'Girl, become woman' by Suzanna Lundale

Twenty years. It had been twenty years since she had seen his face, been in the same room with him, watched his face carefully for signs of danger. Yes, there had been a few phone conversations, most memorably the one where he demanded to know what made her think pursuing a doctorate was a reasonable goal for her, when she should know well that it took real intelligence, like her mother’s, to do a thing like that. There hadn’t been many phone calls after that.

But now her cousin – another person she hadn’t seen in twenty years – claimed that the old man was dying, and wouldn’t she come see him to say goodbye? Dying. Him. The waking nightmare who had faded into regular nighttime nightmare when her mother fled, one child tucked under each wing, across the continent. Do nightmares die?

Rapid decisions made and tickets bought, she and her sister boarded a plane to cross the continent again. While her sister chattered about wanting to drive by their old house and definitely wanting to see if that one restaurant was still there, she looked out the window to watch the miles of safety – her safety – stream away far below.

And then they were there. The car was rented, directions obtained, unfamiliar roads navigated. She pulled up. She turned off the car. She hugged her little sister. She walked in first.

“Hey, Dad.”

'My Mother Believes a Cat Could Do It' by Heain Joung

“I need a cat.” My mother said, somewhat desperately. She didn’t like cats at all, or want anything to do with them normally. Like many people here she thought they had special powers and were close to the world of spirits. But my mother was haunted so she had visited that old woman again, the one that people whispered was a Shaman. I had tried to stop her going. “It is just silly superstition and a waste of money too,” I told her. She hadn’t listened though, sometimes I wonder if she hears me at all. So we had gone to see the old lady who grimaced at me as always, so I grimaced back. She told my mother that cats could catch ghosts and take them away. She seemed to believe this, though I had my doubts. She gave my mother instructions on what to do, emphasising she must not harm the cat as this would only bring more bad luck. After lots of trouble we found a wild cat in the next village. When we got home, she took a large pan and filled it with water. Next she prepared an open fire in the backyard, hanging the pan above it. Then lighting a fire, she stepped back and waited for the water to heat up. As the water started to boil she took the cat in her hands holding it in the air. I looked on nervously as my mother approached the pan of boiling water, the cat looking more and more alarmed. I came to, looking up at my mother who was standing over me. Blood was running down her arm where the cat had bitten and scratched her. The cat was gone, but I was still here.

'Today Is the Writing Time For You' by Zary Fekete

 

There is a bang, and you wake up. Immediately you cough two very deep coughs, and then you hold your breath until it goes away. Yesterday the third cough had left blood on your hand. 

There is a series of footsteps echoing in the hall outside the metal cell door. For the past week you have received food through a small window in the door.  Yesterday and today there has been no food. 

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You believe this metal cell isn’t on the cruise ship where you had your last full meal. That was two weeks ago.

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There is a noise outside your cell door. A piece of paper, folded twice, slides through. Then there is a pen sliding after the paper. You grab the paper. It is blank. 

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One day after the cruise ship launched you saw the black boat approaching. After the hooded people boarded they shot all the staff workers. Your waiter was shot when he turned to run. His face was surprised. Your head was struck hard from behind. You woke up here.

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You suddenly cough very deeply and some blood sprays on the blank paper. You sit for a moment and feel very bad. And then a laminated card slides through the door. You grab it and read it. The English on it seems like it was software-translated:

“Madam. We have no result of person money. If we are not result by soon then there is for you the pain damage. Do you know valuable people? Today is the writing time for you.”

You read the card two times. The card feels greasy and used. You drop the card and reach for the paper. You start to write.

'Julia?' by Patricia Bender

 

I once said I hope she was buying food with the money I offered, and she snapped her hand back. Give freely or don’t give, she told me, not unkindly. You’re right, I said, and then she took the cash. She could be my cousin Julia. Her direct gaze always strengthens a thread of hope I don’t want to break. It’s been so long, and her face is weathered several lifetimes beyond what Julia’s would be. Isn’t it? We sometimes stand together on a corner we both know — not talking, not touching. When we meet early Sunday morning, the street loud with litter from the night’s goings on,  I am made bold by the soft rain and offer to share a thermos of tea and bread with rhubarb jam.

'We' by Catherine O'Brien

We needed reservoirs to hold our collective smirks. I suggested a local café. Everyone has their own experience of your voice but I will always contend that anger distorts, dilutes even dare I say weakens it. It serves to belie the true texture of its sound. I’m stalling and you think it’s because I’m nervous. You’re correct. 

