Spilling Over

Here’s another story for the Friday Fictioneers photo prompt; each week, Rochelle Wisoff posts a photo, with the challenge of writing an associated story in 100 words or less. This is a very varied challenge that inspires authors to interact with each other, as much as it helps them to improve their writing. I hope you enjoy this story!


Credit: Kent Bonham

It was too soon; too sudden. I didn’t want to have to look at it. Yet, even as I decided that I wouldn’t, my eyes were opening all by themselves, sneaking a glance at the drive.

The car was remarkably unharmed; the windshield was gone, as was one of the doors, but, from the back, at least, the only damage to be seen had been committed by the gulls circling above.

I blinked hard, my emotions spilling over at last. How dare it come here, seemingly unharmed? I was screaming, beating my fists. I wanted it to feel my pain.


Click the blue froggy for more stories based on this prompt!

Riverbank Guardian

This is my third attempt at Sammi Cox’s weekly writing challenges! Each weekend, she posts both a word and a picture for writers to attempt either her prose or poetry prompt. This week, the word was “guardian” and the prose challenge was to write a fairy tale story in 150 words or less!


Wandering along the riverbank, the basket of flowers at her side, she smiled to herself. There were monsters in these parts, twisted beasts that liked to leap from the milky waters to drag unsuspecting victims under the surface. There were bat-like creatures that lurked in the trees, too; creatures whose bites would be fatal to a little girl like her. She had nothing to fear, though, for, as she trotted onward, she sang.

Sammi Cox.jpg
Credit: Sammi Cox

It was a simple tune: a melody that went up and down with each footfall. She knew it as the song of the grotesque, the strange, phantom-like creature that existed only to protect those in need.

Way up above her, a shadow swept along in her wake. It followed her music, answering its call.

Snarling at the monsters as it passed, it knew that it would protect the little girl as if she were its own.

Sacrificial Shadows

I’ve recently discovered yet another writing prompt challenge; one of the best things about WordPress has to be how many of these challenges there truly are! If you don’t normally do these challenges, why not have a go? They can be about absolutely anything that comes to mind when you look at the below picture, so long as, according to the rules of this challenge, your response is 200 words or less! I hope you enjoy my little story!

White Horse Inn
Credit: A Mixed Bag 2016

She travelled by the thickest cloak of night, her head bent low against the rain. It bounced off the concrete and drenched her ankles, but she couldn’t let such trivial things impede her progress. She was only safe, so long as she moved quickly. If anyone looked out now, they would only see a shadow whipping past their window. They would never know it was her, she told herself as she rounded yet another corner.

Turning into the next street, she slowed as she approached The White Horse Inn, withdrawing her bundle from her robes and placing it securely under its roofed entrance. She stepped back a couple of paces to look at her child, reminding herself why she was doing this.

If there was one thing that was sacred in this town, it was its law-abiding nature. The law wasn’t just a set of rules to these people – it was the word of God – and any person, anyone at all, would happily turn her over to the authorities. She was letting this child go, so that she would be free from accusations. She thought of the toddler she kept locked away at home, and turned away from her baby.

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September 2016

Be My Escape #writephoto

This is my second attempt at Sue Vincent’s photo prompt challenge. It’s a fair bit longer than my usual writing, but, as there’s no word count to this prompt, that can’t be a bad thing! I hope you enjoy!

Vincent July
Credit: Sue Vincent

Nobody knew about Freddy. For some reason, he liked to hide from other people. I suppose he’d once hidden from me, too, but I spent far too much time in the forest for that now; it would be more difficult for him not to talk to me.

At home, everything was noise. I had a big family: three brothers and two sisters, along with a mother who was inclined to shout at everything she saw; a father who was partially deaf; and two dogs, who had recently taken to yapping whenever they were lonely, hungry, sad, or just thought things weren’t quite loud enough as they were. The forest was my escape. There were no screaming siblings or parental reprimands there. There were the just the trees, the grass, the gentle tweet of birds, and peace.

In a way, I was jealous of my friend. He never had to leave the forest like I did. I had to go home before six every evening, or my family would assume something terrible had happened and start sending out search parties. Freddy, however, didn’t have that problem, because Freddy didn’t have a family. That’s what he told me, anyway. I couldn’t believe him; everyone had a family somewhere, or else how would they have come to be? Whoever they were, though, he certainly didn’t like talking about them. Whenever I raised the question, he would quickly change the subject, distracting me by pointing out some rare species of bird or suggesting that we went for another walk.

