Flash Fiction VII

Flash Fiction September

This is the last of the flash fiction from September and it's mine.

The Snake by Karen Bellamy

The old man stared at the snake in the fish tank.  Its tail rattled ominously.  We're both getting old he thought pulling the dead mouse from the battered fridge on which the snake resided.  Maybe it was time to go.  He slipped the mouse into the tank and turned away.  He never could bear to watch the snake eat.

Shuffling over to the smaller tanks he lifted one of the lids and Oscar slid up his arm.  The pearlised scales shone despite the solitary bulb which hung in the middle of the room.
'There's my boy.'  He sat down in the battered leather armchair and allowed the snake to slide across his shoulders and settle in a curled up pile at the back of his neck. The old man hit the TV remote and noise exploded into the room.  He shifted in his seat and lifted his arthritic fingers to stroke the snake's head while he stared blankly at the screen and wondered - how long?  His eyes began to close and he drifted, his tired brain jerking and spluttering like a worn out car until he reached that place that always brought him peace - the vast plains of white sand where he'd grown up.

The old man woke to the sound of the snake's menacing rattle.  He felt it inch its way over his worn out shoes, he smiled - it was over.

Flash Fiction VI

 

Birthday present for Dad?  by Francis Guenette 

 

She’s standing in her kitchen holding a tattered, yellow, stickie note that was stuck to a page and buried under yet more paper – all held to the fridge with a heavy duty magnet. Yes – she was one of those people who used the front of her fridge as a make shift bulletin board – for all the use it ever did her. She was never organized anyway. What could that question mark have meant? Did it mean she wondered if she should get him gift, or if she should mail it, or if it would get to him on time. She had no idea.

Her dad had died almost two years ago – prostate cancer which had moved into a tumor in the bladder. Her one fear, those last months with him, had been that he would lose his mind in some way – maybe not recognize people or start saying odd things. But nothing like that happened – he was himself right to the end, but a different self, too. He was polite and grateful for the care she gave him, that she had rearranged her life to be with him, that she made it possible for him to stay at home to die. They had a difficult relationship over the years but he ended things well.

She remembered thinking people who were dying would want to mend fences and have serious talks with family members and friends. After all, her dad knew he was dying and that gave him an advantage over people who dropped dead out of the blue. But she had been wrong about that. He had used all his energy to go to the end with dignity – managing to be polite on the way. It had been amazing, really.

She remembers the day he looked out at his prized roses her husband had just trimmed and said, “Well, they’ll bloom nice next year . . . but I won’t see them.” One day he wanted to drive across the line – in their family the American border was always called, the line. He wasn’t really supposed to drive but she wouldn’t stop him. Behind the wheel of his truck he looked at her and said, “What a great feeling to get out on the road – I could go anywhere.” They both knew he couldn’t go anywhere – his morphine was back at the house and she didn’t see that he had packed extra pads to deal with the issue of incontinence.

That last day – sitting by his bed – wondering if he could still hear her – she said, “Dad – maybe death is like going out on big road trip – maybe it’s like getting in the truck and taking off on the wide open road. Maybe it’s like that.” The tears slid silently down her face.

Flash Fiction V

Breaking Up by Scheherazade Pesante

He fiddled with his glass then looked into her moist eyes.

“It’s just that I can’t go on like this.”

She turned her head away from him and stared into the tank that held live lobsters.

“Please, try to understand, this hasn’t been working for a long time,” he reached out and

touched her wrist,”don’t you feel it too?”

Tears trickled down her cheeks dripping from her chin and onto his hand. He drew his

hand away shaking off the offending wetness. She saw the reflection of his distaste in the

glass of the tank.

“ You started this, I wasn’t looking for it,”she whispered,”you started it!”

He sighed, “Yes, and I’m finishing it.”

She turned at the cruel twist of his voice and he winced.

“Don’t look at me like that, we’re both adults, you knew what you were doing.”

“Did I?”she asked.

He pushed back into his chair and reached for the bottle of wine. Pouring some into his

own glass he then offered her the bottle but she just stared at him. Shrugging he put it

back in the cooler.

“Does he know?”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“But does he?”

“No.”

“Will you tell him?”

”I think I must, don’t you?”

“But why?”

“Because I feel dirty, a cheat.”

“But he’ll never forgive me!”

“He’s your brother, he loves you.”

“No, not this. Not with you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, you’re blowing this out of proportion.”

She leaned over the table, her eyes wide, her hands gripping the sides.

