144. Come on, give me a break

Yesterday wasn’t great. I’m guessing I had a low reaction after the sedation the day before. Today was fine, apart from such wet rain. I stumbled through tai chi, unsure if my foot or my shoulder would cave in first (neither, I managed to the end). I then had such a spirited conversation with two and a half Johnson supporters that I forgot my reflexology appointment and arrived 15 minutes late - but it was worth it. Total relaxation, apart from the very tender toes.

So what went wrong? I ate my cottage pie, finished with a sliver of chocolate orange and lost the outer part of the tooth that was filled only on Saturday. My teeth have been much weakened by the chemotherapy - and I don’t know how the hormone therapy must affect them but I have a calcium tablet to take daily to offset it weakening the bones so maybe teeth get affected. I have a very high fluoride toothpaste prescribed but obviously it’s not enough. Is this my future? Bits dropping off at unexpected moments?

It wouldn't be a problem for most people but... yep, dental phobia too. Hopefully they’ll just shove in a temporary filling but I have two years + of neurosis about dental hygiene. Necrosis of the jaw sounds horrendous and, although Dr Nixon reassured me, moments like this bring out all the What Ifs.

Today I got the feedback on my two pieces of flash fiction resulting from that course a month ago. They were spot on. One was admired (with warnings about overdoing the qualifiers - you have to allow the reader to infer in Flash Fiction), one was politely torn apart and I agreed with everything said. So here’s the better of my stories to entertain you. The theme required was memories (400 words max, now expanded a bit), not a comfortable one for me, so I turned to something new for a change - fantasy.

Caveat Emptor

Ellen had long stopped noticing her route. She rarely looked in the shop windows nowadays. She side-stepped discarded take-aways on autopilot. Every pavement crack was predictable. Fortunate since she was oblivious to her surroundings today, obsessing over her humiliation. If only she could forget. No waking up, heart lurching with shame. No surge of adrenaline at a sound, a smell... Uncomfortable territory, memories. Some you could live with; others had to be buried alive and you just hoped they couldn’t claw their way back to the surface. 

She paused, catching an insistent sound beyond the traffic roar. Ethereal, soothing. It drew her inexorably down a musty alleyway, claustrophobic, redolent of distant pasts. The haunting melody pulled her into secret shadows, curling and coiling around her doubts. She glided unresisting into the haze of answers promised. 

The music drew her into a distant shop, its walls held tight by tiers of tiny boxes. She marvelled at such profusion. As she reached out to examine a label, a gentle cough halted her. She’d overlooked the elderly shopkeeper hunched over her desk, quill in ink-stained hand, boxes spilling around her. Her faded brown shawl and lace cap blended into the oak around her, worn to an ageless patina. 

‘May I help?’ 

Ellen was startled at the voice, an extension of the music itself.   

‘Sorry.’ She felt an intruder in a museum. ‘It’s just … the music…’ 

‘Twas yours,’ the woman softly explained. ‘Only them as needs it hears it. There’s something you wish to forget.’ She gestured to the shelves. 

‘You’re not the first. Look around you.’ 

Ellen looked perplexed. 

‘Didn’t you see the sign? “The Shop To Remember.” Strange name for a shop for them as wants to forget - but it’s a timely reminder.’ She offered the wisdom of centuries, hope and warning in the same verse. 

‘Forget,’ Ellen echoed. Instantly, she burned with shame. The audition. That contempt. “It’s never going to happen. You’re too uptight.” Because she struggled when he... She felt soiled. Dreams shattered. Yes, she wanted to forget. 

‘Indeed,’ the woman piped. ‘A timely reminder. But you’ve a bad memory to deposit so you don’t care.’ 

‘Well, today..’ 

The woman halted her. ‘I ceased wanting to hear decades ago. You just pay your guinea, leave your memory in your box and I takes care of the rest. You never get troubled by it again.’ 

‘How do I…?’ 

‘That’s my business. You’ll leave with no memory of what’s in your box. But caveat emptor. You’ll never get it back. Be careful what you put in. Folks try to find their way back, desperate for a clue. Be sure you want this.’ 

Ellen was sure, whatever a guinea was. She left in a haze, her load lifted, and followed the distant light through swirling silence into the city bustle. 

She sauntered uphill, gazing curiously at every shop window. She had no idea where she’d been or where she was heading. She lifted her face to the sun and smiled