Tag / Short Fiction

by marleylilith

35.2

Written by Lilith

The author wrote this as a response to 35.1 by Bobartles, fearing that his first person narrative didn’t do him justice. While we think this piece works fine as a stand alone, she’d like to request that you read 35.1 first for a spot of context.

Love keeps the winter from freezing us all to death. Image courtesy of laura-makabresku on deviantart.


It’s cold, shit, I don’t think I’ve ever felt this cold before. The draft clings to my thighs and I regret not dressing more warmly for January, but it’s too late for that so I clench my legs together, wishing for heat. I cradle my coffee in both unsteady hands and try to stop crying.

I look back at the screen. “It’s cold,” I read aloud. “I don’t notice.” I try to envision the narrator; a man so jaded and dead inside that he can’t comprehend every eddy of cool air snaking across his skin, creeping through his clothes. I know I’m meant to think he can’t feel it because he’s so cold on the inside, but something about it strikes me as wrong. Cold isn’t like that. It creeps in, not out.

I know you better than you think, dear narrator. I know your smile. My shaking hands still as I consider you, and a tiny twinge of warmth makes its way through my body. I sip my coffee, feeling a little more like myself.

How can I possibly tell you that you aren’t this person? I imagine you in his place, standing on the bridge with the harsh winter wind ripping through your immovable body, feeling nothing at all. I see myself at your side, my hand creeping into yours as you stare down at the traffic below.

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 Colette

A Boy Who Fell In Love

Written by Rivers of Tarmac

the_boy_and_the_moon

Debuting at the Giffoni Film Festival in Italy two years ago, The Boy and the Moon is a short animation describing his love for the moon.
Image Courtesy of the giffonifilmfestival.it/en/ Film Archives

This is a story about a boy who fell in love. An ordinary boy, at first glance, and he lived an ordinary life. But he was entrusted with a great secret: there is only so much happiness in the world. This boy was the only child who knew this – and at first, that was fine, because with the secret came a responsibility; he could hand out this happiness as he chose. He tried with all his might to keep the happiness fair for everyone. Sometimes, however, he neglected somebody. When this happened, he had to give them something special. Something wonderful. But to hand out something wonderful would mean a big change in the happiness levels somebody would have to lose (edit). And when this happened, whatever it was they lost – if it was their lover, their money, or their pride – he would take it and cast it into the sky, where it would shine brilliantly to remind us that we all must pay the price, but that life can still be beautiful. And while they where there, they could be company for the moon.

The moon had been lonely; lonely for years. Each night, when the boy was finished his tiring work, he would go and watch her. Her dazzling beauty, her kindly generosity, her contained splendour. And as he watched, he felt his heart grow and swell; when he cast friends into the sky for her, however, he felt a cold burn in his chest that he had never known: jealousy. For the boy had come to love the moon as he watched her shining defiantly in the murky, cloudy sky. This innocent young boy with a terrible gift had never felt jealousy – how could you be jealous of anyone when you knew their happiness was another’s pain? And so, as he watched the moon’s stars, the boy felt for the first time in his short life, the stomach twisting envy of another. Continue reading →

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 Colette

The Locked Room

Written by Bobartles

oviatt_building_angel_doors

The grand double doors of the Oviatt Building in Los Angeles, California. These majestic works of art could very well reside with Gabe and Lucifer’s dad.
Image Courtesy of bigorangelandmarks.blogspot.co.uk

Peter took the steps three at a time, bounding towards the top floor at a speed a good deal greater than his wizened frame and long brown robes would seem to allow. He pushed through a small choir of residents on the landing, sending at least one priceless lyre crashing to the ground and knocking a small cherub over the banister, where it vanished into the gloom with a muffled curse.

“Sorry!” he called back, without stopping or turning to meet the indignant glares of the residents. Sandals slipping on the polished marble tiles, he turned the last corner and saw his quarry pacing back and forth outside a pair of very bright, very intricate and very heavy-looking golden doors.

“Gabe. What’s wrong?”

The man by the doorway winced a little and turned to face him. At nearly seven feet tall, he loomed over Peter like a strikingly blonde and particularly well-dressed oak. As he turned, his hand fell away from the slight bulge in his immaculate white suit jacket; the only indication of the concealed holster Peter knew lay beneath.

“Peter,” the man’s voice was deep and calm, but trembled slightly with hidden concern, “We’ve got a problem. He’s locked himself in again.”

“Again?” Peter glanced up at the ominous double doors. He raised an eyebrow and turned to his friend.

