Contest #214 winner 🏆

45 comments

Fiction Contemporary

“And then there was another Mark,” Dad recalls, sending the table into an encore of laughter. 

“Stop it!” Hannah pleads, tears rolling over sun-reddened cheeks. She perches opposite him, one leg hiked on the serrated bistro chair, a rum and coke bubbling in her left hand, the right clutching her stomach. She is 18, the spit of her mother – so she’s told – and will be off to university in two months.

“Yes, God, please stop.” Begs Ryan, who is next to Dad, head in his hands. Muffled by skin, his voice is still so freshly broken that it takes a moment to place the deep timbre. At 15, and without an academic bone in his body, university is of no more concern to him than a misplaced earbud, or an empty crisp packet discarded on his bedroom floor.

You lounge at Hannah’s side, tipsy off white wine, delighting in their mortification at your pre-Dad romances. Mark one, from school. Chris. Dave. Chris, again. Mark two, from an 18-to-25s cruise, the details of which had scandalised Hannah half a glass prior. Mark three.

The aluminium table you chatter around wobbles on uneven ground besides the shabby reception-slash-bar. From here, you and Hannah can see the gift shops beyond the gate, crammed along the hill all the way down to the sea. The water glistens salmon and cornflower blue, a glassy mirror of the sky above. 

In the fading summer sun, you send off the last of the holiday. Six days in Corfu, lazing by tepid pools that stretch out from two adjoining rooms. Fantastic views, boasts the website, a luxury experience at a modest price. The white walls hemming in each walnut deck between room and pool frame the hotel courtyard, still in the throes of construction, slate tiles and half-empty gravel sacks nestled under meagre cypress trees. 

The last pink sliver melts into the horizon. You sigh. Dad sighs louder, hands steepled over his belly. Hannah takes a picture. Ryan snaps a selfie. The sliver rises again. 

It climbs faster and faster, and everything becomes lighter, brighter, too bright, clinical white, nothing.

***

“And then there was another Mark,” Dad recalls, sending the table into an encore of laughter. 

Not far enough. Try again.

The sun scrubs across the sky, west to east.

***

Four of you arrive in prickly silence, three steering over-packed cases around potholes the size of small dogs. You, sans-luggage, glowering at the rear. Arguments had bookended both airports, now everyone ignores one another. Dad had insisted in taking your bags with his. You’d declined, he’d taken them anyway. You’d snapped, he’d started grumbling. He leads the sour trail, lugging weight he can scarcely bear, refusing anyone’s help.

Too far.

The sun jumps forward until it becomes the moon and then the sun again, twice over. Day crawls on. The shadows shrink.

That’s better.

Floating on a neon green lilo, at the spot where the wall meets the veranda and shadows cool the air, you flex scarlet-painted toes in the water. Something vaguely blue and sticky-looking clings to the edge of the cracked white sill. A string of ants parade over the fissures. Dad snores from the deck, jet-engine loud. Luckily, the kids don’t have to share a room with him this time. 

It’s so far away, what if something happens? Your mother’s words find you in the shade. You’d exhausted yourself on the plane trying to chase them away, hence your especially acetic mood on arrival.

It’s only a four-hour flight. You weren’t going to let her guilt you this time. Besides, this’ll probably be Hannah’s last trip with us. Hidden behind purple-tinged sunnies, you grow drowsy, mouth parting as you slip in and out of sleep.

Gentle splashes from over the wall – Hannah, paddling over to Ryan. “We should get them something, like we used to.” 

Ceramic camper van from Devon, lilac and palm-sized. Plastic magnet of Brighton Pier. Wooden turtle from Spain, missing one leg thanks to less-than-careful treatment in the front pocket of a backpack on the way home. Tokens of thanks, from whatever was left of their spending money. Little treasures. 

Ryan grunts. “Probably just sit around the house with all the other tat.”

The kids think you and Dad hang on to things. Piles of bills from 2009 crowd the corners of the lounge. Bits of broken God-knows-what litter the shelf in the hallway, moved for dusting, put right back after. On the landing, stacks of old schoolwork; every report card Hannah’s ever had. Within a year, the tat will have doubled.

“True.” Hannah sighs.

***

The next morning, you convince Dad to join them – your own pool is being cleaned, the little robotic vacuum trundling merrily along the mosaic floor. Heat spikes your soles as you step onto their deck, nearly sending you hopping into the clothes horse by the door. Hannah’s white paisley bikini from yesterday dangles off one tier like an aged cut of meat. Ryan’s black swimming trunks are puddled on the floor. You don’t even notice yourself hanging them back up. 

A huddle of thirtysomethings clad in variations of the same striped shirt bounce down the path at the end of the pool as you wade toward the kids. One elbows his friend, laughing heartily, and you catch the end of his teasing.

