My Words, My World

First drafts – A few pages in the large wilderness of the world of writing

Archive for the tag “fear”

11 May 2014

Once green world memory

Where be now the wind
that once blew?
Around the compass, all around;
south, east, west and north true.
Flag flutter memory
just choking on dust.

Where are you now rain,
that once fell?
Down from the heavens, drenching me;
downpour, shower, drizzle.
Umbrella memory
doesn’t dampen dust

You frost, cold and white,
that once lay.
Covering the fields, chilling me;
your kiss hard underfoot.
Winter boot memory
now walking in dust

And you the snow, you
fall no more?
Stinging my face, red cold my nose;
freezing, numbing my hands.
Sheepskin glove memory,
tracing in the dust.

From you the sun, where
can I hide?
From your lofty perch, glaring;
shrivelling, withering.
Once green world memory,
now turning to dust.

 

 

Posted in extinction, poesia, poet, Poetry, words, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment
04 May 2014

StoryADay May day 3 – Red sister

The prompt from 3 May contained required the use of ‘vermillion’ and ‘musky’.  I think I managed it.  It’s still 3 May in New Mexico, for example so technically I can still squeeze it in.  Well, it was written before my Swiss midnight.

**********

 

Her face looks beautiful in the bright, white light.  Her musky perfume fills the air as we sit on the terrace.  The shadows of her features pronounced in contrast, her nose creating a pyramid-shape and the furrows creating trenches in her forehead as she looked away from the glare; it’s a magical moment but one doomed to pass quickly, as all moments do.  In this early evening dim I am fascinated.

The day had dawned cold but bright, and, following breakfast of espresso and a croissant we decided to take a long walk along the coastal road, up and down the small hills with little traffic to disturb the tranquillity of it.  We must have walked more than 10 miles before deciding to stop for lunch at a small restaurant just off the road, perched on a small cliff overlooking the rock-strewn beach beneath us.  We ordered a Prosecco each from the bar and sat down at one of the small, plastic tables on the terrace, pulled our coats around us and lit a cigarette.

We had a fine lunch of spaghetti with clams followed by a shared lobster – what the hell, it was a special day after all.  The two bottles of white wine went down well, so well in fact I kept nodding off in the taxi taking us back to the hotel.  We stayed in bed for a couple of hours, making sweet love and holding each other close, barely speaking; there was no need.  Finally, as the daylight outside faded in its wintry haste, we took a shower, dressed and went down to the hotel terrace looking over the sea.  I tightened my scarf around my throat while she pulled down her hat and we sat.  Our drinks arrived.

The seagulls were screaming, swooping and diving every time a wave broke and the sound, along with that of the waves, filled the evening.

The western sky still glowed a variety of pinks and one by one the stars appeared but none outshone the beautiful Venus, her vermillion majesty abroad in the evening sky.  Sitting above the now-set sun she took centre stage.

“What’s that low star darling?”  She asked, pointing to it.  “It’s so bright.”

It was in fact enormously bright, even in the frigid winter air.  The hairs on the back of my neck made a lazy, crawling motion.  As we looked, she continued to burn brighter then, suddenly, her light expanded. It continued doing so until it seemed the sun had returned from below the horizon.  Still the light expanded.  The first knot of fear appeared in my stomach.

“What is it Honey?” She asked, holding my arm tighter.

“No idea, well actually I do but it’s not a rational one”

“Tell me!”  It was an order.  She fumbled in her bag for her cigarettes.

VENUS HAS EXPLODED! I wanted to shout.  I didn’t however.  My mind filled with possibilities and ramifications of our red sister disappearing into a million pieces.  My mind asked how, yet I knew the answer, it was obvious.

“Do you remember you read that article in the newspaper the other week about the approach of a couple of asteroids, big enough to do damage?”  I took one of her cigarettes and lit up.  Bloody low- tar were not need at this moment.  I broke the filter off and continued smoking.  I had her attention.

“Well the experts said they would pass within so many million miles of us.  I think that while we’ve been looking out of our porch to see if something was crossing our front lawn, no one told us what would happen if we left the back door open.  We’ve been worrying about a rogue asteroid or a misdirected comet for years but we’ve never considered other planets, I mean, why should we?  I think something has hit Venus and whatever it was was big.”

The light consumed the night sky.  The moon no longer cast a reflection over the calm, black sea.  The only reflection came from an ever-growing light around 100 million miles from us.

“Then we’re OK,” she said, sounding fairly convinced, “I mean what harm can it do us from here?”

She had a point; I mean what was going to happen?  A huge piece of rock had thrown itself into the second planet and by the looks of it had obliterated it, creating nuclear chain reactions and sending a million pieces flying through space.  What harm could it do?  I didn’t want to analyse that question, I didn’t need to.  I knew that somewhere across the gulf of space a piece of our sister planet was heading our way.

We ignored the cold and remained seated outside.  The bowls of olives and peanuts had been consumed; the ashtray had been emptied once and was steadily filling up again.  The light was getting ever brighter, the night sky lit completely, even the birds in the trees started singing, thinking it was daytime.  We continued to sit and watch, entranced.

Her face looks beautiful in the bright, white light.  In this early evening dim I am fascinated.  They told us the world would end December.  I’m now going to order us the most expensive champagne followed by the finest cognac.  I don’t think I’ll have time to pay for it.  I don’t think we’ll be here much longer.

Posted in Depression, extinction, Fiction, Flash Fiction, Horror, Italy, Love, relationships, Short Fiction Stories, venus, words, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment
03 May 2014
2 Comments

StoryADay May 2014 (day 2) – My fridge, my end?

I know, I’m late but there was no way of doing this yesterday, work gets in the way sometimes. “Magnetic words” – that took some thought and alas…this is all I came up with. Roll on to Day 3

**************************

I can feel my heartbeat, my temples are thumping; a bit like the sound of a washing machine on slow spin at the end of its cycle. My stomach cramps, or rather alternates between cramps and butterflies that flutter by. I need to step away, I need to get a grip. What is going on?

I woke up, splashed my face and made my way to the kitchen, no changes from my usual Sunday morning habit of making myself a pot of tea and preparing a plate of digestive biscuits and placing both on the little coffee table, spreading out and opening a book. This morning however I awoke early; thunder trounced my head and lightning tried to sear its way through the blinds and the rain hammered on anything it touch. A perfect day for reading, I thought, pouring the first cup from the pot. Then, without taking either opening a book or switching on my laptop, I step over to the fridge.

