Miranda Kate's Blog, page 56

Mid-Week Flash Challenge - Week 53

The first photo prompt of year two is a photo taken by Johannes Plenio, a photographer from Munich, Germany. He has a lovely collection over at a free photo site called Unsplash.

A picture that can represent dark or light. But you know me, I can't resist dark at the best of times. Since spotting this photo I've been dying to write for it. Here's where my head went.

The General Guidelines can be found here.

How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here.



Survival
Cold. So cold. So cold it hurts. But I must keep walking. I must. I’m free. You’re not yet. I am. No, not until you’re home. Shut-up, you’re just the voice in my head, you don’t know. I do know. It’s not over yet. It will be now I’ve got the handcuffs off. That was impressive. It was, in this cold. Frozen locks. To my benefit. Indeed. You’re sure you haven’t been spotted? He glances back. There’s no one behind me. You don’t know that. There’s no footprints in the snow. It means nothing. You know how good she is at leaving no marks. He rubs his wrists remembering. You were foolish. Was not. You should never have believed her story about why she wanted to go to the cabin. She loves me. Does not. She felt badly about how she’s been. You still believe that? I want to. Still? He glances behind him again. If you go home she’ll be there. She won’t. She won’t believe I got free, she’ll think I’ve died on the run. Don’t you think she’ll check? I have nowhere else to go. And she knows that. You need to go to someone else. Who would believe me? They only have to look at you to believe you. They won’t believe it’s her. You think they don’t know? How could they? Remember how Wayne looked at you? He believed my story. No he didn’t. He was just saving you embarrassment. He knows I box. Those bruises weren’t from boxing and he knows it. He won’t want anything to do with me. He’ll think I’m weak and pathetic. You don’t know that. He’ll laugh at me. He won’t. How do you tell someone you’ve been held prisoner, for what days? Weeks. You think it’s weeks? I do. Although it’s hard to tell. I passed out so many times. He stumbles. I can’t feel my feet. Keep walking. They’re numb. Keep going. It’s not far now. See there’s a house over there. He makes out a building ahead. A farmhouse. There’s lights on in the windows. What will I say? The truth. I don’t know if I can. You have to. Get them to call the police. Maybe I should just see if there’s an outhouse or barn or something to hide in. You need to speak to someone, Steve. You need to tell someone. He lets out a sob. You can do it. You have to. What will they think of me? They will help you. I’m bleeding. It will have stopped by now. But they will see. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that you survive. I need to survive. You do. I need to stop her. You do. He stands at the door, jittering. When the door opens he falls through the entrance onto the floor sobbing. He hears gasps, ‘He’s naked. So much blood.’ Someone calls to someone else. Hands on him. Blankets round him. Warmth. Water on his lips. Voices around him, three or four: ‘What shall we do?’ ‘I’ve called an ambulance.’ ‘Where did he come from?’ ‘Out of the field on the right, there’s a blood trail.’ Sirens. He’s lifted up onto a gurney. More gasps. “Who did this to you, son?” A soft, gentle voice. “She did.” “Who?” “My wife.”

Mid-Week Flash Challenge - Week 52

This week completes a whole year of #MidWeekFlash! I can't believe it's been that long already!

"Happy Birthday to MidWeekFlash, Happy Birthday to MidWeekFlash! Hip Hip Hooray!"

This week's prompt is by Even Liu, a Hong Kong artist who has some incredible art. Take a look at their website here.

I considered something dystopian for this story, but then I noticed the lamp and a couple of voices turned up, and here's what happened. Enjoy.

The General Guidelines can be found here.

How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here.