“Before you ask, I’ve tried knocking,” the white-clad man murmured, “I’ve called through, too. Hell,” he winced again, “I’ve even tried leaving him a message the old-fashioned way. That’s why I called you. It didn’t work. Not from me, and not from anyone else.”

“You mean…” Peter’s voice trailed off as he saw the panicked expression on the suited man’s face.

“Your kind were always his preferred children,” Gabe whispered, “Above us, above any others. He once said he’d do anything for you. And now he’s ignoring them.”

Peter muttered something foul under his breath. Gabe twitched.

“How long?” he asked. The man in white shrugged.

“I don’t come up here very often anymore. Nobody does. Could be hours, could be decades. But you just have to look down to see that something’s wrong. He’s lost interest.”

“Well…” Peter looked up at the doors, “Have you tried forcing your way in? Surely he’d understand that you were worried…” His voice trailed off as he saw the look on Gabe’s face.

“No. The last time that happened…” he closed his eyes and grimaced for a moment, before his expression changed suddenly to one of hope. “Wait. We can’t open it; trust me, you don’t want to know what he’s like when he’s angry. But…” he glanced up at the doors, to a slight bend in the upper right corner, “… there’s someone who’s done it before.”

Gabe flipped a slim mobile phone from his pocket; opened it with a snick of steel.

“John. It’s Gabriel. Get me the Morningstar.”

*

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 Colette

Gone – An Alexander Episode

Written by Dice

puff_smoke_vanish

Once you step outside the Room, you cease to exist. Are we just a puff of smoke? Abstract, fluid.

“Mr Speaker, would the honourable member like to explain why my idea of a takeaway from Jekies was scuffed so? He may do well to know that Jekies serves the best food in the Milky Way,” called out Alexys.

Alex laughed. Today, the Impossible Room had been made to look like the inside of the Palace of Westminster, and so they had decided that they should debate the question over dinner in the House of Commons. Alex, Alexys, Lexi and Zander were all dotted around the large debating hall. Lexi stood to answer Alexys’s question when a terrible shout came ringing down the halls of power.

“Zander!”

Everyone went quiet and looked towards the large double doors. Standing in the opening was Alexander, his face white with horror.

“Jennifer’s gone!”

Zander stood very quickly, horror spread over his face too.

“Impossible!” he cried in response. “No one can leave or enter this place without you or me knowing.”

“She’s gone! I watched her disappear in front of me. It happened instantly.”

“Who’s Jennifer?” asked Alexys loudly.

“You best be joking,” shouted Alexander back at her.

“No,” replied Alexys quickly, surprised at Alexander’s angry reaction.

“We don’t know her, Alexander,” said Lexi calmly, backing-up her sister.

Alexander looked like he was going to react very angrily when Zander spoke before Alexander could even open his mouth.

“Alexander, they are not like us, they are not yet Alexanders. They cannot remember if a timeline changes. The only reason they are still here is because they’re in the Room.”

“Zander, you’re suggesting…” Alexander didn’t finish his sentence before he ran out of the room. Continue reading →

by Colette

Anna

Written by Hope75

abandoned_school_theatre

An abandoned school. A child’s life hangs in the balance.
Image Courtesy of stagesofdecay.com

The child sobbed softly in her arms as she tried to reassure him everything would be OK. The shattered glass crunched loudly under her feet as she and the boy moved slowly through the silent building. Noticing a slightly opened door at the end of the corridor, she made her way towards it.

Pushing it gently with her shoulder, the door opened to reveal an empty classroom. Bright, colourful drawings of dinosaurs, jet planes, and other fragments of children’s imaginations adorned the walls of the room. The seats and desks were scattered and disorganised, while books and pens were still on those that remained upright. Large chalked numbers on the blackboard revealed the day’s unfinished maths lesson, and the teacher’s desk was cluttered with text books and notes, forgotten in the rush.

The boy began weeping uncontrollably as she tried to get him seated on one of the chairs. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” she repeated as he hid his head in his hands, tears streaming down his dirty face. Going to the nearest window she peered out into the grey, rain-soaked morning. The school yard below seemingly abandoned as the driving rainfall danced and glistened on the solitary swing set in its centre. She glanced briefly back toward the boy who remained in the same seated position as before. His sobbing had subsided slightly, until it had turned into a quiet moan as he drew circles on the desk with a permanent marker.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted three men with guns at their side slowly entering the school yard below. Using their hands to signal, the men fanned out, each moving in a different direction. Panic now engulfed her as she grabbed the boy and left the classroom, retracing her steps back along the dimly lit corridor. Continue reading →

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 →