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It’s been on my mind that during this month I will begin the last year of my sixth decade. The topic this month is the last of something. So, whatever that suggests to you, good, bad, indifferent, in a maximum of 500 words.
The First Steps and the Last
‘Come on, Mum, two more steps and you’re there. I’ve got you …’
Why was she raising her voice? I wasn’t deaf.
My mind wasn’t the disabled part of me.
And what was the rush?Hold your tongue, old lass. It’s all said through care, not to mention a familiar tone of concern that she might slip or let go.
It took me back to a time when I was the one holding onto her, starting the day she was born. She was in too much of a hurry then, to hold on fourteen more weeks. No heavier than a pack of sugar, she were the tiniest, pinkest, wriggling wee angel.
‘She’ll be an angel alright – these ones don’t survive,’ said the midwife, in the stiff-upper-lip manner of her generation. I’d have other kiddies, she said; there was no point in maudling over this one.
‘Give that bairn to me!’ I snarled as she made to place her on a table. I snatched her up, put her to my breast …
… and there she stayed, defying those who reasoned she would never amount to anything. She would amount to being a cherished daughter, was my dangerous answer. Aye, and much more if her fighting spirit were anything to go by.
My tone, like hers today, betrayed I was scared of dropping or hurting her while promising I wouldn’t let go. Since then, it’s been a life-ride of lettings go.
Like the last time I had need to hold on while I bathed her.
The last time I breast-fed, then held her spoon or fork.
I wish I could remember those last days I helped her to dress, or hold onto her while she took her first steps. Hold her hand while she walked.
I can’t recall the last time I prepared her a meal, or cleaned her shoes, or pressed her air-scented clothes. Or mopping her tears after she fell, turning from scuffed knees to bruised hearts when the falling became in and out of love.
It didn’t feel so special then, because it’s something mothers just did. If only I had understood how important those last moments were, I’d never have let them pass without celebration;.and it was a celebration, to see my little sugar-bag mite evolve into the personification of sweetness she became.
Of course, those ‘last’ days marked so many ‘firsts’ as she learned to care for herself. Most of all, she had learned the art of caring for others. I witnessed as much while she experienced her own ‘last’ times raising my three grandchildren.
Who knew I would be her next charge?
Those words, which take me back through the years, they are the reason I know she won’t drop me today, or slip while cleaning, or scald me while feeding.
I’m now the one who weeps into her breast, as I prepare for my own last day. But I go proudly, on seeing the achievements those ‘last’ days created.
495 words
Unexplained death
On rainy days, visiting my paternal grandmother Dora in the 1950s, we’d spend time looking through old photo albums. Most impactful was one of a newly engraved white headstone:
In memoriam
Effie Sutcliffe
Beloved Wife of
Herbert Sutcliffe of Fruitvale
Born April 17 1891
Died April 1914
Rest in Peace
Invariably, Dora sighed: ‘So sad. My brother left his home just as it was and never went back.’
Within thirty years, these albums, along with letters, postcards and much else pertaining to the family, came into my possession, spurring me to research the Sutcliffe family’s history.
I learnt that Herbert met Effie in New Zealand, having worked his way across Canada from his ranch in Manitoba. Attraction must’ve been instantaneous, and strong enough to support them during three years on different continents while Herbert returned home to Halifax, before returning to Fruitvale in British Columbia to build a cabin on land he’d earlier purchased, before eventually returning to New Zealand where they married.
During this long courtship Effie and Dora (then courting my eventual grandfather) exchanged photos and postcards.
In 2007, courtesy of a BSA Rally in New Zealand, we arranged to visited Effie’s nephew Bill, in Timaru where we were given copies of a post-marriage letter she’ d written in July 1913 to her brothers, describing her journey from New Zealand to Canada, and a later one, dated 9th April 1914, to her mother. This very likely the last time Effie wrote; the following eight days filled with waiting for her, while its contents – or lack of them – raised yet more questions for me.
Bill had earlier told me Effie’s mother ‘took against’ Herbert from the start – not entirely surprising if it looked like he’d be taking her away, so Effie’s stressing how glad she was to be in Canada; how well she was looking “It has made me strong & well again. My face is fat and rosy, ” was not surprising, along with her adding “Bert is so easy to please & he can’t do enough for me. I do think I am lucky girl “ Effie then goes on to say “We are wondering mother if you have any money to let out. If you could let us have £50 at whatever interest you get. There is no work to be had in Fruitvale this year and the settlers can’t get any loans”
She then explains how “to do it most quickly “ before saying “I will tell you my news” and saying she has been baking. Nowhere does she mention she is pregnant, which would seem the most likely way to soften her mother’s heart.
Like us, Bill had no definite knowledge of how or why Effie died; ‘in childbirth’ assumed most likely. Only on eventually receiving a copy of her death certificate, citing “toxaemia of pregnancy: eclampsia” as cause of death ” could I be sure; another photo showed the now-weathered headstone in Ymir.
[498 words excluding title]
UNTITLED (149 WORDS)
Contains an obscenity
Today is the last day I will beat myself up over this.
