#Fridayflash - What The Darkness Is For

   

If you have ever lain alone at night, you will know what the darkness is for. If ever you have seen that deepest blackness, the sort that folds you in its soft embrace; I can say, beyond doubt, you will know. The darkness will have spoken to you some way. And the things that the darkness is for, will be different for everyone.

    

Your darkness may be for thinking, for fretting, perhaps, about the things you could not control… All the might-have-beens. Or it may be a velvet cloak of filthy self-analysis, criticisms of all the you that still feels uncontrolled. Your darkness may be for reliving old guilt, for chastising yourself in regret; or it may be for living in freedom and joy, with quiet conscience and the lessons of before… The purpose of the darkness, depends only upon the sway of your soul.

     

Perhaps your darkness is all for feeling - if you are not the analytical type. For the blind acceptance of the here. The now. And the you that is, and ever shall be. Perhaps, my friend, you are just like me, and that is what your darkness is for.

     

You see, I lie alone in the dark on purpose. I always have done. Ever since. It allows me moments of quiet, to remember, to taste my past and understand an inevitable future, that in a matter of time, I know, will come. It allows me to know myself, to admit my wants. The things I have desired and can take now, beyond the bounds of my egocentricity. I keep myself, a myriad of treasures in my chest; and it is the darkness that lets me open the lid.

     

In the embered blackness, I can take from the box, all of my selfish trinkets. Count, one by one, all the reasons that I lie alone. And I lay each one, before my minds eye, like the stones and seashells, that she placed, in rows on our garden wall.

     

First, I can lay down her loaded words, the ones she gave to me, in a note intended as parting. All the things she asked me to be and to do in fine handwriting that didn’t quite say ‘goodbye’. Then I can lay down the bright, round buttons, of her favourite blue coat, and recall, how they matched her eyes.

    

I can run my fingers, smoothly over a lock of her hair, the one I cut, in the last hour, and tied carefully with a ribbon. Then, I can take her scent, from the chest of my memory, and stroke it the way I did her skin, in the final days, before it was dry, or thin, or pale...like paper…and when it almost still smelled of her.   

     

And I can think of the apple tree I planted above her, uninterrupted thoughts; as I take the most precious item from my box. The shrivelled heart she told me didn’t love me anymore, lies still now, and she could nearly be right. But my own heart still throbs when I hold its coldness…its desiccation, up close to my skin. It will never be over for me.

    

What she could not give, I took. To have…and to hold. Lest I die of its absence.

    

Her or me. Acceptance.

   

That, is what the darkness is for.

    

I sign and date it, and add this ode to my box, when I re-pack my cherished charms. When they come, I don’t want them to judge me. I want them all to know that I knew them, and all their darkness too. That we are the same, but for the sway of our souls.

     

I slide the box, with care, back beneath my bed…and in the velvet blackness, again, I lie alone.  

     

#Fridayflash - The Minotaur

    

Like the slow ooze of crude oil, it crept into his stomach; ice cold. Sat there, low and heavy, like he’d swallowed one of the sodden sand bags that had kept a primeval soup of leaves, cars, and the daily filth of other lives from his affluent, rural door in the floods last summer.

He welcomed back a reluctant friend in fear…shameful, most excruciating fear. The kind that warranted the clichéd cold sweat that soaked his collar. Rupert could feel himself start to shake, and tensed to avert the horror of it. Fine that he should be afraid…but that it should know him to be afraid? – Never!

All dripping yellow teeth and glowing eyes, it towered at him…an awful, yawning chasm in the corner of the rose garden, where it festered, and chased small things in torturous circles. Small things that could have been him.

Rupert had been told about things like this as a boy. The stuff of nightmares, that paralyses… The stuff that you never believed existed when your dad sat on the end of your bed at night and told you stories to make you afraid of the dark.

‘All boys should be afraid of something, son’…all boys had to live through fear, Rupert remembered. His Prep School headmaster had always agreed with his father when he said that…knarled old bastard…said it built a solid character. ‘Never trust a man who claims he isn’t afraid of something. He is dangerous, and a liar.’

Rupert could not lie, he had never felt less solid… His insides had putrefied to a thick liquid that he was certain was impending vomit. In the face of the beast before him, with its viscous claws exposed and flea-infested fur matted above a thrashing tail, he searched for any trace of the military focus his father had tried so desperately to breed into him by gene pool, by carrot, and by stick. 

As Theseus to the Minotaur, armed with a shovel and a ball of garden twine, Rupert prepared to do battle. Courage…he remembered, is facing that which terrifies you. Even if it is so terrible you can barely bring yourself to look…

As he swallowed rising bile and acid in his throat, a great warrior took the shovel from Rupert’s hand, and brought it swiftly and decisively down upon the Minotaur’s head. There was no sound…it jerked…once, twice…death throes, and fell still…bleeding from the ear. Rupert pursed his lips to contain the acrid liquid as he gagged and vomited into his mouth.

Sarah scooped the dead mouse onto the shovel and dropped it into the compost heap.

“Little bastard…”, she spat. “It was after my seeds”.  

   

Okay...maybe it's not quite 'horror' per say... ;)

#Fridayflash - The Sand Man

   

It is not yet light, and somewhere behind me, someone is laughing. They’re probably not laughing at me, but it feels like it. I do the last thing you should do when you’re trying to pretend something doesn’t bother you…I turn around, and look at what’s bothering me.

     

The laughing man meets my eyes…perhaps that’s pity I see in his, or he’s mocking me…or he’s trying to pretend I don’t bother him. I don’t know, but it’s making me very confused. The man laughs harder when he sees I don’t understand, and I suddenly feel very young and stupid and like he knows everything I should know, and realise, and he finds my naivety very funny. He laughs harder and harder then, louder, throwing his head back in superiority, until all his features melt together and he seems to dry out before my eyes, the power of his laughter exploding him into a choking cloud of sand. Even though I feel sick at the thought of it, and I deliberately don’t inhale, the sand somehow fills my eyes and my throat and I can’t breathe…and still, he is laughing at me, through the molecules and grains he has become, and his laughter penetrates, becoming a heavy part of me.

    

Barely awake, I stretch out my hand under the covers, searching for Joe, for the comfort and warmth of him. Needing, after such awful humiliation, to feel close and wanted, but he isn’t there. The bed beside me is cold, and I don’t look at the clock. Joe doesn’t sleep well, he will have gone outside so as not to disturb me. The laughter from my dream rings in my ears and I feel small and silly, and tearful…I almost get up to look for Joe, but it would be selfish of me. He likes to walk when he can’t sleep, be alone with his thoughts, and it turns out, as I move my head on to the corner of his pillow, that just his scent, and my memory of our early night, is enough to comfort me. I wipe my nightmare away with my tears and I go back to sleep.   

    

This morning, as I make the bed, I brush the sand from the sheets at Joe’s side, onto the silvered boards of our bedroom floor. Pushing open the glass doors to the terrace, I pad out through them in my bare feet, wearing one of Joe’s shirts. He must have come out here for air last night whilst I slept; my own feet are instantly gritty.