Snatchers
“He went in there–”
“Ssshhhh!”
“I’m telling you he did!”
“I know. Ssshhhh! They’ll hear us!”
Robson whispered, “But he’s gone in and not come back!”
“None of them come back!” Jinxy hissed back.
“But it’s not right.”
“What do you want me to do about it?”
“We need to go in after him.”
“In there? You’ve got to be having a laugh.”
“No, really. Look he’s left his lantern, let’s go in and find him.”
Jinxy crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re more stupid than I thought.”
“What?” Robson was confused.
“You think he went in there willingly?”
“What do you mean?”
“His lamps on the ground, right there.”
“Yeah? So? He had to leave it there to climb up.”
Jinxy snorted. “Don’t be daft.”
“What then?”
“Something took him!” Jinxy hissed again.
“No! No way!” Robson looked over his shoulder but the flat desert was empty around him.
“It’s why they grow here.”
 “What?”
“The flowers dumbo! They come to snatch us up.”
“Don’t be daft!” Robson chuckled, but it was forced. He looked round again, his nerves starting to show as his foot tapped. “Flowers don’t eat people.”
“You sure about that? Remember last month when Jessie went missing.”
“Sweet girl.”
“Aye that she was, but there’d been a flower there.”
“Where?”
“By her house, stupid.”
“There’s not one now.”
“No, exactly!” Jinxy’s eyes grew big and round. “That’s what I mean. They come, they snatch someone and then they’re gone.”
“You don’t mean it?”
“I do!”
“Then how come this one’s still here then?”
“Maybe it’s only just taken him! Maybe it’s waiting for more. Who knows!” Jinxy was enjoying putting the chills up Robson.
Robson stepped back. “Best not stand so close.”
“Nah, you’re alright.”
Robson took another step back.
“I ain’t risking it.”
Jinxy laughed. “Don’t be stupid. We’re fine here for a while, it’s too soon.”
“I’m not sure I am the one being stupid this time, Jinxy.”
There was a sudden rushing sound, like a belch working its way up from a deep place, and Jinxy’s feet left the ground as he was sucked up into the open bowl of the flower.
Robson stood wide-eyed for a second then scuttled away, mumbling, “And he always called me the daft one.”

Mid-Week Flash Challenge - Week 51

This week's prompt is a photo taken by Gen Harris. These are her dog and cat.

I thought it was time for something soft and fluffy! 

I had planned on something bigger and more dramatic, but ended up with this simple piece, an imagined conversation about what a cat and dog might discuss on such a day. Having had a headache for over a week now, it has been hard to get my mind to produce much. I hope you all find it more inspiring.

The General Guidelines can be found here.

How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here.




Rainy Day
“Hey George, I’ve found a long one. You got one yet?” “Yeah, over here. Trickling nicely.” Cassie looked his way, where he was watching the line of rain water running down the French windows too. “Oh yeah.” “Yours still going?” “No, mines stopped. Here, how long do you think this is going to go on for?” “What your trickle?” “No the rain.” “Dunno. But they’ll probably take me out in it in a bit.” Cassie shuddered. “Glad I don’t have anyone forcing me out in it.” “It’ll be great, still plenty to sniff.” “Doesn’t it all wash away?” “Sometimes, but just means I can put fresh down and take ownership.” “I don’t get you dogs. Why bother? Such a waste.” “You do it.” “Do not! I’m a girl cat; we don’t make that kind of stink.” “But you like sniffing it though.” “Do not!” “Do too. I’ve seen you out there when that big red tom from number 16 comes round.” “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Keep an eye on your trickle!” “Never left it. Although it’s winding down now.” “Found another yet?” “I’m sure there’ll be one along shortly. What about you?” “There’s something moving out there.” “Where?” “There!” Cassie pushes her nose up against the glass. “See it? I’ll catch it!” “You can’t, it’s on the other side of the glass.” “No it’s not.” “Yes it is.” Cassie tries to nibble at it. “Oh, maybe your right.” “Why don’t you come with us when we go for a walk?” “No way! I’ll get all wet.” “But that’s the best part. Loads of puddles. If I’m lucky, I’ll get a chance to roll in one.” “Why on earth would you want to do that?” “Oh it’s great, all over your fur, nice and gritty. Then you get to shake it out.” “Bleugh, fancy licking all that off.” Cassie licked a paw. “I don’t have to lick it off; they’ll wash me when I get back.” “Ugh, how awful. I couldn’t abide anyone doing that to me. It’s not natural.” “You’ve been washed, I saw you. That time you fell into that boggy patch at the end of the garden.” “Ugh, don’t remind me. First in that stinking water, and then in that perfumed muck they said would get me nice and clean. My tongue wasn’t right for weeks coated in that soapy stuff. Yuck.” “How’d you fall in the bog in the first place? I thought you cats had perfect balance?” “No, nine lives is what we’ve got, and I lost one of them that day I can tell you. I was chasing a blue thing. It landed on the ground. Very pretty it was, would have been very tasty, but when I put my paw on it, it wasn’t ground it was that horrible wet sludgy stuff. That’s how I lost my balance, and almost my life!” “You’re so dramatic. It’s not that deep.” “How would you know?” “Oh I’ve been in there loads of times. I love it.” “Ugh, you’re revolting. Ooo, look at that another long trickle coming down.” They both watched the one near Cassie as it made its way down in a stilted fashion. Their peace was broken by a call from the kitchen: “George! Here boy!” “That’s me. I’ll be off then.” “See you in a bit.” “You going to stay and watch more?” “Nah, I’m going to go curl up on the little boy’s bed.” “Okay. Later.” “Later.”

