The first time I left home, I managed to get to the front gate before Doreen ran out and grabbed my shoulder. I had walked out in the middle of a talking to, so I wasn’t really expecting to go very far.
The second time I made it out onto the street. She was sleeping that time and I was very, very quiet so I don’t know how she knew I was leaving.
But I didn’t plan it right, you see. I should have done it when Daddy and Doreen were at work.
The third time… Continue reading
Copyright -Mary Shipman
All I remember from the day the humans left is an all-encompassing, bright flash. They were gone before the night was dawn.
My three little ones are my world now, and the humans’ house is our home. The most recent danger is a lone wolf that roams the woods that have spilled over the front yard. While I hunt, I hide my kittens in the holes up in the wall. Wolves don’t jump that high.
And yet, I return to a quiet house. A claw marks the length of the wall; too high for a wolf; deep enough for a bear. My babies are gone.
—
For Friday Fictioneers. Football fever has caught me by the throat this season. I write this as I watch Spain v. Chile. Tell me, is football an inspiring muse?
Copyright – Douglas M. MacIlroy
Tyron smacked his lips happily. The perfect title hit him after two empty hours. ‘Seven mountains in seven years’, his answer to the challenge: ‘Wildest dreams’.
His finger hovered for a hesitating second longer. Then, click; the post was published. Continue reading
There were once three men who used to sit on the bench shaded by the carob tree at the far corner of the square. They were much younger than the tree, albeit as wrinkly and bent by age as its bark.
Everyday their vigil began right after the seven-thirty mass. They sipped English tea in a tall glass at eight-thirty, then bread and cheese at ten. The bench under the carob tree would be empty between twelve and two; which was precisely the span of time it took the sun to graze the wooden bench before its rays were eclipsed by the second house on the left. Continue reading
He placed a matryoshka doll on the table between them, amid the two glasses with remnants of red wine and the half burnt candle.
Excitement shot through her body right down to her fingertips. She tore the first layer open, then the second while small, uncontrollable bursts of glee escaped her grinning lips. Continue reading
‘Jack-ass!’ Angie spat before the last of the shattered head-lamps crumbled onto the ground.
She jumped out of the car frothing at the mouth.
‘You bitch!’ was how she was greeted by the other driver whose face was a similar shade of puce as Angie’s was.
The red Porsche she had hit was complete with waxed metal, platinum rims and two tail lights sprinkled on the ground like fine fairy dust.
It wasn’t her fault though. There she was minding her own business, when a five-seater Mitsubishi passed by with three sheep packed at the back of it going ‘Beh!’ Continue reading
One; choose your prey.
Easy. There he is across the bar, shining like a violet beacon in a sea of black. Wearing a white polo-shirt in a place like this says something about a man. For me, it says he wants to be eaten, devoured and spat out again. Happy to oblige.
Two; study your prey. Continue reading
A dark wave broke against the boat, tilting the starboard lip precariously close to the waterline; not for the first time, nor for the hundredth time. The boat rocked on, cradling our nausea, nourishing our fear.
We were no seamen, not a single one of us. And yet, here we were; fourteen souls packed tight on a piece of wood barely qualifying for the term ‘boat’.
Adjoa screamed; a sound that cut through the thunder and made my insides hurt.
‘Shut that pie-hole, woman!’
Eniola sent a poisonous look in Paki’s direction and shifted slightly, barring Adjoa from Paki. He had been raising one hell after another since we left Libya, but Eniola had so far managed to contain him. Continue reading
When Mauve tattooed the letter ‘M’ on her upper left arm, everyone simply assumed that she had tattooed the first letter of her name.
It was a nice tattoo. Three inches wide and four inches long, the thin black outline of the ‘M’ was entwined with ivy spiralling up and down its edges. It was a piece of art, no one denied that.
But when a second ‘M’ popped up right below the first one, some eyebrows were raised, some heads got cocked to the side.
‘Your initials, right? Mauve…it’s Martins, isn’t it?’ Mauve nodded and smiled thinly the first time someone asked that. Then she just nodded.
The second ‘M’ had daisies sprouting out of the two parallel lines on the side. The outline was black again, but the daisies were white with a yellow centre. All in all, it complemented the green ivy quite well.
The scabs on the daisies hadn’t completely healed when a third ‘M’ materialised half way down Mauve’s left arm etched in front of a large pink lily.
Three ‘M’s. Eyebrows were drawn in quizzical expressions. Mauve just shrugged.
*
In the flat she shares with no-one, Mauve washes blood off her hands in the kitchen sink, brushing away at her fingernails using the steel, wiry sponge she usually uses to scrub pots with.
She wipes her hands on the dish towel and sits at the kitchen table where a High School yearbook is open. A red cross quarters each of three different faces; Ivy Reynolds, Daisy Stevens, Lily O’Keefe.
Mauve grabs the red pen buried in the middle of the open book. A smile snails its way up each cheek as another face is crossed; stroke, stroke. Samara Lawrence.
Mauve reaches for a blank paper, sketches the four-by-three inch ‘M’ – her own chosen brand for ‘Murderer’ – and then pauses. The pen hovers motionless for some long seconds until Mauve’s head shoots up, panic clouding her expression.
‘Samara…Samara…Samara…how the hell am I gonna pull this one off?’
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For Trifecta. The word is BRAND.
This comes after a week-long break from blogging… *snigger-snigger* I was on holiday and ooohh have I enjoyed it! ^__^
I missed writing though, so I’m glad I’m back with you all.
Copyright -Renee Heath
A girl was dancing in the street, her braided hair spinning at the exact same angle as her skirt. Her figure shone bright with each revolution that brought her out of shadow and into the pouring sunrays caressing the asphalt.
A man leaned against Bidwell’s doorframe, looking on but not seeing the girl. His eyes were glazed over like he was recalling something distant.
The images are seared inside my mind still. Only the useless details though. Years of therapy have yet to bring back the face of the man who left the bag against the hydrant, right before it all went black.
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For Friday Fictioneers. I added my dark tale to the many dark inspirations that this week’s picture has instilled in the brilliant minds of the Fictioneers.
Sandra's scribbles 