NONFICTION
Visiting Time
by Bill West
On the children's ward Dad sat beside my bed, not knowing how to cheer me up. "Mum sent you a present," he whispered with a speculative grin.
He produced a bright orange from his coat pocket and gave it to me. I stared unconvinced at the dimpled skin and stroked its puckered crown with my thumb.
Dad took a penknife from his pocket, unfolded a gleaming blade and took the fruit back. He squeezed the orange gently before cutting a nick in its skin. Sunlight beaming down from the high window caught the tiniest spurt of zest. With a magician's flourish his blade circumnavigated the fruit pole-to-pole with a shallow continuous incision. The citrus smell flooded the air.
He ran the tip of his thumb inside the cut, prising the skin from the flesh beneath. There was a sucking sound as the dome of peel parted from the plump fruit inside. He lifted the perfect disc of cupped peel and gave it to me to hold. I marvelled at the waxy skin with its downy interior. Shucking off the remaining peel he balanced the white veined globe on the smooth counterpane. "Steady now," he said, "or it will roll away, never to be seen again."
Then he teased me, making monster eyes with the circles of peel, grinning and wagging his head. He played trick after trick to make me laugh. I tried hard not to giggle and spill my prize.
Later we shared the fruit segments, peeling off the veins of pith. I crushed each piece against my teeth with my tongue until sweet sunshine burst in my mouth.
I played with the peel until it turned flat and cracked. I hid a piece under the starched pillow to keep that smell with me after dad had gone.
Bill West has been writing flash fiction for 12 months. He tends to write in the 50 to 800 word range and his work ranges from shadow to humour. His work is typified by good prose style and sharp visuals.
He lives in rural Shropshire and likes to write about trees.