I, now, you, why, see, kill

It’s been a week now. Last Sunday morning I awoke, made my tea and started to read when a whispering noise made me look up from my book. I didn’t see anything; at first. The words, they rearranged themselves, on their own. There’s no one else here except me. There hasn’t been since last Saturday, except now I think she’s come back. Or she sees why I did or else…I’m going to see why she will.

Posted in Fiction, Flash Fiction, Love, murder, Short Fiction Stories, StoryADay May 2014, words, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , ,
01 May 2014
2 Comments

StoryADay May 2014 – Getting Home

Well, I didn’t expect to take part in this, I never have done. When I received my StoryADay May 2014 email this morning I paid it little attention as I had a busy, busy day ahead of me.  However a couple of inspired hours this evening have produced 1,500 words – whether they’re good words or not I’ll leave up to you.

I’ve no knowledge of Ohio but Google maps gave me a geographic idea. I’ve no way of knowing if there’s a bus station in Marion, Ohio. I know there’s a Route 23 – Google told me. Anyway, here it is.

Thanks Julie, thanks Neil.

**********************

It isn’t normal, there’s no way this is normal. Bob Dylan once said you don’t need a weather man to know which way the wind blows and normally I’d say Old Bobby was right. I do however wonder what he would’ve said if he was stuck here with me in this dog-turd bus station, where the lounge caters for both arrivals and departures, somewhere in these back-fields of Ohio, watching a little Vespa getting blown around like a dropped chewing gum wrapper on a Chicago street. The wind and storm came from the north; now it comes from everywhere. What can I do to get back in time for my presentation tomorrow in Chicago?  I look out of the greasy, finger stained window. The rain meets the glass two inches in front of my nose horizontally.

‘It’ll blow over,’ says some farmer Joe, probably a local from two fields down the road, ‘it always does.’

Genius. A down-home nougat of wisdom from the corn flats of Ohio. It most certainly always does, it’s called a weather pattern, and weather patterns; unlike other patterns, like those of the floral leaning on my wife’s dress, blow over.

‘You hear that honey? The man said it’ll blow over.’ Mrs 1978 big floral dress speaks just as I was thinking of her. Is that a sign of true love?

‘Blow over, my ass,’ not even bothering to turn around. I can see her reflection in the darkening window, trying to look sympathetic with arms folded, at least, when one of them isn’t shoving a donut into her cake-hole. Then, joy of joys, the baby starts crying. Tommy was fed only an hour ago but now he took up a wailing normally reserved for paid mourners at funerals. He takes after his mother; two peas from the same pod. I snatch half the piece of donut from her hand and shove it in the baby’s face. He shuts up and eats, he always does. It’ll give me a chance to think. If I wasn’t at the presentation at 9am the next day I was out of a job and out on my ass. And here I was stuck near Marion, Ohio. Not even Marion, Indiana, where at least they have the ghost of James Dean for company.

‘Don’t give him crap to eat; it’s not good for him.’ I presume she must’ve sprayed donut as she had a mouthful when I took half of it from her. Shame it didn’t fall backwards.

‘Start taking some of your own advice sweet cheeks and lemme think.’

‘The hell you think you’re talking to? I’m your wife and dammit you better treat me like it.’

I jump with a start as horizontal water turns to horizontal hail, big enough to bring joy to any gin tonic. My reflection mopes back at me in the now-black glass. The overheads come on full and an announcer’s muttering something through a wall of static. Hell you say boy?

‘I said, you skinny son of a bitch that you’d better treat me like it.’ A sugary paw that seems to be growing around the wedding band given aeons before pinches my shoulder and scatters refined fat-powder over my jacket. Enough weather watching. I drop my shoulder and spin round, nose to donut-crusher. The view outside was better. The rustle of the donut bag plays me in.

‘We flew to Cincinnati and we came here to this forsaken land of the corn, to see your father who doesn’t know who you are, your mother who’s too drunk to remember who you are and your shit-for-brains farmhand brother who doesn’t give a ding-dang-doodly who you are. Any why? Because you get…’

A chubby hand with weight behind it pushes me up against the window. A spray like a winter gritter truck fans out to great me. I blink.
‘You leave my family outta this.’ Another push and a podgy finger wave. ‘You leave my poor daddy outta this. Ma mama’s worked double shift trying to bring up Billy and care for pa.’ Tears somehow found their way around her ample cheeks. She’s a-hurting. Not as much as she will be if I lose my job and she has to cut back on her pastries. Hell, this is her fault anyway. Even the lack of rental cars is her fault.

‘Start eating three, yeah just three square meal a day and maybe, just maybe, you could get your ass in the car and travel further than the KFC before you start complaining and threatening to throw up. If we’d brought the car we would’ve been halfway to Chicago now.’

‘Maybe if you had yourself a decent car I’d be able to travel in it; that thing stinks and makes me sick.’

‘It stinks from the shitty Marlboros you smoke and the greasy food you eat. And what about my frigging presentation tomorrow?’ I bang my hand against the window, punctuating every syllable, raised voice barely audible over the wind trying its best to rip the roof off and the windows out.

People start to give us some space and make an unconscious ring around us. Great. End of the world weather outside. Hey honey; let’s watch the Laurel and Hardy couple go hammer and tongs in this excuse for an bus station lounge.

‘Maybe if you were the sort of husband you should be, I wouldn’t eat so much.’

‘What? I do 12 hour days in the studio to keep you in ices and him in diapers.’

‘You don’t know what it’s like bringing up a kid on your own, cos your husband ain’t there half the time.’ Thank God for small mercies. I take a series of deep breaths, my eyes blaze fire. She steps back and takes her hand away.

Noses and glasses peered over sports pages. To hell with them; I have to get out of here. I look around just as a gust hammers the window. Suddenly a garbage bin, the size of a small car, spins away from its post and heads toward the window. A communal intake of breath: even we’ve taken second billing now. I push my wife away from the window but she takes it badly, falls over on her ass and curses me to the four winds, except I think there are more than that outside.

Mr “it’ll blow over” comes over to me, holding up a key. ‘Son, we ain’t going anywhere yet. I got a cousin down in Columbus, you can take my car and leave it with him. You can get a plane from there; sure as hell get you there quicker.’

I liked the sound of down. The storm came from the north, from the lakes. Maybe it wouldn’t get that far. My wife, still sat on the floor, looks at me and shakes her head.

“It’s the job or us,” she says, without a hint of emotion.

I take the key and thank the man, and promise to fill up with gas when I get there. The address of his cousin is written on a torn flyer for a nearby agricultural show and tucked in my back pocket. I go over and ruffle Tommy’s hair and bend down to kiss him.

“Without my job there’ll be no us. Now get up and get going.”

