Short Fiction Break

Break From Reality. Daily.

  • Stories
  • About
  • Staff
  • Contests
    • Current Contest
    • Past Contests
      • Spring 2022 Contest
      • 10th Anniversary Contest
      • Spring 2021 Contest
      • Fall 2020 Contest
      • Summer 2020 Contest
      • Summer 2019 Contest
      • Fall 2018 Contest
      • Summer 2018 Contest
      • Spring 2018 Contest
      • Winter 2017 Contest
      • Fall 2017 Contest
      • Summer 2017 Contest
      • Spring 2017 Contest
      • Winter 2016 Contest
      • 5th Anniversary Contest
  • Submit

Flashback

November 5, 2014 by Ann Stanley 3 Comments

Thanks to dariol at freeimages.com for the photo

Rosemary stayed in the shower as long as she dared, given the current water situation, then sighed and turned it off. Delicious steam filled the room, even after she’d dried herself and applied lotion, but she didn’t have time to linger. They were expecting her at her father’s retirement party in less than an hour.

She turned on the fan and cracked the door to clear the mirror so she could apply her makeup. While she waited, she went into the bedroom and pulled on the blue dress she’d bought for this special occasion. Hard to believe her father had resigned after twenty years as the concertmaster of the local symphony to play in a string quartet in Portland, Oregon, though she supposed it shouldn’t have come as a surprise. He’d complained for quite some time that he could no longer handle the drought and the heat and that, furthermore, neither could his violin, which wouldn’t stay in tune and had developed a slight crack.

The steam had cleared, so she went back into the bathroom and halted. She blinked hard and looked at her reflection in the mirror. The face looking back at her wasn’t her own. She blinked again and told herself that she couldn’t be having a flashback, not now. It had been over a year since the last time she’d dropped acid. Please, she begged herself, we have to leave in fifteen minutes. Pull yourself together.

Nothing changed. The old woman in the mirror continued staring at her.

Maybe some water would help. If she could find the kitchen, that is.

Stumbling down the hallway, she found that nothing else in her house seemed out-of-place. Her husband, already dressed, watched football in the family room. She glanced in at him as she passed. He wore a blue suit coat, the same one he’d been wearing half an hour ago. His dark hair and profile looked completely normal.

Maybe the flashback had ended already. Hoping that was the case, she went on to the kitchen where she gulped a large glass of water, then returned to the bathroom The old woman still regarded her, with deep wrinkles, bright blue eyes, and long wet grey hair. Rosemary smiled, the old woman smiled too. Rosemary touched her ear, the woman touched hers.

No, Rosemary thought, no. I’m thirty-six years old. My hair is light brown, and I haven’t developed any wrinkles yet. My cheeks are still full, not hollowed out like that.

The woman in the mirror now had the same frightened expression as Rosemary suspected she sported. Seeing how scared the old lady looked, Rosemary calmed a little. The woman meant her no harm. It was simply some kind of illusion. One she didn’t have time to explore. She began applying her makeup, even though it proved difficult as the ancient woman leaned forward, copying her every movement, with one terrible exception: the brushes and pencils dipped into one wrinkle after another, the colors all wrong for her washed-out complexion. Rosemary just hoped her real face would look okay.

Before she turned away from the odd reflection, she wondered, If this is me, thirty or forty years from now, what can I learn from this wise me?

The answer flashed into Rosemary’s mind. “It isn’t about how much money you make, and it isn’t about how many things you own or how much prestige you have, or even how many people’s expectations you’ve fulfilled, it’s about following your heart.”

She groaned. That sounded too much like a greeting card or self help book. Was she really going to turn out that trite?

After slipping on her nylons and shoes, she went to the second bathroom to ensure that she looked like, well, herself. She did. So that had been a flashback, the whole event some figment of her troubled brain.

Yet Rosemary couldn’t stop thinking about the words, as she collected her husband, and they drove towards the party. Her father had resigned his position to follow his heart and his violin into something he’d always wanted. And what about herself? Why was she working in the orchestra’s office, and sitting in the second violin section, when she’d always dreamed of playing and singing in a rock band?

Fantasies, unrealistic fantasies, she’d always told herself. Ones which didn’t pay the bills. She’d let her fear rule her for far too long. She didn’t want to grow into that old woman without even trying to feed her soul.

“Darling,” she told her husband on the way home, “I want to move to Austin, and write songs and start a band now that my parents are moving away.”

He glanced over at her. “Do I get to come along?”

“Only if you want to.” She felt nervous saying that. He must think she’d lost her mind.

He smiled broadly, his eyes on the road. “I never thought I’d pry you away from here, but I’ve wanted to leave for a long time.”

She smiled back, relaxing. “Why didn’t you?”

“I know what’s important, and you’re it.” He took his hand off the steering wheel and wound his fingers through hers. “Besides, I’ve always indulged my passion.”

“Really? Is science writing it for you?”

“Can’t you see the way my work absorbs me? I want the same thing for you, instead of always trying to make your father happy by being what you think he wants.”

“I love him.”

“So show it by following his example and going after your dreams the way he has, not by playing second fiddle to him.”

His words opened up a space inside her as inviting as a high mountain meadow in summer, yet she knew it wouldn’t be as easy as he made it sound. “What about money?”

“What about it? It isn’t as if you make much now. We’ll get by somehow. We have my income and we have each other. Come on, Rosemary, for once let yourself do what you want.”

Tomorrow the doubts would arise again, but for the moment she felt ready for anything. She pushed a CD into the stereo and sang along, her voice clear and strong.

Filed Under: Drama Tagged With: Drama, music, passion, Short Fiction, short story, your calling

About Ann Stanley

« The Power of Words
The Last Apostle: "Escape"; Vol 4.4 »

Comments

  1. Michelle McGill-Vargas says

    November 5, 2014 at 6:23 pm

    Nice story. Isn’t that what all writers wish they could do?

    Reply
    • Ann Stanley says

      November 5, 2014 at 6:29 pm

      What, stay in the shower, under the hot water? Oh, yes…
      But you’re right. All artists, I believe, wish they could follow their hearts without fear and without worrying about money. I’m trying to inspire myself by writing this.

      Reply
  2. Shelley Lerea says

    November 5, 2014 at 8:19 pm

    Great story, very inspiring and fun to read!

    Reply

Leave a Reply Cancel reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

Top Stories

The Ghost

...

Read More »

Blue

...

Read More »

Show and Tell

...

Read More »

Le Chien Next Door

...

Read More »

Come Apart

...

Read More »

Resources for Writers

The Write Practice | The Write Shop
Let’s Write a Short Story | Character Test Podcast | Point of View Guide | Best Software for Writers | How to Publish a Short Story

Best of Short Fiction Break

Suspense Short Stories | Magical Realism Short Stories | More Coming Soon

Story Ideas

Short Story Ideas | Mystery Story Ideas | Romance Story Ideas | Thriller Story Ideas | Fantasy Story Ideas | Sci-fi Story Ideas

CONTACT || PUBLICATION RIGHTS || Copyright © 2023