The OverWoods Blog - Flash Fiction February

Flash Fiction February - Next Time Number 5

Mon, 28 Feb 2022 14:11:00 +0000

This flashfic is inspired by a prompt posted on 28^th February 2022 by the Writer’s Digest to write “an ending that doesn’t end”. This story is just over 500 words. Enjoy!

I managed to kneel on the only part of the garden tile that was uneven, and even though my kneecap cried bloody murder and my thigh shook from the stabbing pain, I held the ring steady as I looked up at my girlfriend.

"Will you marry me?”

I tried to judge her face, to read those stormy eyes and petite nose and the star-struck flurry of freckles on each cheek that I always loved to try and wipe away, but the jabbing nobble on the tile ate away at my mind. And I itched to get up.

“Rachel? Honey?”

For the first time, I realised she was looking down at her phone. And my heart sank.

You know what this means.

Rachel pulled an apologetic face. “God, Jake, I’m sorry.” She put down her phone, set her hand over the ring box and started to pull me up by my wrist. “But I have to cut our date short again. Its work and its urgent.”

I put on my best smile and closed the ring box, quietly reeling it back into my chest, ready for the next opportunity to slide it into my pocket. “Its alright. I know how it-”

“It that a ring?” Rachel tilted her head, eyes wide. She started to reach for me, for the box, and then she looks up at me. “Wait, why were you on the floor?”

I laughed and gently took her grasping hands by the wrists, giving them back to her. “Oh, don’t worry about that. You need to get to work.”

She eyed me suspiciously but let me steer her towards the sliding glass doors, towards her stout-faced mansion.

As she was slipping on her boots, she turned to me and said, “We’ll talk about this when I get back.” She jabbed a stern finger at me. Her brows furrowed in mock determination.

If you come back.

Trying not to sigh, I said, “Of course, Rachel.”

The box was already tucked away in a kitchen drawer. But as I leaned in to kiss her forehead and stroke back the loose whisps of blonde hair crowning her head, I didn’t feel relieved. “But first, London city needs its Crimson Butterfly to come to its rescue.” I nudged her towards the door, in all her red-cloaked glory. “Go on. Get going.”

She reached up and cupped my cheek in one hand while kissing the other. “I can always trust you to be understanding,” she said with a dazzling smile.

My chest ached.

I watched her leave, shooting upwards with the blearing whir of metal cables and the flap-thunk of her heavy cloak. My weightless hands closed the door and slid the bolt into the lock.

Next time, Jakey, I thought as I picked up her discarded slippers.

But this was next time. This was next time number 5.

And as I stood in the hallway, wondering where to go for the rest of the evening, I thought maybe it was time for a never again.

28/02/2022

To Be Proofread . . .

Flash Fiction February - Lavender Heart

Sun, 27 Feb 2022 14:10:00 +0000

This flashfic is inspired by a prompt posted on 26^th February 2022 by the Writer’s Digest to “give physical form to an idea”. This story is just over 800 words. Enjoy!

The family huddled around the living room fireplace, the littlest cousins closest to the fire grate while their parents drank in the kitchen. My father policed the marshmallow sticks and put smores together for the adults lounging on the faux leather coaches. Grandma’s croaking laughter filled the room, her proud, old lioness resting under the footrests of her wheelchair.

My brother’s crow peered down at me from the thrift shop chandelier, bug eyes bulging as it tilted its head from one side to the other. A buzzard nuzzled its side, it too glaring occasionally down at me whenever Gwen had enough reason to glance my way.

“It’s such a beautiful kind of bird, isn’t it?” my mother gushed, her own maine coon cat curled on her lap.

Grandma hummed as she smiled. “Ye-es, I used to pray for a bird myself. For a dove maybe, or a swan. Something regal. Something graceful.” As she said these words, she stared adoringly up at Gwen’s buzzard, and something hungry flashed in her lioness’s eyes.

Grandma reached for Gwen, and she surrendered her hand with a flustered smile more plastic than the marshmallow wrappers. “It’s a sign of a strong heart. Of Loyalty. Sacrifice.” And then with a wink and a wonky smirk, “And Fertility!”

I rolled my eyes.

“Ah, girl –” my grandma released my soon-to-be sister-in-law and waggled a finger at me. “You’d roll your eyes, wouldn’t you?”

“Ma.” My own mother gave me a sympathetic look, her huge, fluffy beast of a cat raised its head and flashed the world’s cutest, roundest, wateriest cat eyes. I ignored it.

