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.'