Icy Sedgwick's Blog, page 112
June 24, 2011
Friday Flash - The Changeling
Edmund sat on the bench at the bottom of the garden. He peered into the rose bush beside him, moving onto the neighbouring agapanthus when the roses yielded nothing of interest.
"Hallo there, Edmund!"
He looked up from the bushes to see Charles crossing the garden. The blond boy waved.
"Hallo, old chap. Mother thought I ought to see how you're getting on after you were ill, and you weren't at school again today. Cook told me you were out here by yourself. Are you alright?" asked Charles. He sat on the bench beside Edmund.
"Hallo, Charlie. Thank you for coming over, but I suspect I shall be alright soon enough." Edmund looked down at the ground. He dug the toe of his plimsoll into the soil. Sometimes he wished he could crawl into the earth and hide there, never having to face other people and their questions or expectations.
"You seem out of sorts. Are you still ill?" asked Charles.
"I don't know if I should say," replied Edmund. He drew patterns in the dirt with his toe.
"I'm your best friend! Of course you should say. Maybe I can help." Charles smiled.
"I don't think anyone can help me in this regard, but I appreciate your concern all the same."
"Is it the war? Are you getting scared about it? Was it the air raid last night? I jolly well think you ought to be getting scared, if you aren't already. Father tells me all sorts of things that Mother thinks I shouldn't hear. Why, only last night, he told me-"
"It's not the war, Charlie."
"Then what is it?"
"Mother got Cook to look after me while I was ill because she's too busy with the Allotment Committee and trying to organise the evacuees. Well, one night Cook told me a story, and I think it might be true."
"What kind of story? You know, if it was about the war, then you really ought to tell-"
"It was about fairies."
Charles looked at Edmund for a moment, his grey eyes scrutinising Edmund's worried face. Charles broke into a peal of laughter. Edmund's ears flushed, and he looked away. Hot tears gathered in his eyes, threatening to spill down his blushing cheeks.
"You see, that's why I couldn't tell you," he mumbled.
"You're twelve, Edmund. Don't you think you're a little old for fairy stories?" Charles slapped his thigh, wheezing with laugher.
"Cook told me that sometimes fairies snatch human babies from the cradle, and leave their own babies behind instead. Humans bring them up as their own children, but they aren't. They're called changelings, and they have special powers, just like fairies. Some of them can even grant wishes," replied Edmund.
"Is that it? Is that what you've been worrying about? How silly!" Charles wrinkled his nose in disgust.
"I think I might be one."
"What?"
"I think I might be a changeling."
"Whatever gave you that idea?" asked Charles. He gazed at Edmund with a mixture of condescension and fear.
"I don't fit in anywhere, Charles, and you've seen how all the other chaps at school make fun of my red hair or my fear of water. I've always been such a disappointment to Father, compared with all the marvellous things William does or all of the compliments Celia gets. And you know I have never gotten along with Mother."
Edmund gazed back at the house. He'd been born there, or so his parents claimed, and yet he still couldn't bring himself to call it 'home'.
"Lots of boys disappoint their fathers or don't get along with their mothers, and even I have trouble with the chaps at school. Really, Edmund, you ought not to be so stupid. Don't you know there's a war on? There are more important things to think about."
"I can't really take sides if I'm a changeling, can I? I wouldn't even be a person, let alone British."
"I can't believe you just said that. You'd better not let any of the grownups hear you. They might think you're...you're one of them! Father says the Führer has spies everywhere. You don't want them to think you're one," said Charles. He looked around the garden, as if he expected to see informers lurking in the bushes.
"Being a fairy has nothing to do with the Führer."
"Oh, I really cannot tolerate you when you're in one of these moods. I rather think I shall pay Joseph a visit. At least he doesn't talk nonsense about fairies."
Charles stood up. He glared down at Edmund, daring him to challenge him. Edmund said nothing, staring at the patterns he'd drawn in the dirt. Charles let out a huff of indignation, and stomped away across the garden. Edmund heaved a sigh of relief when the side gate slammed shut behind his friend.