You are looking at me. As usual, you’re my guide – I can do this because you’re actually by my side. Nothing cascades faster than time. Perhaps you are ten and your father is asking you how far a smile can travel. He has presented you with riddles before. You are careful but no one thinks quite like him. Who else thinks about the jigsaw not its pieces needing to find its place? I know you will never love anyone as much as him. He showed you simple truths like the moon playing hopscotch across the sky. 

The air smelled sweet on my way here. As usual, you arrived late and swivelled your chair to meet mine at an angle instead of curating an excuse. I adore those tiny details about you and the things you say like ‘on a podium water is no longer just water, it’s talking juice’ or that time you told me ‘pollen is a sternutatory substance’.  

I haven’t heard from my family in so long, I’ve given up snapping branches off their tree. 

“Is Sir waiting for another or is Sir ready to order?”

The waitress doesn’t look and I don’t know if she would care to see but my eyes extend to the deepest ocean in search of you. I don’t tell her I’m being brave coming here alone even though my heart has forgotten how to dance. 

 

'Taking the plunge' by Joyce Bingham

 

     The water flowed beneath me, it was a turquoise blue, the sandy riverbed gleaming and shimmering in the ripples across the water. The helmet didn’t fit, it was loose and the strap bit into my chin, wet strands of hair stabbed me in my eye. I crossed my arms as instructed, my heartbeat threatened to burst out of my wet suit. The height sought to steal my self-control, would I hit the water or be thrown by a violent wind to the shore, break my limbs on the boulders.

     The others watched me, they laughed, they swam in circles beckoning me.

     Now.

     I held my nose and jumped. The air moved around me, my feet no longer secure, I sailed and flew like a bird for a nanosecond, then I plunged. The shock of the icy water, shaking and coughing for breath, relief and exhilaration merged.

   The river flowed around me, I wanted another chance, but the moment had evaporated like the drops of water on my warm face, and we swam away, a snippet of bravery tucked into my soul.

'The Corner House' by Julia Ruth Smith

 

The hedge is as overgrown as the first boy’s blond flopping fringe, the grass almost tall enough to cover the bold boy at the back. The boy in the middle thinks this is a very bad idea. He’s heard his Mum tutting to the beat of his little brother’s buggy.

 

It’s as hot as summers get. They’re out of school, wild and sweaty and bored. They know not to stray too far. They’ve been told again and again. There are strange people about.

 

The house is abandoned - of this they’re sure - but a net curtain, escaping from an open window blows ghostlike in their path, sets them shrieking like little sisters. Then they laugh and slap each other on the back to prove they’re not scared. They kick the locks like karate kid heroes.

 

Inside the house there’s a sofa in split leather facing a vacant wall, and a mattress that details a history they’re not keen to learn. The rumours have stained their expectations but really they know nothing. Their parents have mentioned a name, a reason, a fear but tightened their lips at the sight of freckles and big ears, in the name of protection.

 

There’s a dick chalked on the wall and words they don’t understand; a used jonny in the downstairs loo. There’s a box full of comics and slinkies and a rubber ball, which they use for a scrappy kick around.

 

Then it gets darker. Drops of doubt rumble and fall. What if it’s true? What if he comes back for his box of toys? Or for them? A crack of fear and they tumble; skin itching, minds racing to their safe homes with clean windows and wholesome fathers who carwash and mow lawns into long summer evenings.

NFFD 2023 Prompt #10: Desperate Times

Desperate Times

Welcome to The Write-In!  This year, we're celebrating the 2023 National Flash Fiction Day Anthology theme of time.  Throughout National Flash Fiction Day, we'll be posting one time-related prompt on the hour every hour from now until midnight (BST), for a total of 25 prompts in all.  You have until midnight on Sunday (BST) to submit your responses for possible publication here at the Write-In.  We'll start posting responses on Sunday, 25 June 2023....

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Write about a moment where you were afraid to do something but did it anyway.  You are welcome to write about yourself or a fictional character.

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If you’re submitting this to us, make sure to note that this is a response to Prompt 10: Desperate Times.

You can submit responses until 23:59 BST on Sunday, 25 June 2023 for a chance to be published here at The Write-In.

You can claim the badge for this prompt until 23:59 BST on Sunday, 2 July 2023 by going to the here (hosted by the NFFD website).