small fictions

 The Fire in our Belly

I’m fumbling with the matchbox in my jeans, as a woman all in black heaves open the door. I look towards the curled paperback upon my table and pick at the pages. 

The steamed windows don't warn the stranger of the heat-blast. Or the aromatic-shock of coffee. She surveys the Cafe Creme, before approaching my table. 

'Ana Mendieta'? She moves in, expecting my smile, and dumps her backpack on the chair opposite. 

'I have some water, do you want a drink'? I put down the book and slide my glasses to the back of my head. 

'No, but thanks, I'm not thirsty. And I’m Yoko’. She takes a seat next to her backpack, and fiddles with the pages of 'The Guerillas'.

My phone wrinkles the denim, vibrating the jacket slumped over the  chair-back. I shut down the phone and move up and out of the cafe, gesturing to Yoko to do the same.

‘C’mon let’s go’, Carolee greets us on the street. She hands me her backpack. I take the face paints to daub gold upon their cheeks, before I mark my own face. Jackets and jumpers are removed, to reveal paint smears making flames across our naked bellies. 

Yoko takes out the drum from her backpack and straps it to her waist. I  bring out the candles and tiaras from my rucksack. The three of us put the candle-tiaras through our hair, and I light all the candles. 

‘It’s Showtime’, Carolee takes this procession to the bridge. All of us have fire in our bellies, and are not afraid of it being so cold. The three faces of the Ana Mendieta Conspiracy, are alight with yellow gold red fire, and the December dusk descends. 

We shimmer and flame along the people-crowded bridge. Wind teases the flames and hot wax drips down into our hair. Yoko abandons her tiara and flings it down into the Thames below. The candles fall from the tiara, 1, 2, 3; and all sink down into the murky waters.

Tripping over his shoes, I stumble and awaken a suitted-trancer commuting alongside the micro-procession.The three of us steam past the hot dog stand, and dodge the wall-creeping gallery-goers as they exit into the night. 

Yoko's drumbeat announces our arrival at the entrance to the Turbine Hall. And the three of us speak out as one:

‘Imagine a hunger so great you must separate the crumbs from the dust from the dirt under your feet. Imagine a thirst so strong you must drink the dew from the grass to quench it. Imagine your belly so swollen with emptiness it rumbles and grumbles and spontaneously alights'.

The security guard stands forward to halt our entrance, but cannot  stop Carolee’s speech:

'This fire in our belly is a yearning desperate and desirous for more. We want more. But there is a conspiracy of silence. To silence us as women artists, and to ignore us and our work and hope we will be forgotten'.

'So, who are you'? The security guard must question our expectant approach.

'We are the Ana Mendieta Conspiracy, and we will not be silenced', Carolee retreats when the guard blows out the candles on her tiara.

'Health and safety risk. So, you're nothing to do with the treacle girls'?

'The who'?

'They have just been in, laying down in puddles of black treacle'. 

'No? That's nothing to do with us'.

'It's taken the cleaners a good half an hour to sort the mess out. Anyway you can't come in, and my colleague will escort you off the Tate Modern premises'.

'But we are outside!'

'All this here', and the guard spreads his arms out wide, 'is all part of the Gallery's space. You must be kind of cold', and the guard laughs at our bared bellies. 'C'mon let's have a selfie, before the Law strides over here'. 

‘We are far too hot to handle,’ Yoko retorts and we three all laugh together.

 …’because we have fire in our bellies’, Carolee continues loudly,

‘We are hungry! We are celebrating forgotten and silenced women artists. We are not muses for The Great Masters of Art, but working women artists'...  

The Law moves in on us three, 'Move on! Put those candles out now! You're all a bloody health and safety risk'! 

‘Is that it? Are we just going to sidle away? Or are we going to claim our space in the gallery’? Carolee slides to the floor and gives us the I-expect-you-two-to-both-follow-me look. A look that increases in severity as we stand and watch her be coaxed upright by the Law. 

‘Go on sling your hook, and don’t come back’, snarls the Law.

Carolee bursts forward from the shadow of the Law, ‘Where were you both, you just froze’!