She pulls Tommy away from me and holds him close. “Get away from us you selfish piece of shit.” The last word spat with cobra-like venom.

Against the advice of a security guard I head outside. The door is almost ripped out of my hands as I step out and hail rips into my body as I look for the brown pick-up. It’s sitting 50 yards away, rocking on its springs. I’m finding it hard to breath but tuck my head down and try to run. I fall over twice before getting to the door, fumble with the key in the lock and get inside. I turn the ignition and the truck starts straight away. Even with the lights on visibility is difficult. I head out onto the back roads trying to find my way onto Route 23.

I manage about a dozen miles, the last two through a black wood, without seeing another vehicle, which begins to concern me a little. I think back to my wife and kid sitting there in the airport, no doubt wondering how I can be so callous as to leave them there. Lost in thought I don’t see the fallen tree until it’s almost too late and I slam on the brakes. That was a close one. Now what shall I do?

I’m sitting here feeling the will drain out of me and join the puddles of water around my feet. A head-wrenching ripping sound comes from outside the car and I look up, and see a huge, dark shape crashing down in my direction.

Posted in Dialogue, Fiction, hope, relationships, Short Fiction Stories, StoryADay May 2014, Suspense, words, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
12 Apr 2014

Shadowplay

Living in a daily world of imaginary conflicts, in which the tide of others washed and pushed against him, He lived ever in anger’s twilight. The anger simmered, threatening to boil over but not quite managing to do so. In some ways it would have been better if it had.

In his make-believe world in which everything was a hurt against him, either directly or indirectly, he no longer lived; not in the true sense of the word. Whereas sensibility to his condition was heightened, other important aspects of his character were made obtuse. Happiness was an emotion felt by others. His anger would obtund any sense of enjoyment or achievement and his spiral continued downwards.

The world outside is bright
Spring fills the air
The fields and the trees are colour
Animals awaken from winter slumber
But within him the winter remained
And for him the clocks unchanged
He slivered on ice
where others walked on grass
He shivered with cold
while others warmed to the sun
He withered, his face white
when others danced with new life
He lingered in the shadows
whilst others cavorted in the long,
joyful hours of sunlight
He revered in his head
his sufferance in a world
where hurts imaginary
and conflicts obtusely
Beat him to the ground
into the dust, to be found
Where maybe hope one day
will bring him out;
out into the world again.

Depression can take manifest itself in various guises, this I know from personal experience.  Whilst at the height of my chronic insomnia 4 years ago the hospital put it down to depression which, personally, I couldn’t understand as there was no real motive, so I believed.  I just thought it was the other way around – that I was shot to pieces in the head, imagining scenarios which weren’t there simply because I didn’t sleep.  Thankfully, with loving support and no lack of determination, I managed to untangle myself from the shadow-spectre of this awful and destructive condition. 

During last 4 years I’ve started writing, which is a therapy in itself.  I still don’t sleep anywhere near the recommended 8 hours but whoever recommends this probably has nothing to do all day.  The above, in a very rough form, has been around quite a while, probably written during ‘recovery’ stage.  Ordinarily I avoid personally-related posts, but this is different – I want that reminder there.  I want to remind myself of where I was and where I am and be thankful for it.

C.

p.s. – Shadowplay is a track by Joy Division from their “Unknown Pleasures” album.  It just seemed apt in this case.

Posted in Depression, hope, insomnia, poesia, poet, Poetry, words, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment
06 Apr 2014
2 Comments

Smoke, ash and death to all

His eyes reflected the glowing, boiling mass of cloud, which masked the fear that lay behind them, as the first cracks appeared in the ground beneath his feet. The raining, burning acid ash now found its way to his skin. Confusion, as he looked around.

An hour before, the blue morning sky had been rendered and torn as a distant flash ripped through the atmosphere. The forest he had been looking at from the brow of the hill had danced before his eyes as the very Earth shook and moved on its axis, unable to sustain the blow which punched through its hide of rock and water and deep into the mantle.

He made his way down the gentle, stony slope and came to the first trees of the forest. He had no intention of getting tangled up inside but at the moment the trees offered protection from something as yet unknown but he felt sure of its arrival. His senses were in overdrive. Nothing moved and no animal called, and the only sound was his own reluctant footfalls as he wandered in rough circles, unable to decide any immediate action. Even the ground was silent in its shudder.

A vague, low movement on the horizon caught his attention. In the distance the blue of the morning was replaced by darkness and lightening flashed within the grey, growing veil, spreading over the sky, snuffing out sunlight with every passing second. He knew this was different to the frequent, sudden thunderstorms that marched through the low, wide valley, which were pedestrian compared to the jostling knot of clouds that raced towards him. His reluctance to enter the forest proved wise as huge clouds of smoke started to billow from the green foliage, obstructing his view and making it hard to breathe. He had to move.

Suddenly, from the trees there was movement as animal after animal crashed through the undergrowth and out into the open. Without waiting he followed, starting to run, his burning skin pushed to the back of his mind as instinct took over. The animals bunched together and ran before him as he gave chase, gaining ground with every stride. He was now on the level plain of the valley floor, and the tremors were less obvious now he was moving. The distance between him and his prey continued to lessen until, for no reason he could understand, he started slowing to a walk, the hunt for food no longer a priority.

He looked up at the sky, the seething cauldron of smoke, ash and fire replacing the daylight. He started to run but this time Tyrannosaurus realised that for the first time in his life if wasn’t hunger that filled his belly and drove him on, it was fear. His head filled with sounds of terror and ruin. There was nowhere to hide now.

Yesterday evening I flicked through the channels to find something which would make a good background as I ate my sea-bass.  I tripped over the last 10 minutes or so of a documentary on National Geographic about the last extinction of the dinosaurs, 65 million years ago.  I like the asteroid theory.  An increase in volcanic activity is far too slow, almost glacial.  I like the idea also of T-Rex chasing something, but for the first time in its life not with the idea of eating it.

My T-Rex here is portrayed as ‘he’.  I can do that, he won’t mind, as either by slow volcanic ash or mad meteorite mayhem he met his end a long time ago so I can call him what I want, although Lassie or Fluffy probably wouldn’t suit him very well.  If Thomas Hund hadn’t thought of it first I may have called him Toby. 

Posted in Blog, dinosaurs, extinction, Fiction, Flash Fiction, Short Fiction Stories, words, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , ,
21 Mar 2014
3 Comments

How to say goodnight

This started out as a prompt in Writer’s Forum magazine, giving me the title.  I really enjoy these exercises and they can make a wonderful change from whichever project you’re working on.

