by Colette

By Force

Written by OrdDiff

“Dragons. Beautiful creatures, aren’t they?” The magician said, gazing out of her tower’s window. “Faster and tougher than any beast in the natural world, yet fully aware and able to speak. There isn’t a single adult dragon that hasn’t mastered the arcane.”

The group gathered in the magician’s study was diverse. A military commander fidgeted in ceremonial armour, protecting him from the cold and not much else. A long-nosed bureaucrat scribbled away on a sheet of parchment, recording the meeting for any fuel he might use to ascend a rung on the political ladder. A kind-hearted nobleman sat with rapt attention, while his aide scanned the room for the closest exit.

“You like drakes. We get it,” the bureaucrat interrupted. “Can we please get to the point?”

The magician eyed the bureaucrat with disdain. “Very well. As you know, the secrets of flight have eluded us for the longest time. My predecessor,” she spoke the word with unconstrained vitriol, “declared it an impossibility, stifling any and all research into the area. Young apprentices were intimidated into dropping it, and sponsors were encouraged to invest in more stable research.” She turned her golden gaze to the rich man. “I must thank you again for your trust.”

The nobleman beamed with pride. “You have always done right by me, it was the least I could do.” He said with misguided humility. The bureaucrat made a particularly aggressive note.

“We knew that the secret of flight would never be found on our own,” she continued, “so we turned to the natural world. Thanks to recent accidental discoveries by the military, we gained solid groundwork on the mechanics of mundane, or physical, flight. We found out how birds and other small creatures flew and, through collaboration with the mountain dwarves, created a prototype glider.”

“Which failed.” The commander interjected, much to the magician’s chagrin.

“Indeed.” The magician countered with a sly grin. “While it was capable of carrying an amount of weight over a short distance, it was impossible to create one sturdy enough to carry anything as heavy as an elf, let alone a human or dwarf. So, we left the designs with the dwarves and turned once again to magic. Clearly, birds did not hold the answer.”

“Let me guess,” the bureaucrat said snidely, “dragons did.”

The magician smiled. “Exactly. According to our previous understanding of flight, dragon wings should never be able to carry their immense bulk. We needed their secrets.”

“And that’s where we came in.” The warlord grunted.

“That’s right, and I thank you once again for your sacrifices.” She said somberly.

“Weren’t my sacrifices.” He said, accusingly. A glare from the bureaucrat reminded him of his place, and his brow, previously furrowed, slowly smoothed once again. “Did you get what you needed from the specimen?”

The magician nodded. “Yes. With the live dragon you captured, we were able to study its magic and biology. After several weeks, and a lot of accidents, we finally got it. Gentlemen, you may want to step back.”

She ushered them away from the desk and moved to the edge of the chamber, pulling on a silken rope. The large table the group had been sitting by moved aside, revealing a large, dark hole. The sound of metal chains clinking against themselves filled the air, and slowly a wrought iron cage ascended from the depths of the tower. Inside, bound by the wrists, was what was once a human. Crimson scales covered her back, leading up to two massive, Draconic wings sprouting from its shoulder blades. A small pair of horns pierced the creature’s forehead, and a thin wisp of smoke escaped from her nose.

The three visitors looked upon the sight in horror. For the first time all night, the scratching of quill-on-parchment could not be heard as the bureaucrat’s board fell to the stone floor. “This is what we have accomplished, gentlemen.” The magician proudly declared. “A successful chimera! The dwarves can keep their gliders, this is the weapon we have truly been searching for. Take note, for we have taken flight from the dragons.”

Inspired as part of a past Half Hour Challenge, OrdDiff’s fantasy piece gives us the chills somewhat. A human turning into a dragon, though not by way of skin-changing it seems. It feels a little like a Marvel or DC superhero comic – swapping the science-fiction for pure fantasy here. By Force closes out our “Tipping the Scales” content for July, and it’s a rather apt piece to conclude on, don’t you think? If you enjoyed OrdDiff’s work, consider viewing his other short stories, including “Hunter and Prey” and “Bronze Regrets”. 

Featured Image CC // Kenneth Lu

 

by Colette

An Ode to Yesterday – Part 2

Written by Scarlet Hardy

A two-part journey into the poet’s world. The first part was published as part of our July “Tipping the Scales” content, which can be read here. 

What I would give to be young without a single care,
To once more experience being a girl with long golden hair.
Able to live without worries and forever young,
If only I could turn back time to where my travels begun.
See those friendly old faces that I once kissed,
Visit historic friends that I have often missed.
Looking back at ancient history to see where my journey started,
Returning to the distant place from where I once departed.