"I wish I could get away from this place. I wish I could find my home. I wish I could be where I belong," said Edmund. He finished the elaborate pattern in the dirt, marking the last curlicue with a flourish.
A low drone made Edmund prick up his ears. The sound rumbled in his ribcage as the air raid siren wailed into life. He watched his family through the window, hurrying for the shelter of the cellar. No one has even stopped to check that I'm there, he thought.
Edmund left the bench and crawled into the bushes. He wrapped his arms around his knees and drew them to his chest. He thought of the family crouching in the cellar under the house. A hot tear escaped as he wished again to go home.
"Gotcha, lad. Let's get you home," said the strange voice behind him. He felt the strong hand on his shoulder as the first bomb fell.
"Hallo there, Edmund!"
He looked up from the bushes to see Charles crossing the garden. The blond boy waved.
"Hallo, old chap. Mother thought I ought to see how you're getting on after you were ill, and you weren't at school again today. Cook told me you were out here by yourself. Are you alright?" asked Charles. He sat on the bench beside Edmund.
"Hallo, Charlie. Thank you for coming over, but I suspect I shall be alright soon enough." Edmund looked down at the ground. He dug the toe of his plimsoll into the soil. Sometimes he wished he could crawl into the earth and hide there, never having to face other people and their questions or expectations.
"You seem out of sorts. Are you still ill?" asked Charles.
"I don't know if I should say," replied Edmund. He drew patterns in the dirt with his toe.
"I'm your best friend! Of course you should say. Maybe I can help." Charles smiled.
"I don't think anyone can help me in this regard, but I appreciate your concern all the same."
"Is it the war? Are you getting scared about it? Was it the air raid last night? I jolly well think you ought to be getting scared, if you aren't already. Father tells me all sorts of things that Mother thinks I shouldn't hear. Why, only last night, he told me-"
"It's not the war, Charlie."
"Then what is it?"
"Mother got Cook to look after me while I was ill because she's too busy with the Allotment Committee and trying to organise the evacuees. Well, one night Cook told me a story, and I think it might be true."
"What kind of story? You know, if it was about the war, then you really ought to tell-"
"It was about fairies."
Charles looked at Edmund for a moment, his grey eyes scrutinising Edmund's worried face. Charles broke into a peal of laughter. Edmund's ears flushed, and he looked away. Hot tears gathered in his eyes, threatening to spill down his blushing cheeks.
"You see, that's why I couldn't tell you," he mumbled.
"You're twelve, Edmund. Don't you think you're a little old for fairy stories?" Charles slapped his thigh, wheezing with laugher.
"Cook told me that sometimes fairies snatch human babies from the cradle, and leave their own babies behind instead. Humans bring them up as their own children, but they aren't. They're called changelings, and they have special powers, just like fairies. Some of them can even grant wishes," replied Edmund.
"Is that it? Is that what you've been worrying about? How silly!" Charles wrinkled his nose in disgust.
"I think I might be one."
"What?"
"I think I might be a changeling."
"Whatever gave you that idea?" asked Charles. He gazed at Edmund with a mixture of condescension and fear.
"I don't fit in anywhere, Charles, and you've seen how all the other chaps at school make fun of my red hair or my fear of water. I've always been such a disappointment to Father, compared with all the marvellous things William does or all of the compliments Celia gets. And you know I have never gotten along with Mother."
Edmund gazed back at the house. He'd been born there, or so his parents claimed, and yet he still couldn't bring himself to call it 'home'.
"Lots of boys disappoint their fathers or don't get along with their mothers, and even I have trouble with the chaps at school. Really, Edmund, you ought not to be so stupid. Don't you know there's a war on? There are more important things to think about."
"I can't really take sides if I'm a changeling, can I? I wouldn't even be a person, let alone British."
