Story-writing shenanigans
Today I did something I've been meaning to for ages - write a short story. So here it is. I've done extremely little editing so it's a bit rough round the edges, but I was fairly pleased.
Be warned - it's about 2000 words long.
Sweet As Chocolate
If there was justice in this world, then a chocolate orange would count as a piece of fruit. It would form one of your five a day. No, wait; it would be an uber-fruit; each segment containing a life-lengthening cocktail of minerals and vitamins which would put the humble apple, lentil, or damn acai berry to shame. Doctors would force their patients to eat them. Dentists’ reception rooms would feature technicolour posters emblazoned with smiling children’s faces, each holding their own shiny chocolate orange. “Remember” the posters would warn, “10 segments a day prevents tooth rot.”
OK, thought Joanne, this train of thought is getting ridiculous. But it still didn’t stop her from staring at the already-opened blue box for a short while longer, until finally her gaze shifted back to the TV, the table, and the half eaten plate of tasteless ham salad. Beginning to eat again, Joanne tried to inject some enthusiasm for the meal. There were some pretty colours in there; the red tomatoes, the soggy green lettuce, pink ham containing the smallest touch of flavour, and some cold new potatoes speckled with green bits which one was supposed to assume were herbs. Another time, Joanne thought, it would be better to make her own salad, rather than rely on David to pick one up from the supermarket. If she had to eat this stuff, then at least she could get some extra exercise to go with it by chopping the onion herself. Wait… onion? Drat. No wonder it tasted of cardboard.
But it was all for a good cause. It was. It was. If David insisted that he needed a woman who looked less like a pudding bowl then Joanne was willing to stand by him and eat lettuce for the entirely of January until he saw fit. Hell, she’d go until the end of July if need be. Oh good little wifey-woman she was.
Not that she was a wife. Just a girlfriend. Girl-friend. A friend - with breasts - who provided sex, entertainment, beer, and (usually) food. “So do you have anything to tell us now?” asked her mother each time they went to see her. David always looked blank at that part. “So when do I get to be a bridesmaid???” squealed her sister Sara on their girly nights out. Joanne could only shrug.
She’d even tried asking him herself on February 29th last year. She’d cooked a special meal, dressed up in a pink figure-hugging dress, coated herself in expensive perfume, and popped the question. First of all, he hadn’t even understood what was going on, (“What’s with the tarty outfit love? Have I missed something?”) Then, the answer, when it came, sounded like a geriatric being strangled. “Oh, eh, ehhhh…. eh, ummmm” and had ended in a firm no. (“It’s just too soon. Let’s get our finances sorted first. We’ve only been together a couple of years.”) Actually, it was almost three. And now there was the possibility that he was getting bored with the relationship already.
--------------------------------------
It started on Christmas Eve. This was to be their first Christmas alone, without any family members around and Joanne was determined to make everything perfect. The decorations were up, the cards written and sent, the presents bought and wrapped - almost. But Joanne still needed to finish David’s stocking. So far it contained cuff links, a book of love poems, a computer game, and novelty underpants. It needed something else - like chocolate - and therein lay the problem.
During the past two - almost three - years Joanne had seen David eat plenty of chocolate. He’d munched malteasers at parties, scoffed crème eggs at Easter, gobbled down Milky bars at home, and pecked delicately on a box of Belgian truffles on Valentines Day. But which was his favourite? Who could tell? Each cocoa-containing gift was received with appreciative thanks and nods, but without any indication of preference. He had a kind of chocolate poker-face. Each kind was received with the same smiling expression. Was David a man to most enjoy a kid’s selection pack, or an exclusive hand-made ribbon-tied box? Or something in between? Without knowing, Joanne agonised in silence. Hints tried fell helplessly around David’s ankles (metaphorically), failing comprehensively to elicit any useful response. Desperation point was reached at about 2pm on Christmas Eve. It was two hours before the supermarket closed for the festive season.
“Do you fancy a run down to the shop?” asked Joanne.
