Blind Trust | Flash Fiction

“Don’t look!” my companion hissed from beside me. She spoke with such a ferocity that I momentarily lost my balance.

“What are you talking about?” I demanded, steadying myself. “I’m blindfolded! All I can see is darkness.”

She snarled softly, nudging me a little to the left as a way of directing me.

“This isn’t what I had planned,” she said after a while. “Anyone could be out here. It’s not that late yet and, Cassie, I’m glowing.”

I didn’t know what to say to this, so I stayed silent, concentrating on my footsteps.

“It’s hard to explain,” she added, prodding me in the stomach so that I turned further to the left. “I wish I could tell you what’s happening, but it’s hard. There are rules.”

“It’s fine,” I murmured, reaching for her hand. “I don’t need to know. You’re finally going home. That’s all that matters.”


Word Count: 148.

This little piece of fiction was inspired by the weekly prompt challenge hosted by Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers. Thanks for reading!

Picture Credit: Michelle De Angelis.

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The Cure

I had been sitting alone on a metal, slightly rusted park bench when he had come to me.

Hadrian's Wall4.jpgI can remember hoping that he would pass by me without stopping, for his appearance had been very eccentric. He had been tall, with sleek blonde hair that fell to his shoulders. On his head, he wore an old-style top hat and had a curious moustache that made me think of days gone by.

“Bad news?” he had asked, gesturing as he did so at the plain, grey mass behind us. I smiled cordially, not being in the habit of talking to strangers and, once again, I turned my back to the hospital.

I think that I had then expected the man to move on. I had purposefully not engaged with him so that I could be left to the solitude of my dark, brooding thoughts. Yet he did not move on. Instead, he crossed the patch of grass that had stood between us and came to lounge beside me on the bench.

“I had bad news once, too,” he continued, seemingly indifferent to how uncomfortable I was. “I went in there,” he said, gesturing at the hospital again, “and they told me that I had stage three cancer.” He laughed. “Well, obviously, you can imagine my surprise. It was not what I was expecting to hear, having only visited my doctor about a head cold.”

“I’m stage four,” I said, rather coolly. “It’s inoperable. There’s nothing to be done.” At this, the man put a sympathetic hand on my shoulder. It was nothing more than a friendly gesture, but it took me completely by surprise and I leapt to my feet.

“Hey, now,” cried the man, getting to his feet, too. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I want to help you.” I looked at him then, taking in his kindly expression for the first time and, as my eyes met his, I felt something soften in me. It would have been impossible to say why, but something about this man had made me trust him. I still do not know what unearthly power flows through Dr. Jacques Mathok, but from the moment that I looked into his eyes, I became helpless. He had taken me by the hand and rubbed it gently, telling me again that he wanted to help me. Then he had led me into a dark car and belted me into the passenger seat, brushing my hair from my face as he did so.

“I want to help you,” he repeated as he drove me away from the park and out of the city entirely. We drove for hours, but I had not resisted. I had not asked him to stop. I had only smiled airily as my kidnapper had driven me away from my home.

Then, at long last, he had stopped driving. I do not remember too much about where he had taken me. I only remember that we were in a country lane with rocky cliffs behind it. The rest of my thoughts seemed clouded by my unflinching trust of this stranger.

Mathok had climbed out of the car and had come around to my side of the car, unbelted me, and then taken me by the hand as he led me up the rocky path behind us. Before long, we had come to a cave. It was small, and most of it was taken up by a large pool. An extended stalactite reached over it and, from its point, a steady drop of water was filling the pool.

My captor had then asked me to kneel by the edge of the pool and I, as helpless as ever, had obeyed him. I watched meekly as he pulled a curious, glass flask from his pocket and offered it to the pool. As the stalactite’s water began to fill it, he let out a low hum that echoed soothingly around the chamber. I smiled as he offered me the flask.

“This will cure you,” he had said and I, nodding, had drunk.

Mathok had not lied, of course; the pool’s water had cured my cancer. Yet it had also cured me of something else: my humanity.

From the moment that the water touched my lips, I felt my personality drain from me. I was no longer myself, but a spectre of the fountain. I no longer wished to contact my friends or family. In fact, I could hardly remember them. The word ‘career’ meant almost nothing to me and all of the problems that I had known that morning had simply melted away.

My only concern now is the same as Mathok’s. A slave to the pool, it is my wish to bring others to taste its waters. I go to the nearby hospitals and I wait. Then, when I have chosen a suitable candidate, I approach them. I let them look deep into my eyes, through which the pool’s waters now flow. They become entranced by me and I, using this connection, lead them to the pool. There they drink, and there they lose themselves.

It is a repetitive life, yet the pool makes it all seem worthwhile. I may be its servant, but what does that matter? It cured me. It will cure us all.


Word Count: 882.

This piece of creative writing was inspired by the prompt from Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers. Unfortunately, I was unable to stick to the word count for this prompt, as the idea for this story really took a hold of me. I have therefore decided not to join the link-up for this prompt (this for flash fiction, after all), but you can read the stories that have managed to stick to the word limit by clicking on the blue froggy below! Thanks for reading!

Picture Credit (Photo #2): Enisa.

Not Like Other People

Here’s another piece of creative writing, prompted by the Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers challenge. This is a weekly challenge that asks its participants to write a story in 175 words or less based on the given photo prompt. Thanks for reading and enjoy!


