Category / Short story

by marleylilith

Bronze Regrets

Written by OrdDiff

More machine than man... Photo by Mike Rollerson

More machine than man… Photo by Mike Rollerson

Smoke filled the room. The man at the desk leaned back in his black suit, the lights purposely hiding his face. He had a cigar in one bronzed hand, the powerful bionic handling the plant matter with perfect precision.

“Knew a kid like you once,” he said, “yeah?”

The person he was speaking to could not have been more than twenty. Outside in the harsh chemical rain, loaded up with tattoos and hiding the obvious bulge of a gun under his gang colours, he was the king of the world. In the darkness of the professional’s office, he was a scared kid in an ill-fitting jacket. “Yeah?” he asked, unsure of his words.

The suit swung his legs up over the desk. Any fool could see he was trying to intimidate the youngster. Any fool could see it was working. “He wanted an edge. Thought he could pay for it.” The man coughed haggardly before taking another drag. “Can you pay for it?” he accused in his gravelly voice.

The boy stiffened and nodded, eager to show his strength. “Yes, I-”

“No!” The man interrupted him with a slam on the old wooden desk. “No, you cannot.”

In one fluid motion, the man rose from his chair, letting it clatter to the ground. “You have the money?” he asked. The kid was using all of his nerves to not flee, and simply nodded. “Then what you want is possible. The question is, can you pay for it?”

The kid tried to figure out what the man meant. “I, yeah, I got the G’s right here.” he replied with a mixture of unease and confusion. As he reached into his pocket to pull out the aforementioned cash, a motion from the man’s bronze hand stopped him.

Continue reading →

by Colette

Aldrick The Mad

Written by Dice

stone_table_narnia

Ready for a sacrifice? The Stone Table in Narnia is calling…
Image Courtesy of Concept Art from the Chronicles of Narnia

Here follows the final moments of Aldrick The Mad’s life written by his scribe, who had been ordered by Aldrick himself to watch from a hidden location and record all that he saw. The scribe was not entrusted with the knowledge of what Aldrick was attempting in the forest, gold was the penniless scribe’s only reason for being present.

“Yes, yes a sacrifice, poetic in your demand. I understand, I understand. Elven by birth, elven she is, eleven too, ha! That’s why I chose her, a little humour between us.

“No, no my lord, not a time for joke, time for joking is not now. Soon we will laugh though, soon in our victory… your victory, you will be the victorious one. Yes victory at last against your sister, our mother, the betrayer of our Lord.

“Betrayed you she did, like the mother of the sacrifice, she never bore a male of your line, honoured though she was with the strongest men your temples could find, she failed them all, but her daughter, she’s survived six years, more than most, but find her I did. She is found and will make a perfect key for your cell, won’t she hmm?”

Aldrick drags the young nameless girl in front of him and lifts the frightened child onto a large, yet cracked stone dais; the centrepiece to the clearing Aldrick now stands in. The clearing is a strange place with an unnerving feel to the air, even the trees surrounding the stone dais seem to grow and lean away from the clearing. As such, the ground is devoid of any life, the soil is dry and black with large cracks, as if the ground had been burnt. The four mercenaries Aldrick has hired to protect him ignore the situation, a couple even twiddle a coin to remind them it’s all about the money.

Tears stream down the gagged girl’s cheeks, and Aldrick ties her down. There are stone hands protruding from the edges of the stone dais as if  grasping for the ropes which tie down the sacrifice.

“Bring the knife, no, no, he disappeared, useless servant, never really useful, fun though, fun to order someone, others don’t listen. These do, these here. You, Mercenary, bring me a knife.” Continue reading →

by Colette

Thy Tears Wash

Written by Rob

valentines_day_joke

Remember to buy those flowers!
Image Courtesy of Etsy.com – RowHouse14’s full range of cards can be found here.

It was only a silly prank. No-one had any evil intent or wanted to cause any upset. I can’t even remember who instigated the idea: probably Derek – everything about what transpired had a “Derek feel” to it. Although he holds down a responsible job, he has the devil in him. One does not expect a senior business analyst to be stirring up trouble or encouraging practical jokes in the office. And, truth be told, Derek rarely actually did anything. He would usually set an idea adrift and allow someone else to run with it. Throw the pebble in the pond, stand well back, and watch the ripples.

Ken is “Mister Reliable” to most, though “Mister Boring Bastard” to some. He does not get involved in practical jokes, office shenanigans, or banter. He’s a pleasant enough bloke to talk to but he lacks imagination and likes to do things “by the book”.

