February

It's been a long time since I wrote a poem. This one's inspired by a challenge a dear friend's husband set her because she was feeling blue in the dragging on winter, and when she told me, lines just swam in my head as if it needed to come out. Though I live in Australian summer right now, my house is always freezing in winter (old Australian builds), so I empathise with those of you living in winter time!

February: the days are short but the winter drags on,

Our minds wander, drifting, longing for the cold to be done,

And we shuffle like ghosts as time blends day with day,

Motivation fades, creativity too—gone, just drifted away.

It's times like this that I wish for long summer days,

Instead my city's so dull, muted, nothing but greys,

Then I see my love’s red cheeks, our children’s bright noses,

And we laugh at the colour - so red, like Ma's summer roses.

I try to stay present, embrace these walks through the park,

Rugged up in coats, gloves, long boots, against the chill of the dark,

With our bellies full of comforting hot winter food,

Blowing our breath like dragons to brighten our mood.

Some days we kick boots through leaves sodden with rain,

Yet others we crunch over them as they freeze over again,

Some days we hide under blankets, snug in warm, cosy hugs,

Hands wrapped around hot cacao in huge steaming mugs.

We pass time as best we can—music, art, trying new food,

Anything to keep at bay that long, dark winter's mood,

But need we spend winter hiding in small, heated rooms,

Or should we enjoy kicking through leaves, dancing to our own winter tunes?

An Unexpected Spy - A Short Story

When I retired from the agency years ago, I thought my days of espionage were behind me. But every now and then, headquarters call me in for something only I can do. After all, how often do you expect a tiny woman in her fifties to be a secret agency’s ex top spy?

You wouldn’t, and that’s why it works. I can get into almost anywhere.

‘Aunty, please mind out, there is a car behind you.’

I nod gratefully at the young man, but I already know about the car. It’s mine. A BMW X2—latest model of course—with an additional bonus or two. This behemoth can drive itself—not in the gimmicky way that other manufacturers are just developing—which is certainly useful, as at 5 foot 1, I can’t even reach the pedals! Plus, with bulletproof glass and many more mod comms, it’s the perfect car for a spy.

Ex or not.

I watch as the giant BMW prowls past me, avoiding the other pedestrians with ease before turning down a tiny alley behind a museum. Our stop. It will wait there for me while I go inside, until I need it to pick me up.

My mission is simple, suitable for a retiree. A quick artefact swap. Within this museum is an ancient Mayan tablet the agency needs to analyse. The supervisor told me they want to verify a prophecy it apparently reveals, to keep the world safe, but I’m not so sure. I’m a modern woman, and my daughter goes to university as a scientist. She would never let me believe in prophecies, and I have seen too much of the world to believe such things exist.

Life is just a merry accident, one we have to do our best in. This is the wisdom you get as you age.

I smooth down my orange sari and pat at my greying hair, happy to be neat and checking my special pin is still in place. It is. Then, I quickly check inside the beaded silk handbag slung over my shoulder. Everything there. Under that, tucked into the pocket of my trousers under my sari and well out of sight, the replica tablet I’m to swap.

‘Ma’am, I’m afraid we can’t let you in now. It’s ten minutes till close time.’ A guard stood in the doorway.

I know that. Perfect timing. But I pretend to look shocked and click my tongue, looking between my watch and the great clock in the entryway. ‘Oh, this watch! It’s an hour behind.’

‘We open again at 9 tomorrow.’

I sigh. ‘Can I at least just use the bathroom?’ I gesture to the ladies’ room down the entryway. ‘It’s urgent. I knew I shouldn’t have let my daughter cook last night.’ Then I lean forward to add conspiratorially, ‘There was something wrong with her prawn biryani, if you know what I mean?’

The guard looks bored, so with a shrug of his shoulders, he gestures with his thumb. ‘Whatever, just the bathrooms. I’ll be keeping my eye out.’

I mutter hurried thanks and dash off, glancing behind me to see him turn back to the doorway.

Of course I don’t go to the bathroom. Instead, I dash up the steps to the side, feeling the replica tablet thudding against my hip. Up here, two left turns, then through the far door on the right to the exhibit with ancient Mayan discoveries.

