If he had not bought a bag of chips from Stanley’s Fish Bar, things would have turned out very differently that evening. But he was hungry and they did the best triple fried chips this side of Brighton. To be fair, it was his choice to walk across the promenade and onto the beach to find a spot under the pier to eat them. He could have easily sat on a nice dry bench with a sea view. Then he wouldn’t have found him. Dead, bloated and tangled in what looked like a pink seaweed tutu.
If he asked her one more time to dress up in the ridiculous poncey outfit he’d bought her, from god knows where, she swore she would kill him. All those stupid bows and beads flouncing about, she was a jeans and jumper girl through and through. Always had been. Anyway, it was totally inappropriate for a beach barbecue but… as usual she ended up wearing it just to keep the peace.
The blow to his head had come out of no where. One minute he was drinking from a bottle of beer, the next he was falling onto wet sand. When he came to it was almost dark and even without any light, he knew he was wearing a dress. With each wave that washed over him he felt it billowing around him, and even though his head hurt real bad, the floaty feeling was rather nice. Then he remembered someone once told him the last sense to go before dying was your hearing. They must have got it wrong. All he could smell was Stanley’s fish & chips.
Showing posts with label Prompt 21. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Prompt 21. Show all posts
Monday, 17 June 2019
Write-In 2019: 'Admiralty' by Annie Bien
The photographer: Today one after another they bring baby’s breath, chrysanthemums, carnations, and daisies. Stacks of bouquets pile one on top of the other for the one who fell from the scaffolding. Yeah, I watched him waving the banner against extradition, I watched him fall but I turned away for the landing. I’m not a sensationalist photographer. It looked like he lost his balance, that he couldn’t stop falling. He looked totally unprepared, taken by surprise.
The policeman: I was doing my job. The guy jumped from the scaffolding. No personal comment. The official statement is suicide. You could lose your balance and not mean to die. I don’t speculate.
The woman: It looks far. You’re asking me if I saw it happen? Did I have to see someone fall from a building to gasp? Was it worse to just hear them land? Is it worse to know it’s your friend? He had soft hands.
The policeman: I was doing my job. The guy jumped from the scaffolding. No personal comment. The official statement is suicide. You could lose your balance and not mean to die. I don’t speculate.
The woman: It looks far. You’re asking me if I saw it happen? Did I have to see someone fall from a building to gasp? Was it worse to just hear them land? Is it worse to know it’s your friend? He had soft hands.
Write-In 2019: 'And She Was Lifted Up' by Cath Barton
She was clearly unwell. All the colour drained from her face. Her eyes sunken. I would have gone to help her, I always try to be a responsible citizen, but she was quickly surrounded by people, lifting her up and carrying her. Probably there was an ambulance coming; I could hear something, though I couldn’t tell what direction it was coming from. Fingers crossed it worked out for her, poor old dear.
We had been waiting to see her all week. Camped out to get a ringside seat. So many had been healed; we were determined to get to touch her robe. She looked unreal, but then what do you expect of a living saint? Certainly not someone rosy-cheeked and jolly. We stretched out our hands and for a miraculous moment she looked our way. She looked into my soul and I would have been happy to die then and there, my life complete. I looked up, watching her ascension and in that moment the rays of the sun shone down on her through the clouds. We crossed ourselves then, in gratitude.
Every year the circus comes to town with some new attraction. I’m not sure what this one was called – I missed the publicity. Some kind of levitation act, as far as I could see over the heads of all the people who’d pushed themselves to the front. Always happens, selfish individuals. What about the children who wanted to see? No chance. They were crying, the kiddies behind me. They’d been promised a treat, so their parents had to haul them off and buy them candyfloss. Couldn’t see a lot myself. Trickery anyway, that’s what it is. Not worth the money if you ask me.
We had been waiting to see her all week. Camped out to get a ringside seat. So many had been healed; we were determined to get to touch her robe. She looked unreal, but then what do you expect of a living saint? Certainly not someone rosy-cheeked and jolly. We stretched out our hands and for a miraculous moment she looked our way. She looked into my soul and I would have been happy to die then and there, my life complete. I looked up, watching her ascension and in that moment the rays of the sun shone down on her through the clouds. We crossed ourselves then, in gratitude.
Every year the circus comes to town with some new attraction. I’m not sure what this one was called – I missed the publicity. Some kind of levitation act, as far as I could see over the heads of all the people who’d pushed themselves to the front. Always happens, selfish individuals. What about the children who wanted to see? No chance. They were crying, the kiddies behind me. They’d been promised a treat, so their parents had to haul them off and buy them candyfloss. Couldn’t see a lot myself. Trickery anyway, that’s what it is. Not worth the money if you ask me.