“- just be normal for once, mate.”

Hannah snaps her head towards Ryan, whose eyes glint in recognition. They’re an even closer shade to yours than Hannah’s.

“Oh, nor-mil.” Ryan croons in a high-pitched voice.

Hannah laughs back, “Oh, very nor-mil!”

“What’s that?” you ask, worried you’ve missed something important.

“Nothing.” Ryan shakes his head, smiling. 

Hannah waves you off with a hand. “Doesn’t matter.”

And they bow their chins and snicker. 

Being an only child, you doubt you’ll ever understand their bond. You imagine it’s the same camaraderie Dad and Jane might have shared when they were young. Those two haven’t seen each other since they buried their own mother a decade ago. They learn each others’ lives via Facebook messages, tallying birthdays and Christmases and wedding anniversaries. Jane only lives two hours away.

“I’d hate to end up like that,” Hannah had told you once. 

But this is the only inside joke they’ve shared all year. 

The day passes. You send the sun away, reel it back, yoyo it between now and then and never.

***

This time, the kids come over to your side – their turn with the vacuum – and claim both wicker sun loungers on the deck. Grey cushions are a considerable oversight, so close to the water, but one that at least feels on-brand for the hotel.

After an hour pruning in the water - the kids eventually grew antsy and followed you in - you excuse yourself; it’s time to ring Nana.

Dad is waiting when you return.

“I’m sure she’ll call the ambulance if she needs,” he says with a reassuring pat on your shoulder when you relay the news. “She can take care of herself for a few more days.” 

You were fairly sure Hannah had pieced together by now that he wasn’t particularly favoured by your mother, and that he didn’t overly care for her in return.

You chew your lip. “I don’t know.”

The kids pop up from the water, settling elbow to sunburnt elbow on the deck.

“How is she?” Hannah says, a pleasantry.

“She alright?” Ryan asks, a formality. 

They don’t speak with her much, at their age. 

She isn’t – alright, that is. Days after you land back in London, Nana will be hospitalised. Stomach cancer, most likely, but she’s too weak to do any investigating, and too far gone for it to make any difference. 

“Just some tummy pain,” you say. Deep creases have carved a permanent home between your brows. 

You smile across the dinner table that night, a ropy approximation of happy. Several times, you catch Hannah watching you with thinned lips, like she’s trying to figure out when exactly you started pretending.

The sun sets. The sun rises.

***

On what might be the fourth day, or the second, or the fifth, you seek out Hannah on the deck next door, under the cover of the slatted veranda. She watches you sit down, hand shielding her eyes from the sun, assessing your dark circles, the way your skin hangs looser than it used to.

“You okay?” Hannah asks. She wants you to tell her the truth: you aren’t, you haven’t been for a while. She wants to be able to help. 

You nod, smile, lean back and open your book. “Just tired.”

The family has watched you drain for years. By October, you will be empty.

“What you reading?” you ask, nodding to the tablet propped against her legs.

“Sort of a mythological retelling. It’s good.” Hannah says. “What’s yours?”

“Murder mystery.”

“Nice.”

She’s always been an avid reader, the payoff of night after night spent giving in to her little clasped hands, badgering for just one more story before bed. The social skills, well. You can’t get everything right, says the first voice.

Then the second creeps in. If you’d taken the kids on more proper holidays – the exciting ones, the ones their school friends went on, with theme parks, and watersports, and swanky beach-front resorts – would she be more adventurous, more sure of herself? Family holidays with you had been caravan parks, budget hotels, croissants and satsumas smuggled from breakfast, produced later from Dad’s cargo shorts to save on food. You’d have liked to go bigger. You could’ve afforded it, just about. Dad always talked you down. All those pennies pinched, all those trips untaken, and for what? The spare cash barely even covered Hannah’s packing list.

“We’ll have to go to Ikea when we’re back,” you remind yourself aloud. She still needs towels, bedding, kitchen things. 

Hannah nods emphatically, frizzy topknot bouncing against her head. “Yes, definitely.” 

In the end, Dad will take her, help her pick out plates, bowls, a trio of varying-sized navy towels, whilst you hover around a hospital bed, too distressed to watch, too distraught to look away.

The veranda’s shadows offer little relief from the heat, and soon Hannah retreats inside to the AC. Sweat stains linger on the sun lounger long after she’s gone. The rest of the day ticks away. 

You gather round the table: Hannah, Ryan, Dad, Mum. Mum, Ryan, Dad, Hannah. Ryan, Hannah, Mum, Dad. A hundred times, the order changes. It never matters.

The sun sets, unsets, sets again.

***

“One more round?” Dad asks. The three of you nod, Ryan stands to accompany him. It’s the final night again, or some version of it.