Enjoy my heroic offering of the simple written word,
I truly hope and pray that my humble voice will be heard.
I still remember the days of my distant fanciful youth,
I will never feel too distant, remote, or aloof.
Memories once shared might just live on,
Friendships enjoyed are perhaps not all gone.
Close your eyes and try to remember an old close friend,
A prayer for your missing loved ones you could still send.

After reversing the sands of time I saw an old school yard,
I truly felt that the gods had dealt me a winning card.
At four years old I often wanted to dance and sing,
I should have sung about the joy that youth does bring.
Who knows how their destiny will finally fall,
Does anyone hear fate when it comes to call?
If you get the urge to follow my initial lead,
Share your inner wisdom whenever you feel the need.

History rushes by, though my sands of time are not wasted,
A taste of love and devotion I have often tasted.
Memories do live on, long after any important event,
Perhaps a few letters to your old mates could still be sent.
Do you remember how things were when you were young,
Were songs of praise duly sung?
Life moves at such a rapid pace it just drags us along,
Precious memories will indeed last your whole life long.

The street where I once lived no longer exists,
The old ways of living may or may not be missed.
One small street looked just like a million others,
Princess Street had no twin but perhaps a few brothers.
Our true destiny was written in the stars long before we were born,
Between ambitious dreams and innate ability, we all get a little bit torn.
I always wanted to write an intensely riveting book,
When it came to dreaming up new ideas I never got stuck.

Terrace houses used to stand neatly all in a row,
Unfortunately, none of them are left now you know.
Enjoy a moment lost in times long since gone past,
Re-experience moments that you once hoped would last.
Remember catastrophic mistakes that we have all made,
I wonder if I will make even the lowest possible grade?
Stop and consider those who are dead and gone,
Who is your truly beloved long lost number one?

Try reading this astounding tale of both surprise and wonder,
Run for cover if you hear any loud claps of thunder.
We can keep very little from our vast historic past,
Yet precious memories we keep just seem to last and last.
The sands of time shall never stop still,
Passages of time are impossible to stop even if you had the will.
Our lives take many twists and the odd unexpected turn,
I still seem to spend my whole life just trying to learn.

Where will all that specialist knowledge eventually go?
Will anyone remember any of my achievements, I do not know.
The highlights of my life and times are all just passing me by,
I cannot stop the clock no matter how hard I try.
Tonight history is about to be recorded as I duly sit and write,
Indeed I could well be working rather late tonight.
Few lucky people enjoy a stress-free life – this I know to be true,
Obviously, I am no longer a small baby all tiny and new.

I used to have a future date with destiny but not anymore,
Once I was tempted to go in search of a nice sandy shore.
I still worship awesome gods as my love for them keeps growing,
But will they ever love me back? I still have no way of knowing.
This bizarrely enduring tale may well live always and forever,
People will not forget about my peculiar troubles ever.
All I wish to do is to tell my strangely twisted tale,
Straight through my life and times you may ever so gently sail.

I am now a mature woman standing steadfast yet alone,
You may find me lingering somewhere in the twilight zone.
I would like to become a highly articulate and forthright woman,
However, immense energy and emotional drive I still need to summon.
Now I will return to Princess Street where I once so happily used to play,
Once again, I shall re-visit many a wonderful hot summers’ day.
One small ambitious little girl indeed I used to be,
When I was still ever so young, wild, and my childish spirits still ran free.

New contributor Scarlet Hardy’s wonderfully woven and nostalgic tale comes to its conclusion in the second part. Looking back on the days of childhood, when full streets of houses still existed and old friends from the past still kept in touch, An Ode to Yesterday spans a lifetime of memories. If you’ve read the first part and been captivated by Scarlet’s words, you’ll know this narrative tale was partly inspired by falling in love and those memories associated with it. Again, if you enjoyed this piece, please consider leaving a like or a comment in the section below. 

Featured Image CC // Duarte JH

by Colette

An Ode to Yesterday

Written by Scarlet Hardy

A two-part journey into the poet’s world. The second part will be published on July 25th.

I often think about yesterday,
When I miss young friends with whom I used to play.
The innocence of youth has long since gone,
Of opportunities to turn back time, I have had not one.
This poem is an ode to my youth that I have long since lost,
Exactly how much does the process of growing up cost?
This story is a truly long and twisted tale,
It is fresh and inviting, without being boring or stale.

I was born in a distant northern English city,
I was never rich and that is such a terrible pity.
I was the youngest of three little girls,
I had a few cute kiss curls.
I was born with the capacity for thought and wonder,
Through the first stages of growing up I did blunder.
I was quite a happy child of no great talent or ability,
I longed to have some true financial stability.

Due to my endless curiosity I asked questions all day long,
And when I felt happy I would burst into song.
Of the tiny cobbled street from where I once came,
One day that place would achieve its fair share of fame.
My memories stretch back to the tender age of just three,
I still remember being nursed upon my mother’s knee.
I knew nothing of dire poverty, I did not quite understand,
My untimely birth had not been planned.

