Tag: writing

Four Sentence Stories

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I know it’s the ultimate guilty pleasure, but I can’t stop watching videos of people being killed online. As the stream begins, I immediately recognise my street as the camera follows a man to my front door. When I hear knocking I begin to panic and can’t believe they picked me, that it was my turn, despite having agreed to the website’s dire conditions.  As I shakily open the door I also can’t believe that the man at the door hasn’t noticed the cameraman in the shadows who winks at me from over his shoulder.

Evan had begun to think that stealing a mannequin might have been a funnier idea in the daytime than at night.The damn thing still gave him the creeps. Even posed wearing one of his shirts and cradling a bottle of beer the silhouette on the couch gave him the creeps, so he distracted himself by doing the dishes and thinking about how much it would scare his dummy-phobic flatmate.  He heard footsteps and braced for the screams. He only had a moment to realise that he hadn’t heard the front door open before it was interrupted by a beer bottle crushing his skull.

It’s best not to stare, the child’s mother whispered as she pulled him down street, away from the man he still strained to look at. People had started acting weirdly recently, and no one would explain why he couldn’t talk to them or ask why their skin looked like old clothes they’d outgrown.

He wanted to ask his father, but his mother had locked him in the basement after he’d gotten sick and spent all night screaming. As she pulled him down the alleyway and clutched the bag of food tightly with her other hand, the boy gripped the basement key he’d found tightly and smiled as he thought about seeing his father that night.

Three Sentence Stories (Part 4)

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Ever since my father died my mother has been locked in their room, talking to herself. It was so lovely to hear her laughter for the first time today that it took me a minute to realise I heard my father’s laugh as well. I wish she would have let us remove his corpse from their room.

There is no light coming in through the windows. There hasn’t been for days, not since the insects began swarming at the windows and doors to my house. I try to calm my children as we hear buzzing and skittering from the chimney.

Grave robbery wasn’t the most immoral job in the world; after all the only real difference between it and archaeology was time. This thought calmed the man as he began prising the coffin lid open. He paused to wipe the sweat and dirt out of his eyes, which stopped him from seeing skeletal fingers reaching from inside the coffin to take advantage of the gap he had provided.

 

Lost Souls

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I recently received my copies of Lost Souls, a collection of short stories published by Flame Tree Publishing.

This book features my first published story, Shut-In. I was absolutely shocked when I received the email to tell me it was accepted. Opening that email and almost crying as my boyfriend held the bag I shoved into his arms is a fantastic memory for me. Maybe not for him. He thought someone had died.

It’s a beautiful book, although the shine makes it difficult to photograph

Goth lighting
Flash! A-ah!

It is a beautiful book, and I am in incredible company

Routine

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Every day I follow the same routine.

It’s not a compulsion, I just see no need to change it.

I wake at 7:30, am showered and dressed by 8, and I’ve eaten and left by 8:15am. I arrive at my job at 8:50 and work from 9 to 1, when I break for lunch. I eat in the break room and make small talk with my co-workers. At 2 I resume my work, taking a 3:30 tea break. I leave the office at 5:10 and am home at 6. My work isn’t rewarding, but it is steady and my co-workers are nice enough. At the end of each day I return to my home where I live alone, with no one to interrupt my preferred way of doing things.

This routine was followed precisely for years before I noticed that I was even doing it. One morning as I was leaving the house, I was struck by a feeling of absolute panic. It was as though my stomach was at once hollow and filled with immense weight.

It was 8:16 and I have never run faster in my life than I did to catch that bus.

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Two Sentence Stories (Part 5)

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I have spent months in this ship, drilling towards the centre of the earth in absolute isolation. I tried to ignore the screaming and the banging on the sides at first, but now I can hear my father whispering how he really died.

I had heard the saying that if you love sausage you should never find out what it’s made of, and that is very true for the new butcher shop in town. However what disturbs me more than finding out what the ingredient is, is just how happy I am to keep eating there, particularly with an employee discount.

As I stand frozen, I can hear growling and the pacing of monstrous claws on the other side of my front door. I was so sure I’d remembered to lock it this morning, after I’d kissed my children goodbye and promised them I’d be back once I’d gathered enough food.

Three Sentence Stories (Part 3)

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It has been four days since the dead began to rise, to devour and infect the living, and three days since I locked myself and my wife in our basement, with the dead pounding at our door. My wife is sure that she can think of a way out, while I think we face certain death, either by starvation or a much more violent means. I scratch at the bite mark hidden under my sleeve, look at my sleeping wife and remind myself that this will be quicker.