“Leave her be. It’s not her fault.”

“No. No,” I said, raising my arms in mock-surrender. “We all know I don’t do the whole –” I waved at the two love birds snuggling into each other – “Whatever that is.”

Grandma’s lips pulled back, and her lioness drew out a long, vicious yawn, white teeth catching the blood red glare of the flames.

My father’s dachshund growled.

“You know,” my brother said, spreading out his fingers as he gestured, “and I know I’ll get heat for this, but people without hearts, just, shouldn’t be allowed to walk around however they want to. They should be in prison.”

“David!” My mum smacked his arm, but her eyes fell on me. Round and alarmed.

“What? Its true. The only people without hearts are psychopaths. And they’re just a murder spree waiting to happen.” Mum began to pipe up again, but David leaned in towards me, over his fiancée. “I mean, no offence, Maria, but you are not going anywhere near my kids.”

“I wouldn’t want anything to do with those brats anyway,” I said with a pained smirk. “Especially if they look half as ugly as you.”

David lurched, and a black shadow swooped down over me.

Instinctively, my arms flew up to cover my face. A sharp, slashing pain crisscrossed my forearms and with a frustrated cry, I snatched outwards, my fingers crushing a delicate wing into my palm.

My brother shrieked. I heard my mum shouting, begging someone to stop. My dad’s dachshund barking and a buzzards terrified cry.

Grandma’s lioness roared, and the silence that came after deafened me.

In my hands, my brother’s heart struggled, claws reaching for me but held too far out by my white-knuckled grip.

“I think you’ve caused enough trouble today, Maria,” my grandmother said. She was standing, little, old legs shaking beside her snarling, bowing lioness.

Stiffly, I relaxed my fingers and let the crow struggle free.

My brother grabbed it from the air, bringing it into his chest and preening through its feathers to assess the damage. Gwen leaned over to help with her worried hands.

“Why don’t you go to your room?”

I was 21.

Gritting my teeth and half-dreaming of my solitary city apartment 83 miles away, I stood and left, letting my blood drip from my fingers onto the white carpet.

In my own room, in the quiet, I sighed heavily and let the weight slide off my ridged shoulders. The clock ticked and ticked, and finally the feeling came back in my body.

I sat on the edge of my bed and reached to pull out a draw beside my feet. I dug around, removing dusty photo albums and broken keyrings and bent, fading postcards, before lifting out a small metal box. Carefully, I took it up to my collarbones and lifted my key-shaped necklace up to its lock. As the lid rolled back and the light filled in, my fingers began to shake. Gently, gently, I picked up my heart and held it in front of the window to catch the falling sun.

The searing red light revealed great, green veins and the outline of my bloodied fingerprints on its delicate, curling lavender petals.

27/02/2022

To Be Proofread . . .

Flash Fiction February - Six Steps to Whisperer's Point

Sat, 26 Feb 2022 14:09:00 +0000

This flashfic is inspired by a prompt posted on 26^th February 2022 by the Writer’s Digest to “structure your story as a list”. This story is just over 900 words. Enjoy!

Six Steps to Whisperers Point

Step 1: Arm yourself.

It is generally considered effective and good practice by experienced Travelists to bring a proficient occultist or practicing pagan with you who is in possession of variety of spiritual repellents.

If this is otherwise impossible, due either to cultural attitudes of your time or to the availability of such personnel, the Otherside Wander’s Acute Guide advises you to acquire at least 1 standard kilogram of salt, various spiritual talismans (especially relating to malevolent entities, the wills of the dead and items which increase in power with close proximity to the sea) and effective, up-to-date weaponry equipped for defence against creatures of flesh and blood, as creatures you are likely to encounter at this destination are likely to be human-like.

Step 2: Seek the Council of Local Seafolk

The best manner to approach Whisperer’s Point is from the south-west side of Agatha Town at a time of high tide where the sun is expected to be sufficiently blocked by cloud cover for at least three hours. The most suitable path is generally known by the curriers of St Duke’s Church, often tasked with bringing supplies to the Ourside Lighthouse. However, some Travelists have reported great success in consulting seafarers, such as the fishermen associated with the Glugman’s Fishery Company, as they are likely to have encountered your desired location at some point in their boyhood adventures.

The Otherside Wander’s Acute Guide always advices Travelists to use trusted sources.