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Walking together
Under foggy street light
While you wonder
How to say goodnight

How to say goodnight
Will it end in a kiss?
Or will you return home
And regret the chance missed

Regret the chance missed
As she fades from sight
Wishing you knew
How to say goodnight

Posted in Blog, Wordpress, Micropoetry, poesia, poet, Poetry, words, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
14 Mar 2014
1 Comment

One Step Lovers

They stood side by side, hand in hand and their feet touched.  Mary could feel Tom’s hand squeezing hers, letting her know, without words, that they were one, a couple, and were in this together, as they had been for almost two years now.  He turned to kiss her.

It had started as a slow, drunken dance at a Christmas party; his steps awkward, a little drunk and she, not sober, sometimes trod on his feet, giggling.  They held each other close enough for their colleagues to start nudging each other and pointing.  Tom didn’t care; he didn’t want the dance to end, ever.  He was aware only of Mary’s perfume, the clean, shampooed scent of her shoulder length raven hair and her soft skin as he pressed his cheek against hers and whispered ‘you’re beautiful’.  Mary felt a butterfly take flight inside and she slung her arms around his neck as he held her, while Bryan Ferry sung “Slave to Love”, and the evening finished with a lingering kiss.

They started going out together over the Christmas period and returned to work a couple.  Both thought that working for the same company would get in the way but as Tom worked on the brokerage floor and Mary in the back-office a floor below, they rarely saw each other during the day and always had something to talk about in the evenings.  Recently they’d spoken of engagement, normally after a bottle of wine but they talked of it nonetheless. 

Tom let go of her hand, turned and placed his hands either side of her face as he bent to kiss her.  She held his gaze as her lips parted to meet his.  She felt their lips crush and she threw her arms around his neck, pulling him towards her.  The kiss was passionate although love had now replaced the lust that Tom had felt that first night but she still drove him wild.  He didn’t want that kiss to end, ever. 

Suddenly the floor shook beneath them once again; another explosion.  The heat and smoke were becoming unbearable and the couple parted.  Tom placed his cheek next to hers and whispered ‘I love you’, and Mary heard, above the noise and chaos she heard.  She pulled away and mouthed ‘I love you too’ back to him.  He felt tears sting his eyes as he smiled at her, drinking in her beauty in the late summer sunshine.  Then they turned.   

They stood side by side, hand in hand.  Mary could feel Tom’s hand squeezing hers, letting her know, without words, that they were one, a couple, and were in this together.  They stood, eyes closed and he gave her hand one last, tight squeeze.  They stepped off; into nothing and into forever.

***************************

Recently I read an article on 9/11, about those that became known as ‘the jumpers’; those men and women that chose to jump from the Twin Towers instead of burn.  It’s estimated some 200 people jumped before the towers collapsed.  In fact the images of those men and women are some of the clearest memories I have of the tragic events of that day.

I didn’t know this before reading but America in the main has tried to forget the fact that people jumped, because that would be considered suicide and that is contrary to God’s law.  I like to think instead that it was God and God’s love which gave them the initiative and courage to find that second way, knowing there was no way out. 

There seems to be a shadowy recollection of a man and woman jumping together but I can’t be sure after 12 1/2 years.  The possibility of a couple jumping together, finding strength in each other at the very last, pulls my heart strings, very tightly. 

I don’t do dedications, as they seem (to me) a somewhat futile exercise.  However, the events of that day in which 2’977 people lost their lives, between NY, Pennsylvania and The Pentagon, were so great that no-one remained untouched.  To all of those lost, and especially to the 200 who found the courage to take that final step.

Posted in Fiction, Flash Fiction, Love, relationships, Short Fiction Stories, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , ,
17 Feb 2014
1 Comment

The Old Iron Gate

In a recent edition of Writer’s Forum, I was interested in an article called ‘Morning Pages’, where you set yourself a morning hand-written (in my case) writing exercise of 3 notebook pages.  At first it read more like a diary and I was for giving it up.  Then I started pulling sentences out of the air and adding to them.  I didn’t really intend to air them but this morning’s one pulled me a little.  It’s not a story as such, more a descriptive exercise, however the last line leaves itself open for future ‘maybes’.

 

The path led out from the garden gate.  The forest appeared as a line of trees above the tall, well-kept Laurel hedge which ringed the garden.

            The grey gravel paths criss-crossed the smooth green lawns, unblemished by weeds or unwanted flowers and stopped in front of the tall, white marble water fountain, its centrepiece depicting St. George slaying the dragon and instead of spouting fire from its mouth, the dragon spurted water.

            From the fountain another gravel path rolled its way across the immaculate lawn, maintained like a tennis court, and to the huge iron gate.  The gate was 9 feet high, with a gargoyle detail atop its heavy wrought-iron metalwork, which twisted this way and that, and the gate made an impression, from one side safety and from the other a daunting, forbidden door.  A heavy iron bar bolted the gate and both moved without the slightest sound, as if the huge hinges were oiled daily.

            Turning my back on the gate I took in the whole garden.  The centrepiece fountain and the zig-zag paths which made their way to the old house in one direction, to the wide red-gravel driveway in another and to the landscaped gardens in another, the riotous, seasonal flowers vying for attention against the well-watered green backdrop.  I breathed deeply, as if inhaling the beauty and perfection.  Turning, I breathed deeply once more, because as soon as I turned and saw the gate, a dread surfaced in my stomach.  The world outside the gate fell into shadow by comparison.

            Wind-blown leaves, dead and dry as animal bones in the desert, stuck against the bottom of the hedge, unable to find a way through.  Outside the gate a path led in 3 directions; left to the village, right to the little churchyard and straight, if one had the nerve and courage, straight to the forest.  The last remnant of a much grander forest which was here at the time of the civil war, when even the cavaliers and roundheads shied away from it, unless need drove them inside.  Woodmen stayed at the fringes, their axes reluctant.  Firewood was taken from the ground, no-one ever thought or dared to cut fresh wood to make a fire, should they have to spend the night in the vicinity, whilst passing through, or rather round the forest.

            Now looking through the iron gate a dread chilled my blood.  My happiness at being surrounded by such beauty in the garden was extinguished, as the sun behind a raincloud, when I turned to look at the forest, the grinding of ancient branches in the breeze, the death-rattle of the leaves leftover from autumns past adding its voice to the melancholy chorus.  My hand touched the cold iron and without looking back, I took the middle path.

Posted in Creation, Fiction, Flash Fiction, Short Fiction Stories, Writing and tagged , , , , ,
26 Nov 2013

Flash Fiction Friday 113: The Third Rail by Christopher Farley

Thank you Morgen.