Mid-Week Flash Challenge - Week 50

This week's photo prompt is from German photographer, Amelie Satzger. She has a collection of photos over on 500px.

WARNING: My tale is a disturbing one. It is not for the faint hearted - but it does end with hope. It is inspired by a true story I read a few year ago about a woman who survived being sex trafficked. It's what I thought of when I first saw this picture. Yes, I know, my mind can get very dark. Sometimes it's best not to follow me down here.

The General Guidelines can be found here.

How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here.




Freedom
She taps the crack in the glass, hoping it will get bigger, hoping it will open out and maybe a hole will form. If she breaks it completely she might have a chance. She looks round the room, but there is nothing there to help her; it’s empty apart from the blood stained mattress - her blood. She looks at it and feels the sore spots it came from. Sore spots she knows are going to be reopened soon.
If only there was some kind of implement, but they never leave anything. They bring what they use. She stops that thought there. She can’t think about it, she has to block it. If she thinks about it she will scream and cry and won’t be able to stop. She remembers what happened to the girl in the next room who did that. She wants to live. She wants to get out of here. She wants to return to her life. She wants to never go on a blind date again. Never meet someone that no one else knows. Never believe that after three dates they must be trustworthy. Was anyone even looking for her?
She hears a noise in the room next door. They brought in another girl last night. They’re breaking her in. Another one that doesn’t sound like she’ll survive long. She’s stronger than the others, but if she wasn’t strong she’d be dead - like the one they dragged past her room several days ago. They’d left her door open deliberately.
She thought back to the first time they left her door open. She’d tried to get out. Foolish. They played cat and mouse with her, giving her hope, then taking it away. She’s learnt. But it gave her a sense of the house: size, how many others and how many men using them.
This thought jolts her back into action. She taps harder on the crack - the sounds from next door motivating her. She hears the screaming start and then that guttural noise which tells her the new girl might not last long. She resists the tears and sick feeling in her stomach. She puts her upset into what she is doing.
She pushes the glass and the crack spreads. She keeps pressure on the centre point and more cracks appear. A small piece in the middle falls out. It tumbles. She knows she’s two storeys up. She knows this area hasn’t recovered from the civil war and most of the neighbouring houses are empty. She’s going to have to run a long way.
Her breath quickens, she’s created a hole as big as her head now. The noise from next door is covering the sound of the glass shifting. More pieces fall out. Her fingers are bleeding, but it’s nothing compared to the other wounds she has.
A larger piece falls out and smashes below. She holds her breath and waits. If they find this she’s not sure she’ll survive the punishment. She doesn’t hear footsteps; she only hears the grunts and torturous screams from next door.
She climbs out onto the windowsill. She sees a drainpipe next to the window. She shuffles to it, shards of glass embedding in her knees. She pulls at the pipe, it doesn’t move. She dares to put her weight on it. It holds. She starts moving down to the ground, until it is close enough to jump.
Her heart is in her throat, the noise of it hammering in her ears. She lands heavily. The shock makes her pause. She hears nothing but the wind. She stands, testing her legs - then she runs.
She convinces herself she can hear shouts and men running after her, but at every glance back she sees nothing. She runs through the empty streets past derelict houses. She wants to get on the other side of the hills behind the ruined town. She’d had weeks to work out a route from the window.
She reaches the hills and clambers up and over them, adrenaline still feeding her. She sees another town in the distance. She sees lights as dusk draws in. It’s populated. She’ll find sanctuary there. But for now she must stop and rest. She finds a cove hidden by trees. She pushes herself in it and sits, exhausted, shivers running through her as the fear loosens its grip. She’s free. And soon the others will be too.