I loved walking with Freddy, because he was so good at it. When I’d used to go walking in the forest with my family, they’d always make so much noise, kicking up the leaves and shouting to each other. Much to my dismay, they chased every animal away within a hundred miles. Freddy was like me, though; he learnt where to tread to make as little noise as possible, balancing on the mossy parts of the path and remembering to step over the twigs, rather than causing them to snap loudly as he broke them in two. One day, we’d crept right up behind a peacock, its plumage extended to reveal a fantastic rainbow of colour. I’d never seen one before, and just wanted to stare at it all day, so Freddy had pursued the peacock for miles after I’d had to leave. The next day, he’d produced a rainbow feather for me, telling me that he hoped it would cheer me up whenever I felt sad or alone.

My parents, of course, were worried about me. They’d started giving me more chores about the house, stopping me from leaving whenever I tried to sneak off. They also kept asking me why I loved it out in the forest so much. I would never betray Freddy, of course; I would never tell them about him, but they were worried, because they thought I was by myself all the time. Some days, I wanted to tell them so badly, if only so they would stop pestering me, but I knew I never would, no matter how annoying they were. It wasn’t my secret to tell, and I didn’t want to lose Freddy as a friend.

That Thursday, they were being particularly irritating. My mother had first asked me to change all the sheets in the entire house, and, just as I finished and made for the shoe cupboard, she had handed me a mop and bucket, telling me to wash the car. I’d scowled and I’d complained, but there I was, a few minutes later, washing the car.

The annoying thing was, it wasn’t even dirty; my mother had evidently been running low on excuses to keep me tethered to the house, so had started to make them up, instead. I scowled at myself in the wing mirror I was supposed to be cleaning. I wasn’t really; I was just rubbing a dry mop over it half-heartedly; what I was really doing, was keeping both eyes on the kitchen window. I could see my mother watching me, sipping her tea as she leant against the window sill. As soon as her back was turned, I would ditch the mop on the floor, and run for it. I was patient, moving about the car ritualistically as I waited for my window of opportunity.

It happened when I was brushing down the second wing mirror; there was a sound of breaking glass from the kitchen, and I looked around to see my mother rushing away from the window. I didn’t wait to see what had broken who the culprit was. If my mother called me back now, it was too late; I’d tell her later that I hadn’t heard. She didn’t shout, however, and I escaped telling-off free to the boundary of the forest.

Freddy was probably wondering where I was by now; it had been long enough. I rushed down the bank towards the valley, turned a few corners and raced towards Freddy. Except Freddy wasn’t there. His bed was there, the magnificent frame carved from a single tree trunk, but someone much taller and much balder than Freddy, was now looming over it.

“Hey!” I shouted out indignantly. “Get away from there, it’s not nice to touch other people’s things!” The man, for I quickly realised he was a man, and not a boy, at all, turned sharply around to look at me. His eyes widened slightly.

“Oh, sorry, do you play here?” he said, taking a few steps towards me. I backed up instinctively, suddenly nervous. Where could Freddy be? He was always here when I came looking for him, no matter how late I was. Perhaps this man – this intruder – had done something to him somehow.

I gave him a searching look, taking in his shabby coat and torn, muddy jeans. He was holding up his hands to me as if making a silent surrender.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he said slowly, this time not moving any closer. “This is where I sleep, that’s all. I’m normally out at town in the day, which is probably why we haven’t met before, but I’m ill, I’m afraid, so I thought I better stay put.” He smiled at her, sitting down on Freddy’s bed. “It’s okay,” he said in what he must have thought was a reassuring voice. “I’ll be out of your hair tomorrow and you can play here to your heart’s content.”

“I don’t play,” I snapped rather brutishly as I folded my arms in front of my chest. “This is Freddy’s bed.” The man gave her another toothless grin, seeming to relax slightly.

“Now, I can’t say I’ve seen no Freddy around here… are you sure you’re at the right bed?” I scowled at him, biting my lip slightly out of frustration.

“This is the only bed! And it’s not yours, it’s Freddy’s!” I was beginning to get quite upset now; I figured that Freddy must be waiting until the man left, but if the man was planning on sleeping here, Freddy would have to hide from him all night. “You can’t stay here!” I insisted, rushing forwards now and pulling at the man’s uneven cuff. “He won’t come out if you’re here! You have to go!”

Alex!” called a horrified voice from the top of the bank behind us. I spun around to see my mother stood there, my little sister at her arm. “Get away from him, now!” The man got to his feet again, and I backed hurriedly away, moving towards my mother.

