The Looking Glass

 Ten years have passed since I started this blog and as I've written many times here, I never thought it would last very long. Setting goals with respect to it, keeping it eclectic in content with no theme made it more interesting for me (and easier) to continue. However, the biggest encouragement through it all has been the readers. Thank you to those who continue checking in, reading, and having interest in what I write and have to say. That's the greatest motivation of all. 

Regarding 'The Looking Glass'...there's a cartoon that depicts how differently men and women perceive their reflections when looking into a mirror. While it's a generalization and in no way accurately depicts everyone, it is somewhat spot-on.  A woman looking into a mirror focuses on the flaws she sees in herself; the flaws become so emphasized that the image staring back is a negative, ugly caricature.  A man, on the other hand, will gaze at himself, seeing a caricature of Adonis-like perfection. Again, just a generalization, but it does explain how too many women have a negative body image complex, and we unfairly compare ourselves to what we aren't and never will be. 

As women age, the issue stays with us but the comparison shifts to the younger version...what we looked like in our twenties and thirties. We weren't content with our appearances then, yet it's what we long to have on the older model. Rather than being content and happy with what we are, there's comparison that's never achievable.  I know I'll never look like the beautiful Christie Brinkley, but that's okay because I never did in the first place.  However, I should be okay with how I've aged, but that "never quite good enough" is on repeat in my head. We're too tough on ourselves, ladies. 

The selfies I share in this blog are an example: I took them looking into a mirror in front of my Christmas tree. While I think they're better than normal of myself, the lighting is actually terrible. The lights on my tree are not yellow, they're white/clear. Go figure. 

Finally, sharing 'The Looking Glass' below, with more emphasis on memories. So many thanks, yet again, for those who have inspired me the last ten years. The plan is to keep it going, and I hope you continue to read it. Much love and appreciation. 

The Looking Glass

 

By Veronica Randolph Batterson 

 

 

She was just a girl.  One that stared back at her sixty-year-old image reflected in the looking glass; gone were the age spots and wrinkles, replaced with the wide smile, strong jaw and smooth skin of her early twenties.  She wore the pink Chuck Taylor high-tops she loved, and carried a novel, sketch pad, and camera in her arms. Staples of her life. Was she listening to Train in Vain by The Clash, or Cyndi Lauper’s Girls Just Want to Have Fun? Had she been to class or was she going to class? The image turned her back, glancing over her shoulder at the future, then dissolved.

She was just a girl.

An even younger version appeared, gazing into the glass with wonder and curiosity about life; the future stared back, remembering.  She was awkward and skinny, self-conscious about both; she wrote poems about it and daydreamed.  Head in the clouds, always in the clouds.

  She was just a girl.

Then a jumble of images…Barbie dolls and Dancerina, Tippee Toes and The Muppets, Etch-A-Sketch and Easy Bake Oven, Mood Rings and Class Rings, Tip-It and Operation, Berets and Mortarboards, Close ‘N Play and Transistor Radios, Chrissy and Velvet, Pet Rocks and Toss Across, Baby Beans and Baby Alive, Thumbelina and Baby Tenderlove.

Mousetrap and Viewmaster, Spirograph and Lite-Brite, Barrel of Monkeys and Paper Dolls, Duncan Yo-Yos and Clackers, Peace Signs and Nike Classic Cortez, Love Beads and Puka Shells, Chokers and Neck Scarves, Earth Shoes and Bell Bottoms, Crochet and Macramé, The Hustle and Tetherball, Noxzema and Oil of Olay, Love’s Baby Soft and Avon’s Sweet Honesty, Scrunchies and Fingerless Gloves, Wayfarers and Shoulder Pads.

The looking glass cleared, along with the memories. Six decades stared at her, the mirror no longer reflecting the past.  She was just a girl, but a modified version of her younger self. That girl of ten, and 16, 21 and 30…the same girl at 40, 50 and even 60.  Experienced, but still a little naïve, skeptical and yet hopeful, still full of questions but possessing more answers to life. Always thinking and wondering. Creating.

She was still just a girl. 

Madame X

A photograph of the original

John Singer Sargent, born to American parents in Florence, Italy (1856), was considered the leading portrait painter of his era.  In 1884, he exhibited in Paris what would eventually be considered a masterpiece; at the time, Paris society hated the painting and his reputation suffered.  He fled to London. 