“No. Why? It’ll be mental out there. We have everything prepared.” muttered David in response.
“But we could get some more mince pies…”
“There are three boxes in the kitchen”
“Get toffees for Aunt Margery…”
“You got them yesterday.”
“Buy a card for Uncle Phillip…”
“He lives in Bermuda. Last posting date was a fortnight ago.”
“For God’s sake, I just want to go OUT!”
(Long pause) “OK. We can do that”
The car journey to the supermarket had been a little tense. Joanne’s plan was to wander thoughtfully down the sweets aisle, watching David closely to see which products his eye lingered on the longest. However David was in a bad mood. He was always like this when his time in front of the TV was interrupted. After what seemed like an eternity shuffling down the cat food aisle (don’t want to give the game away by going straight to the sweets), they arrived at a row of mostly empty shelves, which formed what used to be the boxed chocolate selection. How cruel it was for Joanne, that she had left this trip so long that other, less deserving, customers had emptied it of most products.
David seemed unimpressed. “Are we looking for anything or just staring at stuff?”
“Just staring”, replied Joanne testily.
“Well, just as long as I know….” said David as he scanned the shelves, raised eyebrows at the price of some Swiss chocolate sea shells, rattled a box of shortbread, and peered closely at a chocolate orange before moving towards the exit.
WAIT! He PEERED at the chocolate orange. Perfect. That was it. Must be his favourite. Joanne’s decision was made. It had taken some time, but she’d just struck chocolate gold. Hallelujah!
There followed a tricky operation to persuade David to wait in the car whilst she ‘bought chewing gum’ and shoved the precious blue box in her too-small handbag without damaging the corners.
--------------------------------------------
Fast-forward to Christmas Day and the couple had had a massive row. Joanne could reflect that, with hindsight, she had been rather short-tempered, what with the stuffing burning and the gravy going lumpy. But it was still unfair of David to spend so much time watching TV, playing computer games, and talking to mates on the phone, when it was their special day. And following the usual smile and thanks when unwrapping it, he had not touched his chocolate orange.
The row meant that they didn’t speak for several days. Things seemed to get better at new year, and last night (January 2nd) Joanne had plucked up enough enthusiasm to hand David the unopened box after finding it had fallen into her drawer.
“Here, try some of this. Are you saving it or something?”
“Thanks sweetheart, but wouldn’t you like to open it?
“It’s your gift darling. I knew you really like them.”
“Um, ehh….” (The strangled geriatric was back again)
“What’s the matter?”
“I’m not really keen on chocolate orange”
(Explosion pending) “But I saw you pick one up at the supermarket on Christmas Eve?”
“Did I? I don’t remember. They have a pretty shape and orange wrapper… I know you love them sweetheart. Why don’t you eat it? To be honest, I prefer shortbread to chocolate.” His voice was pitiful, but also cruel.
Needless to say, the explosion came and lasted for a couple of hours. It ended with an uneasy truce around midnight, and a sleepless night for Joanne. Whatever she did, however hard she tried, their once happy relationship was slipping through her fingers. And then there was the comment this morning.
---------------------------------------
Oh, he’d been in a contrite mood when leaving for work this morning. “Would you like a cup of tea?”, “Shall I run you a bath ready for when you get up?”, and the best one, “Did you sleep well?” Joanne had tried her hardest to be pleasant in response; smiling and ripping open the chocolate orange’s blue box ‘for breakfast’. He probably thought she meant it. That’s perhaps why he had to put her down at the last moment. He had to kick her where it hurt. Let her know who was boss. Let her know how vulnerable her position as girlfriend had become.
David was leaving, putting his coat on, gathering up his keys. He leaned through the bedroom door and blew her a kiss. “Have a good day sweetheart. Don’t get fat on all that chocolate!” And then he was gone.
DON’T GET FAT!!!!!
