#FridayFlash - Payment Taken

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I don't normally do multiple part stories, but this week's flash follows on from last week's story, The Shadow Cabinet. I'm not sure if everyone gets the reference, but in the UK, the party (or coalition) in power present a cabinet of ministers with different jobs who are theoretically responsible for those areas. The party in opposition presents a cabinet of ministers with those same job titles, but in a 'shadow' capacity as they aren't in power, hence 'Shadow Cabinet'. I just prefer my own Shadow Cabinet ;-)

* * *

Prime Minister Etherington sat at his desk, staring at the single sheet of paper in front of him. It was pale cream, edged in a sooty residue that now spotted the ink-stained blotter beneath it. A line of type sat in the centre of the page.

Problem solved. Payment taken.

He didn't need the page to tell him this. He'd been listening to the reports for the last five days. The mysterious plague that began affecting the citizens who'd long graced their Suspicion Lists, the same plague that wiped out the entire Ministry of Secrecy in neighbouring Retirany. The supposedly natural disasters that destroyed whole sections of Retirany's major cities, throwing the entire populace first into uproar, and then disarray. He didn't need to be told why it was happening.

Etherington knew that could be explained by the first half of the message. He slumped forward, his fingers curling into his hair as he cradled his head in his hand. The first half was bad enough, but nothing connected those events to his meeting with the Shadow Cabinet. Indeed, Parliament congratulated him on his decisive action, and the destruction of the threat to the nation. They'd figured out the connection between the two, and didn't seem to question the ethics of destroying the lives of innocent citizens to wipe out an invasion plot. During those first five days, he didn't even question it himself. However, what he did mind, what really bothered him, was the second half of the message.

For every Retiran citizen who perished, they lost one of their own population. Not through natural disasters, or mysterious plagues that could be noticed by one side or the other - they simply ceased to be, winked out of existence without warning or fanfare. Etherington didn't need to know why. He'd asked the Shadow Cabinet for help, and now he needed to reconcile himself to what they'd done. They'd tipped the scales first one way, and then the other. His only advantage was that no one else knew; the moment one of their own population disappeared, they took the memories of their existence with them. No one remembered or mourned them. The nation simply seemed quieter, and less crowded than usual.

Only Etherington knew they had once existed, and now because of him, they didn't. That was the price he'd had to pay.

#FridayFlash - The Shadow Cabinet

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Image by Krappweis. Edits by me.

Prime Minister Etherington sat at his desk, staring at the reports laid out before him. The words swam before his eyes, with particular phrases leering at him. “Possible conspiracy”…. “grave threat to the nation”…. “utmost importance”…. “imminent danger”… “I have no idea what to make of all of this. Can any of it be substantiated?” he asked.

“Of course, sir. We’ve triple checked all of it before we even brought it to you. Loughborough thought it was just rumour but sadly not,” replied the short man standing near the door. He held a bowler hat in one hand, and a battered briefcase in the other.

“So what do we do?” asked the Prime Minister.

“That was rather what we were hoping you might be able to answer, sir,” replied the short man.

“It’s been so long since we had to deal with conspiracies and whatnot. My great-uncle would have known what to do,” said the Prime Minister. He looked up at the portrait of Finnigan Etherington above the fireplace.

“I do not wish to sound trite but unfortunately he is no longer here. We need to know what to do about all of this. I’ve asked Dundridge to come up here to advise.”

“Dundridge? I don’t recognise the name.”

“He’s the Head of the Secret Service, sir. He keeps himself possibly too secret, but if it’s anyone’s job to sort this out, it’s his.” The short man deposited his briefcase on the floor.

A triple knock sounded at the door.

“Come in,” called the Prime Minister.

The door opened, and a tall, thin man entered. He wore a long black trenchcoat and a black fedora.

“Ah, Dundridge! I’ve been explaining the situation to the Prime Minister,” said the short man.

“Damned shame, sir, damned shame. I’ve had men on this for some time now and all they can give me is bad news,” said Dundridge. His voice barely rose above a whisper, and the Prime Minister could see why he’d work so well in the Secret Service.

“So what do I do? Mackleworth here tells me that you’re the man to give advice on this,” said the Prime Minister.

“I’ve got eyes and ears everywhere, sir, and this thing is bigger than we can perhaps realise. I think there’s only one thing you can do.”

“Which is?”

“Consult the Shadow Cabinet.”

The Prime Minister gulped at the mention of the name. As far as anyone knew, the Shadow Cabinet had existed long before Parliament – possibly long before the nation itself. No one would dare doubt their loyalty, but they might question their methods.

“I really don’t want to bother them, Dundridge.”

“You might have to, sir.”

“There are reasons we don’t involve the Shadow Cabinet in decisions. Their assistance always comes with a price. Remember what happened to Heartstone?"

The short man shuddered.

“But still, sir, this is bigger than any of us. None of us are equipped to put down a conspiracy of this size. The Shadow Cabinet are, sir,” said Dundridge.

The Prime Minister looked at the reports on his desk and nodded. He didn’t want to admit it, but Dundridge was right. Perhaps their price would be reasonable this time given the severity of the threat.

He left Dundridge and the short man in his office, and made his way through the House of Parliament to an old door at the far end of the building. This part of the House was at least two centuries older than his own wing, and it existed in a twilight of shadow and silence.

The Prime Minister knocked on the door. A few moments passed, and it swung inwards without a creak. He straightened his tie and entered.