"I can't believe you just said that. You'd better not let any of the grownups hear you. They might think you're...you're one of them! Father says the Führer has spies everywhere. You don't want them to think you're one," said Charles. He looked around the garden, as if he expected to see informers lurking in the bushes.
"Being a fairy has nothing to do with the Führer."
"Oh, I really cannot tolerate you when you're in one of these moods. I rather think I shall pay Joseph a visit. At least he doesn't talk nonsense about fairies."
Charles stood up. He glared down at Edmund, daring him to challenge him. Edmund said nothing, staring at the patterns he'd drawn in the dirt. Charles let out a huff of indignation, and stomped away across the garden. Edmund heaved a sigh of relief when the side gate slammed shut behind his friend.
"I wish I could get away from this place. I wish I could find my home. I wish I could be where I belong," said Edmund. He finished the elaborate pattern in the dirt, marking the last curlicue with a flourish.
A low drone made Edmund prick up his ears. The sound rumbled in his ribcage as the air raid siren wailed into life. He watched his family through the window, hurrying for the shelter of the cellar. No one has even stopped to check that I'm there, he thought.
Edmund left the bench and crawled into the bushes. He wrapped his arms around his knees and drew them to his chest. He thought of the family crouching in the cellar under the house. A hot tear escaped as he wished again to go home.
"Gotcha, lad. Let's get you home," said the strange voice behind him. He felt the strong hand on his shoulder as the first bomb fell.
June 20, 2011
Photo Prompt 38
Latest prompt, ready and waiting.
If you want to use the prompt, all I ask is that you include a link to this entry and a credit to me for the photograph, and that you post a link to your story in the comments box below so I can see what you've come up with! If you don't comment on this entry, then I can't comment on your story.
The thirty-eighth prompt is Scorpion.
All photo prompts are my own photography - you can find more of it on Flickr. You can also buy my prints from Deviantart. 20% of all proceeds go to charity - the other 80% go towards my PhD fees!
If you want to use the prompt, all I ask is that you include a link to this entry and a credit to me for the photograph, and that you post a link to your story in the comments box below so I can see what you've come up with! If you don't comment on this entry, then I can't comment on your story.
The thirty-eighth prompt is Scorpion.
All photo prompts are my own photography - you can find more of it on Flickr. You can also buy my prints from Deviantart. 20% of all proceeds go to charity - the other 80% go towards my PhD fees!
June 17, 2011
Friday Flash - The Pardon Man
Charlie landed in the filth with a splash. His arms plunged into the cold waste, and he gagged at the smell. He struggled to turn before the cell door swung closed, but the guards were gone before he could pull his hands free."Come back! I shouldn't be 'ere!" shouted Charlie.
"They won't let you out, lad."
Charlie turned around at the sound of the voice. He peered into the darkness. Three heaps of rags pushed up against the back wall where the filth wasn't as deep. A scrawny arm stuck out of one heap at an unnatural angle, a blue bloom on the pale skin. Charlie waded through the sludge and nudged the bundle with his knee.
"That was old Barnabus. Dead three days now. I keep telling them but they won't take him."
"Why not?" asked Charlie. He peered at the other heaps and saw thin men swaddled in rags. One lay on his back, eyes rolled back in his head. His chest hitched as he laboured to breathe. Blood-flecked spittle clustered around his cracked lips.
"This is Newgate, lad, not a hotel."
Charlie turned to the third man. He leaned back against the wall, gazing at Charlie with bloodshot eyes. In the low light, his skin looked as though it were made of wax. He's bloody melted, thought Charlie.
"I shouldn't be in 'ere," said Charlie.
"Aye, and nor should any of the rest of us. This is the closest we'll come to hell, you mark my words."
"You talk too proper to be in 'ere. What are you in for?" asked Charlie.
"Non-payment of debts. Did you know that your debts get bigger the longer you stay in the debtor's prison? When my family stopped paying, I was sent here. They shan't hang me, they'll just leave me to die. They'll be satisfied soon enough."