You scooch your chair close to Hannah’s, and the screech of metal on concrete judders through your bones. When you draw an arm around her, you half expect she’ll shrug it off. Still, in that insufferable second where she tenses, your heart splinters. But then she loosens, leans her head on your shoulder. You hold your daughter for the last time that counts.

“I don’t hug you enough,” you frown into her hair, now shea butter and coconut. The milky newborn halo only seems like last week. “I don’t know why I don’t.”

She hums.

Nana will go two days before Ryan’s 16th, and you will tell Hannah, hundreds of miles away, over the phone. 

“We talked about taking you to Disneyland, once,” you say, through an ache in your chest you can’t imagine being without.

“That would’ve been nice.” Hannah muses, watching the sun dip below the horizon. 

You tug the headset off, hold down the button on the side until it turns red. Rise from the bed in the spare room, surrounded by a dead woman’s things, and trudge downstairs.

Dad is waiting in the lounge.

“You alright, dear?” He lunges for a tissue, thrusts it into your hand, eyes the blue of the Ionian sea darting worriedly over your face. He’s greyed since that summer. You aren’t sure if you love him anymore. You can’t remember if you still did then.

“I’m fine.” You sniff, dabbing at your eyes. The tissue comes away damp, flecked with mascara. You both settle on the sofa and wait for the call. 

Hannah’s name illuminates the phone screen. You answer on the second ring. Her face appears in miniature, navy towel binding her wet hair. It’s been a trying week – tell you later, she’d texted at lunchtime. Okay x, you’d replied, speak soon. She’s tucked up on her desk chair again, chin resting on her knees. Gold-rimmed glasses throw soft shadows onto her cheeks, flushed pink from the shower.

“Hello,” she says, “Can you hear me?”.

September 09, 2023 02:48

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45 comments

Andrea Hanssen
16:10 Sep 15, 2023

Wowza. Hit me with an intense wave of emotion and nostalgia. A vacation intertwined with the narrator's certain awareness of everything slowly slipping through her fingers. The death of her mother, the departure of her daughter, the disenchantment with her husband. Her realization of the potential the past held, while reflecting on the most recent of it. A fierce desire to revise, to relive. A vacation as a final glimpse at a life before it empties out. Having everything while painfully aware it'll all be gone soon. I haven't had a story hi...

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Emily Holding
12:01 Sep 18, 2023

This comment really moved me, thank you for reading!

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Alana Hartman
20:40 Sep 15, 2023

Congrats on the win!! I can’t believe you won with your first entry! That’s amazing! Please, keep this up! I loved your story!

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Sarah Martyn
14:57 Sep 16, 2023

Came here to say this too! Super jealous but also impressed for her.

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Emily Holding
12:03 Sep 18, 2023

Neither can I haha! Thank you so much, glad you enjoyed :)

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Karen Corr
16:38 Sep 15, 2023

A woman caught between her mother’s death and her daughter’s new beginning accompany the guilt that she could have done more, with the rising and unrising sun a beautiful metaphor. Congratulations on your win, Emily!

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Emily Holding
12:04 Sep 18, 2023

Thank you Karen :)

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Amy Curry
01:13 Sep 16, 2023

Congratulations on your win! Beautiful story and I resonate so deeply with being stuck in your own head as she is. The wonderful descriptions leave nothing to the imagination. Well done!

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Emily Holding
12:04 Sep 18, 2023

Thanks Amy, much appreciated!

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Mary Bendickson
15:30 Sep 15, 2023

Congrats on the win. Been watching and learning for a while, huh? Then, Bam! Win with first entry.🥳🎉

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Emily Holding
12:08 Sep 18, 2023

Definitely haha! There's so much great advice from writers out there, and I finally decided to take the leap :) Thank you!

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Rebecca Miles
20:42 Sep 13, 2023

Oh, powerful fragmented style here to capture the emotional turmoil; the pain underneath it all is so visceral. Yes, it seems an idyllic family holiday of perfect, light- hearted togetherness, but....Have you read Deborah Levy's Swimming Home? This reminded me of the plot premise and style: in all the right ways! I really enjoyed your variation on the prompt with the sun setting and then immediately rising, this example in particular: The sun sets, unsets, sets again. Yep, you capture how this is nothing of wonder or beauty or cliche- which...

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Rebecca Miles
14:58 Sep 15, 2023

No surprise here. Let me be the first to congratulate you on a remarkable story.

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Emily Holding
12:09 Sep 18, 2023

Thank you so much for your kind words and warm welcome Rebecca!! I'll definitely have to check out Swimming Home :)

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Rebecca Miles
13:31 Sep 18, 2023

You'll love Levy; she's the master of the fractured form.

