'By Golden Threads' by Ellen Grace

Saffie?

Phoibe had red hair and green eyes and freckled cheeks.

Saffie?

Dottie stood off to the side, smirking.

Saffie!

Phoibe stepped closer.

“Saffron!”

Her mother’s voice wasn’t what caught her attention, but the clang of metal on stone. Her tweezers were lying on the floor. Saffron lifted her glasses onto the top of her head and reached down to pick them up. As she rose, she knocked her head on the underside of her work desk.

“Ow.”

Saffron rubbed at the sore spot on the top of her head while her mother righted the jostled equipment.

“Perhaps you should take a break,” her mother said.

Saffron considered protesting, but they both knew she could not work in this state. Whatever this state was.

Saffron went upstairs to her room and lay down on her bed without removing her clockwork foot. On the backs of her eyelids, she saw her: red hair, green eyes, freckled cheeks.

“Go to her.”

Saffron shoved herself up. Dottie was standing at the end of her bed. She had dark hair and olive skin and that smirk on her face.

Saffron groaned and slumped back down onto her bed.

“Go away.”

A thump sounded at Saffron’s window, and she jumped near out of her skin. She scrambled from her bed to look. On the street, with a stone in her hand, was Phoibe. Dottie stood next to her, whispering in her ear.

Saffron unlocked her window and pushed it open. Phoibe threw her stone to the ground. Dottie was nowhere to be seen.

“I cannot work!” she called.

Saffron looked to the uneven brickwork. “Can you climb?”

Phoibe beamed and leaped onto the side of the building, scaled it with ease. Saffron let her in her window and in her arms. Finally, she could concentrate. 

—Inspired by Sappho's “Sweet mother, I cannot weave..." 

'The Grocery Gatsby' by Allison Renner

I wasn’t surprised to see Jay Gatsby working at the corner store; it was all anyone was talking about, and we were all struggling to make ends meet. Still, something about him seemed better than the rest of us; I could sense it even as he bagged my groceries.

Back at home, I typed his name into the property assessor’s website.

There he was–on my block! I clicked on the property map and saw the pool in the backyard. Maybe if he invited me to one of his infamous parties, I would warn him.

—With thanks to 'The Great Gatsby' by F. Scott Fitzgerald

'Wild and Windy' by Donna Swabey

"Cathy! You absolute arsehole. Get away from the window, it's freezing!"

"I was just doing a wee bit of haunting, I didn't mean any harm!"

Cathy had a terrible habit of hanging around the windows, trying to spook the Airbnb guests, but it appeared that she had become highly visible and really not very frightening at all. She'd often be spotted shouting for Heathcliff, hair all dishevelled, at the cottage windows, and had figured out how to open them despite the new modern fixings that were very much Not Of Her Time. 

The modern people who visited the cottage had cottoned onto her antics and loved to shout abuse at her as she rattled the windows. They also had a tendency to screech "Heathcliff! It's meeee, Catheeee" at every opportunity as it would appear that her story had become legend, and songs had been written about her doomed, gothic love story. 

She could see them from her window, women and girls in red dresses, out on her beloved moors, moving like they were possessed, cavorting and screeching.

It made Cathy feel a bit like a god. 

If only Heathcliff could see her now.

Source: Wuthering Heights by Emily Brontë. 

'Pigs in Blankets' by Lisa Williams

Ebenezer waited by the reduced section in Morrisons like an animal hunting his prey. He knew the pigs in blankets would go down another 30p it was a question of biding your time. It was busy: Christmas Eve.

The ghost of Christmas Past joined him. He showed Ebenezer wearing the same suit but slightly
newer looking, in the same supermarket (then called Safeway) again by the reduced section.

The pigs in blankets were taken by someone else before they could be reduced again. Ebenezer
didn’t mind. Some battles you won. Others you didn’t. He bought some humbugs instead.

In the queue, which snaked down an aisle, Ebenezer was joined by the ghost of Christmas Future. He showed Ebenezer in a very threadbare suit once again by the Reduced Section in the same supermarket (Still called Morrisons but now owned by Tesco). Before the apparition disappeared, he confided that today was the last day that Ebenezer could do something about his future and pointed out there was a fiver on the floor.

