I’d like to thank Y. Y. Browne of the United Kingdom for her Micro Fiction story ‘Flowers Over My Old Clothes’. A sassy tale of retribution and second chances.
Y. Y. Browne lives in England with her family of two children, one husband, three dogs, and two corn snakes. Her poetry and stories have appeared in Obsessed With Pipework, FRiGG, Poetry Monthly, Weyfarers, Blast, Autumn Sky, Peeking Cat Literary, and Everyday Fiction.
You can follow Y. Y. Browne on Facebook and Twitter
Flowers Over My Old Clothes
In Latin, Erica means heather, especially winter heather.
Now, just because it was my name doesn’t mean I like the flowers. Couldn’t care less, if I’m honest with you, love. But you Connie, my dear sweet girl, you’ve been relentless these past fifteen years, tending my grave. (I clearly asked to be cremated, but never you mind, we’ll just leave that there). But, oh dear, isn’t this plot chock-a-block with heather? Planted over my old clothes.
‘Old clothes’ – now, that’s what your Nabil calls it. These bodies we leave behind. He got it from that Persian poetess he tried to get me to like (I forget her name). Wrote about there being no death. Just life after life, one set of clothes off, another on, until your soul gets weary, you stop trying on new things, and you rest. I’d like that now. I’m content with my lot of old wardrobes. Now, I’m done. Done with red frocks for dancing with soldier boys, tennis whites, denims for the rebel rides, aviator leathers and slaughterman’s boots, oh, and that tiny toga that exposed my pert, left diddy (which, to be frank, was any legate’s fig for the tasting, when I was a slave).
But ‘hey ho, there you go’, as your father would say. It’s time to bring it all an end, if it’s all the same to you. You’re all that binds me now, my girl. Well, your grief. No, sod it, not grief, guilt. There it is, Connie, I said it – you’re guilty. Just in part, mind. But it’s what the judge said. You are responsible for the accident that took my life. You decided to smoke that marijuana cigarette with that Jade whatever-her-name-was before your driving lesson. You were seventeen. It was my fault. I’d given you too much credit for being the smart one (your brother Edward, he’s the one everyone said would be the death of me, but there you are).
Is that Nabil? He’s with you today, sweet man. And don’t you both look tanned. Holiday? No, not with that nasty virus knocking about, everyone and their mother stuck indoors (what a word, though eh–pandemic? — your father would say it was Latin for ‘everyone’s demons’, ha-ha). But don’t you look fat, Conn. Mind you, I heard you all packed on a stone each during the lockdown, ‘little piggies eating pies’, as your father wou– Oh! Oh my! Constance Mary Padget-Majidi, are you pregnant?
Bless me, but that’s wonderful, love!
Have you and Nabil found somewhere else to live? Don’t tell me you’re staying in the old house? You always were one to hang on (not Edward, off like a whippet first chance). Not my Connie. Constance-steady-as-rocks, your dad called you.
Now, so much to do. So many plans. You’re going to need me around after all, my sweet girl. (You ‘took me out’, as your father would say, it’s only right you bring me back in). Settled! One more set of clothes, then.
Been to the ‘Mothercare’ out at the new-build mall, Conn? Loads of smashing, little outfits for me there, I’m sure…
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