Sargent named the portrait "Madame X" and the only thing that exists of the original as it hung in the Paris salon is a photograph.  The artist repainted the original (with right shoulder strap in place), which now hangs in the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York.

The painting was viewed as scandalous, but seems very mild compared to today's standards for modesty and indecency.  I've written a flash fiction piece based on this...a very short story that I, too, call Madame X.  Thanks for reading, and if you're interested in more short stories, I've shared a few on this blog.  Just check out the links to the right.  As always, copyright applies (©Veronica Randolph Batterson).

Madame X

By Veronica Randolph Batterson

(©Veronica Randolph Batterson)

Virginie Amélie Avegno Gautreau.  Elle est un opportuniste. 

He fidgeted with his hands, pulling at the collar of his shirt as if doing so would loosen the tightness around his neck.  The room was warm and sweat formed at his hairline, the rivulets running down his face and into his eyes.  He patted his forehead with a handkerchief and thought he would be ill.  Soon there would be an audience.

Madame Pierre Gautreau, the artist’s dream, agreed to his request; she consented to sit for him.  A vision.  And he had painted her as such.   Sensual, regal, beautiful and unusual, her powdered skin and its lavender hue stood pasty and stark against the black dress.  The velvet bodice cut low over her breasts and held in place with two slim, jeweled straps.  He had been nervous at first.  Reflecting, perhaps that had lent to his displeasure and uncertainty of the painting.

Monsieur Sargent?  Will this work?

With her left hand she had gripped the velvet skirt while clutching the edge of a side table with the right one.  Her patrician profile exuded nobility; she was untouchable.  In an instant, it happened.  The slightest movement that changed everything.  The jeweled shoulder strap dropped suggestively from her right shoulder.  How do I look?  The little slip was painted into the portrait. 

Salle 31. 1884.

He waited for the unveiling as Paris society ambled into the salon, unforgiving and judgmental.  Champagne flowed amidst fluttery ladies on the arms of stodgy gentlemen.  A violinist performed but he could barely hear the music, so loud was the beat of his own heart.   He thought of leaving.  There his Madame X stood at eye level.  The Gautreau that everyone flocked to view.

John Singer Sargent.

The artist who painted a scandalous portrait of a difficile woman; it hadn’t been as he had hoped.  He knew the outcome of his folly and Amélie had known what she was doing, toying with him.  Feigning innocence.  Indolent.  How foolish he had been for following instincts instead of reason.  Now he would pay with his reputation.

Arriviste.  Ceci est scandaleux!

The gasps caught his attention.  Vulgaire.  Choquant.  Indécent.  The whispers grew as one voice, loud, biting and cruel.  They shouted his recklessness and relished his mistake, declaring the end for him in Paris while clucking at his foolishness.  L’artiste a échoué!  There was spiteful glee in his failure.  He was humiliated.  Some were repulsed by the pallor of her skin; most were shocked by the revealing décolletage.  Trop sensuelle.

He had exhibited at the Palais de Industrie for six years and was the preferred portrait artist of Paris.  The mocking confirmed it was over.   How could this happen, such fickleness?   Dejected, he felt he must retrieve the portrait before the Gautreau family obtained and destroyed it.  Then he would flee to London.  

Au revoir, Monsieur Sargent. 

He left.  Bitter, disappointed and angry.  To start over.  Optimiste.

©Veronica Randolph Batterson

 

Hang the Moon, Molly Byrd

I'd like to share a short story I finished in 2006 called Hang the Moon, Molly Byrd.  I tweaked it a little, shortened it a bit and now it is a flash fiction piece telling a basic story of two people.  It's written simply to relay the simplicity of the characters.

I have shared over a dozen original short stories on this blog and all can be found in a listing to the right of the posts.  I'll continue to share more. Thank you for reading my work and I hope you enjoy this story.  As usual, copyright (©Veronica Randolph Batterson) applies.

Hang the Moon, Molly Byrd

By Veronica Randolph Batterson

(©Veronica Randolph Batterson)

They say she talks to angels.  She says they answer her.  Most say she’s just crazy, but he thinks she “hung the moon” and he told her once.

He was proud when he did it and euphoric.  It made him feel good and he wondered if people who got high on drugs had the same experience.  Not the drugs he had to take but the ones people used to change their moods.  He possessed no sense anyway, but telling her how he felt made him dopey and silly.  He couldn’t focus on anything and he knew he wore a ridiculous smile on his face for the rest of the day.  Others thought him simple but it was what she thought about him that mattered.  And she told him.