It’s the last day I’ll say sorry for hurting you, as if I haven’t said sorry a million times already.
It’s the last time I’ll try to make amends for something you will never forgive me for.
It’s the last time I’ll go to bed and wonder how different things would be if that last flight home to Edinburgh hadn’t been cancelled due to bad weather.
It’s the last day I’ll reach for you and watch you turn from me in disgust.
It’s the last day I’ll allow myself to feel the emotional pain of your bitterness.
It’s the last day I will listen to the barbed lecture on trust and infidelity.
It’s. The. Last. Day
Tomorrow, I will embrace the challenge of being a single, imperfect, compassionate human being.
And you?
You can go f**k yourself.
The Last Divided Island (approx 300 words)
The mini heatwave in England in June slowed down Stella’s physical activities and afforded her more time for reflection and remembrance. Almost fifiy-one years previously she and her parents had been forced to flee to London from their Cypriot home amid the mayhem and sufferings of war.
The woman she was today carried inside the mental and emotional scars of that traumatic time, when she was ten years old and impressionable. Stella knew that she was not alone in this.
But life goes on. Back then, like other Cypriots, her parents built a successful restaurant business and Stella had benefited by attendance at the best school which her parents could afford. She did not waste her opportunities and her academic success finally led her to a career within the judicial system. She had won renown for her strong beliefs in the true meaning of justice: “the ethical, philosophical idea that people are to be treated impartially, fairly, properly and reasonably by the law…”.
Stella had never married, valuing her independence and during a sabbatical year she had travelled for the first time back to her divided homeland. The sadness in her heart she experienced on this pilgrimage made her vow never to return until a solution to the Cyprus Problem was found.
Ever the dreamer, this scorching June she sat in her favourite chair and began to imagine a miracle, as the anniversary of the Invasion once more loomed.
A crack of thunder startled Stella from her reveries and she wiped perspiration from her brow, sighing.
Dreams can come true, she believed, but halfway through the year 2025 Cyprus remained The Last Divided Island.
Just pulled the last bit of candy floss from my brain, looked at some famous last quotes “Julius ‘Groucho’ Marx and Noel Coward.” Played with some authors and their book titles, used some well known sayings and came up with this bit of fluff.
<u>The last question</u>
I was surprised when the invite appeared mysteriously on my lap.
Firstly, because both the envelope and the final ticket for the, oddly named, “last train to Clarksville” were created from spiral spores of the extinct Sigillaria tree, and secondly, because the train itself, verged on mythical so tickets offering a chance to witness the beginning, and the end, of things were as rare as promethium, and to be honest, I never thought I would be the person to receive such an opportunity.
I hastily packed a rucksack with essentials before hurrying around derelict buildings and along ruined roadways, to the terminal at the end of eternity.
A fading sign over the door-portal to the terminal read, “Here, find answers to Asimov’s last question.”
There was no-one to collect my ticket, so I hurried on through.
The train and a single carriage, both ancient and rusted, waited in the station.
Sweet-scented blossom and green leafy vines coiled into the cab, covered the trailing truck, arched over the carriage doorway and crept through its windows.
I laughed.
There seemed no way this ancient rust-bucket would ever move but, surprisingly, the carriage door opened and someone shouted, ‘All aboard, quickly now.’
Well, you didn’t need to tell me twice.
Inside, a man shook my hand and said, ‘Welcome aboard, I’m Mr Coward, let me clip your ticket. We’re all keen to meet the ticket-holder for the last seat on the train, you know.’
Looking around the carriage, it wasn’t what I expected. No intruding vines or flowers. It was much bigger than it seemed from outside, and was clean and comfy too.
Only one seat remained unoccupied, mine.
‘Hello, I’m James, James Cooper,’ the man beside me said as I sat down, ‘I say, have you brought anything to pass the time if not you can borrow this.’ He waved a book titled “The Last of the Mohicans” at me.
I declined and was actually startled, and a little worried, as the train shuddered into movement. ‘I hope we don’t die in this rickety machine’ I said, a little too loudly.
A well-dressed man with glasses, dark hair, and a moustache turned and, with a grin, fluttered his cigar at me. ‘Die my dear? Why that’s the last thing I’ll do. Now, courage man, after all, you were the last man standing on the planet, besides, you do know your final fear is your worst fear.’ He spun toward to the ticket collector, ‘Noel, any chance of a whiskey?’
Mr Coward shook his head, ‘sorry Julius, last orders were ages ago. You can have my last rolo, if you want.’
He winked at me then looked around at other passengers. ‘This night-train is about to go inter-galactically super-sonic so get some rest, blankets are above your heads if you need them.’ He paused, ‘Goodnight my darlings, I’ll see you tomorrow,’ he said, before strolling through a door at the rear of the carriage, which should not have led anywhere.
(496)
Moving On
The elderly man picked up a landline receiver. On his desk lay an open, glossy page of Country Life. The man underlined a phone number and dialled.
“Hello, my name’s John Tucker,” he said. “I’d like to sell my house. Could you send a valuer?”
He gave his address. A distant phone voice burbled.
“Two valuers?” said John. “This afternoon. Excellent. My number is my landline. Yes. I prefer it to a mobile for significant matters.”
