Creative Writing: GILF

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GILF When the weather turned, no one spoke to Anne about anything other than the weather; the same conversation, all day, every day until the sun returned. Glancing occasionally through the bakery window she saw the rain fall like strings of mercury, exploding into black droplets onto the pavement outside. Little drops of gloom, drops of gloom that keep us alive, that others in more remote corners of the globe tempt with elaborate dance. Anne had seen them on the Discovery channel pounding their leathered feet on the scorched, cracked earth and shaking their rain sticks at the sun and sky. With no breeze to carry the weight of a prayer their cries fall, shattered, parched and trampled underfoot. If the rain did show up the locals danced naked in the downpour, a cause for celebration and song. Rain, Anne mused, as she rearranged her baguettes, was misunderstood and unappreciated just like her. Anne only ever felt sad when it rained and nothing good ever happened on rainy days. Meanwhile, Mothers evicted children from cosy car seats into the deluge, while they themselves sat and watched their offspring from behind frantic wipers. As the children battled with stubborn brollies and millions of razor-sharp droplets falling from a pregnant, murky sky, mother glazed over, mummybot powered down for a few seconds; switched off. Anne wished that she too could power down for a bit, just pull the plug for a while, but then who would plug her back in again? Why would they plug her back in, to vacuum the lounge, iron shirts, cook and find things? Would she just be forgotten and left under the stairs along with the other broken, unwanted appliances? Best stay plugged in then. Old women shuffled in, old men shuffled out, young mothers loa... ... middle of paper ... ...ds the courage to come in. A guy like me likes you and asked me to tell you. So he’s telling you now.’ ‘You don’t know me’ said Anne ‘No but I’d like the chance to’ replied Luck Anne bit her lip and looked outside; rain had relinquished her grasp on the day and given way to dusk, dusk came early in the autumn. Anne wasn’t autumn yet, maybe late summer, but Luck was defiantly summer, maybe late spring? She thought of a poem by Henry Wordsworth, ‘I venerate old age; and I love not the man who can look without emotion upon the sunset of life, when the dusk of evening begins to gather over the watery eye, and the shadows of twilight grow broader and deeper upon the understanding’ ‘My husband was killed by a falling reptile’ Anne said, it just came out. ‘Like Aeschylus?’ ‘Yes just like Aeschylus’ They regarded each other, took in the moment and laughed.

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