Defenestrationism.net

by Tracie Adams

[this is the second in the three part series–
read A Life in Seasons from the beginning]

Sunshine Daydream

The child has become a woman, wild and overgrown like summer branches reaching for light, reaching for the mother vine. She lashes out, grabbing hold of anything, everything, nothing at all. Night after night, she searches for something to stop the throbbing in her chest. The men numb her pain. They are all the same, but she is different. They need her, at least for the moment, but she doesn’t need anyone or anything. She has discovered her superpower. It was still dark outside this morning when she collected her clothes from the floor and tiptoed away from another sleeping stranger. The deep breaths were helping the rush linger, so she could savor it for as long as possible. The high was even better than the cocaine she binged last night.

On the drive to her apartment, she sings along with the radio, speakers rumbling with the bass, and memories begin to rise with the sun, looming straight ahead with blinding light. Pressing the gas pedal with bare feet, she watches the world go by at eighty miles per hour, trees blurring into the sides of buildings and yellow cabs melting like butter. Everything is in motion. Gripping the steering wheel, she blinks away an image of her mother singing karaoke to an audience of disinterested drunks. 

“Did you hear them laughing?” Her mother’s tears had left bare streaks through her impeccably applied makeup. 

“They weren’t laughing at you, mom. They’re just drunk,” she had offered, trying to console her mother.

“You don’t think I know when I’m being mocked? Humiliated? You’re twelve. You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”  

Her mother had been wrong. She did know what she was talking about. Still, her mother’s accusations always cut deep. While her entire world had shifted like sand beneath her feet over the past decade, her mother refused to evolve. She didn’t see the need for it, especially when there was nothing in it for her. She turns up the volume and sings louder, drawing up breath from deep in her diaphragm. 

When her stomach growls, she relishes the feeling of emptiness. Starving herself empowers her, assuring her she is good at something. The sun continues to climb high in the atmosphere, the earth tilting toward its warmth. But she clings to the lesser light that lives inside, the only thing she trusts. She doesn’t even try to bridle the energy anymore. She is in control, and it feels good. 

After dark, she applies the red lipstick without looking in a mirror. Slipping bare feet into her favorite heels left by the door, she grabs keys from the cluttered coffee table. As she slips her phone into her purse, it buzzes. It’s her mother. The familiar ache tugs at her but she cannot bring herself to answer it. The road between them is littered with obstacles, words left unspoken too hard to hear. They try to meet in the middle, but words stick in their throats so they swallow them instead. There are hills too steep to climb in this kind of heat, pregnant pauses and breath held, silence hanging in the thick air. 

She wants to love her mother and to be loved, but spaces fill with disappointments, disillusionment, delusions. She remembers the sound of her mother crying alone in her room every night, mumbling the same mantra of regret behind a closed door. As a child, she would stand outside that door night after night, her hand resting on the paneled wood, reaching for something she could not name. Sadness is a language they both understand but cannot speak.

She turned twenty-six this year, and now the panic attacks were coming at a steady pace. Her mother once asked her why. “Because of the trauma,” shesays. “What trauma,” her mother asks. The distance between them is measured in unfulfilled dreams and countless unforgiven sins. “It is just too far from you to me, me to you,” she whispers to the ringing phone. 

As she steps out into the humid night air, she crushes the cigarette with a stiletto heel. She lifts her head toward stars partially covered by clouds, moving swiftly with the warm wind. She adjusts her skirt with one hand and flips her hair with the other. She would sing that song tonight, the one her mother taught her, the one that always got the crowd going. They would ask for one more, and she would give them what they wanted. The applause would linger while she walked out holding tight to the arm of another stranger with vodka on his breath.

It is the summer solstice. The longest day of the year.

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by Tracie Adams

The Days Grow Longer
(publishing December 14th)

Sunshine Daydream
(publishing December 15th)

Ghosts of Autumns Past
(publishing December 16th)

The Days Grow Longer

When I say that she emerged like a seedling in the thaw of frozen soil, what I mean is she popped up like a weed, uninvited. In our chaotically cultivated home, I had not yet learned to be a real mother to my toddler son. And now a daughter’s shrill screams demanded my attention. I was still a child myself, only pretending to be grown by working two jobs and washing loads of cloth diapers. At twenty, I was a single mother, perpetually tired and angry. My need for order had overtaken my sense of humor. Counting towels as I folded them provided soothing relief. I started counting everything—the stairs I climbed a thousand times a day to clean up the clutter of toys, the carrots I chopped for dinner, the steps I took to the mailbox to collect the bills, and the ticking hands of the clock on long, sleepless nights.

Something about my daughter’s invincible spirit and the sound of her laughter mocked me. What the hell made her think we were having fun? Surviving is not fun. It’s surviving. I tried to teach her that lesson by sitting her in a corner while her brother played upstairs. For hours each day, she sat like a statue in the small, wooden chair. To keep her from escaping into slumber, I screamed at her to sit up straight, just the way my mother had taught me. When she tried to make a game out of it, I snapped. “I could have been famous. Like on-the-radio famous,” I said proudly. The child just swung her legs, tapping her bare feet on the carpet and counting the taps without a care in the world. My own mother had told me that happiness is not a human right. She must have said it ten thousand times. It worked.

