Attic, Pt. 6

“Mum?” She held the box, the ring tucked into the crook of her middle finger on the left hand, and the letter on top. 

“There you are,” her mother replied, then, “what’s this?”

“I found a letter.” She let her mother take it. She watched closely as her mother read. A faint crease formed between her brows.

“This was up there?” She flicked her eyes in the direction of the opening. 

“In this box, with a photograph,” she studied the face that skimmed back over the letter, “this was there too…”

The light danced through the stone. Her mother sighed. She recognised the ring, Wendy realised.

Attic, pt.5

Still with the letter in hand, Wendy reached over and opened the box again. There inside was a beautiful diamond ring. She picked it up, watching the afternoon sun that glinted through the old skylight window dancing through the stone that sat in the gold band.

“Wendy,” her mother’s voice shouted up into the attic from the hallway below, “everything alright?”

“Uhhuh,” she said, “I think so…”

“Are you sure? What are you doing up there?”

“Rummaging through time.”

“Find anything interesting?”

She stared at the ring, the letter, the newspaper covering. What did it all mean?

“Perhaps, hold on.”

Attic, pt. 4

Under the photograph, there was a letter in an envelope: Dearest Cath was written on the front in gorgeous cursive script. Wendy gently lifted it out and placed the box on a pile nearby. Something else rattled inside, but she’d check that after reading the letter. 

My love, it started, how can I know where to begin. How can mere words affect destiny? No matter how I implore the stars, the gods and men, I have nothing but words to lay my heart for you. You will be wed and lost to me…

A desperate love letter, pleading for her. 

Attic, part 3

Gently, Wendy opened the elegant brass clasp and lifted the lid. Inside, there was a photograph: a family scene. A mother and father were seated in the garden of a grand old house, and behind them stood two girls and a teenage boy. The father was clearly the man from the newspaper, a few years younger, his hair more peppered black and grey here than the other.

She turned the picture over, and read the faded message on the back: “Love eternal, from birth”. She turned back to look at the girls. Either one could have been in the newspaper. 

Attic, pt.2

She stared at the photograph. The woman in the picture looked young, maybe only early twenties. She was posing in a beautiful ball gown, one hand lightly resting on the shoulder of an older man, grey-haired, thick moustache and in a uniform adorned with medals. Wendy stared into the eyes of the carefree young woman looking up out of the photograph; ahead she had some incredible married life of riches and royal adoration. She gently untucked the folded newspaper and unwrapped the box inside it.

It was a dark wood box, delicately monogrammed with her grandmother’s initials, I.C.S.

Labyrinth

Ariadne had always had a love-hate relationship with her first name. She loved the weight of Greek mythology baggage that came with it. She had hated trying to say it as a little girl. She loved the way it sounded as her husband whispered it in bed. She hated the random spelling attempts made by bearded, specky baristas in the coffee shop. ‘Harry-aknee’ had been to worst – mortifying.

The water in the sink was roasting hot as she worked her way through the dishes. She had a dishwasher that worked perfectly, but there was something soothing she found in the process of removing, physically, the remain of the previous day with her own hands.

The sink was positioned directly in front of the window that pointed out over the immaculate suburban garden. The sun was blazing down already, that perfect, crisp light of early morning – a quick glance at the clock on the cooker, 8:46. Andrew, her husband, had left early, and wouldn’t be back for a couple of days. She watched a tiny bird skip across the rich lawn.

This morning, she was contemplating a new name, a phonetic disguise to wear. Not just for the coffee-shop either.

Quarry, part 6

She told him to close his eyes, not to open them until she said. He did. She took him by the hand, pulled him to his feet, and led him down the pontoon to the edge of the water, back to dry land. He heard the terrain change, from warped old plants of wood to the crunch of the path gravelled with slate chippings and rocks, laid many years before by the conservation team in charge of the quarry. Now that he was moving, he appreciated the burning heat of the sun.

The air was lifeless and still as she led him on, further still, giving direction and advice. His legs grew tired, and the urge to give up, to open his eyes, to stop there, was growing. But her hand were soft and warm and he held on it still. Finally, they stopped.

She sat him down carefully, and told him to keep still. “What do you feel?” she asked.

“Air,” he said, “how high up are we?”

“What can you hear?

“The sea…or the road or something. Where are we?”

“Not far,” she said, “I don’t think anyone knows this place but me. Why don’t you open your eyes and see.”

Entry, the Sixth

Inside, was a small leather-bound book with yellowing pages. On the front was the same symbol as the wooden box and below that, a single word: Axioms. It was printed in black laminate, as though glossy on the front of the black book. Hidden truths, he thought to himself, amused.

The book itself contained little that interested Arthur – it seemed to be some kind of doctrine, a guideline for a society or cult or something of that nature. It was his father’s own copy, the perfectly neat inscription on the inside: Truth is not to be feared if there are none who act upon it; our time is like a watch set on the walls. We cannot speak of what we seek, but hand it on when we are gone.

He mused over these words, flicking back through the book again. Neatly placed about two-thirds of the way through, he found a note, and another picture. Arthur recognised his mother’s face more than his father’s, but they were both beautiful in youth. The note was in her handwriting: cursive and flowing, as in every birthday and Christmas card: This is for you to keep, as I keep all of yours.