“I think you make the sun rise, Harold Brown,” she said.

It was to the point and direct, but she smiled when she said it.  And Molly Byrd never said anything she didn’t mean.  He couldn’t remember his immediate reaction but it must have been good.  He knew it because she asked if she could push his wheelchair.  He had said yes and he never let anyone do that for him.

They became inseparable then.  Wherever Molly Byrd went, Harold Brown was nearby, observing from his chair and admiring with all his being.      

 

On clear nights, when the stars and moon hung brightly, Molly Byrd wandered the streets, face affixed toward the heavens, oblivious to her surroundings. Harold Brown watched out for her. It was during this time that Molly Byrd would have her celestial discussions, with the angels relaying their messages to her.  So she said and he believed her. 

One particular night, a shooting star sent Molly running.  It took everything Harold could muster to keep up with her.  He found her standing on a rock by a lake, her face upturned and her body still.  Her silhouette reminded him of a statue, proud and strong.  The sight made his heart catch in his chest.  He wondered what messages were being exchanged as he watched.

When Molly Byrd finally slumped from exhaustion, the stellar conversation over, he thought she might fall right off the rock.  He got as close as his chair would allow, which wasn’t near enough to grab her as she slid.  She collapsed on the dew-covered grass; her face hung limp upon her shoulders.

When she finally gazed up at him, her eyes were drooping and confusion marked her face.  She looked right through him.

“Harold Brown, what are you doing here?” she asked.

The question hurt him.  Didn’t she remember they went everywhere together?  He looked up at the sky as if he’d find the answer there.  She lit up his life just as those stars illuminated the darkness.  Molly Byrd was his guiding light.

Things changed after that night.  Molly became more distracted than usual, often venturing off without Harold and forgetting him altogether.  He tried not to be disappointed but despondency began to stifle him.  He no longer wished to face the day each morning.  Eating took effort and he lost weight and forgot to take his medications.  Harold Brown hadn’t the energy or will for life.  Others noticed.

They gave him words of encouragement, helped him dress and took him on outings.  His new friends fed him and read to him, nursing him to better health.  The will to live grew stronger; he began to care again. 

When he was able, Harold ventured out alone, as he had before sadness took control of him.  It had been weeks since he’d seen Molly.  He remembered it clearly, as if only hours before.  He forced thoughts of her from his mind as he watched children playing tag in the park, the parents mindful of their whereabouts.

“Where’ve you been, Harold Brown?” came the question from behind him.

He felt a grin begin to form and it spread so wide that he thought it might split his face in half.  Everything appeared brighter, as if a light bulb had suddenly been turned on in a darkened room.  He wheeled himself around to face her.

“Where I’ve always been, Molly Byrd,” he replied.

She stood before him, looking the same as always.  A red balloon reached for the sky beside her, its freedom hindered by the string she held in her hand.  He suddenly felt like the balloon, bridled and controlled by Molly Byrd.  It confused him.  She tied the string to the arm of his chair.

“I thought you might like this,” she said.

Harold watched the balloon dance in the wind, fighting against constraint.  His voice cracked as he asked the questions he needed to ask.

“Why did you leave me, Molly Byrd?”

“The angels said to,” she responded.

“Will you leave again?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she shrugged.

It wasn’t what he wanted to hear but Harold Brown was glad he asked.  And Molly was just being honest.  She never said anything she didn’t mean.  When the night sky was clear and it looked like the flickering stars were ropes of light hanging the moon in the darkness, he knew where she would be.  She described those words to him and he saw it.  And he believed her.

Harold untied the string and let the balloon soar above him.  They watched the red orb grow smaller as it floated higher, finally out of sight.

“Goodbye, Molly Byrd,” he said.

Then Harold Brown turned his chair and wheeled himself away.  He felt himself floating higher, just like the red balloon, but in control.  Away from Molly Byrd.

 ©Veronica Randolph Batterson

  

Old Wauhatchie

For this blog entry, I'd like to share a flash fiction piece I wrote recently.  "Old Wauhatchie" might resonate a little with my friends in Tennessee and Georgia...Chief Wauhatchie of the Cherokee Nation and the Trail of Tears, a time when the tribe was forced to give up its land due to the Indian Removal Act of the 1830s. There is a road in existence today called Old Wauhatchie, just around Lookout Mountain in Chattanooga.  This short story is part history, part dream sequence, part paranormal and I took some liberties, but it is fiction.  The history itself was not changed, just mentioned.

