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.

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Written for entry in The Bridport Prize, 2014.

Ostracised

After they had counted the pottery shards I had no choice but to pack up and leave town, to create another life for ten years.  That’s how it would have worked in Ancient Greece, anyhow, the old man told me.  That’s how the great Themistokles ended his political career and, like him, I had done much for the town before becoming a nuisance thereafter, only to find myself striking out on a new path.

Speaking out too much at town meetings had never been advisable in that town; suggesting what I suggested the new mayor did to himself was downright stupidity.

I walked for days before I saw it, the rock jutting up with the remains of an ancient fortress atop. After a long struggle in the afternoon sun I reached it, the sky blazing a warm orange that made me feel I would be alright here, for however long.

The only catch was the old man, he didn’t half go on a lot.  After the lecture on Themistokles, he started banging on about Greek philosophers, then philosophers through the ages, then back to Greece and Greek myths, Roman myths, politics, Gods, monsters, temples, oracles- if I’d been listening properly I’m sure I’d have been bored but the tone of his voice, my goodness, it just drilled into my skull, made my ears deaf to it.  Like a bee that can’t get through a window, he buzzed ceaselessly.  

Until I ceased him, that is.  I grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and threw him out the fortress and down the cliff.

At peace, I was able to reflect once more on my being sent away and how I might get back.  I planned and schemed for a few days until I was woken by armed men from my town.  

They told me that I had been followed by a group of my closest friends and allies, who had been determined to help me out if they could.  When they found the dead body, however, they returned and reported my deeds.

My exile ended there and then, though I returned in chains to see out my days in my beloved town’s gaol, suddenly eager to know more about Ancient Greece. 

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Written for the Light and Shade Challenge from the following picture prompt; also, although too late to enter, the Woven Tale Press's prompt, Shards: 

image courtesy of Evgeni Dinev/FreeDigitalPhotos.net