Step 3: Approach the Lighthouse in the Above Prescribed Manner

The journey from Agatha Town to Whisperer’s Point may take up to two hours, therefore we advise Travelists to be certain of the sun’s cloud cover. Without low light, your desired location is unlikely to show.

Step 4: Arrive with Caution

You will notice upon peaking the crest of Whisperer’s hill that the air is thick and vision is beginning to be obscured by a horizon-wide mist. This mist is unlikely to be reported by the locals of Agatha Town on your return journey, and the Otherside Wander’s Acute Guide does not recommend commenting on it within the perimeters of the town (not without risk of persecution for witchcraft by the superstitious populace).

To the uninitiated Travelist, this mist is considered a sign of success. You are now passing through to the Otherside.

Step 5: Explore the Lighthouse

You will notice as you reach the lighthouse that its profile has distinctly changed from that which you have seen before from vantages in Agatha Town. This is natural and desired. Veteran Travelists of this location have described the Ourside Lighthouse to be of a friendly countenance and straightforward in structure, with its main body elevating in an orderly, straight-sided fashion, while Whisperer’s Point appears to be jaunty, with a tower that ascends diagonally inland before sharply angling forward towards the sea. The tower light is perpetually lit and spins with a near frightening speed.

You will notice that the sky is no longer “grey” but largely black, save for the flashes of silent lightening within the previous cloud cover.

You will also notice that the guard railing, if you have already spied it from a distance before eclipsing Whisperer’s hill, is no longer. Some remnants can be found on the cliff face beneath the lighthouse, but we strongly advise you to investigate this from behind and slightly below Whisperer’s hill, not at the cliff edge.

We do not advice that you enter the lighthouse in anyway, particularly if you notice figures passing before the windows, lights turning on and off within the tower or the sea behaving in a particularly agitated nature. However, for those experienced and tempted Travelists, if you do enter Whisperer’s Point, we strongly advise suitable ear-protective equipment or that you already possess a strong sense of self, iron will and tendency to ignore those who speak close by to you.

No matter your situation within the proximity of Whisperer’s Point, do not give precedence to the Whisperings. You must ignore them. It is not plausible for your family to have followed you. Loved ones cannot be brought back by the Otherside. Dreams cannot be granted in this place.

And for the love off all, do not approach the cliff edge.

Anyone found to have approached the cliff in anyway following their excursion to Whisperer’s Point will have their membership to this magazine immediately revoked on the grounds of self-endangerment, breach of Otherside conduct guidelines and for the wilful provocation of demonic powers, wilful completion of ancient ritual and wilful disregard of Ourside stability. You have been warned.

Step 6: Leaving Whisperer’s Point

Whisperer’s Point can be safely left by drawing a circle of salt around yourself, sitting within the circle and placing both hands over your ears. Either close your eyes completely or look towards Agatha Town.

You may notice that the town has also changed: reportedly into an asteroid crater or disserted city made of unknown material. Approaching this place is strictly prohibited. You must leave Whisperer’s Point in the prescribed way.

Continue to hold still in your salt circle until the Whisperings have entirely stopped. This may take up to half an hour. You may find that, at times, the Whisperings become louder and more aggressive. Do not be discouraged. Do not move, open your eyes or remove your hands from your ears.

If something attempts to touch you or otherwise remove your hands from their respective places, know that your salt circle is deficient and that you will likely be unable to return until the next Travelist reaches your location, which may take up to a century. You will need to continue to hold still for this time.

When the Whisperings have stopped completely, you will be able to leave. Vacate the area immediately and return directly to Agatha Town using the exact path you originally used.

If you have any questions, please mail the Otherside Wander’s Acute Guide.

26/02/2022

To Be Proofread . . .

Flash Fiction February - He'll Come Back, They Whisper

Fri, 25 Feb 2022 14:07:00 +0000

This flashfic is inspired by a prompt posted on 25^th February 2022 by the Writer’s Digest to write “a story that ends with a promise”. This story is just over 1,000 words. Enjoy!

The wind threw his short hair in all directions, mixing this brown with the moody green of the grass beneath his head, and lifted a steady stream of salt from the kilogram bag besides his ankle, a white river snaking off the yellow cliffs, towards the restless sea. The silent, thunderous sky brooded in his empty eyes, his lips barely moving with indistinguishable words.

Governist Shearan Bleck watched the young man softly, shielding his smouldering cigar from the buffering, seaside wind. “Where’s your friend?” he said, by way of introduction.

