Short Story – Don't Stop Moving

The hem of my jacket caught on the top of the barbed fence as I leapt over, pulling it up my body and almost sliding it off my arms as I fell down the other side. With what seemed like a mightily loud ripping noise, I was freed, but instead of flying gracefully, I tumbled in a heap at the bottom of the fence.

A dog howled, and I turned to look through the fence, my breath hitching as I panted, out of breath. They were getting closer. Too close. 

I scrambled to my feet and kept running, ducking in and out of the trees as best I could in the dark. There were no lights to help me, this was not a well walked path that lamps had been installed along. Even the moon was hiding its face, tucked safely behind the heavy clouds. Rain was on its way, and it wasn’t going to hold off for much longer. 

My feet pounded against the forest floor, slipping on the damp leaves and trying my hardest to not trip on the tree roots emerging from beneath the ground. My lungs burned, and the cool air wasn’t helping. Every breath felt like being stabbed by icicles from the inside, but it wasn’t like I had a choice. I couldn’t duck and hide in the bushes. I would simply be resigning myself to becoming a plaything for the dogs. Although that might be better than the fate I would face if they actually caught me. No, better for the dogs to get to me first.

Barking echoed through the night, and I could hear the faint shouts of men, branches snapping all around me. I pressed on, praying to come across something, anything, that would help me. A road, a house. Some sign of other people that might come to my rescue and keep me safe. I could see nothing, though, though the darkness. I could barely see far enough ahead to weave between the trees without running straight into one. I had made it over the fence though. I was out of the compound. Just how deep in the woods could they have built it? They had to get supplies in from somewhere – that thought was the only thing pushing me on. The idea that they couldn’t have built it too far from civilisation. Just far enough behind the fence that no one would find it.

The rain didn’t start with a few drops, easing into the shower, but instead began pelting down the icy water, letting out all of its frustrations at once. If I couldn’t see before, I certainly couldn’t now. I reached up to wipe away the droplets clinging to my eyelashes, blinking furiously. What if I wasn’t even going the right way. For all I knew, I could be going further into the inky blackness of the trees. How far would they chase me before giving up?

That was a stupid question. I knew too much. If they couldn’t catch me to put me back where I belonged, they would loose the dogs to kill me. There could be no whistleblower. No escapees. No survivors.

For all my efforts in pressing on, staying upright, dodging everything, my downfall was a bramble root, carving itself into and out of the earth, looping itself in amongst its fellow roots. My foot caught, and my speed was my downfall, tumbling me forwards and sideways against the declining earth. I tried to tuck my arms up to my head, to cover my face with the sleeves of my jacket, but I needn’t have bothered. I came to a stop at the bottom of the hill in a heap, the exposed skin on my hands and face stinging with scratches. If I had previously held any hope that the rain might’ve hindered the dogs in their hunt, washing away my scent, the blood I was leaving in the indented brambles down the slope I had just traveled down at great speed was certainly going to get their attention. 

I dragged myself back to my feet, but I had lost the ability to press on. My lungs aches, and every breath I took seemed to be getting shallower and shallower, until I felt like I was suffocating. I could feel a drop of blood running down my forehead, and the ankle that had caught in the bramble burned furiously with every step. I tried, but found I could no longer run.

Struggling to breath, I walked into the deepest, thickest growth of bushes I could find, the branches grabbing at my legs and arms, pulling themselves around my body as I forced my way though them. The trees growing amongst them had low enough branches for me to force my arms to pull myself up into, and I climbed as high as I could before my limbs felt about to give out and send me back towards the ground.

I sat in the dark, straddling a branch and hugging the trunk of the tree, trying desperately to slow my breathing, but failing as it came in shuddering gasps. I closed my eyes, leaning my forehead against the rough wood, coated in the softness of damp moss, as the rain pounded the world around me. I was semi-shielded by the leaves of the tree, and I could do nothing but hope and pray that they would hide me as well as shelter me.

I could hear voices getting closer, so much so that I could hear the dogs straining on their leads, trying to pull forwards quicker than they were being allowed. Behind my eyelids, I could see lights, and I couldn’t help but open them, and watch my demise come forth to me. 

