Tag Archives: fiction friday

The Letter

[Fiction] Friday Challenge #153 for April 30th, 2010

“My husband doesn’t know, but he will soon.”

She snapped back to the faux sincerity of the doctor’s office, focusing on the doctor’s slightly skewiff tie, hearing his question but not listening.  He repeated it for her.

“My husband doesn’t know, but he will soon,” she said.

She thanked him for his time and shook his hand.  Such a formal gesture she thought for such a circumstance as this.  Gathering her handbag she headed for her car.

Rummaging in her hand bag she found her mobile phone only to find the battery had gone flat.  Her initial irritation gave in to relief as she found that words had escaped her.

The drive home was only brief, but she was thankful that it didn’t allow her to dwell on her new information for too long.

Feeling skittish she popped the kettle on.  The news from the doctor had unsettled her.  Her hand wavered above the handset of the phone, ready to call her husband, but the tears threatened to overwhelm and betray her.  She thought writing it down may help to align the pieces of the puzzle scattered in her brain.

Pen and paper were retrieved from the sideboard and sitting down with her cup of tea she paused, afraid to commit her fears in ink.  Time after time she scrunched the paper into a ball and pushed it aside.  The words refused to be drawn out.

Walking around the small kitchen table she shook out her mind like a blanket and sat down again.

“My dearest husband,

The battle we have fought has left us scarred.  We cannot pretend otherwise.  We have inflicted wounds against each other.  And drawn the blade across our own skin.

This is a time when peace must stake its claim that we may stand together and not falter.

I am weary.  I am tired.  And yet they are not adequate enough to speak of the pain within my bones.  Release will come quickly.  And I will need you at my side.

Your loving wife.”

She folded the paper into thirds and lay it down in front of her.  The evening crept into the kitchen.  She sat and waited as the shadows moved stealthily up the wall, descending the room into a darkening mist.

The jangle of keys announced the arrival of her husband.  He stuck his head around into the kitchen and stopped.  Putting aside his keys and wallet he sat down at the table and took the letter pushed across towards him.

When he had finished reading, he refolded the letter and leant forward to reach for her hands.  She let her hands be taken as his lay gently on top.

She spoke, “I’m pregnant.”

His smile sealed their hope in her heart.

Give Me Your Hands If We Be Friends

[Fiction] Friday Challenge #152 for April 23rd, 2010

A segregated audience at a school play leads to a town revelation.

The stage lights focused on the solitary actor positioned just off centre, seated on a cardboard boulder.  The actor’s face strained, trying to remember his lines, his thick tongue protruding slightly.  A quiet prompt caused a wide smile to appear.  Short hands and stubby fingers repositioned the ivy wreath on his broad forehead and began.

If we shadows have offended,
Think but this, and all is mended,
That you have but slumber’d here
While these visions did appear.

Louise stopped scrawling notes for The Hopetoun Chronicle’s entertainment blog.  She had come along to the opening night at the invitation of the director, in order to spruik the performance.  She scanned the list of players’ profiles and found the actor playing Puck.  Andrew Davison.  His first performance the program stated.  The glossy black and white photo showed a smile that somehow captured the essence of life and innocence.
And this weak and idle theme,
No more yielding but a dream,
Gentles, do not reprehend:
if you pardon, we will mend:

Shuffling back in her seat, Louise replayed the earlier mental conversation with herself.  Attending the play would probably mean she would miss seeing her favourite band; at best, catching the last few songs of the set.  But it was work and some things were needed to be done to move up the journalistic ladder.  Amateur theatre.  Louise had scorned the black skivvy and beret brigade at college, concluding that it would be appropriate to use a silencer should you need to kill a mime.  School theatre was a rung below that.
And, as I am an honest Puck,
If we have unearned luck
Now to ‘scape the serpent’s tongue,
We will make amends ere long;

Puck continued his delivery with the slightly slurred delivery of a person with Down Syndrome, yet its timbre did not clash with the metre of the Bard.  Louise scanned the audience and saw the attentive faces of fathers and mothers, aunts and uncles, brothers and sisters.  She saw in their faces a distinct pride, a connection with the actor on stage that Louise did not share.   The faces in the program all had family in the audience, all who had come to watch a play.  They did not see physical impediment or intellectual disability.

Else the Puck a liar call;

It pricked at Louise.  This was a world that she had avoided.


So, good night unto you all.

They were the forgotten ones; the shadows around the periphery of community, held at arm’s length like the lower castes.


Give me your hands, if we be friends,

Yet, here was life and love and acceptance.  Louise realised that it was her hands that retreated, firmly pushed into metaphorical pockets.  Now they were applauding, not as Puck requested, but because Louise was busy writing notes to show the town one more barrier to overcome.