The young man’s fingers twitched but otherwise, he didn’t move. “He went to the town.”

Bleck looked down over the ridge of Whisperer’s hill, along the winding cliffside paths and towards the dark stain among the farming fields and carriage ways. Dilapidated, lifeless, pooled in the slight depression of the chalk hills, Agatha Town brooded beneath the chocolate sky like a cluster of broken rocks before a lighthouse. “Well, that’s not good.”

Silently, the young man moved his hand from his side to rest over his heart. His fingers bunched in the material of his plain, white shirt, riding the hem high over his belly button.

Bleck drew a puff from his cigar, rolling the bitter taste over his tongue. The noise in his head started to get louder. The flash, flash, flash of the lighthouse’ beam beside them made the backs of his eyes ache. The spotty seascape at his back continued to rage on in a silent, thrashing roar.

To think the two boys had been here for at least 2 days now. That this boy in particular had been laying there, somehow still responsive, still sane, still living, even with the ever-increasing noise – the all-consuming noise – burrowing endlessly into his skull.

“The Whisperings must be getting pretty terrible for you about now,” Bleck said, nudging the young man with his boot and trying to put some good humour in his voice.

“I’m not leaving.”

Bleck sighed out a puff of smoke. Judging by the salt, it didn’t really look like he’d gotten stuck here, as the Governist had originally assumed. “Nobody said anything about leaving.”

Resigning himself to a long evening, Bleck sat beside the young man and began to tug him upright and tap his face, hoping a little manhandling might bring him round. It worked somewhat, as a small light seemed to ignite behind the young man’s eyes. But still he stared as blank as paper.

“If he left the safe zone two days ago, and he’s not already come back –”

“He’ll be back.”

Bleck’s jaw tightened. His teeth crushed one end of his cigar, squishing some of its contents out into his mouth. He took a deep breath and let the bitterness scrape his mind clean. “OK. OK. Its clear you care a lot about your friend, and I’m sure you feel you need to wait for him, but you can’t do much for him if you don’t take care of yourself. How much longer do you think you can do this?”

The young man’s lips drew back on a clamped wall of teeth, and he flew to his feet.

Bleck moved to grab him. To snatch him back before his feet crossed the threshold and plunged him into the depths of the Otherside.

But the young man stopped short. The tips of his feet brushed the invisible line as he pulled his arms into his chest. “How!” he screamed. “Howard, damnit! What’s taking you so long?”

The silence whipped his words away, sucking them from the cliff paths towards Agatha Town and barring them from ever reaching the warped walls of that cursed place.

A strike of pain cracked down the young man’s face, and Bleck’s heart buckled.

Sighing some more, he struggled to his feet and clapped a hand on the man’s shoulder. “You’re sure he’ll come back,” Bleck said, tender and mater-of-fact. “And if that’s the case, you know he’ll be here in his own time – regardless if you are still here. Sometimes, young man, you need to take steps to take care of yourself. And there is nothing wrong with that.”

The young man’s hands balled above his heart and tears began to slither down his cheeks. He shook his head.

“In fact,” Bleck continued, “We can leave something behind us and make sure your friend is looked after when he returns. I’ve got a day’s worth of food in my briefcase and an extra bag of salt that should do him real good. Come on, what do you say?”

The young man looked slowly sideways. His eyes rippled, the murky surface of the sea. Bleck thought he looked as grey as the landscape around him. “Maybe …” he whispered, “Maybe it can just be a break. Maybe I can come back tomorrow.”

“Exactly!” Bleck tightened his grip. “In fact, you could always wait for him to pass through in Ourside Agatha Town. You know he won’t be far behind you.”

The young man nodded slowly and didn’t protest when Bleck drew a wide salt circle, set several items outside of it for his friend and pulled the young man himself to sit down in the centre beside the old Governist. He obediently covered his ears when Bleck prompted him to do so. All the while, silent tears gathered in his lashes, every blink squeezing them out onto the freckles on his cheek.

As the Whisperings began to fade for the first time in days, as the voices screaming in his head, the roar of non-existent monsters and windswept masts and drowning sailors and that incessant woman who said, “he left you”, “he abandoned you”, “you always loved more”, “you loved harder and he never cared and he never would” – even as she finally faded away, the young man kept whispering those last words, over and over again.

“Promise me you’ll wait for me, Danny. Promise me you’ll stay right here. I’ll be with you again soon, I swear on everything I have. Just stay here. Just promise me you’ll stay here.”