We were lounging about in the canteen after lunch. Jenny was talking about Valentine’s Day and about the cards she’d received in previous years. I’ve never received a Valentine’s card anonymously, so I was surprised at the tales she was able to tell: jokey ones, rude ones, passionate ones. I guess she’s young, single, and good-looking, so that’s understandable. Margaret said what fun it was to watch someone receive an anonymous card; see them look around and guess at who had sent it. I remember laughing at that.

Various people chipped in with their own anecdotes. Jack said he always denied sending his long-term girlfriend a card so as to test her honesty and faithfulness to him. Most of the women thought that was sick. I can’t remember how we got from that point, to the plan to send Ken a card. I say, in my defence, that I thought the plan was to leave it on his desk: otherwise, what’s the point? If you can’t watch his reaction, there’s no fun to be had.  Continue reading →

by marleylilith

Rosebed

Written by Miss Smiley

Beautiful scarlet roses for Mrs Hawthorne…

I only found the book this morning. Not much I can do about it now. It was weird – I found it in my roses, just outside my bedroom window. That should have triggered me off straight-up, but no. No, sensible Mrs Hawthorn Bridge doesn’t spot anything wrong with this.

Naturally, I opened it up. I’m the person who opens up other peoples’ medicine cabinets, after all. Like I wouldn’t open up a weird book outside my house, my room. Puh-lease.

That wasn’t even my first mistake.

It was all in a weird code. I couldn’t make head or tail of it at first. That was exciting. I love a good puzzle. But I was late for work and what was I going to do, leave it there, right outside my bedroom window? I think not.

So I took it to work with me. Thinking about it, it probably wasn’t my best move, but hey – can’t do anything about it now, can I?

I took another glance at the book at lunch time. I really wish I hadn’t. It wasn’t about the code – that was easy, once I’d started. Just a typical picture code – squiggle means A, small cat means C, that kind of thing. That really wasn’t the problem. The problem was the content.

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by Doishy

Risen From the Alleyways

Written by Blue-Eyed Devil

Would you walk this road?

Would you walk this road?

He stretched out his hand. Wet. It was wet, falling from the sky. He had never liked it. It was always cold. It made his nose run. He couldn’t feel his fingers. What was the point in finger-less gloves anyway?

He pulled his hand back under the dripping cardboard roof. It was a good home, but if this downfall kept going like it was it would start to sag. Then it would fall apart and then he’d have to find a new home. The prospect scared him. Everyone wanted the best home. Sometimes they’d fight over them. He wasn’t much for brawling. Never had the knack for fistfights.

He watched as a pair of feet ran by his door. Two different shoes, different sizes. Another like him, then. Trying to find a home tonight. He guessed that he wasn’t the only one who didn’t like being wet.

Eyes clenched tight, he tried to remember being warm. It was hard. It had been for some time but he managed to pull some shade of memory from the recesses of his brain, somehow, and he suddenly felt a bit less cold. The power of the mental process? Could he summon a pair of gloves that had fingers on from nothing too?

With a soggy sigh, the roof of his house gave out. His shoulders slumped as a cascade of cold wetness trickled over his woollen hat and down his back, sending shivers up his spine and dispelling the imaginary warmth he had been able to pull up from his mind.

He guessed he’d have to look for a new home now anyway; either that or go to sleep in the cold. Continue reading →

by marleylilith

Keep Smiling Through

Written by Dice

Dancing on VE Day, May 1945. Such a wonderful celebration! Image courtesy of graphics20.com

7th May 1945. The sound of celebration was in the air. The Mall leading up to Buckingham Palace was awash with excitement and colour. People danced, sang, cried, laughed, hugged and kissed each other. All wanted to share the moment of triumph. Rule Britannia and long live the King.

Robert was no longer celebrating; he had join those crowds early on, but now he walked alone over the rubble of bricks and mortar that had once been his family home. Only a few weeks earlier it had been hit by a V2 Rocket. Robert had been serving at the war office at the time, but his wife had witnessed it. Robert thanked God that she survived, and that their son, Albert had been evacuated a year before. He tried to picture what Gloria had described. She had said she watched the rocket fly through the roof, a moment later there had been an almighty explosion as if the devil himself had reigned damnation on the street. Deafened by the explosion, her hair flying in the wind from the blast, Gloria had watched as other houses and buildings fell to the explosion, yet their home had remained standing like a lone soldier whose comrades had fallen around him. The wind had changed direction whooshing past her, racing back towards their home. And in that following instant their home was gone. Other houses had pieces of wall remaining, some had only lost a single wall. Robert and Gloria’s home was completely obliterated.