Posted in Fiction, Flash Fiction, Horror, Morgen Bailey, Short Fiction Stories, Suspense, Writing and tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment
31 Oct 2013
6 Comments

The Train Window

I was still breathing deeply and out of breath as the train left Milan and entered the countryside.  My heart was beating like a hammer on an anvil.  Did I really just witness someone killed?  Did I really see those men take a life?  Did those men see me as I ran for the safety of people and the station?  I was too far away to do something and hopefully to far away to be considered a witness, at least by those men.  Who were they?  What had the dead man done?  I relax into my seat, breathing under control and look out of the train window.

The flat, still-green farmlands speed by my view at about a 100 miles per hour; la Frecciarossa – the Red Arrow – is the train taking me across the northern Italian plain.  The vineyards; with vines now stripped of their fruit and displaying their autumnal dress.  Shades of green, red, yellow and brown fill my view: The window view.  Like the mother whose son has upped and left home, bearing the weight of the grapes is now a memory for the vine, which will soon be bare for the coming winter.

The low pylon wires running parallel to the track, powering the great train on its way, keep me company but spoil my view of the pale blue sky, slowly suffocating under fat, moist, grey clouds from the east.

The tilled earth of the northern plain, the soil, freshly turned, contrasting with the green, showing brown but somehow…clean.  The appearance of a hard job done well, of a tidy desk left in its place after a day at the office.  For the farmer it is his desk.  Where is that farmer now?  Enjoying the fruits of his labours?  Probably not; it’s a little early to get on the wine but I appreciate his spotless fields.

Now I’ve left the fields and entered a town.  Grey, monotonous concrete destroys any view I might have had.  It’s strange how grey feels so dismal, especially concrete, even in the sunshine.  If I can’t see out the window then I prefer the black of night, at least I can use my imagination.  God forbid it rain; there’s nothing more depressing than a miserable, wet winter’s day, with the light failing early and the concrete, sodden and cold, both to the touch and eye.  But it ends.

The fields have returned.  In the sunshine the fields come to life, even in the autumn.  The sunshine brings animation, inspiration, motivation even.  Motivation to keep moving; to follow the sun.  To not allow the autumn sun to set forever on another year and be followed with a violent sadness by the arrival of winter.  The sunlight flickers continuously from the flashing shade of the pylons and I shield my eyes.  Then relief comes as the train enters a tunnel, if I remember rightly it’s a long one.  I continue to stare out of the window.  The train roars through and I can’t hear myself think, so I don’t: I just stare, waiting. 

It’s then I notice in the window a shape behind me, blacker than the tunnel wall.  A man; standing…also waiting.  In the reflection is that a knife I see in his hand?

Posted in Fiction, Flash Fiction, italian, Italy, murder, Short Fiction Stories, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
20 Oct 2013

Flash Fiction Friday 108: A Shrinking World by Christopher Farley

Thanks once again to Morgen Bailey.
Still can’t get the hang of this reblogging malarkey though…

____________________________________________________

The greens and greys reflect on the surface of the lake. It’s almost 11pm and it’s still hot and humid. There may be another storm tonight.  More water.  At least the clouds will block out the sun, which won’t set, not this far north.  It’s like having a yellow moon in the night sky. Or what should be night.

You see, Greenland really is a green land now.  The glaciers turned into water quite a while ago.   This high up on the plateau we’re safe from the rising waters, for now.  Ice at the North Pole?  That’s a memory for some of us, for others, the kids, it’s just a myth, like dragons and hoards of gold.

Oh, the push on the boundaries of science.  Fools! In their search to prove or disprove something called Higgs Boson with their atom particle collider something went wrong, horribly.  They shrunk the planet.  Continents started sliding under or over each other and the world, as the old communications advert used to say, just got smaller.  All that water had to go somewhere and so it went up.

The world became estranged mountain communities; the Rockies, Andes, Himalayas.  I even heard there’s a small Alpine community but no one has ever returned to confirm this.  They want to and they try.  They leave in old, rusty ships from time-to-time.  People still insist on leaving, buoyed by hope but not by water.  The oceans are far too dangerous now.  The Earth has become one continuous stretch of water so when a storm hits there’s no longer any landmass to break up the huge waves that just continue to build and the wind continues to blow.  I’ve heard even the most massive ships wouldn’t have a chance out there.  My chance?  I’ll take it on the land under my feet, what remains of it, and hope.

At one time, the world worried about nuclear war and an atomic winter. Now the Earth’s crust is edging nearer to its core and it keeps getting hotter; they created an atomic-particle summer.

And the waters keep on rising.

 

morgenbailey's avatarMorgen 'with an E' Bailey

Welcome to Flash Fiction Friday and the one hundred and eighth piece in this series. This week’s is a 349-worder by Christopher Farley. This story will be podcasted in episode 34 (with two other stories and some 6-worders) on Sunday 1st December.

A Shrinking World

The greens and greys reflect on the surface of the lake. It’s almost 11pm and it’s still hot and humid. There may be another storm tonight.  More water.  At least the clouds will block out the sun, which won’t set, not this far north.  It’s like having a yellow moon in the night sky. Or what should be night.

You see, Greenland really is a green land now.  The glaciers turned into water quite a while ago.   This high up on the plateau we’re safe from the rising waters, for now.  Ice at the North Pole?  That’s a memory for some of us, for…

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11 Jul 2013
1 Comment

A Wing and a Prayer

Originally to be called Angel Wings when I wrote it yesterday, following a thunderstorm after work, just as I got on the motorbike…nice..  However at 4.30am this morning that title seemed like an old UK advert for a sanitary towel (Sorry Ladies…).

***

This has to be the quietest flight I’ve ever been on.  Even the kids have stopped squabbling.  Thank Heavens for small mercies.

The television screens are showing the ocean beneath, from the cockpit camera.  It’s very blue out there in the tropical sunshine.  Every now and again a ship, possible a huge oil tanker or bulk carrier will pass by, appearing tiny from this distance.  Have you ever looked, I mean really looked, at the ocean from a plane?  The way the sun creates 10,000 mirrors on the surface and how you can see the wave ridges, even from this height.

I’m stuck between members of the Ipod generation.  The skateboard guy to my left has Green Day blaring into his ears, he must be going deaf.  The girl on my other side has some awful rap stuff.  I don’t know what’s worse.  I’ll just go back to looking at the screen.  The book on my lap, The Outsider by Albert Camus, lies upside down and open.  I know it’ll ruin like that but I’m otherwise occupied.

My wife’s in the row behind with the kids.  Every now and again her hand reaches over and caresses my shoulder or my neck.  I reach over and put my hand on hers, giving it 3 squeezes. It means ‘I Love You’.  We’ve always done it.  I’d like to change places with one of my children but they want to stay close to Mum.  I can’t blame them.

