Category: writing

A Writer’s Circle

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He had thought it would help his writing to join a writer’s circle.

Alan had been sitting on his first draft for months, terrified that there would be more work in editing the thing than there had been in writing it. He had basked in the pride of having written an entire story and couldn’t bare having to cut away pieces or to reshape it. As he walked towards the apartment block with a printed copy of his first chapter, he hoped they would not have many notes for him. Surely they would at least go easy on him for the first week?

It had been difficult to find this group. They had actually advertised in the newspaper of all places. Even to someone who bragged to his barista (who knew his order by heart) about writing a crime novel, it seemed pretentious. However, he had needed to find the right audience for his work and the ad reading “crime writers meeting – serious interest only” had given him a good impression. After he sent the listed email address his first chapter, he had quickly received an invitation to the meeting.

It seemed odd to invite a stranger to an apartment, rather than vetting them in public first, but he assumed the group outnumbering him made them feel that there was no danger. He supposed the real risk was to him, but he carried a pocketknife just in case. Not that he thought it would come to that.

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Two Sentence Stories (Part 10)

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The child pulled at one end of the cup-and-string phone, but the other end was stuck under the bed, irretrievable behind all of the junk he had hidden there. He felt the cup vibrating in his hand, and as he pulled the string taught to put the cup to his ear, he listened.

For years the birds would bring her gifts they thought she would like, usually small trinkets, in exchange for food. Lately they had been bringing doll eyes and as she wiped a tear from her eye, she made certain she did not forget their payment this time.

I thought it was odd when my new friend moved away after only living next door for a few weeks. Then the missing posters went up, showing a photo of her with different parents.

 

An Idea

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I had an idea last night.

It was a terrible, dark idea. I woke in darkness and mumbled it to myself as a question before I had processed the actual words. Once said out loud, it had a presence, it was part of reality. It was in the room with me.

I had felt it bubbling at the edge of my mind for months, as though I were perpetually on the verge of some horrible realisation. It made my coworkers stop talking to me and it was the reason my bed was empty last night. I was thankful for that as I stumbled into the hallway, closing the door behind me.

I sat in the dark hallway, pressed against my door. I could feel something pressing back on the other side, seeking a way out into the world.

I must have fallen asleep, because it was morning when I finally opened the door to my empty bedroom. I had left my window cracked open and apparently that was all it had needed to escape.

I stare outside and think about how fast an idea can spread.

Stowed

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It was very trying
He thought, compressed
To be trapped lying
In a crate perhaps five feet abreast

It was awfully cold,
He thought, making do
the padding was old
and smelled strongly of mildew

It must be quite a gale,
He thought, feeling queasy
It was better than gaol,
though the swaying made him uneasy

It was annoying, however,
To have nothing to do
He had a letter from his lover
But she was not there to screw

She had convinced him
To get rid of his wife
While the task had been grim
His desire was worth more than her life

He had taken her sailing
An outing she would often demand
And to reward her failings
He made sure she did not return to land

It should have been straightforward
To restart life as a widower
But he was soon cornered
And he made a deal with a ship owner

It had cost him dearly
To ship him away
More than he made yearly
But worth it to finally escape

The storm was growing worse
He thought, his calm beginning to fail him
As he pressed upwards, he began to curse
The idiots had put real nails in

It was more than damp now,
He realised as he heard splashing
Then the grinding of the ship’s bow
And he knew they were crashing

He clawed and he hammered
But he was already entombed 
And no matter how loud he clamoured 
There was simply nothing to do

He now heard words he had tried to ignore
Which his wife had spoken, before the screams
"This is all I have ever wished for, 
For you and I to take a trip to the sea!"

Three Sentence Stories (Part 7)

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It was Hector’s birthday and I have absolutely everything ready for his surprise party. All of his friends and family are positioned and silent as I wait for the door to open.

I see the outside light flicker on and wonder what his face will look like when he sees their smiling, unmoving faces.

“It is time to run for two minutes, Sarah!” the voice in her earphones announced cheerfully, to which Sarah complied, pumping her aching legs and gasping for stinging air.

She had downloaded the app the night before and programmed a daily 6am run for the next month. When she received a phone call this morning, she could hear her daughter crying in the background.

Her date had not drunk any of the wine he had brought over, she realised as she felt inexplicably drowsy. She saw a look of concern on his face as she lay down on the couch, but it was not for her. She smiled as she saw the first drops of blood falling from his mouth and eyes – it was, after all, much easier to hide poison in food than drinks.

 

Two Sentence Stories (Part 9)

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I can’t get into the locked and boarded house, no matter how hard I claw and beg. Once the moonlight reaches me I know I will get inside easily and they will wish they had let me hide.

My mother always bragged about having raised her child well using corporal punishment. As I watch her growing frailer and weaker over the years I look forward to being in charge of her care.

The dinner party was going wonderfully until my guests found a photo album under the coffee table. As they start wondering why their host looked nothing like the family inside I wished I had searched the house better and had put the poison in the canapes.

 

Contrast

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I found my shadow lying on the stairs
He must have fallen in the dead of night
I had lain, weighing thirst against comfort
While I chose sleep, he opted to alight  

My shadow is a contrary fellow
He delights in taking the paths that I shun
Away from my side he meets with bad luck
And rises again in the new day’s sun

It is calm, in the times between visits
I think of misfortune striking so close
Dooming my shadow for his poor choices
While I live, as the safer path I chose

My shadow must always return to me
I could not bear to face the day unarmed
He must show me the pitfalls of my day
Above all else I must remain unharmed

It is odd comfort to see my shadow
For him to obey me to the letter
I hate to see harm to my own outline
But he falls when I am simply better


My shadow did not return home today
There are now many, watching as I cry
Not one will take the fall for me again
They wait to see how I choose to die.

 

Growth

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Alan’s parents measured his height every week.

Standing against the doorframe he often tried to shrink down and away from the pencil. Despite one of his parents holding his shoulders and pulling him to his full height while the other marked the wood, he still tried his old trick. It had stopped working months ago, when they noticed his lack of progress towards the carved line in the wood.

The line was carved deeply into the wooden frame. Despite being covered in layers of paint, it was still visible when he was marched towards it. It was carved at the exact height of Alan’s parents. The two of them had the exact same height, the same weight, and there were days that Alan could have sworn that features and marks on one parent would be on the other hours later.

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What Lies Atop the Hill

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Children, now be quiet and still
Do not wake what lies atop the hill
You are safe and warm and home
Do not go up the hill alone


What lies atop the hill does not sleep
Hungrily watching, counting sheep
If one less stands in the field today
Be glad he did not look your way

Children, do not make a sound
Do not wake what waits within the clouds
Stay under covers with curtains closed
Do not draw eyes down to below

Children, hide from the sound of rain
Lest you never see home again
Do not let anyone in from the downpour
It is not your loved ones knocking at the door

Children, now be quiet and still
Do not wake what lies atop the hill
You are safe and warm and home
Do not go up the hill alone

Two Sentence Stories (Part 8)

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As she lay in the hospital bed, her mother held her hand and told her to squeeze if the needle hurt. It did, but it was quick and her mother hurried to put the syringe back into her purse as she heard the doctors coming down the hall.

The best part of living in a haunted house is that I’m never alone. Plus if any of them depart or stop entertaining me, it’s very simple to create new friends.

He thought that the statue in the courtyard had been moving closer to his door each day and her was relieved to not see it from his window that morning. As he tried to leave through the front door, he found that he could not turn the knob, as thought it were gripped tightly from the other side of the door.