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Vee - The Open College of the Arts

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Vee


The following is extracted from BA Hons Creative Writing student Deborah Riccio’s short story ‘Vee’, a piece she had shortlisted for the Fresher Writing Prize (in May)
When she was three, Valerie Mossop learnt that if she lay on the family sofa and held her breath long enough, pretty soon one of her parents would notice. After all, how could they fail to see their daughter’s cheeks shining like a puffer-toad and her usually unremarkable eyes bulging from their sockets like engorged olives bobbing in a pool of brine?
And the pursuit in gaining her parents’ attention was not restricted to sofa shenanigans. If Valerie felt so inclined – especially if all eyes were very clearly not on her – then she would suddenly hurl her upright body onto a (semi) hard surface and flail her limbs to the beat of her wails until somebody did precisely what she wanted them to.
‘I don’t know what’s got into her, I really don’t,’ Irene Mossop would wring her damp apron through her hands as she and her husband watched Valerie’s latest drama unfurl in front of them. ‘She certainly doesn’t get it from me; I’m the last person making any kind of scene – and in the front room too. Look at her, whatever does she think she’s doing?’
Eric Mossop had fewer notions than his wife. He preferred not to make any suggestions as to why or how or, indeed where, their daughter had cultivated such theatrical techniques and simply wished he could be back at work with his uniform and pushbike where life felt that much simpler.
Irene would pore over her women’s magazines, scrutinizing every printed column inch for assurance that she was performing acceptable motherly duties according to the examples extolled on the pages – whilst fervently hoping whatever parenting skills she was effectively accomplishing, that these would not detract from her greater, wifely duties. For that would not do. To be the best wife was paramount; anything else, including motherhood was something she’d just become more adept at – like managing to get to the shops before they shut for half-day on Wednesdays.
‘She’s overstimulated,’ Irene’s mother told her. ‘You’ve been letting her sit too close to that gogglebox again. I told you – it’ll be the death of us with all those atom rays – you mark my words. Your father will agree with me.’
Which Irene didn’t doubt. After all, her father agreed with everything his wife said – it made for an easier way of life. But he had noticed the girl behaving oddly before – perhaps she had a touch of the fragile nerves that his own poor mother had suffered with? Maybe she’d develop into one of those silly-heads that they’d kept in a special room at school when he’d been a lad. Although he might keep these thoughts to himself.
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Image Credit; OCA student Rob Sarll


Posted by author: Joanne

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