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AnneMarie Miles
02:32 Sep 16, 2023

Welcome to Reedsy, and congratulations! Your writing style is superb. Absolutely stunning. I've learned so much from you with just this story. What a unique and creative approach to the sun setting and rising again.

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Emily Holding
12:10 Sep 18, 2023

Oh my gosh, thank you so much!

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Story Time
17:47 Sep 15, 2023

I thought this prompt would be so hard to accomplish with a limited amount of words, but you captured it all beautifully. Great job.

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Emily Holding
12:11 Sep 18, 2023

Thank you :)

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Anthony Payne
09:52 Sep 16, 2023

First entry, yet you wrote it with such inspirational confidence, as if this particular prompt truly spoke to you, or you are a diamond in the rough. Well, miss Holding, you've been spotted now. Congratulations, I'm still in the confidence gathering stage myself, but seeing an author such as yourself, as I said before, it's inspirational. Thank you.

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Emily Holding
12:15 Sep 18, 2023

The prompt definitely struck something for me, I'd been in the confidence-gathering stage for a while! I hope you'll take that next step as soon as you feel even a little ready - would love to see your work here :)

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Jesper Jee
19:38 Sep 15, 2023

I love the descriptions you have in here. Well done!

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Emily Holding
12:15 Sep 18, 2023

Thank you!

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Michael Novak
18:21 Sep 15, 2023

Very nice, although I'm not sure if I understood it all.

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Emily Holding
12:18 Sep 18, 2023

Thank you for reading regardless

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Smriti Sudhakar
02:11 Nov 22, 2023

I'm very late but I've been thinking a lot about this story lately, showed it to my sister who teared up and had the same thoughts as me. Honestly a beautiful short story that masterfully uses the prompt as a device but not the main focus...I'm not sure how to word my thoughts but I love this piece so much and it reads so smoothly!!

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Geir Westrul
16:21 Oct 19, 2023

Emily, this was wonderfully done. The sun reversing, scrubbing, jumping forward, then back, setting, rising, setting, unsetting, becomes a tangible way of showing how memories are replayed, relived, then relived again, out of order, with the meaning coming from the kaleidoscope of images all connected to loss and regret (but with love and beauty too). Very well done, and a deserved win (on your first try). Now you need to write more!

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Amanda Lieser
13:49 Oct 09, 2023

Hi Emily! Welcome, welcome! And, of course, congratulations! This piece was an absolutely wonderful explanation of the complicated nature of being a woman. I appreciated the way that you juxtaposed the two different lives, one beginning, and one truly ending between the mother and the daughter, as well as the mother in the middle. As a romantic at heart, I sincerely hope that she finds the peace that she wants to, and that her marriage manages to flow back together again. Nice work!!

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Robin Owens
16:37 Oct 06, 2023

So so beautiful.

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Marilyn Santana
18:44 Sep 30, 2023

I'm speechless right now . This is amazing!!

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Dean Duke
06:23 Sep 26, 2023

I'd like to know what happens next

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Chalice Davis
00:37 Sep 19, 2023

Truly exceptional imagery. I was especially drawn to your descriptions of the sky and details from past memories . I did have some trouble following who was speaking but, maybe that was a part of the aesthetic or potentially I missed some smaller details somewhere. Anyways, it was really inspiring to read your writing, you are very talented.

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Ken Cartisano
18:57 Sep 17, 2023

Congrats on the Win, Emily. For the record? I can see by the 'likes' and the win, that this was a popular story, but I was completely baffled from the opening lines to the end. The writing is crisp and clean, no errors, or typos either, very clean and polished. But I FEEL like you have sacrificed convention and clarity for style. Personally, I try not to do that. Style is great, but not when the meaning of the phrases is lost on the reader, me. For instance, you wrote: 'Too far. The sun jumps forward until it becomes the moon and then th...

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Emily Holding
12:21 Sep 18, 2023

Thanks for the feedback, Ken! Everyone has their preferences - I do tend to lean towards stylistic choices more, especially in this piece. Appreciate you reading!

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Ken Cartisano
14:56 Sep 18, 2023

I was expecting a bit of negative blowback on my comment, (from others, not you) so your gentle, open-minded response is most welcome. FYI, I re-read the story to my wife & mother to confirm my impressions which seemed similar to mine. However, my second read through gave me a much better understanding of the story. Little things like, 'I put on my sunnies...' I had no idea what that meant until the second read through, (out loud,) but my wife knew exactly what that meant. (In the far east I think people call sunglasses 'glares.' Go figure....

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Philip Ebuluofor
15:57 Sep 17, 2023

Congrats. I can see you for business. Welcome.

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Emily Holding
12:22 Sep 18, 2023

Thank you :)

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