Sunday, 16 June 2019
Write-In 2019: 'I Know' by Vivian Paide
I know she’s cheating on me. Every night she’s late coming home from work. Comes in with this satisfied smirk on her face, like she’s pulled one over on me. Talks about her boss like he can walk on water. I took the day off tomorrow so I can follow her. When I find them together, boy, will they be sorry. Nobody makes a fool out of Guy.
I know Guy’s going to be so surprised when he opens his birthday gift and sees that leather jacket. He’s been going on about it for months, but we just couldn’t afford it. I’m so glad I talked to my boss about wanting to make Guy’s thirtieth special. Looking after his little girl for an hour till her mum comes to pick her up is easy money. Tomorrow, I’ll have enough for the jacket. I wonder if he suspects, though. He’s been acting kind of strange lately.
I know I’ve done something really bad, I just don’t know what it is. Dad acts so mad all the time, and Mom doesn’t come home in time to play with me before dinner any more. I guess she just doesn’t want to be around me. Maybe they found out that I copied Jimmy’s answers on the math test. I heard Dad say something about cheating the other day.
I know Guy’s going to be so surprised when he opens his birthday gift and sees that leather jacket. He’s been going on about it for months, but we just couldn’t afford it. I’m so glad I talked to my boss about wanting to make Guy’s thirtieth special. Looking after his little girl for an hour till her mum comes to pick her up is easy money. Tomorrow, I’ll have enough for the jacket. I wonder if he suspects, though. He’s been acting kind of strange lately.
I know I’ve done something really bad, I just don’t know what it is. Dad acts so mad all the time, and Mom doesn’t come home in time to play with me before dinner any more. I guess she just doesn’t want to be around me. Maybe they found out that I copied Jimmy’s answers on the math test. I heard Dad say something about cheating the other day.
Write-in 2019: 'The Brick Chimney' by Annette Edwards-Hill
At 8am it’s already 25 degrees and Jean and Cara’s mother insists they stay inside. They want to play underneath the old chimney and sulk for most the morning. Jean sits at the kitchen table drawing while Cara rolls marbles on the floor. There is a low humming noise, that gets closer and closer. The house rolls, then shakes. Jean is thrown from her chair. Jars of jam fall from the shelves and smash on the floor. They run through sugar, water, fruit and broken china, then out the back door to watch the chimney crash to the ground.
Eric shelters in a thin streak of shade under a tree and he’s still hot. An ant runs over his toe. The playground seems to be moving towards him in waves. He can’t stay on his feet, he crouches and watches concrete rip itself open. When the shaking stops he runs and doesn’t stop until he’s two blocks from home. The road is a gaping chasm. He takes off his shoes and walks through a dried-up dribble of creek. His house is standing but the horizon has changed. The chimney is gone.
Ethel runs out of the factory as it shakes. Her needle still in her hand. Outside she pauses, she’d usually turn right, but she goes left. It takes three hours to walk home. She is lost in the new dusty landscape. Later the neighbour tells her nine girls had turned right and were crushed by masonry. Ethel sits on the long-drop her father has built in a tent next to the fallen chimney. Already the stink of shit is stomach-turning. The tent shakes. Another aftershock. There is more shaking. Ethel screams, pulling at her pants. She hears Eric laugh as he runs back into the house.
Eric shelters in a thin streak of shade under a tree and he’s still hot. An ant runs over his toe. The playground seems to be moving towards him in waves. He can’t stay on his feet, he crouches and watches concrete rip itself open. When the shaking stops he runs and doesn’t stop until he’s two blocks from home. The road is a gaping chasm. He takes off his shoes and walks through a dried-up dribble of creek. His house is standing but the horizon has changed. The chimney is gone.
Ethel runs out of the factory as it shakes. Her needle still in her hand. Outside she pauses, she’d usually turn right, but she goes left. It takes three hours to walk home. She is lost in the new dusty landscape. Later the neighbour tells her nine girls had turned right and were crushed by masonry. Ethel sits on the long-drop her father has built in a tent next to the fallen chimney. Already the stink of shit is stomach-turning. The tent shakes. Another aftershock. There is more shaking. Ethel screams, pulling at her pants. She hears Eric laugh as he runs back into the house.
Write-In 2019: 'Father's Day' by Geraldine McCarthy
‘Buy your
Father’s Day present here. Let him know you love him.’ Maggie
switches off the telly. If she hears one more ad, she’ll explode.
Nothing but a money-making racket. It’s been five years since her
Dad sent a postcard from Kenya, letting her know he’d remarried. He
was good at starting over alright. Maggie wondered if wife number
three knew what she was letting herself in for. At least Ken was
nothing like her Dad. Ken was a solid man. Dependable. Always had her
back. And now that they had Rose, their world was complete. Their
precious little flower.