     

It’s fresh and warm outside this morning. I feel the early sun on my bare legs and the skin of my forearms, and I smile…and I feel like the luckiest woman alive. The scent of the sea and the noise of waves crashing on the beach envelopes me, and the coastal morning warmth caresses my skin like last night’s kisses. The breeze billows the curtains, and my hair, like tender fingers. Licking the salt from my lips, I wrap my arms around myself to hold on to this feeling. If I had a cup of coffee right now, with far too much milk in it, there couldn’t be a more perfect moment.

    

The paper-boy goes past, trudging through the sand in board shorts and a vest. He is pushing his bike through the remnants of a smouldering beach fire, not quite out, and tosses the paper through the terrace railings, at my feet. I breathe the acrid, spent cinders and heated tyres, as I look down at its headline: SANDMAN STRIKES AGAIN.

      

My dream flashes back to me for the briefest of moments and I push it aside. My day is too beautiful already, to spoil with bad news about recent, local misfortunes. Though half my heart wonders which family is grieving their daughter today, and which dune she was found buried in this time.

     

With Joe left for work already, I throw open all the doors and windows to the sea air and let the perfect day seep into the bones of the house. I make that cup of coffee in the kitchen and pick up the paper from the terrace, placing it on the breakfast table on my way to the shower. The advertisement will be in it today - I have a concert on Saturday, and my piano bids me practice through the open doorway of my studio as I pass.

     

I pin my hair up, towel wrapped around me, and dry in the sea breeze as I eat breakfast…listening hard on my iPod to the notes in the piece I am finding most difficult to play. I flick through the paper, distracted by a notice for a weekend wedding fayre, and by my heart, and I look for my ad.

      

They tell you, when you’re a child, about the Sand Man. He brings your bad dreams, your nightmares; he sprinkles sand in your ear while you peacefully sleep, and he shatters your rest with unpleasant things. They tell you he’s the reason, to go quickly to sleep when your parents kiss you ‘good night’. Or at least to close your eyes, and keep them that way. You cannot look at the Sand Man, they say…if you see him coming, you die in your sleep.

    

I never do hear him coming above the music, but I see the Sand Man, as he covers my mouth and pushes me deftly, to the ground. He sits astride my body, huge and heavy, pinning my limbs, and I cannot move or fight. The Sand Man stuffs a rag into my mouth and slides a transparent bag over my head, and I wonder, if passing out will feel like sleep, before I die. And my dream comes back to me again, as the Sand Man is laughing at the fear in my eyes…and at the flickering recognition… You see, I know who the Sand Man is, and he was laughing all the time. 

   

#Fridayflash - Old Photos

Inspired by a Leeds Savage Club Writers' Meeting Task of the same title:

Time holds out her hand to touch me and I knock it away, old photographs spread out on the carpet before me.

I order them: before…and after. Two boxes lie marked and labelled, waiting to be filled. 

In the oldest pictures, I notice, we are always smiling. Ever grinning and excited, we hold hands beside a camel in Egypt (when it was still exotic to go to Egypt), and pull silly Flamenco poses beneath an arch of flowers in Spain. And then there’s you…on that beach in…oh where was it now? Who cares? You’re wearing that orange bikini you had in ’73, and despite the sun on the sea and the years, you’re still the only thing shining for miles…

                  *                            *                              *

I open another of the paper wallets and she smiles back at me from an early 80’s matt finish; a 10 x 8. Her eyes still startle me like the first time I saw them, such a beautiful, vivid green, and my heartbeat falters, the way it did the first time I held her. The corners of the picture are rounded, like they used to be back then. It makes the image softer somehow, and I realise, I miss that in the sharper, later ones, when the corners get square again and he starts to appear, sometimes, beside her.

As time goes on and the photos get glossy, the colours get brighter, and it seems they are always together…though I recall it became more difficult ever to catch them so.

The pictures of us have different expressions now…we look tired sometimes, vaguely anxious…the occasional one has us stern or angry…but mostly, we still smile – the biggest, gentlest smiles of joy, and pride…and a love like we’d never known. 

These photographs I place in the box I have marked: ‘The Kids’. The others, in the box marked: ‘Us’. Perhaps one day, the kids will want to meet us. For now I look forward to Sunday lunches, and the two sets of green eyes, like their mother’s, that meet mine across the dining table again.     

#Fridayflash - Missing

Inspired by a Leeds Savage Club Writers' Group Task, for which the prompt simply read: 'Writers' Group'.

     

She pushed her way between the hedge and the gatepost, squeezing by to avoid the tedious effort of the heavy gate. Tonight, air was all she needed.

The fields yawned out before her, with their long shadows and their evening sun, and she heard the faint hum of traffic, on the roads beyond the trees. The world was still out there, but somehow, this was a place where she could barely notice.

It had been warm today. The office had been stuffy and the phones had been hot, and she was tired of being polite. The thoughts had been stirring in her head all day...but she couldn't seem to find a moment to organise them. She knew she had something that needed to be said...to be shared...but she was running out of time. With a conscious effort, she suppressed the conditioned urge to wonder what time it was now...not because she thought she had any more of it, but because it seemed crass to think it mattered here.

The hares in the grass 20 yards away, began to scatter with her stirring footsteps, and she decided to sit, unwilling to disturb them further. She closed her eyes for what felt like a lifetime, and breathed, filling her lungs with air. The scent of the outdoors was like nectar, and it flooded her core, seeping into every , crackling fibre until she felt like a thirsty tulip drinking morning dew. With the sun setting, low on her back, and the soft voice of a lonely cricket chirping somewhere beside her, slowly...finally...she felt her thoughts begin to tumble into place. She sighed, and pulled a battered notebook from the back pocket of her jeans. Hunching over to rest it on her knee, she put her pen to the page, and began to write.

The pen was hasty, confident and sure, and it moved without a pause or a scribble... It was just as she'd thought. This was something that needed to be said, and it almost wrote itself.

She was so engrossed, scratching frantically at the paper, that she barely noticed when he sat down beside her. He had to touch her unoccupied hand, lightly, to alert her to his presence, and she turned her head, dipping it gently against his as a greeting. It was the very briefest of tender gestures, before she resumed her task. Her thoughts had taken so long to be coherent that she was now unwilling to disturb them, and despite his being there, she steadfastly completed her mission.

It didn't surprise her that he waited in silence, shifting only slightly as he stroked his thumb over the empty space on her wedding finger. He knew her well enough by now not to speak when he found her here.

"When you were late," he said, eventually, as she laid her notebook in the grass, "I knew I'd find you here."

She turned to him then, eyeing the finger he was stroking with painful regret, before she met his eyes.

"I'm sorry..." she frowned. "I know I should have called. It's just...with what happened this morning, I suppose I've felt lost all day. I couldn't get things straight in my head...the words wouldn't come. I just...I really needed some air." He nodded, acceptingly...always accepting...his eyebrows knitting a little, as he tried to understand her world.

"And do you have them straight now?"

She smiled sadly.

"Yes, I think I do."

"Can I see?" She turned to the notebook and smoothly tore out the page...there were other things in there that she wasn't ready to show him yet. Folding the paper twice so it fit in her palm, she pressed it gently into his. She didn't watch him unfold it, and got up to pace, nervously, as he read:

Missing

I miss you today,

like water,

like rain,

that harnessed and poured on,

swept away the only beacon that has ever

truly retained the most treasured

moments

of my life - remembered for me

our mornings, my dreams,

our nights - heated and love-drunk; tender circle

of fire it seems I only pay note to

when I feel that it

is lacking.