As always, copyright applies, ©Veronica Randolph Batterson, and thanks so much for taking the time to read my blog.

Old Wauhatchie

By Veronica Randolph Batterson

  

The mist rose from the river, its ghostlike veil spreading slowly and sensually through the brush of trees and along the path where she waited.  It separated like arms, wrapping around her ankles, swirling, and gently enfolding her in an embrace she couldn’t feel.  She watched as it continued and spread, caressing the earth like a familiar lover, confident and comforting.

Twilight was quickly turning to dusk; the colors from the departing sun created shadows that danced and angled before her eyes.  The swelling mist played tricks, bringing the dark forms to life.  The silhouette of a man jumped from a rock, only to be replaced by the contours of a bear running into the woods.  An arrow shot from a bow near a tree, its momentum turning it into a bird with wings that spread and hovered over her until it glided out of sight. 

She knew he was nearby and felt his presence throughout her body.  Her senses were sharp; the slight snap of a twig brought her head up.  She waited.  Then the scent reached her nostrils, a woodsy blend of cedar and oakmoss, hints of evergreen and honeysuckle with a puff of tobacco.  It lingered under her nose, intoxicating and light, keeping her still in anticipation. 

Then drumbeats, faint and steady, filled the air and echoed through the trees, hinting at greatness to come.  Or danger, but she wasn’t afraid.   She knew she was being summoned, as it was her time, and he would be there waiting.

“Listen to the river,” the wind breathed.

Through the mist, lifelike forms appeared.  They walked toward her, hundreds it seemed, women carrying babies on their backs and children dragging behind.  Their faces etched with sorrow, in their arms they carried all they owned.  Men intermingled, solemn and stoic, walking tall yet anger simmering at being driven from the only land they’d ever known.  Their land. 

And she saw Wauhatchie, Chief of the Cherokees, chief of these displaced souls, limping to follow.  Stooped and aging, his face belied his youthful greatness; he was simply a man forced from his home now, like all his people.

This tribe of spirits walked past her and through her.  She felt the rush of air, a whisper of breath touching her skin as they passed.  Sadness and despair washed over her and the sense of loss was so great that she wanted to cry out at the injustice.  This trail of tears left her cold and empty.

The drumbeats stopped and there was quietness all around her.  She heard a pebble skim across the water.  She turned toward the sound and saw someone emerge from the thicket of trees.  He was there.

He was as she remembered, as he was when he left.  His dark hair, touched with gray, looked damp from the mist.  The smiling green eyes still smiled.  For the first time, she wondered how she appeared to him.  It didn’t matter, she thought, as he took her hand in his own.

She met him years before, on Old Wauhatchie, where winter brought an icy chill and summer bore scorching heat and singing cicadas.   She lost him there, too, when the river rose and took him away.  Then he joined the others, specters with tales and stories of their lives, sharing with those who could feel them.  And he waited for her.

The drumbeats sounded again as darkness enveloped them.  Her vision adjusted, allowing her to see everything as she would in daylight.  The river reclaimed the mist, the wispiness retreating to the murky waters in wait for the next arrival.  He looked at her and kissed her hand.  They had a story to tell.

“Listen to the river.” 

 ©Veronica Randolph Batterson

 

She Heard Her Heart

The cover design for my third book, Daniel's Esperanza, is underway and the launch date is tentatively set for June 1, 2014.  This whole process has been long and convoluted, so nothing is definite.  It wouldn't surprise me if there were some more hitches along the way before it's published.  I hope not.

For now, I'd like to share a flash fiction piece I just finished.  "She Heard Her Heart" is short, short, short.  Perhaps it resonates with someone, somewhere.  Thank you to all who read my blog and copyright applies, as usual.  (©Veronica Randolph Batterson)

She Heard Her Heart

By Veronica Randolph Batterson

She heard her heart.  The steady, rhythmic beat reached her ears and the sound reverberated around the room.  Its resonance was clear but distant; a channel tuned to a remote place reserved only for hearing, the airwaves charged with static and hollow noise.  Its otherworldliness a guarantee her lifeline worked, yet a small fluctuation could signal worry.  She listened closely.

Listening brought memories.  She recalled the feeling when hearing the first heartbeats of her children.  Relief, disbelief and wonderment fueled thoughts of an uncertain but promising future.  The ultrasounds provided proof life grew inside her.  The unfamiliar pulse meant joy and promise.