He didn’t have to speak for Howl to know. It was all over his face.

I promise, How.

25/02/2022

To Be Proofread . . .

Flash Fiction February - Extreme Shorts Compliation

Thu, 24 Feb 2022 14:06:00 +0000

This flashfic is inspired by a prompt posted on 24^th February 2022 by the Writer’s Digest to write “the shortest story you can”. So we did multiple. Enjoy!

He held out a ring. She choked on her wine.

“Don’t tell anyone.”

And she never did.

Behind the church, the girls shared a kiss.

She almost made it.

Almost.

We framed the hole in the plaster.
“Fragility” by Jerkface Ex

The house’s lights kept turning on every night.

No one had lived there for years.

“Please don’t leave me.”
“Why? You left me.”

“Mum? What are you doing to dad?”

I applied. A letter arrived. “Unfortunately…”

Look, when I said, “I love you,” she said, “Ew.”

“You’ll be alright,” I promised.
“Liar.”

“Stop following me!”
But the footsteps just continued.

One gap left. No puzzle pieces left.

Flipped table. Scattered money. Monopoly: Own it All!

Divorce papers. One signature already on it.

“Is that my car?”

“911, what’s your emergency?”
“It’s still outside my house.”

24/02/2022

Flash Fiction February - Out In Ten

Wed, 23 Feb 2022 14:05:00 +0000

This flashfic is inspired by a prompt posted on 23^rd February 2022 by the Writer’s Digest to write “a story that takes place in less than 10 minutes”. This story is just over 900 words. Enjoy!

I haven’t been able to hit dial in three hours. Even though my legs are shivering and the rain is coming down in sheets, all I can do is stare at her contact through the thin layer of droplets on my phone screen.

You know how well this went last time.

Occasionally, a bus thunders past my bus shelter and I know another half an hour has ticked by. It occurs to me that I haven’t seen one in a while, and I start to look down the road. But i don’t dare. Not as my finger hovers over that green icon.

My limbs move stiffly now as if attached to my heart by thick cables slowly becoming restricted by the terrible, swelling knot that was making a home there. Even despite the soothing spray of rain, my skin still feels rubbed raw all over. And as my fingers quiver and shake, a part of me is fascinated with words and how they had the power to pass me over a cheese grater like a prime cut of British cheddar.

The screen on my phone changes.

I stare in disbelief as the call initiates, and I realise my unsteady finger had scrapped the glass. I move to hang up, but the dial tone clicks to line-static.

“Hi, Nanna,” I grind out, my voice hoarse as I put the phone to my ear. My cheek is colder.

“Hello, Claire.” Her sweet voice works into my pours, relief spreading over me like the sooth of a high-quality moisteriser. “How are you?”

“I’m …” I wanted to match her tone, to be happy, cordial, excited to hear from my loving, caring family. “I’m … not the best. What about you?”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that!” I hear her shuffling around: the creak of the couch, the dying down of the TV already quietly talking away in the background. I draw in a breath as her worried words come through. “What’s wrong? Is your mother alright? Do I need to call someone?”

“No, no. Yeah, she’s… mum’s fine. I’m just on Peli Street, right now, erm … chilling.”

Get it together.

“Erm –” I cleared my throat some – “Dad said you had a spare guestroom? It was a while ago, but I was wondering if you, er, still had it?” My fingers tighten around the tassel on my hoodie, and I resist the urge to pull on it and ruin it, tugging it so far through one end the second tassel disappears.

Grandma remains silent, and my heart hammers. Then, “Well, ye-es, I do.”

I could hear the cogs turning under her grey puff of hair, the clack-clack as she turned a rhinestone over against her neck. “Claire, what is this about?” she asks, soft but stern. “Why are you not at home with your mother?”

“I …” I tried not to. I really did. But my throat was already closing, tears swelling in my eyes, and as I try to speak, I choke. “I-I don’t know. I can’t stay – stay with mum anymore. She won’t let me.”

“What!” There is a clatter. And I wonder if she had been holding a mug of coffee. Did she set it down in time? I hope she didn’t break it. She loved those kitschy mugs.

“Why not?” she demands. “Did you do something wrong?”

“No!” It was instinctive. “Yes – I don’t know. I might have?” I rub rain from my face and suck in an uneven breath. “What – What constitutes “doing something wrong”?”

Nanna’s silence almost killed me, but at last she said level and calm, “If you tell me what happened, I’m sure we can sort it all out.”