*
‘Poll: how will
you mark Father’s Day?’ Ken winces as he scrolls through his
Facebook feed. His Dad passed four months ago. It was unexpected, a
fatal heart attack. No time to say goodbye. His therapist says it
will take a while to process. Today he feels the numbness wearing
off. A tightness in his chest takes hold, squeezing him from the
inside out. Some say grief manifests as physical pain. Or is his
heart giving up- maybe it runs in the family? The walls are closing
in on him. He tiptoes to the bedroom to pack a bag.
*
‘Happie Fathers
Day Dada.’ Rose puts down the crayon and admires the picture she’s
drawn – her and Dada and Mama in the garden under the apple tree.
Rose hears Mama crying in the kitchen and goes outside to find Dada.
His car is missing. Is he gone to play golf? Rose wanders back
indoors. Her Mama is reading a note and her shoulders are shaking.
“Come here, pet. Dada has gone on a little holiday. A Father’s
Day treat.” Rose frowns. “But why didn’t he bring us?” Mama
gulps. “He’ll be back soon, pet. He’ll be back very soon.”
Write-In 2019: 'Roman Holiday' by Judy Tweddle
At 7a.m. Alicia sets up breakfast. It’s cool on the Aventine Hill: the garden is shady. It will be fun to get show new daughter-in-law around Rome. At 8 a.m. she puts the rolls back in their bag. At 9 o’clock she brings in the butter and milk. She frowns and switches on her Italian lesson; lies back on the elegant sofa, with her earplugs in. At 9.30 she clicks off her lesson, cross. She sets up breakfast noisily inside. Already it’s too hot to sit outside, and the day is passing. Michael never used to sleep this long. Jane must be lazy. A bad influence.
At 8 am. Michael leaves Jane asleep and tiptoes into the sitting room. His mother is not there. She must still be asleep. He goes back to bed beside his wife, and reads till he falls asleep. At 9.05 he goes into the sitting room. His mother is lying on the sofa with her eyes closed. He goes back to his room and reads another chapter of his book. It has been a long term. He looks at his newly pregnant wife with gentle eyes. She is sleeping for two, and it was a long flight. His mother is still dozing.
At 8 a.m. Jane dreams of butterflies and giant peaches. At 9 a.m. she is too deeply asleep to dream. At 10 am she stirs, holds her tummy, and smiles, remembering where she is. She smiles and slips on the silk dressing gown left out for her. The tiles are cool to her feet. Michael emerges, showered and they go through. ‘What time do you think this is to get up. Half the day has gone.’ Jane and Michael stare at the new mother-in-law, in shock.
At 8 am. Michael leaves Jane asleep and tiptoes into the sitting room. His mother is not there. She must still be asleep. He goes back to bed beside his wife, and reads till he falls asleep. At 9.05 he goes into the sitting room. His mother is lying on the sofa with her eyes closed. He goes back to his room and reads another chapter of his book. It has been a long term. He looks at his newly pregnant wife with gentle eyes. She is sleeping for two, and it was a long flight. His mother is still dozing.
At 8 a.m. Jane dreams of butterflies and giant peaches. At 9 a.m. she is too deeply asleep to dream. At 10 am she stirs, holds her tummy, and smiles, remembering where she is. She smiles and slips on the silk dressing gown left out for her. The tiles are cool to her feet. Michael emerges, showered and they go through. ‘What time do you think this is to get up. Half the day has gone.’ Jane and Michael stare at the new mother-in-law, in shock.
Write-In 2019: 'The Show Home' by Sue James
We've saved every last penny for the last five years. We haven't been out socially. We've not bought anything new. Our shoes are embarrassing. We've had no holidays, scrimped on Christmas, birthdays … When they started building there we knew that was exactly where we wanted to live but they were too expensive and our dream was shattered, right up until they reduced the cost of the very last house - the Show Home. We drew out every last penny from the bank and it's ours. We move in tomorrow. We're so excited.
I sold the Show Home today and got my final commission. I should be buzzing, I go to Ibiza in the morning and start a new site when we get back, but I feel so guilty. A lovely sweet young couple bought the house, and that Show Home never felt right. I hated that place at night. It had a sickly smell, and the noises were … well it was as if there was a family already living there but I just couldn't see them, aside from the occasional fleeting shadow out of the corner of my eye. If it hadn't been that they were so keen …
I saw a Sold sign on the Show Home today. I wouldn't live there. Me and Matty wired that place, Matty's been off sick since. He still swears he saw people walking in and out of those walls. He says he heard a baby crying. I didn't tell him I saw shadows, but the smell? And then that day we got there and all the lights were on throughout the place? Thing was there wasn't a single fuse had been put in yet. Matty refused to go in. I hope whoever's bought it are strong people.
