‘Against the Collar’
– Flash
Fiction Collection
Clarrie-Rose
Plommer
Banana skins
The
night tasted bitter. It lingered in the mouth and assaulted the nostrils. The
sticky black sky weighed down on all who witnessed it, depressing the air and
making the atmosphere thick and muddy. Sam and Mary slipped out of the car. Mr
Bridges held the door open for them, he looked down at their small faces his
eyes full of concern. The adults always looked like that. Sympathetic. Sam held
his little sisters hand as they walked towards the foreign building, their
reflection looking back at them from the shiny windows. Sam couldn’t help but
think it was a sad scene. Two scared children walking hand in hand, stepping
warily towards their new miserable life. Wards of the state.
The days dragged on. He found it
hard to adjust. Sam would often have dreams he was back at home, sat on the
comfy bright orange sofa with his mother. In these dreams he’d nuzzle into her
hair and inhale her scent. Sweet and homely. Then he’d awake to disappointment.
He’d squeeze his eyes tight together and will himself back to sleep but it was
always too late. She wouldn’t come back. She couldn’t come back. Sam clung to
Mary like a memory of a past life. The one silver lining within the dark and
dismal cloud. The one tangible link to all he once had.
The people in the house were
friendly enough. They tried to help Sam with his homework, they cooked his
meals and read him bedtime stories, but this wasn’t home, this was limbo.
Children waited to be taken away, to be loved again. Sam feared he was too old,
too close to adolescence. Who’d want to be burdened with a twelve-year-old boy
on the edge of puberty? Sam knew he wouldn’t want that responsibility if he
were an adult.
Then, one day in May it happened.
Sam knew it might, but not so soon. They’d only been in the house for three
months. He thought he had more time. Sam watched them from the stairs, he
pressed his head through the railings and looked down at the couple. They
didn’t know he was there, he felt like a spy. They looked nice. That’s all you
could really hope for. The pair sat down on the sofa and chatted to the social
worker. Their faces were radiant, their smiles reaching from ear to ear. After
a while they got up and were led to the bottom of the stairs. Sam looked down
at the couple, they looked up towards him with their gentle faces and waved.
The woman had tears in her eyes. Sam heard footsteps from behind and another
smiling woman walked past him. She got to the bottom step and put down the
small bundle that she’d had cradled in her arms. Mary’s rosy cheeks could melt
the heart of anyone. The woman took Mary’s small frame in her arms and the man
shook the care workers hand with so much gusto that it radiated through her
whole body. Sam crawled to the landing window and wiped his damp face with his
tattered sleeve. He watched the three beaming figures as they walked away from
the the house and out of his reach. Sam never got to say goodbye, just like the
last time.
Clarrie-Rose
Plommer
From
up here
Tom
was a loner. Some would say by choice, others by necessity, many just thought
he was different. Odd would be the word. Tom often sat in his flat and stared
out across the deserted courtyard. Square windows seemingly spattered about the
old crumbling walls, giving him a quick glimpse into another life. Tom would
watch the figures passing below. Some on their way to work, others on their way
to meet lovers or friends. Tom saw everything. He invented wild fantasies and
unbelievable conspiracies. Mr Talbot in 6a was a retired fighter pilot obsessed
with reliving the glories of his past, and Angela in 3b was a brain surgeon
moonlighting as a social justice journalist.
In Tom’s head, his neighbours were the most interesting people in the
world.
There
was one particular man that Tom was quite fond of. He wore funny clothes and
moved stealthily, slinking like a leopard. He’d be very well hidden in a jungle
or a forest, but not so much amongst the concrete of the high rise which he so
frequently roamed. Tom called the man Stan. He didn’t know if that was his
name, but he looked like a Stan. It was a tough name and Stan looked tough. Tom
thought Stan might be some sort of secret agent. He wandered the intricate
stairwells of the high rise, sniffing out troublemakers and gathering
intelligence. Stan would get the job done sure enough.
On
one ordinary bland day, Tom was, as always, looking out of his window. He saw
Ms Linehan walking sprightly with a smile on her face, she was holding a
package and wearing a cardigan Tom had never seen before. Tom thought she must
be going to meet Richard. Richard had a moustache and a severe side parting but
he was sweet and gentle, not like that other fella, Michael. Michael wasn’t
good for Ms Linehan. No, Richard was the one. They must be in love. Tom
chuckled to himself and slurped down his luke warm cup of coffee, the
temperature shocked him and his face screwed up so small it almost disappeared.