Mid-Week Flash Challenge - Week 49

This week's picture was created by artist Erlend MØrk, from Norway. He has some interesting dark art and his website is worth checking out.  

I had planned to go a bit darker - although some might feel my tale is dark enough - but instead I veered toward the storyline from a partially written novel from more than 15 year ago. 

The General Guidelines can be found here.

How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here.



Infilteration 
“Surely someone will notice them.”
“Why should they? They’re just jars.”
“You and I both know that’s not true.”
“No, but no one else does.” 

“They’ll be spotted at some point, I’m sure of it.” 

“You credit them with too much intelligence.” 

And you credit them with too little. They can be smart you know.” Adrienne wasn’t prepared to accept Johnny’s under estimation of the local inhabitants. She’d been here longer than he had; she knew how they worked; what they saw and what they didn’t see. He liked to think he and Adrienne were superior.

“We are the same species, Johnny, you seem to forget that. Their brains work the same as ours.”
Johnny scoffed. “But they’re blind where we are not. They have no clue what is really going on around them.”
“Not all of them, you’d be surprised.”
Johnny stood up in the dark basement, his head almost touching the ceiling. “We have to keep them here, there’s no other option if you are going to bring the hosts here for the procedure.”
This time it was Adrienne’s turn to scoff.  “Hosts? You mean surrogates. I have some lined up already.”
“Top echelon? We have to get them into high positions otherwise there’s no hope of pulling this off. If we don’t provide evidence of visible change, the government will remove them under the contamination laws. There’ll be no salvaging them then.”
“I know, I know. Don’t worry. I have three from families whose influence covers half the globe. And I’m talking to seven more. Trust me. We can turn this around. But I need the jars to remain hidden. I can’t have anyone asking questions. My reputation depends on it.”
“Do you think someone will?”
“With this being the basement of a shared building there’s no telling. We need to get some tarp to cover them.”
“Won’t that make them more suspicious? Like this they just look like pickle jars.”
Adrienne laughed. “Gosh they’d get a shock if they open up one of these expecting a pickle.”
Johnny smiled. “They would indeed. I’ll get a tarp.”
Adrienne looked at her watch. “Look, one of the surrogates is due here in a minute, so I need to get back upstairs. You go do what you need to do to make these look inconspicuous, and I’ll meet up with you later.”
“You hoping to implant today?”
“I’m not sure, but I’ve put a jar upstairs in my cupboard just in case.”
Adrienne prepared the apartment for the planned session with her client. The art of fortune telling had brought her into the higher circles of society. She had managed to target a few key people and word of mouth had done the rest. It was amazing what being adept at reading minds and bodies could achieve. It meant nothing where she came from, everyone could do it, but here they existed in the lower brain levels, so it was unique.
A few had mastered elements of it but without full understand, so it had been shunned by the controlling religious factions who preferred to live in ignorance and pretend that things they didn’t see or understand were the work of some strange, unreachable being – a far less rational notion, but one that allowed people to shirk responsibility for any of their words or actions.
Adrienne and Johnny hoped to change that with the souls they had brought. They were pure and once implanted would bring about words and actions that would alter the course of society here. It was just a matter of bringing about the opportunity to install the implant, which Adrienne hoped to achieve today.
The client arrived and Adrienne got to work putting them at ease by instinctively knowing their likes and dislikes, while lulling them into a sense of trust and security. Then she talked them into a trance state, which went easier than expected because really Johnny was right.
She retrieved the jar from her cupboard. When she opened the lid the new soul climbed out, moving straight to the client’s face. Adrienne spoke a few words and the client’s jaw went slack, so the soul could squeeze into the mouth. The client convulsed a couple of times, but then sat up, bright eyed and ready for more. Adrienne could see the glint of the new soul inside. It was done, a new era was about to begin on Earth – one of true enlightenment that would restore the planet back to health for her people to harvest. 

