Tag Flash Fiction

Caught Short

freyathewriter 4 Comments

It’s my second night in the new house and boxes are lurking everywhere, waiting to trip me up in my midnight journey to the toilet downstairs. So I don’t go.

There has been yet another power cut and I have no idea where my candles or matches have hidden themselves in the frenzy of moving. I consider risking it and feeling my way in the dark, but the thought of being discovered weeks later, a bloated corpse at the bottom of the stairs freezes me in place. Buying an old house in the middle of nowhere is not always the romantic option. Still, it’s too late now.

I can hear the tappity-tap of typewriter keys above the gale.

Why can I hear someone pounding on my Olivetti in the middle of the night? It can’t be an intruder – no house-breaker would pause to bang out his magnum opus before searching for jewellery and credit cards. And more to the point isn’t your typical burglar a fair-weather breaker of the law? That storm would drown cargo ships. On a night like this, Jonny No-good will be snuggled up to his bleached-blond girlfriend, snoring gently.

I have to find out what’s going on.

I negotiate the stairs, any thoughts about safety completely gone. I knew the house was haunted when I bought it. The owners had tried to keep that little gem under wraps, but Eileen the neighbour had been only too keen to share the juicy story of a writer murdered by his wife as he reached the end of his life’s work. The typing had driven her mad, not to mention the loneliness of being married to someone who lived in his head most of the time.

It didn’t put me off – in fact, I knew it would be the perfect foil to my own angst-filled existence; a single woman, recently divorced, starting my life over again when I had expected to be winding down, resting on the laurels of my husband’s hard work. This could be a fabulous distraction. I hadn’t expected a visitation quite so quickly – I must be an empath, or whatever they call them.

I push the living room door open a crack, smiling inside as I picture the publicity that this will bring me. I imagine TV and radio serial rights, a book tour…

The crow stares at me, skittering and hopping across the floorboards, shaking its wings and tail feathers in the weak moonlight. The fireplace is littered with soot, dust and other debris blown in by the storm and dragged down the chimney by a stupid bird. 

No tortured soul.

No ghost-whisperer storyline for me.

Just a crow.

And me, weeing on the floor.

Bushido – Alastair’s Photo Fiction

freyathewriter 8 Comments

Here is my offering for Alastair’s Photo Fiction this week, inspired by the photo below.  Why not take part? And why not visit his photography and writing blog to take a look at his other photos…?

Copyright - Kattermonran

Copyright – Kattermonran

– Bushido – 

Wakamura-san released a sigh, not so gently as he had imagined.

“Dad? What’s wrong now? I haven’t got time for this. The removal firm will be here in an hour.”

He could feel his daughter’s frustration roll towards him. She never seemed to understand that a tranquil state of mind required hard work and commitment, like anything else. She was never still, never in the moment.

She shoved a small wooden box in his lap then wrapped his soft, dry fingers around it more gently, patting his hands.

“Here, Dad, hold on to these, keep them safe. I know they are important to you.”

He opened the box and stroked the small swords nestled within.

“At least you know that much. Be busy, make your calls, organise and plan. I will still be here, when you remember to be still.”

He felt his daughter kiss the top of his head and pause, just for a moment.

She knew. She just needed to work at it.

Redacted

freyathewriter 8 Comments

It’s beginning to feel as if life has always been this way. Most days, I forget the months and years of Before. We took all that for granted. We complained about endless summer holiday boredom. What I wouldn’t give to be bored, right now.

Water needs to be collected from the standpipe two streets away. Little Sarah has taken on that thankless task, balancing a container on her head and carrying it ‘like the African ladies’, so she tells me. She thinks it’s fun.

Davina deals with our washing. She found the twin tub in the shed, got Lance to drag it out for her. Thank goodness it still had the mangle attached. We turn the rollers by hand and squeeze the water out of our clothes. Nothing is really clean, but we manage a sight better than most. The kids down the road – the two Underwood boys and a couple of other strays – are filthy and stink to high heaven. They make me feel sick. I’m not sorry for them.

I’m glad we hadn’t moved to the countryside. What about the farm animals, broken loose and roaming half-feral and starving across the overgrown fields? How would I know what was safe to eat? At least we can take tins from the warehouses by the docks and know what’s inside. Lance finds our food – he’s quick, strong and knows all the shortcuts, away from the empty main streets, away from the danger.

They had said we should leave, that it wouldn’t be safe in the city. But we’ll be OK for a bit, at least until the next Collection. And we know the hiding places – They don’t.

“Lucy, Lucy.”

Sarah is tugging on my sleeve.

“Yes, sweetheart, what is it?”

“When’s Daddy and Mummy coming back?”

My heart creases. The pain is as sharp and overwhelming as ever. She hasn’t forgotten them either. I had hoped she would be saved from that, at least.

“Never, honey. I’m sorry.”

She hugs me, hard, locking her fingers together behind my back, squeezing the breath out of me. “And how long is never?”

Too long.