Flash Club May Flash Club 2021

[Barbara]

Happy spring

May is now open and I'm going to once again hand you over to the wonderful @Emily who will once again guest host the Flash Club this month. Emily did such a grand job last time, she may as well do a grand job again. And I already know she has some interesting ideas.

And like last month: we’d be delighted to feature your entries on our Short Story Hunters podcast, which will give you an additional platform. But if for any reason you don’t want your work featured, simply let me know via a PM, because sometimes it's nice to just be flash and free. So get writing, ladies and gents. Your stories may just become part of the show. For the podcast, the stories will need to be 500 words, please, thank you.

Same rules apply.

Now I'm going to hand you over into Emily's creative hands, and I'll see you again next month.

 

[Emily]

Thank you, @Barbara for handing over the Flash Club reins for the month of May! I’ve Great Plans for some fun writing/creative endeavours

This month, there will be two prompts to use in your Flash Fiction: Sunburst and balloons.

BUT, every Saturday, I’ll post a different genre, (using the same prompts: Sunburst and balloons).

The genre for this first week of May is: Sci-fi.

You can post your entries HERE, in this thread. Looking forward to reading!

Please make your entry anonymous by clicking the anonymous button, but if you forget, don't worry, that's okay too. (Note: Guardians can see who posts.) So take a risk and try something new.

To make the Flash Club the special place it is, we need your votes. You can vote by clicking 'like' or 'love'. If a piece grabs you, please hit the 'like' button. If a piece sweeps you off your seat, please hit 'love'. At the end of the month, I will count up the votes. In a tie, 'Love' will trump 'like'. The entry with the most votes will be the winner. Please don't vote for your own. The Flash Club isn't about about winning. It's about trying something new. It's about grabbing readers with words, and gaging the response. Self-votes don't show if the writing works for the reader.

The most generous voter will get a mention. At the end of the month I will announce the most supportive Flash Voter who will get a special shout-out. The prize? Kudos. And please don't just hit every entry to ensure a win. That's not helping the author. The voting is designed to help writers gage the effects of their work.

Enjoy!

 

[Anonymous]

TV

We were all supposed to watch it on our screens – however we wanted, big screen, small screen, phones, watches, VR sets. The next stage for mankind, they said it was. And woman kind, someone corrected. Non-binary gender kind, someone else chipped in. What about humanity? The next stage for humanity? I think on that we can all agree, said the host, wondering how she was going to fill the hours.

Josie was sat with her mum, watching it on the old TV.

What are they talking about, her mum asked.

They were sitting amongst a sea of crisps and snacks. We’re in it for the long haul, Josie had said to her mum when they ordered the snacks. This is too much, said her mum, we’re never going to eat that much. Of course we will, said Josie. It’s going on for a few hours. Her mum complained that a few hours was too long to be sitting around watching and waiting for something to happen, but Josie pointed out that it was mandatory. Well, not quite mandatory, but everyone would be talking about it for years to come, decades even, centuries, and did her mum want to be the only one not knowing what they were talking about? She’d come across as uncaring. Ignorant. The type who was not interested in humanity.

There was even a man selling ‘official’ (so he had said) souvenir Sunburst branded balloons outside. Josie had bought two, one each for her and her mum. They bobbed up and down with them now, occasionally bumping lazily into each other with a quiet bop.

Her mum sighed. When does it actually happen, she asked. Soon, replied Josie, unwrapping a mini-twix. Or maybe later, she continued. These things happen in their own time. You can’t rush progress. Ah, said her mum. I’m going to make a cup of tea. Josie shouted after her. Bring me some more wine. In the kitchen her mum replied, you’ve had too much wine, you can’t be sitting drinking it all day, even if the ‘thing’ is happening, but Josie didn’t hear. She’d turned up the sound.

The host was talking to another scientist, who was saying, in all seriousness, that this could change everybody’s lives forever. Imagine, if you will, he said, we would have the ability to go anywhere in the blink of an eye. Not just on Earth, he helpfully clarified, but anywhere in the Universe, anywhere you could imagine. Where would you like to go first, the host asked him. The scientist laughed, there’s so much out there, he said. I couldn’t begin to . . . I’d go see my mom in Oregon interrupted the co-host, and they all had a little chuckle about this.

Josie’s mum came back with her tea. Where’s my wine, Josie asked. Get it yourself, I’m not your slave, her mum replied.

She sat heavily on the couch, and they both turned to the TV, waiting for the world to change forever.

 

[Anonymous]

The behemoth stirs, shivering, yet stiff. Its thick skin is cold, wrinkled, covered by sediment. Deep underneath, at its centre, a nugget of warmth begins to pulsate. Each wave pushes the torpor further and further out, leaving fields of intensely painful tingling in its wake. As the skin warms, dozens of thin hairs sprout upwards, navigating through the layers of consolidated mud and sand, until they reach the surface.

The sunburst has started— the air is thick and warm, with strong winds and sweeping gusts. Triggered, the hairs grow longer and thicker; twisting, probing, searching. Two hairs meet and find themselves glued to each other, oozing a viscous liquid. More hairs combine and ooze until the ground is thick with a rubbery film. Team work lifts the film upwards, expanding it sideways, until a stronger wind gust catches it from underneath. The dozens of hairs are now strings being pulled by a balloon flailing in the wind.

Lightning strikes and the hairs contract, pulling the thick behemoth’s skin against the covering sediment. The balloon falls, but the hairs keep growing and thickening. A second wind, and the balloon goes higher. This time, the behemoth moves an inch. The hairs are now close to a mile long, stretched to their elastic limit. There are no more wind gusts at that height, just relentless pulling of hairs as thick as the behemoth’s skin.

Lightning strikes again, and the ground explodes. A thick cloud of rubble is propelled into a dome of chaos, with larger chunks flying off, dragging smaller particles in their route—and the behemoth is freed from its geological tomb.

Its landing is hard, but painless. With most of the energy spent on bursting from the ground, the behemoth did not go far and half the body still drapes the crater. Before it can stretch its body, it is catapulted again; pushing through the air like a rock spewed from a volcano.

Lightning strikes it mid-air. Translucid wings, dozens of meters long and ten times wider, snap into position, and a cavernous mouth opens. The behemoth’s crude conical shape has transformed into a gliding beauty; pulled ever so higher, faster, forward by its balloon.

All around there is life, filled with energy from the sunburst. The smaller and slower are swallowed by the behemoth. With no sensory organs, it is oblivious to the other flying beasts. Nor does it see the vibrant purples, yellows, and greens all around. But it does feel the weight it is gaining from its floating food, and the pull of the hairs in its skin.

Lightning keeps charging the balloon, but the hairs have lost their elasticity; they contract less, take more damage—and break. The behemoth floats gently to the ground. The wings crumple, the mouth closes, the muscles stiffen. It goes still, filled with sustenance, satiated.