I sold the Show Home today and got my final commission. I should be buzzing, I go to Ibiza in the morning and start a new site when we get back, but I feel so guilty. A lovely sweet young couple bought the house, and that Show Home never felt right. I hated that place at night. It had a sickly smell, and the noises were … well it was as if there was a family already living there but I just couldn't see them, aside from the occasional fleeting shadow out of the corner of my eye. If it hadn't been that they were so keen …
I saw a Sold sign on the Show Home today. I wouldn't live there. Me and Matty wired that place, Matty's been off sick since. He still swears he saw people walking in and out of those walls. He says he heard a baby crying. I didn't tell him I saw shadows, but the smell? And then that day we got there and all the lights were on throughout the place? Thing was there wasn't a single fuse had been put in yet. Matty refused to go in. I hope whoever's bought it are strong people.
Write-In 2019: 'Schism' by Mileva Anastasiadou
“I can’t see anything,” you yelled. “Neither can I,” I confessed. I think you realized my terror because you squeezed my hand. I must have left your hand abruptly and turned. In an attempt to gain back composure, I took a deep breath that sounded like a sigh. You held me close and kissed me, without giving me time to react. My contempt for you grew stronger, as your immaturity shone through. I unwillingly let myself enjoy your touch, until the sun shone above our heads. Those sun rays lighting the scene were the last sparks of a love doomed to end soon. Relieved, I held your hand and we moved on.
“I can’t see anything”, I said. “Neither can I,” you told me tenderly to appease my fear, although I was mostly excited, not scared. I squeezed your hand in joy. Your hand was wet and sweaty and I realized that finally the universe conspired to leave us all alone on earth. You let go of my hand and turned my way. Your sigh was soft and tender. I fell all over you, as if a huge invisible magnet pulled me to your side. That was a long and tender kiss, a prologue to a lifetime of togetherness. The fog dissolved in a few minutes, as you took my hand and held it gently into yours under the bright sunlight. We moved on without uttering a word.
Now they can’t see. Now they’re two figures, trapped in a foggy forest, trapped in their thoughts. People have thoughts. They touch, then take their distance and touch again. One wrong step and I’ll bite. My bite is poisonous, yet unintended. For snakes don’t think. Snakes do not write stories inspired by Tool’s songs. Snakes only wish to not be disturbed.
“I can’t see anything”, I said. “Neither can I,” you told me tenderly to appease my fear, although I was mostly excited, not scared. I squeezed your hand in joy. Your hand was wet and sweaty and I realized that finally the universe conspired to leave us all alone on earth. You let go of my hand and turned my way. Your sigh was soft and tender. I fell all over you, as if a huge invisible magnet pulled me to your side. That was a long and tender kiss, a prologue to a lifetime of togetherness. The fog dissolved in a few minutes, as you took my hand and held it gently into yours under the bright sunlight. We moved on without uttering a word.
Now they can’t see. Now they’re two figures, trapped in a foggy forest, trapped in their thoughts. People have thoughts. They touch, then take their distance and touch again. One wrong step and I’ll bite. My bite is poisonous, yet unintended. For snakes don’t think. Snakes do not write stories inspired by Tool’s songs. Snakes only wish to not be disturbed.
Write-In 2019: 'What They Could All Agree On' By Mark Corwin
I’m an asshole. Brought up the very subject, the one I was told not to. And I know it, and here I am—blood up to my elbows, beating the dead horse with a hammer. Staring over my own shoulder. Like my tongue was hijacked. That blundering, blustering fool. No. It’s all you. No one else. And there you go—again. “I disagree” will be written on your tombstone.
What a complete and total asshole! As if he knows anything about it? As if he knew what it was like? ‘I hear you’—but he doesn’t. And he’s always right, always so sure of it. Why doesn’t he just shut up and listen?
I married this asshole? I told him; I warned him. Did he listen? Does he ever listen? I mean, what is this even about? What is it with him? As if every conversation requires the intervention of Captain Cocksure. Cocksure—oh, does that word resonate.
@markcorwin7
formosadiary.com
What a complete and total asshole! As if he knows anything about it? As if he knew what it was like? ‘I hear you’—but he doesn’t. And he’s always right, always so sure of it. Why doesn’t he just shut up and listen?
I married this asshole? I told him; I warned him. Did he listen? Does he ever listen? I mean, what is this even about? What is it with him? As if every conversation requires the intervention of Captain Cocksure. Cocksure—oh, does that word resonate.
@markcorwin7
formosadiary.com
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