As Tom tried to regain his composure, all the while coughing up a storm, he
peeked back out over the desolate landscape. Ms Linehan was gone, probably
standing at the bus stop by now waiting for the 216. But someone had taken her
place. Tom would know that sturdy outline anywhere, it was Stan. He had his
hands in his trouser pockets and his head whipped from side to side surveying
the courtyard, making sure no one was watching. Something was bothering him.
This made Tom nervous. What in the world would make a composed man like Stan so
jumpy?
Stan
stood there for hours until the sun dissolved and the dark took over. A
solitary streetlamp flickered on and off, giving Stan a distorted disappearing
silhouette.
Tom’s
eyes never left Stan’s side. Midnight came. The church bells chimed through the
square. They made Tom jump.
Stan
looked at his watch, as if to make sure the church bells weren’t deceiving him.
Seconds
went by. Tom could feel his heart beating, thumping in his chest. Something was
going to happen, he could almost touch it. Just moments later a figure emerged
through the shadow, he seemed to float across the courtyard. He didn’t make a
sound. Tom inched forward, his face pressed up against the glass. He could see
the small man fully now. He wore a long raincoat and sharp square glasses, his
hair was slicked back, greasy and jet black. Tom didn’t like him.
The
small man motioned Stan forward and swiftly passed him a file. Stan rifled
through it, throwing pieces of paper to the floor as he dd. He was angry.
Furious. He marched up to the man and scowled at him, questioning, his arms
gesticulating wildly. The man put his hand on Stan’s chest and Stan stopped.
The small man grabbed Stan’s shirt and pulled him forward. He put his lips to
Stan’s ear and whispered something. Stan’s eyes widened. Then the small man
walked away calmly. He flicked up his collar and vanished out of sight. Stan
stood stock-still for a second. Then, like a shot, he dropped the file and ran
through the gates away from the high rises and out towards the high-street.
Dignified no more, he was panicked. Stan knew something Tom didn’t. Something
was dreadfully wrong. And then Tom heard it. And then the bombs began to fall.
Crows
When the old man stumbled into my work that late, late night, he landed
into my lap with an expression like the sun. I knew he was running away from
something, it was obvious because he carried the burden of his miseries on his
very tensed shoulders. He showed me a wallet full of dried corns and said that
he had plenty more in his basement-Eighty million bags more. I saw in his eyes,
in the transitory moments his head flapped about on my mini skirt, my new life,
just as I had imagined it as a young girl.
When he asked me to marry him and I said yes,
he kissed my hand and my little boy’s hand and carried us away to his Ivory
Tower where sweet wine was poured to toast to our happiness. We were happy and
what’s more, my son was happy in the Ivory Tower, which looked out over a vast
dark forest.
It wasn’t long before the crows came with their
long black wings, beating down on our Ivory Tower. They wanted the corns in the
basement and would not relent no matter what the old man did until his heart
grew older than his face.
The crows that were more like vultures were
angry, he told me, for he had promised the head crow the corns in his basement
upon his death but now that he had taken a young wife the head crow was afraid
that he would not keep his promise. The old man handed me the key to the
basement before he was carried away into the dark forest on the wings of doves
and I never saw him again.
My son, my new daughter and me mourned for
their father but still the crows kept on coming, squawking and demanding that
the corns be brought up to them because it was their birthright. One day my son
attacked the head crow and killed it with a rock to protect the corns. But my
brave boy was later set upon by the other crows when I wasn’t watching. They pecked
out his heart before carrying him off to the dark forest, I knew then that I
was cursed.
In my grief, I gave the key to the basement to
my daughter’s nurse and asked her to keep it and my daughter safe. I armed
myself with rocks and knives and went out into the dark forest to find my son.
But the corn’s magic was deep for the forest sprung up and I too was loss. I
walked for days in search of my sweet boy until the life went out of me. Now my
daughter, my little princess must continue to protect the corns from the head
crow’s offspring so that her father’s soul might find peace.