The clouds above are becoming thicker, less sun rays can pierce through. The slumber creeps in, and another three hundred solar rotations cycle begins.

 

[Matthew Snoding]

Thank you, @Barbara for handing over the Flash Club reins for the month of May! I’ve Great Plans for some fun writing/creative endeavours

This month, there will be two prompts to use in your Flash Fiction: Sunburst and balloons.

BUT, every Saturday, I’ll post a different genre, (using the same prompts: Sunburst and balloons).

The genre for this first week of May is: Sci-fi.

You can post your entries HERE, in this thread. Looking forward to reading!

Please make your entry anonymous by clicking the anonymous button, but if you forget, don't worry, that's okay too. (Note: Guardians can see who posts.) So take a risk and try something new.

To make the Flash Club the special place it is, we need your votes. You can vote by clicking 'like' or 'love'. If a piece grabs you, please hit the 'like' button. If a piece sweeps you off your seat, please hit 'love'. At the end of the month, I will count up the votes. In a tie, 'Love' will trump 'like'. The entry with the most votes will be the winner. Please don't vote for your own. The Flash Club isn't about about winning. It's about trying something new. It's about grabbing readers with words, and gaging the response. Self-votes don't show if the writing works for the reader.

The most generous voter will get a mention. At the end of the month I will announce the most supportive Flash Voter who will get a special shout-out. The prize? Kudos. And please don't just hit every entry to ensure a win. That's not helping the author. The voting is designed to help writers gage the effects of their work.

Enjoy!

Hello - I have a quick question - do we have a winner for each genre, or an overall winner? Cheers!

 

[Emily]

Thanks for asking! We'll have one overall winner, with an honourable mention for each category winner

 

[Anonymous]

Fairground Ride.

“It all seemed so innocent, at first.” Richard paused, glancing up at the tired and drawn face of the policeman whose scratched forehead was smudged with ash. Richard looked away, struggling to collect his thoughts.

“There was a little girl,” he continued finally. “She was walking with two balloons, helium ones. They looked like they wanted to pull themselves from her grip, tugging and twisting as she walked along. She was with a man. He looked, well, strange. There were lots of people around having fun. The fair was busy. It was near the rollercoaster. Waltzers and rides everywhere. Lights flashing, kids shouting. I was waiting for my friends to catch up with me to go on the new ride, Starburst. Everyone had been talking about it…is everyone dead?” His voice trailed off again.

The policeman gingerly touched his head. “We don’t really know, yet. The man?”

“He seemed normal at first, they walked past me and I wouldn’t have taken a second glance if I hadn’t been just waiting around. But as I watched him, I realised he was not walking, he was more gliding. His feet didn’t move, I mean not at all. And the little girl,” Richard glanced quickly up at the policeman, willing him to believe him, to understand what he struggled to understand himself. “The little girl was leading him. She was leading him, pulling him just the same as she was pulling the balloons along. They moved to the Starburst ride. It’s a rocket. Outerspace ride type thing. Lots of red rocket and engine blasters. You get a countdown and on ‘one’ it shoots you up fifty feet in a second. Lots of screams were coming from it and laughs. It looked really good. Steve and Jed had told me all about it. They went on it yesterday and were going to go on it with me today.”

Richard’s hand shook as he reached for the water and took a sip, putting the glass down on the table. “The little girl and the man went to the queue for the Starburst. Then she pulled the balloons down. She seemed to say something and let go of them, but instead of floating away, they seemed to fly straight towards the blasters at the bottom of the rocket. They melted around it, covering the engine, changing it somehow. But helium floats up right? Anyway, then the rocket’s engine started smoking, like a real rocket, and the little girl looked round at me – I swear right at me and I heard a voice in my head scream ‘DOWN – NOW!’ She was smiling, before turning and climbing onto the rocket. As soon as they were on the whole rocket just…vanished. I threw myself to the floor. Then there were screams, a huge blast, an incredible bright flash, a roaring noise and then silence. No trace of the rocket and a shockwave had wrecked everything else. Everything had gone.”

 

[Anonymous]

Dead-drop

I put a hand, to the back of my neck.

That’s not good.

The wound-dressing has soaked through, once again, and the blood feels greasy against my fingertips. I crouch in the shadow of a massive oak tree, and take another thick gauze swab from my pocket.

It’s best to plan ahead, if you go out with an open wound, in the base of your skull.

I slap the fresh wad of lint on top of the others, and feel a trickle run over my skin. It mixes with the sweat and soaks into my collar, as I edge slowly forwards, to where the forest stops.

I take out the timer, from my belt-pack.

Not good.

It shows fifty-two minutes, but at least, now I know.

I am going need fifty two minutes to get back, plus the time I spend here, and a good five minutes to re-insert the humoid-chip back into my head.

That’s gonna be tight.

De-chipping for more than two hours is hard to pull off, especially with the DX19, which offers both pin-point geo-location and metabolic monitoring.

I can’t help but worry about my ‘chip-rig’, all laid out on top of my bed, back in block D. Sixteen syringe drivers, each with their own little programme, each fed from a balloon reservoir of fluids and gases, and each connected to the core.

Inside that core lies my hybrid ‘organic-inorganic’ chip, in a hammock spun from my soft tissue fibres and bathed in serum. I have accounted for all the things I know the chip monitors: blood oxygen, blood glucose, blood lactate and more.

But no one knows what up-grades it can receive, as it transmits your data, back to central monitoring.

Someone gets caught every month.

Fuck it.

I pat my pocket to check for the flash-drive, then check that the zip is fastened up tight. It has been illegal to use non-binary code for the past several years, but to use ‘non-bin’ to build a Trojan Sleuth-horse 6X is next-level subversive behaviour.

For sure, that is what ‘central’ would say, if they found out.

Screw ‘em.

I unpack the thermal glasses from my pack, and scan the buildings and surrounding open spaces. Thankfully, everyone seems to be at home and asleep; just like I should be, at three in the morning.

I can see my dead-drop, near the bench, near the lake; but getting there is going to take more time than planned. No one knows why a DX19 suddenly fails, around the two-hour mark of suspended living – but I don’t wish to find out.

I lurch to the next tree, and then stop, and then wait. That’s the protocol we use, for semi-rural movement.

Stop – wait – move – has kept me alive, many times before.

I scan again with the night-scope, when suddenly the surface of the lake turns orange, then gold. I squint and shield my face, as the heat-wash passes over me.

Even at night, the power of a sunburst is terrifying.

 

[Emily]

Saturday genre-change

The prompts Sunburst and balloons remain, but for the next week we'd love some swashbuckling writing in the Pirate genre... Pirate adventure, pirate romance, pirate horror, space pirates... Let us have 'em!

 

[Anonymous]

Ryan’s world

I never wanted to be a pirate.

