Lilah's Last Line Blogfest

Lilah is hosting a Blogfest: she is celebrating the end. Putting the carefully crafted page one away, she has chosen to turn the spotlight on the limping-over-the-last-line final words of our wips. I was happy to oblige even though it meant I actually had to consider what might happen at the end of FLOWER.

I considered and the clock ticked on, odd how it does that, so here you go:

Flower was fifteen when her Mum died in a car accident. She didn't take it well. Her Mother's Uncle, Great Uncle Will, was the only relative who could take her in. He took her to the Isle of Mull where he was investigating eagles for the Scottish National Trust and Durham University.

       The car rocked as Uncle Will hurried to catch the ferry and the tide. Every vibration and jolt travelled from temple to core. The tracks of my tears mirrored every imperfection in the road.  

     We had said good bye, every day for days, but I still looked. It was dawn, the sun floated like an iceberg out at sea but I couldn’t stop myself from looking... looking for the white cottage in the bowl of the hill.

     There was no light coming from Edward’s room; the blind at the window slept.

     We passed the end of the lane and headed down towards the port. I counted the gates. Counted down until I’d be out. The last gate was a blow. This gate was black and blue: Edward’s hair resting on his blue jacket.

     “Unc Will?”

     He pulled over. “We don’t have much time.”

     I scrabbled at the handle, Edward didn’t move: not when I opened the door, not when the gravel protested under my boots.

     I’d never touched him – hit him, but never touched him. The wind blew his hair before my fingers followed to stir the silky strands.

     He woke fast. He caught my fingers when I tried to pull away.

     “Didn’t want to miss you.”

     “Egg? Edward, I’m... sorry.”

     “Message me? Write. Something?”

     The bruises were fading but there was a new hurt in his eyes, “Who else could I talk to?”

     “Talk to Will. Let him help.”  I glanced back to the cottage. “Yes. I’ll talk to them too.”

     Me and Egg – Picasso souls. I squeezed his fingers; the impatient revving had reached formula one pitch.

     “I’ll call tomorrow...”

     “That’ll do.”

     He smiled. He made me smile. 

That was fun. I knew what was due to happen but as Flower is sitting on a bed in Kendal she is some way off ending her story.