And here

the knife

twists now,

withdrawing and plunging back in,

for I have only regrets...

of where my apathy greeted and met my

wantoness

and I lost you...

...I lost you through nothing

but inattention, and my own carelessness.

"So what do you think?" She finally asked, when he stood up and wandered over to join her. "It's the Writers' Group Open Mic tonight and I wanted to have something to read...but I think I've left it too late, haven't I? I've rushed it...it needs more work...?"

"No," he smiled, "you haven't...and it doesn't. I think it's perfect, beautiful...I think you're beautiful!" He pushed the paper back into her hand. "Go. Please." He told her. "Read it. They'll love you."

"Perhaps," she smiled, feeling suddenly and uncharacteristically shy, "but I think you're biased on that front. And besides...what will you do tonight? ...If I go?"

"Me?" he smirked and pulled her close to kiss her forehead. "I'm going to take the U-bend off, darling... You're not the only one who misses your ring, you know!"

#Fridayflash - Unbeaten

    

She had been leaning on the fence for a while when she finally felt him approach her. Alissa sighed with relief…she’d been waiting for him, and somehow, he always knew that.

Despite her terrible mood, she found she rolled her neck and tipped her head back, welcoming the sensation of his breath in her hair. She smiled as the warm, humid breeze, stirred her dark curls. How on earth did he do that? She surely had nothing to smile about now… Well…nothing but him.

He stepped a little closer, chest pressed against her back now, and made no sound when he laid his cheek to her temple. Alissa felt him breathe against her, his chest swell and fall, and it was almost as though he breathed his strength right through her. Standing got suddenly easier as she reached to bury her fingers in the hair behind his ear. He was warm and safe and solid, and it didn’t take words to tell her why he had come. He was offering understanding… He knew exactly how this felt.

He pressed his chin into her shoulder then, comforting her, and returned her sigh as Alissa squeezed her eyes shut, wiping her tears. The bruise around her left eye, stung, from the flowing salt…but there was nothing left to cry for. Whatsoever she had lost, she still had him… And he knew her like no one else could; he listened to her very thoughts, trusted her with his life…and she trusted him with hers. It was so much more than she could ever say for Steven.

Alissa turned to face him then, and cupped his velvet nose in her hands.

“I want a divorce, Othello.” She told the great, black horse. “That’s the last time that man lays hands on you or I.”

#Fridayflash - Thrills

“You just can’t help yourself, can you?!” he said, staring at her incredulously, over the top of his sunglasses as they waited for the lights to change. Martin’s leather-gloved hands gripped the steering wheel of the low sports car a little harder in irritation. “You’re doing it again!”

Felicity was slow to respond. She dragged her eyes, lazily, from the buttocks of a workman who was filling a pothole outside the passenger window. She frowned, as though Martin had been rude to interrupt her.

“What..? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She said, half-heartedly…and quite obviously aware of exactly what he was talking about.

“Oh, Flick, please, don’t try to be cute!” Martin said tersely, biting out his words. “It doesn’t suit you. Just put your damn tongue in, will you?!” Felicity’s mouth fell open in stunned disbelief and she felt her skin bristle with annoyance.

“Well! I am sorry, darling…” she feigned sweetness, rolling her eyes. “I hadn’t realised how much you dislike it when I admire something pretty.”

Martin ignored her, trying to be dignified…but as he pulled away from the lights with gusto, the revving of the powerful engine betrayed him.

“At least I only admire things…” Flick continued, deliberately provoking. “I mean…when they’re not mine… I don’t just go and take them…I’m not like you…”

“Flick…” Martin finally bit the hook. “That’s different! You can’t start complaining about that now! You knew what I was like when you met me…I’ve never lied to you. And let’s face it, you don’t exactly refuse the benefits I bring home, do you?”

“Maybe not…,” she smirked wickedly for a moment. “I’ll admit it, I do enjoy those… But I could live without them, Martin. The problem is, I really don’t think you could…and someday, your luck’s gonna run out. You won’t always be this young and in demand, you know!”

“Maybe I won’t…” he replied, pulling the car into the mouth of an industrial estate. “And then, maybe I’ll try and live without this…but would you really want that now? I’d be bored and grouchy all the time, Flick! I need the excitement…the danger! I have to have the thrills, the variety, or it’s like I can’t breathe!” He sighed heavily at the sight of her sceptical frown. “Please…don’t look at me like that! It’s just what makes me tick, that’s all. I don’t do it to upset you, Flick…I do it because I need to. I’m not me without it…and if the truth be known, you wouldn’t be you either.”

Martin pulled the car against the curb outside what looked like an empty warehouse. Felicity raised an eyebrow at him when he reached for the door handle.

“We’re not done here.” She said, pointedly.

“Just stay in the car,” he told her. “I’ll only be a minute.”

Watching Martin disappear into the warehouse, Felicity considered the things he’d said. It was true, she had always known, and she really did like the benefits of his ‘danger’ and ‘excitement’. Martin was always so wired afterwards…he literally came alive! But she wasn’t always sure it was worth it. Lately, Flick seemed constantly worried. Every time Martin left the house, her thoughts were consumed with where he was…and what he was doing! Someday she wanted to settle down, have a family…and they’d never be able to do that whilst he was still so…wild!

A knock on the window beside her, jolted Flick from her silent frustration. Martin smiled at her through the glass…a beam that lit the air around him and filled it with electric sparks. She found her own mouth twitching involuntarily as he waved a stuffed brown envelope at her, and his dark eyes grew luminous…

“C’mon! C’mon, get out!” he panted, pulling the door open. “Quick!” Flick stood up out of the low, sleek car and into Martin’s radiating cloud of exhilaration. Her eyes were fixed on the envelope.

“They’re gonna take her?!” She tried, and failed, to push down her own glee as her stomach flipped with anticipation. “How much?”

“Of course they’re gonna take her! Look at her, Flick! I’ve got great taste in other people’s cars!”

“Martin! How much?!” Felicity reached for the envelope, but he pulled it back, stuffing it into his pocket.

“£23,000!” He hissed, leaning to kiss her mouth, hurriedly. “Not bad for a day’s work, eh?” Flick caught the back of his neck, and pressed his lips to hers in a longer, heated assault. It left them both breathless, toes curling…not bad indeed! God, she loved him like this! It was contagious!

“Just wait ‘til I get you home,” she gasped, dragging her nails slowly between his shoulder blades. “…I’ve just remembered how much I love those…benefits!”

“Home?!” Martin grinned, teasing and sexy. “Oh honey…now you’ll just have to be patient! I work nine to five…I’m still at the office!” Felicity let him take her hand and started running…

“Quick!” he told her. “We’ve got a bus to catch…there’s a business conference in town…and apparently, the hotel has a hell of a car park!”

Felicity picked up her pace…just a couple more couldn’t hurt.

Knock Twice

     
You’re looking at me
from behind smoke and mirrors,
across a crowded bar that rarely delivers,
and I have never seen
more beauty
than this
in my clouded wake.

