Careful

Written by Rob

The dawn of time. Two travelers trek through a desert wasteland.

The Dawn of Time. Two travelers trek through a desert wasteland.

After forty years of trudging through the barren wastelands, Arthur spotted another human form on the horizon, and ran as fast as he could to catch up.

“Hey” he shouted “Wait”, coughing in the sulphurous atmosphere, panting heavily. Stumbling over the basalt rubble, frantic for human company, eventually Arthur made himself heard over the howling wind. The figure turned and looked at him. Another old man, beard and hair down to his waist, clothes in tatters, very dirty.

“You as well?” said the man. Arthur was confused.

“What? Me as well what?”

“You caught the leprechaun?”

“Yes”

“….and told him you wanted to live for ever?”

“Yes”

“You should have said “for evermore””

“Well, I know that now.”

“Never mind: only fourteen million years or so before anyone else is born.”

Rob has the record for most HHCs completed, having taken part over 40 times in the years he’s been writing with us, so naturally we’re very proud to present another of his challenge pieces here on Inkblots. If you’re interested in the Half-Hour Challenge or any of our other challenges please feel free to check out this section of the forum – anyone can join in!

Thankfully Forgetful

Written by Blue-Eyed Devil

When someone leaves what gets left behind?

When someone leaves what gets left behind?

The boy and the girl sat upon a grassy hill that overlooked a lake. The sun was flying low in the sky, casting it’s light off onto the water. The liquid and the light played well together, dancing on the surface with a grace that belied it’s depth. Trees and weeds alike bloomed colourfully, with the insects and birds making their homes and singing their songs to each other, words uncomprehending to the minds of humans. Noise prevailed everywhere; except for where the boy and the girl sat.

They sat comfortably together, close enough to touch one another yet maintaining a distance that may as well have been worlds away. Both looked out at the lake, watching it continue it’s never ending dance, but the boy was really looking at her. He wanted to give her the worlds that kept them apart, embrace them so that he could simply graze her fingertips, give her the smile he knew that she was waiting for. Yet he knew he would not, for the boy was a coward and a forgetful one at that. Such worries plagued him swiftly but they were oft short-lived, eaten away by the blank space that was his memory.

Sometimes the boy wished his memories were technicoloured and forever sharp so that he could remember all good times in all perfect detail, so he could be able to turn to my the girl and say “Do you remember when…”. But it occurred to him that he would also remember all the bad times with identical clarity, the things that should have haunted him; his regrets, his mistakes, all the missed opportunities. But he could not recall them, thanks to the faulted mind he possessed. It was his curse and his gift and, ironically, a constant reminder that memory was a tricky thing; but then again, he thought, what element of humanity was not? These thoughts emboldened the boy for a moment, giving him for once the courage he so desperately wanted. He turned his head, ready to give the girl the worlds that obscured her from his sight.

But she had gone.

The boy did not remember when she had left, going beyond his grasp to a place better suited for her than at his side. She had left him something however; a strange, hollow ache that pounded on his ribcage. Another bad memory. The boy could already start to feel it all begin to slip away but he struggled. He wanted the ache in his chest to stay, not to fade into the nothingness. That ache was proof that the girl had been there at all and with it he could feel her silhouette. He clasped his eyes tightly shut, wanting to hold her for as long as he could yet her form was already dissolving. He grasped for her and the smoke parted around his fingers. He opened his eyes.

The lake was gone, replaced by reality as a dry, dusty dip in the ground. The trees too had vanished, the insect calls and birdsong that had joyfully rung from the branches now yielded to the empty silence. And upon a pile of dirt that may have once been a hill sat a forgetful old coward, waiting with a blank smile on his face for a memory to come back.

It Is Hard To Tell

Written by Rivers of Tarmac

A shooting star of simply space hardware? A wish is a wish all the same. Image Courtesy of whitewolfpack.com

A shooting star or simply space hardware? A wish is a wish all the same.
Image Courtesy of whitewolfpack.com

I saw two shooting stars last night. I wished on them, but they were only satellites. Is it wrong to wish on space hardware? I wish, I wish, I wish you’d care.
– Billy Bragg, A New England.

A face peers out through the cracked and grimy window. The skin might be pale and sallow, then again, it might not. The face is thick with dirt, and it is hard to tell. The eyes might be blue, or brown, or green. They are sunken and shadowed, and it is hard to tell. The face opens its mouth, and a voice heavy with despair slinks from it.
“Please, god, let me find the money by tomorrow.” The eyes latch on to a light moving slowly across the sky. A shooting star? It is hard to tell. “I wish I would find the money to pay him by tomorrow.” The voice pleads with the light in the sky. If the light has noticed, it gives no sign. It marches on.