“I …” I wanted to tell her. I tried to force it out of me but – Her words, at least, make me feel like the rain isn’t so cold and heavy. Like it is a little lighter now. Like –

“Well, I – I brough a girl home.”

She must have been silent for seconds, but still my heart slammed against my ribcage, desperate to escape, to escape the hurtling inevitable fact. The heartbreak.

Blinking, Nanna says, “And?”

And?

I grind out each word slowly. “I’m also a girl.”

If I had a heartrate monitor, it would be howling one long beep. One that spanned the entire pause between us. As minute as it was.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

I closed my eyes and finally, the first tear patted against my cheek, heavy and thick.

“Sweetheart, I’m sorry.” Her voice is so lovely, the way old peoples’ always are. Always soft, always warm. Worn in a way a familiar hiking path is behind your childhood home. “I can’t believe this!” she cries. I heard her stand as another bus hurtled past. “I thought I raised her better. What an intolerant bitch!”

“Nanna!” My smile bursts out, and I couldn’t help but laugh tearfully.

“I’m sorry,” she says indignantly, “but that’s just how I feel.” Then, “Do you need money for a taxi? Or shall I kick your grandpa until he drives to pick you up? You know, when you get here, you’ll need something to eat. I’m going to go put a casserole on, or I could order you some pizza. Tell me which you like and I’ll –”

“Thank you, Nanna,” I say, my lips wobbling as I smear my tears across my nose with my wet glove. Despite my best effort, my words collapse into a bubble of skittery laughter, “You’re just the best.”

23/02/2022

To Be Proofread . . .

Flash Fiction February - A Woman In the Snow

Tue, 22 Feb 2022 14:03:00 +0000

This flashfic is inspired by a prompt posted on 22^nd February 2022 by the Writer’s Digest to write “something featuring the phrase ‘the door is open’”. This story is just over 500 words. Enjoy!

I reached for the frost covered door handle, my hand passing under the wayward light of a streetlamp and the stray snowflakes dancing in the void of the night. I tugged it hard, myself a veteran of its sticky ways and an insider on its particular set of quirks – any decent amount of force had it cracking open like a busted safe, locks be damned. But alongside a panicked wobble backwards from me, the door came away light and easy.

Sheepishly, I turned to the woman stood on the sidewalk, puffing out clouds of warm air and rubbing her hands on the elbows of her thick, winter’s jacket. “Uh, hey ma’am, do you want to go inside? Because the door is open.”

She glanced at him from under a woollen, cap-like hat. Dark eyes flitted to the door, long, girlish lashes teasing her pale cheeks. “No, thank you. I’m waiting for someone.”

Cautiously, I let go of the door and rubbed my gloved hands together. “In the middle of the night? What is it now? 12:45?” I approached her slowly and came up beside her with a thorough two arm’s lengths between us. “Look, I’ll wait with you, if that’s OK. I’m not sure I’m comfortable leaving a woman out here alone. Not in this weather at least.”

She gave a shy, awkward smile and turned her shoulder slightly away. “That’s nice of you.”

After a few stretches of cold silence and more than our fair share of icy gusts, I looked back at her, away from the disserted, snow-covered road. “Who are you waiting for, if you don’t mind me asking?”

She shrugged. “Just… let’s call him an old friend.” Her fingers tightened on her elbows.

For a while, she bounced her knee, maybe to fend of some shivers or her awkwardness, but strangely, each crazy bounce pulled her further round towards me. “You know, what makes you so interested in the Paisley Bank tonight anyway? Shouldn’t they be closed?”

“Closed for some. Not for others,” I said with a wolfish grin.

She hummed and stretched out her arms. Her slender fingers stretched her silky, white gloves as hot puffs of air escaped her painted lips.

I did a double take and, despite my efforts to be polite, glanced down at her legs and the pristine tights that clung to them. Was she some kind of show girl? Sex worker? A random ballerina in the middle of snowy nowhere? Beneath her fashionable long coat, it seemed she was wearing some kind of shimmering, red dress and stiletto heels.

She turned to me, smirking as she caught my gaze on its journey back to civilization, and brandished forth one of her elegant hands. “I’m Katarina Clay,” she said, her voice soft and charming.