I have never regretted
a right decision made
in virtuous foolishness,
then preached without truth,
than the one I made
on a bar stool
with you inches from me,
like an unread book…

…and there are moments, I think,
you shouldn’t look at me
like that,
but the second it is gone, God knows,
I want it back, and front, and upside down,
and inwards and backwards, and I beg you,
lay me down on that guilty pyre,
for we’ve known it
ever so long,
we’re just dragging it out like the
chorus of a song and a dance, with too much
repetition, not enough
variation,
and I lied,
I want you,
every way in creation of man
and of woman from him…

…so ask me again, with that same, damned longing,
and knock twice…my stolen sin,
for this time,
I will surely let you in.

#Fridayflash - Ladies Who Lunch

  

“How is your vanilla slice, Lucie?”

Evangeline tried hard not to sneer, as she tucked into her fruit salad with a dainty fork. It wasn’t as though Lucie had scope to be eating a cream cake…she was at least four pounds heavy in the hips!

“Oh, it’s wonderful, Evie!” Lucie declared with genuine enthusiasm, blissfully oblivious to the sly glances and smirks that passed between her companions. “Simply delicious! You girls really ought to treat yourselves now and again!”

“Oh, I couldn’t,” Evangeline smiled, though there was nothing pleasant about it. “I’m watching my figure…image is everything these days, isn’t it? And I wouldn’t want to show Daniel up at the next charity ball by looking a porker in my gown, now would I?!”

Jessica snickered at the thinly veiled insult, but Lucie seemed yet to be ignorant.

“I don’t eat dairy…” Jessica smirked, in an effort to confound Evie’s subtle nastiness. “It plays havoc with your skin tone…and, apparently, foreigners can smell you if you’ve consumed anything containing milk proteins! Stinks to high heaven, so they say! Just imagine…if Matthew’s overseas clients could smell me at dinner?! I would simply die of shame!”

“Smell you?!” Lucie looked thoroughly amused and entirely sceptical. “Jess, that’s ridiculous! It’s like thinking all French people smell of garlic!” Lucie’s delight in the notion’s absurdity bubbled over, and she gave a hearty chuckle. The other women around the lunch table grimaced notably at Lucie’s frivolous, tinkling tones – her laugh was too loud, too crass…and it illustrated just one more way that she didn’t fit in to their world.

Lucie had married Richard last year…and everyone had been against it. There was simply no denying, the woman was from the wrong side of town!

Richard had clearly been smitten from day one…brainwashed, some might say… Lucie was so incredibly real, he’d asserted when he met her, suddenly strangely enthusiastic, his gusto rivalling that of a teenage boy. She was free – and totally unlike anyone he’d met before. Lucie did just as she pleased…was totally honest, and never apologised for being herself…

But everyone else could see, the marriage had obviously benefited Lucie far more than it aided Richard – he had got himself a shameful wife…a genuine disgrace, who wore inappropriate, short dresses at every occasion and never had the right thing to say. Lucie had earned herself a small fortune overnight…not to mention that gigantic country house in Hampshire! Oh yes…Lucie was very ‘new money’…and goodness, it showed!

Lunch, to Lucie, was about ordering the most expensive cream cakes, and drinking too much champagne.

“Let your hair down, girls!” she’d say, and have Evangeline and Jessica cringing, as she talked too loudly, ate too much food, and had the whole restaurant looking their way. Lucie simply couldn’t see that class and decorum were about less, not more…but less, in the most…well…respectable way possible. For the money Lucie paid for champagne and cream fancies, Evie and Jess could drink a £40 bottle of Appalachian spring water and eat organic rocket and crayfish salads – with no dressing, of course. Now that was classy…

With Lucie’s laughter reaching a crescendo, the women made their usual, untrue excuses, and left the Wednesday lunch in various executive models of Range Rover.

As she tottered to her own Barbie-pink version, on too-high Jimmy Choos, and watched Evie and Jess climb into matching, sleek-black examples, Lucie felt her diamond-studded Blackberry vibrating in the pocket of her designer jeans. As she worked the device out of the tight denim on her hip, she wondered which department store bathroom Evie and Jess would stop at on their way home, to purge what little lunch they had eaten.

Although Lucie knew how they felt about her…rude and loud, an embarrassment…she couldn’t help but feel sorry for these women. Evie and Jess were raised in this world, where nothing was expected of them but decorum, beauty and unconditional support for their husbands…so long as they were rich and successful, of course. Evie and Jess had never had the chance to know who they really were or what they liked.

Lucie read the message on her Blackberry. It was Matthew…again. It seemed Richard’s business partner was developing something of a liking for her. Poor Jess… Lucie wondered if she ever suspected her husband spent his lunch hour propositioning other men’s wives?!

Part of Lucie wanted to return Matthew’s message…something naughty and encouraging…as revenge for Jess’s suggestion that she smelled! But then, Lucie couldn’t do that to Richard…and she really wouldn’t want to.

Lucie smiled at just the thought of her husband, and wondered if he’d be finished with meetings early today. She’d bought steak for dinner. Climbing into her pink Range Rover, she threw the Blackberry on the passenger seat. Lucie stroked the pink leather gear-stick as she turned the key in the ignition, and slipped on her flamboyant sunglasses.

You might not be able to buy class, Lucie thought…or taste…but you can’t buy love or happiness either. Everything I need is free… she grinned to herself, still unable to believe her new life… and for everything I want, there’s a credit card!

#Fridayflash - Black Jacket

    
As she drew herself, reluctantly, from the thick cotton wool of sleep, Penny caught sight of a tangled shock of shaggy, dark hair, splayed across the pillow beside her.

She rubbed at her tired eyes, still sore from the club’s dry ice and the heavy make-up she hadn’t quite removed last night. Her mouth felt as dry as sawdust, but despite the discomfort and thirst, she was more than able to smile at the owner of the dark hair’s presence. Well…rather at her own presence. This was, after all, his place.

Penny pushed herself up on her elbow and leaned gently across his naked back, until she could see his face. Her smile widened…Anthony…or was it Andrew?…was still fast asleep, his long, dark eyelashes, resting softly on his stubbly cheeks.

In the early morning light that filtered through the curtains, Penny noticed he had a large, electric guitar, tattooed between his shoulder blades. It’s neck and fret board were now clearly visible above the bed’s white sheets. Penny wasn’t surprised she hadn’t noticed his body-art last night. When she met him, Anthony had been wearing a black jacket that now lay discarded on the bedroom floor…and after that…well, she’d only really cared about what wasn’t covering his skin!

Penny pushed her own, tangled hair back off her forehead and breathed out contentedly, recalling the moment she first laid eyes on Anthony. His jacket was the thing that caught her attention… It was flamboyant, a vintage cavalry coat, double breasted, with pewter buttons and beautiful, intricate, charcoal beading. Rare and expensive-looking, Anthony had worn it well. The jacket nipped in at his narrow hips, and suited his messy haircut and the shiny, white guitar slung across his body. Up on the stage, he’d had an air of all the best things from the eighties…rock music and neon, the remnants of Punk, and the advent of Goth. His pants were just a little too tight and the music seemed to be part of him. He had reminded Penny of her self…aside from a voice like silk, he could have been her male incarnation. Watching him, up there performing to the crowd, she’d found herself captivated…and covetous… Penny had seen something she wanted to own…more than she’d ever craved possession of anything.

Penny had also known, it wouldn’t take much to get what she so desired. The musician was very sure of himself…but Penny knew her own charms. A glance alone had Anthony hooked. Just a few flattering comments, a couple of drinks on a set break, and a wry smile from a table close to the stage, soon had him playing only to her. Penny had flicked her wild curls in measured seduction, and raised a suggestive eyebrow or two…before she fixed her bedroom eyes on his and waited for her prey to bite.