Charlie stared at the man. An uncle of his was sent to the debtor's prison when Charlie was six, and after a few months, the family stopped talking about him. Was this where his uncle ended up? Charlie shuddered.
"How about you, lad?"
"They say I stabbed a man."
"Did you?"
"Only because he hurt my sister. She's pregnant, see, and ever so big. A man tried to rob 'er and I took after 'im with my knife. I didn't stab 'im much."
"Did he die?"
"No but they'll 'ang me for tryin' to protect Mary!"
"There is one thing you can try, lad," said the man.
"What's that?"
"Seek the counsel of the Pardon Man."
"The what?"
"The Pardon Man. Call him, and he'll come. If you're innocent, he might be able to help. If you're not, he can grant absolution."
Charlie stared at the man, and burst into fits of laughter. He laughed so hard that his ribs ached and tears washed clean tracks down his dirty face. The man gazed back, impassive as a dove.
"He's no laughing matter, lad."
"What nonsense! You should be in Bedlam, not Newgate! I ain't never 'eard of no 'Pardon Man'," said Charlie. He wiped his eyes with a dry patch of sleeve.
"Suit yourself." The man settled down against the wall and closed his eyes. Moments later, the sound of gentle snores filled the dank air.
Charlie sat against the bars at the front of the cell. The stench of death wasn't so bad there, and he gleaned a sliver of comfort from the flickering lamp hung on the wall outside. He wriggled until his spine rested in the gap between two bars, and wrapped his arms around his knees. He glared across the cell at the sleeping man.
"The Pardon Man, what rot. The Pardon Man – I ask ye! The Pardon Man, never 'eard of anythin' so stupid in me life."
Movement in the corner caught Charlie's eye. The shadows above the dead man grew deeper. They coalesced into a figure draped in midnight, its skin pale with the passage of time. Sad eyes peered out of a craggy face. Charlie froze when the figure picked its way across the cell, lifting its cloak out of the slurry.
"Boy, you called my name thrice. Thrice you called. What is it you seek?" asked the figure. Its voice rumbled with the promise of absolution and the threat of damnation.
"Who are ye?" asked Charlie.
"You know my name. I am the Pardon Man. Tell me, boy, what is it you seek?"
"I just want to go home," said Charlie. His face crumpled and his body racked with sobs. Charlie spilled his story between tears. The figure knelt before him. Dizziness gripped Charlie as he looked into the figure's eyes, yellow as a cat's.
"You did injure the man, but your intent was not murder. I cannot set you free, but I can protect you from damnation."
The Pardon Man leaned forward and reached behind Charlie's ear. Charlie suppressed a giggle as something tickled his neck, and the figure drew his hand back. Something small shone between thin fingers. The figure inspected it for a moment, gazing along its hooked nose as a jeweller might appraise a diamond. Its thin lips curved into a smile.
"Yes, yes, much goodness here. I shall see to it that this reaches its proper home."
"What? What did ye do?" asked Charlie.
"Sleep, boy, sleep."
The Pardon Man dissolved into the rotten shadows of the cell. The sparkling flame in his hand disappeared last. Sleep overcame Charlie, and soon his snores joined that of his cellmate's.
* * *
"Two dead in one cell? Christ, what do they think we are, bodysnatchers?" Ricks kicked the corpse at the back of the cell.
"Look at this 'un, Ricks. At least he died with a smile on 'is face."
"That's one way to avoid the noose," replied Ricks. He looked over at the boy slumped against the bars.
A serene smile gave him the appearance of one only dreaming, not dead.
June 13, 2011
Photo Prompt 37
Latest prompt, ready and waiting.
If you want to use the prompt, all I ask is that you include a link to this entry and a credit to me for the photograph, and that you post a link to your story in the comments box below so I can see what you've come up with! If you don't comment on this entry, then I can't comment on your story.
The thirty-seventh prompt is Light Trail.
All photo prompts are my own photography - you can find more of it on Flickr. You can also buy my prints from Deviantart. 20% of all proceeds go to charity - the other 80% go towards my PhD fees!
