Lost in my notebook
The Hooker & The Horned Owl, Cheesemonger & an update
Hello Folks,
I’ve been writing a lot lately—working on my new novel, editing my short story collection, and keeping the juices flowing with some flash fiction (read below). With a few difficult things going on in my life, I’ve been leaning on my fiction work like it’s a pair of crutches.
Short Story Collection Release
I was eyeing May as the release month for my short story collection, but with a trip to Egypt and other responsibilities, I think that will be pushed into June. However, I do intend to celebrate the release with a launch party in Haarlem. So if you’re in town or close by, come along (more details to follow). A couple of weeks ago, I met up with my friend and incredible artist, Marijntje Roos. She took the photography for the cover of Love, Loss & The View From My Window and she’ll be painting something special for this upcoming collection.
Okay, now for some flash fiction. Over on my Instagram, I shared a post with some prompts and asked people what they thought I should write. I’ll give you one guess which one won…
The Hooker & The Horned Owl
Whenever I’ve had a bad night, I walk home along the river. The delicate 4 a.m. silence cracking open with each step on the gravel track. Birds rustle the leaves in the poplar trees and sleep easy in the thick protection of the old leaning oaks. Farmyards back onto the other side of the river while dense hedgerow franks my side. A pretty woman shouldn’t walk alone along paths like these at times such as this. Each step is the opening credits of a true crime documentary. But lightning doesn’t strike twice, and it’s already struck me today—open-handed on my left cheek, a wedding ring breaking my freshly tanned skin. So I walk unhurried, not stopping once to glance over my shoulder or ready my keys between my fingers. My hand moves to my cheek, feeling the swelling retreat, not seeing the new colours it's taking on. A whole new plate of paint to contour my face. It’ll mean a slow week, or I might just take it easy and sit on the sidelines, wrapped in blankets, watching daytime TV and reading my way through my spine-broken books.
Ahead I see a pair of boots attached to thick exposed legs, woollen socks and denim shorts. The hedgerow has engulfed the rest. I keep my pace, lifting my chin to obscure my inflicted cheek. There’s nothing worse than sympathy before the sun has a chance to rise. It hits your ears differently, sour and sinister. But I don’t get the chance to walk by unnoticed, nor do I hear those unwanted words. The pale legs hear me coming and their owner leans his bald head into my line of sight, lifting a swollen finger to his lips. I stop, then wonder why I’ve allowed myself to, and start again. The swollen finger waves side to side, panicked, then it points over my shoulder to a slanted oak on the other side of the river. I’m holding my breath as I crane my neck over my shoulder. That finger has cast a spell on my body, freezing it still. Then I understand why, if not how, as two auburn wings spread from a branch and glide over the sheet of glass as if it’s just a reflection. Pure silence is restored while its wings are extended and it’s maintained while they manipulate the air. Though the river isn’t its hunting ground and its open wings bank to the right. Pitching up, its taloned feet kick out in front of its body, wings flap once more, slowing its glide. Then I lose sight of it as it disappears into the lush green of the other oak’s disfigured branches. The old man's spell is broken and I start walking again, disturbing the restored silence with a crunch of gravel underfoot.
‘It’s your lucky day, Miss,’ the old man said, writing a note in the small notebook on his lap.
‘That was an owl, wasn’t it?’
‘Sure was,’ he starts, resting his notebook on the bag next to him. ‘And not just any owl. That, my dear, was a Great Horned Owl.’ His eyes sparkle back at me.
‘I didn’t see a horn.’
‘You don’t when it’s flying, and they aren’t real horns anyway.’
‘Huh, funny,’ I say, and start walking again.
‘You know, they aren’t supposed to be here.’
‘What?’ I ask, turning on the spot. He’s unmoved, with his notebook back on his lap.
‘The owls, they’re from America. North and South,’ he meets my eye. ‘But I suppose we all end up in places we shouldn’t be every once in a while.’
‘I suppose we do,’ I say, smile, and turn again, crunching gravel once more.
Cheesemonger
‘Cheese, Gromit, cheese!’
‘Dad!’
‘What, honey? You don’t love cheese. Alice loves it, don’t you, dear?’
‘I like it,’ Alice replies, cowering a little behind her friend.
‘God, you’re so embarrassing,’ Lea said coldly, tugging her friend’s hand as she left her old man in the pungent-smelling kitchen. The cheesemonger watched them leave, putting another slice of cheese onto his tongue.
‘I can’t wait to move in with Mum.’
He heard his daughter’s voice echo back to him through the tiled hallway. The stainless steel countertop was cold against his back as he leant against it and sighed. Where had he gone wrong?
‘What am I doing wrong?’ he asked the ceiling. When he was Lea’s age, all he wanted to do was work with his old man. Churning, curdling, waxing, tasting—especially tasting. The kitchen would echo with laughs then. Now it is quiet. The only sounds are the hum of the ventilation and the giggles of two girls playing on the other side of the window.
Until next time.
Love, Luke