Category Fiction

Overheard

freyathewriter 4 Comments

“We need to get rid of them, mate, there’s no other way.”

“Yeah, I’m sick of the sight of them.”

“The sooner we do it, the sooner we can get on with our plans.”

“Let’s get the tools organised and we can get cracking tonight, after dark.”

Wouldn’t this sound strange to you, dear? I often hear bits and pieces of conversation on the way to work, but this did rather make me prick up my ears. I must admit I rushed to catch up with the two young men to see if I could find out more. They were still deep in conversation as they waited to cross the road. They looked very furtive.

By the time I managed to find them again, squeezing past all the other people on their way to work, they had moved on to football. I groaned out loud, but not so that they could hear, of course. I was just about to forget the entire episode when the conversation turned again.

“You know we’ll end up in jail if we get caught, mate?”

“Best not get caught, then!” Continue reading “Overheard” →

The Captives

freyathewriter 3 Comments

It awakened long-distant memories. It reminded him of work, of long Sundays, of croissants, of Paris. His mouth watered in automatic response to the rich aroma and he licked his cracked lips in anticipation – an old habit.

He sat up, catching his breath as shards of pain arrowed across his chest. He lifted his shirt and in the one shaft of light piercing the darkness from a hole in the roof, he could see a large shadow hovering over his ribs – a bruise. He touched its dark centre, lifted his fingers to his mouth, tasted blood and felt grit on the end of his tongue. Recoiling, he spat, trying to clear his mouth of the metallic tang. 

The coffee. He groped in the gloom, following his sense of smell. His fingers found a plastic cup. He grasped it in both hands, inhaling the glorious, comforting smell before swallowing, desperate to lubricate his dry mouth and throat. It was proper coffee, not instant. Someone had good taste, and time to spare to brew it. Continue reading “The Captives” →

Man of Smoke

freyathewriter 4 Comments

Mark sat on the metal seat, aware of every beat of his heart, his too rapid breathing.

The sickly sense of doubt rose up like a flood again as he pushed his hands deep into his coat pockets. He squirmed on the hard metal seat, empty stomach rebelling against stewed coffee long since turned cold in its flimsy paper cup, now forgotten on the floor by his feet.

He checked his watch again, willing the minute hand to sweep faster – or was it slower? Whatever happened next, whatever he decided to do, his life was going to change.

Mark looked up, staring at the people milling about, wondering if anyone noticed him, pale, cold, and tense. He felt so – obvious. The last few months had been a whirlwind, pleasure entangled with guilt, day following day. The intoxicating extremes had become an addiction. Continue reading “Man of Smoke” →