The
blue shade of her dress lent a shimmering glaze to her skin, and somehow seemed
to strengthen the honey highlights in her hair. I felt on the edge of joyous tears,
and approached her, a lightly-sweating Cinderella, taking her hand and pulling
her in close to dance. Her eyes flickered as I told her how I always did love
her in blue.
“Have we met before?”
I don’t answer, and she almost
doesn’t seem to mind. Her hands are warm, just like the last time we touched,
and it is strange to think I will never touch them hereafter.
The Teacher
Mr.
Percival is my teacher, and he’s really nice. He always smiles, and never
shouts. His wife are going to have a baby – that’s what he said a little while
ago. There’s a picture of his wife on his desk. She’s smiling too, just like
Mr.P does, and she looks very pretty. He stopped coming to school for a little
while, but now he’s back. Some of his hair has turned grey, and he doesn’t
smile very much now. The baby must be hard work. I think I’ll write a story
about Mr.P and his pretty wife and their baby, and then maybe he’ll smile
again.
He
mixes her a cosmopolitan, and drunkenly nibbles on her neck as she throws it
back. A jazz record is playing, the notes slow and sultry, qualities she tries
to emulate as she unzips her blue dress and wiggles out of it. He makes a joke
and laughs, a loud and brittle laugh, and that is when I decide I can’t stomach
it anymore and my finger tightens around the cold metallic trigger.
She
is watching me above the rim of her coffee cup. She knows that I am on to her.
I stare back, and finally she rises, and approaches me, all straw-blonde hair
and brown cardigan.
Mr.
Thompson takes pride in spoiling his wife. The steaming mug of coffee is placed
on her night-stand at exactly eight-thirty every morning, and each evening when
he returns home after completing the day’s errands, he surprises her with a
little treat; strawberries, or a bouquet of pink peonies, or a new miniature
perfume spritzer. Occasionally, he mentions her to his friends or his children,
and their sad eyes and shaking heads nudge at some faraway memory - was there
an accident? A car, or an illness? – but he simply shrugs it off, and wakes
early the next morning to lovingly stir the two sugars into her coffee.
“Sorry, but aren’t you him from…”
My palms dry up, and I rise and walk
away, lamenting what might have been. Why must every angel-faced girl own a
television set?
Flash fiction
Tiny girl, meandering in the forest—holding a knife and freshly
picked daffodils, wet with morning rain. Matted hair. Naked, but a chain of
human ears around her sticky-out belly. Then came the voice. Another child-- blonde
hair, wild eyes, tried to run, so stabbed her in the heart.
Lady Liza
Lady Liza had given up the
ghost a day after blowing out the 96 candles on her three-tier birthday cake.
It was the last adventure on her bucket list, we heard, therefore she went home
to be with her husband, Alistair after waiting Thirty-three years.
On
the day of her funeral, it was revealed that Lady Liza, like we all thought,
was not an actual lady with a proper title and that in fact she was the only
child of a humble fishmonger on Tib Street. This new revelation kept us
neighbours talking all summer until the autumn leaves floated down from the
trees. It took us a while to get over the misconception and the
misunderstanding of Lady Liza's name.
Shortly
after her burial, her three-bedroom cottage was gutted like a sad fish and
placed on the market after a brisk makeover. Then in mid autumn, a tall
stranger turned the key in the front door and it was love at first sight for
us.
We
spent all weekend baking pies and biscuits, for the way to man’s heart is
through his stomach. Inevitably, a queue of sweet smelling optimism quickly
formed at his front door. Lady Liza had been forgotten.
Our
new neighbour greeted us with a wide smile and introduced himself to us as Fred
Albert Cougar. Now, this will have us talking all winter.
Digging a Grave in the Shopping Arcade
by Lydia Unsworth
My son has decided he wishes to be
buried with his distant ancestors, on a plot of ground now occupied by the
city's main shopping arcade. He wants to
rub his shoulders against the soil that grew out of their shoulders. I tell him I understand: our relations have
been strained at best. He's looking for
a strong arm, a great-great-grandparent from another time, to whisper him sweet
lullabies about typhoid and the bitter winters.
We
apply for planning permission. We appeal
to humanitarian groups, showing them birth, marriage and death
certificates. We plead our right as a
family, as descendants, to be with our own.
It is no good. My son sinks into
a heavy depression. Months pass and he
stares away his days eating pasties and pining after the ground in front of the
German shoe shop. I struggle to bear
it. My parental heart knocks against my
ribs. Hollow, a failure.