And Robin shall restore amends.

Snap, Crackle, Blergh.

[Fiction] Friday Challenge #151 for April 16th, 2010

While digging in a cereal box for the toy surprise, a child makes a grisly discovery.

Jackson rubbed the sleep from his eyes and padded down the hallway towards the kitchen.  The morning had ticked over into double digits, which was the prescribed time that an almost thirteen year old boy should emerge from his hiding hole.  He still wore his flannelette Superman pyjamas and matching slippers.

From the kitchen he collected the necessary utensils and cutlery to make breakfast.  He sat down at the table across from the television and surfed for Saturday morning cartoons.  He moved the cereal box between himself and the television and looked at the proclamation at the top right hand corner.  Contains one “Secret Agent Decoder Ring and Badge” said the packet.

Jackson had a rule, slightly unorthodox as it was.  The rule was that the surprise toy or gift must not be scrummaged for; it must fall from the box during the pouring of cereal.  Only that way would it truly be a surprise.  Scrummaging was for those who had no discipline, like sisters.  Especially his sister, Celia.

Today’s the day, thought Jackson, calculating how many bowls he had consumed, their relative volume and what was left in the box.  He chanced a peek and saw the plastic edge jutting out like a shark’s dorsal fin in a sea of cereal.

Out of the box tumbled golden flakes of sugar-encrusted breakfast-y goodness.  Jackson waited and poured.  And poured.  The bowl filled half-way.  Three-quarters.  Edging towards full.  It was almost at Jackson’s Point of No Return where the adding of milk would cause an overflow onto the table.  And you didn’t want to get Mum offside if you spoiled her clean tablecloth.  One final shake.  Light caught the plastic and reflected like a diamond as it dropped in slow motion.

Jackson looked down as his prize with the anticipation of Indiana Jones.  He even licked his lips.

Option A

Jackson let fly with a string of invective that would have made the school bully blush.

“Jackson, what caused you to say such a thing?” said his mother.

“All week I have been waiting for my Secret Agent Decoder Ring and Badge and all of a sudden I find I have a girl’s doll dress up set.  I’ve been had.  I’ve been swindled.  I’ve been set-up.  I am going to email the breakfast cereal company and demand to know why my breakfast cereal box contained a Belle of the Ball Dress Up Set and not my Secret Agent Decoder Ring and Badge.”

His mother nodded, “Just don’t use that type of language.  You can help me with the washing as punishment this afternoon.”

In her bedroom, Celia tried on her Secret Agent Decoder Ring and Badge and thought it looked rather nice with her fancy dress ensemble for Stephanie’s party that night.

Option B

Sitting atop his sugar crusted flakes was a small vacuum-sealed bag.  A long finger pointed accusingly at Jackson.  Just above the cleanly cut stump was a simple gold band.

“Mum, I think you need to come and see this!”

His mother came into the kitchen with a questioning look, which suddenly brightened up.

“So that’s where I put it.  I must be more careful when disposing of ex-husbands.  How careless of me.  Let me take that from you.”

She scooped it from the bowl and put it into the pocket of her apron.  Jackson stared at his bowl before pushing it away.

Horror Movie

[Fiction] Friday Challenge #150 for April 9th, 2010

A child walks in to a resident haunted house and is transported to another time.

Jake loved the idea of being able to escape into other worlds.  The back of wardrobes and any hole in the ground was explored on the off chance that there was something else behind the veil.  Even though he knew there would be nothing there, he always wanted to believe that there might be something.  When he couldn’t find that magical doorway, he created them on paper.  While Jake preferred exploring the recesses of his mind, his best friend Peter was more enthusiastic about just being outside.

“Let’s go check out the old abandoned Jenkin’s place.  They say it’s haunted.  We’ll pretend it’s just like a horror movie.”

Two torches, a length of rope, two comics, two apples and a backpack later, the boys traipsed through the vacant block of land adjacent to the creek.

“Scared?” said Pete.

“Nah.  You?”  lied Jake.

“Nah.  What you been up to this week?”

“Dad just gave me The Talk last night.  It’s just wrong; you know what I’m saying.  He was all um’s and ah’s and awkward, but at least he got the mechanics right.  I think I understand more from watching Desperate Housewives or nature docos.  And he kept humming this tune to himself and smiling.  Just so wrong.”

