250 Words: No explanation

I was leaving the day behind, but not our tail. 

In my peripheral vision lay the gun I had feared I would need but knew would be useless.

In the rearview I could see my baby son, blissfully and ignorantly asleep.  As would always be the case where this incident and I, especially, were concerned.

I thought again about switching off my lights once night fell, of going off-road.  And again wondered why I harboured hope.

For the two hours they had been following me I had known running was futile.  Once in sight I could feel their presence, just as they could mine; and, with their amplification technique, they were too powerful now. 

And my son too important.  His father killed with no explanation, I had run. 

Yet all I was doing was driving until the fuel ran out, spending as much time with the boy as I could. 

We sung for a hundred miles, ate crumpets in a frozen, remote, layby - now I would watch him sleep with the time and distance left to me, switching on the interior light once night fell. 


With the car’s momentum lost, I got out and fired shots to make me feel better, the bullets forced from their targets.


As I knelt and waited, I contemplated the red and white tableau to be created and how my son would one day connect these colours with this time of year but in very different ways; and for that, at least, I was pleased.

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Written for Faber Academy's QuickFic from the following picture prompt (there was actually a choice of three...).  Well done to the winner and and runner-up!

250 Words: Reveille

In the clarity of the morning light I began to make sense of the images in my mind: events from the previous evening that had been flashing before my mind’s eye during fitful sleep.

A shadowy figure at the window.

Rushing to get my keys in the door.

Raised voices, a shrill cry.

Running on the stairs.

The plunging, cutting, tearing of a knife.

A thick red mess on the floor.

Frantic digging.

Frantic cleaning.

The memories made me nervous, worried of what I might have done.  My memory takes time to reboot each morning, to extract itself from the fug of sleep and start to join the dots.  But the light quickly awakening me was soon joined by singing from the shower and remembrance became easier.


I saw the silhouette from the gate, fumbled with the keys in the lock, shouted as I came through.  A shrill cry of welcome was returned and Mike bounded down the stairs flashing the spare keys.

He knew I’d been having a hard time since demob, had sensed something in my voice, had brought cake, prosecco and a plant to cheer me up. 

As we drunk more, our division of the cake got worse, leading to the contents of several doughnuts meeting the floor.  We even tried to plant the plant, quickly as it was freezing, creating more mess, so much we felt we should clean before finally collapsing into bed.


Nothing to report, then.  I wish my mind would be less dramatic.

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Written for Faber Academy's QuickFic from the following picture and quote prompt.  Well done to the winners!

Note: I actually entered the story with the title Stand To but decided to change it before blogging (Morning Report was also considered).

250 Words: Losing sight of you, gaining insight

Your red hat and your height have always helped.  I could always pick you out in a crowd, even before my eyes began to fail.

After they told me I began to memorise every part of you, linking sight to touch and smell, learning to feel changes to alter that memory, keep the image up to date.  And where I couldn’t, I studied your tattoos, the formations of your unraised moles until they were as familiar as my own. 

“I won’t ever forget a single feature.”

As the black curtain began to draw in, I ramped up my efforts to recreate you perfectly when I closed my eyes.  I tested myself frequently, described you to yourself while seated in another room, drew pictures, wrote stories.  Created an avatar to serve in your stead.

“You won’t ever want another creature.”

“I don’t want to.  But what if I do forget?”

And now that I cannot even see your entire face at the same time, my hands and fingers trace your face evermore desperately while you kiss me to reassure me, tell me not to worry.

“I will be here.  By touch, by smell, by ear
Memory does not matter once love has beget.
(And when it doesn’t need to make sense.)”

I knew I feared the unknown more than anything, that an avatar was never needed when I had you.

Your worn hat full of your smell will always help.  And I’ve always been pleased that I am taller than you.

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Written for Faber Academy's QuickFic from the following picture prompt (a few lines down).

This week I won and got featured on their website!  Thanks so much for picking my story!  

I should say that I was also very inspired by the memory of a column I used to read in the Guardian Weekend by Rebecca Atkinson called Losing Sight, Still Looking (I've linked to an example column, I can't seem to find a page for the whole series).

250 Words: Walled Garden

Sat in the dark, dank shadow of the garden’s wall, Tom pressed his ear against its damp, cold face.  He listened to the sounds beyond, imagined the actions that made them, wondered how it was possible to do likewise.

Tom did not understand summer.  He knew about it, saw people getting excited about it, don shorts, go outside, listen to their summer soundtracks, cook meat and drink outside… while he remained outside that walled garden, listening, imagining.  

He thought of it as a music service he couldn’t afford, and so could only listen to snippets of songs.  Or film teasers that were never replaced by trailers, let alone the full feature.  He knew these things but did not know them.

In his heart and mind, Tom knew he would sit there always.  The darkness within the wall would confirm his insecurities and keep him there, listening, waiting for the winter when he would be alone again, the revellers’ noise gone until the sun returned.