I thanked awesome gods for my unexpected creation,
At that time I had no known position or power within any nation
Many mistakes I made; they fill me with such deep regret,
No way was I ever likely to become a teacher’s pet.
With limited finance and rather plain looks,
My life has proved to be a strange blend of change and flux.
Trapped inside my own world as a lonesome child,
While reading precious fairytales I felt quite beguiled.

Imagination was the only true gift that I ever possessed,
Where my thoughts would lead me I could not have guessed.
Personal desires and wants seem to come last,
Relief from financial desperation does not always arrive fast.
All the days of my life I have seriously struggled,
With truly horrendous bills I jiggled and juggled.

This book contains the details of my life and times,
And explain why I might be accused of committing treasonous crimes.
I am a humble servant of awesome gods,
However, they may prove to be highly contrary bods.
If only I knew where I first went wrong,
Maybe roads that I chose to travel might not seem so terribly long.
Read my tale and digest the meaningful words,
I have omitted all curses and four-letter verbs.
In my strangely wondrous books, I choose to fondly remember and reminisce,
This tale is about my youth that I still do miss.

Decades passed before I undertook the business of writing,
My life and times have proved to be ever so exciting.
Errors I made go on seemingly forever,
I will not stop trying to learn new things all together.
If it is money that makes this big old world go around,
I would be happy to own the odd bar of gold weighing a pound.
My newfound wealth I shall gladly share,
If I were rich, I would not have a single care.

This book speaks volumes about my great love of life,
I attempt to explain my ambition to overcome trouble and strife.
I grew up and I made more than just the odd mistake,
I was unlucky to meet the world’s biggest rake.
A spectator of my highly exciting life and times you could easily be,
Yet I am unable to give away precious books for free.
I hope that my poems inspire you in a variety of ways,
I would very much like to entertain people for the rest of my days.

It may be possible to encourage another to reach their full potential,
I would like others to expand their own imaginative deferential.
Should you reach for beautiful distant stars residing above,
It may be then possible to share respect and true love.
Nothing in life is more important than giving affection deep and true,
The powers above are watching me; they are also watching you.
I sincerely hope that you enjoy my enduring tale,
Straight through my never-ending fantasy you shall ever so gently sail.

Twisted tales come from deep within my peculiar imagination,
Writing often proves to be a highly pleasurable form of recreation.
I sometimes wonder where all of my treasured memories will go,
How this intrepid tale will end I still do not know.
These books are the result of an intensive labour of true love,
One day I hope to please awesome gods above.
I also would like to please the occasional passing stranger,
Reading rhyming novels is unlikely to put anyone in danger.

An Ode to Yesterday is the first of its kind here on Inkblots. A beautiful and lengthy narrative poem, we’ve split Scarlet’s work into two posts. Heavy in nostalgia, her work reaches afar with emotion and spirit. The tight rhythm and rhyme scheme used within shows Scarlet’s unwavering dedication to form. For new contributor Scarlet, her inspiration came from falling in love. So much so, her written work now spans across nine novels and a collection of short poems. An Ode to Yesterday is just a snippet of the labour of her love. If you enjoyed Scarlet’s poetry, feel free to leave a like or a comment below. 

Featured Image CC // Cross Duck

by Colette

A Conversation of Song

Written by Warp Spade

The moonlit waves swashed back and forth over a stretch of sand two miles long. Gentle and soothing, its sound a dull wash in the back of the mind. A clear night’s sky stretched out above like a black canvas filled with flecks of white paint. Not a soul to be seen, the sandy shore was smooth and untouched, ready to be shaped by the footprints of hundreds of visitors the next day.

A wooden pier stood old yet proud, stretching out to sea like a great finger, pointing to a distant unknown. Empty but for a jet black piano that rested at the pier’s end. Grand it stood there, waiting to perform to the world under the great spotlight of the moon.

A figure appeared, a shadow, gaunt and tall. It stood beside the piano, looking around before sitting quietly at the keys. It had no discernible features, seeming to almost change in shape as it stretched its arms out to touch a key. A single note resonated, sending ripples through the water beneath. Another note, higher this time; more ripples.

Note after note came, each one as spine-tingling as the next. Yet there was no song, no melody. It was as if the pianist was lost, tapping note after note, getting faster and faster, more angry and frustrated, no sense of rhythm. The sea began to surge beneath the disgruntled figure, moving this way and that in a swirl of confusion. Each note causing the water to jump in a mist of rage.

Then, in an instant, it stopped. The figure slumped down, defeated. The sea receded and the calm from a moment ago returned. Sitting motionless, the shadow was fading and re-appearing as if breathing deeply, heavy with thought.

