Friday Flash Fiction: The Invitation

Cathy pressed her cheek into the wall and twisted her neck as sharply as she could, crushing her chest against the concrete.

“I can see Big Ben when I look from this angle!” she said, peering out of the small window to her left and scanning the sliver of skyline above the local buildings. “I think that’s the corner of it anyway.”

She stepped away and rubbed her neck, returning the view out of the window to the rendered concrete and black windows of the warehouse across the road. The grey sky did nothing to improve the scenery.

Cathy sighed. “What am I doing here Bernard?” She rested her forehead against the wall, but at the silence she turned and looked at him. “The strong silent type eh? What about you Trevor? Any pearls of wisdom today? No? Clifford?”

The three flying ducks simply continued to gather dust.

“Why am I bothering to talk to you? It’s not like you can talk back,” she muttered, wrapping her arms about herself. She noticed a dust ball lurking underneath the easel. “You missed a bit.” The largest duck flew down to land on the wooden floor with a loud ceramic ‘chink’. “Careful Bernard,” she chided. “I don’t want to have to glue on that foot again.”

She went to the corner and flipped the kettle on, listening to the reassuring sound of the heating element creaking into action. She sat down next to it, watching the ornamental ducks nuzzling at bits of dust they found lurking between brushes and on top of dried oil palettes. If there was ever a sign that she was getting too lonely, it was them.

She hadn’t resorted to an animation charm since university, when she’d blown six months of savings to buy one from the Emporium. It had been an emergency though. She’d been so distraught after splitting up with her first boyfriend that she’d animated her teddy bear, just to have a proper cuddle. Last week, when she’d given up on the tenth painting that day, she went to the ramshackle second hand shop on the corner and bought the first animals she could see. The flying ducks weren’t able to speak, but their snuffling about the pokey studio had raised her spirits for a few days. There were other artists renting mini-studios in the same converted warehouse, but she’d never been good at striking up a conversation with strangers, and they all seemed too engrossed in their own creativity to notice her.

The novelty of the duckly trio was wearing off now, but then retro kitsch had the habit of doing that. She dropped the teabag into her mug. “Oh cheer up you silly tart,” she muttered to herself as she made the tea. “It’ll get better. You’ve only been doing this for six months.”

A knock on the door made her spill her tea. “Back on the wall!” she hissed at the birds, and they flew back into formation, solidifying into their original forms. “Come in,” she called, once they looked mundane again.

A shaggy haired man, whose age seemed to be in the same doldrums of the mid-twenties as her, peeped in. “Hi.”

She scrabbled to her feet, spilling more tea in the process. “Hi.”

“I’m Dave, from the studio next door,” he jerked a thumb to the left. “I was wondering if you had any…” his eyes scanned the room, “oh, you’re a painter. Never mind.”

“What do you do?” she asked, pouncing on the last chance of a conversation as he stepped back out again.

“Dog turds,” he muttered back.

“I’m sure it’s not that bad,” she replied in her best cheery voice.

He scratched his scalp through the lank hair. “No, really, they’re dog turds. I find them, seal them so they don’t degrade and then use them in my art.”

Cathy was dimly aware of her slack jaw.

“It’s a commentary on our consumerist society,” he mumbled. “And on inconsiderate dog owners.” There was an awful silence. “Maybe see you around.”

He shut the door. Cathy waited until she heard the neighbouring door shut and then cleaned the door handle to her studio, shuddering at the thought of what he’d been doing with his hands. She’d finish her cup of tea, then go. Nothing was breaking through the block today.

As she was finishing the cup, the door began to rattle in its frame. She bit her lip, wondering if the weirdo next door had reflected upon her lack of enthusiasm and was returning with samples, but then she realised it was something much worse.

A golden letterbox shimmered into existence at the centre of the door and an envelope shot through it, landing at her feet. By the time the flap had settled to a stop, the letterbox was fading, leaving the flimsy wooden door to her studio unmarked.

She noted the wax seal and quality of the paper. A dull throb was building behind her eyes as she picked it up. She turned it over and read the elegant calligraphy.

Miss Katarina Rhoeas Papaver,
Where-so-ever-you-are
Mundanis

She shuddered. It was her mother’s handwriting, and something about the slant of the upward strokes in “Where-so-ever-you-are” conveyed her mother’s irritation at her being so difficult to contact.

She broke the seal and opened it out. The red poppy of her family’s crest was emblazoned at the top of the paper.

Mr and Mrs Rhoeas Papaver demand your presence at the Assembly Rooms, Aquae Sulis, 8pm on the third Saturn’s Day of the month of Mars

Dress: Striking and elegant. Combinations of passion and grace acceptable. Strictly no lilac.

Attendance is compulsory

Cathy frowned, translating the irritating phrasing. The third Saturday of March was tomorrow! The struggle to paint an original picture, the thought of having to arrange travel at late notice, the fact she’d have to stay in Bath again, that all paled into flat monochrome compared to the stomach-twisting question: What was she going to wear?

—

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This Friday Flash is part of a year and a day of stories set in the Split Worlds. There is an index of the the stories here and some more info on what the year and a day is about here. And if you liked it, you can subscribe by email if you like, so you get the rest delivered to your inbox.

Tagged as: Aquae Sulis, Friday Flash Fiction, Split Worlds