Stiffly, I shook her hand. “I’m –”

Her fingers clamped around my wrist, yanking me forward. Her other hand braced me by my collarbones right before I collided with her chest. My mind struggled to process, struggled to resist, as she whispered into my ear, “I know you’ve been scoping this place out for a while, and unless you want to go home in a shiny yellow-blue car, you’ll do exactly as I say.”

22/02/2022

To Be Proofread . . .

Flash Fiction February - Everything-Phobia

Mon, 21 Feb 2022 14:02:00 +0000

This flashfic is inspired by a prompt posted on 21^st February 2022 by the Writer’s Digest to write about “a character facing their fears”. This story is just over 400 words. Enjoy!

“Hello, welcome to Georgian Society Counselling. This is Eva speaking. How may I help you?” Eva waited for the line to come to life, slender finger twirling the landline phone cable in lazy circles.

Her partner, and the GSC’s only other practitioner, had left a few minutes ago to pick up his daughter. Now at the end of another long day, Eva just had to wait until the heavy wood wall clock ticked past 9 and their little business could rightfully close for the night. Desparingly, the shorthand still hovered near a golden eight.

“Hello?” The second hand had nearly completed a full loop since she had first lifted the phone. Trying to keep the annoyance out of her tone, she asked, “Is anyone there? If you’re there and having trouble communicating, or otherwise feeling unsafe, please press 1.”

After a long moment, there was a beep.

Eva didn’t really know how to see what button the caller had pressed, but she assumed it was probably the right one.

“OK.” She twirled the phone cord until it bit into her skin, then let it go. “If you would like to book an in-person therapy session, please press 1. If you would like to book a therapy session on our online and/or phone service, please press –” Ah – “1 two times. If you would like to be forwarded to emergency services –”

Beep, beep.

OK. “You would like to book an online session or a session over the phone, is that correct?”

Beep.

Eva pulled her logbook towards her. “I can do tomorrow at 6PM. Will this work for you?”

Beep.

She penned “beep-caller” into her 6 o’clock. “How would you describe your service? Do you need mental health counselling, such as for potential or confirmed anxiety or depression?”

No reply.

“Would you like life advice or support in overcoming personal challenges, such as a career change, financial insecurity, developing self-confidence and the like?”

Again, no reply.

Eva resisted the urge to tap her pen against the thick, lined pages of her book.

8:42PM

“Would you like –”

“Pan.”

Eva blinked.

“I’m pan.”

“You’re … pansexual?” Eva lifted her pen and reached for her 6 o’clock slot. “So, you would like support with your sexual wellbeing and identity?”

“No,” the lady on the other end whispered. “I’m … I have … Panphobia.”

Eva’s eyes widened slightly, and she shrugged, even though no one was there to see. “So –”

“So? SO? It means I’m afraid! I’m always afraid! I’m afraid of everything.”

Eva’s lips parted. She managed a bewildered, “Oh,” and crossed “overcoming pansexual prejudice” from her logbook. “So, you would like support overcoming a phobia or fear?”

“Beeeep. Beep. Beep. Beeeeep. Yes, lady, that’s what I’ve been saying!”

Eva nodded and penned “overcoming phobias (and antisocial behaviours apparently)” into her logbook. “OK, ma’am. 6PM tomorrow to talk about ‘Panphobia’. Can I get your –”

Click.

Rubbing a free hand over her forehead, Eva sat back in her chair and dropped the phone into its stand.

8:44PM.

To Be Proofread . . .

Flash Fiction February - Left Lost

Sun, 20 Feb 2022 14:01:00 +0000

This flashfic is inspired by a prompt posted on 20th February 2022 by the Writer’s Digest to write about “something that is lost”. This story is just under 300 words. Enjoy!

The raw light of the first springtime sunrise glinted off the uneven edge of a lonesome cell phone. It looked like it might have been an iPhone, but with its cracked screen turned up at the sky, all its identifiable features were hidden besides its distinctive shape. Slowly, the sun caressed the smooth corners, briefly filling the deep cervices caused by the cracks and racing around the spherical edge of a thousand, glistening raindrops.

Gradually, the sun crept over the damp porch boards, lighting a path to the broken glass beneath the sliding back doors. A dull green moss already grew on the haphazard shards. A vine twisted around the top post of the railing descending down the porch steps. Lush, breathless leaves imperceptivity turned towards the sun, reaching out over the quivering horizon. Faintly, the sea hushed, its long tongues licking the final step and leaving it blistering with molluscs, seaweed and salt.

