forgetfulness, was published by Fable Press. However, the series has been re-vamped and Nicola has self-published all the books so far in the series.
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Reviews about Glimmer and other stories:
‘With all of her stories, there is a connective fabric. The author uses the reader’s mind as an easel and puts dots, splashes, and strokes of color along with deep incorporation of nature and locations. The end result took me away. The metaphorical richness was akin to the joy of childbirth in which a healthy, vibrant baby is the result.’
‘The subjects range from humour to horror and supernatural romance to repressed creativity - they all have an underlying oddness about them which is quite refreshing. Recommended for those who enjoy something a bit out of the ordinary.’
‘I loved these short stories. Thought provoking, clever. Her writing is filled with suspense, creepy and fast moving. Believe me, you won't skip a page for fear of missing something vital - and it's not what she says, it's what she doesn't say, that's brilliant. Not once was I bored. I wanted more. As a writer myself, I looked for mistakes - there weren't any. This lady blew me away.’
‘Ms. McDonagh has created a world that is like an out-of-body experience almost. The stories took me out of my confined world and took me into science fiction a little horror drama, and wonder. She has a fine imagination and writes with a certain savoir-faire style that takes you on a mental journey into another world, a world of creativity that sucks you right into a whirlwind of emotions and thoughts. These short stories were 133 pages of fine writing and inventive imagery nicely done. I recommend it to fans of science fiction and horror and anyone who likes a good read.’
‘Seven short stories all with one thing in common: intrigue. As the title of this collection suggests Nicola McDonagh's seven tales shift in the light, never quite settling in tangible form. From the opening story, the eponymous Glimmer, to the final tale Rousseau Suburban Jungle you won't quite know where you're being taken by the narrative. But don't take that as a criticism. McDonagh has absolute control over the writing and carefully leads the reader towards the final reveal. What you won't find at the end of these stories are final sentence 'gotchas' a la HP Lovecraft, but evocative conclusions that continue to drift after the page is turned.
Some of the stories are rooted in the real world, such as Scarecrow, Ernest Thirk and the aforementioned Glimmer, whilst others like The Reclaimed Merman and Daub are more uncanny, straggling the line between the real and the perceived.
For me the stand out story was On the Eighth Day. I'm not even going to hint at the subject matter because it's such an exquisite unexpected tale that you need to approach it with a clear mind and enjoy the full impact of a superb example of the art of short story telling.
Glimmer and other stories will appeal to readers who don't want ideas prescribed and spoonfed to them. These stories give you the space to let the imagination roam.’
For information about The Song of Forgetfulness
http://www.thesongofforgetfulness.com
What people are saying about The Song of Forgetfulness series:
Whisper Gatherers:
“If you like action, and science fiction then you’ll appreciate one of the first books EVER that gives you high powered adrenalin with chilling revelations of utter suspense! This book is amazing to read and you will not want to put it down!”
“There's danger, humour, pathos, and lots of fast-paced action that makes this book a very exciting read.”
“The author does a great job of drawing you in with her futuristic descriptions, at times it felt like I was watching a movie, that’s how enthralled I was with the book. There’s plenty of action throughout the story, just when you think everything’s calmed something comes along to shake up Cityplace.”
Echoes from the Lost Ones:
“I loved the unique language, and both the style and the voice of the book reminded me of Patrick Ness' Walking Chaos Trilogy. I would definitely recommend it to people who enjoy his books! A brilliant and unique read for adults and young adults alike. Very impressed and will be reading the next installment.”
“Addictive and engrossing-. It creates its own unique world where there's danger, and fear, and regret, but where there is a barrel load of humour, too…”
“A great story full of fun wordplay, great imagery, and an underlying commentary about the frailties of mankind.”
“A story of trust and faith "Echoes from the Lost Ones" is an adventure that takes you to a time and place like no other.”
“Post apocalyptic world where people worry about when they're next going to be able to go to the loo! Genius, why did no one write this before.”
Glimmer and other Stories Page 8