A sound. The pianist turned its head suddenly. Another figure, standing upon a huge rock at the water’s edge a short ways down the beach. With violin and bow in hand, it quickly slid the bow across the strings creating a shrill, rough sound that clung to the air around it. The pianist replied wearily with a long deep note.

A moment passed. The violinist tentatively created a sustained and wafting sound, and the air around breathed effortlessly as the music ebbed and flowed. The pianist joined in, beginning to find rhythm and fluidity and the two instruments began to work together, one following the other. The noise grew louder and stronger as the musicians began to feel more confident in themselves and each other. Melodies grew and changed, rapid one minute and slow the next.

As song filled the air, so too did the air begin to move with it, the sea erupted around the pianist like a sudden storm. Water crashed around the pier, excited and spontaneous. The two figures were speaking and the elements were listening.

They played together, minute upon minute, hour upon hour. A symphony of sound, wind whistling and the sea seething, working together to create something greater than the sum of its parts. The music between the two musicians was not meant to have an audience; it was a love letter to fall on only their ears, yet played on the world’s greatest stage. The pianist’s hands moved in a blur. Hunched over the ivory keys, the figure was pouring his soul into the song and the result was magic.

The violinist, head bent and arm moving to and fro, created a merry song that danced from the strings and into the air. The sensuous sound wrote words of love into the wind. The two instruments were symbiotic, crafting sweet music together from night ’til the approaching dawn. A conversation of song.

The black of the night slowly turned crimson as the horizon came alight, setting the sea on fire with the approaching sun’s rays. The violinist stopped suddenly, and the pianist turned to its musical partner perched upon the rock, pausing in anticipation.

The violinist turned to face the pianist before bowing long and deep, and letting its violin and bow drop onto the warming sands beneath, crumbling away into nothing. And with that, the early light engulfed the figure leaving nothing but a slight breeze behind.

As the violinist was engulfed, so too was the pianist, not by light, but by rage. It hammered its fists down on the keys, returning to its ways of frustration and anger. This time the sea grew monstrous, huge waves rolled high and crashed into the pier from all sides sending spray everywhere, covering the pianist in a mist of sea and salt. The noise from the piano grew and so too did the waves. Suddenly the pier was engulfed completely and with it the piano and its companion, swept away into the sea, drowning in the sorrow of loss. The loss of that perfect night, never to be recovered.

 

New contributor Warp Spade’s short fiction is eloquent in word choice. Wrapping together the beautiful sounds of music with the frenetic rage of the sea works so wonderfully, it gives us the chills just reading it. The personification of the sea within his short story keeps us gripped to the certain tragic conclusion. But all things come to an end, sadly, we’re just happy we got to read such a great piece. If you enjoyed Warp Spade’s work, feel free to leave a like or a comment below. 

Featured Image CC // 2thin2swim

 

by Colette

Psychosis

Written by Lost in a Dream

I.
The buzz of everyday trifles
Swallowed by the sea.

The giddy heights had endowed me with perspective:
I read the black abyss with maddening clarity.

II.
Master of my demons at last.
Or did I realise I was so small too?

III.
I stayed long enough to catch a chill—
A sobering breeze breaking the intense still.

IV.
While the views were sublime,
The very essence of truth,
It is impossible to live here.

A dark and brooding hermit
In a drunk, informed solitude.

Too powerful. Too weak.

The beauty of simplicity resides in this poem from Lost in a Dream. It’s, perhaps, a stark contrast to what she’s written in the past for our publication, but her words are still as piercing and on point as ever before. A battle of the mind, Psychosis, brings forth human emotion, pain and the act of being at one’s end. Completely at a loss, the poet appears transfixed by their own mentality, their own psychosis. We love this piece, so if you enjoyed it as well feel free to leave a like or a comment below. Lost in a Dream has written many other works for Inkblots, including her gorgeous poem “Star Talk ii” and short fiction “Man’s Crisis”.

Featured Image CC // Justcallme_Bethy

by Colette

Spark of Hate

Written by Terrestris Veritas

It’s a world of grand illusions. There, love is just a dream. Strangers talk to people but no-one ever hears the words they speak. Listening is obsolete, conscience is lost. It’s only human nature to keep away from pain but they always use that pitiful excuse. When they fail, and they don’t want to admit why; they say they’re “only” human, like they were born with a blight and cannot do anything to overcome it, as if they are powerless. Yet they exert their power over others, when it suits them the rules apply.

You started this.

The days go by in a blur, traveling all the more quickly when I realize how little time I’ve left, how much there is to do. Others feel lost when they have naught but themselves, but I’m happy to be one and all at the same time. Eating into the atmosphere of deceit, stripping away one lie at a time while they build it back in waves. See me crawling as I’m slowly falling off the edge; the sharp edge of a delicate balance, imposed ever so gently by you.

