I recently rediscovered this flash fiction story I’d written way back in 2017. It’s always lovely and - often a surprise -  to discover again and read something you’ve long ago forgotten. Flash fiction is one of my favourite forms of writing and I’ve worked in contexts all over the world sharing it with others.

I wrote this story as part of a BBC Storytelling Festival I was invited to co-lead in Leicester Cathedral in the UK.

Over 100 children from local schools joined me, lecturers and fellow writers from the University of Leicester’s School of Arts for a Flash Fiction workshop. Using objects and artefacts from all around the cathedral as inspiration, the young people wrote their own flash fiction (or very short stories) and shared their work.

Here is one of the stories I wrote during this project, inspired by the Ypres Cross in the Cathedral. I also had the pleasure of sharing this story on the day.

 The Ypres Cross
 
I visit the cathedral every week. I come to see the Ypres cross, to touch the glass that covers it, keeps it safe.
 
The broken beads wound around the crucifix remind me of the beads my grandmother used to wear.  She wore them for special occasions: for nights she wanted to feel beautiful. She looped the string around her throat and they looked pale against the dark blue of her blouse.
 
Next she added colour to her cheeks, lipstick to her mouth. She knew her own face well and did this with precision. Later, she slipped a shawl over her shoulders, stepped out to dance with her friends.
 
My grandmother doesn’t wear her beads anymore. She cannot walk, doesn’t have the strength to lift her legs. She spends her days in bed now, dying slowly from something they cannot cure.
 
Sometimes she asks me to put powder across her cheeks, to fetch a mirror so she can see. She tells me how she loves to dance and she asks me for her beads.
 
When I tell her that the beads are broken, that she cannot dance tonight, she begins to cry.

I wipe her tears with my hand, say I love her, but she looks confused. My grandmother doesn’t know who I am. She doesn’t remember me. But she remembers her beads. How they felt cool on her neck and how they moved against the dark blue of her blouse as she danced.