I glance up at a camera, knowing immediately where it is. I had studied them with a bright young recruit, who I can only call ‘G’, and she’d promised she’d handle all the cameras on the day.

‘Just do your thing,’ she’d said, chomping on a piece of peppermint gum as she flicked through the different stations in the museum security system. ‘I’ll handle it here.’

I hope G was right.

Next left, and I totter along the hallway, muttering to myself. ‘Oh, it should be here,’ and ‘quickly,’ earning tired looks from guests and security alike. A flustered older woman lost in a museum is nothing new to these people.

I keep up the act all the way to the exhibit, and as I try to push open the great wood doors, I crash to a stop.

They don’t budge.

‘G!’ I whisper into my headpiece. ‘The door is shut!’

‘Sorry, Aunty,’ she said. ‘We planned for the exhibit to be closed for extra measure. Didn’t “H” tell you? Just head round to that door on the left and type in this code.’

She garbles a load of numbers before I can even make it to the keypad. Thank goodness I’m a pro. Ex or not.

I grumble under my breath and slip through the door, tossing my sari back over my shoulder as I search for the glass compartment with the real tablet. With quick, small steps, I circle the room until finally I see it.

A message echoes over the museum intercom about closing time in five minutes, and I grab a pair of plastic gloves from my handbag, stuffing them on. Then, I pull the hairpin from my greying hair, twist it, and unhook a secret latch. The inside slides out, which I use to unlock the small glass cabinet. The artefact drawer slides open effortlessly.

I lift the original from the drawer—it must be at least a thousand years old—and take folded bubble wrap from my small handbag, wrapping the tablet carefully. Then, for extra measure, I unfold some stored gaudy birthday wrapping paper and wrap the bubble wrapped tablet in there too, just in case someone asks to inspect my bag. Nothing to see but a child’s birthday gift.

I’m placing the replace tablet precisely in place in the drawer and sliding it shut as the next intercom sounds through the museum.

‘All guests are to make their way to the exit. The museum is closing now.’

The two-minute warning, I noted, relocking the cabinet and dusting the glass off for good measure. Finally, the ‘gift’ goes in my bag and the pin back in my hair before I dash back to the staff door to this exhibit. By now, the corridors are mostly empty, so I slip through like a fish escaping a net to freedom, tottering back down to the ground floor.

The guard is looking towards the bathrooms, as promised. I tut and peek down the stairwell, disguising it as taking my shoe off to neaten the toe of my tights. He looks away to address a guest, and I shove my shoe back on and hurry to the bathroom door, pushing it open but not going in. Instead, I turn and walk towards the guard, and he turns at the sound of the opening and closing bathroom door, eyes meeting mine as I plod towards him.

‘Feelin’ better?’ he asked, voice gruff, awkward.

‘I hope so. It’s my son’s birthday tomorrow, and my husband’s cooking saag aloo. My favourite.’

I dash down the steps, pressing a secret button on my handbag, and it’s mere seconds before the X2 meets me on the street.

And that, kids, is how it’s done. None of that sneaking in at midnight and flipping in from the ceiling window and spinning down on ropes and levers.

The door to the car opens for me, and I chuckle to remember that I too in my youth had been just as over-the-top.

‘Alright, G, where next?’ I say to the woman over the speaker as I buckle into the driver’s seat. Not that I’m driving, but it’s important to keep the aesthetic.

‘There’s an address coming to your X2 now, Aunty,’ she said. ‘You’re to meet with the toolmaker who made the replica. He’s an expert on ancient south American artefacts and will translate the tablet for us.’

I frown as I reach into the glove compartment for a pair of sunglasses and put them on. ‘And he can be trusted?’

‘Yes, Aunty. He’s worked with us before.’

‘Alright then,’ I sigh, leaning back. ‘Let’s meet this man.’

‘It’s a long drive, Aunty. Get some rest. There’s a warm meal in the centre armrest for you. An agent dropped it off while you were in the museum.’

I cluck happily and pull it open. Prawn Biryani.

‘You’re a cheeky girl, G. Has anyone told you?’

The drive is, as she said, long, but I manage to get some shut eye. When I finally arrive, it’s a place most unexpected.