I’m not like other people.

I used to be; I imagine that, once, I was a perfectly healthy baby. After that, I would have been a perfectly average child. I wasn’t exceptional, but I wasn’t broken, either.

Lying here now, though, I realise that I haven’t left this bed in over a month.

Outside, people laugh at me. They can see that I’m not like them and they don’t like it. So, I lie here. I have my food brought to me. I relieve myself whenever the nurse comes. I have no cause to go outside; I don’t complain. I just exist.

That perfectly average child doesn’t exist anymore. All that’s left is a contorted, mutilated stranger.

I don’t know myself. I don’t want to.

I glance at my wrist, and see my entire arm bent out of shape, spasming against my pillow. I can’t control it. It’s not mine anymore. It belongs to that stranger.

I glance down at the rest of my broken body, and feel a tear form in the stranger’s eye.


Word Count: 175
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An Endless Cycle

It’s a pretty tricky photo prompt from Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers this week… or, if not tricky, it’s certainly thought provoking! Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy my little story.


Jade M. Wong.jpg

Credit: Jade M. Wong

It’s tragic, really. We’re in an endless cycle, yet nobody seems to care – not enough to do anything about it, anyway. They just smile as the pattern repeats itself, waving it along as time after time, we demonstrate just how cruel we are.

I gaze hard at the sculpture, my eyes blurring in and out of focus as I take in the deep red circles about where the arrows hit the porcelain waves. Everyone else moved on from this particular sculpture almost an hour ago, but I can’t seem to wrench my eyes from that red. It’s so deep, and so honest.

The endless cycle of brutality, I think to myself, as my eyes follow the circular waves. Humans fight; it’s in our nature. We drag children from their homes and shove weapons into the hands of every able-bodied man and woman. We butcher one another, all in the name of some law or deity.

Then, we regret it.

So why then do we do it all over again? Why don’t we listen?


Word Count: 174
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If you’re looking for more prompt challenges, check out my Sunday Scrawl.

Street Art

This is another short story for the weekly prompt competition at Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers, which runs from Monday to Monday on a weekly basis. Thank you so much for reading and enjoy!


It had been a long time since anyone had looked at me the way she was looking at me. Her green eyes were bright, free from accusation. There was no hatred there; there was no disgust or anger. There was only love.

Yarnspinnerr

Credit: Yarnspinnerr

She leant down beside me, dirtying her fragile-looking skirts in my muck, but she didn’t seem to care. She leant down close – closer than anyone had in a good long while – and whispered,

“I think it’s beautiful.”

Tentative, she placed one hand about my cheek. My breath caught in my throat and I reached up to touch it, but, before I could, a sharp snap on the back of my head sent me reeling.

“She’s six years old, you creep!” shouted the girl’s mother, dragging her from my grasp.

I sighed, watching the girl as she bobbed helplessly away.

People were too quick to judge. They thought that, because I made street art, I was homeless, and because I missed human contact, I was – I shuddered.

People disgusted me.


Word Count: 170
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If you’re looking for more prompt challenges, check out my Sunday Scrawl.

Two Alone

Here’s another short story for the weekly prompt competition at Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers, which runs from Monday to Monday with a maximum word count of 175 words. Thank you for reading and enjoy!


Dorothy.jpg

Credit: Dorothy

Billy was too young to notice. He gargled on the back seat as they flew under the trees, his head lulling and his feet only barely moving in the circular peddling movement.

I wasn’t too young, though. I noticed.

The biggest one was astride a moped, bright red and stunning, whilst the others were all sat about on racing bikes or BMXs. They stared hard as we approached on our two-person cycle, blocking the school gates.

I could see them sneering, just waiting to crack that next joke and see my eyes sparkle with tears. I glanced back at Billy, who was still completely oblivious to the situation.

I sighed, and then made my decision. In one move, I heaved the handlebars around and peddled straight through the undergrowth towards a back alley that I hoped would lead out to the old theme park.

“Where are we going?” piped up Billy. I ignored him, eyes set on the old carousel. How would it be if I just kept on peddling?


Word Count: 170

Click on the blue froggy for more stories!

If you’re looking for more prompt challenges, check out my Sunday Scrawl.

A Private Bay

This short story was written for the Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers challenge, which invites writers to interact with one another through weekly photo prompts. My word count for this piece is at 172. Enjoy!


The Storyteller's Abode

Credit: The Storyteller’s Abode

It’s not particularly unusual to catch the glimpse of a boat or two as they cruise past the bay. Yet this one, this sturdy little sailing boat, catches my eye. The bay isn’t far from the harbour so most boats that pass, power through the water towards it, their skippers barely sparing a glance for my private, little bay. This skipper, though, seems to stare right at me as he angles the boat towards the sand and docks right there, on the beach.

I rise to my feet, hesitating. I’m tempted to go down there and tell him about the harbour barely a mile off, but, for some reason, I can’t make myself do it. I can only watch him as he unloads his cargo, wondering what to do.

I’ve only just come to the conclusion that I should leave him to his work, when a sound makes me look round. The man is unloading bigger packages from the boat now – misshapen packages that wriggle about and scream whenever he kicks them.

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Word Count: 172

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