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For writers on our site that are sitting in the northern hemisphere, the prompt ‘Spring’, posted in early April, was a godsend. They only needed to look out of their windows for inspiration and some of the submissions were glorious reminders of the renewal of life, even as we remained holed up in our homes. For me, twenty five years after swapping the northern for the southern hemisphere, the reversal of the seasons still feels strange.

Spring (250 words)

It’s Spring now in England. There are daffodils, bluebells, blossoms and baby lambs. Lengthening evenings and the anticipation of summer. Pubs spill tables and chairs out onto pavements. Layers are shed, goose bumped arms and legs revealed. Barbecues are cleaned off, squally showers deter no one. Playgrounds swell with the sounds of children, months cooped up, letting off steam, the joy of the fresh air evident on their ruddy cheeks.

Winter has been long, dark and hard.

‘ Ne’er cast a clout ‘til May is out’ – my grandmother’s warning not to be fooled by April’s early promise went unheeded every year as we embraced the weak sun.

In South Africa, the nights have drawn in. Trees have been stripped, the streets strewn with their autumnal leaves, removed by the whipping wind. Like an over amorous boyfriend it didn’t take the time to see how beautiful they looked, but swiftly removed their summer clothes, which are now lying crumpled on the floor, like a lover’s cast off dress.

Lawns turn brown but the Liquid Amber trees burn bright yellow and orange for a few weeks before they also succumb and fall silent. The Highveld withers and slowly dies.

More than twenty years here and the seasons remain forever back to front. How strange that April, a month synonymous with life and fecundity now means hibernation and dormancy.

In September, we swap over, and my season of mists and mellow fruitfulness is exchanged for the start of a long, scorching summer.

These two related pieces came from the prompts ‘Gently’ and ‘Ivory’. They were posted in that order, but I have reversed them as somehow it works better with the shorter piece first. They reflect my deep regret at being inherently un-musical, and my fascination with watching pianists make wonderful music.

Ivory (100 words) It’s about more than tinkling the ivories

Until he settled on the old worn piano stool, and he and the cool ivory keys made contact with each other, he could never be sure what notes he would strike. The sensation beneath the tips of his fingers suffused him with joy, sadness, energy, lassitude.

The piano would guide his hands, determining the tempo and the mood of the pieces that flowed effortlessly through them. The instrument knew his state of mind. Sometimes it indulged his melancholy, sometimes it contrived to buoy him through the difficult times. It uplifted and calmed him, harmonising with his inner thoughts, soothing his soul.

Gently (300 words) – Hitting the Right Notes

His agile fingers danced effortlessly and gently across the ivory keys, making the complex shapes of the different notes and chords. He looked up at her from time to time and then bowed his head again, moving his torso sinuously, swaying and dipping over the keyboard. His feet flexed and released the pedals, damping some sounds and allowing others to build in resonance and timbre.

She did not have the gift of music and so envied the ease with which he could sit at the beautiful maple wood baby grand and bring it to life. Seated at the worn piano stool he would disappear for hours into himself, locking her out, left, tuneless, helpless, without the words or notes with which to reach him.

She recognised the melody, but without his training, his vast repertoire played without sheet music, she had no recourse in her memory to search for the title or the composer. It was something classical, that had been modernised somewhere, somehow. She tried to recapture a time when she had heard it before and to know why this tune, why now.

“Ed?”

He shook his head, dismissing her and changed tempo.

The piece was discordant, the minor chords giving it an overwhelmingly sad feel. He shifted now into ragtime, his left hand hitting the same notes in a repetitive pattern whilst his right stretched and jangled the higher notes. He switched to an achingly beautiful piece and became engrossed in its complexity. As it reached a crescendo, he slipped seamlessly back to the ragtime. He was mocking her. That’s what he used his music for- to tease her, to love her, to laugh at her, to show his anger – to communicate with her. But today she was at a loss to decipher his musical code.

This piece was written in response to the prompt ‘Doughnuts’ in 150 words. I dislike all forms of deep fried doughy cakes including Spanish churros, French beignets, South African vetkoek, American Krispy Kremes or a good old traditional English jam or cream doughnut, so that took me straight to the other kind…It is written from painful memory…

Only doughnuts provided her with comfort and relief. She watched her diet, balancing her quota of fresh fruit, roughage and protein, but doughnuts were absolutely allowed and had been recommended by her doctor.

Sometimes her need for one overwhelmed her, reducing her to tears. She could barely function if she got to the office without one, unable to get through the morning without her fix. She would pace, not settling at her desk until one had been sent in for her.

She never imagined her dependence on doughnuts would become so all consuming. She had tried so many alternatives but none worked as well. She had been embarrassed to confide the extent of her pain without them to her doctor, who had reassured her that it was completely normal in her condition.

She was pregnant, haemorrhoids were killing her and only sitting on a hollowed out soft cushion eased the pain.