“I didn’t mean no harm, mam,” he was saying, putting his palms in the air again. “She just came running up to me, trying to make me move.”

“Alex, get up here right now!” my mother hissed, the anger in her voice paramount. I swallowed, but couldn’t not obey. It was strange how she held such power over me. I hadn’t had a second thought about running off earlier, but now that she was so angry, it was like I had to do as I was told. I ran back up the bank to stand at my mother’s other side, eyes on the ground. “You stay away from her!” my mother shouted at the man as she dragged her children away, pushing us in front of her around the corner and towards the house.

Back home, I was sat down at the kitchen table in front of my mother and father. The dogs had been shut outside and my five siblings had been banished to the upstairs whilst us three ‘had a talk’. I knotted my hands in my lap, not looking at either of them. I didn’t know what they wanted me to say. I understood why they’d be worried about me talking to strange men in the forest, but Freddy wasn’t a man, and I’d never seen the one today ever before. I doubted that they’d ever believe me, but I had to try.

“Have you forgotten everything we have ever taught you?” my father began, his voice desperate. He was taking a different tack to my mother; whilst she was relying on her raw anger, his voice was dripping with disappointment. I couldn’t lie: it was effective.

“No,” I said to my hands. “I’ve never seen that man before. I know it’s wrong to talk to strangers but I haven’t… I only spoke to that man just then because-” I stopped myself, remembering my promise to Freddy. I couldn’t tell them about him, I just couldn’t – but I was in so much trouble now; wouldn’t he, as my friend, understand?

“Because what?” my mother pressed, her arms folded tightly across her chest. I was strongly reminded of how I’d addressed the man earlier in the forest, and then I remembered how worried I’d been about Freddy. What if the man had done something terrible to him?

“That man doesn’t live there,” I said quickly, throwing all caution to the wind in my desperation. “My friend does. He’s called Freddy and he’s really nice, but I’m worried that man did something horrible to him.”

My parents looked at one another, their expressions unreadable.

Ten minutes later, I was pacing back and forth across my bedroom floor, fuming. How could my parents do this to me? How could they be so cruel? It was one thing to not believe me, but another to make me sound like a little kid who couldn’t look after themselves. I was fourteen! I was fine by myself, and didn’t need them making up lies about Freddy. It wasn’t fair. Freddy was real. He wasn’t – I shuddered at the thought – he wasn’t my imaginary friend. I was too old for that; I lived in the real world, and I’d spent so much time with Freddy! He was as real as I was!

I collapsed on my bed, still fuming.

I didn’t know what it was that I was feeling anymore. A strange sort of panic was coming over me now, constricting my throat and making it difficult to breath. Freddy was real, I told myself firmly.

But then why has no one else ever seen him? Asked a nasty voice from somewhere at the back of my mind. Why are you the only one he talks to? I shook my head, trying to get rid of the thoughts. Freddy was just scared, I reminded myself. He didn’t like people, not after his family had abandoned him.

But why does he never talk about his family? The voice pressed, forcing me to my feet in anger. Because they’re not real, either. He hates them! I thought desperately. Why would anyone want to talk about someone they hated? There was so much depth to him; so much reality when they talked. It was absurd. It was like saying everyone she knew was made up. There were no dogs and no siblings; maybe there weren’t even any parents, not if Freddy wasn’t real.

I kicked at the underneath of my bed angrily, tears beginning to roll down my cheeks. Why did no one ever believe me? Why didn’t they understand that I didn’t want to sit inside all day? I wanted to spend time with my friend, my real friend, in the slice of peace that I shared with him. All of that was all okay, because he was real. He had to be. I allowed my head to drop into my lap, eyes closed. Was there something seriously wrong with me? Had I managed to invent an entire person?

I opened my eyes, and caught sight of something poking out from where I’d kicked earlier. I reached for it instinctively, turning it over in my hands.

A shiver of pure delight erupted down my spine. It was shrivelled and misshapen, but there was no denying that it was: a beautiful, rainbow-coloured peacock feather.

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September 2016

Change

The first thing that came into my mind as I looked at today’s photo prompt from Creative Writing Ink, was a short, little poem I wrote just before I started university. Poetry’s never been my strongest form of writing, probably because I simply enjoy writing prose so much more, but I had a go, and this poem was later published in a young writers’ anthology, so I figured it might be worth sharing.

Change
Creative Writing Ink 06/07/17

There’s something strange about this crazy world;

I wanted to sit back as it unfurled,

But now I’m trapped in these churning waters,

Stuck watching as the confusion slaughters.

I don’t know who I am or where to go:

Do I stand out or join the pressing flow?