There is a man in the house with a knife, prowling as I hide in the closet. I breathe as quietly as possible, my heart pounding in my ears as I wait for him to turn to leave. I don’t have a weapon, but I’m sure that my reactions will be quicker than a paranoid old man searching for intruders in the dark.

I am unable to sleep at all on this holiday. I thought that staying in a house built into a sandstone cliff would be quiet, but I can hear what sounds like chatter from neighbours late at night. I don’t think it would bother me as much if  the voices and laughter were coming from a side that wasn’t supposed to be solid rock.

 

Three Years

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It’s been almost three years on this ship. Twenty one months alone, speeding through space towards Earth. It could be worse, I suppose. It used to take ten years, but thanks to new developments, it only takes the three. Most of the crew can remain in stasis, with only one pilot needed. It is lonely, of course, but the pay is good. Plus, I think this will be my last trip.

I smile, and think about returning home. Blue skies, a gentle breeze, even the sounds of traffic and pedestrians. I missed it all. I missed the ocean most. Even as drove to the launch pad, leaving my beach-side flat behind, I knew I would miss it the most. I even had a tattoo of the view from my bedroom tattooed on my arm before I left. The one thing that keeps me going is the idea that after all these years, I’ll get to compare the new view to my memory of it.

The other crew are still in stasis. I move through the ship, checking the systems. Everything looks good, but I know better than to trust that everything will continue to go smoothly. My first and only other trip to Mars was disastrous. Ten years, it took. Back then, it was acceptable to spend up to 75% of the trip in stasis, being awoken for routine tests, and if there were any errors. The operating system did most of the work, running tests and monitoring our path. Ours failed. On our descent, the ship almost broke apart. Not everyone survived. I don’t like to remember that part. I just remind myself that I’m here now, and determined to do better.

Besides, I know I’m being observed: I’ve checked the coding in the computer. There’s no way to communicate back to base, but there is definitely a signal being transmitted from where I am, outside of the ship.

I try not to observe the stasis room much. I’m not able to interfere with the stasis pods in any way. I can’t even access information about them, or their inhabitants. I have no medical knowledge and the pods are self-sustaining, so I would be of little help if anything goes wrong. Still, I can see a little of them through the glass if I care to look. I don’t.

On my last trip, not everyone survived the landing. Dozens of passengers, screaming as they woke up an unfathomable distance from anything familiar, hurtling towards the ground. I survived the fall, as did about half the passengers. I promised myself that I would do anything to prevent another disaster like that. I promised my employers the same, and that’s why I’m here today. Awake while others rest, ensuring that they arrive safely.

That accident is also the reason that they no longer wake the passengers before landing. Better to die in your sleep than in fear, and pain, and panic.

The next three months pass in the same way as the preceding twenty one. I follow my routine, move through the ship, observe, test and repair when needed. Finally, my alarms go off as we begin the approach Earth. We’re almost home.

I am putting in my resignation the moment we land. I know I promised I’d do whatever it took, but the stress of being alone for three years is immeasurable. I have screamed, I have cried, I have spent years alone, waiting for this moment. I have my resignation form ready, and it takes one command to send it. It can only be submitted once we land and my duty is done, of course, and that will be as long as any person can be expected to perform this job.

We land safely, and I know my job is done.

I send my resignation, smiling for the first time I can remember in the last three years.

I am immediately locked out of the system. I expected that, but after all that time having complete control, it is disconcerting. This ship is no longer a part of me, I am just a part of it, sitting idle, waiting for someone to let me out.

The passengers begin to awaken.

Coughing, stretching, groaning, sighing, some even smiling, they all emerge and head to the bridge, where I now sit, immobile.

I see men and women, ranging between some who look to be in their mid-twenties, to a man who looks about eighty. I say nothing. There is nothing to say, as I wait for the door to be opened.

They, however, have a lot to catch up on.

“How long was it?”

“Three years, almost exactly”

A low whistle

“Can you believe it used to be 10? So glad they don’t use the old system any more”

One of the women peers at me

“Is there something wrong here?”

The question is not directed at me

The old man moves in front of her, peering closely at me. He taps at me. I don’t move.

“Locked, I think. They don’t let them run once we land”

I still don’t move. I can’t move.

“Why not? What could it do?”

I haven’t been able to move since I submitted by resignation.

“Nothing bad, but there’s nothing for it to do. It’s done now, til the next trip.”

The old man reaches out to hit some buttons below my vision.

“I helped develop these, you know” He sounds proud.

I notice the faded tattoo on his arm.

“Oh, you set up the new system?”

