The Loss

20190927_074_CharlotteHodes_L

‘Silhouette; burnt orange’ by Charlotte Hodes

Photo: Joel Chester Fildes

The Loss is a short fiction works written by Alison Little. It was produced in responce to ‘Silhouette: burnt orange’ by Charlotte Hodes which was exhibited as part of The Errant Muse exhibition held at the VG&M in Liverpool.

The Loss

Sunlight brandishes down on the desolate beach location, she lies stretched out on her front, body twisted towards the horizon of the sea. Hand raised above her eyes, blocking the sunlight attempting to obscure her vision.

Eyes scanning the spectrum for him, she has lost sight into the expanse of the ocean. Only out of sight she assumes, hidden between waves lashing against the rocks of the coastline. Her rear is arched slightly, enhanced by the slender fit summer dress. Knees encased by the warmth of the dry sands. Earlier, her feet had kicked up joyfully towards her rear, playfulness re-connected in adulthood, now tensed. Below her, the sands burn a deeper orange.

A hand crochet blanket, hours of pain, distraction-seeking hooked yarn, covers the sands she rests on. It was the only thing for her to do, removing her mind from the loss. There was no point in making any more baby clothes, she didn’t know what to do with the collection she had already made, laid out in the draw she had lined. They would decide in unison after the negotiated break.

Vision streaming further into the ocean, she could still not see him. They had waited four weeks since the miscarriage to get away, both needed to arrange time off work. Making the blanket had kept her mind occupied, kept the tears from flowing full force. They had come to Swanage in Dorset, easy to book a B+B at limited notice. The main town beach had been packed full of babies and children, grown into what their foetus would have once become. He had taken the initiative to suggest walking to a more remote beach around the coast. He was trying to be strong for her but he was grieving the loss in tandem.

Further, into the ocean, a longboat jammed full of tourists heads towards deeper waters. All the trips they would never take their unborn child on, the picnics they would never consummate, the family games they would never play. Into the abyss, the no-more, her hand fell onto her reduced stomach. A light tear joins her face, panic sets in, she couldn’t see him. What if she had lost him also, drawn out to the infinite seascape. As she is about to stand several petals drop down onto her smudged checks. Looking up, he is scattering wildflower petals over her, their eyes connect and they smile in unison. He joins her as they wrap into each other, minds and bodies link, they know everything will be okay again.

The Errant Muse

Charlotte Hodes has two further exhibitions later in the year:

Remember Me, Charlotte Hodes Papercuts & Ceramics Solo exhibition, National Centre for Craft & Design, 11 Jan – 22 March 2020

Most Admirably Improved by Art, Hestercombe, Somerset, 29 February – 28 June 2020

The Eternal I

Brests

Explicit content warning

The Eternal I

I am the all
I am the only
I am an example for others
I am all that matters
I am my ultimate muse

Standing, average size in height. Pleasant facial features, nothing extraordinary, a relatively forgettable portrait shot. Plastered on layers of make-up, a full face, foundation, powder topped up continually. Lip liner, lipstick, where possible drinking through a straw avoiding a devastating smudge.

Hair parted to a standard off centre, cut to a dictated norm of long, slightly below the shoulders. Bleached blond, the only way to be, flaxen supremacy achieved through beautification. Regular root touch up, straightened and set at the salon weekly. Modified, hairbrush heat, a week of keeping dry to ensure the best of my appearance.

Bust enhanced cosmetically, cheap but not in the financial sense. The bigger the better, the instruction given to the consultant. Thousands parted to become a sexual commodity.

Chest ripping through tops cut low, then lower again. The breasts are tools of control, they make her desirable. She plants them in faces, pushing them into vision, projecting them into power. Eyes are drawn into cleavage, manoeuvre to manipulate.

Under the bosom, there is nothing of consequence. Dressed in smart blacks to look slimmer, pulling in the extra few pounds. In conversation, little to say other than on the subject of herself. No real family or friends of sorts, though little of by colleagues, another new partner with her unintentionally. Sex is something she endures, lying back as he penetrates, ejaculating into the rubbish bin of her female form. Vagina a goal, her pleasure of no concern.

I am ego-centric to the core
I am my subject matter
I am an acquisition
I am my cleavage locator
I am my breasts.

I am only my breasts…..

 

‘The Eternal I’ is the latest flash fiction works from Alison Little. Written as a response to the Errant Muse exhibition held at the Victoria Gallery & Museum in Liverpool.

 

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