He found himself in a large wood-panelled chamber, with ancient tapestries covering the walls, and straw strewn across the stone floor. Fires blazed in iron wall braziers, casting flickering shadows around the room.

“Prime Minister Etherington. I do not think we have seen you for at least a year.” A deep voice sounded from the far end of the room.

The Prime Minister inched into the chamber, until a long table became visible in the low light. Five shadowy figures sat at the table, and the Prime Minister gulped. The Shadow Cabinet was comprised of seven – where were the other two?

“I apologise for my absence, things have been rather hectic.”

“Indeed, and with the current state of affairs I imagine they will only get more hectic.”

“Well that is why I’m here.” The Prime Minister explained everything that he’d been told that morning, though he got the feeling he was telling the Shadow Cabinet things that they already knew.

“This is indeed a difficult situation, Prime Minister, but it is not without resolution in the favour of our great nation,” said the shadow with the deep voice.

“It’s not?”

“We can solve this problem with little trouble to ourselves.”

“And…er…your price?”

“We will name our price when we have solved the problem.”

The Prime Minister frowned. What a risk to take! Would the price be too high? He thought again of the reports on his desk and sighed. He couldn’t solve this himself – there was simply no other way.

“Very well.” He heard himself saying the words before he’d even realised he agreed to their terms.

“Excellent. Expect a resolution within 48 hours.”

The shadow held out its hand, a dark stain against the air around it. The Prime Minister held out his own, and the shake sealed the deal. He withdrew his hand as quickly as he could, eager to get some warmth back into his skin, and he hurried out of the stone room.

As he headed back to his office, he glanced down at his palm. Either some residue had been left by the Chairman of the Shadow Cabinet….or he had blood on his hands.

#FridayFlash - The Visitor

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Soft white flakes float from the clear sky. They settle across cracked roofs, in blocked gutters, and between the cobblestones in the narrow lane. The door to the parish church stands ajar, and carols drift out into the cold night air. Only devoted worshippers venture abroad as most souls seek the refuge of the family hearth.

A solitary figure trudges down the lane, pulling the cloak of close-woven sadness tighter around her neck. Her feet drag along the slick cobbles. The gaslights flicker as she passes, and even the shadows weep, feeling a sudden wave of despair. She peers left and right at the lop-sided buildings that line the forgotten street. Frost glitters on naked beams and icicles hang from rotten eaves.

The figure stops at a cramped dwelling opposite the remains of a milliner’s shop. Light spills out of the window, painting the snow with a golden glow. The figure wipes the bottom pane of glass with her sleeve and peers inside. A family gather around a roaring fire, basking in the warmth of the crackling flames. The father sits in a rocking chair, a toddler on his knee. He leads the family in a raucous song that ends with the clinking of glasses and the exchange of well wishes. The figure sidles along the front of the house to the door, but the handle does not budge. She swears at the lock.

The figure turns away from the happy household. She flicks her cloak, sending ripples of melancholy down the lane. A scavenging alley cat howls in the shadows. The figure stops at the next house. As before, she wipes a sooty layer of frost from the window and peers inside. No fire blazes in the grate of this house. No carols are sung, and no bonhomie warms her face through the glass.

Instead, she spies a lonely figure, hunched over a writing desk. A single candle burns, casting flickering shadows across the cramped writing. The nib of the pen scratches across the paper. The writer looks up, gazing at the wall between herself and the happy family. Envy and misery chase each other across her pale face. The cloaked figure clasps her hands together, as something blossoms in the cavern where her heart should be. She feels a surge of kinship towards this writer.

The figure reaches for the handle, and finds the door unlocked. It opens easily at her touch. She casts off her cloak of sorrow and steps inside. The writer looks up, and smiles. She will welcome anyone on this lonely Christmas Day, even Melancholy herself.

* * *

I'm not well so this is a repost!

#FridayFlash - Wake Me

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I see the man on the subway every morning, always slumped in the same seat, his chin resting on his chest as he snores. A cardboard sign hangs around his neck, the string entangled with his faded tie, with the words 'Wake me at the end of the line' written in a childish but legible hand. It's confusing because the Red Line is circular - unless you count 8th Street West where trains go in or out of service, there is no end of the line. I sometimes wonder if that's why I see him every morning - maybe he never gets off the train. Maybe he lives here.

He's the only reason most of us talk to each other. We exchange theories as to who he is, or what could be at the end of the line that he needs to wake up for. Weirdly, none of us are brave enough to wake him early, though everyone claims to know someone who tried. One of my fellow commuters, a marketing rep named Dan, suspects he's trying to become an urban legend. We nickname him The Snooze.

Months pass and he keeps sleeping on the train, dozing through the rattles and clatter of the morning commute. We keep theorising about him, and the morning commute begins something to savour; for some of us, it's the only kind word we'll have all day. Every evening I hitch a lift with Sally from sales, but I sometimes consider catching the train. Maybe he'll still be there.

Today it all changes. The Snooze still sleeps on the train, dressed in black instead of his usual threadbare tweed. He wears a smart trilby instead of his battered fedora. The sign is still cardboard, but instead of scrawl, elegant calligraphy spells out the words 'Wake me at the end of it all'. I can't stop staring at the sign, and I notice it earns more attention from my fellow passengers. We're all still staring at it when the ominous rumbling starts. It's the last thing we see when darkness swallows our carriage.

I reach out a trembling hand to wake him.

Original image by Keeper182. Edits by me.