I never wanted to be a killer either, but the two, just sort of happened together. I was hanging out in Marbella. I’d made a mint from crypto-currency, and was drifting around, on a never-ending holiday.

That was when I started seeing Ryan.

I didn’t really like him, but something must have caught my eye. Yeah, he was good in bed, but he used to smoke, and I hated that. Sometimes he would smoke in bed, and once, made me hold his fag in my mouth. He said it made me look cool, but actually it made me cry. He knew he’d upset me, and he promised, that he’d make it up to me.

He’s dead now, so that aint gonna happen.

He used to keep a gun under his pillow. He said it was a Glock, as if I’m supposed to know what that means. You should have seen him, when I told him I’d got some bit-coin. I never told him the truth about how much. I mean why would you tell the truth, to a guy who does the door for a club, and pushes dope and nitrous balloons on the side?

It took about two days, before he wanted me to buy him a boat.

A couple weeks later we had a trip down to Puerto Banus. It’s a bit like driving a car. There’s the steering wheel and the throttle, but in a car there’s no current, tide, swell or waves.

A few days after that, we went out in the middle of night, with no lights on. There was a massive motor-launch moored up, The Sunburst Aurora, and Ryan told me to sneak alongside, and then stop. Of course, I crashed right into her stern.

In Ryan’s defence, they did shoot first.

I didn’t know he had a machine gun, and that thing made a ferocious noise. I just lay on the deck, but Ryan climbed on to their boat, and there was a lot more gun-fire, and some horrible screams.

When he get back, he was covered in blood.

I’d never really noticed his accent before, but when he said, ‘sorry babes, but I can’t have any witnesses’, it came across thick. I ran and hid in the bedroom. I was lying on the floor, when he came in looking all wild-eyed, and carrying a massive knife, already dripping with blood.

I knew that the Glock was under his pillow, and somehow it sort of went off. I put four slugs in him before I climbed over his body. I’m up on deck now, and there are two helicopters overhead, and a swarm of boats with flashing lights heading this way.

I never wanted to be a pirate.

I never wanted to a killer, or some crypto-rich midnight booty call, for a wanna be gangster. When I was younger, I wanted to a school teacher, or maybe a nurse.

I guess that ain’t gonna happen now.

 

[Anonymous]

Sunburst and balloons/Pirates
(226 Words)

The giant balloon blocked the sun from where Rakish was standing, so massive that it didn't even sway in the ever-constant wind. Multiple balloons, and their counterweights, were part of the stability for the station--one of the mind-numbingly simple additions that had allowed the inner-atmosphere structure to open for business.

To say the explosion had rocked the entire station, was no overstatement.

Rakish had been looking in the direction of the balloon when it happened. He had been admiring the way the sunlight streamed around the edges, like a golden halo.

He had blinked as a tremor passed under his feet, stared as a light brighter than the sun appeared at the base of the balloon. It grew, a fireball that quickly consumed everything, growing outward as though the sun itself had burst.

Blinded, he didn't see the shockwave. It picked him up and tossed him, unprepared, like a child's toy against the wall.

When he next opened his eyes they were bleary, met with darkness, punctuated by fire. He tried to turn his head as a hand grabbed his shirt, pulling.

"It's pirates," hissed his brother, Nades. "They're below, raiding. We need to hide before they come back!"

They pulled each other to their feet and stumbled towards the nearest entry, trying to avoid meeting any invaders. The sun-bright fires lit their way.

 

[Anonymous]

An Encounter with Pirates

Josie and her mum were coming back from the supermarket when they were attacked by pirates. They knew they were pirates because the gang told them that they were pirates. Don’t be silly, said Josie’s mum, pirates are at sea. You’re not at sea, you’re on land.

But look at us, said the pirates, don’t we look like pirates? Josie and her mum had to admit that the gang did look like pirates. They were wearing pirate clothes and holding pirate knives. One even had a patch over his eye. It was unclear whether this was for medical or cosmetic reasons, but Josie didn’t like to ask because this particular pirate seemed the twitchiest of the lot.

Josie’s mum asked, haven’t you got a boat? A ship? A pirate ship? A schooner? A brigantine? The Black Pearl? The Queen Anne’s Revenge?

The pirates asked Josie’s mum how come she knew all about pirate ships. Josie’s mum said that she read all the pirate stories when she was a little girl, they were her favourite stories. She said when she was young she wanted to grow up into a pirate, she wanted to sail the seven seas, attacking galleons, burying treasure, and rescuing maidens (although in Josie’s mum’s imagination, it wasn’t maidens she was rescuing, but heroic-yet-beaten men). She said she dreamed of one day lying on the deck of the pirate ship, looking up through the rigging at the blue sky above as the albatrosses wheeled around the bright Caribbean sky. She said she wanted to feel the great heft of the sea under her, lifting the huge ship and all it contained, up and gently down, up and down. She said she sometimes heard the sea in her dreams, and even when she woke, just for a little time, for a few seconds, even here, so far from the sea, she could hear it.

Then why didn’t you become a pirate, one of the pirates asked her.

Young man, Josie’s mum said, I grew up. I grew up and married her dad. He was an accountant. A good man, so I don’t resent giving up my pirate dreams for him, and of course he gave me her, and that’s a blessing I thanked him for every day.

But I do miss the adventure, she said. I think I would have been a good pirate.

The pirate with the eye patch removed the patch, revealing a normal eye. Without it he looked less piratical. Just a kid, a young man trying to make his way through the world.

Take this, he said. He threw the eye patch over. Be a pirate, he said.

Thank you young man, Josie’s mum said.

But you still have to give us your money, he said. After all, we are pirates. It’s what we do.

After, the man selling the Sunburst balloons, who had seen everything, came and gave them a balloon each. They weren’t selling anymore, he said, given the disaster that had happened.

 

[Anonymous]

Conquest on the Spanish Main.

Sofia felt the deck moving under her but found she could keep her balance better now. At long last the fierce storm that had descended as soon as they left Havana had calmed. So, despite her mother’s complaints, she had ventured out into the fresh salty air. Feeling exhilarated, she listened to the creaking of the rigging and the flapping of the lines as she enjoyed the breeze tugging at her long hair. She looked up at the grey clouds and the first glimpses of blue sky and sighed. Just a few weeks of freedom now, before she was back in Cadiz and formally betrothed to Count Phillipe.

Not far away a coastline slowly appeared as the breeze blew the last of the rain away. Sofia could see a beach and the rocks of cliffs that marked the end of one island, the next still a shadow in the distance. There were so many to see before the galleon Hispaniola would finally plough east into the wide empty Atlantic.

A magnificent sunburst suddenly transformed the dull grey seascape into a palette so vibrant that Sofia felt she could feel the colours, vivid brightness that also revealed the white balloon sails of another ship sliding from behind the cliffs of the headland.

