Tuesday 4 November 2014

250 Words: Shards

I stopped as shattered glass rained down ahead.  A short, sharp shower, its terrifying sound was interrupted by a worse one: the sickening thud-crack of a man hitting the pavement.

As others rushed to him I stayed still, a statue able only to think of himself and how close he’d come to injury.

I was told he’d died on impact, yet a glimpse of the dying man’s eyes snapped me back round.  Full of pain, both for what had just happened and all that had gone before, they bore into me and, expiring, the man mouthed, “You must find my medal; put me to rest.”  Only then did the pain and the life leave his eyes.


When I got home the next day, I set to work researching what he might have meant.  I remained in my bedroom for days until I found the answer in an old photograph. 

It took me back to the scene of the accident, where we’d planned to celebrate by diving from the cliff.  He “won” the toss but never made it to the edge because it took him away.  I dived forward but was helpless then as well.

The area got cordoned area, they wouldn’t let me retrieve his medal.  I screamed and kicked before slowly putting the idea away. 

Now it hangs on his gravestone.


Ever since that day my family had been nervous around me, more worried by each episode.  Only now, as I return smiling, will they be able to relax.


Written for entry in The Bridport Prize, 2014.

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