I need a guide to help me through the dark,

Because I’m here and want to leave my mark.

Everything’s changing; everything’s new,

But I guess that’s life, and you feel it, too.

Stowaway

This piece of creative writing is for the purposes of the competition at Ad Hoc Fiction. With only 150 words and this week’s prompt word, “crate”, this competition gives its winner free entry into the Bath Flash Fiction Award, which boasts of a prize of £1000! Although this is not a lot of words to demonstrate any writing prowess a person may or may not have, this competition runs weekly and is a chance to interact with different writers. I hope you enjoy!


There hadn’t been a quiet day at the docks of Kellford Town for almost ten years. It was the centre of business, with people bustling about, merchants flooding in, and goods overflowing from every stall. It was a hubbub; a bursting collection of noise, colour and people.

There were women calling out, desperate to sell their flowers; beggars waiting for the inevitable clink of a dropped coin; and strong-looking men busy loading crates from one ship to another. These were well-built crates, but heavy.

Perhaps they were even heavy enough for a little extra weight to go unnoticed.

I nestled down in my crate, listening to the noise all about me. They’re too busy, I thought. They’re rushing around out there with their money and their noise, but by the time night falls and the docks finally clear, only then will they realise that their little serving boy has disappeared.

Word Count: 150.

Burnt Out

This short piece of writing is for the purposes of the competition at Ad Hoc Fiction. With only a 150 word count and a weekly word prompt, this week’s word being “burn”, this competition gives its winner free entry into the Bath Flash Fiction Award, for a chance to win £1000!


The rain beats heavy against the window, rapping angrily as though it is desperate to come inside. I see it as an angry loan-shark, beating at the glass as its greedy eyes stray towards what little furniture I have left. It wants to tear it apart, taking it away from me on a stream of gushing floods.

I turn away from the window to bend low over my work, trying to shut everything out as my paintbrush moves up and down, almost mechanically. I don’t have long here now. They know I can’t pay what I owe, and I know they’re coming for me, but still my paintbrush moves up and down, creating careful little brush strokes on the page.

Before me, my last remaining candle continues to burn. Its flickering and dying, but it still provides some light. When that goes, I will know that my time is up.

Guess How Much I Love You

This short story is for the purposes for the competition at Creative Writing Ink.

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“This is important, Daniel,” Selene hissed, slapping her husband with the playsuit she clutched in her sweaty palms. “If it’s pink then we’re making assumptions about her future, but if it’s blue we’re doing that, too! And, you know, I was reading a report that suggested that green has military links, and–“ she stopped short to give her husband another slap.

“I know I’m going overboard,” she sighed, putting the pink playsuit back onto the pile in front of them. “I just…” she sniffed, hiding behind her curtain of thick, red hair. “I want this to be perfect… I want everything to be perfect.” Daniel smiled, putting his arms around his wife.

“Hey, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh, I know that it’s important,” he paused, “but maybe not that important.” They smiled at each other, and Selene began to laugh, too. Daniel placed his tanned hand over his wife’s stomach. “The decisions we make now won’t stay with her for the rest of her life,” he smiled. “She’s not going to want to be a soldier because she once wore a green outfit, and she’s not going to be angry at us by conforming to stereotypes and buying,” he paused to pick up the pink playsuit once more, “a pink one”.

“I just…” Selene sighed, taking the playsuit from Daniel to look at it properly. “I want her to be happy, Daniel, and I want to do everything humanly possible to make that happen.”

“I know,” Daniel sighed too, hugging his wife tighter to him. “You want our daughter to have everything that you didn’t have.”

***

Selene stared down into her daughter’s tightly sealed eyes, shuddering with the power of her emotions. She was so tiny, so fragile, and so beautiful.

“She’s perfect,” smiled Daniel from the side of her hospital bed. Selene smiled back, but she didn’t raise her head to look at him; she couldn’t take her eyes off the fragile life form that she clutched in her arms. She was certain that, if she looked away, even for a moment, her daughter would disappear into a tiny, billion atoms, or Selene would wake up, and find that she was still alone in her dusky attic room, hugging herself to keep warm.

Suddenly the image of her daughter before her was tarnished by her memories, as her emotions hit her hard, causing her to loosen her grip on the baby. Daniel rushed forwards and caught her, but Selene barely noticed. Her head lulled back uselessly onto her pillow as images began to flash across her mind.