#FridayFlash - Footsteps

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Image by HBrinkman

I'm reading in bed when I hear footsteps on the stairs. I freeze, book in hand, listening hard. I hope it's just the house settling, floorboards getting used to the night time air, but no, I hear them again. Footsteps, but I'm the only one home. I wriggle further under the covers, as though a duvet will somehow protect me.

The footsteps stop on the landing, and head for the bathroom. Whoever it is hasn't made any effort to be quiet. I can hear the tap running, and what sounds like someone scrubbing their teeth. What? What intruder brushes their teeth?

I throw back the covers and get out of bed. I reach the door just as the tap stops in the bathroom. I look onto the landing in time to see the intruder open the door.

I watch myself leave the bathroom dressed in the clothes I was wearing before I got changed for bed. The other me crosses the landing and walks straight through me, as if I'm not standing here. I feel nothing but a breeze but the other me shivers. I remember shivering before I went to bed, making a mental note to turn up the heating.

The other me, the me that was, gets changed and slips into bed. I watch her start reading, engrossed in her book until she hears what I hear - footsteps on the stairs.

#FridayFlash - Allergy

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By Jan van Grevenbroeck (1731-1807)

The clock in the square struck one. Karea cursed under her breath; she hated being late. She stood on her toes to peer above the heads of the crowd. They jostled and shoved outside the cathedral. Some brandished placards, while others waved banners in a righteous frenzy. “The dead have rights too” and “We’re sick, not criminals” were two of the more popular slogans.

She edged along the edge of the crowd, caught between protestors and onlookers. Many of those watching the demonstration held handkerchiefs to their mouths, or buried their faces in nosegays. Karea wondered why they didn’t just stay away, if they were so scared of the Contagion.

The crowd petered out on the far side of the square, and Karea slipped into a narrow alley between a bakery and a milliner’s. Looking back, she could see mounted militia surrounding the protestors. They sat astride huge chestnut stallions, all wearing black government-issue masks. The long ibis-like nose would be filled with strongly scented flowers. Karea wondered how many people would succumb to hay fever before the Contagion itself.

Karea burst out of the alley as a tram pulled up to the stop across the street. She hurled herself across the cobbled stones, narrowly avoiding a pony and trap driven by a young boy. She climbed on board, and squeezed herself between two elderly women clad in black. She nodded at each in turn, acknowledging their loss. A purple hat band indicated that the woman on her right had lost someone a lot earlier than the woman on the left. Probably when the Contagion first started.

Two government officials flanked the trembling conductor. Blue eyes burned bright behind the ibis masks. Karea shuddered. She wondered if the masks were intended to protect the officials, or to intimidate the populace.

Several passengers alighted at the next stop. Karea dropped her gaze from the window; she didn’t need to see them file into the cemetery. She also didn’t need to see the gravediggers and their pits, shovelling quicklime onto anonymous corpses, dumped in ignoble piles.

A tickle in her nose made Karea look up. A woman settled into the seat opposite, heaving a wicker basket onto her knee. A cat the colour of marmalade sat in the basket. It looked at her with brazen interest. Karea felt her stomach drop as the first sneeze struggled to escape. She left off a volley of rapid sneezes, each more violent than the last. The passengers scattered, clawing at each other in their attempts to get away from her.

The government officials swooped. Each clamped a gloved hand on her arms, hauling her to her feet. The tram lurched to a halt, and they pulled her down the stairs into the street. Karea’s protests went unheard as a crowd gathered to investigate the commotion. A cart waited by the gutter; the livery was that of the House of the Stricken. One of the officials fought to tie a cloth mask over her lower face.

“I’m not sick!” shouted Karea, her words lost in the thick fabric. “I’m just allergic to cats!”

* * *

I first posted this way back in 2010 and am re-posting because the whirl of Christmas and New Year have gotten in the way of writing anything new...plus, I was always rather proud of this one.

#FridayFlash - Stage Fright

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A hand shoves the small of my back and I stumble forwards. The boards feel rough beneath my bare feet. I look down at the stage lights. Flames once blazed in those fittings; now it's just energy-efficient bulbs. A single spotlight snaps on, drowning out their weak glow. I shield my eyes against the glare, unable to forget what waits in the darkness beyond the stage.

I stand in the spotlight, legs shaking with fear. I know what they want, I know what they came for, and yet I am paralysed.

A low groan erupts from the audience. It starts a ripple of moaning that rolls around the darkened auditorium. Beneath the moans I hear snarls, and between them both I sense the hunger. The anticipation. Someone hisses something at me from stage left; I cannot make out the words but I get the gist. I am to dance.

Creaky calliope music blares into life from the shadows at stage left. The undulating melody sounds eerie as it echoes around the cavernous theatre, and it takes me a moment to find the rhythm. I start slowly, aware that my movements are jerky and awkward. I never used to be. The snarls die down, overtaken by groans. They like what they see. A fleeting spark of satisfaction flicks through my mind, until I realise that it is ultimately for nothing.

I speed up in time with the music. The knot of fear curled in my stomach relaxes with the certain knowledge that this will all soon be over. I close my eyes as I fall to the floor with the end of the song. I hear scrabbling from the stalls, rotting nails clawing at the wood as they clamber onto the stage. The groans become snarls, and I imagine I hear applause as they fall upon me.

This story was published by Twisted Dreams magazine back in June 2011! Image by Weatherbox, edits by me.