This speck from everywhere is you.

He saw a pretty maiden on the other side of the one-way mirror and thought: “She will be the death of me”. All the boys are the same to her, even as she rides away with another traitor, not knowing his name and forgetting him even before he fades. The wind reminds him that he’s cold, locked in his cage of helplessness. He jumped into the sea, feeling the waves drag him into a shadowy embrace, filled with the warmth of isolation. As the blood froze in his veins he thought, “Well that explains a thing or two”.

You blame one too many a person for what you created.

You saw the summer light the sky in an explosion of dreams, felt the spring return to the miracle of a thousand births and even less deaths. You thought you could rid the world of autumn, the tragedy of decay, the warmth of a million drops of rain and a hundred puddles of pain. You saw a winter without snow, wrapped in the security of comfort with a multitude of friends. It came, you went, and I remained. All from the spark of hate you saw when you felt me close. The spark that you nurtured.

Remember me I made you, dressed and trained you, turned you into the deceitful little rat you are. Lesson learned? Not for a second. Trapped in your revenge you threw yourself into an ocean of animus and forgot to come out. I would catch you, like a fisherman saving the salmon from the shark, but you might break apart from the kindness.

Having read this so many times now, I still find anger and the salty tang of bitterness upon my tongue. But author Terrestris Veritas didn’t find it bitter at all when writing this short piece for a past Half Hour Challenge. Maybe the vehemence didn’t quite spark within him. Let us know if you enjoyed Terra’s work either by leaving a like or comment below. However, if you’d like to read more of his work perhaps try reading, “The Wisps on the Moor” or “For Loved Ones”. 

Featured Image CC // Sundaram Ramaswamy

by Colette

July Editorial – Tipping the Scales with a Range of Content

Hey Inkblotters,

Wow, what a busy June we had, whizzing by in a flash. But now isn’t the time to be thinking about the madness of last month, rather I’ll be looking forward to July and the content we’ve got on offer. As the summer holidays kick in towards the end of the month for the kids, sports days arrive, and the temperature just keeps rising – especially during this British heat wave – it’s a good idea to slap on the sun lotion once again to save yourself from getting burnt. Though, that being said, it’s an unfortunate Factor 50 for me again.

So with July just beginning, we’ve got a whole range of content to share with you under this month’s theme, Tipping the Scales. It’s a theme that’s given a lot of our writers food for thought, so regular contributor Terrestris Veritas brings his A-game on the 5th with HHC, Spark of Hate. Later, we’re featuring beautiful poetry from Lost in a Dream on the 10th, while on the 20th and 25th we’ve got a double poetry special from new contributor Scarlet Hardy with her wonderfully written ode. Of course, lots more short fiction is on its way as well, so check back continually throughout the month.

As per usual, our Half Hour Challenge for July shares a similar theme to the one we run on Inkblots. So if you’d like to submit anything to us this month, make sure you write a piece within 30 minutes with Justice in mind. Also on the agenda is our Fiction Frenzy – which we’re running over two months starting from now until August 31. We’ve got two fantastic wide-ranging themes to inspire you: Sunlight and Moonlight. Remember to check our submissions page for all the details on our Fiction Frenzy rules; you can take as long as you want on your entries!

So with all that said, have a great July and I look forward to reading all of your submissions as part of our Fiction Frenzy.

– Colette, Inkblots Editor

Featured Image CC // Mike Bitzenhofer

by Colette

Busted Trust

Written by Awokunle Toyin Sheriff

Trust not the trust!
As credence SEEMS promising?
To the core and psyche of might…

Wish. Muse. Aroma. Touch.

On the trek!
Where swear tears fears to pairs?
With commode et credenza-seem promises…

Seen. Felt. Spelt. Keen.

On the voyage!
Of which red beam
musics no caveat but freedom…

Sent. Bent. Dent. Meant.

On a thrust of…!
Where promise is…?
And swears are the…

To… for… of… by…

Promises and swears of the darkness!
seems to be illuminated?
by dark and blind bloke…
Obdurate aide mémoire!
Of trusts and swears?
seems darkly lit and…

Promises held!
of never, ever and forever?
found shivering by the fevered river…

Promises of kings and queen!
kings and queen like rocks

Surfing horny morning-must!
seemingly, of great loving lust?
all not found yet but loving lost…

Dubaic life cagely monumented!
like pyramids of Egypt
and the lies of flies; documented…

Checking those portraits for better!
a language of ease together?
a tribe of grade point defender and…

Alas, ever seems ever ever!
but never, here is never never?
and shivering head feverish with fever…

Alone now, I am, solely

New contributor Awokunle’s poem showcases intrigue and wonder like we’ve never had before here on Inkblots. Themed around betrayal, Busted Trust was submitted to us and really caught our eye. Perhaps it’s the striking words used throughout the poem to display the poet’s abandonment, or maybe it’s the overall sense of adventure. Try reading Nigerian-born Awokunle’s poem aloud, too, we guarantee it will tingle on your tongue, so make sure you soak it in. As a published poet and a firm believer in the power of the pen to express the mind, you may have seen Awokunle’s name across a variety of online magazines. If you enjoyed his poetry, please consider leaving a like or comment below.