“Sail on the starboard bow!” the cry went up and Sofia laughed as the crew scurried around the ship. More sail was released and the lumbering galleon, burdened with all manner of riches from the Americas, strained to find a wind that could quicken their pace. The other ship had effortlessly slipped past the headland, white spray at her bows as she raced to cross their path.

With a sudden chill Sofia realised the alarm was no jest: the crew showed real fear. The ship that approached was close now, carrying an ominous black flag fluttering from her stern and a line of five cannon ports gaped at them ready to spit flame and destruction.

The race was lost before it had begun. Sofia tightly gripped the rail as she watched the pirate ship approach, heedless of the danger. Clearly now, she could see figures swarming up the masts and rigging. She trembled slightly as harsh English voices shouted commands and grappling hooks were thrown over binding the vessels side by side. Men swung effortlessly across the shifting gap between the ships and the Hispaniola swiftly fell, overwhelmed by the ferocious pirates who boarded her.

Sofia watched transfixed as a young broad-shouldered man landed just a pace from her, cutlass in hand, two pistols in his belt. He called for the Hispaniola’s Captain, who surrendered his sword. Then he turned towards her. Sofia breathlessly took a half step back, heart pounding and flushed as his deep blue eyes held hers captive and a smile danced on his tanned handsome face. He bowed. “Captain Mullion, at your service Miss,” he said quietly. “You are in some danger. May I suggest you return to your cabin?”

 

[Emily]

Our next genre-change:

The prompts Sunburst and balloons remain, but I'd like creepy horror stories for this week. Horrify me!!

 

[Emily]

Just a note, this is creepy / horror week, so if you're faint of heart and don't like this kind of thing, please bear that in mind when reading the pieces below.

If you prefer not to read those entries, simply look out for my post with next weeks prompt which I'll post underneath at the end of this week to mark the end of the theme.

 

[Anonymous]

You Heart-shaped Bastard​

There it is again, floating outside the office window: the pink, heart-shaped balloon, string dangling, the card with my address card still attached.

It has found me. Again.

It started yesterday after I went to the florist to buy flowers for Susan. The florist asked,

‘How about a balloon to match the bouquet? One of these, for example.’ She reached to the side of the counter and picked a helium balloon from a floating bunch by its string. Pink. Heart-shaped. ‘Only ten pounds.’

‘Ten pounds for a balloon? No, thanks.’

I waited for her to wrap the bouquet, lovely roses. Susan was going to like the roses. I paid, and left the shop.

Down the alley, my favourite shortcut. A feeling. Someone was behind me. I turned. Nobody, but a pink heart-shaped balloon, floating half way down the alley. What the …? I walked back and took it by its string. I turned the card.

Fred Patterson, 3a Talbot Drive. My name and address.

I let go, and ran. When I reached the end of the alley, the bouquet slightly worse for wear, I looked back and … the balloon was gone.

Unsettled, I hurried home. I can’t remember if Susan liked the flowers, I think so, but I didn’t care. I was more worried about the balloon outside the living room window. Pink. Heart-shaped. In the back garden, floating near the dead rose bushes.

The roses had been alive in the morning.

The balloon had killed Susan’s rose bushes.

I went to bed.

Something, another feeling, a dream maybe, woke me up at midnight. The moonlight hit the balloon bouncing gently against the ceiling. Light on. It was gone.

Morning. Coffee. Balloon outside the kitchen window. The camellias, dead. The apple tree, dead. The apples? Mushed on the lawn, like the sun had burst them. Susan was still asleep when I got up.

Out the front door. I have to work. I closed the door behind me.

The lawn at the front? Dead.

I ran to the office. I sighed. The balloon had stayed on the drive. Peace. Our industrial park had never looked so nice.

And now the balloon is here.

I grab a paper clip, bend it straight, then get up and, taking the stapler from my boss’ desk, I approach the window. My colleagues stare, but sod them. There it is, hovering the other side of the glass. I open the window.

‘Fuck off, you pink, heart-shaped bastard!’

All the bushes on the industrial park are dead.

‘You want a fight? Come on then.’

It does. It floats straight at me. I sling the stapler. It bounces off. The balloon keeps on coming. I stab it with the point of the paper clip. Take that. It skims off the rubber. The balloon bangs into my face. It wraps the sting around my neck. The card flies past my eyes. It reads:

I strangled Susan. Your turn next. You should have paid the ten pounds.

Then, the string tightens.

 

[Anonymous]

The bra is biting the fleshy bit at the side of my armpit again.

It’s the only one that goes with the sunburst dress. Readjust.

It will slide back in a few minutes—I’m getting fat.

Eww, acid reflux.

Another glass of water before I leave; this indigestion could not have come at a worst time. The lunch salad. I was right to have complained about the waitress; pregnant or not she did a piss poor job.

Keys in the—did I take my pill? Oh, shit yes. Don’t want to end up like that cow.

Hmm, guess I’m feeling pretty confident.

I have a big date—tirup, tirap—I have a big date … tonight.

I’m choking! Quick, the sink; I’m going to throw up.

A clump is coming out. I don’t understand.

Push!

I can’t breathe—hurts, my throat hurts.

A balloon? I’m vomiting a grey—it’s so disgusting.

Push!

I can’t breathe. Push! I can’t breathe. I’m going to die … push!

My mouth ripped open. My mouth ripped open! My mouth …

…

Wh—?

What’s … I’m on the floor?

Hurts!

My mouth. No, no! It’s ripped; it’s really ripped.

Blood … so much … and vomit. Oh my god … I can’t …

I need help. I need to call for help.

My purse; there.

I can’t get a grip; I’m slipping.

Crawl … slowly.

My face … why? What happened to me?

It’s stinging … the tears. It’s the tears.

N— no—no! it’s flapping … my mouth is flapping!

…

Wh—

What’s … I fainted. Again.

Help; the purse.

Blood all over. My hands—stop, focus.

Get to the purse. Call for help.

Crawl. Slip. Keep going. Crawl.

What’s that noise?

What the fuck is that!

Is that … did that come out of me!

I don’t … I just …

It’s too big. How could I, and still be alive?

It moves?

It moves!

Get away … I’m slipping … get away … feet slipping … away …

Stop!

Don’t move. Don’t move.

It’s touching my legs. Don’t move. Don’t move.

It’s a horrible … spider?

Don’t move. It will bite if you move.

Is that hair on its—?

It’s on my belly. I can’t … I can’t … don’t move …

It’s climbing.

My bra … it’s using my bra to climb.

I can’t … I just … I’m going to cry …

It didn’t bite.

It feels … the hair on its body, feels weird. It’s holding on.

Its claws are digging in.

Stop! Don’t push it away.

Slowly … no, no, the claws dig in.

Oh my god, what do I do?

It has … eyes? It’s looking at me. It’s really looking at me.

Its eyes and its screech are horrible.