Ebenezer swiftly pocketed the cash, a new one with the King’s head on it, and remembering the
ghost’s words decided to buy a scratch card: it was titled Pigs in Blankets and cost £5! The shock of that nearly ended his life there. Once home he set to scratching the silver foil from the numbers. He checked twice. He’d won! The ghost was right: life was about to change. He checked the amount and swallowed his humbug whole. One million pounds!

That pesky humbug though had stuck tight and as much as he coughed it wouldn’t be dislodged. His body was found late in January when a couple came collecting money for charity and noticed the awful smell and all the flies on the windows.

A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens

'Robert Burns and Me' by Rachel Burrows

With the heat on my back and the discomfort of the masked day behind me, I clambered over the stile to where the swallows swept low arcs over rangy meadow grass. They were unperturbed by all that was occurring below them. They wheeled and laughed in oblivious delight.

The best of the hedgerow butterflies had disappeared with July, though there were still the big, blousy ones fluttering their stuff in the open. Bold as brass. Floozies of the field, enticing us to follow them.

We chased our tails that summer. The world had tilted, and we were desperately hanging on to a mast of nature. Those who had been nine to five, seven to whenever, stretched out, rat racing, now slowed down enough to look up, to look forward, to see what they had been missing. They pointed out cows, and learnt the names of some birds, to photograph and post.

But this had been our walk. The dog and I had noticed the changes, not to announce to anyone but ourselves, everyday a proclamation, heard and felt. And the others who walked this path, in their recently acquired walking boots were filling our space. I was affronted by their brazen acquisition of what I’d always known. A buzzard cried.  

The dog returned from the long grass with a ball that wasn’t ours. A ball so soft it was dented by his soft jowls. He held it gently, and ever so proudly. As I removed it, I felt a warmth from within, but I heard the squeals too late. The naked occupants fell from the warmth they had known, helpless into the nettles.

This was not, it seemed, my world. There was no ownership. I was no better than the ones who didn’t notice. We were all merely here. Visiting.

With thanks to Robert Burns 'To a Mouse'

'A is for Accolade' by Luanne Castle

She sits in front of me in algebra class, and her dark hair is right in front of my face. There’s no point tilting my head to see the board. I’m no closer to passing this time than I was the last two times I took this class. And I am fascinated by the silky strands of her hair, a color in between deep brown and black, a shimmering espresso. Even so, her name is Pearl, a word that conjures up ivory satin and innocence. Only the luminosity is on view. I would like to be friends with Pearl, but she is shrouded in an aloof dignity. You could say she has dignified bitch-face. I’ve never seen her walk with or talk to any of the other kids. So, is it just her beautiful hair? No, her outfit is stunning, a vintage A-line dress in crimson wool, a pair of boots no Madison High student can afford. People have made up lots of stories about her mom and how she earned the big A she wore on her chest. Anyway, you wonder why I might want to be friends with Pearl for her boots or her style or her hair. If I’m completely honest with myself, it’s all about her Mom’s A medal. I figure anybody whose mom is such a great mathematician that she won the Abel Prize can help me pass this class.

With thanks to Nathaniel Hawthorne's 'The Scarlet Letter'

NFFD 2024 Prompt #15: Elementary, My Dear Watson

 

Prompt #15: Elementary, My Dear Watson
ELEMENTS prompt D

Welcome to The Write-In!  This year, we're celebrating the 2024 National Flash Fiction Day Anthology theme of The Classical Elements - Air, Earth, Water and Fire. Throughout National Flash Fiction Day, we'll be posting one time-related prompt on the hour every hour from 00:00 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, 16 June 2024....

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Write a flash using or referencing characters from fiction or poetry that was written at least 100 years ago. Set it in modern times.  

If you are submitting for publication, you must include a note naming your source (even if it is obvious), and you should double check that your source work is in the public domain.

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If you’re submitting this to us, make sure to note that this is a response to Prompt 15: Elementary, My Dear Watson.

You can submit responses until 23:59 BST on Sunday, 16 June 2024 for a chance to be published here at The Write-In.

You can claim the badge for this prompt by visiting the badgifier here (hosted by the NFFD website).

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