She remembered her grandmother’s life as it ended.  When the heart had grown old and tired, plagued with disease and slowing until it could no longer function.  The last beat was made as she was transported to intensive care, the final heart surgery a failure.  Would that be her fate?

Yet the heart was even more.  At times her own had soared.  And broke and cried.  It had loved and anguished and worried.  Her heart had been full and empty and angry.  It had mourned and been hopeful.  This pulsing promise of life, symbolic of what made life bearable and worth living; what allowed a soul to survive and become strong, when all else appeared hopeless.   

The core of existence continued to beat.  She marveled at how unassuming the sound was.  And welcome.  The center of life was steady and reliable; it was blue-collar, the engine and the manual laborer.   It was taken for granted unless something went wrong.  Then our own mortality grabbed us by the collar, forcing a hard look at what might be, what will be eventually.

She closed her eyes and remembered.  The instincts that were ignored and not followed; the love that could have been but wasn’t; the overlooked kindness and the compassion lacking to make a difference.  Times she hadn’t followed her heart and listened. 

The steadiness continued.  It filled her mind with things she must do and accomplish.   She didn’t bargain, bribe or ask for more time as her heartbeat filled her ears.  She just knew how it needed to be.   And she had to listen.

©Veronica Randolph Batterson

 

Dance of the Blessed Spirits

I'm not sure where I was going with this short story, but it ended up as a dream sequence.  It's a strange, little flash fiction piece I wrote that I'd like to share.  As always, copyright applies.  (©Veronica Randolph Batterson)

Dance of the Blessed Spirits

By Veronica Randolph Batterson

The man took the path.  He had three from which to choose and selected the one closest to him.  The rays from the sun slanted through the tree branches and made natural spotlights, lighting his way in the beginning.  Birds chirped and leaves rustled.  The breeze touched his skin.  Glancing at his bare arms, he noticed the gooseflesh appearing but didn’t feel cold. 

He began to walk.  His natural gait was off and he felt his body gliding along the footpath.  He saw his legs take steps, but couldn’t feel the ground under his feet.  Images started moving before his eyes, as if being controlled by a slide projector.  Image.  Click.  Image.  Click.  He could even hear it.   There he was as a child, with his first pony.  Then a sour-faced teenaged him replaced it.  A still of his wedding appeared.  He was happy, but she was there in the background, smiling at him with his new bride.  The sight of her made him catch his breath.  His heart ached. 

The photos ended and he found himself in a forest.  It had grown darker and quieter.  A stained glass window suddenly appeared, blocking his path, but he couldn’t stop himself from moving toward it.  Rays of light broke through the trees and played upon the panes of red, yellow and green.  The shafts of colored light danced across his face, making it difficult to see, but he knew he was heading right for the glass.  He braced himself for the impact, but felt nothing.  The glass shattered all around him, never cutting his skin but shards covered his body. 

Suddenly the forest parted before him and the path opened to a meadow.  The shards of colored glass rose from his skin and flickered in the sky, painting the arch of a rainbow over the blue.  Flowers appeared, dotting the green landscape as if being applied by an artist on canvas.  He watched the scenery come to life then he heard a breath being given to what he saw.  The rush of a brook as the water skimmed the rocks, the screech of a hawk spotting its prey and the doleful howls of a pack of wolves. 

Movement near a copse of trees made him jump.  She was pale, her body translucent as she stepped forward.  A crown of flowers rested on her head; the gold of her hair played down her back and over her shoulders, covering the white dress she wore.  She stared for a moment as if he looked familiar to her and then turned away.  He cried out but made no sound.  Oh, how he remembered her. 

The woman then turned and walked toward him.  She was close and he could remember the attraction and love.  Her blue eyes were inviting as he leaned close to kiss the spirit, to recall what he missed.  But the trusting eyes saddened as she stepped away.  Her form became smaller but other spirits appeared in his vision.  People he knew.  Some he’d forgotten.   

The sight of them caused a conflict of emotions.  Sadness, remorse, shame, yearning, happiness.  These souls had been part of his life.  Some he’d treated well, others he hadn’t.  Why were they here now? 

The woman looked over her shoulder at him.  He wanted her to come closer again, but she raised her arms toward the sky, swaying to music only she could hear.  The others followed her and slowly they disappeared from sight.  He tried calling out again, but his voice failed.  The blessed spirits of his life were gone.