Mid-Week Flash Challenge - Week 48

This week's picture prompt comes from Hossein Zare, an Iranian artist. He has some wonderful work, check out the gallery on his website here.

This turned out gentler than planned. I wanted to give it a twist at the end, but it came out how it came out, as they often do. I look forward to seeing how others interpret this weeks.

The General Guidelines can be found here.

How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here.
 


Not a Mirage
“Not much further now. Look you can see it up ahead.”
“Are you sure that’s real and not another mirage?”
“It has to be, look how the light sun is highlighting it.”
Gabriel paused to catch her breath and look at their destination – a tree. It could be the only tree on earth. They’d been travelling for years and not seen one yet. It looked too real with its rich green foliage standing out against the scorched earth it stood in; it seemed surreal.
But then the whole of the earth was scorched now, the only life that could be sustained was in the crowded, dirty cities, using recycled ocean water. The seas might still exist but nothing lived in them now – nothing lived anywhere anymore, except humans in their cities. Mankind had made sure of that – or at least the ones that controlled the bombs. A hundred years had passed and the land had grown hot, arid and barren. The only plants that grew were in underground glasshouses and were only for those that could afford them, the rest of the population had to make do with supplements; it was the second largest thing to cull the population after the bombs, and the one that kept it to a minimum.
Gabriel and Peter hadn’t wanted to stay in the cities. They were dangerous and toxic. They didn’t believe the stories that there was nothing out here; they wanted to find out for themselves. So they had. They had travelled across landmass after landmass, witnessing the desertification, the monotony broken only by isolated, congested cities where the people crowded in, trying to survive.
Up until now the only sightings of any other living thing between the cities had been water starved illusions. Gabriel was surprised they were still alive.
And here ahead of them was a tree – or potential tree. She had only seen them on computers and in old films. She wondered what it would smell and feel like.
“Oh I hope it is real, Peter.”
“Let’s find out, Gabby.”
He took her hand and led her down the rocky hillside onto the plain. The tree loomed larger as they drew closer. It didn’t wobble or shimmer, it remained steady. Gabby felt the same urgency as Peter as he tugged at her hand, upping their pace, breaking into a jog as they approached. They stopped a foot away, silently observing. They could hear the whoosh of the wind blowing through its leaves and smell the slightly acrid smell of its foliage. Peter stepped forward and tentatively put out a hand to its trunk. His fingers brushed its surface and he moved closer pressing both hands against it.
“It IS real!” he laughed. “It is! It is!”
Gabby rushed forward to join him, flinging her arms around the tree’s wide girth and embracing it. She felt the rough texture of the bark under her cheek and inhaled the woody smell, so alien yet so familiar. 
Peter stepped back a couple of feet and started digging in the ground.
“What are you doing?”
“If it can survive here, then so can we. There must be a water source.”
After he dug down a foot or more the earth started to get damp.
“See? I told you.”
Gabby joined him and after a while they had a puddle of water in the bottom of a hole. It smelt of sand and soil but when they licked it, it was sweet. Gabby cupped a handful, it was a little gritty but it quenched her thirst. She took another and found that the hole never quite emptied.
Once they had both had their fill, they settled down against the base of the tree.
“What shall we do now, Peter?”
“Set up camp, Gabby, this is our home now, and our tree.”
She smiled. They had done it. They had found life outside the cities; a fresh start, a new beginning.

Round vs Around

I came across the whole 'round versus around' debate while editing a manuscript for an American indie author. Being British, I use them both, and consider them words with different meanings, appropriate at different times, but my American friend felt that 'around' was predominantly used in all cases, unless referring to something actually circular. Hence my research began.
A divide has clearly occurred (yet again) between the American and British usage of this word. The Brits do indeed see them as two different words, with different meanings, and interchangeable, whereas the average American doesn't; they rely heavily on around, only using round when talking about an actual circle.
So let's look at a few facts:
The word round works virtually anywhere around would work, but the opposite is not the case. There are several definitions round doesn’t share with around. 
For example: 
The edge of a circle is not around.Someone would not play an around of golfYou wouldn't have big around eyes.'Around and around the Mulburry bush' doesn't work the same. And just today I told my son to move his legs round under the table - meaning to turn them from the side, where he had them, under the table. If I said, move your legs around, he would have waggled them at me!