I
quit my job as an astrophysicist and take up employment in the German shoe
shop. A step down, I say to my first
customer of the day, as they stand with one leg on the ramped podium, looking
in the ankle-angled mirror and admiring.
I tell my son I will dig his grave, that the world is his, he should go
and live. I don't see my son again after
that. He takes a flight to India and
eventually the emails stop. I become
quite deft at selling shoes and start to look forward to the contours and
odours of the public's feet. I rise to a
managerial role and begin to feel comfortable.
Every
day, I tread the tiles by the shop front, stepping harder where the grave will
be. Kicking with my heels. Repeatedly, I
drop my keys down onto the same tile, waiting for a crack. When it finally comes I dig and turn the
sharpest edge of my shoe down into the cavity.
The crack becomes two, three; radially connected. I feel proud and wish my son could see me
now, providing. Bending down and picking
away fragments of material from between the cracks, power surges through
me. Tiny lightning forks of action.
Seven
years pass before the announcement reaches me.
My son has died in Canada, burnt down in a house fire in
Newfoundland. His ashes are to be
repatriated. I take a day's
compassionate leave, which I spend smacking my forehead against the tile
outside the German shoe shop. At
ten-thirty I am taken away to be given hot drinks, grievance counselling and a
blanket.
To
this day, although now demoted, I continue to work at the German shoe
shop. Before leaving for work each
morning I take a few spoonfuls of my son from his box on the dining room table
and transport them to the portable tin in my pocket. At every available moment, especially in the
quiet seasons, I dash outside and pour and press pieces of my son into his
fissure in the shopping arcade.
Mr Tum
by Giacomo Perazzi
Mr Tum had only moved in recently; he
liked his new place, even though the grey insides were a bit deteriorated, and
he didn’t quite like the pink outside walls.
Unfortunately the landlord didn’t like him, he had tried to throw him
out several times, but Mr Tum was stubborn and he just wouldn’t leave.
He had been feeling observed recently, his place studied and prodded
with strange instruments. Then there was
a big shaking and he was kicked out.
* * *
“I’m glad to inform you the procedure went
well, not many manage to successfully get rid of a brain Tumour.”
Turning Up the Volume
By Neil Campbell
When he was drunk he had no idea about volume. So he sat
there and turned her up and she roared like flames or coastline. He sipped his
clinking drink and felt its throttling burn before the scenes slipped into
green and the horses leaped the fences, their chestnut forms rippling through
the rural vista. He flashed back to their first time in the sack when her pale
body enveloped him and the dark room filled with starlight, the time they
stormed a drunken fairground groping at candy floss and hip flasks of gin and
whisky, and the gold coast morning in the last century when they pulled back
flowered curtains and saw heatwaves.
He watched the
ceremony from the shade of condemned trees. Saw the following years of selfless,
clinging hugging, the slacking of her jowls and the progress of her starred
children. He saw the shining rewards of television, the vacant semblance of
success, her choices exemplified by the greying and drying out of her once
lustrous hair.
He turned up the
volume beyond where it could go and saw her in a purple pistachio of memory,
her eyes green as the star fished depths of coral, her smile an emblazoned
slice, a knifed rose, her lips a giving, softened sunset moistened by liquor
and kisses. With the memory of her music painting the walls like the sun paints
the old buildings of broken towns, he lifted his sodden face back and listened
as the glorious fragments of his bolted life consoled him with arias and tone
poems.
Promises
Rising
through the mist, he stood there. Splattered with blood, tears rolled down his
face, watering the river of the dead. Looking up at the sky he thought of him.
Was he out there somewhere waiting or had he already entered the realm of
Hades? He had to find him; shelter him; protect him. Walking forwards, the only
form of motivation that he could muster was seeing him again. Weakened, he
pushed on, his sword becoming his crutch.
Taking one last look at the crumpled letter,
he tucked it away as another wave of men approached. With a roar, he swung
wildly, cutting down warriors like daisies. He needed to end this war; he
needed him to be safe. To allow him to live in peace, he needed to become a
human guillotine. That was the only way that they could see each other again.
He wanted to see him so much, it hurt. As he knelt on his pile of corpses, the
exhaustion set in. Weak, he struggled to his feet. He began to move; his sword
becoming his crutch. He needed to find him. Would he even still be alive? He
didn’t know, but he had hope.