As my daughter grew, she was full of questions and insecurities, always drilling me on the schedule, demanding to know what came next. “What time will you pick us up? Where are we going when we leave here? Will you be working late tonight?” One question bled into another, and she was never satisfied with the answers. Her nervous energy was restrained only by the pulling of her thin hair while rocking quietly back and forth. At first it was strands, then handfuls, until the back of her head was almost bald. Each night I taped the mittens to her hands and tied the hat around her chin, but every morning was the same. The hat and gloves would be on the floor beside her bed, and her pillow would be covered in a mess of tangled, dark hair. I did everything I knew to do. I tried to love the child, but she was determined to be unlovable. 

Unlike her brother, she was discontent. He didn’t ask for seconds at dinner. And when I read them a book, he didn’t insist that I change my voice for every character. I could skip every other page, and he did not complain. He didn’t ask for more than what he was given. She was a reminder of everything I tried to forget. She just wanted too much out of life. Like stubborn weeds in the spring garden, she just kept coming back for more.

I could still hear my mother yelling at me “Child, put that doll down and go tend to the garden!” When I complained that I was having fun, she lowered her voice and growled, “There is no such thing as fun. And those weeds ain’t gonna pull themselves!”

Sunshine Daydream

The child has become a woman, wild and overgrown like summer branches reaching for light, reaching for the mother vine. She lashes out, grabbing hold of anything, everything, nothing at all. Night after night, she searches for something to stop the throbbing in her chest. The men numb her pain. They are all the same, but she is different. They need her, at least for the moment, but she doesn’t need anyone or anything. She has discovered her superpower. It was still dark outside this morning when she collected her clothes from the floor and tiptoed away from another sleeping stranger. The deep breaths were helping the rush linger, so she could savor it for as long as possible. The high was even better than the cocaine she binged last night.

On the drive to her apartment, she sings along with the radio, speakers rumbling with the bass, and memories begin to rise with the sun, looming straight ahead with blinding light. Pressing the gas pedal with bare feet, she watches the world go by at eighty miles per hour, trees blurring into the sides of buildings and yellow cabs melting like butter. Everything is in motion. Gripping the steering wheel, she blinks away an image of her mother singing karaoke to an audience of disinterested drunks. 

“Did you hear them laughing?” Her mother’s tears had left bare streaks through her impeccably applied makeup. 

“They weren’t laughing at you, mom. They’re just drunk,” she had offered, trying to console her mother.

“You don’t think I know when I’m being mocked? Humiliated? You’re twelve. You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”  

Her mother had been wrong. She did know what she was talking about. Still, her mother’s accusations always cut deep. While her entire world had shifted like sand beneath her feet over the past decade, her mother refused to evolve. She didn’t see the need for it, especially when there was nothing in it for her. She turns up the volume and sings louder, drawing up breath from deep in her diaphragm. 

When her stomach growls, she relishes the feeling of emptiness. Starving herself empowers her, assuring her she is good at something. The sun continues to climb high in the atmosphere, the earth tilting toward its warmth. But she clings to the lesser light that lives inside, the only thing she trusts. She doesn’t even try to bridle the energy anymore. She is in control, and it feels good. 

After dark, she applies the red lipstick without looking in a mirror. Slipping bare feet into her favorite heels left by the door, she grabs keys from the cluttered coffee table. As she slips her phone into her purse, it buzzes. It’s her mother. The familiar ache tugs at her but she cannot bring herself to answer it. The road between them is littered with obstacles, words left unspoken too hard to hear. They try to meet in the middle, but words stick in their throats so they swallow them instead. There are hills too steep to climb in this kind of heat, pregnant pauses and breath held, silence hanging in the thick air. 

She wants to love her mother and to be loved, but spaces fill with disappointments, disillusionment, delusions. She remembers the sound of her mother crying alone in her room every night, mumbling the same mantra of regret behind a closed door. As a child, she would stand outside that door night after night, her hand resting on the paneled wood, reaching for something she could not name. Sadness is a language they both understand but cannot speak.

She turned twenty-six this year, and now the panic attacks were coming at a steady pace. Her mother once asked her why. “Because of the trauma,” shesays. “What trauma,” her mother asks. The distance between them is measured in unfulfilled dreams and countless unforgiven sins. “It is just too far from you to me, me to you,” she whispers to the ringing phone. 

As she steps out into the humid night air, she crushes the cigarette with a stiletto heel. She lifts her head toward stars partially covered by clouds, moving swiftly with the warm wind. She adjusts her skirt with one hand and flips her hair with the other. She would sing that song tonight, the one her mother taught her, the one that always got the crowd going. They would ask for one more, and she would give them what they wanted. The applause would linger while she walked out holding tight to the arm of another stranger with vodka on his breath.