Robert kicked at the bricks sombrely. He had been frustrated enough with his amputated arm that had prevented him from re-joining the fight back in 1941 and defend his family. And now their home was gone too. What kind of a man cannot defend his family or provide a home? He had tried so hard. Everywhere was full. Robert wasn’t a poor man, he offered much to possible land lords. All he wanted was a home to shelter his now deaf wife, if he couldn’t help or defend her, he would provide a home. But he had failed.

As darkness fell Robert could still hear the joy and laughter throughout the ruined city. Limping he made his way down the steps into the Holborn Underground Station, where he and his wife had lived since the bombing. As usually he was greeted with the stench of urine and sweat. The stay in the Underground was unpleasant, but where else could they go? As Robert reached the bottom he could hear singing.

Continue reading →

by Colette

Bruises

Written by Rivers of Tarmac

tigers_fierce_cuddle

Such fierce creatures sharing a beautiful connection for one small moment.
Image Courtesy of Pinterest

She reaches out to my face. Gentle, like one approaching a startled animal. I tremble, I flinch, I pull away. Her expression flickers; betrayal, hurt, confusion. She hides it. She wonders if I saw.

I saw.

She begins to make gentle soothing noises, “sshh, it’s alright, it’s OK, you’re OK. I’m not going to hurt you. Sshh it’s OK, you’re safe, it’s alright… you’re OK… sshh.”

I don’t realise for a while that I’m crying. Her face – pale and white, shining in the darkness – is a mask of fake smiles and comfort. Mine is a mask of dark purple and blue, and fear. She edges closer to me. I school myself to stillness. Gently, oh so gently. Her extended hand still rests on my face. She strokes the marks, her fingers barely making contact yet leaving white-hot trails behind them. Whether these are trails of pain or confusion, I am still not certain, but I feel it in my skin – whatever it is. Her eyes fill with tears as she traces the lines of one bruise, then another, then another and another until I realise I am no longer breathing. My breath falls out in one ragged gasp and I am sobbing, she is sobbing. My shoulders shake and yet my face is still, and tears stream down her face yet her hands are steady and she continues to touch me. I am trapped under her gentle fingers that exert no pressure yet somehow hold me pinned. Her breathing steadies, her eyes dry, her lips part.

“I’m sorry.”

I shift my head, ever so slightly. It could be a nod or it could be a twitch, but it causes her fingers to leave my skin, and I gasp sharply at the feeling of her absence, of a space between us. It feels like freedom and fear all bundled together. I yearn to be away from her. And yet, I yearn for her to touch me again. I lean forward, towards her, trembling.

“Please…” I whisper, and she brings her hand back to my face. There’s this electricity between us, an incredible spark, and I’m afraid. She meets my eyes. She presses her fingertips firmly onto my face. It hurts. Her eyes are stern, now,  determined. She whispers one word.

“Beautiful.”

She does not say if she means me or the bruises, and I do not ask.

Bruises is Rivers of Tarmac’s second piece in Inkblots, after her interesting take on the Half Hour Challenge theme Wishes, entitled “It Is Hard To Tell“. This work of fiction was particularly inspired by Rivers’s need to write a dark occurrence between two people after listening to a playlist full of poignant lyrics. 

by Doishy

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.

by Colette

The Writer’s Block

Written by Dice

N.B This short piece was written on behalf of the author’s recurring writer’s block. 

writer block

Uh-oh, looks like this writer is suffering from that horrible Writer’s disease: The Writer’s Block.

“A tale, a tale write, a tale to write?” cried the Swedish lady. Why is she Swedish? Who knows? They felt it to be right.

Should she not speak in Swedish? På svenska hon ska tala. An English-speaking community this is, to write ‘In Swedish she should speak,’ would achieve little but to confuse them as they attempt the pronunciation. And maybe now they would learn it and sound… uncool at school.

“A tale to write?” enquired the balding fellow, with the LIMP, pronounced L-imp. “Why a tale to write?”

“I feel that I must, since it is my hobby and my joy.”

“Then write dear lady, if you are indeed expensive.”

“I would, but for my life I fear that I have that dreaded thing that I cannot name.”

“Name it blonde woman, name it, you must not fear what’s in the name. Name it quickly as the backing music is becoming more sinister, and the room has become colder.”

A convenient breeze passes through causing the man, woman, and the scurrying shrew to shudder as the pitch from the violins increase.

“I can’t name it, to name it would be to admit it!”

The woman shrieked in horror and placed her white-gloved hand upon her reddening cheek. A strange action to take, but less strange when you considered the balding man with the big, strong, firm, and attractive belt had slapped the blue-eyed lady with his moisturised hand. Continue reading →

by Colette

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 →