This ‘toolmaker’ lives on the outskirts of town, in what I can only call a homestead. The home consists of several buildings, mostly sheds and workshops, and out front is a giant tree stump, where a man I can only describe as a Viking with long grey curls and a huge burly body is out front, swinging a giant sword down in a great arc onto a piece of wood resting atop of the stump. The sword splits the wood clean in two.

Even I flinch, and the BMW stopped smoothly before him. The Viking turns as I jump from the car. He must be double my height.

‘You the toolmaker?’ I ask, patting down my sari nervously, checking the bag and the item are there.

‘Aye,’ he says, resting on the giant blade and flicking his great grey curls over his shoulder.

‘There’s a tablet I want you to look over,’ I say airily, the words I was told to say. Seems too obvious to me, but G swears it’s fine.

His nods his great head and swings the giant sword over his shoulder as if it were a butter knife. ‘Let’s get inside.’

I follow, not sure what to expect. Chairs to be twice their usual size, perhaps, or giant weapons sprawling everywhere. Instead, he leaves the sword on the porch, and I see the cleanest kitchen I’m sure I’ve ever been in.

‘Tea?’ he asks, and I couldn’t help but nod, feeling lighter.

‘That would be perfect!’ I totter over to the kettle. ‘May I?’

The man chuckles and grabs two ginormous mugs. ‘How could I refuse?’

‘I’ll make it as you look the item over.’ I hand over the birthday-wrapped gift in my bag.

He eyes me up oddly, but as I urge him on, he unwrapped it—rather happily, I thought—and gasps as he see what’s inside.

‘I knew what it would look like, of course. Having made the other one,’ he pauses. ‘But holding the real deal …’

I smile at the respect he has for the artefact, giant fingers holding it in the bubble wrap lightly, trying not to touch it directly. Appearances say nothing of a person, but how this man, the toolmaker, treats both the artefact and me, I’m certain he’s a good man.

When you’re older, you just know these things.

I leave after tea, leaving the artefact with him and the instructions that someone is keeping an eye on him, and that he should use a certain phone to contact the agency. I pass him an old Nokia, which looks comically tiny in his hands.

‘I still can’t believe you’re with the agency,’ he shakes his head. ‘You don’t look it.’

‘And that’s why it’s perfect,’ I smile, bobbing my head on my way out. The behemoth X2 pops the door open in anticipation of my arrival, and I jump in, sighing happily as I think of my return home. ‘What happens now, G?’

‘The toolmaker will analyse and translate the tablet and send us the information,’ she replies, yawning. She sounded as tired as I felt, and she was the young one! ‘From there, we’ll send a team to whatever location the prophecy dictates.’

‘Not me?’

G chuckles light heartedly. ‘No, not you. You’ve done your bit, Aunty.’

‘Good. My husband is making Saag Aloo tomorrow, so I want to be back in time. It’s my favourite.’

---

Another short story I wrote in my NYC Midnight entry last year. Finally, I wanted to share it with you.

The Secret Obsession - A Short Story

A while back I entered a short story competition, one with several rounds. NYC Midnight. We were given a prompt to write to, 2,500 words, and a short deadline. I realised I never shared it with you all! I got through round 1 with this story!

* * *

Shredded paperwork. Private bank balance. A locked room.

“It’s for her sake,” I muttered as I stashed the key in my trouser pocket, turning in the hallway to head down the stairs to join Elaine—my wife—for the evening.

A pang of guilt. I paused on the stairwell, staring absentmindedly.

What would Elaine think if she ever found out?

I shuddered. I hoped she never would.

Cameras cost a lot of money. So did the lenses, the printing equipment—all of it. And I couldn’t help but spiral deeper. It was addictive. To see something you liked, line it up for the shot, hear the satisfying click as your finger struck the button, and then see the printed image. There forever.

I sighed as I continued down the stairs, barely registering the worn carpet beneath my feet. Then again, I don’t think that’s what would bother her, just what I took the pictures of.