It is the summer solstice. The longest day of the year.

Ghosts of Autumns Past

I woke up this morning with the sensation of falling. Not a startling jolt, but a gentle drifting down, down, down. Like the yellowed leaves of tulip poplars outside my window, weightless and free to wander without limits, landing softly without a sound. I have not always felt this way. But things have changed. It has been over a decade since I flew into a rage, even longer since I have smashed anything. I can ride in elevators and stand in the crowded subway without having a panic attack. My kids can wreck the living room, building forts with pillows and blankets, and I just breathe through the tightness in my chest at the sight of chaos. I step over the wreckage on my way to the kitchen to scramble the eggs, calling out spelling words to my youngest while I pack everyone’s favorite sandwiches for lunch.

The nightmares are gone, not replaced with dreams of poppy fields or soaring birds, more like nothingness, an absence that doesn’t crush me. When I hear a marching band or smell Brunswick stew cooking over a fire, I don’t feel like crying like I used to. It doesn’t hurt. It feels like nothing, nothing at all. I don’t waste my thoughts on all the regrets, the deficits and losses, the not-enoughs. I barely remember the screams, the crashes, the bruises, the pleading. There’s no haunting of ghostly memories of a life teetering on the edge of danger. Now I just keep moving forward, taking the next safe step, doing the next right thing. And breathing. Lots of breathing.

I’m no longer caught between two worlds, trapped in time, wrestling with myself. I am a mother, so it is their world now, not mine, and that’s all that really matters. I fold the laundry, I cook the meals, I check the homework and sign the permission slips, I read the bedtime stories, and I say the prayers. If it hurts, I do not feel it. If it’s sad, I do not grieve it. Apathy is the new depression. I just keep falling, floating, flying through the days, the years.

“Mommy, did you see me? I did a cartwheel!” My daughter’s face is full of hope.

“Yes, I see you. Mommy sees you,” I tell her as I watch her tumble over and over. 

When the carousel at the state fair carries my giggling daughters round and round, I do not mourn dreams I never dreamed or thoughts that never grew up into actions. I just watch them ride. And if I find myself wandering the desolate hallways in my mind, I just grab hold of that thread of thought, following it out of the labyrinth. And there I am, right back where I started, right where I left off.

Autumn’s show of muted colors and cooler temperatures speak of a job well done, a soft place to land after a long, hot summer. The sun is a cracked yolk spreading across the horizon, a golden center flipped and suspended in clouds. I reach out to touch it, to hold it, but it slips through the fingers of my outstretched hands. Amber, copper, and honey melt in the distance. My oldest son comes to take my hand, and together we watch, and we listen to the squeals of laughter as the girls go around. When he sees me twirling my hair, he asks me why I am sad. I tell him I’m not sad, but he doesn’t look convinced. I stand completely still as everything rotates, always returning to me. 

I don’t think about the words I never spoke, the friends I never made, the dreams I never dreamed. And it does not hurt to smell the cotton candy, to hear the marching band, or watch the sunset. It doesn’t feel like anything at all. As the pink and purple horses go up and down, I smile and wave at the girls, and they wave back on each rotation like it is the first time.

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by Monti Sturzaker

[this is the third in the three part series–
read Madeleine’s Wife from the beginning]

Madeleine’s Mountain

Puy De Sancy, France
May 1, 2005

Dearest Madeleine,

I can scarcely believe I’m writing to you from that secret spot on the mountain we discovered together, Darling, all those years ago  — between the way my memory has been troubling me of late, and the state of my knees — I was convinced I wouldn’t make it. 

I often wonder what that tailor at Saks who fitted us for our wedding dresses would make of my body now, given her anguish at the state of my legs. Of course, female leg hair was regarded as a crime then — never mind how you and I conducted ourselves! You should know, Madeleine, that I’ve brought Clem with me. She didn’t approve, of course, but she let me win anyway. 

It’s colder now than when we were taking our summer hikes around Europe. I daresay the Puy De Sancy was your favourite, wasn’t it, Darling? Awfully hard to compare — the delightful softness here is such a different atmosphere to, say, the sheer grind of Mt Eiger in Switzerland or the wild edge-of-the-world of the Seceda in Italy. Easier for you to have a favourite, perhaps, given you were born not five miles away. 

Do you remember our first time back to France after the war, our little Clem having passed the bar and me finally, actually retired – those mountains so huge and sun-scratched before us. You wept, if I recall correctly? Yes, alright Madeleine, I wept too. Perhaps we’d neither expected to see your motherland again, at least not as it was. Not with that bomb-free sky so clear and oceanic blue.  

Never sticklers for rules, us, we were ever so stealthy in our escape from that hiking group – trekking through tussocks as high as our buttocks (I’m picturing you giggling at the rhyme, Darling) – and discovering that breath-taking waterfall? My memory’s awash with the song of your laughter as we clutched each other and picked precarious routes across lichen-kissed stones. Only one ankle wetted, I do believe! We picnicked on the other bank; pocket-warmed sandwiches, cold tea and English biscuits. It’s curious how I still recall that, Darling, and yet I’m often losing track of what day it is now, or what I ate for breakfast. 