“You don’t understand, it took so much for him, to admit to the family, to admit he was gay,”

she began to cry again,” This will destroy him.”

“Alright, alright,” he said looking around the restaurant,”Please just stop this horrid

display!”

“You won’t say anything?”

“No.” he said taking some bills from his wallet and placing them on the table,” Look I have

to go, we’ll talk about this later.”

She grabbed his arm as he rose from his seat,” You promise?” She sniffed.

Patting his hand over hers he replied softly,” Yes, yes of course.”

“You’ll call me?”

“Soon, don’t worry.” he said and left.

She watched him hurry away then took a sip of her wine.

Pulling out her mobile phone she pressed the fast dial button.

“Hi, it’s me. There’s something I have to tell you, it’s important. Can you come down to the

Sea Palace Restaurant? Right now. No, I have to tell you face to face. Five minutes, ok,

see you then.”

She put the phone away poured herself some wine and settled down to wait for her

brother.

Flash Fiction IV

'Find location of Grave before Weekend' by Elizabeth Lee

I have to confess that I did not feel my best when I awoke. I was fragile, you might say, rather frayed around the edges, as you might put it. I was also cross. Mainly with myself, of course, this was not the first time it had happened and although I hated to admit it, it was probably not going to be the last, but I was still annoyed.

It was Tuesday evening when I poked by head out from the cellar door and realised that I had got lost AGAIN. Oh Damn that last bottle of absinthe and the tempting offer of a bed for the day! I went back down the steps and sat fuming on the side of the bed. With a sigh I poked the sleeping figure. It sat up - or would have if I had remembered to undo the handcuffs.

'Oh. You'. he groaned.

'Yes,' I snapped 'Me. Get up. I have to go home'

He rattled the chains impatiently. I bared my teeth. He looked at me warily - he did have a couple of nasty nips I noticed, but that's all par for the course. I unlocked the cuffs and stood glaring at him.

' I have to go home; where are we?'

He shrugged. ' My place'

'Which is?'

'A long way from yours'

I threw his clothes at him and buckled up my boots.

'I'm off. See you around. Give me a call'

I conveniently forgot to give him my number and stalked out.

The moon was a mere sliver in the autumn sky and the dry leaves scuttled around my feet. There was a pretty chill to the air, and the merest hint of woodsmoke drifted in the stillness. I strolled through the churchyard to spit on a couple of graves in passing and sat on a large mid Victorian tomb to light a joint. I heard a squeal beside me.

'Oh, come out, whatever you are. You shan't be able to scare me'

A diminutive ghost scuttled into view - it was the size of a child, but much like a very old pig in appearance. I blew a smoke ring at it. It pulled a face and glared. I kicked it.

'I want to go home' it wailed.

I waved my hand around majestically.

'Well, take your pick. Plenty of nice cosy graves'

It sniffed and a tear dripped down its snout.

'But I must get to my own grave. And before the weekend and I don't know where it is....It ended on a high pitched shriek and gurgled back into tears.

I peered at it, furious at having my peace disrupted. I wanted to go home, have a bath and snuggle down in my nice warm coffin.

'If I can't get back to my own grave, the other ghosts won't let me go to the Hallowe'en party on Sunday night.....'

Flash Fiction III

Hospital Appointment by Sandra Reynolds

'Look, I never said I didnt like her. She's my sister and if she wants to cometo the hospital that's fine by me. It's just ......well take this cotton waffle bathrobe. Can't deny it's nice. Tasteful,appropriate. BUT THERE'S ABSOLUTELEY NOTHING WHATSOEVER WRONG WITH MY ORANGE PAISLEY CAFTAN. Been everywhere with me, that has. Work of art, that caftan.

(And while I'm on the subject, my purple velvet cape - who (else) could complain about that? Listen, I've had strangers stop over that!)
So there we are then, me, Sarah and the bathrobe are going to the hospital together. Why? you ask. Just in case. Because you never know. In case of what? Never know what? RIGHT. DO NOT TELL ME.

So it's no big deal this appointment. But she will delve. I've heard her delve. "Train,did you, Doctor, over there in Beirut/Baghdad/Burundi? Good facilities, are there, Doctor? Over there, like?"

And we haven't even got to my problem. "Genetic, do you think, Doctor? Be tested, should I? Oh I see. Caught it somewhere? Or from someone? OOOOH I see."

As though I'm not squirming enough up there in the bloody stirrups!