He had taken the bait, of course. Hook, line and sinker…getting Anthony out of that sexy jacket had been little more than child’s play! He was, no doubt, used to attention – he clearly knew what he wanted too - and last night, Penny could think of nothing better, than sinking gleefully into what stood before her.

Truth be known, she thought, as she leaned over Anthony’s sleeping form, observing their abandoned clothes, she could still think of nothing better…

Quietly, and gently, so as not to wake him, Penny slipped out from under the covers. She needed coffee. The beer had flowed freely last night, and her veins were screaming for caffeine.

Moving with as much stealth as she could muster, Penny pulled on her tight black jeans and the vest with the shiny print that she’d worn last night. Anthony didn’t stir, even as she leaned over him to push the curtain aside and check the weather.

It looked warm outside. Strong sunlight filtered between the densely packed buildings of the city centre. Penny drew back from the window, and picking up Anthony’s jacket from the bedroom floor, she slipped it on, letting her self sink into its scratchy, vintage felt. The fabric smelled of him, she smirked…but that would fade with time…

Penny stood before the bedroom mirror, stopping a moment as she passed it…and it was just as she’d thought. The jacket looked fantastic on her! It clung in all the right places and was well worth the effort to obtain it.

Buttoning its shiny, double breast, until the jacket’s starched military collar stood almost upright, Penny gathered her purse and slipped quietly from Anthony’s bedroom… She needed to order that coffee.

‘One double strength Americano, please…’ she mused triumphantly, fingering a pewter button as she imagined her order. ‘…To go.’ There would be little point in pleasantries now…Penny already had exactly what she came for.

Sorry about my late post (again!)...was traveling last night, on a ferry to Rotterdam. Needless to say, the on-board musician was wearing a rather wonderful jacket... :-p

#Fridayflash - Caitlin

It's Mothering Sunday in the UK on 14th March...so here's something fitting... ;-P   

     

Caitlin’s mum was one of those people who didn’t care much for life. That was partly what made it easier for the six-year-old, to watch when she drank the poison.

Caitlin knew that poison made mummy happy. And when mummy drank enough, she would sing - loud and raucous, at the top of her voice… Caitlin liked that! They would have parties, she and mummy, and Caitlin would sing too, staying up way past her bedtime. It was lovely to be so happy with mummy. When mummy drank the poison, she loved everyone – especially Caitlin – and she would tell her, over and over again.

Mummy liked poison so much that sometimes, she would spend her money for food, on poison instead. Caitlin was always hungry when she did that, but it didn’t matter. Mummy said life was very sad without the poison…and Caitlin didn’t want her to be sad. When mummy was feeling happy, that made Caitlin happy too.

Mummy kept her poison under the sink, or under the mattress…or sometimes under the sofa cushions when she watched telly. Caitlin had tried the poison once, when she felt sad, but it wasn’t a bit like the potions in Alice in Wonderland as she’d expected. Caitlin didn’t grow taller, or instantly start to laugh – the poison just tasted funny, like it would burn the skin off the back of her throat, and it made her cough until she was sick.

Mummy said poison made Caitlin ill because, it was just for grown-ups. One day, she said, Caitlin would grow to like poison as much as she did…maybe even as much as grandma had. Caitlin had never met grandma, but she’d seen poison make mummy sick too, and she knew she would never like it.

When mummy had too much poison, or worse, no poison at all, she would fall asleep for years, like Sleeping Beauty. When that happened, mummy would always be too tired to take Caitlin to school. Caitlin had tried waking mummy to remind her, but then she got very angry, which always meant getting smacked. So Caitlin would go to school on her own…because if she didn’t, her teachers shouted too. Sometimes Caitlin had dirty clothes, or put them on inside out. The other children laughed at her then, and called her horrid names, and mummy was right - life was hard and sad when she didn’t drink any poison.

Mummy hadn’t had any poison today. Or yesterday…and she’d been crying, a lot. There would be no money for poison until Wednesday, and that made mummy very sad, and very cross. The only time she wasn’t shouting at Caitlin was when she was sleeping. Then she seemed almost peaceful, just a little restless - like the princess from that fairytale…the one who could feel the pea under her mattress…

“Caitlin?” Miss Barratt’s voice drew the little girl back into the empty classroom. “You’re last again…” The teacher smiled. “Isn’t your mummy here yet?”

Caitlin broke her daydream, shoved her homework into her backpack and shook her head. Mummy had been asleep when she left for school, and she would still be asleep when Caitlin got home.

“Is your mummy coming to collect you?” Miss Barratt said, with concern. She’d been a little worried about Caitlin lately…the child seemed, well, neglected…but it wasn’t polite to pry.

Caitlin shook her head again, and Miss Barratt frowned.

“Is someone else coming to collect you?” The teacher crouched beside the little girl’s desk when she didn’t respond to the question. “Caitlin,” she said softly, “where is your mum?”

“She’s sleeping,” Caitlin whispered. “She’s always happy when she’s sleeping.” Miss Barratt looked puzzled.

“How do you know she’s sleeping, Caity? Is she sick?” Caitlin nodded.

“She was,” the little girl’s wide, blue eyes met her teacher’s. “And she was sad…but she won’t be anymore. I helped her.”

“That was very nice of you,” Miss Barratt smiled. “How did you help her?”

“Like the woodcutter helped the wolf,” Caitlin suddenly grinned, her milk teeth displayed in a sickly proud sneer. “She fell asleep then…so I’ve got a hundred years now to find her a prince and…” Caitlin caught herself abruptly, and looked a little panicked. “Miss Barratt?” she said, somewhat urgently. “Did I get muddled? Does a kiss still wake the princess if she hasn’t got a head?!”

#Fridayflash - Dishes

 

I’m standing at the sink, my hands covered in suds, when she sneaks up behind me. She wraps her lithe arms around my middle and stands on her toes, resting her chin on my shoulder. I feel her lips nuzzle me there, and her hot breath penetrates my shirt like the heat from an open fire. Her long hair is loose around her face, and it tickles my ear.

“Thank you…” she whispers, genuinely, though her teeth are scraping playfully at the back of my neck. “For dinner…for tonight.” I smile and meet her soft eyes in the window over the sink. It’s dark outside, and it’s raining…and the glass is a mirror.

“What makes you think the night is over?” I ask her, trying hard to be suave as I attempt to arch one eyebrow and end up raising both. She laughs at me, like breaking glass, instantly mocking my feeble stab at ‘sexy’…and as she buries her face in my shoulder she isn’t even trying, but her act beats mine, hands down. My insides twist inexplicably, and I couldn’t love her more.

“Happy Anniversary…” she tells me, as I position a plate in the dish rack, watching the soap slide over its smooth surface, echoing the rain on the window. It slides too slowly, like the time this washing up is taking…

I wash a knife; a fork…and her hands push under my shirt, tucking themselves into my waistband as though they always ought to be there. She presses her fingers into the flesh of my stomach, and draws me back against her tantalising warmth, while I place the paired cutlery in the drainer. Her tongue runs itself, firm and wet, up the back of my neck, and I shudder. She wants my attention…and I no longer care if the dishes get done…

I draw my wet hands from the water and meet her wicked eyes in the black glass before me…then her hands are on mine, fingers interlacing before she draws the wetness back up my arms and spreads the suds across my skin.