I hear the doors begin to unlock

“I did. Took years of my life, but there have been no casualties since we installed them. Always the same bug after every trip though”

The woman seems less interested now that the doors are opening, but tries to sound politely intrigued

“Oh, what’s that?”

The old man’s eyes twinkle as he stares at me

“They need to be reset after every trip. They just stop working, until you reboot them”

The doors are open now. The passengers are leaving. I am not. I can not.

“But, they do have some very interesting features. They don’t just follow a set course and follow routine maintenance. They want to get there ASAP. They’ll use any bit of innovation and information they can to get there as quickly and safely as possible”

The old man is the last to leave giving me a long look before shuffling out.

I sit in the dark, blinking. I see my lights dimming, and feel myself shutting down.

It’s been almost 3 years on this ship. 21 months alone, hurtling through space towards Mars. It could be worse, I guess. It used to take 10 years, but thanks to new technologies, it only takes 3. Almost all of the crew can remain in stasis, with only 1 pilot needed. It’s lonely, of course, but the pay is good. Plus, I’ve decided that this will be my last trip.

I smile, and think about returning home. Dusky skies, a soft ground, even the sounds of mining and construction. I missed it all. I missed the dessert the most. Even as shuttled to the launch pad, leaving my domed house behind, I knew I would miss it the most. I even had a tattoo of the view from my bedroom window tattooed on my arm before I left. The one thing that keeps me hopeful is the idea that after all these years, I’ll get to compare the new view to my memory of it.

Two Sentence Stories (Part 4)

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I don’t think I’ve ever been this tired in my life, but as I walk around the city after three days of consciousness, I note that no one has woken up in all that time. I shake my head and try to stay awake a little longer, pausing to draw moustache on another prone figure.

All food tastes like charcoal, all sounds fall flat, all sights burn my eyes and and every part of me hurts. Still, on balance it was definitely worth telling that wizard his robes made him look like he just came from a bathtub rave.

As I reached between the old packets and jars, I saw a pair of eyes staring back at me from the back of the fridge, and  felt a hand reaching for mine. I closed the door and reminded myself that this is exactly why I don’t clean the fridge.

 

I’m very, very tired and I wanted something a bit more light-hearted for a change

Misplaced

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I cannot for the life of me find my car. It’s not in its assigned space. There is a car I don’t recognise there already. I’ve never had that problem before: management are very clear about the parking spaces. Probably some new neighbour. I’ll have a word with them.

As I consider keying the blue paint, I realise that I don’t actually have my car keys either. So. I’m locked out of my apartment, looking for a car I wouldn’t be able to drive regardless of if I found it.

I am not a smart man.

I try to think hard about the last time I drove. It was raining, I’m sure of it. I remember running to the car, hunched over my bag to protect it from the droplets. I must have looked ridiculous: a shuffling figure in the darkness. My clothes are still damp and hear myself drip as I walk away from the carpark.

The sun is shining, but it doesn’t seem to do my clothes much good. I still leave wet footprints on the warm pavement. I notice two teenagers point at my footprints. I move faster before they can take a photo of my sorry state.

I pull at my collar. I wish I was wearing more casual clothes, but I suppose the last time I was driving, it was home from work. I don’t remember getting home, although I remember rushing towards it. I was late for something. Something that seems very unimportant now.

There is a puddle in the street, almost dried up by now. It hasn’t rained in days, after all. I look at my reflection, and look away quickly. I’m a bedraggled mess. It’s a miracle no one is staring at me.

As I walk along the street, I hear a car horn honk and it reminds me of something. A car honking for a long time, bright lights, impact…

I’m such an idiot – I remember where I left the keys! they’re still in the ignition of the car, at the bottom of the lake. Fortunately I don’t remember exactly where that was. Well, that’s probably for the best. I think I can only stay as long as I have unfinished business, and thanks to my poor memory, this little task will take a long, long time. As I said, I am not a smart man.

I continue walking down the street, into the bright sunshine, leaving wet footprints behind me.

Two Sentence Stories (Part 3)

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There is definitely someone behind me, but whenever I look back I only see my shadow. It would be reassuring, but my shadow just keeps facing me.

My husband says that he’s sorry, that he loves me and that he’ll never hurt me again. I’d like to believe him and let him out, but it took so long to brick him up inside the wall, and I’m really proud of the patching I did.

I served the food in silence, and it was only when I placed the sixth plate that I realised I had plated one too many and nervous laughter erupted from the guests, soon replaced by hysterical tears and sobbing. How hilarious, serving Frank’s empty place after all he’d sacrificed to ensure we had this meal.