Mid-Week Flash Challenge - Week 47

This week's picture prompt is from Polish artist Tomasz Alen Kopera. He has a way of creating that is magical. He has some wonderful pieces  so many I could write for. Check out his gallery on his website.

It took a while for this story to surface, I stopped and started (and procrastinated) quite a bit. I wanted to capture their intensity and their desire. I think I managed to do that, and also give it a dark edge at the end. I like it, I hope you do too.

The General Guidelines can be found here.

How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here.



The Lovers

She longed eternally to bring up her arm and touch his face, but she could no longer move. She could only stare into his eyes as he did into hers and remember their love forever.
They heard the movement around them, time passed in a strange disconnected way, seasons and life growing around them. One minute buried in green, another surrounded by city. It was all a blur in their peripheral vision. Like the rest of their bodies, their sight was fixed on each other and could go nowhere else.
Then one day there were ribbons and pieces of paper floating down and draping over them. They heard song and dance surrounding them, hands on them. A fluttering began at their backs and they felt for the first time in millennia air touching their bodies. Cracks ran up her partners face and over his head, and she felt the same on hers. She attempted again to raise her hand and this time there was movement: a breaking, a cracking as it began to bend.
She wriggled her fingers getting ready as the last crumbs of stone fell from his soft dark skin, and brought her arm up. The delicate sensation under her fingertips of the smooth warm surface caused her to gasp, as did the feel of his hands on her hips as he could finally begin to embrace her again.
She ran a finger over his lips as their bodies began to lean in, the stone crumbling & falling away from their bodies in clouds of dust, leaving traces of their movement in the air. She stared only at his lips as they moved closer, anticipating the touch which was far more tangible than she had imagined all these centuries. Its softness flowed through her and her body responded by collapsing against his, moulding with it, her desire reaching its peak as they were once again lovers.
The crowds had fallen silent around them, in awe and wonder at this marvel of life returning to what they believed were statues all these years, unaware of the magic it was bringing forth and letting loose. As the lovers turned towards the people, cheers went up and the festival began again in earnest. Swathes of the ash from the Lover’s bodies rose up and filled the air the people breathed. One by one they became as rigid as the lovers had been; some caught in the act of dancing, some in kissing, and some attempting to run away as they witnessed what was happening.
It was their turn now to stand for centuries, locked in desire, in joy, and in perpetuity. The Lovers were back and would have their revenge. 

Mid-Week Flash Challenge - Week 46

This weeks picture prompt was created by Ukrainian artist Mikhail Batrak. He has some incredible art, check out his website here.

I tried to come up with something original and encompass as many of the elements of this picture as possible. I ended up using a character from one of my novel's and a sort of 'alternate ending' to her story. It helps to explore the character and put her somewhere different and see what she would do and think.

The General Guidelines can be found here.

How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here.




Ocean Dreaming
Lizzy stood contemplating the ocean. She had done this many times over the years, at different stages in her life. When she was a child it was with awe at the waves and their white horses and how they would shrink down to ripples at her toes. As a teenager it was with jealousy at the waves as they lifted up and crashed, releasing their rage, spraying it everywhere, laying it bare. And now as an adult Lizzy watched the ebb and flow of the tide, wondering where it would go to, and what far and distant shore it swelled on.
With each aging process it brought with it a certainty: it was always there, always doing the same thing, steady and constant, its movement a comfort. So unlike her life which seemed to grow in its turbulence, inside and out.
Lizzy would spend hours picking apart the view, rearranging it in her mind as though trying to find a way to paint it that would express how she felt. It differed every day, from the clouds and the sky, the shells and the pebbles, to the colour of the water and the position of the sun. And sometimes she would try and paint it but it never looked the same or felt quite right – much like herself.
She could blame all the factors in her life: the failed pregnancies, the failed marriage, the affair her husband was having that he thought she knew nothing about. All of them a part of her decline into depths so black she despaired of ever finding a way out. But the truth was she had lost her way, and then her will. And even though there had been a sudden spark of life for a short time, it had been built around frustration and anger, which burned out as suddenly as it started, leaving her empty.  
And so here she was, looking out at the waves, feeling spent, contemplating her future. Lizzy didn’t have the energy to face it. It would only be a matter of days before people would discover what her rage had wrought. There was no way she’d be able to talk her way out of it. It didn’t matter that they were the ones in the wrong: fucking in the middle of the day, in her bed, in her house, for everyone to hear. She could still hear his grunting and her moans as she had climbed the stairs with the knife in her hand. There was no turning back from what she had done and how she had left them.
So here she stood in the rising dawn still wearing the blood spattered clothes – because there’d been no point trying to hide them – looking at the waves and wondering what they would feel like on her skin. How they would wash over her and cleanse her body, the cold refreshing her and flushing out the dark weight she had been carrying. How it would feel to breathe in the spray and eventually the water and be engulfed from head to toe, submerged without redemption, released from the horrors of her life.