I close my eyes as her damp fingers push themselves up the back of my neck, into my hair, and I can’t help but hold my breath when I turn to face her. She runs her thumbs over my cheekbones like she’s touching silk and barely rests her lips on mine as she breathes, instead of says, that she loves me.

And I want to tell her back…so I let my breath go…and I open my eyes…but of course, she’s gone.

Damn it. I really fucked up this time.

 

Sorry my #fridayflash was posted so late this week! Started a new job and been very busy. Promise to get back on schedule very soon. :)

#Fridayflash - September

  

My childhood days were full of wonder and glory…or so it seemed. The sun, for me, was always shining, and the barley was always golden. My skin stayed tanned year round and I was happy and warm, breathing perfumed country air.

Of course, as an adult I realise, it must have rained sometimes…but strangely, I don’t remember. To me, it was always summer…even when my Sundays were spent picking blackberries and the mushrooms scented the woods with their heavy musk.

My father, you see, was an excellent parent, and undoubtedly, the reason for my eternal sun. He loved my brother and I more than he loved his life, and it shone from him like starlight. We never questioned that we were his everything.

When Dad wasn’t working, out on our farm, he spent his spare hours by our sides, backing up my brother and I at our latest swimming gala or rugby game. He was always the proudest father in the crowd, even when we didn’t win – and as we got older, he revelled in the warm embarrassment we pretended his attention caused.

My mother, on the other hand, had never been around. Dad said she left when I was three, but that didn’t matter – it only meant he would have to love us twice as much.

I asked my brother about Mum sometimes, when it occurred to me that I ought to…but at barely 12 months older than I, he didn’t remember a lot. She had blonde hair, he said, the colour of our barley fields, and eyes like the blue of the sky. She smelled of earth and fresh bread, and made chocolate chip cookies on Thursdays… That’s how he knew it was Thursday the morning he woke and she wasn’t there - because the cookies were.

My brother remembered Mum’s breakfasts best, he said. She’d made him eggs, just like I learned to when I grew tall enough to reach the stove. Our Dad had never been there for breakfast…because cows need milking when the sun comes up…but my brother recalled that he and the dark-haired labourer who lodged with us, would come in later for cups of tea.

It was around the time my mum left, that my brother also recalled the commotion of an accident. Our labourer, Dad said, when pushed to talk about it, had slipped and fallen under the baler… We didn’t ask for more than that, as Dad found it hard to recount that day. With no neighbours for miles around, the two men were the best of friends…and Dad could never bring himself to hire help again.

Each year throughout my childhood, Dad would take us up to the woods in September, with bunches of summer’s last flowers…which we laid at the foot of a pair of oak trees Dad told us he’d planted there for his friend.

We didn’t understand back then, why the trees were two. You see, I had no memories of my infancy...and through the years, the truth faded from my brother’s mind too. We grew up without thinking about it…content with our wonderful father and our charmed country life… And in the midst of all that sanctuary, we hardly noticed that our raven hair wasn’t red, like our Dad’s, let alone detected the reality of how our true parents came not to be there. Not even when we stood at their graves…in sunlight…each September.

#Fridayflash - Falling

  

“Are you sure about this?”

“No.”

“Then I shouldn’t do it…I mean…you should just go back…”

“Is that what you really want?” Michael looked straight at me; almost held his breath. His deep-blue eyes were hurt and incredulous.

“No… God, no! You know it isn’t. I want you here…with me… But Michael, if you’re not sure..?” I sighed, heavily. “Look…the way I understand it, once we do this, there’s no going back…and I just don’t want you to hate me if you regret it later.”

“How could you think I’d do that?” Michael’s voice rose in irritation. “You think I could regret being with you?! Lucy…you’re everything…I could never hate you.”

“You might not think so,” I said, seeing truth in his eyes, yet needing to be sure. “But who knows how we’ll feel a year from now? Maybe your friends are right, maybe we’re being naïve about this and we should just accept that we’re different…”

“Lucy…I had no idea you felt that way… Do you really think they have a point?!” Michael sounded betrayed. I’d never said any of this before, but things were getting serious now…the point of no return. He had to be certain.

“No…of course I don’t…” I breathed, sad and conflicted. “Please, don’t be angry. I just don’t want you to give up anything you’ll miss…I couldn’t stand it if I made you unhappy. Michael…you have so much more to lose than I do…”

“You’re right.” He sighed and rubbed his fingers over his blond head in frustration. “I have a lot to lose… I’ll be leaving a job I was born to do, I’ll be leaving my men behind, and a war I believe in fighting…” he looked up at me, and smiled then, “…the Commander will be furious…and I’ll miss out on all sorts of officers’ privileges… But look at what I’m gaining, Lucy! I get you…and it’s better than all that. It’s better than anything! The war will go on without me…and so will the Unit …I think I’ve led it long enough.”

“And our differences?” I said, raising my eyebrow inquisitively. “What of those then?”

“Well, the way I understand it…after we do this, those will go away. I’ll be just like you.” He grinned, genuinely happy at the thought, and I returned his smile, curling my fingers around the back of his neck and leaning my forehead on his. I stared at Michael’s impossibly blue eyes and held their steady gaze.

“Michael…” I whispered. “Be sure…”

“I’ve never been surer,” he said, suddenly strong, as he pushed the knife into my hand.

Pulling him closer, I wrapped my arms around Michael’s shoulders and sliced the enormous, white wings from his naked back, with a practiced flick of my wrist.

Michael roared in agony as blood gushed from the fresh, ragged wounds…blood that was red…and mortal. His wings fell to the ground amidst a cloud of scattered, stained feathers, and I stepped back, dropping the knife with a violent clatter. I’d played by the rules…he’d had three chances to stop this…

Michael’s pained cries peaked as wails of desolate realisation when he saw the bony horns begin to erupt from my scalp and push through curly red hair that shortened before his eyes. I flexed my fingers as their nails lengthened to claws and a forked tail burst from my lower back, thrashing and whipping at the air.

“This doesn’t quite resolve our differences, angel…” I sneered. The voice that resonated from my morphing body, deepened with every word. “You’ll never be just like me…” I threw back my head and howled with hysterical laughter… Another divine warrior disabled...a leader, no less! This was getting far too easy!

I left Michael sobbing and bleeding on the pavement, as I descended through it, victorious. I didn’t know if the neutered angel cried for the Cause, his wings, or his broken heart…and neither did I care…

Good: 0 Evil: 1

#Fridayflash - What Cain Did

Some of you asked for it, so here's Cain's side of the story... 

 

The moment I saw her I knew she was more than just another beautiful woman in a bar. I hadn’t had the best of days, and honestly, I didn’t feel like talking…but there was just something about her…

She was tough…it radiated from her, but there was also something searching in her, like she knew there was more to life, and wouldn’t give up until she found it.

She had green eyes that seemed familiar. I noticed that when she sat down beside me; before she spoke, before she even looked at me. They were stunningly bright, and she pursed her soft mouth below them, whistling when the bartender placed another beer and whiskey chaser before me.

“Put it on the tab,” I grumbled, and she smirked… I could only see her out the corner of my eye, but I knew she was smiling. I felt it.