----------------------------------
The outrage! The cheek - his turning the unwanted chocolate orange into a relationship-crushing poison. Joanne chewed her ham salad in angry bitefuls. Pondering thoughtfully over David’s actions during the past fortnight had upset her considerably. Her hand jittered slightly as she turned over channels on the TV. Tears were starting to form in both eyes. She couldn’t eat any longer and threw what remaining salad there was into the kitchen bin. Then there was nothing else to do but watch TV.
Of course, when you’re that wound up, it’s to difficult concentrate and so Joanne flicked through several channels. On each was a succession of thin to slimmer-than-average women. Not a spare ounce of fat to be seen. None of these women would be spending their days sitting on the sofa eating chocolate orange. They would be eating the tasteless ham salad instead. Who was it who dictated such things? Why should women have to feel such guilt about enjoying a bit of chocolate? But it was even worse than that. Hadn’t David already refused the chocolate himself and forced it upon her, only to then taunt her with the thought of getting fat. It was obscene behaviour, but so typical of men everywhere.
It was at this moment when the sound of a car in the driveway heralded David’s return. Out of instinct, Joanne got up and went to turn on the kettle to make him a cup of tea. But enough of pandering to his misogynistic whims! Joanne turned back into the living room and picked up the chocolate orange. It rustled slightly as she pulled it from its box. Tapping it on the coffee table to break apart the segments sounded dangerous and exciting, unpeeling the wrapper caused true delight, and now for the first bite…
“Hi sweetheart, I got these for you!” announced David as he walked into the room, brandishing a large bunch of roses. “And… oh, caught you at it did I???” he winked cheerfully on seeing Joanne hold the chocolate orange.
Joanne sighed. What she should have done was to berate him for his selfishness, his lack of any tact or understanding. Going further, she should have explained the dangers posed to their relationship by his sexist assumptions and attempts to control what she looked like, what she ate, and what she did. This was the twenty-first century and it was no longer acceptable for men to behave in such a way.
But Joanne couldn’t manage it. Instead, she threw the chocolate orange directly at David’s surprised face and watched as it missed, hit the wall, and landed on the carpet in twenty identical chocolate segments. She then walked silently out of the room and shut the door behind her.
THE END
Susi Birkitt
January 2008
Be warned - it's about 2000 words long.
Sweet As Chocolate
If there was justice in this world, then a chocolate orange would count as a piece of fruit. It would form one of your five a day. No, wait; it would be an uber-fruit; each segment containing a life-lengthening cocktail of minerals and vitamins which would put the humble apple, lentil, or damn acai berry to shame. Doctors would force their patients to eat them. Dentists’ reception rooms would feature technicolour posters emblazoned with smiling children’s faces, each holding their own shiny chocolate orange. “Remember” the posters would warn, “10 segments a day prevents tooth rot.”
OK, thought Joanne, this train of thought is getting ridiculous. But it still didn’t stop her from staring at the already-opened blue box for a short while longer, until finally her gaze shifted back to the TV, the table, and the half eaten plate of tasteless ham salad. Beginning to eat again, Joanne tried to inject some enthusiasm for the meal. There were some pretty colours in there; the red tomatoes, the soggy green lettuce, pink ham containing the smallest touch of flavour, and some cold new potatoes speckled with green bits which one was supposed to assume were herbs. Another time, Joanne thought, it would be better to make her own salad, rather than rely on David to pick one up from the supermarket. If she had to eat this stuff, then at least she could get some extra exercise to go with it by chopping the onion herself. Wait… onion? Drat. No wonder it tasted of cardboard.
But it was all for a good cause. It was. It was. If David insisted that he needed a woman who looked less like a pudding bowl then Joanne was willing to stand by him and eat lettuce for the entirely of January until he saw fit. Hell, she’d go until the end of July if need be. Oh good little wifey-woman she was.
Not that she was a wife. Just a girlfriend. Girl-friend. A friend - with breasts - who provided sex, entertainment, beer, and (usually) food. “So do you have anything to tell us now?” asked her mother each time they went to see her. David always looked blank at that part. “So when do I get to be a bridesmaid???” squealed her sister Sara on their girly nights out. Joanne could only shrug.