Yoko dawdle-dances, though she stays put and still aligned to our cause.

‘I was assessing the likelihood of making any positive impact’, and I move away.

‘You did nothing’!

Yoko steps back, ‘Look, I'm going, it’s not turned out as I expected. The security guard is still glaring at us’.

‘The show’s over, Carolee’. We walk. She doesn’t talk.

Shortcuts

“Where are you?” Kim said.

“Over here”, Teena said.

“Why are you over there?” Kim said,

“I need to be here”, Teena said.

“You are not where you should be. I can’t find you. How did you get there?” Kim said.

“I read the map”, Teena said.

“Where are you?” Kim said.

“I’m in the field”, Teena said. “I have taken a shortcut. Look at the map”.

“But I can’t read the map”, Kim said.

“Look at the map and find the dotted line, then follow the path across the field”, Teena said.

“You must be wrong, there is no sign to point the way”, Kim said.

“Look at the ground and follow the path of worn down grass”, Teena said. “And if you walk straight ahead you will find me”. 

“If you kept to the straight and narrow you wouldn’t be lost”, said Kim.

“Ok, I’ll come and find you”, Teena said.

“I’m sorry you got lost”, said Teena.

“Don’t start”, said Kim.

“Ok”. said Teena. “Let’s make another shortcut, through this field”.

“But it’s totally overgrown”, said Kim.

“It’s a Right of Way”, said Teena. “Look at the map”.

“You and your map, Teena”, said Kim. “We need some sticks to beat down these blue weeds”. 

“It’s a flax crop, not weeds”, said Teena. “Come on, into the wild we go”.

“You may be tiny, but you are a good battering ram, Teena”, said Kim.

“Thanks Kim”, said Teena.

“Are you lost?”, said the man holding the gun. 

“I don’t think so”, said Teena. “We are following the path on the map”.

“This is a private road”, said the man.

“There is a Right of Way here”, said Teena. “Look it's on the map”.

“This is still a private road”, said the man. “Didn’t you see the signs? How did you get here?”.

“We came through the field”, said Teena. “We only want to cross to the other side and follow the path. Please”.

“Ok”, the man said. “I will let you cross, but you really shouldn’t be here. And be quiet”. And the man with the gun walked down the road, away from the girls.

“When did you get to be so articulate, tiny tiny, Teena?”, said Kim. “You can be so embarrassing”.

“Shush”, said Teena. “He told us to be quiet”.

“Why is the merry-go-round here?” said Kim.

“...Shush…”, said Teena. 

“And the wild looking horses?”, said Kim.

“…We are supposed to be quiet”, said Teena.

“Why doesn’t it feature on your map?”

“I wonder why?” said Teena.

“What do you mean?” said Kim.

“Maybe it’s not supposed to be here”, said Teena.

“It’s some strange kind of shortcut you have taken me on, shorty“, said Kim. “Stop staring and let's move on out of here”. 

Steam

My granny's house isn't old. But the dust lives in the nooks and the crannies. Every time we travel west and holiday with my grandparents i am ill. My parents blame my illness on all the old dusty objects that my grandparents have cluttered in the about the place.

In our room dusty old books are stacked up on the cupboard and are keeping up one end of the bed. I can see the dust in the air against the strong illumination in the room. As the dust floats around I'm wheezing. Slowly my lungs struggle. It is the middle of the night, and I need help.

Somehow my dad is summoned. And he gets me to take a spoonful of medicine from the bottle. He brings in the kettle, removes the lid and lets it steam away.

I try to breathe deeper. To take in all this mist. My lungs pull in and again. I try not to panic. My dad sits down next to the bed and retells the family stories. He is trying to calm me down. The kettle keeps bubbling away and the mist hits my mouth my face my hair my skin.

The mist is warm to the touch. And gets hotter as the room fogs up. Drops of water form on my face, maybe I rub them away.

I share a room with my brother, but when the room needs steaming he isn't there. My dad comes to calm me and keep an eye on me. I guess he is as scared as I am. I just didn't know it then.