The claws are digging in. It hurts. Hurts.

No, no, no, it’s getting closer to my face. I can’t push it away. It hurts.

It’s too close; no, no, no. It smells.

Stop screeching!

Mooooooomyyyyyyyy

 

[Anonymous]

The curtains are pulled in the middle of the day.

What’s the film about?

Apparently the less you know about it, the better, Josie replies.

You can tell me more than that, says her mum. I mean, what sort of film is it?

It’s a bit spooky, says Josie.

Ohh, spooky’s OK, says Josie’s mum. But not gory. I don’t like all that blood and stuff.

No, says Josie.

I mean, there’s no need for it, is there?

Shhh . . . Ready?

Josie presses play.

The film is about a man whose wife comes back from the dead. She is not a ghost, but someone who simply walks back into the house one morning. This is six months after she died. He buried her. I buried you, he says. We all went to your funeral. Don’t be silly, she says, smiling, I’ve been here all along. And now the man doesn’t know what to think. Is it her? Is it a gift? They have children. He tries to talk the children about it, but these kids seem too young to notice that anything is wrong. He asks them, haven’t you missed mummy, and they smile at him, tell him he’s a silly daddy who should know better than try to scare little kids. Little kids aren’t for scaring, the kids say, that’s for grownups.

He has an ally in the shape of a dog. The dog is suspicious, it growls, low, every time the wife comes near it. But then the dog disappears. The kids are upset, but his wife soothes them. Maybe Bowzer just ran off, she says. Maybe he met a Mrs Bowzer and they’re running through the fields together with lots of little Bowzers. She says it’s important to have a family, that some people would die for a family. Then she looks at the man. Wouldn’t you agree? she asks.

Then things start going wrong. She seems to forget things, she seems careless with her makeup. She leaves things around that could kill him. She cooks things for him that don’t taste as they should. She forgets where the school is, she sleeps, she sleeps. She throws things. She screams and shouts, creeps around at night, banging doors, trying to harm. One night the man takes the children away to his parents’ where they’ll be safe. Then he returns to confront the demon, because by now we know that is surely what she is . . .

Oh, this is silly, says Josies mum.

Shhh . . . says Josie.

What’s it all about? Says Josie’s mum. I don’t get it.

Josie presses pause. The man stands, frozen, face next to a bedroom door. Behind him the demon lurks. All the film is in this frame, but her mum will never understand.

Josie’s mum looks around, the Sunburst balloons lying dead or dying on the floor.

We should clear up, she says.

Later, replies Josie. She presses play and the man creeps towards his end.

 

[Anonymous]

Give unto Caesar

Was that a movement in the shadows? His heart pounded as he pressed himself against the ground. Forcing himself to move, to regain some small control of his limbs, Christian crawled away from the road and through a gap in the hedge. A field stretched out in front of him, but he knew in the full moon there was too much light to risk crossing, so he kept to the hedge.

Christian knew every step should be away from the brooding bulk of Llehylh Trae, the Iron Age barrow with its dark history of human sacrifice. He had been fooled by the beautiful Refi Cul, the mysterious Indian archaeologist, flattered she had taken an interest in him. When she had asked him to meet her at a small village just below the barrow on the full moon, it should have been clear it was a trap. Christian still marvelled that he had got away when the balloon went up and her thugs appeared. He looked down at the livid scratch on his arms where the barbed wire fence had cut into him when he had escaped and wondered if her beast could smell the blood.

A shadow moved and instinctively Christian lurched forward as fast as he dared. Suddenly the ground fell away precipitously into the darkness. Forced to turn towards Llehylh Trae once more, Christian struggled on over the rough ground, the beast closer behind him now. At the end of the field his way was blocked by a dry-stone wall. He climbed, desperate not to be trapped in again. He heard a shuffling, a rasping breathing that sounded closer still. In a panic, Christian jumped from the wall and jarred his ankle. Ignoring the pain, he limped breathlessly, climbing now, always climbing.

Christian checked his pocket for the knife. It was still there, his finger tracing over the symbol of the sunburst carved into the ancient gold blade that she had been so keen to own. The barrow was close now. Perhaps if he could just get there and return the knife to where it was found he could still escape. But then terrible black shadows rose to left and right that seemed to consume the light filling Christian with a deep primeval dread. The barrow stood in front, behind, the snarling jaws of the huge wolflike creature seemed almost the best option.

Defeated, Christian stumbled the last few steps to the flat granite altar at the entrance to the barrow in a daze of shocked despair. He knew. On the barrow Refi Cul waited. Old magic, name spelt backwards.

“So kind of you to bring yourself and my dagger to me, Christian.” Refi Cul said.

Strong magic. The sacrificial knife had returned to the Dark One, brought by the sacrifice himself.
The wraiths waited to taste the innocent soul and the wolf waited for his flesh.
Christian trembled and waited for the kiss of the blade.

 

[Anonymous]

The good parents

We put the little guy to bed. We read him a story. Good night, we both say – he smiles. Good night, he says. But just as we go, wait, he says, can you leave the door open a bit? OK, we say, no problems. And leave the light on in the hallway, he says. All night. We leave the light on – although both knowing that we’ll turn it off once he goes to sleep, he has to get used to the dark, we don’t want him growing up scared of the dark . . .

. . . Jamie . . . Jamie . . .

The boy opens his eyes.

Jamie. Want to play?

He lifts the duvet up over his face. They’re back, he thinks. They’re back they’re back, they’re back.

Under the covers, he shakes his head.

Oh Jamie, come on. You have to play with us. You know when we ask you to do something, you have to do it.

He feels a hand move to the top of the covers. He starts to whimper.

Come on now Jamie, we only want to play. Play with us.

I don’t want to play with you, he says. You’re bad mum and dad. I want good mum and dad.

You’re being a very naughty boy, says bad-mum.

Jamie peers over the covers. They’re there, in the gloom, his night mum and dad. Their smiles aren’t right, these night smiles. They’re pretend smiles.

Come on, says bad-mum. Get up, let’s go outside and play. We’re not scared of the dark.

He gets up.

Put your slippers on, says bad-dad. You don’t want to catch cold.

He puts his slippers on.

They glide him into the hallway. He passes his mum and dad’s bedroom. He wants to call out, to shout for them. Mummy, daddy. Help me! Help me! But it won’t work. He’s tried before. They’re enchanted by a magical spell, bad-mum told him, they can’t help. Nothing will wake them until the sun bursts like a balloon. What a good sleep they’re having! We don’t want to ruin their perfect sleep do we?

And if you tell, said bad-mum once, you know what happens to kids who tell tales. Who rat on their mum and dad, their mum and dad who only want to show him how much they really really love him.

They take the boy out into the night to play . . .