#FridayFlash - Meeting Oneself

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Imgae by Alex Kalina

 It happened on a bitter morning, beset by the sort of cold that you only feel in the dark days before Christmas. I had business in town, and rose early so as to conclude my transactions by a reasonable hour. The house was mostly in darkness, with a single maid trudging between the rooms to light fires in the grates. When I bade her good morning, she looked at me as though she had seen a ghost, and dropped her kindling on the parlour floor.

"Good God, girl, whatever is the matter?" I asked. I was especially surprised as I had not known Elsie to be a fanciful or superstitious creature in the eight months she had worked for me.

"Begging yer pardon, sir, I thought you was someone else." She bent to gather her parcel of wood and paper.

"Who?"

Elsie looked up at me, a somewhat thoughtful expression on her face.

"I din't listen at first, sir, though all the girls was talking about it. But I seen it for myself now."

"What? What did you see?"

"Yer ghost, sir." Elsie replied with no trace of amusement. The girl was deadly serious.

"My ghost?"

"That's right, sir. The other girls thought it was you at first, but then Sally saw it in the kitchen when we knew you was in the dining room with Mr Hardcastle."

I remembered the incident - Hardcastle and I were enjoying dinner when a scream interrupted our hearty conversation. I hurried to discover the source of the cry, but found the kitchen empty. I presumed it to have not been a scream, but rather the cry of some wild animal outside, and dinner continued once more. I had thought of it no more until Elsie raised the subject.

"But I live, Elsie, as you can see for yourself. I would need to be dead to have a ghost."

"Begging yer pardon, sir, but my mother says the living have ghosts too. They pass on messages then they leave."

I shuddered, considering the possibility of a version of myself that was dead somehow invading my home. I caught the earnest expression on Elsie's face and shook the mood from myself.

"Don't be absurd, Elsie. I have no ghost - there are no spirits in this house. Now run along and finish your jobs before Mrs Peterson awakes."

Elsie bobbed in an awkward curtsey and scurried away. The thought of my abrupt housekeeper no doubt scared her more than some silly ghost story.

I left the parlour, intending to visit my library before I left for town. I stood at the head of the long, narrow corridor that led to the back of the house. Little light pervaded its pre-dawn gloom, and I shivered. I debated with myself for several moments about the importance of the papers for my business in town, before mentally shaking myself. I had allowed myself to become unnerved by an idle report, given by a maid, no less. No, it would not do. I plunged into the darkness in the direction of my library.

I opened the door and the sight almost stopped my heart.

The double of myself stood in the centre of the library, the weak dawn rays falling through the figure onto the carpet. I looked closer and saw that it was not quite the double of myself – the right side of its face was horribly burned, contorted into an expression of the purest pain. My hand flew to my own face, my fingers exploring the skin, yet finding it marred by nothing but stubble.

The figure reached out a hand and opened its mouth, its lips forming silent words. I could not make them out, but felt perhaps they were a warning of some kind. The double took two steps toward me, and vanished into the cold morning air. Before I could consider what the apparition might signify, I fell into a faint, and dropped to the floor.

I awoke some six hours later, with my brother in my room and the doctor scratching his illegible symbols into his notebook.

“Edgar! You return to us!” My brother strode to my bedside and peered into my face.

“Indeed I do. What time is it?” The memory of my intended meeting in town returned to me before that of the figure in the library.

“It is eleven in the morning.”

“I was supposed to meet with Fitzherbert three hours ago!”

“Well you shan’t be meeting with him at all now.” My brother crossed himself, and briefly bowed his head. The doctor, despite his scientific allegiances, did likewise.

“What has happened?”

“A fire claimed Fitzherbert’s house in town this morning. His business associates were able to escape but Fitzherbert did not have their good fortune. God rest his soul.”

I thought of the many other instances when I had avoided some misfortune or other by being somewhere other than where I was supposed to be at that moment, and I fell into a faint for the second time that day.

#FridayFlash - Re-possessed

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Photo originally by ColinBroug.

Happy Friday the 13th!

#FridayFlash - Buying Time

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Image by iotdfi.

Walther stood outside the door of Madame Toubert's Emporium, a pawn shop in the depths of the Underground City. From the street, the shop looked like any other; three golden balls hung above the door, and both treasures and trash filled the windows. He shivered and pushed open the door.

A bell jangled, disturbing the funereal atmosphere of the shop. An antique calendar hanging opposite the door proclaimed it to be Monday 19th, though it neglected to mention the month. An old woman dozed behind the counter, and a fat ginger cat beside the till threw him a dirty look. He ignored them both and made his way towards the black door in the far wall. The paint peeled from the wood in elegant curls, and he sought a clear patch of door. He knocked, two quick, sharp knocks followed by two raps. The door swung inward, and a young woman peered out of the shadows within, her yellow eyes glowing in the darkness.

"Yes?"

"I'm here to see, ahem, Count Clock." Walther lowered his voice at the mention of the name, darting glances over his shoulder. The young woman rolled her eyes and gestured for him to step forward.

The door closed behind him, and a cold hand found his in the darkness. Walther guessed it was the young woman, and she led him along a corridor. He bumped into another door at the other end, and she shoved him through the next doorway into a dimly lit room.

Tall candelabras were spaced around the room, their candles burning blue. A silver carriage clock sat on a small mahogany table at the far end of the room. Two men in black frock coats stood either side, hands clasped before them, heads bowed as if in prayer. Reverance hung heavy in the air, and a bead of sweat burst forth at Walther's temple. Perhaps his request wouldn't be granted - or worse, they would ask too much in return.