Featured Image CC // Geraint Rowland

by Colette

Heidi – Part Two

Written by Rob

This is a two-part short story, Part One of Heidi can be read, here.

Once Michael was installed in a new bed beneath the front window, David called Heidi in, to make the formal introductions. She was tall, straight, slim and she moved with the quiet graceful force and control of an athlete or gymnast. He gazed at her impassive face, tanned and healthy looking; only the slightest hint of a smile as she shook his hand with cool fingers and scarlet nails, “Hello” with heavy accent and Scandinavian up-tone inflection. He didn’t want to let go of her hand but she looked down, puzzled, and he shook himself out of his reverie and let her go. He noticed what dazzling white teeth she had. Her perfume lingered.

Heidi’s duties were not onerous. She looked after Michael for five days whilst his father was at work, usually 7:30 am to 6 pm. She had weekends and evenings to herself, in theory. In practice, she spent most of her time off in Michael’s room, much as she did when on duty, reading to him, watching television with him, talking to him. Occasionally, David would insist that Heidi accompany him to the pub for dinner, joking that he needed looking after too. Michael didn’t see the joke and seethed with jealousy.

In their time together, Michael probed Heidi to find what made her tick. Although she was caring and attentive to his needs, he found her distant, cold even. She regularly expressed gratitude for the opportunity that Michael’s injury had afforded her. This puzzled Michael greatly – opportunity for what he wondered? A 22-year-old Norwegian, from a bustling port town, looking after a teenage lad in a rural backwater; it made no sense. But he kept prying, even though she tended to clam up, and discovered she meant “opportunity to escape”. She would not say what she needed to escape from, but he noted she would not speak of her father, even though she spoke fondly of her mother. He sensed a secret.

Heidi seemed to get on well enough with both of Michael’s parents, though rather better with David, since she had so much more opportunity to see him and Molly was missing for the working week. She tried to tell Michael how lucky he was to have such a caring father but he didn’t want to hear it.

Prior to his injury, “love” meant the convenient fit Michael enjoyed with his parents. He sometimes overheard the other sixth-formers talking about their latest crushes, jealousies, lusts, and found them puerile. Now he couldn’t bring himself to even think of the “L word”. Heidi had infected every cell of his being and every cell yearned for her. He examined her for hours at a time, particularly over the top of the book he was pretending to read; never tiring of finding new minuscule details. The cut of her short brown hair; the tiny mole on the lobe of her left ear; the enticing way she looked above his head when she finished speaking; the slope of her not quite straight nose; the scent of her; her beautiful, long, clever fingers. He found every detail perfect. What was happening to him? He’d liked girls before, but had never taken the idea of a relationship seriously. He’d experimented with a snog and a fumble, mostly driven by curiosity at a couple of parties, but then lost interest.

Michael endeavoured to recover his previous calm and resolve. He tried to concentrate on his A-level studies and catch up on the lost weeks but it was hopeless. Heidi did her best to help, though her English was not really up to science studies. Hadn’t people suffered far worse catastrophes than his, yet gone on to lead full lives and successful careers? Michael could not wrench his mind away from Heidi long enough to make sense of words on the page. When she left the room, he suffered an anguish and agitation he could not explain. He wanted to touch her and devised plans to make this possible: offering to hold her tee-shirt down while she removed her sweater, placing a book for her to read on her lap, putting his hand under hers when she handed him his lunch plate. At night, when she was upstairs and he was supposed to be sleeping, he tossed and fretted with imagined romantic scenarios, where he thrashed her bullying father and she fell gratefully into his protective strong arms.

He tried to entice her into discussing romance. She wasn’t interested. He asked if she had a boyfriend; she gave him a flat “no”. He asked her what kind of boys she liked and she said “older ones”: it was like a slap. She must have been aware of his pain, yet she still looked at him as though nothing had happened, with an ice-cold stare.

One evening, she came to collect his discarded dinner plate from atop his bed quilt. As she leant over the bed, he had a perfect view down the v-neck of her blouse, to her bra-less brown breasts and tiny dark nipples. As she bent, she turned her head and started to ask why he had eaten so little, then caught the direction of his ogle, dropped the plate, clutched her arm across her chest, turned and ran from the room. He called after her but to no avail: she did not return. He hadn’t meant to look down her blouse but he couldn’t help himself.