Pretty things. I just loved pretty things. Sounds hopeless, doesn’t it? A middle-aged fellow like me—nothing to look at myself—taking pictures of pretty things. Anyone who saw would think I was feminine, and I knew if that were the case, abuse would fly. That’s not how real men were supposed to be, apparently.

My father had said so.

I sniffed and pushed through the kitchen door, and Elaine—oh, my beautiful, bubbly Elaine, with her huggable curves and thick curly mousy hair—grinned at me, her cheeks scrunching up like a little chipmunk.

‘Perfect timing! I was just about to come knocking.’

Knocking, on my private door that I pretended was my office with confidential information for my job, just because I couldn’t face the truth—that I loved taking photos of pretty things.

‘Got lost in some paperwork,’ I replied lamely as I rolled up my sleeves and smiled at her. I had got lost in paperwork, of a sort. Printed art on paper.

My smile faded as I saw an uncertain look in Elaine’s eyes. I saw it more regularly now. How I wish I could make it so that she’d never worry. Worse, I knew the worry was all because of me.

‘You alright, darling?’ I asked, trying to steer the conversation. Make her happy. ‘How was your day? Shop going well?’

Elaine owned a bakery. In my opinion, the best in town. She’d worked there first, and the owner had loved Elaine so much that before she died, she’d passed it on to Elaine. It was such a nostalgic place for us—where we met. That was the day my photography obsession had begun. And it had been her influence.

A cupcake on a decorated China plate had landed with a soft tinkle on the table in front of me alongside my usual black coffee.

‘Oh, sorry, I didn’t order this,’ I had said nervously, looking up from my newspaper, pushing my glasses back up my nose, immediately locking eyes with the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. I blushed and knew everything I said next would come through a veil of stammers.

Short, tight, light brown curls, round face, soft grey eyes with a twinkle, rosy cheeks, small dainty lips just like one of those painted dolls, and a cute dimple in her chin. Divine. A full-bodied woman, I immediately had the desire to wrap my arms around her and feel the worries melt away from my overworked soul.

The doll-like lips smiled.

‘I know. On the house. From me. I like your face.’

‘Like m-m-my face?’

I stalled. I was nothing interesting; me, with my gaunt face, flat mud-brown hair, and squinting eyes.

‘Yeah. Problem?’

‘N-n-n-no,’ I’d hurried, then looked back down at the cupcake. It was beautiful. Soft baby blue icing with small sprinkles of white and a delicate—presumably chocolate—white butterfly on top. I’d never seen icing like this here or in any bakery. I looked back up at her. I’d never seen her either.

‘Fresh batch this morning,’ she’d said, nodding down at it. ‘First one. Go on. Put some meat on your bones. And hopefully you’ll come back for more.’

I swallowed, daring myself to find out more. ‘I’ve never seen you here before …’

Her curls bounced as she nodded. ‘Started on the weekend. Just moved to town.’

I looked over at the treats’ cabinet. That was what had been different this morning. There was more colour, skill, beauty. I had been so engrained in my routine that I’d missed it all.

‘So many pretty things,’ I’d muttered, in awe.

‘Go on,’ she egged me on. ‘While I’m standing here. You’ll eat it, won’t you?’ Suddenly, a nervous doubt filled her expressive face.

‘Can I take a picture first? I’ve never seen such a pretty cake. I want to remember it forever.’

She’d laughed and sat in the chair opposite me, propped her elbows on the table, locked her hands together, and rested her dimpled chin on them, asking me questions as I pulled out the camera I used for work. She asked who I was, what I did, was I a professional photographer. ‘Bert Smith,’ I’d said. ‘Real estate agent in training,’ I’d said. ‘No,’ I’d said. ‘I’m not good enough.’

I took the picture, trying to subtly get her in it too. The prettiest things I’d seen, both in one picture. My heart soared as I thought about processing the image later.

‘Now, there’s a smile,’ she hummed, and I looked up to see her shining eyes, shining at me!

I’d eaten it, as promised, getting icing all over my face, her smile and hearty laugh bringing colour to my life.

That day changed my world.

I went back every day after, as usual, for my morning black coffee. Though from then on, I ordered cakes too. Somehow, she seemed to remember all my orders.

