Microfiction: The Scrapings

And again, some one line stories:

We knew it would end like this, not with a bang or a whimper, but with a loud harrumph.

“That’s just how it is,” he rasped, “men show their feelings by hitting each other, women by affection.” And that was when I knew I wanted to be a woman.

“Drunken poetry,” she wrote with a flourish in pink biro, “it contains all truth. Drunken poetry,” then she gave up, as the rhymes deserted her.

A light flickered, the air grew cold. Grandma had returned.

“That’s just how it is,” she ranted, “men prove their strength by striding round the world conquering things. Women prove their strength by enduring, by suffering.” And that was when I knew, I wanted to be a man.

Leading a double life was difficult with Facebook, it took planning and copious notes.

He woke up slowly, his head thundering and his stomach lurching. He eased himself onto his side and saw the Devil sleeping peacefully beside him. I am never drinking again, he thought.

“That’s just how it is,” they shouted, “people are selfish. They all want to be rich, and they don’t care who suffers as a result.” And that was when I knew I wanted to be an alien.

Behind the Door

The sun was shining and she’d got an A for her essay, life was good. As they strolled down the corridor to their next class, she felt that the world was her onion.

“There’s something weird about that classroom,” she said, stopping and gesturing with a wave of her books. “Have you noticed? The door doesn’t look like the other doors, it’s too thick, with bars across the little window. Freaky,” she added, trying to peer in.

“Just leave it!” he hissed in response.

“What? Why?” he really was unnecessarily huffy at times.

“It’s better if you just don’t pay attention, it’s safer,” his voice was becoming a whine now and her curiosity had only grown, filling her concentration.

“Why?” she asked again, adding a small pout, she liked to know things, she didn’t like to be left out. “Is it a cult? Or a nudist colony?” Their college was like hive for unpopular courses and rooms rented out to oddball organizations.

He sighed and leaned in close to her, his eyes darting back and forth.

“That’s where the war is. You can’t do anything about it, it’s best if you don’t look.”

“What?” the answer was so unexpected she wasn’t sure how to reply, but he said nothing and was already scurrying away down the corridor. “What war? What are you talking about?” but he was gone.

Impatient with his nonsense, she barely hesitated before opening the door and looking inside. She watched for only moment before slamming the door, but the images stayed, hovering just beneath the eyes, ready to flash. A child’s face in horror, his arm severed; a soldier holding the head of his dying friend; an explosion that caused nobody even to raise their heads, their ability to feel already exceeded. She ran.

Nobody listened when she told them about the room. She suspected that some knew, she saw the shifty, desperate look in their eyes. Anyone who didn’t know, saw her as yet another hysterical student with a ridiculous complaint. And she was tired, an exhaustion that seemed to play with her certainty, so that she wasn’t sure. Had she really seen it? Was it as bad as she had thought? Maybe it was an acting class, maybe it was just a film playing.

Sometimes she would be sitting in class and she’d hear the sound of gunshot, or distant screams, but the teacher only spoke a little louder and his expression never changed. There were days when the door to the war would be open a crack and inside she would glimpse a moment of death, but she learned to keep her eyes straight ahead. The war wouldn’t ever end, it was best to not look.

I Keep Small

I am very careful. I keep small. Unobtrusive, with only pin pricks of behaviour and momentary stutters.

I don’t mention you.

Or me.

Or the waxing waning of my shadow beneath your light.

I keep my pens in a row. I drink coffee with soya milk. I try not to sleep through meetings. I smile politely, I flick crumbs from my shirt.

Then I remember your smile and a frenzy of memories rattle my stupor to a waking roar, with an ocean incomplete and a sky full of holes.

I write an email and forget the heading. I make another coffee.

I watch time tip so slowly that my eyes cross.

I’ll meet you on the overmorrow,

Until then I barely exist.

 

Microfiction: The Wordicons

Thanks to Wisp of Smoke  for inspiring the title. Some more very small tales, unconnected, although I always end up imagining a story that ties them altogether. Anyway…

 

Inside the locket she kept a demon’s egg.

He carved and whittled, preserving the faces of the dead in fruit. It was the least he could do.

“It was just easier to be clever, when there was so much less to know,” said the polymath, mournfully.

She sat on the bus, gripping the seat in front, with her eyes shut. ‘They ripped him out of me’, she whispered to no one in particular.

His expression flicked back and forth from hopeful to blank to hopeful; as nothing helpful continued to happen.

Don’t look.

The memory is like an ache in my teeth and a twist under each moment. Like a sodden, dirty rag wrapping my feet to a stumble. The abyss hangs sac-like below my eyes, beckoning me to throw hope away and climb inside. But in a wink and shimmy the bone dead is up and walking. I freeze my fear and keep on keeping on.