We wake the little guy up. Jamie . . . Jamie, we coax him out of his bed. We give him breakfast, brush his teeth, get him dressed, get him ready for the day. We kneel in front of him, our little prince. OK, we ask him, so what do you want to do today? He looks at us with those perfectly round eyes. I want to play, he says. So we play with him, all morning, whatever he wants. Because we love him, because we’re the good parents.

 

[Anonymous]

“Did you hear that?” Gita exclaims, her pallor like sour milk.

I watch her face, waiting for the smirk. I know she’s trying it on. She’s a regular prankster. It’s why we’re friends.

“Whatever,” I say, turning away, shining the torch forward, “You’re so full of it, G.”

There’s no response and I can feel her smiling in the darkness behind me.

“Where do you suppose this goes?” I ask.

Nothing from Gita; she’s still playing. I steady my nerves and move forward, filling the silence with my own voice.

“I don’t know why I let you talk me into coming down here. I was enjoying myself back there. Dave’s got a great sense of humour. The more he drank, the funnier he got.”

Still nothing from Gita. I turn the torch back to look at her, but she’s gone. Now she’s got me. My skin starts to tingle, my heart races like the very trains that used to frequent the tunnel. I can feel my skin paling, as though my own blood is trying to hide.

“Ha ha, G,” the tone betraying my panic.

The sound of my solitary voice echoes, magnifying the fear which clings to me like an anxious child. I cast the torch around the tunnel, looking for hiding places, but there’s nowhere. I spin forward in case she found a way to move in front of me. Still nothing, just darkness.

“The ol’…Bellmouth.”

The sound of the eerie voice brings me whirling back, its hoarse and grating tones so unlike Gita’s that my adrenaline fires. I want to run, my heart beating hard in my head. She’s there… standing where she was, but now pellucid, the torchlight not able to find her. Her head is tilted, distended like a fairground balloon, her eyes ablaze like sunbursts, her mouth hanging open like a maw.

“Watch the ol’ Bellmouth.”

The sound comes from Gita, but her lips don’t move. I’m overcome with terror, my body petrified through fear. She reaches out for me, her hands cut and bruised, her fingers cracking as they clasp my shoulders. It’s not Gita. I don’t know what it is, but it’s not Gita!

I scream and drop the torch, twist my body, and duck under her arms. I run past her, running for my life, when a muffled explosion rings out, a billow of air and dust hits my back, and I’m hurled forward, landing on my front.

I’m disorientated and confused, but I don’t waste any time. Coughing and spluttering, I’m up on all fours, crawling, feeling my way in the darkness, my lungs full of dust, my eyes stinging. It seems like a lifetime but eventually I see light and it’s not long before someone is running to my aid.

“Are you hurt?” they ask, “what happened?”

I shake my head. I don’t know what happened, but I think…I think something saved my life. Then, it all hits me and I’m overcome. I breakdown and cry…for Gita, my friend.

 

[Emily]

Our next genre-change:

The prompts Sunburst and balloons remain, but the genre is fantasy for this week

 

[Anonymous]

Dragon

Josie turned to her mum. I’m telling you, I saw a dragon. I swear.

Dragons, dragons, said her mum. There’s no such things as dragons. Are you living in a fantasy world? You’ll be telling me there are dwarves next.

But there are dwarves, said Josie. They exist anyway.

Oh you know what I mean. Not normal dwarves like Tony from over the street, but magical dwarves that sell you beans.

Josie took a tin of beans from the cupboard. Like these? She said. The both fell about laughing. Josie followed her mum around the kitchen, hunched, trying to sell her beans. Want some beans missus? She asked, in a raspy voice. Them’s magic beans they are, she continued, give you magic powers. The power to tame dragons. To walk on water. To travel across the seven kingdoms with the wind . . .

Ooh, said her mum, I like that one.

Will you take them then? Asked Josie.

I might, said her mum, but first, dwarf, I want you to tell me a story. Tell me the story of your life.

You might want to sit down then, said Josie.

They sat at the kitchen table. Josie opened the beans and spooned them onto plates.

I was born in the fourth of the seven Kingdoms, said Josie. A place called Rackadon. A beautiful land it was, full of bounty, fresh clear rivers, a land ringed by mountains, free of strife. My parents were disappointed, because they wanted a fine strapping boy to work the land, but they were honest folk who showed me much love. An idyllic childhood I had, but I was despised by one who would call himself my brother, and one day he tricked my parents into thinking I had perished, but instead he pushed me through a magic door which sent me many leagues away, to a land of strangers, where I had to learn to fight, and I did by hacking at people’s ankles with my little axe . . .

That doesn’t sound nice, said Josie’s mum.

It wasn’t, continued Josie. And I was once sold as a slave into a harem, where I learnt the arts of pleasuring women and men, which was a much more pleasant way to spend my days. Alas the harem burnt down when a group of jealous wives threw burning marrow through the windows. I escaped, but life has been difficult for me. I am now selling magic beans in order to raise enough money to finally get back to Rackadon where I shall seek vengeance on he who wronged me by hacking at his ankles with my little axe.

Well, good luck with that, said Josie’s mum.

Thanks, said Josie.

They finished their beans. Josie took their plates and scraped them into the bin, spattering the dead Sunburst balloons with tomato sauce. As she scraped she looked out of the window at the dragon shrieking and flapping in the sky above.

My dragon, she said quietly.

 

[Anonymous]

Love is in the air.

​

The dwarf looked at him quizzically. Gnomes were not known for making sense at the best of times, but even for one of his kind, he might as well have been speaking in Elvish.

“So, we fill it with air, see.” The Gnome thrust a finger at the drawing in front of him, “And it’ll rise up like.”

“Like what?”

“No mun, it’ll just rise up innit.” Replied the gnome, “But I spose if you wanna simile I can think of one for yoo next week.”

The dwarf shook his head, “Does it need a simile? Will it help it fly?

The gnome shook his head, “Ah, bloody dwarves. You know what your trouble is pal? You got no culture.”

Orophor stroked his dwarfish beard. The Sun Burst was due within the week and he couldn’t wait for a simile. He would have to do without, “Will it be ready?”

“Aye, son. Got me best Gnomes on it as we speak. There’re over by there in the workshop.”

Behind them, several Gnomes were inflating a large bag of some sort. Orophor looked at the plans again. He was sure they must be upside down.

“Look, I can see you’re confused like.”

“Like what?”

The Gnome sighed, “I mean, you don’t think it’ll work do ee.”

Orophor looked at the plans, then at the giant bag, then at the plans again. No, he didn’t think it would work. Being stood in a basket with a bag over the top didn’t exactly fill him with confidence. How was he supposed to get it in the air? Push it off a cliff?

“No,” he said at last, “I don’t see how a bag of air is meant to fly?”

“Not just any air, mun. Hot air!”

Orophor took a deep breath. The things Dwarves do for love. He fumbled with the ring in his pocket. In three days, so the cleric had said, the moon would cross over the sun and create the Sun Burst. A perfect romantic opportunity.

