A disaster zone, debris and desolation spread as far as she could see.
Stepping over obstacles as she walked, ‘things were normal when I left, what happened?’
Shrugging his shoulders, he was seemingly as lost for an explanation as his mother was.
‘What else can I expect, leaving a toddler alone for five minutes’
Such was the volume, she heard the music not through her ears but reverberating through her entire body.
‘You come here often?’
‘No’ is all she could manage, an accurate reflection of her mood
‘I’m Ben’, he offered his hand while dancing with the grace of a giraffe in roller skates.
Charmed I’m sure.
Sitting behind my desk like a 100m sprinter, itching to begin. Creativity replacing the starting pistol.
Covering the first 20 without noticing and I close in on 50, the finish line appears. Then like a hamstring my thought pattern snaps, mind screaming, that’s enough!
A flash fiction writer feigns accident, then smiles winning halfway.
Surrounded by hundreds yet unbearably alone, fearfully dragging himself through the crowd. When they see him, their heads turn before hands suddenly clutch at his arms. They lift him quickly and his world spins helplessly below his flailing legs.
He can’t yet mouth words but his heart screams clearly, ‘Where has my Mother gone!?’
This post is not in my usual 55 word style. This story was inspired by the work of SGood Images, I hope you enjoy my first attempt at a slightly longer thriller fiction.
Valerie Naughton hasn’t been since in three weeks. She was seen last by her family in the afternoon of Boxing Day 26 December. Anyone with any information should call crimestoppers on…
No one had been in the house since she had vanished. They couldn’t bring themselves to face the memories held by her home. Memories of the sunshine flood lounge room, the orange tree in the backyard or the afternoons littered with tea cups.
Most of all they couldn’t bare to be faced with the uncertainty of her fate.
Oblivious to this we entered the ‘abandoned’ home, to our left a hall table; to our right a open suitcase full of old books. Turning right past the dust covered books, they entered the front lounge room. Pulling back the dark green curtain, light filled the room, highlighting just how much dust there was.
The tea cup and saucer on the coffee table and an open TV guide on the floor; we suddenly began to think the house was no longer abandoned.
Damien said we should go, but I was too far in now to turnaround. Fearfully he pleaded with me. You surely aren’t scared of a little dust?
The sounds of pots clambered in the kitchen.
Gripping his hand tightly, it was quite clear he wasn’t the only one who was scared.
Slowly we traced our steps backwards out of the room. With each step our heart rates dropped. Then just when we thought we were clear we fell backwards into the hallway, turning to see our feet entangled in the suitcase of old books like insects in a venus fly trap.
Then we saw him.
His fiercly wild eyes burning holes through us, racing across the hall like a angry spider to his prey. His skin was old and weathered, his clothing; filthy, torn and soiled.
Frantically we scrambled to our feet before racing down the hall.
‘Get out of my house, she wouldn’t want you here!’, the last words we heard before busting through the backdoor and into the yard.
‘Was that real’ Damien’s fear had transcended into something more.
‘Let’s go’ I said, not wanting to even entertain the thought of how pursuer. ‘We’ll jump the fence’
The grass was long, not thin like wheat fields but thick, like tentacles gripping at our legs. A few meters from the fence, we heard the door fly open. He was now carrying a large rusty kitchen knife, his face full of rage.
Then I saw her.
Her face was pale, in stark contrast to the dark green grass around her face and her eyes vacant, devoid of all emotion and life. In the middle of yard, her hands by her side; lying … alone.
I was caught but her gaze, I stopped and lifted her lifeless body to mine.
‘That’s not yours’ he said, all rage seemingly vanished from his voice, the knife falling from his hand. ‘That doll you’re holding was Valerie’s, I need it. It’s the last memory I have of her’.
Tears now running down his cheeks, he fell to his knees. I looked at the doll then back at the man collapsed helplessly on the lawn.
‘Come on. What are you doing?’ Damien’s voice came from over the fence.