Torch light forced its way through the rain and trees, falling across my face. In the darkness, I had thought myself more covered by leaves than I clearly was, and with the dogs surrounding the bushes around me, spit flying from their mouths as they snapped up at me, their eyes crazed at the potential opportunity to be set free to tear me down, it was evident that my time was up.

“Ready. Aim.” An array of torch mounted hunting rifles pointed at me, the beams of light proving the intention and aim was true, and I closed my eyes again. At least I wouldn’t be returning. I would never be going back to that place.

“Fire.”

And done!

This is the first bit of writing I have done in literal months, and I really enjoyed it!

I remember why I need to make time for doing this now.

Where do I find the time to continue doing this...?

Anyway, that's all for now...

Bye!

Short Story – 'Till Death Do Us Part – Spooky Season Week, Day 5!

I had long since zoned out, absentmindedly stirring the pot of soup I was attempting to make. I had never had much luck with cooking before, but my mother had always made soup out of the scooped out insides of the pumpkins my sister and I used to carve, and this year, I decided I wanted to try and do the same.

I snapped back to attention at the sound of a clatter behind me, and I spun around to look, the wooden spoon still in my hand and flicking soup across the room as I turned. The utensils I had used to open up and empty out the pumpkin, that had been sat nicely on the table, were scattered across the floor as if someone had pushed them all aside. Frowning, I crouched to pick them up, and I set them back on the table, certain that there was no way they could’ve rolled themselves off the surface.

I turned back to my soup, which had started furiously bubbling in the few moments I had left it alone, and started stirring it quickly in an attempt to placate it. I froze at the sound of another clatter, and turned again, this time much slower. The utensils I had just picked up off the floor were sat nicely on the table, but the Tupperware I had on the side across the room was now on the floor. I tried to remember how haphazardly it had been stacked, and shook my head at the memory of them being laid out safely and unable to fall by themselves. 

I turned back to the soup, but the second I started stirring again, I heard a smash, outside the kitchen, further into the house. I turned the heat down for the soup, and put the spoon down on the side. I strode across the room, stepping over the Tupperware and leaving the kitchen. The pictures I had hung on the wall of me and my boyfriend were shattered on the floor. Another noise. I stepped over the broken glass, and ventured on, trying to find the source of the newest noise. Maybe a stray cat had managed to get inside my house, or something. If I could catch it, I could let it back out, hopefully before it broke everything.

I walked into my living room, and looked around at the destruction. Anything that had been on a surface was on the floor. I hadn’t heard anything that warranted a mess such as this. My sofa was on it’s side, as if someone had tipped it by leaning too far back on it. My coffee table was in the corner of the room, rather than the middle of it. I jumped back, gasping, as my television fell off the wall and smashed, screen down, on the floor. My hand covered my heart, and I could feel it pounding. That wasn’t the work of a stray animal, I had watched that fall with nothing touching it. It just tipped forward and ripped itself off the wall of its own accord.

I backed out of the living room, and went back to the kitchen, rushing forward to the hob when I saw my pot of soup bubbling over and spilling out onto the hob. I reached for the pan, but the heat coming from the handle, which had boiling liquid all over it, like the entirety of the hob, made me stop and look around for oven gloves or something to wrap around the handle. I grabbed a tea towel from the side, and folded it several times before using it to pick up the pot, and carry it over to the sink. I dumped it on the draining board, and went back to the hob to turn off the heat. Everything was wet. There was a pool of water across the hob, which thankfully hadn’t started to overflow onto the floor, but it would take more than a single tea towel to dry it out.

I turned to get some more tea towels, only to find a pile of them on the counter next to me, where there had been nothing a few seconds ago. I looked around the room, but there was no one there. I watched the utensils fling themselves off the table again, and chose to try and focus on one thing at a time, and dry out my hob before something broke. Of course, I didn’t anticipate the fact that it was boiling liquid, and that the hob would still be hot. Within seconds, I was across the room, with my hand under the cold tap, the tea towels and hob abandoned. Could this day get any worse?