Later, he heard her chatting with his father, watched them wander down the garden path together and away down the lane to the village, probably to the pub. He heard his father laugh out loud beyond the hedge, presumably at something Heidi had said. Michael darkly imagined she’d said “I caught him looking at my tits!” Michael wept with anger and frustration. He was sixteen years old, yet crying like a baby! “Take a hold of yourself” he shouted then wept all the more. The pain he had suffered from his leg injury was nothing compared to what he felt now. He wanted to die, he wanted everyone to die, the world to end, his father to crumble to dust, and still he wept and wailed like a wounded animal. His grief utterly overwhelmed him. He cried until he was exhausted, curled up like a puppy in the middle of his bed, where he fell asleep.

Michael woke with a jolt. The house was dark and silent. He shivered with cold in his sweat-soaked pyjamas. He groped for the quilt but it had fallen to the floor. He succumbed to an involuntary sob then quickly held himself still. He resolved he would not go down that road again. He must speak with Heidi. She must understand, be made to understand, that he needed her and she was his. He tried to crawl off the bed but fell in a heap, the quilt saving his shoulder. He crawled to his crutches by the door and used the welsh dresser to lever himself upright, grunting with exertion as the plates rattled in protest. Out into the hallway, then the slow painful fight up the stairs, sweating and swearing under his laboured breath. At the top of the stairs, his bedroom door was open. He swung himself inside and switched the light on. He winced in the sudden brightness, then took in the surroundings, familiar yet not familiar, his room but her things. The bed was empty and still made. He felt a stab of pain: she had left! But no, all her stuff was still here.

Michael heaved a sigh of relief, backed out and struggled down the landing towards his parents’ room. He must ask his father where she was. As he grappled with crutches and the searing pain in his leg, a guilty memory invaded his mind. He remembered abusing his parents’ bed as an impromptu trampoline when he was young. He remembered the squeak of the springs and the flap of the headboard. Then another sound came, like a moan or even a whimper, in the same rhythm. He nudged the door to his parents’ room open with his forehead. His father’s rather spotty bum was pounding away between Heidi’s thighs, urged on by her scarlet finger nails. His face was turned away from Michael, issuing grunts of exertion. Heidi was looking at Michael with her usual cool stare.

The conclusion to Rob’s short story is rather bleak. The abrupt betrayal tears into Michael like a hot knife gliding through butter. Though a rather cruel place to leave the teen, it’s also a cruel place to leave the readers. Perhaps we’ll just have to persuade Rob to write another part; the aftermath. There are far too many questions left unanswered, but maybe that’s how it should be. If you liked Rob’s two-part drama, make sure to read some of his other work including, “Coach” and “Mirror, Mirror”. 

Featured Image CC // Brandon Warren

by Colette

Heidi – Part One

Written by Rob

They say accidents come in sets of three. The fire at Molly Stevens’ place of work – the Catterick sugar factory – qualified as accident number one. It started on the day after Boxing Day, when the place was utterly deserted. Not even security staff were on hand to notice anything awry. All of the businesses in the area were similarly locked up and deserted for the holiday. The nearest residents were at least two miles away, and the fog that day hid the smoke from view. The alarm was eventually raised by a gamekeeper who came to investigate the smell. By that time, the fire could have been raging for hours. It took the fire service fourteen hours to subdue the flames.

The damage was extensive. Little remained of the factory but a tangled, blackened mess of steel work and machinery. The offices where Molly worked as chief accountant had fared a little better, in that the basic structure was still standing. But the insurance assessor said, with a pained sigh, as though it was his own money, that demolition was inevitable.

The refining company had disaster recovery plans already in place. Production would move to their Thetford plant, which would step up to a three shift, seven-day per week system. The Catterick workers would be billeted in a nearby RAF barracks for four nights each week. Molly could not help but wonder who had the friends in high places to make that possible. Buses were chartered to ferry folk to Thetford on Monday morning and home again Friday night. Weekend shifts were all covered by the indigenous workforce. This five-day commute was projected to last until the Catterick plant was rebuilt and recommissioned, thirteen months later.

Dr. David Stevens greeted the news of his wife’s planned absences with little emotion. At 44 years of age, his life as a country general practitioner was a comfortable, predictable plod. Very little happened in Marsham village where he lived and worked, and that suited him just fine. A few more dinners for one at the Marsham Arms would be a blessing in very thin disguise: he didn’t think much to Molly’s culinary skills. Provided he kept up the exercise regime he had set himself, avoided the chips and the temptation of extra beer, all would be well. Not least, the prospect of spending four nights each week in the company of the Marsham’s barmaid, Sally, generated a sparkle of excitement.

