A Flash in the Pan

ISBN
             
1481182676

EAN
             
978-1481182676

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

'A Flash in the Pan
' is published by That Right
Publishing LLC, who can be contacted at:

http://www.thatright
.com

http://ninwriters.ning.com

'A Flash in the Pan
' is the copyri
ght of the author, Lilian Kendrick
, 2012. All rights are reserved.

All characters are fictional, and any resemblance to anyone living or dead is accidental.

1. Word Power

They have never met, and yet the words he writes are enough for her. When they are ‘together’, she knows ecstasy, perhaps Nirvana. She is transported.

The first time, she could not believe it was happening. The words had a life of their own, a body of their own
–
his body, his face, his talent. She caressed his image with her fingertips and returned her attention to the text, her breathing erratic and heat spreading through her veins.

This isn’t real. Words on a page can’t do this, but
…
oh, the power of those words!

She ran her fingers across the page and read the words aloud, imagining his voice; a voice she’s never heard. She imagined that the words were written for her alone and not for the whole world. Shivers ran down her spine and she licked her lips and half-closed her eyes.

H
e is
with me now. I can feel his presence. He
is
reading to me. He puts the book down.

“I knew you would be beautiful,” he says.

I want him to touch me. He strokes my hair. His hand is on my cheek and his thumb traces the outline of my lips. I want him to kiss me.

Then he was gone. That was the first time. Now he comes to her every time she picks up the book and looks at his photograph. His words entice her, seduce her, reduce her to a trembling, helpless creature awaiting the fulfilment that she knows will follow. He never fails to satisfy her need for more of his words. He brings her an endless stream of them and she swims in their warmth and beauty. It always starts with the gift of words and ends wherever the Writer takes her. She is powerless in the face of such weaponry. He controls her thoughts, her dreams, and her fantasies. Watch and listen as the Writer takes possession of the Reader.

I know you’re here again. I can feel you.

“Close your eyes, my love, and you shall see me.”

I see you. What have you brought for me tonight?

“Tonight, I bring you a sonnet. No other eyes shall read it, no other ears shall hear it and no voice but mine shall speak it. It is my gift for you.”

Let me hear it.

“I shall whisper it
. C
ome closer, lie down with me and I shall hold you in my arms as I give you my poetry.”

The gift is given and received. The words are shared.

You are all I need, my fantasy.

“Without you, I am nothing but words on a page.”

Reader and Writer – two halves of one soul.

2. Stairway to Heaven

Friday afternoon and she
is
alone again. Well, maybe not truly alone. He
is
upstairs, sleeping and dreaming whatever dreams he
has
locked her out of. There was a time when they shared those dreams; a time when he would have asked her to join him for this afternoon nap.

She closes her eyes and remembers the time when he used to laugh
–
so long ago.

He took her hand and said, “Shall we take a trip to Paradise?”

Then, taking the stairs two at a time, he raced to the bedroom and she followed, discarding her clothes on the way. She found him sitting on the edge of the bed waiting for her and their union was sweet and fulfilling, and afterwards they slept
–
curled up together as the afternoon sun streamed
through
the lace curtain bathing their bodies in its warmth.

She shakes her head and wonders what went wrong. When did love turn to indifference? When did passion disappear?

“You were so restless last night,” he complained. “I didn’t get a wink of sleep.”

“My back’s bad
.
I couldn’t get comfortable.”

“Well, I need my rest! Take some painkillers and sleep in the spare room.”

At first it was just occasionally that she was banished from the master bedroom, but as time went on the gulf widened.

“I can’t sleep if you’re sitting up reading. Why don’t you go to your own room and leave me in peace?” So it was now
her
room – not the spare room anymore. Sometimes he would invite her to visit his room, but she was not allowed to invite herself, or to overstay her welcome.

She finishes her coffee and opens the laptop. Two more chapters and the book will be finished. Another bestseller, she has no doubt. The last five have been extremely successful and her e-book sales are still going through the roof. The market for erotica is as healthy as ever on the internet.

She has an email from her agent.

“You’re being translated into Italian. We’ve sold the rights to #3”

She smiles as she types her reply. “Cool. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

A beep signals a Facebook message; she clicks.

“Are you ‘live’? I’m ready to help you ...”

Sighing, she looks towards the door beyond which lies the Stairway to Heaven and almost certain disappointment. She chooses the chat window.

