Welcome to another week of Sunday Sit Down. Grab a cuppa, fluff up the pillows, sit down and have a read. This weeks creative writing piece is a short prose story about two individuals who are an unlikely pair. It’s a brief recollection of two characters I fell in love with but unfortunately, they never grew into any larger story other than what is written here. They intrigue me though.
~~~ Annie Rose Meet Roger Black ~~~
Annie Rose was majestic. A little bumble of a woman but majestic nonetheless. No one spoke ill of her, or judged her wrong. Most men would not toss her out of bed. Not that she was accustomed to such shenanigans. At her age she felt it was beyond her and the men would spark and throw her the glint in the eye reminding her she was but thirty five gracious years on this earth. But she was an enigma, with boils and sour cream skin that shined oily with a sparkling ginger scent. She was known as the Winter Witch round the bends in the old town of Willow Fields. Mostly so, because she wore more cardigans than Junipers summer would allow and because in half light, with her curious look, she resembled a hag, an old cretin of a woman that threw sickly made daisy chains across her hastily preened French plaits. And yet we didn’t see her this way when she bounded at the railway cottage, displaying her pride in the garden, boasting sweet lilies and poppies and everlasting, ever growing wild flowers. And since her laugh, which echoed in the sweetest way to the pit of your stomach and curled up in your heart, threw subjective thoughts to this notion of an old hag, we saw her as Majestic Annie Rose.
She would of course curse the boys who slapped her wrist for making funny noises during church, when she cleared her throat or hummed along to hymns or when they skimmed past her quick enough to make her warble and wobble on her toes. Though the youth were disfavored by her and the really young hid behind their mothers’ legs when she stopped to see how the father was doing or to ask of the pigeon crates that were delivered the day before yesterday, she was a magically loved woman.
And Roger Black was quite her mate.
Though neither knew of the other, despite how they spoke the same and dressed the same and held doors open all the same. One on each side of the vulturous island, they skipped through the shells and sand of the Avonmore beaches quite unaware that they kicked up the same foam from the same waters and all but being identical in ways and mannerisms.
Roger Black was the wee man of the town.
Known as the lumberjack who lumberjacked no more. He was the spindly man who propped up the bar of McGuire’s on a Wednesday, Thursday, Friday and Saturday night. His spine curved greater now than it had done in years and he blamed the righteous position of chopping down his fair share of maple, beech and cypress trees in the Willow forest. He could see his sparkling loafers clearer now than he had in years, though he had no mind to keep an eye on them for most of the day. It was simply the direction his eyes fell when relaxed and his spine forced his head to lop downwards.
He was a charmer and an admirer and spied a young sweetheart quicker than his youngest nephew on heat. Nonetheless, he was a gentleman and graced no woman closer than to hold her elbow in a dance. He poured over the children in the town and would spin yarns about the men that toiled on the shipping docks and the creatures who ventured deep into the woodland and would only come out to feed from his pockets. He had a sweet nature about him whether he winked, smiled or raised a wicked laugh that arched up from his toes.
Maureen Ferguson was a
companion of the two, companions of which they had many. She knew them both on separate terms and believed neither knew the other.
Geraldine Walsh © Over Heaven’s Hill