I heard another shattering noise, and turned to face the direction of the sound.

“Why is this happening?” I shouted in frustration, my hand throbbing and somewhere between burnt and half frozen, the cold water trickling over my fingers.

“Don’t worry, it’s just me.”

If I had thought a voice would reply, I wouldn’t have said anything. I stood shock still, the only sound now the water going down the drain. It wasn’t just the fact that someone had said something, when I lived alone and didn’t have anyone around, that had me so scared. It was the fact that I recognised the voice. How could I not? My boyfriend’s voice was ingrained into my very being, one of the only things I felt I could trust sometimes. He would spend hours whispering into my ear, his breath tickling my neck and moving my hair.

But my boyfriend had died last year. I had been sat next to him as the steady beeping turned into one, continuous, noise, as his eyes slipped closed never to open again. I had held his hand as he died, so there was no way he could be in our home. 

A breeze tickled my neck, and I shivered as he whispered in my ear, like he had so many times before. This time, though, it didn’t make me laugh as it tickled me, or make me smile with the words. It made the hair on my arms stand up, and my heart feel like it had given up trying to keep beating.

“I’ve come home.”

And done!

Once again, a late post because I only just wrote it. Whoops.

I've been busy though! I carved five pumpkins this afternoon!

I was hoping to do a book review tomorrow... I haven't even started reading the book. We shall see what happens.

Anyway, that's all for now...

Bye!

Short Story – Deathly Boring – Spooky Season Week, Day 3!

When I stepped through the front door, I wasn’t expecting confrontation of any kind. No one knew what had occurred between me leaving the house and returning, so why would anyone question anything? Of course, as I confidently walked into the house, pretending that everything was fine, that nothing was different, or strange, I was unaware of the blood I had missed.

“Peter? Why is there blood on your cheek?” My wife, Rebecca, asked. When I frowned, and reached up to my face, she gestured towards the cheek the smear of blood must’ve been on.

“Um, I had a nosebleed. Must’ve missed a spot.”

“But you never get nosebleeds. What happened?” She asked, dampening a tea towel in the kitchen sink as I sat down at the table. She used the towel to gently wipe the blood from my face. If only she knew, she wouldn’t be as gentle, nor as caring. 

“I don’t know, I was just leaving work and felt my nose running, and wiped it, and there was blood there.” My lie was terrible, but Rebecca had no reason not to trust me. That was the best part about the marriage. She loved me entirely, she had no reason not to believe I didn’t love her back. She would defend me with her whole heart. She was the greatest alibi I could ever ask for.

“That’s so strange.” She grabbed my chin gently, and moved my head to the side. “I think it’s all gone now. Do you want a drink? I was just putting dinner on, but it’ll be a while still.”

“No, thanks. I still have some work I need to finish up on the computer. I won’t be long.” I rose from the chair, and kissed her on the cheek, the kind of gesture a husband who loved his wife would do. It made her smile, so I presumed she suspected nothing. What did she have to suspect? I had given her no inkling that we weren’t just a regular couple, and I didn’t have a regular office job. 

I shut the office door behind me, and turned on my computer. Rebecca used the office during the day, but I had never told her the password to my computer, never given her a way to unlock it. I had passwords on every file, every folder, and every single one of them was different. If she managed to get into anything, it would be either a miracle from God, or a devious intervention from the Devil.

I opened the file so cleverly titled ‘work projects’, and then double tapped on the file titled with today’s date. Another password, this time one I hadn’t personally set. I typed in the name ‘Daniel Gussier’, and the file popped open with a picture of Daniel, and a form. Forms were the bane of my existence. Sometimes, it felt like I really was working an office job. 

First question – alive or deceased? Then method of death. Time of death. Body location. Body disposed of? Space for a write up report of the exact actions I took to remove Daniel Gussier from this world. Any witnesses? The questions went on and on. 

“I know you said you didn’t want a drink, but I made you a hot chocolate anyway. You looked like you needed one,” Rebecca walked into the office, and leant over me to set a mug down on the desk next to me. I paused my typing, fully expecting the next question. “Any witnesses? What kind of form are you filling out?”