Another young woman, similar to the first but with electric blue eyes instead of yellow, appeared at his elbow.

"You are here to see Count Clock." She didn't ask, merely stated it.

"That's right."

"It is almost the hour. Be patient, and he will appear."

Walther realised the two men had broken their stances and now stared at him. He knew the Tempus brothers by their reputation alone, and he knew they came armed with knives and truncheons. Still, it wasn't the brothers that he feared. The two young women were clearly Fey, and if they wished it, he wouldn't leave this room alive. Worse still was the Count himself.

The clock chimed the hour, and two small doors at the top of the clock opened. Two silver figures slid out onto a platform, performing an elaborate dance of stilted clockwork moves. Another bead of sweat broke out, this time at the back of Walther's neck. It slipped down beneath his collar, tracing an icy path down his back.

"It would appear we have a petitioner!" A tiny voice rang out in the room, and Walther realised the taller of the two figures on the clock was now pointing at him. He made a small bow in reply.

"And what can we do for you?" The figure beckoned him closer. Walther hesitated, until the woman with electric blue eyes shoved him forwards. He stumbled towards the clock, and lowered himself onto one knee to put himself at eye level with the Count.

"I need more time."

"Don't we all?"

"Sssh, dear. What do you need more time for?" The shorter figure, a woman in an elaborate ballgown, spoke this time.

"My daughter is to be married, and I want to give her a good dowry, but I'm a little short. I only need another couple of weeks to give me time to earn the money to give her."

"How sweet!" exclaimed the Countess.

"Why did you not earn this money sooner?" asked the Count, ignoring his wife.

"I did, sir, but my son fell ill, and I had to pay for medicine. I do not earn enough to make any real savings, sir." Walther bit his lip to stifle a sob.

"What do you do, dear?" asked the Countess.

"I'm a shoemaker, ma'am."

"A noble trade indeed!" said the Countess, clasping her hands together. At her side, the Count rolled his tiny silver eyes.

"I am not sure..." said the Count. Walther's stomach lurched.

"A word, dear?" The Countess pulled the Count to one side. Walther could not hear their low voices, but he marvelled at the craftsmanship of the silver figures as they gesticulated wildly. A few moments passed, and the Count returned to the front of the platform.

"It would appear, Mr Peckwith, that my wife has taken a shine to you and your petition. I will grant you the two weeks that you request as extra time. In return, I would like you to make a pair of shoes fit for a Countess."

Walther froze. He hadn't expected the Count to agree - but he hadn't given much of a thought to what he might be asked to supply.

"For your wife?"

"Yes. When your two weeks are over, one of my associates will bring her to you for measurements."

The clock chimed and the two figures withdrew inside their respective doors. The Tempus brothers snorted, and Walther realised they'd been holding their breath. The blue-eyed Fey slipped a token into his hand, and pulled him towards the door. The yellow-eyed woman waited in the corridor, and led him back towards the pawn shop.

"You get what you wanted?" she asked as she opened the door into the shop.

Walther nodded.

"Make the most of it - and whatever they asked for, get it right."

The door closed behind him, and he struggled to adjust to the lights of the shop. He glanced at the calendar on his way out.

It now read Monday 5th.

This is another story set in my Underground City. If you'd like to read more stories in this setting, you can find them here.

#FridayFlash - Psychic

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Image by fliku

People always think it must be so great to be psychic - oh, imagine the things you could know, the ways to make money that you could find. You'd be a god, surely?

How I wish I could agree with them. Imagine looking into the eyes of your beloved and knowing the love affair was entirely one-sided, that you'd be discarded the moment their true love came along. Picture yourself working your fingers to the bone while knowing your boss thought no more of you than he did of the dying plant on his desk. See yourself in shop after shop, being pleasant and polite to those who serve you, all while knowing your shoes or hairstyle would become fodder for gossip the moment you'd left. How about your friends? Do you really think they care for you?

Now let things take a darker turn. Imagine hearing the murderous thoughts of the man behind you in the street. You head into an all night off licence you would not normally frequent and hear his frustration as he continues his path outside to seek other prey. You should feel gratitude for your gift, knowing that were it not for your abilities, you'd probably be lying in an alley, your life ebbing out into the gutter, but your thoughts stray back to your lover. The lover who harbours no emotion for you, despite his protestations.

You would pay almost any price for ignorance. Even your life.

#FridayFlash - The Numbers

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Elijah sat on the platform at Ealing Common, cheap ballpoint in one hand, small wirebound notebook in the other. Every day, he'd turn to a fresh page in time to see new equations appear, and he'd steal fragments of time throughout the day until the equations were solved. Though he'd never tell anyone, the numbers spoke to him. They told him stories. The completed equations even sang him lullabies when his brain felt too full and sleep eluded him. He kept the notebook with him at all times, solving equations in snatched moments between tasks. The compulsion to solve the equations neutralised any curiosity he might have felt about what the equations were for, where they came from, or what might happen if he didn't solve them.

At the same time across the Atlantic, Benny huddled behind a dumpster in Hell's Kitchen, solving a sudoku from a discarded copy of The Post. He'd wrapped himself in newspapers every night for as long as he could remember, but he only noticed the number puzzles a month before. The first time he did the puzzle, a man gave him a dollar for finishing it, and every day, as soon as he finished his puzzle, he found a coin in the street, or a kind passerby gave him some food. He didn't think the puzzles and his new luck were connected but he wasn't going to risk losing it, not now. He scrawled his final digit into the box, a misshapen number 9, and waited for dinner.