She was a little girl again, living alone with her mother. She’d never known her father, but her mother was always there. She cared so deeply for Selene that it seemed to break her; she worked tirelessly, barely sleeping, barely even sitting, and yet the money was never enough. Selene’s father had taken everything from her mother, and left her in so stricken a state of poverty, that, Selene now believed, her mother never expected to recover from. They rented the top floor of a block of flats; it wasn’t a complete flat, with only a kitchen and a bedroom, but it came with the attic space that Selene’s mother had attempted to furnish into a room for Selene. They lived, not content, but together, and Selene couldn’t ever remember being unhappy when she lived there.

That fateful day came though, and Selene no longer did live there. A car crash. It was so simple a thing, so common, so seemingly trivial, and yet it ripped Selene’s mother from the world and left her alone. She sat in her attic space, having fled from the police that waited in the room below, and cried more than she had ever thought possible. That had been the worst moment of her life, and, as she was stirred back into consciousness by her nurse, and tilted her head to glimpse her daughter in Daniel’s arms, she knew that this was the best. She would do everything to make sure that her daughter lived the perfect life.

***

­­­

Annabel sat sprawled out on the bigger of the two sofas, eyes closed and mouth open. She sang to herself, thinking about school, thinking about the weekend, and waiting for her dad to finally walk through the door.

She opened her eyes just as she heard the key turn in the lock, and raced out to meet him.

“Alright, alright, champ,” Daniel laughed, pushing her off him so that he could walk through the door. “don’t panic, I’ve got the chips.” They feasted in front of the telly that night, and Annabel got to choose the film. They laughed together, and flicked chips at one another. One time, Annabel hit Daniel right on the nose, at which point he wrestled her to the ground and tickled her all over. Then, at last, he let out those dreaded words:

“Okay, champ, time to go and get ready for bed.”

“But Dad,” Annabel complained openly.

“It’s too late already,” Daniel chortled, ruffling her hair. Annabel sighed and got up to leave, but she found herself pausing in the doorway, her back still turned to Daniel.

Annabel,” he threatened.

“What happened to my mum?” Annabel asked, turning back around to face him. His smile drooped, eyes closing for a few minutes. Annabel waited awkwardly in the doorway, afraid that she had done something terribly wrong. Daniel sighed, and then patted the patch of sofa beside him.

“Come here,” he said, and smiled again, but this wasn’t his usual smile; it was strained – broken. As Annabel came to sit beside him, he reached over to the bookcase, and pulled, from the very top shelf, which Annabel was too small to reach, a very thin book.

“This,” he began slowly, “belonged to your mother.” He handed it over to Annabel, who read aloud the words, “Guess How Much I love You”, and then turned over the page to see two inscriptions, one on top of the other. The first was addressed to a Selene, from her mother, and the second, to Annabel, from hers.

“It was given to your mother when she was a very little girl,” Daniel continued, solemnly. “It meant a great deal to her, and when you were born, she decided to give it to you.” Annabel turned dusty page after dusty page, looking at the strange illustrations of rabbits, and endearing quotes as the little rabbit’s mother explained how much she loved it.

Annabel smiled, but still did not understand.

“Where is she?” she pressed, looking back at Daniel. He rubbed his face with his palms, then leant towards Annabel, placing a tanned hand on her arm.

“When you were very, very small,” he began, “your mother was desperate to give you everything that you could possibly want. You see this house – how big it is? I couldn’t give you this, Anna, but she did. She worked so hard for you, so determined to give you everything that you deserve. She loved you so much, but–“ Daniel clenched his fists slightly, his fingers digging into Annabel’s arm. “She made herself ill, Anna.”

Anna stared at him, eyes wide.

“She died, didn’t she?” she asked, a strange sense of numbness falling over her.

“Yes, Anna, she died,” Daniel sniffed, hugging his daughter tightly to him. “But she loved you so much, just like I do, and that’s never going to go away.” He wiped his eyes and thrust the book back at her. “I want you to keep this book, and whenever you’re feeling alone, scared or miserable, I want you to read it. Your mum loved you, Anna.” He kissed his daughter on the forehead, and took her hand as he led her up to bed.

He tucked her in, turning off her bedroom light before he crawled into his own bed, sobbing silently into the darkness. Annabel lay awake for hours that night, finally getting up and turning her light back on. She reached for the book left on her bedside table, and examined each image, turning the pages with extreme care. As she, too, cried herself to sleep that night, her tears landed heavily on the book, meeting much older tear stains, that had existed long before Annabel. When she finally fell asleep, she still clutched the book tightly to her; she lay in a ball, hugging her knees to her chest, as her thick, red hair, sprawled across the sheets.