Egoland - Short Story By Roger Haydon

 

Egoland

Short Story

By Roger Haydon

Here they are, a few days before Christmas, five old university friends: Gavin, Megan, Celia, Martin and Trish. They’re lounging on soft cream coloured leather sofas in the living room of Martin’s architect designed sea view house of which he is so proud. They’re all aging as well as can be expected but clearly coming up to their use-by dates. At this stage of the evening they’re already well into the consumption of multiple glasses of fine wine and a number of shots and, in Martin’s case, a discreet line or two taken in the master bedroom. It’s a couple of years since their previous annual reminiscence get-together which they’ve implicitly agreed to forget. Then, it was to celebrate Celia becoming a junior minister in the government which occasioned some vivid arguments about politics, ambition, love and virtue.

The bitterness was also partly triggered by the strange truth game they sometimes play on these occasions. Devised by Martin long ago when he was a dread-locked philosophy undergraduate, it comprises a short sentence with gaps to be filled in. The rules are, as he explained, cruelly simple: don’t play it sober, down a shot, name someone in the present company, say they have just woken up (after a long sleep), then tell a truth about them that might not have gone away while they were asleep. Then down another shot. They are girding their loins to play it again shortly.

Before they start, they toast the farrago that constitutes Martin’s recent and very public divorce from the fragrant Angie and the hideously unfair (his words) settlement that the foul bitch (his words again) extracted from him. They also take a drink to celebrate Gavin’s apparently miraculous recovery from bowel cancer as well as the publication of Trish’s exceptionally filthy erotic novel, bound to become another best seller, so she says.

Megan reports that she has nothing much to celebrate beyond being a senior-in-years crew member in the oil state funded round-the-world “WindPower Wins” yacht race. The sleek high-tech boat she was on came in an honourable second and the celebrations were extravagant, Megan says with a private smile. Nobody mentions the marriages and miscarriages poor Celia has suffered over the years in the public eye. She’s here tonight, glamour personified and seeking sanctuary with her best friends, she says.

Martin tries to explain the game’s rules yet again and Megan, Trish and Celia say they feel patronised. Trish says for god’s sake it’s dead easy, you say: ‘When whoever it is awoke, the something or other was still there’ okay? Gavin says that’s right and he sniggers because of what he knows (carnally) about Angie. He says that, for example, it could be ‘When big man Martin with the big fine house awoke, the foul bitch Angie, who had depleted his huge manly bank balance, was still there”. Gavin ducks, a half empty bottle of rare single malt smashing against the bare brick wall behind him as they all (except for Martin) phone for taxis, put their coats on and prepare to leave in haste, wishing each other a happy Christmas and a grand New Year until the next time.

Roger Haydon was born in London and has lived in the North East of England for over 50 years. He retired in 2012 from working in healthcare and now writes flash fiction, short stories and the occasional poem and has been published online. He supports story writing workshops and countryside access for children and young adults and grows veggies and fruit on an allotment.

Three Poems by Abigail George

 

Subtropics

 

Love is quiet

Quiet

 

Be strong heart

I’ve cried tears

 

that have

tasted like the rain

 

Woven into my tissues

are wildflowers

 

What are woven

into yours?

 

I spoke to  

the person in the cell

 

I went to bed with storms in my head

I called it a mistake then

 

And much later, a lesson

 

a choice

 

It’s summer

I feel the heat

 

beneath my skin 

under my eyelids

 

I feed my father's cancer

tomato sandwiches 

 

Dark

Dark

Dark

 

Here they come

The waves

 

Fear in my heart

for every word not said

every meal not prepared

when I saw blood

 

on the bandage

that covered your eye

 

Oh, mother

will you ever forgive me

 

for not listening to you?

Daily I write you poems

 

inside my head

that turn into

 

hymns, psalms

the Chopin melody turns into a river

 

the piano into a cold leaf

 

Dark

Dark

Dark

 

Here the waves come

I am left waiting for a miracle

 

in the dark

a spinster

 

with spinster thoughts

with spinster wants, needs and desires

 

even these fantasies

have tested me. 

 

 

Overnight I turned into a museum

 

What is this weakness inside of me?

 

Yes, I realise I am weak

I realise

 

I have my limitations

Self, ego

 

The road is a miracle

It’s dark

 

I can’t seem to find my way

The older men are nice

 

They are kind

 

The men who are

as old as my father

 

have intellectual discussions with me

 

The women ignore me

Their laughter tastes like English mustard

 

That’s all

Decay

 

That’s all

that’s left of me.

 

I wait

for the chops

 

to defrost

on the countertop

 

growing older

colder, more afraid

 

in this

a time of questioning

 

I read my future

Counting my past’s sorrows

 

Anxiety’s pre-history

Mad with erosion in my soul

 

I think I understand 

your shy tenderness now

 

The beast 

and roots and the powers

 

of wilderness in you

Poetry is experience

 

Vertigo taught me that

I think of all my teachers

 

while the meat turns into metaphor.

 

The doorway

 

I make toast

with peanut butter

 

for you

it’s important

 

there are many

things that are important

 

these days

the light

 

in this room

for one thing

 

for another

the fact that you’re

 

awake

that I’m in the kitchen

 

making you

a late breakfast

 

Digging

Digging

Digging

 

While they dig

Yes, while those cancer cells dig, chip

 

anchoring away

 

I eat the sun

It drips down my chin

 

While the dog barks

Yes, while the dog barks

 

You’re quiet

So, so quiet

 

Into the loathed

strangeness of cancer

 

They curl then dance, curl

and dance away into mitochondria

 

Into the strangeness

of tissues and organs

 

the groaning of the body

its atoms

 

all of its dimensions

 

Into the holistic awareness

of those cells

 

Daddy, I hope

these berries heal you

 

Take this

and accept this mug

 

of green tea

this offering,

 

this machine

 

My love is like

ginger and honey, these bees’ rage

will nourish you

 

The ginger

will behave

 

like ointment, honey a salve

a balm

 

I keep meeting

your gaze in maps

 

Drinking in the fear

and anguish in your eyes

 

You see, it matches my own.

It matches my own

 

The doorway becomes

a passage, nobody sees my tears.

 

And you, dad,

becomes a new creation

 

While the machine performs a scan

on you

 

I am frozen

You’re a sphere

 

A flat grassland

The back of my hand

 

Neverland

One day you’re never

 

Coming back to me

You won’t be walking

 

through the front door

The grief and longing here

 

how sweet you are

how faithful

 

Never leave daddy

Never leave me, my beloved

 

Strange bones

What strange love this is

 

A daughter’s love

 

To optimism and hope

For its appearance in my life

 

This is me remembering you

And for the memories

 

All the memories

That you will leave behind.

By Abigail George