She’d even tried asking him herself on February 29th last year. She’d cooked a special meal, dressed up in a pink figure-hugging dress, coated herself in expensive perfume, and popped the question. First of all, he hadn’t even understood what was going on, (“What’s with the tarty outfit love? Have I missed something?”) Then, the answer, when it came, sounded like a geriatric being strangled. “Oh, eh, ehhhh…. eh, ummmm” and had ended in a firm no. (“It’s just too soon. Let’s get our finances sorted first. We’ve only been together a couple of years.”) Actually, it was almost three. And now there was the possibility that he was getting bored with the relationship already.
--------------------------------------
It started on Christmas Eve. This was to be their first Christmas alone, without any family members around and Joanne was determined to make everything perfect. The decorations were up, the cards written and sent, the presents bought and wrapped - almost. But Joanne still needed to finish David’s stocking. So far it contained cuff links, a book of love poems, a computer game, and novelty underpants. It needed something else - like chocolate - and therein lay the problem.
During the past two - almost three - years Joanne had seen David eat plenty of chocolate. He’d munched malteasers at parties, scoffed crème eggs at Easter, gobbled down Milky bars at home, and pecked delicately on a box of Belgian truffles on Valentines Day. But which was his favourite? Who could tell? Each cocoa-containing gift was received with appreciative thanks and nods, but without any indication of preference. He had a kind of chocolate poker-face. Each kind was received with the same smiling expression. Was David a man to most enjoy a kid’s selection pack, or an exclusive hand-made ribbon-tied box? Or something in between? Without knowing, Joanne agonised in silence. Hints tried fell helplessly around David’s ankles (metaphorically), failing comprehensively to elicit any useful response. Desperation point was reached at about 2pm on Christmas Eve. It was two hours before the supermarket closed for the festive season.
“Do you fancy a run down to the shop?” asked Joanne.
“No. Why? It’ll be mental out there. We have everything prepared.” muttered David in response.
“But we could get some more mince pies…”
“There are three boxes in the kitchen”
“Get toffees for Aunt Margery…”
“You got them yesterday.”
“Buy a card for Uncle Phillip…”
“He lives in Bermuda. Last posting date was a fortnight ago.”
“For God’s sake, I just want to go OUT!”
(Long pause) “OK. We can do that”
The car journey to the supermarket had been a little tense. Joanne’s plan was to wander thoughtfully down the sweets aisle, watching David closely to see which products his eye lingered on the longest. However David was in a bad mood. He was always like this when his time in front of the TV was interrupted. After what seemed like an eternity shuffling down the cat food aisle (don’t want to give the game away by going straight to the sweets), they arrived at a row of mostly empty shelves, which formed what used to be the boxed chocolate selection. How cruel it was for Joanne, that she had left this trip so long that other, less deserving, customers had emptied it of most products.
David seemed unimpressed. “Are we looking for anything or just staring at stuff?”
“Just staring”, replied Joanne testily.
“Well, just as long as I know….” said David as he scanned the shelves, raised eyebrows at the price of some Swiss chocolate sea shells, rattled a box of shortbread, and peered closely at a chocolate orange before moving towards the exit.
WAIT! He PEERED at the chocolate orange. Perfect. That was it. Must be his favourite. Joanne’s decision was made. It had taken some time, but she’d just struck chocolate gold. Hallelujah!
There followed a tricky operation to persuade David to wait in the car whilst she ‘bought chewing gum’ and shoved the precious blue box in her too-small handbag without damaging the corners.
--------------------------------------------
Fast-forward to Christmas Day and the couple had had a massive row. Joanne could reflect that, with hindsight, she had been rather short-tempered, what with the stuffing burning and the gravy going lumpy. But it was still unfair of David to spend so much time watching TV, playing computer games, and talking to mates on the phone, when it was their special day. And following the usual smile and thanks when unwrapping it, he had not touched his chocolate orange.