Darkness replaced the bright colors.  He couldn’t see anything but felt his body moving, then dropping suddenly as if in a freefall.  He became dizzy and closed his eyes, fearing what might appear before them.  Abruptly, he stopped and the only sound he heard was his own breathing.  Steady and calm.  Over and over.  Then he slept.   

©Veronica Randolph Batterson  

    

La Folie

While I continue to await the fate of my latest novel (the manuscript is still out with literary agents), I'd like to share another short story I wrote recently.  "La Folie" is not quite flash fiction, but is a short enough read that I hope you take the time to enjoy it.  As always, copyright applies (©Veronica Randolph Batterson).

La Folie

By Veronica Randolph Batterson

 The woman danced.  She clutched the baby to her breast and let the sound of the music carry her feet across the room. 

Gracefully she moved and as light as a feather, her toes touched the floor for a split second before the next step continued the motion.  Hips swaying, she arched her back, feeling the song in her heart as it traveled through her body.  Her movements were effortless and sensual.  Those who watched were entranced, unable to take their eyes from her form.

It had been her life.  Dance.  The dream, the classes, auditions and rehearsals.  The hard work paid off and she’d performed across the finest stages in New York and Europe.  Everyone came to see her. 

“Yes, they all came to see,” she whispered.

Pivoting sharply, the woman shifted the child to one arm while grasping the folds of her skirt with the opposite hand.  The silk, organza and tulle made soft swooshing sounds as the fabric brushed against her calves.  She danced with abandon, eyes closed as if in a trance, never loosening her hold on the baby.

Paris had been her favorite, she remembered.  The city was alive with people; bistros and outdoor cafés bustled with business and artists flocked to the area to work.  It was the one place she fit in and it was the city in which he’d found her.

That memory caused her to stumble, shaking her from the trance and causing her to grip the child protectively.  She refused to remember, focusing on her movements to help erase all thoughts from her mind.  It was the only way.  But her thoughts kept interrupting.  It was an annoyance that wouldn’t allow her any solitude.

“What is wrong with her? Do you think she’s ill?” the voice whispered.  Her mind recalled the questions but it seemed she was just hearing them for the first time.   Just dance, she insisted, pushing the voices from her head.

But her movements became erratic.  No longer fluid and graceful, the woman‘s motions were shaky and she faltered, all confidence broken.  Her feet felt heavy and she was suddenly clumsy.  Memories did that to her and she became frustrated.  He had no right creeping into her brain again.  She was safe now, they told her.  Just not safe from those horrid thoughts.

“Poor woman,” the voice said in English. 

“Oui.  La folie,” came the French response. 

Madness.  She spoke enough French to recognize what they meant.  They thought her insane.  Sometimes she wondered it herself.  At other times, her thoughts were clear and she could rationalize and process her life and where it had led her.  It was in those times that she knew he had been responsible for her escape into the folds of lunacy.

She no longer heard the music.  Slowly opening her eyes, reality returned in a rush, causing her to catch her breath at the ugliness.  Looking down, her baby stared back with blank button eyes, its vinyl arms extended in a frozen form.  Her feet were bare and dirty, the cotton of her dress hung limply on her thin body.  She touched her face and felt the swollen jaw.  If she had a mirror, her reflection would reveal a cut lip and black eye and years of faded bruises that never completely healed, instead marking her face with the shame she’d endured.

The sting of a tear fell on her injured lip.  A fist to her face and a stillborn child were images that played through her head like a movie reel on repeat.   Black and white, over and over.  She pressed her hands to her temples and willed it to stop, but other thoughts took over, filling her mind with sadness.  Her memories were real now, lucid.

She had met him in New York, a rich man with powerful connections.  She was young and naïve, looking for that big break as a dancer, but struggling to make ends meet.  He came in for coffee where she worked.  Before she knew it, he was wooing her with money, expensive gifts and promises of introductions to famous Broadway producers.  She no longer had to worry about rent or food.  He moved her into her own apartment and, for a while, she was dazzled by his charm and attention.  But things began to change after a few months.  He started coming up with excuses when he couldn’t see her.  And those promises of business introductions never materialized. 

Finding herself alone one evening, she called a friend and they met for drinks.  When she came home, he’d been waiting for her, angry.  That was the first time he ever hit her and if she’d had the courage, it would’ve been the only time.  Instead, she stayed.  Months turned to years and all she did was get older.  The control and abuse extinguished her ambition and will to live, until she discovered she was pregnant.  Knowing if she stayed, the child could be harmed, she fled to France with the help of a friend.