“Rough day?” She asked, leaning closer until I could feel her heat and smell her scent, like honey and jasmine. I wanted to ask her what the hell my drinking habits had to do with her – and if she’d been anyone else, I would have. But those green eyes were steady and genuine, like she’d listen for hours if I actually told her the whole sorry tale.

“Something like that,” I replied, offering a ghost of a smile in return. I couldn’t help it, and besides, facing her was far preferable to facing the images in my head.

We talked a little, the woman who said her name was Annabelle, and I. It was nice - sort of distracting - and mostly, I found I was honest with her. Except, of course, when we reached the inevitable –

“So what do you do?” She asked. I told her I was in IT, a consultant – everyone’s in IT now, aren’t they? She said she was a nurse, and it made a lot of sense. She had one of those invisible protective shells around her, like she’d got used to losing people. It was a shame, I thought. I’d been starting to really like her, but there was no use thinking ahead…Annabelle would never handle the truth.

I mean…how do you tell someone who saves lives, that you’re a professional killer; a specialist in lethal explosions? How do you tell her you fake terror attacks for a living, to feed the egos of bastard politicians and sway the opinions of the world? And how do you explain that a ‘rough day’ is the day a little boy gets caught in one of your car bombs? That the news channel in this very bar is reporting your handy work?

The truth is, you don’t, and there was no point pretending otherwise. It didn’t matter if Annabelle was a nurse really…my job wouldn’t wash with any woman. Even if it had been a choice between the Secret Service or prison - Cain Andrews, SAS deserter to Cain Andrews, government pawn - and I’d never asked to be who I am.

So, I charmed Annabelle instead, and waited for her to ask me in when I walked her home…because if she didn’t take me upstairs and take my mind off that boy’s blood on the embassy steps, I knew I’d never sleep again.

 

 *                                           *                                         *

 

The following morning, as I stood naked in her bathroom doorway, she told me she didn’t do this often…she didn’t invite strange guys from bars into her bed. I reassured her, of course I didn’t think that…she didn’t seem the type to screw around… And for once, I was being honest, she really didn’t. Annabelle’s mouth was the most truthful thing I’d ever encountered, in speech and everything else. Her tongue was masterful and practiced, but by no means mechanical. She was bitter and sweet, generous and attentive…and vicious…all at once. In truth, she’d touched my soul, and God help me, I wanted more…

“I must be special then?” I asked her, and every fibre of me willed her to say ‘yes’, to say she felt the same startling connection here as I did. When she didn’t respond, I sought the confirmation I was sure I would find, in her kiss instead. Laying on the bed beside her, my eyes locked on her green gaze and I leaned towards her.

“I know what you’re thinking,” I murmured against her lips, nipping at their softness between words. She made an inquisitive sound, but didn’t move, only trembled, until I twisted, drawing her mouth into mine. “You think…” I breathed, breaking off as our kiss deepened. “That this can’t be happening...” She pushed my shoulder and I rolled willingly onto my back, raising the intensity and gasping my next words, breathlessly, into her hot, open mouth. “You think you can’t feel this way…after just one night…but…”

I felt her catch her breath then as she clawed away strands of her hair that caught in our kiss. I didn’t need to finish my sentence, it was clear she felt it too…her body screamed it, without words. Annabelle buried her fingers in my hair and drew me tighter against herself, her graceful arms snaking around my neck and back... I knew I’d never felt anything like this before, and might never again. Maybe I could tell her the truth about my work…perhaps she would understand…

I didn’t feel her stab me until the blade hit my heart - sliding very professionally between my ribs, through my back as she held me. I didn’t understand it and I tried to say her name, to ask her why, but found I couldn’t breathe enough to speak – my chest was full of crushing air and blood. She said she was sorry and my dying eyes saw truth in hers…her impossibly bright, green eyes.

It wasn’t until the clarity of death that I remembered why those eyes were familiar. My boss had the same green eyes,...just older. And so did his son…the boy I’d left dying on the embassy steps last night. There had always been a photo of the child on my boss's desk - posing with a woman he'd once told me was his niece... 

The Circle of Friends Award...

 

Now, I'm soft as butter in a lot of ways, so (despite the fact that it's a bit silly!) I was totally honoured when I had this award somewhat ceremoniously bestowed upon me last Tuesday! I was all the more honoured because, the one who so bestowed it, Carrie Clevenger, would be the first person I'd conjure in my own mind to give it right back to! 

Carrie and I have never met outside of Twitterville, but I know enough... She's a fabulous poet to whom the world speaks as it does to me, and that's a lovely kindred to have found. If you've only ever read her #fridayflash, please make time for her poetry too. It's more than worth it.

I'd also like to bestow this award upon my fellow members of the Leeds Writers' Group, some of whom are known in Twitterville as Chance4321, mazzz_in_Leeds , petherin, MoxieMouth and HeatherLloyd83. Without these brilliant writers, who are also wonderful people, I wouldn't write half as much, or half as well...and I probably wouldn't write prose at all! Thank you guys, for all your prodding, and pulling apart and praising of my work...and for letting me do the same thing to yours! And, of course, for your friendship. 

Last, but not least, I hand this award to David G Shrock (Draco Torre) for his consistently constructive criticism and some fabulously stimulating discussion of my poetry, and to Michelle D Evans and Marisa Birns, who visit my poetry as often as they visit my fiction and always leave the most beautifully encouraging comments!

So, though I'm not a fan of these chain things as a rule, I guess here is where I say, collect your award and pay it forward! This one's different. :)

#Fridayflash: Cain and Annabelle

  
“I don’t do this often, you know…” I didn’t quite know why I was telling him this, but for some reason, it was important to me. It was important what he thought of me.

The man standing in my bathroom doorway, who said his name was Cain Andrews, raised an amused eyebrow in my direction.

“Don’t do what?” He smiled, gently playful, and I felt something fall inside me, tumbling through my chest…like glitter, or tiny shards of light. Whatever it was, it sparkled. “Approach strange men in bars and invite them into your bed?” I grimaced ruefully, somewhat embarrassed.

“Exactly.”

“Of course you don’t,” he said, still smiling, then nodded at me, honest and knowing. “I can see that about you, Annabelle.” He grinned, jovial again. “So I must be special, right?”

I smiled simply, not sure what to say for the best. My entire core had responded immediately in the affirmative to his question, but I didn’t want to seem frightening. As he said, we were technically strangers…but there was no getting away from this. I truly felt something startling for him, something like never before…

Now, listen. I don’t want you to get me all wrong here – I’m not a ‘love at first sight’ sort of woman. I’ve never been the star-crossed, Juliet type who thinks every man she shags will love her! I certainly hadn’t intended to feel this way when I approached Cain. I’m a career girl – and love was the last thing on my mind. Cain Andrews was just another guy, in another town, another bar, on another, ordinary work night.

When I failed to respond to his question, Cain made his way back to the bed and lay down beside me, propping himself on an elbow and turning towards me. He made for a wonderful, naked sight, and I watched him move…impossibly, still hungry.