We were perfectly alone, the way you only can be in nature. My memories are underscored by the sweetness of your lips, your tongue – I know, I know, I’m far too old for such talk now, but we were old then too, Darling! Too old to let it go further. Not for fear of being caught, of course – you and I have always been too bold for our own good – but rather the inability to walk home, backs bruised from the uneven ground. Oh, but I reminisce about it so fondly all the same and wish we’d let the repercussions come as they may. 

Retrospectively, you were right – don’t be too shocked! – we should’ve retraced our steps to the path. At the time I was too pigheaded (as always) and I never apologised. It seemed like the correct decision, you see, bee-lining to catch up with the group. I wasn’t to know about the patch of brambles. But I did pull you through them, thorns tearing up your favourite white dress – and the replacement we bought wasn’t the same, I concede – scratching trails across our legs and tangling our hair. I am sorry, Darling. Truly.

I have apologised to Clem as well, you should know. She’s too like me for her own good, and we have been flailing a bit since — well, since. And she’s never quite forgiven me for the bad example I set for her in her youth, always away on ‘work’ trips she wasn’t able to explain to her friends. Did you know she was telling people I was a spy? Of all things, really!

Oh! Do you recall the expression on the guide’s face, how absolutely fuming he was with us for disappearing? I couldn’t look at you for fear I’d begin giggling and be quite unable to stop. So child-cross, with his waggling finger and hands on hips, while we tried to feign the appropriate remorse. Poor young man, had not a chance against us two old ladies with our decades of experience upsetting authority figures!

I’ve rambled on too long, as usual. But it’s important you understand why I insisted on this place. I hadn’t the slightest clue how to explain it to Clem, as she’s never been and you always were better at talking to her than I – when I picture you two it’s with your matching blonde heads entangled, sharing thousands of whispered secrets. I never minded how she was closer to you, though, Darling, you’re so easy to love. 

I’ve become so frail, my hands paper-thin like those stale old women we promised never to become. Clem fought tooth and nail for the nurses to let me come – she is an excellent lawyer (though we’ll have to share credit for her ‘negotiation’ skills) – and the travel was utterly exhausting. We thought we were old then but, Darling, we had not the faintest!

Your ashes are with me, in the sapphire-blue jar Clem picked out. It’s become our colour really, and it matches the glacial waters of the creek. She won’t let me cross it, not this time – despite all those near-death experiences while I was teaching her to drive, she’s surprisingly adverse to being responsible for the end of me now – now that I’m finally ready, irony that it is! You don’t have to say it; her obstinance is mine. 

We’ve sat awhile already, and Clem’s insistent we get back before dark. Perhaps I’ll take her back through that bramble bush, teach her from whom she inherited her impatience. But first, I must let you go, return you back to the soil from whence you came, the land you’ve always loved. I’ll leave this letter for you too, Darling. 

See you soon, my love.

Yours as always,

Sylvia 

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by Monti Sturzaker

[this is the second in the three part series–
read Madeleine’s Wife from the beginning]

Sylvia’s Retirement

São Paulo
February 8th, 1979

My Dearest Madeleine,

How grateful I am that you insisted I go on this solo trip, Darling! I do now see how disruptive my empty nesting must’ve been for you, especially when our Clem is doing so brilliantly at Harvard. I’m missing you terribly, of course, but it has been a wonderful adventure, reminiscent of our youthful romps around Europe before the war. You were right (as always!), retirement has been splendid. I wonder – has the Times covered the passing of one Wolfgang Gerhard, by way of stroke? Perhaps he is too insignificant to have made the New York news.

Darling – yesterday was the most glorious day of the trip so far. The sun has never been so dazzling, the sky so breathtakingly blue. On such days, the tourists all conglomerate in Bertioga. It is no wonder, with its postcard-perfect beaches and sapphire waves. I do so loathe the beach, Madeleine – there’s absolutely no way to keep intimates free of sand, is there? Nonetheless, I packed my small bag (with Ted Hughes’ The Iron Man, sunscreen, a few cruzeiro and a hypodermic needle) and joined in on the frivolity. Not even ten in the morning and it was already crowded! Positively bursting with hourglass-figured young women (exactly as we once looked), families huddled under vibrant parasols, and altogether too many men. 

Oh! But I have not told you why I was even on that ghastly beach. You see, four days ago (not long after I landed in Brazil) I received a call to my hotel room. The mysterious caller uttered only a dollar value and a single name – not Gerhard’s, by the way – repeated himself and hung up. I suspected his accent was Israeli, perhaps even that lovely Mr Navon we met several years ago at the embassy – I hear he’s even president now, isn’t that nice? Well. Assassinations are more your specialty, Darling, but I simply couldn’t resist the thrill (and the money)!