It happened outside of the bakery too. A new, brighter life. I looked up as I walked, I slowed down, I saw colour—the sky, people laughing, the river, flowers. Flowers. Oh, so pretty.

I took another picture.

And then came more. Everything I found pretty, I took a picture. I was amazed at how in just one small click, I could lock something so pleasing—so ephemeral—into an eternity on the paper, and I got through my grey days at work boring over paperwork with the anticipation of getting home and processing whatever photo I had taken that day.

My favourite was always that first photo—the pretty blue cake and its pretty baker.

My life had a purpose.

I changed. In my heart, my soul, my clothes, my confidence. I talked more, smiled more, got promoted. It was all thanks to Elaine. And I told her, often.

Oh, I loved sweet pretty things, and she was the sweetest, prettiest of them all.

And yet, more and more she worried. I saw the lines on her face etching deeper, and the doubt in her eyes.

Am I cheating? Am I lying?

Darling, I promise I am not! But my secret was too much to burden Elaine with. My sweet Elaine. I loved her too much to risk losing her over this.

A husband wasn’t supposed to be this way, so my father had said.

Cakes, flowers, chocolates, dresses, shoes, faces … I took pictures of them all. But then, people would think me odd. This man—and not a beautiful man at that—who took pictures of pretty things would be a laughingstock, my father had said.

But I saw how my actions were making her worry. Like now, as I cooked dinner with her, my sleeves rolled up, Elaine at my side, I saw the set of her jaw, knowing she was wondering what I had been doing in my office.

Where normally we would talk about our days and laugh as we cooked together, today was silent, solemn. I nibbled my lip as I cut the carrot with too much focus needed for cutting vegetables.

‘Is it another woman?’

Her soft voice cut through the quiet of the kitchen, and the soft monotonous thudding of my knife on the wooden chopping board stopped. In the silence, I could hear the ringing of tinnitus I only ever heard at work.

She’d asked me this before. I’d told her no. How could I ever?

I said it again now, rushing to her side and holding her close. No!

Elaine sniffed and looked up at me, half smiling, trying to believe me, but I saw tears in her face.

‘Then what is it?’ A tear. My heart cracked. ‘Gambling? Drugs? I hear things at the bakery, women telling each other about the things their husbands are doing. I’ve always felt happy that I married someone who isn’t like that. But the secrets. I can’t bear them anymore. You lock yourself in your office so much. Why?’ Her grey eyes implored me. ‘Do you not love me anymore? Is it because I got fat?’

Another sniffle, and my heart cracked more.

She’d never been skinny. Always soft. But that had been one of the things I had liked about her. Lots of her to hug. And then, when Elaine gave birth to our daughter, she never lost the pregnancy weight, but how could I dislike that? She’d created our daughter—such a pretty, clever daughter.

I told Elaine this, but for once, I think she doubted me.

Another crack on my heart.

She was trying not to cry now, turning back to cooking, trying to hide from me.

‘No, really,’ I turned to grab her again. Tried to talk. But the stammering returned. Like always when I was nervous.

No, not like this. I can’t lose her like this. If she withdrew from me, lost confidence. I thought of my sweet bubbly confident Elaine. I didn’t want her to change just because of me.

Elaine’s watery eyes looked up into mine again. Her voice was high pitched from the strain of not crying when she answered. ‘Then what is it, Bert? I’ve tried ignoring it, but now I need to know.’

‘But, you’ll h-h-hate me if I showed you.’ I sniffed.

Her face fell.

Oh no. I’ve made it worse.

She was imagining things—terrible things. I knew it. After all these years, I could read Elaine’s thoughts so well.

‘It’s not that!’ I hurried.

‘Then what is it?’

I paused. Risk people gossiping about us for my not being a real husband—thinking I was feminine, a bad breadwinner—or risk losing my wife altogether.

I steeled myself.

Let the haters come.

Anything but lose my wife.

‘Come to my office,’ I said quietly, and I led the way, every soft thud of my footsteps on the worn carpets weighing my anxious heart more.

What if she hates it? Finds out how much money I spent on it all? What if she throws me out?

I took the key from my pocket, and it rattled in the lock as my shaking hands tried to push it open. I looked into Elaine’s face before I swung open the door, and she was just as pale, just as nervous.