Lovely though, Sarah. Kind , helpful. Very. Saved the playgroup singlehanded. Cold in the winter, mind, that shed. And that girl with the dreadlocks? "Still needs her mum, I bet...." Sent her straight back to her family. Family weren't best pleased, mind. Few effs and bs flying about. Turned out well though. Last brief glimpse of family life was more than enough. She's in the Argentine now, with a team of gauchos and teaching a really funky tango.

Flash Fiction II

 

 

Empty cartons do not belong in the fridge . . .  by Lynda Piper

 

Sally grabbed her keys and handbag, ignored the plaintive look on the cat’s face and headed for the front door.

 She came to an abrupt halt, went back into the kitchen and threw open the fridge door. A couple of fridge magnets clattered onto the floor where they would have to stay until she returned from work. She wasn’t going to scramble about in pencil skirt and high heels.

The double cream and ‘philly’ were there, apple juice, goat’s milk and cheese – check!

Okay. She sighed with relief, took a deep breath and left the house for work.

 Today was the day or rather this evening was the evening. She was going to cook for the new man in her life. She had tolerated the teasing of her grown up family concerning her culinary skills:

“Maybe I ought to text Paul that if he doesn’t like digestive biscuits with peanut butter he ought to bring over a take-away,” This was the not so funny comment from her son.  She pointed out that his strong six foot frame was an indication of how he had survived.

This evening was going to be great. She had all the food she needed for the lasagne and cheese cake. There were a couple of items on her list that she would buy at the supermarket during her lunch hour.

The afternoon dragged by but as soon as the clock hit five Sally had logged out of her computer, enjoyed the encouragement from her friends about her hot date and was in her car heading home.

To cook now or to shower? If Paul arrived early it would be better to be cooking than stinking. She dumped the shopping on the kitchen side and bounded upstairs.

Sally shook the empty cartons again in horror. Her encouraging son had finished off her food and put the empty cartons back. How many times had she told him empty cartons do not belong in the fridge?

Paul arrived with a beaming smile, flowers and wine. Heart pounding, Sally motioned to the array of empty cartons and grabbed her coat. In response to his raised eyebrow, she smiled sweetly and said,

“The Indian is on me!”

 

Flash Fiction

Hi
Welcome to the first post of the Ramsgate Women's fiction blog. The group has been running for about six months now and we are growing steadily.  Last month, for the first time, we held a flash fiction evening and it prompted me to think about a blog.  Every month we will be hosting a flash fiction event, after which all of the entries will be posted on this blog.

If you would like to find out more about the Ramsgate Women's Ficiton, Writing Group you can find us on facebook. http://www.facebook.com/home.php#!/RamsgateWomensFictionGroup

Our writing prompt was a post it note.  Each member had to write a message on the post it, one would pop on your fridge door, they then passed it  to the person sitting next to them.  We had 20 minutes to write a story based around the note. So here's the first flash fiction from the Ramsgate Women's Fiction group.

"Pick up sausages on Monday" by Niamh Mac Mahon

Fred fumbled in his dressing gown pocket for his glasses and polished them on the end of his pajama top, in preparation for reading the lime green post it note that had been placed in a prominent position on the door of the fridge.  As he looked down he noticed that his legs were bare.  There was a long deep scratch on his left calf and his feet were filthy, the toe nails broken and bloodied.  He bent down to touch the dried blood on his calf and winced in pain.

He straightened up, reaching out with shaking hands to steady himself, peering at the note."pick up sausages on Monday".  He realised he had no idea what day it was.  He stretched out his arms to steady himself on a kitchen chair as he tottered across the kitchen to the window.  The sky was icy blue and a watery winter sun burnished the smeared window.  Was it morning or evening?
Fred lowered himself into the nearest chair, he supported his quivering head with his hands, elbows leaning on the cluttered table.  He tried to order his jumbled thoughts.
'Dad! Dad!'
The shrill female voice roused him.  He opened his eyes to find himself staring at a scattering of bread crumbs.  His cheek ached where it was pressed against the wood of the table.  He attempted to raise his head but found his muscles paralyzed with cold.  Someone was shaking him, a hand on his shoulder.  A plump female face he did not recognize came into view.  He attempted to say 'can I help you?' But his throat would not move.  Only a guttural gasp escaped his slack slips.
'Oh Dad what has happened?'
The eyes of hte moon-like face filled with tears.  He was embraced tightly.
'Quick Toby, get your grand dad a blanket.'