Edie sits in a rickety armchair alone in a darkened room. It’s winter and she wears two cardigans and a shawl. On her head is an acrylic hat from Primark. Woollen mittens cover emaciated hands. A tattered rug drapes across her knees. Deep craters etch Edie’s face and her skin is parchment-thin. It looks like she is waiting for The Call.
The room is freezing but Edie cannot afford the heat.
The furniture is old and dark. There is no television or radio. She sits staring at a black Bakelite telephone. Her expression says she desperately wants it to. Does she realise the phone is not connected? Along with the gas and electivity it has been cut off. The water will be next to go.
There are photographs of cats and dogs around the room but none with humans. Edie sits still, cold as a marble statue. She holds her hands on her lap as if in silent prayer. Then, her face brightens, the phone is ringing. A miracle is taking place. Her eyes moisten as with skeletic hands she takes up the receiver and smiles, ‘Hello.’
Tristram whispers, trying not to disturb the atmosphere. ‘Quiet please everyone. Quiet please. Let’s go for a take’ When silence falls, he continues. ‘Turning over.’ There’s another pause. ‘Action.’ The latest television Christmas Charity Commercial is underway.
Within no time Tristram announces. ‘That’s a wrap. Thank you everybody,’ and the crew slope off to the pub.
Leaving Edie alone in her cold home.
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 