What does she think I have in here? I wondered. What sorts of things did she hear at the bakery to be this worried?

I swallowed and pushed open the door, offering her, like always, to step through before me.

I didn’t want to look. Her intake of breath from inside the room set my heart roaring, and my throat seized.

‘Bert,’ she whispered. There was a long pause.

Hanging my head, daring not to look at the photographs framed on my walls, the rows of cameras on my sideboards—the things that brought me so much joy—I followed Elaine into the room. My room.

‘It’s …’

Shameful? I finished for her in my head. Disgusting? A man like me thinking he could have such a hobby when he should be providing for his family, like a real man?

‘... beautiful,’ Elaine finished, and she turned to me.

Her eyes were shining again, this time not with tears.

I looked at her, confused, but also feeling somewhat like a lost puppy who’d found a ray of hope.

‘You don’t think it’s shameful?’

I winced at how much like a wounded little boy I sounded.

Elaine’s curls bounced as she shook her head, smiling. A little burst of relieved laughter left her small, doll-like lips.

‘I thought it was worse!’

‘Worse?’ I despaired. ‘But I thought if you saw this … it’s not exactly what a husband’s meant to do, right?’

‘It’s art, Bert. What’s wrong with it?’

‘There’s nothing wrong?’

‘No!’

‘But what about those?’

I gestured to the line-up of cameras and lenses. Elaine followed my gesture.

‘What about them?’

‘How much they costed. Aren’t you worried about me wasting our money?’

She looked at me hesitantly.

‘Isn’t that what wives always moan about their husbands for?’ I asked, voice small. I’d overheard wives talking at the bakery too.

‘If you use it to make all these,’ Elaine waved her arm around the room, ‘how is it wasteful?’

I gaped.

She smiled and wrapped her soft arms around me. ‘Don’t worry about it, love. The bakery’s books can handle some cameras.’

‘They c-c-can?’

She pulled away a little, still holding her hands on my arms, and nodded up at me. The glints of the tears were still left in her eyes, but she was smiling.

‘I had been so worried. Thought it was cheating, or drugs. Lots of that at the moment.’ I nodded mutely, still in disbelief. ‘But why are you hiding them? They should be displayed!’

I muttered something about thinking people would hate it, and that my father had said I needed to finally grow up and be a real man for her the day we married. She seemed as dazed as I was.

‘Well, you know what I always thought of him, the old-fashioned coot he was!’

Then Elaine let go of me and moved away. I watched as she walked around the room, eyeing each of the displayed images.

I chewed on my nails, and she said nothing, focusing on a piece ahead of her. The blue cupcake and my sweet, beautiful Elaine. Eighteen years ago.

My favourite.

‘Can I put this one on the wall in the bakery?’ she asked softly.

I thought I misheard her. Elaine turned to look at me.

‘Really? Y-y-you’d want that? It’s good enough? Really?’

She smiled and nodded and punched me lightly on the arm as I joined her, gazing around my office at each photograph as if they were completely new. ‘I never knew you got me in it, you sly dog!’

Elaine was grinning, and she turned to look back at it. ‘No greys there!’ she said in awe. ‘Skinnier there too. Prettier.’

‘No such thing,’ I said. ‘You’re pretty always.’

---

It's interesting to write in a genre that's not your 'usual'. A challenge I'd recommend to all writers to help them become more adaptable, grow their writing skills. And the different things you can bring back to your usual genre once you've got it ...

This one, when I thought about why he chose to hide the hobby, why he found it so shameful. The story was written in the past, when men were expected to act like men with certain jobs seen as acceptable and any little action against that was seen as feminism and negative, when the gays were being tormented. An awful time that I'll never be able to understand.

But I do understand the unrealistic expectations of parents. Of the disappointment and sometimes abusive nature they can have towards you if you don't do the career they expect of you. Having to stick to certain roles and being treated badly if you don't do it, so much so that you hide your true self and get more and more scared to reveal it.

It must have been so much worse back then, but I know people still struggle with it to this day.

I wish everyone can have the courage to take steps towards their own life, a life authentic to them. Without needing to hide it.