An hour ago the pilot took us up to over 40,000 feet to avoid a storm.  40,000 feet!  That’s like sticking the Eiger on top of Everest.  We’re out of the thunderstorm as well, so I guess that’s another small mercy.

This has to be the quietest flight I’ve ever been on.  We were just under a hundred miles from Miami when the storm knocked out our engines.  The guidelines tell us our plane can glide that far.  I continue looking at the screen.  I hope they’re right.

Posted in Fiction, Flash Fiction, Love, relationships, Short Fiction Stories, Suspense and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
08 Jul 2013
1 Comment

Flash Fiction Friday 094: The Freedom Train by Christopher Farley

Thanks once again Morgen.

morgenbailey's avatarMorgen 'with an E' Bailey

Welcome to Flash Fiction Friday and the ninety-fourth piece in this series. This week’s is a 580-worder (with an American theme – happy Independence Day yesterday everyone) by Christopher Farley.

This story will be podcasted in episode 31 (with three other stories) on Sunday 8th September.

The Freedom Train

He closed his eyes for a second.  He finally began to believe it really was over.  The mountain of lies and the rivers, even oceans, of deceit no longer mattered.  The affair was finally finished and could now be considered a thing of his past, where it should stay.  It had become like a tedious end-of-season football match; neither side wanting to lose but both would be content if the referee blew time.  Each had said their piece and each had gone their separate way.  The thought of returning to his old life before his spree as a shoplifter in the…

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Posted in Blog, Fiction, Flash Fiction, Love, relationships, Short Fiction Stories, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , ,
21 Jan 2013
3 Comments

My Love

My love I hung

on a line,

out to dry.

To the bitter winds

of jealousy.

To the calm winds

of an embrace.

Shrivelled by the hot, scirocco

winds of passion.

Lava souls melting.

Lusted and lusting.

Wanted and wanting.

My love I hung

on a line,

in fear of

the black, polluted

dust of decay.

Of love no more

which no wind will stir.

Posted in Love, Micropoetry, Poetry, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , ,
26 Dec 2012

Old Birdman

Old Birdman sits and stares

Squinting in the sun

The sparrows eagerly await the moment

when he

Opens the white paper bag

placed upon his lap

They know him now

and his eating habits.

 

The bag rustles

He looks inside

No smile lights his face

as he takes out

the sandwich

Which he will share

 

They gather around his feet

never coming too close

awaiting the moment

he eats and drops the crumbs

He watches the pigeons on the grass

fed fat from passers-by

He hopes they stay where they are

and not chase his sparrows away.

Posted in Birds, Poetry, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment
03 Oct 2012
9 Comments

The Road

I wandered listless but restless.

I walked in the shadows, defenceless.

I wandered thinking, without knowing.

My soul in pain, my self-doubt growing.

 

I lost my way, though the way was marked.

So I waited at the crossroads, wishing I’d asked

What do I do? How? What shall I give?

To find the way home; distant, elusive.

Posted in Micropoetry, Poetry, Religion, Uncategorized, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
26 Sep 2012
1 Comment

Niente di nuovo (as they say in Italy)

Nothing New – great song by one of the greatest bands ever to grace the stage – albeit till 1985 – Hanoi Rocks.

It sums me up at the moment.  Nothing new, nothing borrowed, nothing blue.  I’m on a creative non-wave.  It’s not writer’s block; I have flashes of inspiration all the time, I just can’t do anything with them, or rather I can’t sit my ass down and do anything with them, which is worse.  I blamed it on the summer – beautiful weather, drinks with friends on the lake, holiday in Ibiza etc. but now autumn is officially here (a week of rain proves it) I am still producing Nothing! Nada! Zilch! Niente! Rien!

A writer should be able to at least read when he’s not writing – I can’t even do that.  I’m sifting through (albeit pretty damn good) music biographies (Mötley Crüe, Led Zepppelin, New York Dolls, Johnny Cash).  I’ve hit a literary (literally) wall.  Aaaahhhh!!!  What do I have to do, wait till the snow arrives?  Become like Jack Torrance in The Shining (without axe-weilding tendencies obviously…)???

I’ve slept on it, I’ve drunk on it, I’ve partied on it, I’ve moped on it, I’ve meditated on it – I am a man without an answer.

What am I gonna do?  I’ll let you know.  I’ll be back…

Posted in Uncategorized, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
18 Sep 2012
7 Comments

Empty

I’m not a poet, and I rarely rhyme but today is different.

______________________________________________

 

A harsh word slipped and fell today

Between two friends

No further words exchanged this day

No way to make amends

I hoped to catch a glance or maybe

The return of a friendly smile

Instead my day empty remained

My evening too, defiled

Posted in Micropoetry, Poetry, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , ,
21 Aug 2012

Diner

I recently submitted a piece to the quarterly “The First Line“, for the fall edition.  This time round the piece was rejected – no worries.  I found the site by accident one evening, and I wrote the story upon seeing the first line – which has never happened.  It was a great exercise and so I’ll put it on here, simply for that fact, to remind me I can do it.  I’m glad I tried and, after all, rejection is one step away from acceptance.  Anyway, here goes:

___________________________________________________________________________________

A light snow was falling as Charlie Reardon left the diner and made his way down Madison Street.  The cheeseburger, fries and large coke were weighing heavy on his stomach and for one queasy moment he thought he would throw everything back up.  Leaning against an old Camaro he took a series of deep breaths, letting his head clear a little before moving on.

“Get your hands of the car man”.

Charlie lifted his hands and turned toward the voice.

“You heard him, get your hands off the car”.

“They are off” mumbled Charlie.

“What you say boy?” came the reply.  He turned toward this voice, to his left.  A fist crashed into the right side of his head, whilst another hit him just above the kidneys.  Feeling his legs give way he was spun round and a forehead was planted in his face.  His world turned black.

 

“Hey pal, are you OK”?  A light push on his shoulder.  “Hey buddy, can you hear me”?  The voice slowly filtered through to Charlie’s semiconscious brain.  “Jeez, this guy’s taken a hell of a beating.  Say Sam, should we call the cops or an ambulance”?

“No way, leave him Steve, we could be next.  What if they’re watching him?  I wanna go get the beers and run man, this stuff disturbs me.  Let’s get outta here”.

Steve looked up and down the dark street, seeing no one but now fear started to slowly knot his stomach.

“Sam, what if he…”

“Forget it buddy, it could be us”.

Looking down at the prone body Steve got to his feet.

“I guess you’re right man”, through gritted teeth as he fell into step with his friend.