Jane would often sit and look across the park, watching the lovers walk by, the dogs chase balls, the children running and playing… and a curious man across the way would always catch her eye.  Always sat alone, he would stare as if unseeing, as if there were a wall between him and everyone else.  

If she had more confidence, perhaps she would have gone to talk to him.  She guessed everyone had their own walls they would not cross; and certainly she knew her own.

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Written for Faber Academy's QuickFic from the following prompt, a summery Spotify playlist. 

This week I was featured on their website as  runner-up!  

250 Words: It was too strange (plus two variants of Only the start)

Normally there were only seeds inside, gunk and pumpkin flesh.  We would toast the seeds and make pies from the flesh before carving a spooky, crooked face into its hard side and placing a candle within to create a lantern.  A jack-o'-lantern I think they were once known as; a Halloween holiday tradition. 

You wouldn’t know about these things, you were born after. 

Not enough people talk about before.  Nor about what happened.  I think it was just too strange.


That year it was different, you see.  That year my brother reached in and scooped out human flesh.  His own flesh I quickly guessed as the blood poured from his stomach.

He refused help and began to eat the raw meat.  Dumbfounded, my mother and I watched on as he said, “Hmmm, delicious,” and continued to eat as his wound, and a pool of blood at his feet, grew.

Then, and perhaps this was the strangest part, my mother, seemingly regaining her senses, instead took my pumpkin and began to eat herself. 

I shouted at them both, I screamed, angry tears streaming from eyes, “STOP!  STOP! STOP!”  But they carried on, ecstatically happy, eating until they felled themselves, falling face down onto the table.

So many died before word got round, the madness too contagious to contain. 


It was too strange, what caused the breakdown in society.  I think that is why no one talks about it.  And our life before was too good, too charmed to be believed anyway. 

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Written for Faber Academy's QuickFic from the following picture prompt: 

 

Before the above, I also tried with a more straight forward zombie take, and did a couple of versions:

Only the start

Normally there were only seeds inside, gunk and pumpkin flesh.  We would toast the seeds and make pies from the flesh before carving a spooky, crooked face into hard side and placed a candle where the insides had been to create a lantern.  A jack-o'-lantern I think they were once known as; a Halloween holiday tradition. 

You wouldn’t know about these, you were born after.  Not enough people talk about before.  Nor about what happened.


That year it was different.  That year my brother reached in and scooped out human flesh.  His own flesh we quickly surmised as the blood poured also from his stomach.

It all happened so quickly that word did not get around until it was too late.  For me, we watched my brother die from that wound, my mother failing to stem the flow while I failed to reach 911.  As her screams at his death began I returned to room to find him returning to life and killing her.  Fortunately I had the presence of mind to just flee. 

And that is only where my story of survival begins.
 
*

Normally there were only seeds inside, gunk and pumpkin flesh.  We would toast the seeds and make pies from the flesh before carving a spooky, crooked face into hard side and placed a candle where the insides had been to create a lantern.  A jack-o'-lantern I think they were once known as; a Halloween holiday tradition. 

You wouldn’t know about these, you were born after.  Not enough people talk about before.  Nor about what happened.


That year it was different.  That year my brother reached in and scooped out human flesh.  His own flesh we quickly surmised as the blood poured also from his stomach.

He collapsed, white as a sheet.

My mother tried, vainly to stop the flow.

I tried, again and again, to get anything other than a busy tone from 911.

Until my mother began to scream the most horrific scream I have ever heard.  And I have not stopped hearing screams ever since. 

Upon my return I smiled at first.  My brother was not dead after all, I could see him moving.  An odd, jerky movement.  One I would come to fear.  But then I did not know.

Before I could tell my mother, I long still to let her know and stop her screaming, her screaming was stopped by my brother biting into and ripping out her throat.

Fortunately I had the presence of mind to just flee. 

And that is only where my story of survival begins.

Every day since has been the same.
 

250 Words: The Coffee Ceremony

Save for the tools of their routine, their desks were always clear.  It was in the space between, created by their pedestals, that they kept those tools and would perform their ritual three times a day. 

Always carefully, always in silence.  Talk was reserved for after the tasting.  Even the selection of coffee occurred in silence: a language of subtle gestures and nods formed the decision making and selection process.

Then, gently, they would weigh out the beans, transferring them slowly into a container that had been carefully selected for the roast during their initial period of experimentation.  These would then be poured into a grinder as if precious pearls, just as the resulting powder was moved and poured as if gold dust, as if anything lost would equate to the loss of hundreds of pounds. 

The brewing was the most baffling part, though, so much so it would bring the office to a standstill.  A collective breath would be held as we watched them watching the pot; all of us  wondering how they knew, when to the rest of us it seemed nothing had changed, that the coffee was ready.  It was never quite the same amount of time, but they would always be just as pleased with the result.


As I wondered about them then, I wonder about them still.  Do they still sit side by side and perform their ceremony together, or did they lose each other along the way and find others? 

The former, I hope.

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Written for Faber Academy's QuickFic from the following picture prompt: