Tag: writing

Track

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They had set out on their walk that morning, smiling at each other in the sunshine. They were caught in the rain the moment they were out of sight of their cars. It had fallen hard enough that they sought shelter, hiding beneath a large tree. Pulling their hoods down, he had insisted that they keep going despite her joking protests. So, hunched and laughing they had headed out into the rain.

They had been walking for hours. On their right side was thick, impenetrable bush and on their left was a clear and still lake.
Every time she asked how far they were from the car, he told her they would be there soon. But they never arrived.

Soon she began to recognise landmarks, passing every few hours like clockwork. When they sped up or slowed down, the path followed a clear routine.

She recognised the fallen tree that they had passed when they originally joined the path, but the bush blocked where the car park should be. She tried to stop and climb through, but it was too thick to even get her hand through. They sat on the log, a hand on her shoulder nudging her to get up after some time had passed. She stared at the path as they walked, trying to ignore the sight and focusing on the sounds of rainfall and her companion’s steps beside her.

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Foresight

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There is a house down the lane
Its crooked path keeping it from view
Leading through a vibrant garden
And that path is not meant for you

There is an old woman inside
Who says she can see your future
She waits within those crooked walls
and it is best for all that you never meet her

She used to leave, a long time ago
Offering fortunes, told in rhyme
The children all adored her so
Until she found three that had no more time

She wept in the street, children confused
She must be lying, they said
Soon their parents pulled them away
But dawn found those three children dead

She had only told them the truth
That she saw their unmet birthdays
but the town was mad with grief
and so she left and locked herself away

I visit her sometimes, in her garden
She smiles at me, quite satisfied
No matter what they say, she says
She saw the grim future and she did not lie

There is a house down the lane
its path is not meant for you
For if you visit and she sees your death
I will have to kill you too.

Shift

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It had been a promising morning
Fog dispersed by bright daytime
And energy had gripped the townsfolk
the day the town awoke for the last time.

Not one, even the most quiet and still
found their rest from that night on
Whatever their methods and habits
The routine comfort of sleep was gone. 

It was not discussed in the first days
that not one person had slept
but neighbours shared mirrored looks 
and barely understanding, they wept

As the days went past, they settled
It would not harm them, it seemed
The lack of rest gave more hours to the day
Although many missed their dreams

Days blurred from one to the other
Life went on, sunlit or moonlit
But soon the townsfolk noticed
That strangers had come to visit

They never quite fit in
They were not all there, it seemed
Their visits were only a matter of hours
But such is the nature of dreams. 

Definite

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It was Ben who insisted that they play with the Ouija board he had brought to the sleepover. He claimed he found it in a deserted building site, despite its near-mint condition. Plus, they were ten and Adam was pretty sure he stole that story from when they saw Jumanji a few weeks before. Regardless, the four young boys had gathered around, strategically dimming lights for the right ambience.

Adam had smiled and laughed with the others as the planchette began moving, convinced it was his friends playing with him. At one point he tried to spell something funny, but found he could not alter its path. He had stopped laughing then, but the others did not seem to notice. They asked a series of questions about crushes and dead relatives.

Then Ben asked how he would die.

MOTORBIKE

Nine years later, Ben died in a horrible crash. He had never been one for safety gear, so the long smear of blood on the road was what led the emergency responders to find his body in the bushes, 50 metres from the bike.

Adam’s best friend, Josh had also asked, a little less jokingly.

CANCER

Despite making his best efforts to lead a healthy life, Josh was diagnosed with brain cancer during his first year at university. Against all odds he had gone into remission, but nothing anyone said could convince him it would not come back again. Two years later, he was proven right. There was only a month between the diagnosis and the funeral.

David then asked, egged on by the others.

DROWNING

Really, the aneurysm would have killed him if it had happened anywhere except the bath.

Adam had not wanted to ask. But to his young mind it would be unfair and shameful to refuse to ask, regardless of how scared he was.

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Three Sentence Stories (Part 10)

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The funeral attendees were shocked by the behaviour of the veiled gatecrashers. They had arrived midway through the funeral, chatting and laughing loudly while covered head-to-toe in black. They were far more horrified when the deceased climbed out of the the coffin to join them.

Since my cat learned to push doors open, she often finds herself trapped trapped inside my bedroom, having shut the door herself. As I lie in bed in the dark, I hear her close the, door and feel her snuggle up against me. Minutes later, drifting off, I hear my cat scratching from the other side of my door.