“It’ll all work out, pal. Don’t you worry about a thing,” said the Gnome, “What do ee want it for anyway? If you don’t mind my asking.”

“I’m planning to propose.”

“Propose what?”

“To someone.”

“Aye, that’s generally how they work, but what’s your thesis?”

“My what? Thesis?” frowned Orophor. Must be a Gnomish word for it, “I suppose she’s called Gertha.”

The Gnome folded his arms, “Must be a dwarfish thing like,” he said, and before Orophor could ask what the dwarfish thing was like, the Gnome yelled something in Gnomish at his workers before stomping off into the workshop.

Gnomes, thought Orophor, dumbest race in all the world. He looked at the plans again. Perhaps he should’ve hired an Elf.

 

[Anonymous]

The iron door shut hard with a deep, resonating sound that briefly drowned out the thunderous footsteps of the approaching beast.

“Did you have to push me so hard?” Grecellius shouted, picking himself up off the chamber floor, “I am blind, you know.”

“It’s fine. You’re a healer, heal yourself,” Toopreer said, her breathing still heavy from their escape. She grabbed a torch off the wall and waved it around the chamber, her thief’s dagger poised in her right hand, “We’re safe for now. It’s an old crypt, I think…Looks like it’s already been raided. The only way out is that door we came through…You’d better tell me what that thing was?”

“What did it look like?”

As the rumbling footsteps grew louder, Toopreer began searching the chamber. Coffins sat in the walls, already smashed open, their skeletal contents lay strewn everywhere like sticks on a forest floor.

“Troll-like, five heads, seemed to glow blue like an Ice Golem.”

Grecellius scratched his head and looked in her general direction.

“Well, let’s see now. Taking your description and, of course, knowing that we are in the Dungeons of Brue, I would have to hazard a guess and say that it was probably the Guardian - the Five-headed, Ice Troll of Brue?”

“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, Grecellius? Anyway, I thought you said there would be no monsters?”

“Well, yes, assuming that you followed my instructions to the letter, otherwise, I said, the Guardian would arise.”

Toopreer came over to him, noticing the torchlight flickering in his misty white eyes.

“I did follow your instructions, old man. I placed the Tooth of Mitor on the Scales of Arkalborn…”

“Yes.”

“…Then I took the Red Stone of Waylen Sea and wedged it in the Claw of the White Dragon…”

“Yes.”

“…Then I pushed the Claw into the hole of the statue, shouted the magic words ‘Bal Loon’, and stood back and waited for the Sword to arise, to quote you directly, in a magnificent, sunburst ray of…”

“All wrong!”

“What?!”

“It’s all wrong...it wasn’t the tooth…it was teeth…all of the one thousand gold teeth! What is the God of Arkalborn going to do with one tooth, for heavens sake?!”

“Well, I thought he might have a gap.”

“…And it wasn’t the Red Stone…I said Dead Stone…that black, soulless lump that constantly murmurs like an undead sheep in your sack. That was the stone to wedge in the Dragon Claw. We went over this!”

They stopped as the thunderous footsteps paused outside their chamber.

Toopreer looked over at the door.

“Shhh,” she whispered, “How do we get round the troll? Can it be reasoned with?”

Grecellius chuckled.

“No-one reasons with that troll. The only thing it’ll want is to stop us taking the Sword.”

“Oh, well, in that case I think we’re saved,” Toopreer said as the thunderous footsteps began moving away again.

“Really?” Grecellius said, his lips forming a grin.

“Yep…we can’t take the Sword. There’s no handle on this door. We’re trapped.”

 

[Anonymous]

In the waning heat of a burnt orange sun, Swallows fed on the wing while the warrior sat, slumped, her weather-worn bulk sprawled over the roots of the Weeping Willow as its leaves sheltered her from the evening breeze. Still like plate steel, the water in the lake gave life to those Swallows as they skimmed its surface, making minute adjustments to their wing tips, producing a masterly course in volitation, and demonstrating a level of precision second only to the warrior herself. And as two female wolves emerged tentatively from the brush, around the clearing and throughout the forest, the evening chorus gushed forth like the sunburst light of a supernova that penetrated the dense foliage, chasing away the shadows, and sighing with grieving prose the heart-wrenching news for all to hear; her time has come.

Of all those touched by that news, the Sun tasted the bitterness foremost, having been unable to come to her aid and being an unwilling witness to her final moments. As the evening song filled its soul, guilt swathed the fiery ball, flushing it red with the blood of countless ends to which it had been exposed, and it slowly fell from view, hiding its irreprehensible head behind the mountainous range that would stand watch over her body that night. A close second to the Sun, were the two lupine guests that now lay by her side, their furry bodies shaking with the anguish of loss and the knowledge that the Warrior’s joyous song and jubilant cheer would no longer caress the natural world nor fill their hearts with peace. And as the burden of that loss became excruciatingly painful to bear, the two female wolves sat up on their haunches and began to wail their sorrow, casting the news beyond the forest edge and out into the realm itself; she is gone.

The immediate hurt overwhelmed all living things, but those wisest among them knew that the pain would soften and the heat would dissipate, for they had learned the truth that the greener things had yet to perceive. For while the warrior’s body sat slumped under the Weeping Willow as a reminder to all of her being, her spirit had stepped out, overcoming the barrier between lives and taking up the next, as part of an unending, existential path of enlightenment that all livings things would tread. And while the wolves wailed at the moon and the sun sobbed behind the mountain peaks, the warrior sat slumped under a Weeping Willow in her next life, and here she got to her feet, blew a kiss to those she had left behind, and opened her arms to the welcoming cheer of all living things around her; things that she had known before and had returned to. For that was the truth that those wisest had learned, a truth the greener things had yet to perceive, that the existential path was a circle and in the end we would all be together again.

 

[Anonymous]

In the waning heat of a burnt orange sun, Swallows fed on the wing while the warrior sat, slumped, her weather-worn bulk sprawled over the roots of the Weeping Willow as its leaves sheltered her from the evening breeze. Still like plate steel, the water in the lake gave life to those Swallows as they skimmed its surface, making minute adjustments to their wing tips, producing a masterly course in volitation, and demonstrating a level of precision second only to the warrior herself. And as two female wolves emerged tentatively from the brush, around the clearing and throughout the forest, the evening chorus gushed forth like the sunburst light of a supernova that penetrated the dense foliage, chasing away the shadows, and sighing with grieving prose the heart-wrenching news for all to hear; her time has come.