If you want to use the prompt, all I ask is that you include a link to this entry and a credit to me for the photograph, and that you post a link to your story in the comments box below so I can see what you've come up with! If you don't comment on this entry, then I can't comment on your story.
The thirty-seventh prompt is Light Trail.
All photo prompts are my own photography - you can find more of it on Flickr. You can also buy my prints from Deviantart. 20% of all proceeds go to charity - the other 80% go towards my PhD fees!
June 10, 2011
Friday Flash - A Gentle Nudge
Fear not, gentle readers, while this post is not a Friday Flash itself, I do have one up this week - as it stars my dashing Cavalier, it's over on my Fowlis Westerby blog (would that make it a Westerblog?) Here it is - A Gentle Nudge.
And yes, that is where I write - it's actually a small dining room table but I commandeered it as a desk. Aston is my editor and keeps an eye on me when I'm supposed to be working, and he's got his paw on the Complete Ghost Stories by Charles Dickens.
June 9, 2011
Writing is...Escapism
I was tagged by Tony Noland in his meme and not wanting to disappoint, here's my answer - what writing means to me.
Writing is escapism. When you're a kid, you feel like you can do or be anything. That's not your back yard - it's the battleground for the final showdown between your band of rebels and the evil intergalactic alliance. You wait every day by the letterbox, hoping today will be the day your letter from Hogwarts arrives. You play with your mother's rings, hoping to find the one that will transport you to another dimension. And then...you grow up.
Real life and all its mundane (and often painful) concerns rear their ugly heads, and soon you're battling a hydra of gargantuan proportions. Lop the head off one worry and two more will spring up in its place. If you're a writer, though, you don't have to grow up - and battling that Hydra becomes easier because you have the imagination to fight it. Your horrible boss, whose attempts at motivating the work force succeed only in pushing people over the edge, becomes a hideous demon, and only you can defeat him (or her) by leaving Post-It notes covered with anonymous doodles all over the office. You only have £10 for food and can't decide what to buy so you spend your time dawdling in the fresh produce aisle, inventing weird and wonderful new fruits and vegetables from your very own country. Your soul destroying commute becomes the mad dash through the minotaur's labyrinth.
Sure, it's all just make believe, and none of it's real, but you know what? It doesn't matter. When I write, I can make things up to my heart's content, rewriting the laws of the universe to suit my own perverse imaginings. I don't have to worry about whether or not I paid my credit card bill, or worry about how my day at work is going to go, if I'm knee deep in a story about a dashing Cavalier, or exploring the streets of Vertigo City with Commander Liss Hunt. For a short time, I'm absent from the world and its concerns.
Writing is escapism, and escapism is good for the soul.
I'm going to tag;
Stina Vincent
Carrie Clevenger
Rob Diaz
Jen Brubacher
Writing is escapism. When you're a kid, you feel like you can do or be anything. That's not your back yard - it's the battleground for the final showdown between your band of rebels and the evil intergalactic alliance. You wait every day by the letterbox, hoping today will be the day your letter from Hogwarts arrives. You play with your mother's rings, hoping to find the one that will transport you to another dimension. And then...you grow up.
Real life and all its mundane (and often painful) concerns rear their ugly heads, and soon you're battling a hydra of gargantuan proportions. Lop the head off one worry and two more will spring up in its place. If you're a writer, though, you don't have to grow up - and battling that Hydra becomes easier because you have the imagination to fight it. Your horrible boss, whose attempts at motivating the work force succeed only in pushing people over the edge, becomes a hideous demon, and only you can defeat him (or her) by leaving Post-It notes covered with anonymous doodles all over the office. You only have £10 for food and can't decide what to buy so you spend your time dawdling in the fresh produce aisle, inventing weird and wonderful new fruits and vegetables from your very own country. Your soul destroying commute becomes the mad dash through the minotaur's labyrinth.