In the early Italian sunshine, Marco sat at a table in a Venetian piazza, scrawling equations on a napkin. Sometimes the numbers twisted and turned, leading him on a merry dance through a whole pile of napkins and onto the tablecloth, but today they were behaving themselves, and were slotting into place all over the thin paper. Or were they? Thunder rumbled around the sky as he stared at his equation. He knew it was wrong, but how? Another rumble erupted into a sky rapidly sliding from blue to slate grey. Marco stared at the numbers and swore loudly; he'd written a 3 where there should have been a 4. He corrected the mistake as the waitress brought his brunch. He continued to work on the numbers as the sky lightened.

Seconds ticked, digits flashed on trading floors, hearts beat at around 70 beats per minute, and the numbers continued to spin the universe in the right direction.

#FridayFlash - Ships in the Night

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Image by the_franz

The invisible man slipped onto buses and rode around the city without ever paying a fare. He sneaked into hotels and slept in empty rooms, and dined on leftovers in expensive restaurants. He saw films for free, and used book stores as private libraries. Alarm systems ignored him as he made no movements to detect. Yet despite his life of liberty, he was lonely. No one saw him, no one talked to him, and because no one knew if he was there or not, no one missed him.

The invisible girl slept in an abandoned house near the glassworks, and ate scraps foraged from bins around the city. She walked everywhere just to be among people, always mindful that to them, she was not there. She sometimes spent time in the hospital, reading to the blind, comforted that her words helped them through the day. She never took anything without being sure that she could repay her debt to the world in some way.

They spent their lives pursuing opposing pastimes, one in luxury and the other in squalor, yet each always dreamed they would one day find another of their kind. One wintry Thursday afternoon, they passed each other in the street. The invisible man left his hotel bound for another, and the invisible girl hurried to her next reading. They passed within a gnat's whisker of each other, unable to see what was not there.

#FridayFlash - Remembering

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Faraday James sat in the chair by the window, staring out at the street. How quiet it seemed, how empty. Men were missing and families mourned, keeping all but the lonely indoors. He could see the appeal in it - inside, in the comfort of one's own living room, the rest of the world was forgotten, along with its death on an industrial scale.

By midnight, Faraday knew that no comfort would be derived from pretending his England was not fractured. He moved from the chair to the sofa, and lay down. As he did each night, he counted his limbs, before counting himself lucky. Many of the men he photographed came home having left parts of themselves in the killing fields of France and Belgium, if they came home at all. What was a little shell shock in comparison? He mentally slapped himself, commanding his silent tears to stop. Men didn't cry.

A framed photograph of men in a trench hung beside the door. Taken in December 1914, the photo showed Germans and Englishmen standing side by side, festive smiles on their faces as they beamed with the confidence of men who thought the war couldn't continue. He'd won awards for his images, but their medals were sent to bereaved families. Would it all be remembered, in a century's time? Would another conflict, perhaps even bigger, overshadow their losses? Would names like Ypres and the Somme be remembered, or would they fade into history, taking their ghosts with them?

Faraday knew that some ghosts shouldn't be forgotten, capable as they were of returning, bringing a fresh hell with them. He knew sleep would continue to elude him, so he got up, saluting the soldiers as he passed. He went to the bureau to sort through his photographs, the ones not yet published. Faraday would do everything he could to keep these ghosts alive, to ensure they were remembered, if only to stop another, even greater, war from swallowing up the world.

#FridayFlash - Halloween

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"Mom, why don't we have a pumpkin?"

Michael looked out the window at the houses across the street. Each one boasted a lit jack o'lantern by the front door, the flickering candlelight throwing jagged faces across their front lawns.

"I don't want any of the dead finding their way back here," said Nancy.

"What about Dad?" asked Michael.

"Especially your dad." Nancy muttered as she turned back to the kitchen counter where dinner lay in various parts across an array of plates.

Michael and his brother Jason clambered onto the sofa, Michael dressed as Woody the Cowboy and Jason as Buzz Lightyear. Their cousin Freddie would be over soon to take them trick or treating. She didn't agree with the commercialism that had crept into the holiday, as the tradition of the poor offering to say prayers for the dead in exchange for soul cakes from richer households was perverted into children begging for candy. Still, the boys being out of the house would give Nancy time to make her preparations.

The doorbell rang. Jason leapt off the sofa and ran across the room. He yanked on the handle and pulled the front door open.

"Honey, I'm hoooooome."

Jason squealed and Nancy whirled around to see Patrick framed in the doorway. Dirt clung to the tattered remains of his burial suit, and grass stuck to the patches of skin worn away through the rotting process. A gnarled hand reached out for Jason, but the boy ducked out of his grasp and threw himself across the room to join his elder brother.

"You didn't leave a light out, honey." Air rasped across decayed vocal chords in a ghastly imitation of speech.

"Boys, go fetch your buckets from the laundry room." Nancy backed slowly across the kitchen.

"Aw, don't you wanna see your dad?" Patrick turned his dead gaze to Michael and Jason, but they dashed towards the laundry room before he could lurch two steps across the carpet. They passed Nancy and dived into the small laundry room next to the kitchen. Nancy had stashed their candy collection buckets in there anyway, so the ruse wasn't a complete lie. She just didn't want them to see what she was about to do next.