It had been so hard to remember what everyone was allergic to. Nieces with gluten intolerance, grandsons with nut allergies, children with shellfish allergies, yet they all demand that I cook for all of them every Sunday. After hours of thankless work, I finally serve the meal and am certain that no one will ask me to cook again.

 

Inevitable

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“It is taking much too long”
Said Bill to the hangman
“Give it an hour more to take effect”
and Bill shrugged his shoulders
held aloft by his neck

“It was kind of you to try”
Said Bill to the hooded figure
a dripping axe in their hands
leaving, Bill nodded his head
which he held gently between his palms

“It is not quite enough”
Said Bill to the pyre tender
who threw more fuel atop him
But eventually Bill headed home
(less a fair amount of skin)

“It tastes delicious”
Said Bill to his smiling wife
but the poison was too weak
His wife comforted him
As his heart continued to beat

“I don’t believe you”
Bill had said to the fortune teller
She simply repeated how he would die
It was an awful way to go
but it seemed he would have to comply

A Good Likeness

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It was hardly his magnum opus, the critics agreed, but the painting of the artist’s wife was still put on full display in the gallery.

The next day, the newspaper published a short article about the artist who had dedicated a year of his life perfecting his wife’s likeness. Beside the article was a picture of the artist and his wife beside the painting. His wife was undeniably gorgeous, smiling with her head tilted at the perfect angle for the shot.

No one who attended the opening noticed that his wife did not speak that night. Many, however, noticed that the portrait was, for some reason, much less attractive than the living subject. Whereas the artist’s wife looked somehow younger than she had on their wedding day, the portrait was of a woman who had begun to show signs of her age. Laughter lines and crows feet had begun to creep over the painted face. Grey hair had begun to spread through chestnut locks. Her posture was slumped as though exhausted.

There was also the issue of the expression. She looked much more reserved than the beaming woman on the artist’s arm. Despite this, critics noted a sharpness in the eyes, as though she was keenly aware of a viewer’s presence.

But the artist drank and accepted compliments, all the while proudly holding onto his smiling wife. His wife who would never age, never speak, and never disappoint him.

In the coming years, people paid less and less attention to the painting. Its expression changed so slowly that no one noticed the creeping look of horror on her face.

On the day the painting was retired, the curator wondered why on earth an artist would paint a portrait of his wife screaming in terror.

Two Sentence Stories (Part 12)

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She checked her buzzing phone and saw the alerts and messages warning citizens to not look at the sky. As she walked into the kitchen her husband turned to face her from the open window, with an expression she could not understand.

He could not stop, despite the pain and exhaustion he felt in every inch of his body. But his decaying body shambled forward, his mind aware but unable to stop himself from tearing down the barricaded door.

She had told him she had a skeleton in her wall, which he thought was an odd joke but laughed for the sake of their first date. He woke up to see her filling in the gap on the other side of the wall, telling him he would prove her right eventually.

An Awakening

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Dave awoke in the middle of the forest, bloody and dazed. His clothes were ragged and every muscle that didn’t cramp deeply ached.

He could not quite remember the night before. He had been drinking. Then he had been yelling. His friends had tried to quieten him, but having started drinking at dawn, dusk found him feeling invincible.

His friends sat around the campfire, telling stories about monsters and ghosts. Dave had settled in to heckle, his friends finding this to be enough of an improvement to not put much energy into quietening him. None of them knew who had invited Dave, so when he declared that it was his turn to tell a story, each of them expected someone else to rein him in.

It was a drunken slur of words, but the gist was “fuckin’ werewolves, they’re the coolest“. Dave then showed off the bitemark on his shin, claiming that he had been bitten by something on a forest path weeks ago. It did not look cursed to anyone there. It looked infected, but Dave insisted he had put enough vodka on it to keep it clean. Once he had heard enough murmured appreciation, Dave returned his attention to finishing the beer he had brought for the group.

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Autonomy

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There are strangers at the windows
They wear the faces of friends
But the skin fits loosely
and I heard them meet their ends

It was rare at first, the odd complaint
A ceaseless itch beneath the skin
soon the muscles were not their own
their screams strained through rictus grins

They insist it is so much better
A life with such clear direction
It is still them, happy inside
I must simply let go of my connection

It would be so simple to do
To let go of my concern and control
but instead I draw the curtains
and hope that my defences hold

I am unhappy and I am scared
but they are my own experience
For now I am my miserable self
not blissful in bridled deference