Sure, it's all just make believe, and none of it's real, but you know what? It doesn't matter. When I write, I can make things up to my heart's content, rewriting the laws of the universe to suit my own perverse imaginings. I don't have to worry about whether or not I paid my credit card bill, or worry about how my day at work is going to go, if I'm knee deep in a story about a dashing Cavalier, or exploring the streets of Vertigo City with Commander Liss Hunt. For a short time, I'm absent from the world and its concerns.
Writing is escapism, and escapism is good for the soul.
I'm going to tag;
Stina Vincent
Carrie Clevenger
Rob Diaz
Jen Brubacher
June 6, 2011
Photo Prompt 36
Latest prompt, ready and waiting.
If you want to use the prompt, all I ask is that you include a link to this entry and a credit to me for the photograph, and that you post a link to your story in the comments box below so I can see what you've come up with! If you don't comment on this entry, then I can't comment on your story.
The thirty-sixth prompt is Chapel.
All photo prompts are my own photography - you can find more of it on Flickr. You can also buy my prints from Deviantart. 20% of all proceeds go to charity - the other 80% go towards my PhD fees!
If you want to use the prompt, all I ask is that you include a link to this entry and a credit to me for the photograph, and that you post a link to your story in the comments box below so I can see what you've come up with! If you don't comment on this entry, then I can't comment on your story.
The thirty-sixth prompt is Chapel.
All photo prompts are my own photography - you can find more of it on Flickr. You can also buy my prints from Deviantart. 20% of all proceeds go to charity - the other 80% go towards my PhD fees!
June 3, 2011
Friday Flash - Calling All Skeletons
Image by Shawn Allen
Patrick Callaghan stood on the stage, soaking up the adulation. He flashed his expensive smile at the assembled social climbers. Judging by their couture cocktail dresses and tuxedos, they could afford to donate to his campaign. With their dollars in his coffers, he could really take the fight to McCarney.
His eyes swept the hall as the thunderous applause continued. His gaze fell on a woman near the back of the room. Black hair tumbled around her pale shoulders, and a slender hand held an unlit cigarillo. Melanie. Patrick gulped. He'd recognise that figure anywhere. The last time he saw it, he was eight years younger and watching her climb out of his Renault. She walked away into the rain, and never looked back.
The evening's host stepped forward, taking the microphone. He launched into a rapturous speech about Patrick's incandescent rise through the political ranks, prompting yet more applause. Patrick tuned the speaker out, stealing glances between smiles for the crowd.
Moments later, his campaign manager swept him off the stage, and he lost sight of his Ghost of Christmas Past.
* * *
"Yes, darling, I think it went well. Simpkins couldn't get me on a flight tonight so I'll be home tomorrow afternoon ... Yes, I know it's a pain ... Of course, darling. I love you too. I'll call you from the airport."
Patrick hung up and scribbled himself a note to get Simpkins to send his wife some flowers. Maybe forget-me-nots, if they were in season.
"Hello, P-Bear."
Patrick whirled around. Melanie leaned against the door. Patrick gulped, and wondered how long she'd been there.
"Hello, Melanie. What are you doing here?"
"I'm in town for the horticulture convention. I saw you were speaking and thought I'd drop by. It was a wonderful speech," she replied. She smiled that gorgeous smile of hers, and his tense nerves relaxed.
"I'm glad you liked it. Are you in town long?"
"Only until tomorrow."
"How do you like the place?"
"I like it well enough, but it's a bit of a drag. I don't know what to do this evening. Where's a girl to go for some fun?" Melanie's green eyes glittered as a wicked grin flashed across her face.
"If it's fun you're after..." Patrick grinned back. Why not? I've been working hard these past few months, I deserve a reward, he thought.
"We always did have such fun, didn't we?" asked Melanie.
"My hotel isn't far." Patrick smiled.
He called his assistant. Simpkins arrived with the car, and drove the couple to Patrick's hotel. He heard himself telling Simpkins that Melanie was an old friend and had some useful information about McCarney. Melanie smiled and said nothing.