*

The room is lit with harsh white lights. Machines beep and whir. The woman on the bed could be asleep. Then again, she could be dying. It is hard to tell. By her side, a small child sits in a chair. He trembles. He cries, silently. He stands up and crosses the room to the window, pressing both his hands against it, leaning his forehead on the cool glass. He could be seeking relief from the hot white glare of the room behind him. He could be hiding his tears from a mother who can’t see them anyway. It is hard to tell. His eyes latch on to a light moving slowly across the sky. A shooting star? It is hard to tell.
“I wish mummy would wake up real soon,” he chokes out. “Please?”
Behind him, the room falls silent.

*

A hand reaches out, gently stroking through the thick black fur. The hand is shaking. This could be a sign of age – then again, it could be due to the tremors of the cat. It is hard to tell. The owner of the hand sits on his porch and gazes up at the sky. Drops of liquid splash onto the ground behind him. It could be tears, or it could be rain. It is hard to tell. There’s not a cloud in the sky, though. A pair of eyes latch on to a light moving slowly across the sky. A shooting star? It is hard to tell. A mouth opens, desperation springs from it.
“Please. Please don’t leave me all alone not now. I wish she could stay. Don’t-” The voice chokes to a halt. The cat gives a tremor, and is still. Continue reading →

Letters From The Front

Written by Eruantien

The Civil War Letters of Rev William Salt, still perfectly preserved

from Sergeant Amanda Davidson:

Dearest brother,
We’ve been here for about a week now and nothing has happened. The living quarters are the worst that I’ve seen for a long time, but despite that it’s looking like the nicest posting I’ve had. But enough of me; how are you? How’s work been treating you? How’s the compact machine gun coming along? I hope you get all the kinks worked out soon. Lay some flowers on father’s grave for me.
Love,
Amanda
PS. I do wish it would stop raining.

Dearest brother,
We were attacked last night. Lost most of a company. The Colonel reckons that they were just probing the line, I hope he’s wrong. Have you had any ideas for how to stop the rounds getting jammed when the bolt draws back to let the next one into the chamber? Oh, it’s still raining, the place resembles a bog more than a battlefield.
Love,
Amanda

Dear Richard,
I’m writing to you from the infirmary now, there was a bit of a scuffle this morning and I took a scratch. It’s nothing really, but the colonel insisted I went to the infirmary to get it seen to. I like your solution to the jamming autorifle. I’m so proud of you little brother, now we have a weapon that might yet turn this war around.
Love,
Amanda

Continue reading →

The Clot

Written by Terrestris Veritas 

misfits

We think these misfits would fit in quite well at The Clot.
Image Courtesy of E4.com

The following was extracted from media records in accordance to reviewing the actions of The Clot – dates have been marked in chronological order above each extract for easy viewing. 

Wed, 9th May 1990
Today marks the grand opening of The Clot: Mark Howser’s Child and Youth Correctional and Detention Facility. Three years in the making, it is expected that this centre shall calm the streets of the unwanted crime specific to…

Sat, 12th May 1990
Capable of housing over one hundred thousand wrong-doers at a time from birth all the way up to eighteen years, the challenge of creating a space of justice for young people has surely met its match.

Wed, 21st Oct. 1992
The first youth who was released from The Clot has gone the last six months without resorting to her former self. It is reported that she has acquired a job and is of working class status. Originally sent there for a series of petty theft, The Clot is acclaimed for her remarkable turnaround in this climate of…

Fri, 30th Oct. 1992
Since the successful release of Clara Hawkers, a former petty thief, parents have been sending their children to The Clot in droves. From babes to adolescents, it’s clear…

Sun, 9th May 1993
In the three years since The Clot has opened, the crime rate on the street has dropped to an all-time low and has been that way for the last four months. The Voice of the Law himself applauded their statistics and proclaimed that The Clot has been a turning point for society. He also stated that, despite certain policies within The Clot, it has proven to be an effective measure against…

Wed, 24th Aug. 1994
This morning it was discovered that a suicide has taken place within The Clot. The sixteen-year-old male attendant was discovered in his bed having taken his own life. The Clot is a hive of activity trying to uncover the reason behind his death. Mark Howser has yet to comment on this tragic…

Thurs, 26th Aug.1994
…uproar within the city about the suicide. The identity of the youth has not yet been released but his initial crime was stealing domestic animals and killing them in mad rituals. Officials are now starting to question the attendant’s state of mind at the time of the suicide rather than suspecting the policies employed by the staff in The Clot. Continue reading →

Tack

Written by Lumberjacktom

fire

Destruction in many forms.
Image courtesy of: http://www.crazy-ivory.de

A little silvery trickle of water began to run from the bent pipe. It was surprisingly tough; the dull, stained copper was standing up to all the force Tack could put on it. He held the pipe by the brass tap on its top. Thinking about it, Tack saw that whoever had put this in was a terrible engineer. How they had expected a fairly flimsy, half-inch pipe to stand up to everyday use without so much as a bracket to support its length against the wall was a mystery compounded by the fact that they had evidently expected it to stand indefinitely, since, most of its length was buried in concrete making any repair an undertaking not worth the effort.

