Three Fictions by Mark Valentine
"Beneath the overblown dandelions, the ground, and this world with it, was sliding away."
Mannequin
The mannequin’s head wore a pair of sunglasses and a faux fur cap, like a glamorous East European femme fatale in a Cold War thriller. Her cold blue eyes surveyed the scene. There was a table of exotic Nineteen Seventies ceramics, vases with folk art, runic and geometric designs, and powdered white cubes, an amber pyramid. Nearby there were silver cigarette cases with intricate engraved initials, interlaced. Paisley cravats were prevalent. Outside, a stone lion, one great paw resting on another, gazed impassively at the horizon.
Mosaic
We were on the track to the old alabaster works. The day was hot and still and there was no one else about. A heady smell rose from the overgrown verge, cloyingly sweet: it came from the sultry orange balsam flower. Below, the railway, and the river, which was broad, brown and slow: above, a clump of trees where three buzzards hovered, high in the clear blue sky. And then we came upon the mosaic, made by local children many years ago, a model of their village, a ceramic map. It was already becoming muddied over and stalks sprouted in its streets. Some of the tiles were cracked or chipped. It looked as though it would not be long before the little tableau would be lost. Time was powdered here, the horizon cracked, the colors of the clay tablets throbbed: hot rose hectic orange chipped blue. Beneath the overblown dandelions, the ground, and this world with it, was sliding away.
There You Go
A fine haze of rain clung to my face and clothes as if frosted cobwebs wanted to explore the flesh. At a market stall I bought carrots, lemons, onions, cauliflower. They all seemed paler than they should be, their skins or leaves or husks diminished, as if they had stopped wanting to be what they were. The stallholder had an automatic patter he used with every customer: “There you go, my friend, want a bag, anything else, that the lot, thank you my friend, here’s your change, next please.” The thin white plastic bag sagged with the purchases, as if weighing how long to hold them for.
There was a bread shop around the corner. The door handle was a great brass quarter-moon, pitted and furrowed: and I wondered what it was a symbol for. But then I saw it was meant to be fashioned like a croissant. It was a small pleasure. I bought a loaf of wholemeal bread and an iced bun and remarked on the door handle to the assistant. She did not smile, but said: “Yes, and there’s a baguette on the back.” I looked in the direction she had nodded towards. The other side of the door had a long diagonal bar, with grooves and rounded ends, just like the narrow French loaf.
I began to think of a town where all the shops had brass epitomes of their wares: shoes, umbrellas, pipes, hats, pens. People would touch them for luck, and they would become worn with a somber gleam. Beads of rain would glimmer on them and sometimes the sun illumine them. It would be like wandering among talismans.
Great stuff. The last one rocked me the most. Thanks!