Anyway, yesterday. By the time I spotted my target – instantly recognisable from the lopsided moustache worn under similarly lopsided eyes – it was well into the afternoon, the sun charring any beach-goer who dared leave the safety of their parasol. Unfortunately, he could not be dealt with from under the umbrella, and as it was too hot for the sand I was forced to wade towards him in the water, my little bag suffering from the lashings of spray. I shan’t be able to finish the book now – but not to worry, it was utter drivel written by a terribly boring man.

Can you pinpoint the exact age we turned invisible, Darling? I refuse to believe anyone who gazes upon you isn’t awestruck by your beauty – you’re even more radiant now than when we were young, like a fine French wine. It’s the reason I forget, I think, that men no longer notice me – and the reason (as I waded towards my target) that I was struck in the face by a volleyball. The teenaged boy who threw it gave only silence by way of apology, as if he couldn’t see me at all! I have a deep aubergine bruise today, Madeleine, the perfect match for that gorgeous velvet dress of yours. 

Much to my annoyance, when I regained enough vision to resume stalking my target, I was aghast to find him removed from his cerulean parasol. In my agitated state, I splashed about so that a lifeguard (whose face bore a striking resemblance to a pig) appeared and forced me from the water! Concerned about a repeat performance once I had my target under thumb, I decided to first find a suitable distraction.

It took me longer than I care to admit. By the time I did, my knees were protesting and I had begun to wonder if you were correct in your assertions that retirement necessitated no further work on my behalf. It was a relief, therefore, when I spotted an attractive bikini-clad young lady sleeping under an umbrella quite close to the lifeguard’s watchtower, a pair of exquisite lace gloves on the blanket beside her. As you well know, arthritis has been giving me some trouble these days, but my fingers are still very sticky and it was inconsequential to wander past and acquire her gloves. Ignoring the pain in my legs, I clambered up the watchtower and showered the guard in gratitudes while I slipped the gloves under his plastic throne. After, I returned to gently nudge the chartreuse umbrella over, awaking the lady. Discovering her gloves’ misplacement, she let out a squeal (indistinguishable from a pig in heat), summoning the lifeguards. 

The thick crowds, while oft an aid for this sort of mission, slowed my progression back to where I’d last seen my target – thrice I spied a person of similar impression, spending valuable minutes to ensure they were indeed different men (aren’t they all so boringly similar, Darling!). Eventually I uncovered him a little ways offshore, having graduated from sunbathing to swimming. He was only slightly older than I – but still male – so to him I was practically invisible and he utterly failed to notice my approach. Perhaps I should give him more credit – at the time, a pretty lady on shore was wailing accusations about pig-faced lifeguards pinching exquisite lace gloves.

I was ever so surprised by the speed at which rat poison injected into the man (if you were here, Madeleine, no doubt you’d have dreamt up a more sophisticated method) completed the job – he was breathing water and sinking before I’d even left the ocean. A fitting end, I think for Josef Mengele, given the war crimes of which Auschwitz’s ex-doctor was accused. Of course, the papers all believe him to be Gerhard, as that’s the name he’s been using lately.

You know, retirement is far more thrilling than I anticipated, and perhaps I shall retire after all. Next time, however, let’s holiday together, my love! 

Always yours,
Sylvia

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by Monti Sturzaker

Madeleine’s Sapphire
(publishing December 11th)

Sylvia’s Retirement
(publishing December 12th)

Madeleine’s Mountain
(publishing December 13th)

Madeleine’s Sapphire

London
August 28th, 1939

My Dearest Madeleine,

I trust that what I’m about to detail to you will be kept in the strictest confidence as, if word gets out, I may find myself imprisoned for the rest of my natural life. Yet, it is worth the risk to share with you the excitement of my latest adventure. 

It was early Thursday morning this last week when the animals escaped – perhaps you’ve read in the Parisian papers? The Lemurs were first and of great importance to the rest of the plan, causing havoc around the enclosures, stealing keys from guards’ belts and unlocking cages left, right and centre. Once the Elephants were out, the police were notified, and – 

I’m getting ahead of myself. I’ve been honestly employed – yes, honestly! – as a secretary in the offices at London Zoo and, where needed, supervising patrons in the Children’s (petting) Zoo. I was actually there that Thursday! But, let me first tell you of something that happened six months prior. I would’ve told you sooner, of course, darling, but I did not wish for you to leave your job in Paris to assist me.

A Prince had come from Saudi Arabia in possession of one of his Country’s great riches, a sapphire of not insubstantial size. He believed there was a plot to steal it and as a friend of Lord Onslow, the Zoo’s president, he wished to store it in a safe on the grounds. In return, he promised to bequeath us a pair of Hamadryas Baboons. Onslow practically leapt at the opportunity; he is a great lover of Darwin’s ridiculous theory and would likely have given his left kidney to gain possession of such an unusual primate. 