Of all those touched by that news, the Sun tasted the bitterness foremost, having been unable to come to her aid and being an unwilling witness to her final moments. As the evening song filled its soul, guilt swathed the fiery ball, flushing it red with the blood of countless ends to which it had been exposed, and it slowly fell from view, hiding its irreprehensible head behind the mountainous range that would stand watch over her body that night. A close second to the Sun, were the two lupine guests that now lay by her side, their furry bodies shaking with the anguish of loss and the knowledge that the Warrior’s joyous song and jubilant cheer would no longer caress the natural world nor fill their hearts with peace. And as the burden of that loss became excruciatingly painful to bear, the two female wolves sat up on their haunches and began to wail their sorrow, casting the news beyond the forest edge and out into the realm itself; she is gone.

The immediate hurt overwhelmed all living things, but those wisest among them knew that the pain would soften and the heat would dissipate, for they had learned the truth that the greener things had yet to perceive. For while the warrior’s body sat slumped under the Weeping Willow as a reminder to all of her being, her spirit had stepped out, overcoming the barrier between lives and taking up the next, as part of an unending, existential path of enlightenment that all livings things would tread. And while the wolves wailed at the moon and the sun sobbed behind the mountain peaks, the warrior sat slumped under a Weeping Willow in her next life, and here she got to her feet, blew a kiss to those she had left behind, and opened her arms to the welcoming cheer of all living things around her; things that she had known before and had returned to. For that was the truth that those wisest had learned, a truth the greener things had yet to perceive, that the existential path was a circle and in the end we would all be together again.

I left out "Balloon"...Sorry...Re-posted below.

In the waning heat of a burnt orange sun, Swallows fed on the wing while the warrior sat, slumped, her weather-worn bulk sprawled over the roots of the Weeping Willow as its leaves sheltered her from the evening breeze. Still like plate steel, the water in the lake gave life to those Swallows as they skimmed its surface, making minute adjustments to their wing tips, producing a masterly course in volitation, and demonstrating a level of precision second only to the warrior herself. And as two female wolves emerged tentatively from the brush, around the clearing and throughout the forest, the evening chorus gushed forth like the sunburst light of a supernova that penetrated the dense foliage, chasing away the shadows, and sighing with grieving prose the heart-wrenching news for all to hear; her time has come.

Of all those touched by that news, the Sun tasted the bitterness foremost, having been unable to come to her aid and being an unwilling witness to her final moments. As the evening song filled its soul, guilt swathed the fiery ball, flushing it red with the blood of countless ends to which it had been exposed, and it slowly fell from view, hiding its irreprehensible head behind the mountainous range that would stand watch over her body that night. A close second to the Sun, were the two lupine guests that now lay by her side, their furry bodies shaking with the anguish of loss and the knowledge that the Warrior’s joyous song and jubilant cheer would no longer caress the natural world nor fill their hearts with peace. And as the burden of that loss became excruciatingly painful to bear, the two female wolves sat up on their haunches and began to wail their sorrow, casting the news beyond the forest edge and out into the realm itself; she is gone.

The immediate hurt overwhelmed all living things, but those wisest among them knew that the ballooning pain would soften and dissipate, for they had learned the truth that the greener things had yet to perceive. For while the warrior’s body sat slumped under the Weeping Willow as a reminder to all of her being, her spirit had stepped out, overcoming the barrier between lives and taking up the next, as part of an unending, existential path of enlightenment that all livings things would tread. And while the wolves wailed at the moon and the sun sobbed behind the mountain peaks, the warrior sat slumped under a Weeping Willow in her next life, and here she got to her feet, blew a kiss to those she had left behind, and opened her arms to the welcoming cheer of all living things around her; things that she had known before and had returned to. For that was the truth that those wisest had learned, a promise the greener things had yet to perceive, that the existential path was a circle and in the end they would all be together again.

 

[Emily]

I left out "Balloon"...Sorry...Re-posted below.

Good catch

 

[Anonymous]

A bit late with the balloon HORROR - hope ok to post after the fantasy ones . .

LUNGS

‘Okay, settle down.’ Miss Hebden, our biology teacher, moves the acetate on the projector. I inhale as her hand- shadow blocks then reveals the diagram.

The clock says ‘9.’ On the shelf beneath, a vivarium holds cockroaches. They rummage through bark chippings and newspaper. Cockroaches breathe through holes in their body. That’s why they can live for a month with their heads chopped off. They die only because they can’t eat.

I look at my table. At what’s warming, in front of me. Decaying. Covered in cloth. I press. Squidgy. A cross hatch of brown, the size of my fingertip, leaks through. Pretty.

‘Penny Driscoll!’

I jump. Gasp! A marker pen hits my forehead at the same time, so it’s a double jump really. My biro skitters off the table. I bend to get it, scraping my stool. It yowls in the hush.

‘Pay attention!’ Miss Hebden’s face pinks up like it’s been slapped. In the old days they slapped new born babies if they weren’t breathing.

I’ve been paired with Tommy Brunt. He’s sniggering snorty breaths. I bury my gaze into the table’s graffiti. Might add my own.

‘Begin!’ orders Hebden.

Tommy elbows me and lifts the cloth.

Pig lungs. Maroon-brown, like jasper. Shiny-tacky like the skin of drinking chocolate. The faint odour sticks in my nose. I like it.

‘Refer to the diagram. Count the lobes. Inflate and deflate. Carefully!’

‘I’ll do it,’ Tommy hisses. His spit lands on my hand. We both pretend we haven’t noticed. Tommy thinks I’m smiling because I agree with him.

On the shelf opposite the axolotl hangs motionless in its watery tank. It breathes mainly through its gills. They have very basic lungs, little more than long balloons. I pick up my scalpel.

‘We’re not dissecting. We’re testing the lungs, flat face,’ says Tommy, snatching the tubing. One end attaches to the air tap. The other end he pushes inside the trachea. The cartilage is tight. He gets it in, turns the tap and air flows into the lungs. In out. In out. Inflate. Deflate. The lung lobes separate. Ballooning.

‘Heh, heh, heh,’ he sniggers. ‘I bet this is what you look on the inside,’ he taunts. ‘Every bit as disgusting as you look on the outside.’

I think, you really are vile. They all are. Breathing. Taking up space. Sucking air from me.

I slash gills into Tommy’s throat. Snick, snick. Blood feathers spurt. His eyes roll. Did the pig’s eyes roll when it was stunned in the abattoir?

I spurt a laugh. I’ve stunned the class. Mouths gape like hooked fish. Tommy’s swimming on the floor, gurgling in a red halo. I lean on his chest. His voice bubbles.

‘Doesn’t sound like you, Tommy.’ I’m breathing fast. I’m flying. Hebden runs. ‘What does the pig say? Let’s ask.’ I push down on the pig lung forcing air through the larynx.

It makes a wheezy oink – of course it would! Why shouldn’t it have the last word with its breath?

 

[Emily]

Congratulations to @Sam A for his winning entry Ryan's World.

There were some really fantastic entries this month (the pirate ones were my particular favourite! ) WELL DONE and thanks to everyone who took part