The row meant that they didn’t speak for several days. Things seemed to get better at new year, and last night (January 2nd) Joanne had plucked up enough enthusiasm to hand David the unopened box after finding it had fallen into her drawer.
“Here, try some of this. Are you saving it or something?”
“Thanks sweetheart, but wouldn’t you like to open it?
“It’s your gift darling. I knew you really like them.”
“Um, ehh….” (The strangled geriatric was back again)
“What’s the matter?”
“I’m not really keen on chocolate orange”
(Explosion pending) “But I saw you pick one up at the supermarket on Christmas Eve?”
“Did I? I don’t remember. They have a pretty shape and orange wrapper… I know you love them sweetheart. Why don’t you eat it? To be honest, I prefer shortbread to chocolate.” His voice was pitiful, but also cruel.
Needless to say, the explosion came and lasted for a couple of hours. It ended with an uneasy truce around midnight, and a sleepless night for Joanne. Whatever she did, however hard she tried, their once happy relationship was slipping through her fingers. And then there was the comment this morning.
---------------------------------------
Oh, he’d been in a contrite mood when leaving for work this morning. “Would you like a cup of tea?”, “Shall I run you a bath ready for when you get up?”, and the best one, “Did you sleep well?” Joanne had tried her hardest to be pleasant in response; smiling and ripping open the chocolate orange’s blue box ‘for breakfast’. He probably thought she meant it. That’s perhaps why he had to put her down at the last moment. He had to kick her where it hurt. Let her know who was boss. Let her know how vulnerable her position as girlfriend had become.
David was leaving, putting his coat on, gathering up his keys. He leaned through the bedroom door and blew her a kiss. “Have a good day sweetheart. Don’t get fat on all that chocolate!” And then he was gone.
DON’T GET FAT!!!!!
----------------------------------
The outrage! The cheek - his turning the unwanted chocolate orange into a relationship-crushing poison. Joanne chewed her ham salad in angry bitefuls. Pondering thoughtfully over David’s actions during the past fortnight had upset her considerably. Her hand jittered slightly as she turned over channels on the TV. Tears were starting to form in both eyes. She couldn’t eat any longer and threw what remaining salad there was into the kitchen bin. Then there was nothing else to do but watch TV.
Of course, when you’re that wound up, it’s to difficult concentrate and so Joanne flicked through several channels. On each was a succession of thin to slimmer-than-average women. Not a spare ounce of fat to be seen. None of these women would be spending their days sitting on the sofa eating chocolate orange. They would be eating the tasteless ham salad instead. Who was it who dictated such things? Why should women have to feel such guilt about enjoying a bit of chocolate? But it was even worse than that. Hadn’t David already refused the chocolate himself and forced it upon her, only to then taunt her with the thought of getting fat. It was obscene behaviour, but so typical of men everywhere.
It was at this moment when the sound of a car in the driveway heralded David’s return. Out of instinct, Joanne got up and went to turn on the kettle to make him a cup of tea. But enough of pandering to his misogynistic whims! Joanne turned back into the living room and picked up the chocolate orange. It rustled slightly as she pulled it from its box. Tapping it on the coffee table to break apart the segments sounded dangerous and exciting, unpeeling the wrapper caused true delight, and now for the first bite…
“Hi sweetheart, I got these for you!” announced David as he walked into the room, brandishing a large bunch of roses. “And… oh, caught you at it did I???” he winked cheerfully on seeing Joanne hold the chocolate orange.
Joanne sighed. What she should have done was to berate him for his selfishness, his lack of any tact or understanding. Going further, she should have explained the dangers posed to their relationship by his sexist assumptions and attempts to control what she looked like, what she ate, and what she did. This was the twenty-first century and it was no longer acceptable for men to behave in such a way.
But Joanne couldn’t manage it. Instead, she threw the chocolate orange directly at David’s surprised face and watched as it missed, hit the wall, and landed on the carpet in twenty identical chocolate segments. She then walked silently out of the room and shut the door behind her.
THE END
Susi Birkitt
January 2008