Needless to say, it would not stand indefinitely. Tack wrenched the pipe back and forth through fully a quarter of a turn by its length, levering against the concrete which collared it at the base. As he did so the trickle became a gently arcing thread glittering in the streetlight.

There was a visceral satisfaction in destroying something; some piece of public infrastructure, be it wrenching off a tap or dropping a mattress from the overpass, or watching thick, smoky petroleum flames begin to lick from the top of a litter bin. Pointless destruction of pointless things. For nothing had a reason, nothing had a goal which stretched beyond the void which was the end of all things. People abhorred destruction because they had been told to. Society constructs, it builds, moving toward a greater goal, went the mantra. Freedom is consumption, and labour, in a perfect balance. The freedom to work. The right to a mortgage. A neat lawn. A tidy funeral.

The thread became a spray, a mirror plane of clear glassy water, rent apart by surface tension into a thousand droplets soaking Tack’s shin.

Dab and Fen had finished smashing the lock from the cemented shell of a bin and the plastic inner container now lay bent and crippled on the ground, trails of stinking rubbish strewn along the sea defense. They turned their attention to Tack’s tap. Tack braced against the wall with one foot, and wrenched the pipe as Dab and Fen beat and kicked on the anchored end. Slowly, reluctantly, the pipe twisted and sheared free, a metallic crunch heralding its defeat. Foamy, pure white water ejaculated from the ground in a knee-high column, then ran down the concrete slope to the beach, muddied by dust and sand and grit.

Entropy, Tack smiled.

Maybe She Needs A Bigger Table

Written by Fantasy Girl

dining table

The table will be set for three at exactly 7.24pm every evening.
Image Courtesy of http://www.dailymoderation.com

Tea will be served at precisely 7.24 pm, just as it is every evening. The table will be set for three around the small square at which they will eat. Three meals will be put on the place mats. Only one person will be there. Only one person will eat.

She never changed her routine, even after the incident. She still bought clothes for the other two. She still washed them. She still ironed them. She would even put them away for them. She would have conversations, seemingly with herself; about what they should have for dinner, about what was on telly that night, or what film they should go see at the weekend. Nothing changed. It never changed.

It’d been ten years since the incident, ten years since they died. The car went under. She was the only one to get out. Why couldn’t she save them? Why didn’t they let her die too? Because she’s a survivor, that’s why. She had always been a survivor – when her parents died, when her husband and child died… funnily enough in the same way.

Or maybe that was the point – that she was meant to be alone – that they were all meant to die, and she was meant to survive? But what kind of survival is this? Living in the past, believing they are still alive, believing that they will one day be home for dinner.

Because that’s why she sets the table, you know, not because she doesn’t know they’re dead. Of course she knows. But because she believes that one day they will return, and be home at 7.24 pm for dinner. And maybe they will bring mum and dad too… maybe she needs a bigger table.

Try and Fail again

Written by Blue-Eyed Devil

Trapped: The effects of Agoraphobia can be socially and physically damaging.
Image Courtesy of austinkleon.com

His day started with the screeching of his alarm. Its incessant nagging roused him from his dreamless slumber in its usual reliably rude manner and he reached out towards the table to hit it. It clattered noisily to the ground, its cord yanking away and silencing the vile contraption. Breathing a sigh of relief, he slipped a foot out of bed and yelped, pulling the appendage back under the sheets.

Perhaps he should have turned the heating up before he turned in last night? Continue reading →

The City of Koku

China’s Atlantis; the Lion City. Image courtesy of http://www.lovethesepics.com

Written by Lilith

Off the north eastern shores of the great continent of Silvera hides a marvel of engineering, a secret wonder which most only dream of seeing, and many believe to be nothing more than a myth. Contained within one huge air bubble at the bottom of the sea is a city, and that city is named Koku for the four brothers who built it. It is well maintained; fresh air runs through pipes that lead to the surface, and there are many ways to travel between the city and the world outside, though few choose to leave the security of their secret world. And the city itself is not just a marvel, but also a beauty. Tall, twisting towers reach up to the very peak of the bubble, and the glass of a thousand windows winks in the half-light; the only light that the bottom of the sea can get. Here, it is always dusk. Continue reading →

The Lonely Hamster

Look it’s a bird, no, it’s a plane, but no wait – it’s a flying hamster!
Image Courtesy of Aviary.com

Written By Sparky

“Get your filthy paws off me you mongrel freak!”

Life had always treated Ulysses unfairly, not only had he been inflicted with a rather unfortunate parentage, everyone around him had constantly poked fun at him all his short life. See, there was something different about Ulysses. Something that he couldn’t hide no matter how much he wanted to.

Ulysses had wings. Yes that’s right, a hamster with wings. Impossible I hear you cry and well you may think so. However, the evidence is clearly there, either side of Ulysses’ small rodent body were two wings, covered in the same tan fur that kept him warm. This had been as big a setback as anyone could imagine, no-one would have anything to do with him. Even his own mother abandoned him soon after birth. He was a very lonely hamster to put it bluntly.

Continue reading →