Flash Fiction February - Out In Ten
This flashfic is inspired by a prompt posted on 23rd 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 . . .