She still said nothing when he opened the door to his hotel suite. A knot of unease tightened in Patrick's stomach. Hey, maybe I'm just nervous. It's been a while since that intern, he thought. He leaned down to kiss her, hoping to break the tension. Melanie ducked out of the way, placing one finger on his lips.
"Why don't you sit yourself down on the bed? I've got a surprise for you," she said.
"What kind of surprise?"
Melanie slipped out of her jacket and dropped it on the floor. She looked up at him, her intent blazing in those stormy eyes. The knot in his stomach loosened and Patrick perched on edge of the bed.
"How have you been, P-Bear?" asked Melanie. She peeled off her elbow-length gloves and tossed them aside.
"Good...really good."
"How's Felicia? You must have been married...what...fifteen years now?"
Patrick frowned at the mention of his wife, but Melanie's gyrating distracted him.
"I always liked Felicia. She was always so kind to me. Of course, she just thought I was the gardener. She never suspected a thing, did she?" asked Melanie.
"No, I don't think she did."
"Poor Felicia. I wonder what she'd say if she found out about Ethan."
"Who's Ethan?" asked Patrick.
"Our son."
Melanie stopped dancing and glared at him. A rattle in the closet fought for his attention, but he couldn't stop staring at Melanie.
"We....have a son?" he asked. Visions of tabloid headlines and judgmental news reports flashed through his mind.
"Yes. He's seven now. Looks a lot like his daddy. Same chin and eyes."
The rattling grew louder and Patrick glanced at the closet. The door bulged as though something behind it wanted to get out.
"Why are you here? Why are you doing this? Do you want child maintenance?" asked Patrick.
"Oh no, I have more than enough money of my own. And I don't even want to cause a scandal for you - knowing you, you'd just sweet talk your way out of it, just like you sweet talked your way into my heart," replied Melanie. "Did you know that I loved you?"
"But...we were just having fun...and...."
"Did you think I didn't know about your secretary? Or the woman from the next office? It was bad enough sharing you with your wife, but with them as well?"
"Melanie, I-"
"I suffered in silence until I started seeing you on the news. It's taken me months to get an invite to one of your functions," said Melanie. Her green eyes glowed, and the air around her crackled with invisible electricity.
The closet door burst open and a skeleton lunged into the room. It took a swipe at Patrick, its bones whistling through the air just inches from his face. A second skeleton burst free, followed by a third.
"What are you doing?" screamed Patrick. He scrambled away from the bed. Two more skeletons emerged from the closet. The first skeleton advanced across the room and sunk its fingers into his hair.
"You made your bed...time for you to die in it."
The skeletons fell upon Patrick, hauling him onto the bed. Melanie's cackling was the last thing he heard as the skeletons ripped him apart.
* * *
This song was actually inspired by the song Calling All Skeletons by Alkaline Trio, which you can hear on Youtube here.
May 29, 2011
Photo Prompt 35
Latest prompt, ready and waiting.
If you want to use the prompt, all I ask is that you include a link to this entry and a credit to me for the photograph, and that you post a link to your story in the comments box below so I can see what you've come up with! If you don't comment on this entry, then I can't comment on your story.
The thirty-fifth prompt is Door Handles.
All photo prompts are my own photography - you can find more of it on Flickr. You can also buy my prints from Deviantart. 20% of all proceeds go to charity - the other 80% go towards my PhD fees!
If you want to use the prompt, all I ask is that you include a link to this entry and a credit to me for the photograph, and that you post a link to your story in the comments box below so I can see what you've come up with! If you don't comment on this entry, then I can't comment on your story.
The thirty-fifth prompt is Door Handles.
All photo prompts are my own photography - you can find more of it on Flickr. You can also buy my prints from Deviantart. 20% of all proceeds go to charity - the other 80% go towards my PhD fees!
May 27, 2011
Friday Flash - House Hunting
Image by Aunt Owwee
"Is this the right street?" asked Libby Dreiberg.