“Good to see you, babe. Chapter 18 – we’re hiding in the broom closet and I’m so cold – warm me up, slowly ...”

Upstairs, her husband snores and rolls over.

3. Penance

“This is the one!”

Christine sighed as she entered the church. She’d been all over town trying to find one with old-fashioned confessionals. The modern face-to-face ones wouldn’t do at all. She couldn’t look into anyone’s eyes as she spoke of her sins – not this time, anyway.

The interior was dimly lit and furnished traditionally with dark
wooden pews. The main altar was flanked by two alcoves housing smaller shrines, honouring Our Lady and the Blessed Sacrament. The once-familiar aroma of incense permeated the atmosphere and Christine inhaled deeply and felt a little less nervous. She made her way to the side of the church where the confessional booths stood and took a seat next to the only other penitent waiting for forgiveness. Easing herself into a kneeling position, she began her preparation by examining her conscience. Not that she need
ed
to. She knew exactly what she had come to confess. At last, it was her turn to go in.

She knelt with her face close to the grille as the priest spoke.

“In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit
...”

Christine made the Sign of the Cross and began her confession.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been two weeks since my last confession and these are my sins
...”
S
he paused for a moment to collect her thoughts. “I’m afraid I’ve gone off the rails in the last two weeks, Father. I don’t know if even God can forgive me.”

Behind the screen, the priest spoke softly.

“Our Lord is a merciful Father and forgives all ou
r
human frailties, my child. Confess your sins and be freed from guilt.”

She took a deep breath. “Well, I think I’ve broken all the commandments in the last two weeks
... hang on a minute, I’ll just look at my list.” Rummaging in her handbag she pulled out a notebook. “Ah, here it is. I can’t remember what order they should be in, because I was going through the commandments from memory so I may have them out of sequence.”

“Are you trying to tell me you deliberately set out to break the Ten Commandments?”

“Well, yes. I suppose I did
... but some of them were easier than others. Should I just go through my list? Let’s see, I started off with some coveting. I didn’t realise that’s what it was at first. I’d never really ‘coveted’ before, so it was all new to me.”

“What did you covet?” The priest was fascinated.

“Oh, yeah, I suppose you need to know. My neighbour had this really nice tablecloth hanging on the washing line and I coveted it, big time, last Monday. Anyway cutting a long story short, when she went shopping, I climbed over the fence and took it. So I guess that’s two for the price of one, isn’t it?”

“Thou shalt not steal, and thou shalt not covet. Commandments
eight
and
ten
. Carry on.”

“Well, then she came round for coffee and I forgot to hide it. So she said ‘You stole my tablecloth!’ and I said ‘Jesus! It’s only an old rag, for heaven’s sake
,
’ and she stormed out.”

“Hmm! Taking the name of the Lord thy God in vain – that’s number
three
.”

“Mum rang and asked me to go over and take her shopping and I told her to get lost.”

“Honour thy Father and thy Mother
–
number
five
”

Christine took out a pen and ticked off the items on her list as she continued.

“I didn’t make it to Mass on Sunday. So I didn’t keep the Sabbath holy.”

“Number
four
– but it doesn’t count if you had a good reason.”

Christine smiled as she recalled Sunday morning.

“I’m afraid I was
...
er
...
committing adultery, Father. You see, my neighbour’s husband came round to ask me about the tablecloth and er
... one thing led to another.”

“What? That’s number
seven
, then.” He could hardly believe what he was hearing. “So that’s six down. You can’t really have broken all ten?”

“I haven’t finished yet. I told the woman at the corner shop that my neighbour was having an affair with the postman.”

“And is she? No, let me guess – bearing false witness? Number
nine
. What about the first two? You clearly haven’t lost your faith entirely, so I can’t believe you’ve been worshipping false gods or making graven images?”

“Um
...
er
...
I made a shrine in my bedroom with a bust of Stephen King at the centre, and every night I pray for inspiration. Does that count?”

“If you insist. Hero worship is a kind of idolatry, I suppose. So you have broken nine commandments.”

“Only nine? That’s not so bad then.”

“Bow your head now, and make a good Act of Contrition.”

“O my God, because You are so good, I am very sorry that I have sinned against You and with the help of Your Grace, I will not sin again.” As Christine said the words she had learned by heart as a child, the priest recited the prayer of absolution.

“Your sins are forgiven
,
go in peace and for your penance say three decades of the Rosary.”