You must be wondering why I would choose to work in such a place, when I dislike animals so. This job enables me to move money through Zoo finances, you see, as the authorities are woefully ignorant as to the quantity of food needed to sustain full-grown Elephants. Ah! But it is a terrible job, Madeleine, I had not anticipated the horrors of such a place. The smell, Darling, oh, the smell! There is nowhere else on Earth where the distinction between Man and Beast is so clear. 

Anyway, the sapphire. I caught a glimpse of it as it was being delivered. I could picture it around your neck as clearly as if you were standing before me, its marvellous hue the exact colour of your eyes. Oh, Madeleine, Darling, I just had to have it. The safe was kept hidden at the bottom of the pond in the turtle enclosure within the Children’s Zoo, invisible to anyone who did not know it was there. Luckily for me, Onslow was barely aware of any woman’s ability to function beyond that of a child, and it was fairly straightforward for me to find his safekeeping plans in the office. 

Taking the keys from a keeper’s belt was like taking cocaine from a baby, a skill you well know I am accomplished at from years of petty pickpocketry. As there is no time of day when the Zoo is completely empty, much as a prison is never without guards, I chose an early morning – not so early my presence would be suspicious, but before the patrons were admitted for the day (and let me tell you, Dear, the only thing worse than the animals are the patrons, especially the children which rampage like wild beasts). 

I entered as usual through the Main Entrance, greeted the gateman, Norbert – the only man I’ve ever met more likely to sling shit than the Monkeys – and strolled towards the Children’s Zoo. As I passed the Monkey House, I found myself drawn trance-like towards the bars. A Blue-Eyed Black Lemur (I’ve even learned their ridiculous names, Darling!) stared at me, her hands clasped around the bars and wearing the saddest look you’ve ever seen. I must confess, she looked a lot like you, Madeleine, with her oceanic eyes and red hair. There was something distinctly human about her pleading expression, and I imagined you in her place, caught in one of our schemes. 

I let her out. 

It wasn’t what I had planned and you must think me foolish, but she seemed grateful. Along with her companions, she had the keepers running about like headless chickens and, in truth, it provided me the perfect cover. While she released the Ostriches and the idiot men scrambled to subdue them or reclaim their keys, I sauntered unnoticed to the turtle enclosure and unlocked the gate. I stripped to my undergarments and dove into the muddy waters. 

I’d never lock-picked underwater, but the safe was too heavy for one woman to drag to shore and I was forced to hold my breath and hack, near-blinded, at its machinery. I surfaced for air twice, on the second occasion finding a Pelican making off with my hat. It was the one you had acquired for me from Liberty’s, when that girl-child distracted the store’s grey-haired guard with a perfectly-timed spitball, allowing us to escape unnoticed. A shame to lose, but I had more important things afoot. The gem was in my hand mere seconds later. I dressed immediately, and picked a careful route back to the Main Entrance, the sapphire hidden amongst my skirts. Norbert stopped me this time, concerned about my disgraceful smell and dampened appearance. I feigned hysteria about a rampaging Hippopotamus and he let me leave without a further word of protest. 

London was awash with animals (and Police, the former not unlike the latter) and I must confess a part of me hoped that they would avoid capture. I happened upon that sweet Lemur as I made my way home and she now sits upon my kitchen counter, a spitting image of you. As soon as things have calmed down we will catch the next ferry to Paris and to you. 

Until then and love as always,

Sylvia

Sylvia’s Retirement

São Paulo
February 8th, 1979

My Dearest Madeleine,

How grateful I am that you insisted I go on this solo trip, Darling! I do now see how disruptive my empty nesting must’ve been for you, especially when our Clem is doing so brilliantly at Harvard. I’m missing you terribly, of course, but it has been a wonderful adventure, reminiscent of our youthful romps around Europe before the war. You were right (as always!), retirement has been splendid. I wonder – has the Times covered the passing of one Wolfgang Gerhard, by way of stroke? Perhaps he is too insignificant to have made the New York news.

Darling – yesterday was the most glorious day of the trip so far. The sun has never been so dazzling, the sky so breathtakingly blue. On such days, the tourists all conglomerate in Bertioga. It is no wonder, with its postcard-perfect beaches and sapphire waves. I do so loathe the beach, Madeleine – there’s absolutely no way to keep intimates free of sand, is there? Nonetheless, I packed my small bag (with Ted Hughes’ The Iron Man, sunscreen, a few cruzeiro and a hypodermic needle) and joined in on the frivolity. Not even ten in the morning and it was already crowded! Positively bursting with hourglass-figured young women (exactly as we once looked), families huddled under vibrant parasols, and altogether too many men. 

Oh! But I have not told you why I was even on that ghastly beach. You see, four days ago (not long after I landed in Brazil) I received a call to my hotel room. The mysterious caller uttered only a dollar value and a single name – not Gerhard’s, by the way – repeated himself and hung up. I suspected his accent was Israeli, perhaps even that lovely Mr Navon we met several years ago at the embassy – I hear he’s even president now, isn’t that nice? Well. Assassinations are more your specialty, Darling, but I simply couldn’t resist the thrill (and the money)!