"You can't keep your kids from their dad, Nance. It isn't healthy." Patrick continued to rasp as he forced his feet forward two more steps.

Nancy darted forward and snatched up the shotgun from its resting place against the door jamb, kicking closed the door to the laundry room as she did so. Patrick's dead eyes lit up with a terrible understanding as she raised the shotgun and pulled the trigger.

The boys cried out in the laundry room, but they left the door closed. The blast sent shards of bone and tattered scraps of cloth and flesh out of the open front door and across the front path. Nancy glared at the corpse as it swayed, before landing with a wet thump on the carpet. Patrick had never been a tidy husband, but now he'd left a dirty great stain on her living room floor.

She heard voices at the back door, and realised Freddie had arrived. His back yard backed onto hers, and he preferred to cut across the lawn instead of going the long way around. She opened the back window and called out to her nephew.

"Could you take the boys out now? Just cut around the side of the house." Nancy gave him her biggest smile. The teenager, dressed as Wyatt Earp, gave his lop-sided grin, and led the boys across the garden.

Nancy ducked back inside and pulled what was left of Patrick into the house, closing the front door so the boys wouldn't see. Their father would be gone by the time they got back - and this time, he'd be gone for good.

#FridayFlash - Thoughts of a Nightmare

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Image by Hugoslv

It's 9pm on Saturday night...all over the country, people are out in public, spending time with their friends, and their loved ones, propping up bars or crowding into restaurants, spilling out of cinemas and flocking along rain-slicked streets lit by sputtering neon. Couples stagger along streets, clutching at each other in their mirth as their laughter peppers the November air. Groups of friends swarm from bar to club. Not I. No, the bonhomie and warmth of human companionship is not for one such as I. I lurk in shadows, watching and listening, but mostly I withdraw to the dark, damp places where no one else might go.

Yet this night is different. I smell it on the air, buried among the scents of sweating bodies and cheap fast food. There is a human, yet she is not the same as the others. She stands alone, bemused by those around her, and unable to behave in a similar fashion. She realises she is not alone, not truly, and she comes searching for me. I lead her on a merry dance, for it is not right that one of the light should come to explore the dark. We are both alone, but we are not the same.

She is persistent, and soon my curiosity outweighs my desire to protect this unusual human from the horrors in the shadows. I stand in the open, for the first time in a century, and lean against a bus shelter. I do not stand under the fluorescent street light - no, that is too much of an exposure. I choose a spot in the shadows. She sees my long limbs, and charcoal skin. The darkness hides my face but she holds my yellow gaze all the same. The scent on the air becomes one of fear, and she realises that she has chased a nightmare.

This human, the closest to my kind that I have yet encountered, stands rooted to the spot, and I realise it is time to release her from my thrall. I open a slot between space and time and slip away into a world that she should not see. Not while she is awake, at any rate. Yet even as I take myself deeper, away from the throbbing life of this Saturday night, I know I will see her again. Now that she has seen the dark, she will no longer be satisfied by the light.

#FridayFlash - It Wakes

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Image by Danskii

Quite a lot of people were asking "What happens next?" so this story is a follow up to my flash last week, After It All.

Far below a vast yet empty metropolis, beneath the rotting transport network, and the ruins of bygone eras, something moved in the dark. It growled, testing itself before it woke fully. The being was confused, having slept for centuries.

With no humans left it had no thoughts to guide its form, so it settled on an amorphous mass, malleable and soft. It prodded at the world beyond itself, wondering why it had awoken.

The being, a deity older than creation itself, noticed the silence first. Before it slept, it had lain in the depths, listening to the endless chatter from the world above. The being had withdrawn when it became convinced that man no longer cared for the state of his soul, and so it slumbered in the dark. Meanwhile, in the world above, humans turned their gaze from the cosmos to the incorporeal, their worship centered around glowing boxes they kept in their homes, or carried in their pockets. Their incessant talk and the buzz of information in the ether haunted the dreams of the sleeping being.

It left the dark, and returned to the light. It expanded its mind, in all places at all times, and explored the world. Not a trace of life remained beyond that of the plants. Botanical life flourished where animal life had failed. The being quivered with a ghost of a smile.

It wandered around the metropolis, where creeping vines and growing trees swallowed up the crumbling buildings. None of the trees were right, so the being explored further, and settled in a field far beyond the metropolis. It chose an ancient oak that stood apart from the rest of the forest, and imbued it with its first sentient thought.

For the first time in four hundred years, the oak realised it missed humans.

#FridayFlash - After It All

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Image by adpsimpson, edits by me

Grey clouds scudded across a flat, empty sky. Far below, the countryside stretched between deserted cities. Every day brought a further encroachment of wilderness into the urban wasteland. Grass grew tall in the narrow lanes between the abandoned blocks of flats, and weeds pushed up through cracked concrete. Rusting cars stood in the street, smashed into one another where occupants had collisions in their hurry to leave. Moss coated discarded possessions in overgrown gardens, and tree roots erupted through tarmac as the forest retook the roads. No animals moved in, as there were no animals to move, just as there were no longer any people.

Crates of goods that would never be bought or sold sat on rotting pallets in forgotten warehouses. Dust lay thick on nylon carpets in vacant flats, and TV screens reflected empty rooms. Belongings with no owners became mere objects, unused and unloved. Houses were no longer homes, instead simply tombs to bygone consumerism. Days passed, seasons turned, and the peace continued.

