Flash Fiction Friday #24 The Ritual

Unused to being disturbed so early in the day she was woken by a ritual she had heard many times growing up but not since she went to uni. She listened, hearing her father's strong and stern chiding voice coming from the room beneath her bedroom. Pulling a pillow over her head she tried to go back to sleep, wondering why the ritual had to take place at such an early hour of the day.

She hadn't heard the ritual for over a year. Her uni terms had coincided with those of the private school her parents worked at so when she returned home for holidays the boarding house was very empty. Her father was Housemaster to about 80 pupils who ranged in age from 11 to 17. She had lived, with her parents, on the second floor of the imposing Armstrong House since she was 10 and attended the "sister" school as a day girl, merely a 5 minute walk from her home. Every weekday morning the boys who had been "sent up' for some wrong doing had to line up outside her Daddy's study. Those that arrived seconds too late had to suffer listening to the boys ahead of them in the line getting their punishment. Like his daughter in the pink and white bedroom above, the walls adorned with posters of movie stars and music rebel, they listened. They didn't make eye contact with the others in the line, avoiding showing the fear they felt, trying to be nonchalant. They would overhear the Housemaster's lecture, there would be a short silence followed by the sharp crack of the rattan cane meeting a clothed posterior. The differentiation between mischief, ill behavior or waywardness being the number of cracks that were heard. Sometimes it was only the crack that would be audible. Other times the crack of the cane would be accompanied by a squeal of surprise or a boy's pleading voice followed by her Father's demanding instruction to stay still and receive what was deserved. When she would leave for school she would pass the boys, congregated on the huge porch, waiting for the breakfast bell. They would all politely stand and greet her as she walked past, all of them hoping to be noticed by the girl who was sometimes the catalyst of their fantasies. She would smile sweetly, feel her face blush and walk on, feeling self-conscious in her green and white gingham button-through dress, white ankle socks and polished brown lace up shoes, which completed her summer uniform. She would be relieved when a boy that she knew who would walk her to the nearby edge of the property where school met school. What the boys never knew was that she was always wondering which of them she had overheard that morning.

It took less than a minute for her to realize she couldn't ignore what was happening in the room below and wasn't going to fall back to sleep. She rolled over onto her back, untangled her pretty cotton nightdress, tucked the loose strands of her blond hair behind her ears and listened for the next boy to enter the study. As she had previously done, she allowed her imagination to run wild. Her heart pounded and her mouth was dry as she visualized herself standing before a faceless Housemistress apologizing for her errant behavior. For some reason she would always be wearing her winter uniform but without the sweater knit tights they all liked because they were so cosy but instead knee length khaki socks.

Herimaginative punishement involved passing her blazer to her disciplinarian and bending over the edge of the over sized mahogany desk. She always felt faint anticipating what was to come, not knowing if her legs were strong enough to hold her because they shake so much. Listening to the Housemistress opening the cupboard and selecting the chosen cane for this errant young lady. Feeling the cool air as the skirt of her green jumper dress is lifted above her waist and the regulation matching knickers are lowered to her knees. The strokes she overhears are the ones she is receiving, the imaginary bite of the cane hers to suffer. Her fingers have crept under her nightdress and find the waistband of her knickers, the fantasy so strong. Suddenly she realizes the cracks from below have stopped and the breakfast bell is ringing. She opens her eyes and notices the black dress hanging on the outside of her wardrobe. Feelings of guilt replace the need to touch herself. She remembers the reason she is home.

Kneeling up in her bed and opening the curtain she sees her Father striding towards the dining room which is virtually hidden behind the huge imposing willow tree, his gown flapping in the wind. Poor Daddy, having to bury is own Daddy today.

Torchlight Yesterday and Today

Remember when you were little and spent time under the bed covers with your torch? Perhaps you call it a flashlight? Nevertheless, wasn't the secretive nature of it so special? What did you used to do under there? What were you reading, listening to, or looking at? Who were you hiding from? What was it that you didn't want that person to see? Growing up on Africa, I can remember listening to pirate radio as a boarder at prep school. Whispered planning would start hours before the housemaster would appear for prayers and "lights out" and even longer before Matron would stalk the long dormitory floor to seek out those who were still awake because of forbidden activities. Once the coast was clear and Maton had shut and locked her door for, hopefully the final time, the activity would start. My closest friend would join me under my sheet and blanket and share the ear phone. We would lie together in our pyjamas stifling giggles about the lyrics and whispering suggestive thoughts about the singer. In the school holidays my parents would send me to bed and I would always duck under the coves, turn my torch on and read. I loved Gerald Durrell's books. Not only did I like the animal content but I couldn't get enough of the explicit couplings he descibed. When I was older I remember finding Harold Robbins "Goodbye Jannette" in my father's study. The sex but more so the spankings in that book made an everlasting impression on me. You have no idea how many nights the torch was out as I read and re-read the passages of what has now become a favorite tgi for me. My fathers copy was unfortunately confiscated by Matron (I had "borrowed" it from father and taken it to school at the end of the holidays) when she caught me and my torch reading to a group of engorssed chums a long time after lights out. I was not alone in "showing" how much I was enjoying the story line. My poor bottom!

It is fun to think back to childhood but I wonder if the situation is any different now. Children sneak extra time on the PC when they should be sleeping. They are on Facebook and MySpace and on their mobile phones. Adults do the same. How many people reading this blog sneak away from their partner to secretly read and look at matters that interest them but they don't want anyone to know their secret?

The torchlight lives on.

S