Anyway, yesterday. By the time I spotted my target – instantly recognisable from the lopsided moustache worn under similarly lopsided eyes – it was well into the afternoon, the sun charring any beach-goer who dared leave the safety of their parasol. Unfortunately, he could not be dealt with from under the umbrella, and as it was too hot for the sand I was forced to wade towards him in the water, my little bag suffering from the lashings of spray. I shan’t be able to finish the book now – but not to worry, it was utter drivel written by a terribly boring man.

Can you pinpoint the exact age we turned invisible, Darling? I refuse to believe anyone who gazes upon you isn’t awestruck by your beauty – you’re even more radiant now than when we were young, like a fine French wine. It’s the reason I forget, I think, that men no longer notice me – and the reason (as I waded towards my target) that I was struck in the face by a volleyball. The teenaged boy who threw it gave only silence by way of apology, as if he couldn’t see me at all! I have a deep aubergine bruise today, Madeleine, the perfect match for that gorgeous velvet dress of yours. 

Much to my annoyance, when I regained enough vision to resume stalking my target, I was aghast to find him removed from his cerulean parasol. In my agitated state, I splashed about so that a lifeguard (whose face bore a striking resemblance to a pig) appeared and forced me from the water! Concerned about a repeat performance once I had my target under thumb, I decided to first find a suitable distraction.

It took me longer than I care to admit. By the time I did, my knees were protesting and I had begun to wonder if you were correct in your assertions that retirement necessitated no further work on my behalf. It was a relief, therefore, when I spotted an attractive bikini-clad young lady sleeping under an umbrella quite close to the lifeguard’s watchtower, a pair of exquisite lace gloves on the blanket beside her. As you well know, arthritis has been giving me some trouble these days, but my fingers are still very sticky and it was inconsequential to wander past and acquire her gloves. Ignoring the pain in my legs, I clambered up the watchtower and showered the guard in gratitudes while I slipped the gloves under his plastic throne. After, I returned to gently nudge the chartreuse umbrella over, awaking the lady. Discovering her gloves’ misplacement, she let out a squeal (indistinguishable from a pig in heat), summoning the lifeguards. 

The thick crowds, while oft an aid for this sort of mission, slowed my progression back to where I’d last seen my target – thrice I spied a person of similar impression, spending valuable minutes to ensure they were indeed different men (aren’t they all so boringly similar, Darling!). Eventually I uncovered him a little ways offshore, having graduated from sunbathing to swimming. He was only slightly older than I – but still male – so to him I was practically invisible and he utterly failed to notice my approach. Perhaps I should give him more credit – at the time, a pretty lady on shore was wailing accusations about pig-faced lifeguards pinching exquisite lace gloves.

I was ever so surprised by the speed at which rat poison injected into the man (if you were here, Madeleine, no doubt you’d have dreamt up a more sophisticated method) completed the job – he was breathing water and sinking before I’d even left the ocean. A fitting end, I think for Josef Mengele, given the war crimes of which Auschwitz’s ex-doctor was accused. Of course, the papers all believe him to be Gerhard, as that’s the name he’s been using lately.

You know, retirement is far more thrilling than I anticipated, and perhaps I shall retire after all. Next time, however, let’s holiday together, my love! 

Always yours,
Sylvia

Madeleine’s Mountain

Puy De Sancy, France
May 1, 2005

Dearest Madeleine,

I can scarcely believe I’m writing to you from that secret spot on the mountain we discovered together, Darling, all those years ago  — between the way my memory has been troubling me of late, and the state of my knees — I was convinced I wouldn’t make it. 

I often wonder what that tailor at Saks who fitted us for our wedding dresses would make of my body now, given her anguish at the state of my legs. Of course, female leg hair was regarded as a crime then — never mind how you and I conducted ourselves! You should know, Madeleine, that I’ve brought Clem with me. She didn’t approve, of course, but she let me win anyway. 

It’s colder now than when we were taking our summer hikes around Europe. I daresay the Puy De Sancy was your favourite, wasn’t it, Darling? Awfully hard to compare — the delightful softness here is such a different atmosphere to, say, the sheer grind of Mt Eiger in Switzerland or the wild edge-of-the-world of the Seceda in Italy. Easier for you to have a favourite, perhaps, given you were born not five miles away. 

Do you remember our first time back to France after the war, our little Clem having passed the bar and me finally, actually retired – those mountains so huge and sun-scratched before us. You wept, if I recall correctly? Yes, alright Madeleine, I wept too. Perhaps we’d neither expected to see your motherland again, at least not as it was. Not with that bomb-free sky so clear and oceanic blue.  

Never sticklers for rules, us, we were ever so stealthy in our escape from that hiking group – trekking through tussocks as high as our buttocks (I’m picturing you giggling at the rhyme, Darling) – and discovering that breath-taking waterfall? My memory’s awash with the song of your laughter as we clutched each other and picked precarious routes across lichen-kissed stones. Only one ankle wetted, I do believe! We picnicked on the other bank; pocket-warmed sandwiches, cold tea and English biscuits. It’s curious how I still recall that, Darling, and yet I’m often losing track of what day it is now, or what I ate for breakfast. 