Who knows how the phone got there, how it still remained there, when a hungry sea could so easily of swept it into oblivion at every successive high tide. Was it the contrast of cold night and broiling day that had reduced its glass to pieces? Perhaps the tile now on the third porch step had struck the phone’s surface some time ago, the slate eventually coming to a rest in two halves several levels below. Or whoever once owned it had had a habit of dropping it on the hardwood, wearing its screen with every accident and brutal fall until, at last, they left it where it landed, where the world could look at it and wonder, who did it belong to? What happened to them all those years ago? And who had they been trying to call?

20/02/2022

To Be Proofread

Flash Fiction February - Cardboard Fears

Sat, 19 Feb 2022 14:00:00 +0000

This flashfic is inspired by a prompt posted on 19h February 2022 by the Writer’s Digest to “play with a horror trope”. This story is just under 700 words. Enjoy!

Georgia rubbed her thumb over the smooth, silver surface around the camera’s monitor. The camera itself whirred and clicked, but for a while, she doubted the old thing would turn on.

When she found it in the attic, she felt drawn to it, like a shiny coin in a sea of grey concrete. And when she picked it up, she felt even more mystified.

It didn’t help, of course, that the real estate agent had mentioned the deaths of the previous owners were still considered “undetermined”. Georgia didn’t sit well with mysteries, so from the second she set foot in the old Tudor house, she started looking for clues, as if the house itself could tell her why a fit, young couple would die suddenly in the night.

And now she held a digital camera in her hands, the dust of the attic sawing in and out of her lungs.

Who had they been? Had they had a happy life together? Were things troubled? Turbulent? Or plain sailing and dull?

The camera finally blinked to life and a smiling face flashed up at her. The dim light of the screen reflected a shallow image of her own face over the picture, a compilation of a young married woman and a young entrepreneur. She smiled too, bringing on an even greater sense of glorious rapport.

She flicked through the camera roll, unravelling a life filled with camera smiles and chaste kisses and belly-bumps and baby shopping. Sometimes Georgia laughed as if remembering the photos as her own memories, as a moment she shared with these chronically happy people.

But then, she noticed it.

In fact, she noticed it several times and dismissed it almost as often.

She paged back, comparing every photo, particularly those taken in the living room with each other. With two fingers, she enlarged the image, zooming in on a dark spot in the background. She frowned into the dim of the attic, breath catching when she saw the strange, elongated shadow looming under the stairs.

She paged to the next photo, zoomed in, and there is was again, its silhouette slightly turned, slightly adjusted from the picture before.

As if it had moved.

Georgia hardly breathed, hardly moved. And even as fear started to seep into her joints and seal her inside her own skin, her hands kept moving from photo to photo. There was even a laughter filled video with bright candle lights and a white birthday cake and rowdy extended family, and still it stood in the background, the red light making it seem taller, lankier, more bent out of shape. The happy couple's cheers echoing around the attic, disturbing the shadows in the rafters and the demons behind the cardboard storage boxes.

A chill ran down Georgia’s spine.

She became increasingly aware of just how alone she was, in her big, empty Tudor house.

It took a long time before her limbs became functional again, but when they did, she put down the camera and drew in a deep breath. After a brief and panicked scour around the attic, she took up a rusty golf club.

“Alright, I’ll go and see it for myself.”

But she didn’t move for several more minutes.

When she finally made it down the stairs, when she finally managed to turn her body 90 degrees to face the cupboard door and reach for the brass knob, her fingers started to turn white around the golf club, sweat pooling on the small of her back.

“Come on Georgy,” she said, heaving in an unhappy breath, “You’ve got this.”

Slowly, she turned the doorknob, head lowering as she cringed. Her teeth ground painfully together.

The lock clicked free, and she swung open the door. Crying out her best battle cry, she drove her golf stick into the figure. Again and again. Eyes squeezing shut as she shrieked, in terror and in determination. It suffered blow after blow, screeching with a sound she barely comprehended as the golf club collided once or twice with the wall, sending terrible vibrations through her hands.

Eventually, when she realised she hadn’t in fact died horribly, and whatever it was had made no attempt to retaliate, she opened one eye and peered at the shadowy creature that had murdered her predecessors and stolen their hard earned happiness.

An extremely mangled celebrity cardboard cut-out winked up at her, charming and pleasant all despite.

Georgia growled out a self-reprimanding groan. “It’s just Andrew Garfield,” she whispered, banging her head against the cupboard door.

19/02/2022

To Be Proofread . . .