They stopped talking as they trekked through the long grass at the back of the Jenkin’s place until they stood at the back door.  The handle was brass and gleamed like it was brand new, despite the decrepit nature of the rest of the house.  Jake took hold of it and pushed down on the lever.  The hinges whispered as the door swung clear.  Jake snuck through the gap.  Pete heard a quiet sucking sound, followed by a distinct “pop.”  He pushed the door fully open and saw nothing but empty space.  The dust on the floor showed Jake’s footprints but they only went as far as two steps in.  Not even a shadow of Jake remained.

Jake stumbled blindly in darkness until his nose made a connection with something solid.  He ran his hands along the surface until his hands found purchase and he pushed.  When it didn’t work, he tried moving it to one side.  A door slid open, exposing Jake to this new world.  Through the window to his left he could see he was some way up in an apartment block.

Everything looked vaguely familiar yet looked a little bit older than he was.  It was a plain coloured room with a desk and computer opposite the door he had exited.  Jake looked behind him from where he had come and jumped at his own reflection in the mirror of the built-in wardrobe.  Sidling over to the desk he marvelled at the age of the computer; a translucent purple Apple desktop.  He picked up a mobile sitting beside the computer.

“This is so old it doesn’t even have a camera in it,” said Jake.  Putting it back down, he noticed the desk calendar, like his father had at home.  It was a daily flip calendar, with the date boldly stating, November 25, 1997.  He turned and scanned the adjacent shelves for anything to corroborate what he saw.  All the CDs on the shelf confirmed the date.

“Spice Girls,” he sniggered.  “Where’s all the new stuff?”

The door leading out of the room was closed.  He listened intently for any sound and when he was convinced there was no one home, he ventured out.  The apartment was not overly spacious, but roomy enough.

“Where’s the flat-screen telly?”  Jake saw no evidence of there being children.  The sound of laughter and a key in the lock sent Jake scurrying for cover.

A young couple entered and headed for the kitchen where the woman began unpacking takeaway food containers from a plastic bag.  The setting of dinner was interrupted by the young man sweeping the woman off her feet and carrying her passed Jake’s hiding place into the bedroom.

“But the food will go cold,” said the woman.

“That’s why there are microwaves.”

The strains of Foo Fighters “My Hero” pumped out of a stereo.  That’s Mum and Dad’s favourite song, thought Jake.  They always smile whenever they hear this song.  In adolescent curiosity he peeked towards the room and saw a writhing tangle of nakedness, but quickly averted his eyes.  Trying to find something else to look at he scanned the room he was in and saw a framed portrait on the dresser.  He recognised the couple immediately.  His parents’ wedding photo.

Jake’s eyes widened like dinner plates as his pubescent mind began to join the dots and draw for him a picture that was something that nightmares shrink away from.

Jake took off back into the wardrobe from where he had come and knocked Pete clear off his feet.

“Dude, where have you been?  You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Nah man, something far worse and hideous than you can possibly believe.  I.  Saw.  My.  Parents.  Having.  Sex!”

Metamorphosis

Friday 5th March
“When Gregor Samsa woke up one morning from unsettling dreams, he found himself changed in his bed into a monstrous vermin.” What has your character turned into?

*****

Gregor sat on the park bench and watched the Saturday parade of pampered pets with their manservants or maidservants dutifully collecting their waste.

“Such an incongruity that the intelligent being should be forced to shovel shit,” said Gregor.

Drawing on a cigarette he almost choked when the poodle and its inferior looked almost exactly the same as each other.  The pretence of smoker’s cough hid his laughter.  Checking his watch he thought he might start his rounds early and try and call it an early night.  Starting on the upper side of town he trawled from bar to club, picking up small packages on consignment.  He couriered them to other faces that looked reptilian or rodent, the hired goons of the trade.

There was nothing out of the ordinary that night.  Packages were exchanged, nods and glances were the only linguistics needed and the occasional flash of a knife secured passage.  Gregor scurried from job to job, pausing only to have a final swig at his last port of call.

The remnants of a you-want-what-on-your pizza turned haphazardly in the microwave before Gregor turned in for the night.  He woke up the next morning having felt like he had run a marathon.  He couldn’t pin the images from his mind to make a story that made sense so he set out for breakfast, blaming the pizza.

He kept his head low and headed for the diner and settled into a booth.  Without looking up he ordered the big breakfast and set about arranging the cutlery.  Only then did he look up.  He squinted and tried to focus.  The human shapes morphed until they did a Dali-dance, stopping until they were half-human, half-animal.  He picked up the serviette container and stared at his reflection.  His unshaven face pushed whiskers, his nose wrinkled.

Across in the other booth, a bespectacled gentleman in a dark pin striped suit raised a book to read in between bites: Animal Farm.

“Well I’ll be buggered,” said Gregor.