Yet somewhere in the depths of the silence, between the emptiness and the darkness, something moved.

Something growled.

#FridayFlash - Keeping Watch

Tweet The knot of tourists huddled on the pavement, the late November rains lashing their battered umbrellas as they clustered alongside the wall. An overgrown tangle of bushes and grass lay on the other side of the wall, and a house stood beyond the wilderness. The tourists stared at the large bay window on the upper floor, a window that gazed out at the seafront promenade.

"Just another couple of minutes, then it'll be 3pm. She'll appear like she always does. Like clockwork, she is." The gruff old man in the threadbare flat cap jabbed his cane at the window.

“I’ve seen her afore. Tall, she is, in a black dress, buttoned right up to ‘ere,” said a man near the back of the group. He motioned to the top of his neck with his hand. “Black bonnet, too.”

The tourists stared at the man, fitting the description into their mental image. They all knew the story of the Woman in the Window. Legend had it that the house belonged to a couple named Ledersmark, and when the husband was at sea, the wife would wait for an hour at the window every day for sight of his vessel. On 15th November 1893, she arrived at the window at her customary hour and watched the returning vessel break up on the rocks in the bay. She died of a broken heart the same day. Every year, on the anniversary of Mrs Ledersmark’s death, she appeared at the window, as if still awaiting the return of her husband.

Somewhere in the town, a church bell chimed 3pm. The tourists huddled closer, staring at the window, waiting for Mrs Ledersmark to appear. By custom, she should fade into view, as though someone were retuning the picture on an old television set.

The window remained empty. The tourists stood for ten minutes, craning their necks, and clutching their sodden guidebooks to their chests as they fought for a glimpse of the Woman in the Window. Emily stood at the back of the group, her patience running out as the seconds ticked by.

“What are you waiting for?” A soft voice sounded behind her.

Emily turned around. A tall woman in a black bonnet stood behind her. Her great dark eyes reflected all of the sadness of the world back to Emily.

“Y-y-y-you.”

The rest of the group turned to see who was speaking, annoyance etched on several faces that someone might be talking during such an important event. Jaws dropped to see the identity of the speaker.

“We were waitin’ for ye, lass,” said the man in the flat cap.

“But as you see, I myself shall wait no more.”

The group watched as Mrs Ledersmark walked away from the group. She drifted along the broad promenade toward the harbour, oblivious to the rain soaking into the pavement.

Emily wasn’t sure, but she thought saw a male figure waiting in the drizzle.

#FridayFlash - Alone No More

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Image by Foobean01, edits by me

Lily arrived by accident one day, a dark haired doll among a box of blonde angels, and Mrs McGarry had never quite known what to do with her. For a time, Lily had shared a shelf with them, and late at night after the shop was closed, she'd tried talking to the other dolls. They never replied, just staring straight ahead with their glassy stares.

During the day, they all sat on their shelf opposite the door. Lily watched each day as another little girl came empty-handed to the toy shop, and left clutching her brand new doll. Occasionally one of the girls would pick Lily up, and she would smile her best smile, wondering what sort of owner this little girl would be, and then she would be put back on the shelf having simply been moved to make way for the blonde dolls behind her.

Mrs McGarry sold the last of the blonde dolls one rainy Thursday afternoon. Lily watched the doll disappear out of the door in the carrier bag of a father eager to please his daughter on her birthday. With the shelf to herself, Lily felt sure she'd be chosen now. She'd be a good doll, happy to play dress up and accompany her owner where she went.

A large cardboard box arrived on Friday morning, and Mrs McGarry unpacked a new shipment of dolls. Lily's heart sank at the sight of so many new blonde rivals. The dolls were arranged on the shelf, and Mrs McGarry lifted Lily higher, to the top shelf. Her new companions were unfashionable tin soldiers, a scruffy teddy bear and enough dust to stuff a pillow.

"The same thing happened to us, you know," said the bears, a brown gentleman with gingham patches on his paws.

"Don't worry, ma'am, we all take care of each other up here," said one of the soldiers.

"Why didn't any of the little girls choose me?" asked Lily.

"You can never tell what children are looking for. Mostly they just want the same as everyone else," replied the brown bear.

Days passed and Lily continued to watch the new arrivals leave the shop with their new owners. Once or twice, little girls looked up and saw her, perched on the edge of the shelf looking down, but none of them returned her smile. The days turned into weeks, and soon Mrs McGarry was decorating the shop for Christmas. An elderly woman spotted the brown bear and bought him for her friend who had apparently never had a teddy of her own. Even the tin soldiers were taken down from the shelf, bought by an antiques dealer for his Victoriana-obsessed son.

Two days before Christmas, Mrs McGarry arrived at the shop early. She saw the shelf opposite the door and screamed. Every single one of the blonde dolls, arranged so beautifully for her seasonal display, had been maimed. Tufts of hair lay all over the floor, and deep cuts mutilated the vacant expressions of the dolls. The ornate scissors that she usually kept behind the till for cutting wrapping paper lay on the floor.

An hour later, her daughter arrived. Glenda was not the hysterical type, and she packed away the butchered dolls while Mrs McGarry created a new display with toys filched from other parts of the shop. At the centre of it sat Lily, fetched from the top shelf and dusted down. Glenda straightened the doll's dark curls and wiped a smudge of dirt from her nose. She couldn't remember Lily's smile being so hopeful before.