Some Sort of Trouble

‘Are you in some sort of trouble love?’ asked the taxi driver.

Nishi squirmed in the hot vinyl hugging her toddler closer, her free hand tightening on the chubby leg of her five-month old.

‘Please… if anyone asks… you never made this journey’ she pleaded, hiding her black eye.

Nishi glanced back at what had been her home, nestled in the verdant hills, diminishing out of view.

The picturesque village with the 16th century church, weekly fete and mother’s group epitomised a rural idyll. Yet the dream was never Nishi’s, and the othering was relentless. The playgroup mothers asking her where she learnt English. Same place you did, from my parents, when I was a baby she thought but never retorted. The barely hidden speculation on what colour her unborn Indian-English child would be. The titters about their house ‘smelling funny’. She had tried so hard to fit in. Eventually exhausted by Murray’s hostility, she had given up.

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The End

The novel, set in an indeterminate ‘past’, concerns love across the social divide. The hero is a wealthy (en)titled gentleman in love with a serving girl from a local tavern. The girl’s mother opposes the match. Chapter three, where the plot thickens, was the point at which the novel had been set aside, mainly for lack of a discernible plot.

Unfortunately, the planets were not fully in alignment for Melinda Thistlethwaite’ s most recent flirtation with the arts.  She was confident, however, that she would eventually achieve success, once her talents had coupled with artistic destiny.

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A mother’s love

My love for her echoes the unconditional love she has for me. She has watched me laugh and cry from the day I was born and made sure she raised me as a sensitive, loving person.  There has always been respect for decisions I have made in life and she has corrected many mistakes I have made.  Her guidance has made me a more rounded person. The commitment I have for her will always be there.

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The Cost of Love

The first I knew of our money problems was the day I went home early from work, suffering with a migraine.  It was unusual to see mail on the doormat, as John would normally deal with it before I came home.  As bad as my headache was, I could not help noticing the words “Final Demand” were peeking out of the window on one of the envelopes.  My curiosity got the better of me and I opened it.

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First Love

“Hello Madge, I haven’t seen you round here for ages, popping back to see your folks are you?”

“Oh, hi Ange, something like that.”

“And how’s that gorgeous hubby of yours, keeping well is he? Still playing his guitar?”

“I presume so, I don’t really know, the fact of the matter is that we’ve split up.”

“Oo, sorry to hear that, trust me to put my foot in it.  How you coping then, fancy a drink?”

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