 

Charlie lifted his face from the wet asphalt, feeling a sharp tearing pain as if the skin were still stuck to it.  He tried to open his eyes but only the left one responded.  The pain above his right temple seared through his head when he tried to move, and, giving it up as a bad idea he laid back down, feeling the snow fall in his ear. Somewhere a siren wailed, fading into the distance.

“Not coming for me then boys” he thought.  The pain in his head intensified.  He could feel unconsciousness slowly wash over him.

The snow started getting heavier.  Charlie couldn’t feel it.

 

“Look mama, is that man drunk”?  The kid’s whiney voice cut through the evening street sounds.

“If he doesn’t get up soon he’ll catch his death in this” said the kid’s mother, looking up at the sky as large flakes of snow descended upon them.  “Speaking of which, we’d better get you inside little man” she continued, tugging the boy’s arm as he continued to watch the man lying in the road.

“Shouldn’t we help him Mom”? the kid asked.  “In Sunday School they told us about a good Sama…Sama…Sama’ton.  Shouldn’t we be like him Mom?”

“Not if the man’s drunk, junior” she replied.  “Drunk people can be mean honey”.

“What if he’s dying Mom?”  His nasally whine was beginning to grate on his mother’s nerves.

She stood by her son and looked closer at the body.  She couldn’t see blood, which, she thought, was a blessing.  However this then strengthened her view that the man had been on a drunk and had come to harm because of it.

“Well go inside honey, and we’ll call an ambulance.  Is that good enough for my little Samaritan?”

“I guess so Mom” he replied, letting out a sigh as they turned for home.

The got through the door and the boy’s mother, true to her word, called an ambulance immediately, before taking off their coats and shoes.

“It’s out of our hands now” she said, feeling relieved but concerned at the same time.  She laid newspaper down by the door and placed their shoes upon it.  Urging her son to go and “get his ‘jamas on” she made her way to the kitchen.  She thought about having a glass of wine then remembered the man outside.  She poured some water into the kettle, deciding on a cup of tea instead.  The ambulance, its siren shredding the night air, arrived.

 

A light snow was falling as Charlie Reardon left the diner and made his way down Madison Street.  Surprisingly, he felt extremely light, almost as if he hadn’t eaten.  As he continued along the sidewalk he saw an ambulance parked against the curb.  A crowd stood round something, or someone lying in the road.

Posted in Fiction, Flash Fiction, Short Fiction Stories, Suspense, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment
01 Aug 2012
4 Comments

The Main Course

He made everyone look up from their meal, both female and male.  He wasn’t good looking; far from it but he had a certain something.  He was dressed in a blue shark-skin suit, and, strangely, a claret shirt.  It wasn’t this sartorial stew that drew attention though.

His face was fairly pointed and his mouth, unsmiling, seemed a little deformed, as if it had little in common with the rest of his face.  Whatever it was, it had an effect.  People stopped eating to watch him walk by; although his walk also was a little unnatural.  He seemed to glide instead of taking steps.  He was sat at a table toward the dimly lit rear of the restaurant.  He scanned the restaurant, his eyes like black marble holding the gaze of the other people till, one by one, they dropped theirs.

The Maître d’ availed himself immediately.  He arrived at the table; flicking a quick hand across the tablecloth and removing two almost invisible specks of something in one go.

“I feel carnivorous this evening”, said the man.  “I think a plate of bresaola will do me for starters.  I’ll make my mind up on the main course as I chew.”  The Maître d’ nodded.

“A bottle of sparkling water also,” he said, “I like the way those bubbles go to my head.”  Once again the Maître d’ nodded and, avoiding the seated man’s eyes, made his way to the kitchen.  He sent a waiter with the bottle of water.

The restaurant noise resumed its previous level.  Couples enjoying a romantic for two, a rose placed between them.  Business associates enjoying heated debates over targets hit and missed.  Ernest salesmen continuing their sales pitch between forkfuls of tagliatelle.

The order arrived.  Placing the plate of cured meat in front of the man, the waiter, no doubt briefed by the Maître d’, asked if he’d considered his main course.

“Still thinking,” said the man.  He hinted at a smile, allowing a glimpse of that strange mouth.  The waiter felt a small shiver run down his back but couldn’t put his finger on why it should be.  Returning a professional smile, honed during 25 years’ service, he made his way from the table.

The discussion at a table of hard-nosed marketing execs started getting heated; a little too much wine or possibly after-dinner cognac getting the better of two of them and the argument promised to get out of hand.

The man polished off the starter in less than a minute, all the while keeping his eye on events in the restaurant.  The Maître d’ was standing at the table, imploring calm with his hands held outwards but to little avail.  The shouting reached a crescendo, one of the men, with a fat sweating face and cheeks flush from the booze, was now on his feet and waving his arms around, occasionally pointing a shaking hand at one of his colleagues; a crew-cut kid with the face and neck of a bulldog.

“You’re just an overblown tele-salesman,” shouted the sweating man.  “You’ve seen nothing!  We’ve been through the mill, busting our ass studying what we do.  You arrive, make 50 phone calls and hit a lucky.  What do you know about market analytics or product lifecycle?  You just kiss the right ass in the right place and think you’re God’s gift.”

Crew-cut raised himself out of his seat and leant over the table.  Then there came the sound of breaking glass.

“Shit!”

Mr. Waving Arms held his hand to his cheek, blood seeping through his fingers.  Grabbing a serviette to hold against the man’s face the Maître d’ led him by the arm, pointing to the men’s service area.  As he quickly returned to the table of still-arguing marketing execs, the man in the shark skin suit, alone in the semi-dark, smiled to himself, revealing a huge set of triangular teeth.  He breathed in the smell of blood, and glided from his chair.

Posted in Fiction, Flash Fiction, Horror, Short Fiction Stories, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , ,
17 Jul 2012
2 Comments

An Unfriendly Alien

I wanted to get away, run or even be put under, anything to get away from this jolting, numbing pain running through me. I didn’t know how long I’d been here, time became irrelevant. As I looked up I saw only a shape, fuzzy round the edges, not clear, just a silhouette. Alien. I could think only of the Cybermen on Dr. Who, way back when I was a kid. It was alien anyway, as was the hurt. It was less traumatic to break a bone in the body, I thought vaguely between white flashes of agony, the nerves in my face were standing on end, screaming at me, waving angry red flags at me. Half a second then another bolt of pain. I closed my eyes and my body went stiff, I felt my hands, back and legs soaked in sweat, I hadn’t even been laid out almost horizontal for more than a few minutes but the pain was becoming unbearable. I tried to move my head but to no avail, foolishly I thought it help me. My hands crossed themselves, twisting, sweating and entwining as the pain continued. Minutes passed.

