1973 — Flash Fiction

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She looks at me with a frown beneath a blonde curl. The afternoon sun spills through the lace curtain, catching the cigarette smoke hanging in the room.

‘Why aren’t you wearing any makeup?’

‘I am,’ I reply sheepishly.

‘Leave her alone, she doesn’t have to wear makeup if she doesn’t want to.’ Clara yells from the living room.

‘Well she should wear makeup.’

My armpits are sweaty and my hands clammy. I am uncomfortable in Ellen’s presence. She confirms everything I’ve always suspected: I’m not good enough.

I am wearing mascara but that doesn’t count according to Ellen, it is not makeup.

🚬

The cigarette burns slowly in the overflowing ashtray. The kettle whistles in the tiny kitchen, steam curling beneath nicotine-stained cupboards. The room smells of stale smoke and instant coffee.

Ellen is kneeling on the worn carpet, flicking impatiently through a stack of records, cardboard sleeves whispering against one another. She is looking for a song she insists I have to hear.

I sit cross-legged on the floor watching her. The way her blonde curls fall across one eye. The chipped polish on her fingernails. She’s only a few years older than me, yet she seems impossibly grown up. Confident. Certain of herself. She makes me nervous, but I can’t stop watching her. She just might be the older sister I always wanted.

I take a drag from the cigarette.

‘Do you want me to make the coffee?’

‘Yeah,’ she says. ‘I can’t find this fucking record. I bet Clara stole it.’

‘Why would Clara do that?’

‘Because she’s a bitch.’

📻

The pub is already three deep at the bar. Beer slops across polished timber. Glasses clink. Cigarette smoke hangs beneath yellow lights, turning everything amber. The jukebox is too loud for conversation, so everyone shouts anyway, laughing with strangers as though they’ve known each other for years. The air smells of beer, and cheap perfume.

Ellen is made up to the nines, with her backcombed curls, mini skirt, white boots, hooped earrings and eye makeup so thick she reminds me of Dusty Springfield. I think she is beautiful with her false eyelashes and pouting orange-red lips.

I feel self-conscious as I smooth down my mini dress. It keeps riding higher every time I move. I can feel eyes on me. I am too young to be here and terrified someone will ask my age, tell me to leave, and send me home.

They don’t.

The bathroom smells faintly of hairspray and cigarette smoke. I stare into the spotted mirror above the basin. Blue eyeshadow almost reaches my eyebrows. Glitter catches the harsh light. Purple lipstick hides the nervous way my mouth always turns down at the corners. My hair is so backcombed a nest of birds could live in there.

I do not recognise myself.

It is one of the best nights of my life, although my mother must never find out.

And Ellen.
Well, Ellen is my grown-up sister.
Not really.
But in every way that matters.

She carried the world as though it belonged to her. Her love of music matches my own.

I like the makeup and how I look. Grown up. Pretty, almost as pretty as her. We could most definitely be sisters.

And to this day, Ellen will never know the impression she made on me. You might think it was the makeup, or the thrill of looking older than I was.

It wasn’t.

The mascara smudged. The lipstick faded. The glitter was washed down the sink before morning.

What she gave me was something that couldn’t be seen in the mirror.
Something that reached far deeper than glitter, mascara and lipstick.
I doubt Ellen ever even knew.

© Samira Wyld 2026

Thank you for reading another post from Shadows And Midnight Screams where we delve into the world of shadows, desire, and untamed expression. My illustrated collection of poetry ‘Twenty Past Midnight’ is now available as a paperback and you can find out more about that here.

And until next time…
Stay seXy, Stay wYld, Be Free™