We were perfectly alone, the way you only can be in nature. My memories are underscored by the sweetness of your lips, your tongue – I know, I know, I’m far too old for such talk now, but we were old then too, Darling! Too old to let it go further. Not for fear of being caught, of course – you and I have always been too bold for our own good – but rather the inability to walk home, backs bruised from the uneven ground. Oh, but I reminisce about it so fondly all the same and wish we’d let the repercussions come as they may. 

Retrospectively, you were right – don’t be too shocked! – we should’ve retraced our steps to the path. At the time I was too pigheaded (as always) and I never apologised. It seemed like the correct decision, you see, bee-lining to catch up with the group. I wasn’t to know about the patch of brambles. But I did pull you through them, thorns tearing up your favourite white dress – and the replacement we bought wasn’t the same, I concede – scratching trails across our legs and tangling our hair. I am sorry, Darling. Truly.

I have apologised to Clem as well, you should know. She’s too like me for her own good, and we have been flailing a bit since — well, since. And she’s never quite forgiven me for the bad example I set for her in her youth, always away on ‘work’ trips she wasn’t able to explain to her friends. Did you know she was telling people I was a spy? Of all things, really!

Oh! Do you recall the expression on the guide’s face, how absolutely fuming he was with us for disappearing? I couldn’t look at you for fear I’d begin giggling and be quite unable to stop. So child-cross, with his waggling finger and hands on hips, while we tried to feign the appropriate remorse. Poor young man, had not a chance against us two old ladies with our decades of experience upsetting authority figures!

I’ve rambled on too long, as usual. But it’s important you understand why I insisted on this place. I hadn’t the slightest clue how to explain it to Clem, as she’s never been and you always were better at talking to her than I – when I picture you two it’s with your matching blonde heads entangled, sharing thousands of whispered secrets. I never minded how she was closer to you, though, Darling, you’re so easy to love. 

I’ve become so frail, my hands paper-thin like those stale old women we promised never to become. Clem fought tooth and nail for the nurses to let me come – she is an excellent lawyer (though we’ll have to share credit for her ‘negotiation’ skills) – and the travel was utterly exhausting. We thought we were old then but, Darling, we had not the faintest!

Your ashes are with me, in the sapphire-blue jar Clem picked out. It’s become our colour really, and it matches the glacial waters of the creek. She won’t let me cross it, not this time – despite all those near-death experiences while I was teaching her to drive, she’s surprisingly adverse to being responsible for the end of me now – now that I’m finally ready, irony that it is! You don’t have to say it; her obstinance is mine. 

We’ve sat awhile already, and Clem’s insistent we get back before dark. Perhaps I’ll take her back through that bramble bush, teach her from whom she inherited her impatience. But first, I must let you go, return you back to the soil from whence you came, the land you’ve always loved. I’ll leave this letter for you too, Darling. 

See you soon, my love.

Yours as always,

Sylvia 

Back to the 2025 FLASH SUITE Contest
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Chantelle Tibbs, co-editor:

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What a contest, everyone, what a contest.

Never one to waste an instant, the winners are:

Grand Prize: the Burn

Runner-Ups: “My Dog Dies Today” & “In Hot Water”

We had a tie for first place, so, as always, the Fan Vote was the tie breaker.

How the Judges Voted: (a Grand Prize vote is worth two Runner Up votes)

Glenn A. Bruce: Grand Prize– “the Burn”, Runner Ups– “My Dog Dies Today” & “In Hot Water.”

Lady Moet Beast: Grand Prize– “In Hot Water”, Runner Ups– “Leopardus” & “My Dog Dies Today”

Aditya Guatum: Grand Prize– “My Dog Dies Today”, Runner Ups— “Feng’s Way” & “the Burn”

Fan Vote: Grand Prize– “60 S 150 W”, Runner Ups– “Leopardus” & a tie between “the Burn” and “Frozen Asset” (both were awarded a runner-up vote)

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In 1985, the Pogues– that’s Gaelic for the Kisses– released “Rum, Sodomy & the Lash”, what I will call an umbrella concept album. Every track falls under the umbrella of the main concept, every song is a type of, or an example of, that concept. In this case, the concept is the title of the album, and every track relates to either rum, or to sodomy, or to the lash– often a combination of the three.

1985 was an astonishing year for Punk music. In the 21st century, when blueberry pies and toddler papooses might be described as, “that’s so punk-rock”, a punk-rock fife whistle is not so extraordinary. But in ‘85, with hardcore bands like Black Flag and the Exploited putting out seminal albums, the Pogues— playing Irish folk music on entirely acoustic instruments except for a bass guitar— still maintained a Punk Ethos. Yes, the Pogues have full throttle energy on par with any band in history, but that doesn’t make them punkers. It is their Punk Ethos that does it.

So let’s take a stage dive into this album, and find out what makes Punk punk.

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