Molly, meanwhile, had very mixed feelings about the whole business. She was six years younger than her husband and found his country life-style rather restrictive and not a little boring. The initial shock of finding the devastation at the factory on the second of January had not left her. She had worked there since she came down from university and regarded the site as her personal fiefdom. The refining company had put her through her accountancy exams and invested great faith in her abilities. Not many women achieved plant chief accountant at the age of only 38. They had been so supportive when she gave birth to her son, Michael. She was grateful for their trust and felt a bond of loyalty. When her clerks started to moan about the long hours, additional travel and disruption to home life, she gave them little succour. They would pull together until this problem was sorted.

The prospect of four nights in every seven in the company of her work pals, whilst surrounded by lots of young men in uniform, made Molly’s face flush. She had never contemplated being unfaithful to David and she didn’t now. Even though their love making was rather predictable and wooden, she knew he loved her and she him. But she also knew that she still “had the look”, attracted admiring glances with her slender legs and waist. The prospect of the attention, the opportunity, the chase, even if she had no intention of being caught, sent a thrill through her body that she had not known since the early days with David.

Michael Stevens’ pals liked to rag him about his good fortune. He landed straight As in his GCSEs with apparently slight effort and looked set for impressive A-level results; a place in Liverpool University’s school of medicine, following in David’s footsteps. He had much in common with his father: the same boyish good looks, the same quiet demeanour, the same stoical acceptance of the world around him. When Michael spoke, people listened. When arguments broke out in the sixth form common room, Michael would listen to the ranting, observe the emotion, take in the facts, then issue the answer in a quiet firm voice. Everyone understood that it was the end of the matter. He captained the school rugby team to great success. This was not because he was a great player: he had not the strength, speed nor agility to be so; it was his leadership, tactical and organisational skills, coupled with near devotion from his team, which made him a winner.

Michael’s good fortune deserted him one Saturday afternoon in late January, when a scrum collapsed, snapping his right femur, and later, when the junior doctor in Accident & Emergency failed to notice that Michael’s lower leg had no blood supply before applying the plaster cast. Molly thought her son’s pitiful complaining about the pain was most out of character. When David arrived an hour later and saw the colour of Michael’s foot, it was too late to save his calf muscles. David’s anger and frustration was all-consuming, but he recognised the junior doctor was only partially culpable, having been on duty amongst the drunks and ne’er-do-wells for thirteen hours straight.

Michael regarded the news that only his right calf muscles, and not the foot, must be amputated, as a seriously fucked-up version of good fortune. A lengthy period of convalescence was inevitable. Molly found herself torn between the two greatest loves of her life: her job and her son. The family would have struggled to cope with Michael’s predicament, even without her working week absence. As it was, they clearly needed support.

Managers at the Infirmary feared a sizeable malpractice suit and were falling over one another to help. They offered, albeit without prejudice, a bed in their staff convalescence facility, but Molly feared for Michael’s emotional well-being. He’d always been the strong quiet type, and now he looked quiet and beaten.
David said the answer was an au pair. The Infirmary almost snapped his hand off – au pairs were considerably cheaper than convalescence home beds.

Heidi arrived from Stavanger a week later and moved into Michael’s room. Fred, the gardener, helped David convert the dining room of their cottage into a temporary ground floor bedroom for Michael. David arranged for a district nurse from his surgery to visit every morning. Molly checked everything to her satisfaction. And so, all was set for Michael’s return.

Michael had spent long hours considering his predicament and it seemed pretty bleak. He knew he would never run again. It was possible he would never walk without crutches again. There was talk of locking his ankle but this would give him a most unnatural gait and, possibly, big problems with the ankle joint later in life. Surgeons, occupational health professionals and physiotherapists were still undecided on his best option. His mobility, or rather, the lack of it, once taken for granted, was now the number one issue in his life.

Michael saw her face, fleetingly, at his bedroom window, as the paramedics lifted his stretcher out of the back of the ambulance. Heidi, he guessed. By the time they had carried him down the garden path, she was hovering on the front door step, behind his fussing parents. Her big, cool, khaki eyes flashed at him, then she was gone. He’d barely seen her but already something deep inside him, something he didn’t know was there, was awake.

As a two-part publication on Inkblots, Heidi was submitted within our forum’s Half Hour Challenge back in February under the theme ‘Fanning the Flames’. Since it fitted so perfectly, Rob spent some extra time on the piece, given us a wonderful short story to read. And as it’s part of our June theme this month, betrayal plays a big part in Michael’s life, so make sure you return on the 20th when part two will be published. If you enjoyed Rob’s work, feel free to check out his other short stories including, “Man’s Salvation” and “Ending at the Start”. 

Featured Image CC // Kerrie_