I didn’t answer, I walked towards him with the doll outstretched in my arms like an offering. As I got closer, I could see his details. Mangey matted hair, his heavy beard and and overgrown yellow nails. His appearance disgusted me, but his love for ‘Valerie’ drew me in.
Taking the doll gently in his arms he drew it slowly in against his chest, wrapping his tweed jacket around it like a mother would her baby. Rocking back and forth he started to sing.
Hush little baby don’t you cry
Daddy’s going to sing you a lullaby…
My own eyes welling with tears, it was obvious whoever Valerie was, he loved her dear.
Hush little baby don’t you cry
I’m going to kill and tell you way…
I wasn’t sure I heard him correctly until he turned on his feet, the rusted blade in his hands once again. I tried to flee but it was too late, he had a handful of my hair and was leading me towards a door.
‘Help’ I screamed, ‘Damien!’
Hush little baby don’t you cream
Valerie is gone, having an eternal dream…
The fear took hold of me, had he killed Valerie? I could no longer speak, let alone scream.
Throwing me to the floor in the corner of a dark aluminium shed I struggled to look around. All I saw was his silhouetted figure at the door, the doll in one hand, his blade in the other.
Hush little baby I’ll make this quick
A slash across the throat will do the trick
Closing my eyes, I prayed for the first time in fifteen years.
Looking back now, it was stupid to enter a house just to snoop around in what we thought was an abandoned house. I know physically in was Damien who called the police and who climbed back over the fence but still to this day, I refuse to underestimate the power of prayer.
Arthur Long was sentenced to life imprisonment today for the Murder of Valerie Naughton. Mr Long had been bunkered in the victim’s home since initial police investigations had moved on. Mr Long nearly claimed his second victim when two teenagers stumbled across him while exploring what they thought was an abandoned home.
36 Claymorton St was written in reposnse to the images of SGoode Images. Find them here, on facebook
His chest heaving, he saluted; struggling to stand, his bat his only aid.
His opponent, half dead awaiting the verdict.
The crowd rose with the emperor’s fist, then erupted as it turned.
Flinching on impact, then turning off the television as the credits began to roll.
“Modern gladiators fighting zombies, now I’ve seen it all”
In response to Jezri’s Nightmares #zombiegames prompt
‘The black ones with the pink on the sides’
‘What about a different pair sweetie? How about these black ones, they won’t be as tight and probably more comfortable.”
‘I want these ones Mum,’ Stomping foot to highlight his point.
‘Come on now, we’ll find something else,’ taking his small hand in hers.
As a boy I wanted to wear black bike shorts with hot pink stripes, thankfully my Mum knew better than to allow a chubby little boy to embarrass himself like this. Thanks Mum and HAPPY MOTHERS DAY
Strapping the goggles to his head, Albert peered through the glass, sure he’d find the answers.
His reassured smile soon turned. With or without the goggles, the screen is still full of what seems to be hieroglyphics.
“I guess I’m too old for computers. What did he mean ‘find it through a goggle search’ anyway?”
In response to Lillie McFerrin’s Five Sentence fiction prompt
Darkness as far as one sees
Temperature dipped below seven
The heart whispers ‘be still’, all else screams ‘flee’
Anticipation grows
Fear holds its hand and builds as one
Tear streaked cheeks and quivering lips
Glamour fades with light
Possibilities remain but all else sleeps
Tension thick
Courage falters with time
Trepidation lives at midnight
In response to 365 Things to write about’s prompt of ‘midnight’
I call but explosions drown out my cry. I am but a soldier in a battle zone, watching my love pass away. Watching her disappear amongst air strikes I lift my glass, administering pain relief.
I lift my head to the skies losing myself in its dazzlingly beauty. There’s now no reason left to live.
Is response to Jezri’s Nightmares 55 word challenge, there were three image prompts to include; a disco ball, fireworks and a glass of red wine.
fifty5words 