Mrs Trump

 

Mrs Trump

Although Mrs Trump and other characters in the narrative are real, this is strictly a fiction works and the actions and events are not based on real life.

Mrs Trump gazes over the silver-framed Wedding photo they have positioned on the intricacies of their mantelpiece. The happy day: a falsehood, like herself, a manufactured outer shell. He owns her like his property empire, the White House, the Billionaire who purchased the United States, if not the World. Her vision moves towards the photos from their honeymoon. Modest, but designer suited, backed by the vision of a meadow. A meadow which they never walked in, only fantasies of jumping and throwing things at each other as she gathers wild flowers. A nature she had never submersed herself in, not even in youth. Even when at the beaches of the tropics, she goes no further than the spotlessly cleaned lounge areas of the most luxurious hotels.

Eyes manoeuvre back towards the image of the big day. The bridesmaid from her side, a cousin she hardly new flown over from Slovenia. A girl who would look good in the dress the stylist selected for her which she didn’t question. The bridesmaid figure they were able to call up and slot in again when needed for media stated family occasions, now replaced by their son.

The fallacy of the photograph, as she looks over she feels nothing. Void of emotions or signs of dissatisfaction with the home life she has built up. A fake marriage, a collection of houses in which she didn’t enjoy living. A husband whose affections wonder over those he can afford. Horses they hire people to ride, the land they purchase as simply a pleasant view from the windows. Dead inside, presenting a placid outer shell. Simply stand by his side. Mrs Trump: the ultimate purchase, a representation of beauty, an outer crater containing nothing but stale air.

Reminiscing on the excitement of her youth before she became the third Mrs Trump. The wild all-night parties of her modelling work, Milan, then Paris. A smile takes over her face and her lower lips become moist as she recalls the thrill of jetting into London to bare all for GQ magazine. Fully naked, draped over furs, neck adorned by jewels as she looked directly at the lens. When she had it all ahead of her, desired by all, she could have made any man her partner.

Fingers run over the jewel of her neck piece she selected earlier in the evening. The fulfilment she had felt when she had established her own jewellery business, the company she had been forced to abandon as it was deemed unfitting for the President’s Spouse. The PC role she now plays helping children’s charities. The glamour of the jewels given up for the dust-ridden dorms and desolate units of children’s homes. The special attention she has been directed to give towards the harm opioids can do to the foetus. Not her instigation, could pregnant women on heroin, really, not work out they are harming their unborn children for themselves?

Legs rested on the footstool, she leans back into the comfort on the leathers of the settee. Eyes wandering around one of many living rooms of the White House, gazing through the expanse of the interior. Her memories re-engage with the modest apartment in which she was raised. The entire residence for her parents and there two daughters to live being the same size as the room she is currently seated. As she sips her gin and tonic she contemplates the separate beds her and her husband now sleep. When their relationship had started they indulged in sex multiple time a day, now they rarely even touch one another. The son they had together, the boy they hardly know due to the amount of time he spends away at school. She is ambient to his meagre attempts to hide his latest affair, a brave front made up and ignored. She had acquired all the riches a woman could desire, but right now she recognises she was happier squashed into the apartment block of her childhood surrounded by the love of her family.

There can be no return, no escape, no way of leaving the most powerful man in the World. Again, her vision gazes towards the mantelpiece, this time toward the bottle of pills, her eyes look down towards the ice in her gin and tonic.

No, she will continue to dress for the press, stand by his side and present herself as ‘The Wife’, her envisaged role.

For now anyway……

I am the Superlambanana

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I am the Superlambanana

I sit on the mantle-piece, brought in a drunken surge from the local bottle shop. Originally cast in China, a miniature of Liverpool finest public artworks. I stand on my plinth and I look around this room, I see the early morning starts, breakfasts followed by the waking of the dog and then the cleaning of the front room. Observing my raised peak tail I see it lacks the rub and polish it received at the factory in China, again when unpacked at the wholesalers, then an extra special rub over when placed by the spirits at the Off Licence. At the factory I was one in a million, on the cargo ship one in a thousand then finally a simple sidekick to the bells whiskey which too many drunks chose to ignore when they stagger into the shop. Here I am an individual, I am the Superlambanana not one of many. I should be kept shinier and more glam to twinkle in the sunlight, but I stand proud as an almighty One-off. Watching everything going on I am central to the house, the head of the main room. I am the focal point, I am the master, I am the controller. Watching them argue, listening to them make-up, seeing their tears and hearing their laughter. I understand their desires and their disdain and I watch when they collide. The pet dog gets a free rein of downstairs, but he is nothing on me, I am glossy and smooth, shapely, standing tall and proud. He is rough coated, shreds his fur and bounces in excitement. He scratches and brings home flea’s, I gleam clean, I am the supreme.

I am the Superlambana.

‘I am the Superlambanana’ is a work of Flash Fiction written by Alison Little in February of 2018, she has lived in Liverpool for fifteen years and witnessed the Superlambanana become a symbol of the city.