She lived in Paris for six months, slowly looking at life a little more brightly, until she saw him one day, waiting for her outside her little flat.  There was no time to scream, as he grabbed her and barely waited until they were inside before the beatings started.  An intervening neighbor saved her life.  He fled before authorities could get there. 

Her child did not survive.  The despair made her unable to cope and she retreated into the fantasies her mind provided her.   There, she danced and her baby lived.  It was a safe place for her to be.  It was happy.

She clutched the doll tightly.  Her head hurt and she wished the memories would stop.  If she started screaming, the nurses would give her a sedative to calm her.  But she’d learned that while drugs removed the pain, they also prevented the descent to her other world.  She didn’t like the soulless state those narcotics put her in.

Closing her eyes, she thought she heard music.  Yes, there it was.  Returning to her like a long lost friend.  She embraced it and gave in to it, relaxing as she moved.  Once again mother and dancer; once again on the finest stages where everyone came to see.

©Veronica Randolph Batterson

Boxed Life

The following is a flash fiction piece that I wrote a couple of years ago, called Boxed Life. As with all content here, copyright applies (©Veronica Randolph Batterson).

                                 Boxed Life

She turned on the light and allowed her eyes to adjust.  Thirty years.  Nice and neat, stacked compactly in a corner of her basement.  Three decades taking up as much space as the treadmill, an old rocking chair and dog crate, none of which were used anymore.

Are memories like collectibles, packed with bubble wrap and put away in storage?   Were they fragile things to recall when nostalgia demands a person to reminisce after a certain song is played on the radio?  There were some things she wished would never resurface, many too painful for her heart to recall.  Other recollections provided a sense of accomplishment only she could understand.

            She opened a box.  A first date, an engagement and a marriage leapt from the contents.  Photos of a large wedding and a honeymoon in Italy were tucked away.  A series of new jobs, vacations and living arrangements, until the perfect house for a family was found, were scattered within the memorabilia.

Pregnancy was not kind to her, with three miscarriages, until she finally gave birth to the perfect son.  There would be no more children, but her life was consumed with her only child, often to the exclusion of her frustrated husband.  Birthdays and holidays followed, year after year and shared with family and friends.  Many times her husband found excuses to be absent.  With each one, his absence was reflected in the photographs, which did not contain his image.

There was kindergarten, a traumatic time in her life. How could she possibly give her five-year-old to a stranger nearly every day for nine months?  She suggested home schooling until her husband put his foot down, stating a child needed to interact with others his own age.  Elementary school followed with play dates and Boy Scouts.  When middle school entered their lives, her husband barely acknowledged her presence, and her son suddenly changed from the angel she knew him to be to a stranger she tried desperately to get to know.

Attitude and anger nearly drove her out of her mind when high school made its presence known.  Disposition improved but other issues loomed.  Driver’s education classes and a learner’s permit tested her patience sorely.  Her husband always fought with their son when he had to be the designated passenger, so it fell on her shoulders to be the driving instructor.  School concerts, parent-teacher meetings, basketball games, homecoming, summer jobs and dating packed into four years of her teenager’s life.  Suddenly graduation loomed and her own life stared back at her, laying bare emptiness and few possibilities. 

On the day they took their son to college, it felt as if her heart were being ripped from her chest. She walked blindly through his dorm room, helping him unpack, keeping busy to prevent the tears from flowing.  She remembered conversation was light but strained.  No one wished to discuss how she was feeling.  When it was time to say goodbye, she promised to call her son after they made the four hour drive home.  He promised to call and text message whenever he could.  Her husband said little.

Two hours into their drive, her husband said that he wanted a divorce.  She felt nothing but numbness. He had found someone younger, prettier and more successful, someone with a career and independence.  He said she could have the house.

So here she was with that house, in the basement that contained thirty years of her life, boxed nice and neat, as if that had been a reflection of the years she had lived.  She stared, hardly believing where time had fled and fate had taken her.  She was happy once.  Could she ever feel that way again?  Her husband was gone, her child was grown and her house was too quiet.  Suddenly she was no longer needed in the capacity she had known for nearly nineteen years.

Turning off the light, she left the boxes.  They would be there tomorrow, just like her memories.    

©Veronica Randolph Batterson