Both men found their strength as if
guided by fate. Angels were leading them, allowing them their wish – to see
each other again. In this world love was hard to find; but theirs was golden.
Staggering closer, they both spotted someone on the horizon. Their movements
were weak and weighted with fatigue, but still they remembered their wish.
Inching together, higher powers
granted them a miracle. Falling into the arms of their beloved, they fell to
the ground. Tight embraces, caresses filled with tears of relief, and kisses
powered by the strength of their reunion; the impossible had been done. On this
vast battlefield, two loving hearts had found each other. Both broken, they
pieced together what they could, coming to find the strength to hold their
heads high.
Lying together on the red mud, they
fell asleep in each other’s arms. Now that they had come together, they could
conquer anything. The war was over; their obligations to the king fulfilled. A
bloody peace passed over the land and even the corpses seemed to smile as a
beautiful sunrise shone through the clouds. Stumbling towards their kingdom,
the pair left to complete their final mission – the joy of growing old
together.
Weeping Willow
There was a light at my window. A
flickering, flittering light and it draw me to it. Throwing off my blanket, I
ran lightly to the window. From the closer angle, I noted that it wasn’t merely
a light. There, fluttering at my window was a small girl with glowing wings; a
faerie or pixie. It beckoned to me. Enthralled by this dainty creature, I
rushed into my dressing gown and old boots and tucked my hair into a knitted
hat. Carefully, I inched open the window until it was wide enough for me to
climb out. Balancing on the thin window ledge, I watched as the faerie rushed
towards me, bathing me blue glitter and sparkles. My eyes widened in delight as
my feet slowly lifted from that fragile beam into the open air. After a few
moments adjusting weightlessness, the faerie beckoned me to follow her and I
complied, tailing the green light that she left behind. We soared around the
village until finally we approached the woods. Finding the use in my feet
again, I allowed the faerie to lead me deeper into the trees. A few moments
later, we reached a clearing.
With toadstools placed in a circle,
each occupied by a dancing elfin girl, and with colourful faeries filling the
air, it was just like the myths described. One faerie flew over to me, offering
me a goblet of what seemed to be wine. Feeling rather grown up, I took a sip
and, on deciding that I enjoyed the taste, downed the rest of the liquid. The music
started and my feet moved of their own accord. I was in the centre of the
circle and the world became a vision of music and colour. The voices of the
elfin women grew louder and wilder, the lights of the faeries growing brighter
and more vibrant. A dense mist engulfed my sight and I fell to the floor, blind
and terrified. The voices lulled in sympathy and soft hands lifted me upright,
guiding me where they wished me to be. Now at their mercy, I followed them.
Propped up by what felt like a tree, I sat, calmed by the soothing voices of
the elves.
I felt the ground move beneath me.
Rope-like tendrils, which I guessed to be roots or vines, began to wrap around
my legs and torso, lifting me up and suspending me in the air. I screamed as
the vines smothered me. As I struggled, they grew tighter. Losing
consciousness, I felt myself being pulled into the tree. The tree seemed to
open, trapping me inside. Vision restored, I realised that there was no exit; I
was here forever. The Tree of Eden had claimed me as its own.
In the distance the cries of the changeling child could be heard. The perfect
replica, she would ensure that I was never to be missed. Nobody would know that
I was truly away with the faeries; that I now saw through the eyes of the world
tree. And trapped eternally within my cage of willow, I wept.
Winter Lover
You were drawn to the snow even
though it was cold. It held a certain beauty that drew you from your warm
fireplace and onto the frozen street. Watching with awe, you smiled as the icy
flowers melted in your hands. The wind grew colder but the beauty of the snow
made you stay. You wanted to watch it fall forever, even though you knew it would
bring you pain.
Dancing with the snowflakes, you
fell in love with the winter. The dazzling whiteness of the fresh fallen snow
enchanted you, keeping you within its icy grasp. But soon enough, it began to
burn you. Beginning with your fingertips, eventually your whole body was on
fire. Yet you didn’t want to leave the snow. Its frozen spell kept you
captivated, even though the icy wind seemed to cry for you to leave. You stayed
there until you collapsed in the road, surrounded by the pure white wilderness.