The memory is like a distant hammering that I can ignore if I keep the music loud. An interruption that warps my words when I speak, so I try not to speak. Like a phantom tickling my toes, but powerless to hurt unless I believe. I can’t believe, I stare ahead.

The memory is definitely gone and my feet are flat on the floor so I can’t fall down. It’s gone and I’m a busy, busy bee with things to do and see. Like the juice of rotting meat seeped into the world, but cleaned and leaving no stain, it’s gone. Like it was never here at all.

Sunday Photo Fiction

143-02-february-14th-2016

“Oh look there! Is that a slaty egret? What a lovely bird!”

“Gerry? I don’t think we should have climbed that fence.”

“Don’t be silly I’d never have seen the slaty egret otherwise. I really didn’t expect to see one those here.”

“I think we need to climb back over the fence.”

“Not yet. Can you pass me the zoom lens?”

“I think this may be a wildlife park.”

“Hmm? If I can get the angle right, I can get a shot.”

“Gerry, we really need to run away now.”

“Stop hissing woman, you’ll scare it off.”

“They’re starting to move. Gerry? The rhinos are starting to move.”

“The what? The…oh dear.”

“Run, Gerry! Run!”

 

From Sunday Photo Fiction 

Thanks for the prompt!

Friday Fiction with Ronovan Writes

The link: Ronovan writes

The challenge: Take your favorite quote from a movie and use it as inspiration for your entry this week. If you want more direction, make it the last sentence in your piece

The movie quote: “Roads? Where we’re going we don’t need roads.” from Back to the Future

Length: 620 words

Puzzle of the Stars

I take the blame for this. When I suggested the road trip I was just trying to think of a way to break my flatmate Joe out of a bad habit. Every night he’d come home from the bank and spend the evening sitting with a puzzle book. Curled up over his Sudoku and cryptic crosswords like an old man. It didn’t seem healthy.

“We’ll drive down to Cornwall, stop off at a few pubs, camp out in fields. It will be a total change from the humdrum,” I said, pleased to see his glimmer of interest. Time to break free.

It was week of pub lunches and getting lost on winding roads before Joe began to change. By day we’d carry on as normal, bickering like a married couple. But at night, as I’d shout at him to help me with the tent, he’d ignore me and just stare up at the stars. Every night, red-faced and huffing from battling canvas I’d ask him,

“What are you looking at, you numpty?”

And without tearing his eyes from the sky, he’d whisper something obscure like,

“What does it all mean though? All those lights blinking on and off, there must be a pattern.” And then he’d carry on staring while I stomped off to find firewood.

By the eighth night I’d had enough and told him we’d be sleeping out under those stars, since he liked them so much. After we’d parked, I pulled our sleeping bags out of the car and threw them into a field. Sitting on a clump of grass, he gave me a faraway smile as a response and let his eyes drift upwards, while I climbed into my sleeping bag in what I hoped conveyed an irritated manner. I was just dozing off when he started speaking again,

“I think I’ve nearly worked it out.”

“What?” I asked, as if I didn’t want to know at all.

“The puzzle of the stars.”

“It’s not a puzzle, Joe,” I said with a sliver of patience. “They’re just stars.”

Maybe we should pick up a bumper book of crosswords from a cornershop tomorrow, he was clearly suffering from withdrawal. I should have tried to wean him off slowly. He started speaking again, his voice suddenly intense. After a week of this star-gazing wispy nighttime musing, it was a bit of a shock to hear actual inflection to his words, as if he had woken up.

“You’re wrong. It’s a puzzle. Like a treasure hunt, you just have to work out what the clues are, where they’re pointing. That’s how you find the treasure.”

“Sure thing, Joe,” I sigh, and turn over to sleep.

I don’t know how much later it was when he woke me.

“We’re going,” he said, shaking me. Too close, his eyes reflecting light, but all around us was blackness. There was a mischievous fire to his voice, like a drunken goblin on a mission.

I was still saying,

“What?” while he was jumping up and running for the car.

I was saying,

“What?” again, as he started the engine. In panic, I stumbled from my sleeping bag, staggered to the car and leaped in the passenger side as he drove away, my door not even closed. But he didn’t head down the road, instead he swerved into the field.

“I get it!” he shouted, driving alongside a line of trees and further into nowhere. Branches shrieked against the windows, leaves slapped at the windscreen.

“What are you doing?” I wailed. With a euphoric grin he said,

“Solving the puzzle.” His face pure wild innocence, free of sanity.

“You’ve left the road! We’re not on the road!” I howl.

“Roads?” he said, “Where we’re going we don’t need roads.”