The receiver back on its cradle, John picked up a file named ‘Benedict’ which was also on his desk. He rose slowly from a wooden antique swivel chair. The chair had a continuous slatted back and sides like a horseshoe, and the cushions to make it comfortable were frayed with age. John put the file in a metal filing cabinet.
He shuffled across a marble-tiled hall and went into a long drawing room whose oil paintings hung in two rows on every wall, scenes of moors or fields or horses. He settled in a chintz-covered armchair next to the fireplace and, in silence, gazed through floor-to-ceiling windows across a terrace.
Later a young man and an older one arrived at the double-leaved front door. Their smiles were alert, the sort meant to look interested but not ingratiating.
When they’d spent an hour and a half in the house and gardens the older man announced a figure.
“Ballpark,” he added. “We have to make it negotiable.”
“Of course,” said John. “Sounds a decent amount to me.”
“Our marketing department will make an appointment to talk through the selling process.”
“Excellent,” said John.
**
A woman arrived at the front door. She smiled.
“Mr Tucker?”
“John Tucker, yes. Come in. We’ll go into the drawing room.”
They walked across the hall, the woman’s heels tapping the tiles.
“It’s beautiful,” she said, looking up the wide staircase to the balcony running round the hall.
“Indeed.”
John was limping as if in pain. In the drawing room he said, “The paintings won’t be auctioned until the house is sold. It would look dreary to have the marks of where they’d been.”
“That’s thoughtful of you.”
The woman looked across the terrace. “Two hectares of gardens. How do you keep them so well?”
“Contractors tend the gardens. And agency cleaners do indoors. I can recommend all these people.”
The woman, smiling, studied the drawing room. “We’ll get some lovely photos. Have you no family who are interested in the house, Mr Tucker?”
“My son has decided it’s too much for him.”
The woman smiled sadly. “I’m sure you’ll miss this house.”
**
When she’d gone John went back to his office and lifted the ‘Benedict’ file from the cabinet. Opening it he laid out letters concerning his son’s trial and gaol term for embezzlement.
“Always trouble,” said John. “I was endlessly bailing you out. Your inheritance will be sold and in my new apartment I shan’t have the things in this house. No more reminders of you.”
496 words exc title and asterisks
Bumper crop springs to mind, but the cliché is wrong because these stories didn’t just spring up, they were all lovingly made by hand.
Janette’s story reminds us of the way that roles are exchanged as age demands. More than this, it reminds us that life is full of last moments each important and deserving of attention and memory. There is a wistful mood to the piece but it leaves a warmth behind.
Sandra gives us a view of the real world with its merciless outcome. We had better count our blessings because our parents may not offer forgiveness, and life may choose the harshest end—even if we follow the path of love.
Seagreen’s story raised my spirit. There’s a limit to how long her MC apologises for being human, and is prepared to accommodate another’s lack of forgiveness. Crossing that line will produce an explosion of freedom. Yeah!
Jill’s story takes me back to the late 70s when I got to know a Cypriot student who had abandoned her home. She recalled lying behind a wall to avoid machine-gun fire from a helicopter, all the time thinking that she had no love for her own government. Sad times and still with us.
Well, you can’t get much more “last” than Terrie’s story, and I smiled more than once as I read it. I spotted many “last”” references and a fair few last words, and they were beautifully fitted in. There’s something very special about last words such as those from the Union General John Sedgwick who berated his men for ducking to avoid Confederate fire with the words. ‘I’m ashamed of you, dodging that way. They couldn’t hit an elephant at this distance.’
I found Libby’s story immensely sad. The prospect of finally turning your back on one of your own children seems truly awful. And yet the story unfolds in an unemotional, almost routine manner, with businesslike meetings and courtesy all round. And somehow that makes the story all the more moving.
It’s a real effort to decide between these entries and if I’m honest, and on another day, I could have picked any of them. However, this being the last day of the competition, I pick @Seagreen’s story for its clear voice and for lifting my spirits.
Oh, hooray, and congratulations @ Seagreen, but similarly to all for a varied and thought-provoking selection of ‘last times’. Thank you too Ath for the prompt – a subject which I ponder increasingly frequently.
That’s such a fabulous story, Seagreen.
I enjoyed everyone else’s entries too. Thank you Ath for the prompt and all your comments.
Thank you, Athelstone for setting the thought provoking theme and now for your considered and kind comments in judgement. I enjoyed each of my fellow writers’ entries and it is a good feeling to be amongst such talented people once more.
Last but not least (sorry!) I extend huge congratulations to the worthy winner, Seagreen.
Thanks, Ath, for this months competition theme, what a great crop of entries it garnered.
Congratulations ,everyone, for the interesting and well crafted reads and well done Sea for being the one taking the lead into the July challenge.
I won’t lie, I logged in last night to find out what the prompt for this month’s comp was going to be, little expecting – in the face of the other entries – that I would be setting it 😂
So thanks, Ath, for the comp and for that WTH!? moment when I got home from work 😃 and thanks to everyone else for inspiring me to try in the first place. I’ll post something tonight after my shift.
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