"Latimer Lane? Yep, this is the one," replied Eddie Vasquez. He looked between his Google maps print out and the quiet street in front of them.
Picture postcard houses lined the street, set back from the road behind neat lawns and clipped privet hedges. Each house was small yet elegant, painted a different pastel hue to its neighbours. Cats sunbathed on front porches, and window boxes groaned beneath the weight of their colourful blooms. The street curved away, taking the parade of well-kept homes out of sight.
"Holy hell, these must cost a fortune," said Libby.
"Few hundred thousand, I guess."
"They're all so pretty," said Libby.
"Yeah well, we only came for one of them." Eddie grimaced.
They set off down the street, Libby's heels clacking on the pavement in time with her ungainly steps. She hooked a finger under the collar of her floral blouse.
"Nylon? Seriously?" She pulled the scratchy material away from her neck.
"Stop that. This is camouflage, remember? Try and look like you wear that all the time," replied Eddie. He shrugged his broad shoulders inside his badly-fitting business suit.
"I hate this part. Why can't we just be ourselves?"
"Ssssh, I think we found it."
Libby followed the direction of Eddie's gaze. The street veered away again, and a house sat in the crook of its curve. A line of trees in its back yard loomed over the house, reaching gnarled limbs toward the road. Long grass stood motionless in the still air of the quiet Tuesday afternoon. The screen door hung from shattered hinges, the front door behind standing ajar. A jumble of jagged glass filled broken window frames, the dark, empty rooms beyond lying in wait. A sudden gust of wind ran its fingers across the lawn, parting the grass to reveal the remains of a rusting bicycle, and part of a pram frame; the remnants of childhood, left to decay.
"Yep, that's the house alright," said Libby. "It's beautiful, in a creepy and derelict kind of way."
A cloud passed in front of the sun, casting long shadows across the house. A gust of wind pushed open the front door, and it swung inwards with a protesting screech. Libby stared into the yawning black doorway.
"Urgh, these houses...they make me sick. How could anyone just up and leave? People sleep in the gutter while perfectly good houses sit and rot," said Eddie.
"Yes, yes, quite right," said Libby, snapping out of the house's trance. "It should be put out of its misery."
"Do you want to do the honours?"
"Well you did the last one."
"Then be my guest."
Eddie put down his navy sports hold-all. Libby kept watch on the house, sure that it flinched as Eddie unzipped the bag. It probably knows what's going on, but it has nowhere to go, she thought. She bent down and reached into the bag. Her fingers fastened around cold steel. Libby hefted the Real Estate 5000 out of the bag and up to her shoulder. Eddie connected a series of tubes from the weapon into a reinforced Plexiglas reservoir in the bag. Libby ran her free hand along the wide barrel of the gun, her fingers tracing the raised letters emblazoned in red. They spelled out 'House Hunters Inc.'.
"I'm sorry", whispered Libby. She pulled the trigger and the Real Estate 5000 spewed forth a gush of fire. The flames coalesced in mid air, and the fireball blasted across the lawn. It sailed through the open front door and into the house.
The fire rushed from room to room in a headlong flight of destruction. The flames tore at discoloured wallpaper, and engulfed rotten floorboards. Windows smashed and rusty metal warped in the heat. With a creak and a roar, the upper floor collapsed. The inferno squealed with delight as it picked through the debris for new toys.
Libby bent down and fished around in the long grass by the splintered picket fence. She stood up holding the battered old mailbox – painted letters spelled out the name "Feldman" on the side. Libby tore the name panel free as if the metal were paper.
"Don't get attached, Dreiberg - they're long gone. Nothing but an old house left behind to die," said Eddie. "Remember our motto. Survival of the fittest."
* * *
This flash was inspired by a conversation with Helen about typos - I managed to mistake 'plague' for 'plaque' (good job I'm not a dentist) and Helen said she kept spelling 'haunted house' as 'hunted house'. Et voila!