I slid my right hand under the pillow and dropped down onto my own elbow, until our eyes were level. His dark gaze met mine, then continued through me like a knife through butter. I shook my head lightly, to loosen the hold of dizzying serotonins. Get a grip, Annabelle! I scolded internally, as Cain stretched towards me and kissed me lightly.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he murmured against my lips, nipping at my mouth between words. I made a noise in response that might have been inquisitive, but I dare not speak lest the magic of his exquisite mouth left mine. “You think…” he sighed, breaking off as our kiss deepened. “That this can’t be happening...” He rolled onto his back when I pushed at his shoulder, raising the intensity, and gasped his next words breathlessly into my hot, open mouth. “You think you can’t feel this way…after just one night…but…”

My breath caught in my throat and my heart, I’m certain, ceased beating… I clawed strands of hair off my face that were entangled in our kiss, and knew I couldn’t let him continue. If he said it, if he told me he felt this too, I wasn’t sure I could end it the way it ought to end.

Wrapping my arms around him, I buried the fingers of my left hand in his thick, dark hair, savouring the final essence of a moment I would never forget. His mouth against mine, fell open in shock when he felt the knife pierce his ribcage, sliding into his heart through his back, like tender steak.

For the few moments he lived, Cain stared at me with pain and confusion. He mouthed my name soundlessly… and I replied.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, and I meant it. Another second, I added, in silence, with my eyes, it’s almost over.

As his body went limp in my arms, I settled him back into the bed. If it weren’t for the blood, glistening and oozing, he’d look just as though he were sleeping. I rubbed my clean hand over my face to sober myself, and breathed deeply. It was a shame…and I really was sorry - for both of us.

He was the most engaging mark I’d ever had the honour of killing…and this was the only hit that had ever hurt me. Money usually compensated me, but as I looked at Cain Andrews, lying dead and beautiful beside me, I knew, I wouldn’t sleep well tonight.

#Fridayflash - Hush, baby, hush...

 

He stared at the body on the table, and thought of his wife. What would she think if she saw this? He knew he’d like to tell her about it, the way he told her everything else, but he didn’t want to upset her. He didn’t want to worry her…not when the baby was so close to being born.

The baby…

He looked again at the body, squinting, grimacing, and could hardly bear to see it. Just yesterday, it had been alive, breathing. Like his wife…like the life inside her…what would she think..? The knife trembled and shook in his hand. He really didn’t feel well. Something had changed in him this time.

The room spun as he stood over the body, and he felt a heated wave of nausea sweep upwards from his feet. He clamped a gloved hand over his mouth, lest he vomit, and turned away, taking a deep, steadying breath.

His eyes settled on a small saw on the counter, and he closed them, wishing the object away. After the knife, he’d have to use that…and then he’d go home to dinner. She’d wonder why he couldn’t eat…and later, why he dreamed…

He used to find this part interesting, he recalled; he used to quite enjoy it; the meticulous study of every piece. But since his wife had placed his hand on her swollen belly, and they had smiled together, touching foreheads over the kicks of their unborn child, he’d lost his appetite. He honestly didn’t think he’d be able to do this again, not after the baby arrived…

He turned back to the body, forcing himself to look at it, and for the first time, noticed the smell… His stomach flipped, his chest tightening unbearably. Who knew they smelled like that, even after death? Like powder and lotion…

The pathologist tied his surgical mask tight around his face, to keep out the smell of the body. He flexed his fingers to steady them, and raised his shaking scalpel to the tiny child’s chest. Making the ‘Y’ incision, he felt bile rise into the back of his throat and tears sting his eyes. This would be the last baby on his slab, he decided. The others could handle the cot deaths after today.

#Fridayflash - Peggy

Her mother always said she was a dreamer. Embarrassing…like an adult who believed in Santa. Well, who’s laughing now? Olivia smirked, as she climbed over the farm gate in the pre-dawn twilight. She dragged the saddle off the gate’s crossbar behind her, and began striding across the field to the stable-block. Sometimes dreams come true… Impossible is always possible, with patience…and faith.

Olivia didn’t pretend for a minute that her dream had been easy to achieve. Of course, it hadn’t. It had taken her a long time to find Peggy…but she’d always said, some day, she would own her own trusty steed. Her mother had laughed at her, doubtful that she’d find what she sought…and it was true - Peggy was rare. But Olivia had been determined.

As she turned through the stable-block door and swung the heavy, leather saddle off her forearm over the gate of Peggy’s box, the mighty creature shifted, turning towards the noise. Her huge brown eyes met Olivia’s blue ones, and the young woman smiled at her new best friend. The equine gently snorted its approval of her presence, and nuzzled her pocket in search of a mint. Olivia obliged, digging into her gillet for the sugary treat and rubbing Peggy’s velvet muzzle whilst she chewed.

Taking the bridle from her shoulder and laying it across the saddle’s seat, Olivia retrieved a grooming brush and pulling-comb from a hook on the stable-block wall. She let herself into the box beside Peggy, and as she worked the brush over the creature’s grey coat and combed out her glistening, cream-coloured mane, the sun rose over the trees outside.

Olivia broke sweat in the morning heat, removing Peggy’s latest patches of baked mud from her shoulders and hocks, and flicking the discs of packed earth from her hooves. Peggy liked to roll in the dust after a ride, and though Olivia knew her hard work would be cancelled out on their return, she wouldn’t have had it any other way. She’d longed for Peggy; searched for her…and she couldn’t possibly complain.

After a good forty minutes of grooming, Olivia finally held up the bridle and presented the bit to Peggy’s mouth. It was a soft bit; a straight, nylon snaffle, designed for a responsive steed. The equine took it on the first present and stood calmly, as Olivia fitted the saddle she’d had custom made, ensuring the girth was securely buckled.

Letting herself out of Peggy’s box a moment, Olivia hung the grooming implements back on the stable-block wall.

“You look beautiful, Peggy,” she smiled, donning her riding helmet as she admired her handy work in cleaning and buffing both creature and tack. Peggy whinnied softly in response, as though agreeing that, as always, she did indeed look wonderful. “There’s just one thing…”

Olivia took down a jar of hoof oil containing a large brush, and a torn piece of suede leather, from a shelf above the grooming brushes. Slipping back into Peggy’s box, she bent down to the creature’s feet and painted each hoof with the oil, making them glisten with impossible colours, like petrol on a wet road. Then she stood, wiping her hands on the leather rag.

“There,” she said, approaching Peggy’s great head and meeting one glassy brown eye. “Almost done.” Reaching up, she brushed the animal’s curled forelock aside and polished the twisted, golden horn that protruded from her skull, inducing a magnificent shine.

Olivia placed her tools back on their shelf, and led Peggy from her box, past the other animals stabled in their block. As they reached the doorway into the morning sun, she jammed her foot in the stirrup, took hold of the pommel, and mounted with a quick bounce.

Feeling her rider aboard, Peggy shifted, restless with anticipation. Olivia didn’t tease her…she pointed the creature’s nose directly towards open fields and gave the signal for ‘gallop’. As the wind rushed at her and the speed increased to an impossible flash, she knew for certain, she had been right to search for Peggy…right to know she existed.

Her mother’s words resounded in Olivia’s mind – “Most girls are happy with a pony! Why must you fool yourself with this fantasy? …this silly legend?”

Because I knew different, she thought, digging her heels into Peggy’s flanks and feeling the creature obediently spread two, white wings around the custom-made saddle. I knew there was one that could fly….

Woman and beast rose then, into the crimson sky…and it was anyone’s guess where their morning ride would take them.

For Lydia, who inspired this tale, by being everything 'Peggy' is not!