Mid-Week Flash Challenge - Week 45

This weeks prompt photo was taken by Dennis Gerbeckx and was taken in Beelitz Heilstätten, an abandoned sanatorium South West of Berlin, in Germany. Dennis has captured many pictures of this place and has them in a gallery on Flicker. 

I thought it was time for something darker. And, for me, the trick of the darkness is leaving the details to the readers imagination.

The General Guidelines can be found here.

How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here.




Self Persecution
It didn’t look any different to me. There might be mould on the floor, the material on the surgical bed might have gone slimy, the entire room might be in the final throws of decay, but it felt the same. I could feel the anger and fear rise as I stood there, the only sensation I associated with this room and that bed.
I walked round, feeling the remains of the room crunch underfoot, and looked at the overhead light. The bulbs were gone, but not the memory of how it would shine into my eyes as I lay there strapped up, unable to move, my head locked in. Some days even my eyelids were propped open, the glare never leaving me, for days the imprint across my vision making it hard to see anything – not that there was much to see in the hole they left me in, between times.
I stumbled forward, tripping over ceiling tiles as I fought to keep a hold of my emotions, but my stomach was churning. If I had eaten anything it might have decided to return, but I hadn’t been foolish enough to do that. I knew that coming here would be hard, especially on my sensitive digestive system, damaged after years of abuse; the experimental drugs they would try out on me, the biopsies of tissues for their studies, and the lack of nutrition through the years I had been kept here.
My mind screamed at me, ‘What are you doing here?!’ but I refused to flee, not this time. Not anymore. Although this time if I chose to flee I wouldn’t be hunted down and recaptured and punished further. I would be free to run and run and run. I could feel the adrenaline ramping up in my body, my legs itching to take me. But I stayed where I was. I had to do this; I had to kill the ghost that haunted me.
Twenty years on I was still lucky if I managed to have a full night’s sleep without the dreams, the nightmares, the terrors that would have me wake up screaming and running out of the house. It was only once I hit the stream at the bottom of the garden that I would wake to find that it wasn’t my reality anymore, that it was over.
I had been told the place had been shut down, that they had closed it up and it had been left to rot. A part of me just wouldn’t believe it, I had to see it for myself. I had to walk the halls again (what was left of them), and know in my bones that it was over, that it was finished, that the torture of the children that had been here was over.
I had attended all the court hearings the year before. Faced my tormentors, looked them in the eye and let them know they hadn’t broken me like they had broken so many others. And knowing they would never see the light of day again had served to quell some of my fears: I knew that they would never be able to do to another what they did to me. I knew that no one would resurrect the so called ‘research’ they claimed to be doing. The case had been so notorious the public had turned up when they had cleared the contents of the offices; they had burned everything, creating a massive bonfire on the lawn. All the newspapers had covered it. Twenty years on you could still see the scold mark on the ground.
But being here, in the rooms that were my torture chambers, I was able to see in person that they were empty and decaying, never to be used again. The demolition notices were plastered all over the front. Soon it would only be rubble. This was my last chance to try and find some peace, some kind of reconciliation in my mind about the horrors of my youth here. Standing here I realised that it couldn’t be found in a rotting old surgical bed, that it could only be found in my soul. I had to release it and attempt to forgive myself for letting it happen in the first place, & continuing the persecution in my mind.