A respite. I was unsure whether this pain had subsided or whether I was gradually getting used to it. However it had started to lessen, the flags went from red to orange, I had hoped for green but I guess that was asking too much. My face went from fingernail-on-blackboard nerve shredding torture to uncomfortably numb. My hands were sweating less and they stopped writhing like mating eels in a bucket. My shirt however was still soaked. I was breathing normally at least. Fearful the pain would start again I slowly opened my eyes once more.

A hand went up, the Cyberman’s head switched off and my dentist clapped me on the shoulder. “Smile”, he said, “you’re free to go.”

Posted in Fiction, Flash Fiction, Short Fiction Stories, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , ,
16 Jul 2012

Sleep Well

My second Flash piece submission to Morgen Bailey.

morgenbailey's avatarMorgen 'with an E' Bailey

Welcome to Flash Fiction Friday and the forty-third piece of flash fiction in this series. This week’s welcomes back Christopher Farley with his 727-worder.

Sleep Well

He slammed the door, got into his car and drove like a madman from her house.  He was sick of arguing, tired of continually being in the wrong and now he had had enough.  Jo was good looking and had many admirers, sometimes to Mannie’s annoyance, but sex and a good looking girlfriend weren’t enough to keep him tied to a relationship that consisted of too much tension and too many fights.  This one had ended physically, and after her various insults he had hit her.  It was just a slap, he thought, as he left her holding the left side of her face.

The brake-lights in front flashed.  Possibly Mannie was distracted.  Guns n’ Roses were playing loud on the stereo.  Possibly he…

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02 Jul 2012
2 Comments

Ice

Tamara felt the ice beneath her.  It took her.  She was moving too fast to think of stopping, she gave in to the slide, unsure where she would end up.

She saw the wall grow rapidly in her sight, there was no way she was going to avoid it.  Realising her options were decreasing with every passing second she attempted a turn to the left, away from the looming barrier, to at least minimalise the impact with the encircling obstruction.  She was now regretting going all out, hell for leather.  The ice has wrested all hope of control from her.

The lights played across the ice, danced in her vision.  She started to spin.

Tamara dug her heels in and fell to the floor in a heap.  Legs splayed, she merely sat, skirt around her thighs, feeling the ice sting her skin.  Getting up gingerly, she placed a hand on her backside.  That’ll be bruised later, she thought.  She kept her head down, avoiding the watching people around the perimeter wall and headed for the exit as she counted the years since she’d last been ice-skating.

 

Posted in Fiction, Flash Fiction, Short Fiction Stories, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , ,
26 Jun 2012
9 Comments

But Grandma…

It was a beautiful late autumn day; the sun was out and it was quite clement for the time of year.  Little Red Riding Hood made her way through the forest, following the path she had taken many times before, which lead to her grandmother’s house.

“I don’t know why she can’t move into one of the granny-flats in town,” she said to herself, “if not as if she’s short on dough.  And why does she insist on me wearing this stupid outfit?  I know my heels would get stuck in the mud but at least let me wear a pair of Nikes instead of these flat shoes with a buckle half the size of a football pitch, after all, I am 18 now.”

She stopped.  There before her was a baby deer.  They watched each other in anticipation, neither wanting to move.  A bird high up in the branches flew from its nest, startling the deer and making it run for cover.  Thinking how cute the deer was and still looking up in the trees Little Red Riding Hood tripped over a tree root.

“Oooff!” she uttered.

She brushed away at her dirty knees.  “I’d better get these clean,” she said, “Brian’ll think I’ve been up to no good again.”

Finally the trees became scarcer and she saw the little house through the branches.  No smoke here, she thought, at least Gran had the sense to go for central heating last year.

Walking up the garden path her heart stopped.  The front door was ajar; in fact it looked as if it had been wrenched from its hinges with some force.

“Grandma!” she cried and ran through the door.

The door opened into the kitchen, where a gas hob stood with a saucepan of water gently bubbling away.  On the fridge-freezer in the corner she noticed a smear of what looked like blood.  Blood!

“Grandma!” she cried again and went through to the bedroom.  Some light filtered through the drawn curtains and she noticed a shape sat up in bed.

“Grandma?  Are you ok?

“Hello dear, yes I’m ok.  I had a bit of a turn but I’m better now.”

“Let me turn the light on Gran,” replied the girl.

“No…” but Granny’s response went unheeded.  Electric light blazed.  The year before candles had been replaced when one evening Gran had gone overboard with her home-made potato wine and almost set alight not only her house but also half the forest.  Little Red startled as she took in her grandmother’s face.  There was something different about her today.

“What big eyes you’ve got Grandma,” said The Hood.

“It’s the pills for my arthritis,” came the reply, “I can’t sleep a damned wink.  The last time I felt like this was when we used to take those little purple bombers around the time Bob Dylan started getting famous.”

“What big ears you’ve got Grandma.”

“Shut up dear, I’ve always had them and I don’t see as they’re to make fun of.  Besides, your Grandfather never complained, in fact he used to… never mind.”

“What shaky hands you’ve got Grandma.”

“I want to see you dear when you’re 72.”

“And Grandma, what big teeth you have,” insisted the not-so-little red one.

“Phhhhhheeewwwww,” coughed Grandma, as a patch of what looked like fur landed at Red’s feet.

Bending down to look at it in detail, Red noticed a tail sticking out from under the bed.  A huge wolf lay there, motionless, bleeding profusely from the throat.  She looked at her grandmother in horror.  Granny shrugged her shoulders.

“It was him or me,” she said.

Posted in Fairytale, Fiction, Flash Fiction, Horror, Short Fiction Stories, Writing and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , ,
24 Jun 2012
4 Comments

Jump!

Danny edged himself closer to the edge, on his hands and knees.  He’d been thinking about this moment for a while now; thinking that at the end it would be easy but here, now, it was so different.

It seemed he could hear the water far below him, calling to him.  He knew that it was too late to turn back; how could he face the shame?  Inching himself backwards, away from the edge he stood up, his liquid knees barely keeping him upright, his heart beating a military march.  The palms of his hands were wet with sweat and he shivered as nerves took hold of his stomach and knotted it.

He decided he didn’t want to look down again, the only thing to do would just be to run and jump, eyes closed.  He took a few deep breaths, his eyes fixed upon the horizon.  This is it; he thought to himself, this is the moment I’ve been waiting for.  He ran.

Young Danny, 6 years old, entered the water with a splash.  When he surfaced he looked up at the high-board, raised his fist in the air, and swam to the side of the swimming pool.

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