“It’s something to do with a deal we signed at work. The boss always wants to know who was present when it was signed in case the other company decides to try and lie about what was said when we signed.” She had never come into the office while I was doing the forms before. Why today, after I had already walked in with blood on my face? 

“Oh. That seems like a waste of time, aren’t deals and things usually written out and signed? And everyone has a copy for future reference?” 

“Yes, but my boss is paranoid. It’s easier just to fill in the form and be done with it than question it.” Why wouldn’t she just go away? She was a wonderful alibi, sure, but she was the most annoying one I had ever had. It would be so simple to shut her up, but I needed her still. There was a big job coming up, one that I had to collaborate with two others on, and I needed all the cover I could get. Time of death would be set up to happen at 5:43pm, by which time I would be home with Rebecca, probably eating dinner. I didn’t trust the other two I would be working with, so, for now, Rebecca had to remain.

“That sounds so annoying.” She kissed the top of my head. “I have to go and check on dinner, it shouldn’t be too much longer now.” She left the door open when she walked out of the room, and I instantly got up to close it. That was too close for comfort. Much too close. I would have to do something to get her to back off for a bit. Stage an argument, make it so she doesn’t want to talk to me for a few days. She would still cover for me if the police came sniffing around, even if we were having a ‘lover’s spat’. 

I sat back down, and moved onto the next section of the form. The date, time, and place of where I had to go to collect payment had been listed, and I typed ‘agree’ in the appropriate box. The details for payment collection changed every time, most likely to make sure the entire operation remained undercover, but sometimes it seemed like they only did it to make sure we read and filled out the entire form. If it weren’t such good money, I might quit and move to an office job. The forms were probably easier, and took less time to fill out. The ones I had to do? You might go as far as to call them ‘deathly’ boring.

“Dinner’s ready!” Rebecca called from the other room, and I quickly finished typing in the last box, before saving the document. The boss had access to it, so the second I saved it, they would have a notification that another job had been carried out successfully. For me, though, I had to go and play the part of husband.

For the time being, that is.

Until Rebecca ceases to be any use to me. 

And done!

I may or may not have written this entire thing mere minutes ago. I may be completely behind on Spooky Season Week, and am trying desperately to get every post done before they actually have to go out. Ahh!

Anyway, that's all for now...

Bye!

Short Story – Never Checking Out – Spooky Season Week, Day 1!

There was something not quite right about the little hotel on the side of the road. I could tell that from the moment I saw it through my slightly fogged up windscreen, my windscreen wipers going a mile a minute in an attempt to keep up with the relentless rain falling from the sky. But this hotel was where the company I worked for had booked in a room for me, and at eleven at night, I wasn’t up to trying to find someplace else. Not that I could afford to rent a room myself anyway.

The hotel was part of a restaurant, with a bar and dining area downstairs, and the letting rooms upstairs. I went unnoticed as I walked in, but the second I announced to the woman behind the bar that I was supposed to be staying in one of the rooms, heads spun to face me, almost to examine me, before people turned to each other and started talking in hushed whispers. 

“You’re blooming brave, love. I wouldn’t want to spend a night here,” someone called out. Someone responded sarcastically, saying ‘what are you on about, you spend nearly every night here!’ and the whole bar laughed, most seemingly moving on from the short conversation, but I couldn’t shake the man’s words. 

I was escorted upstairs, and shown to my room. I thanked the man who had shown me up, and made to step towards the door of the room, but the man stopped me short.

“Take no notice of anything they say down there. They’re a bunch of superstitious bastards, and the drink just makes them worse.” He walked off after saying that, which did nothing to quell my unease. I looked around the hall, before quickly unlocking the door to my room, and stepping in. I had a strange feeling that I was the only person staying at this hotel.

After freshening up, and changing out of my work clothes into a pair of jeans and a comfy jumper, I made my way back downstairs, and ordered myself a drink. Word seemed to have spread, and people started coming up to me, talking to me. The things I was told as I sat there were unbelievable. That the building was haunted, that lights flicker and footsteps can be heard when there’s no one walking around. That someone once got hit by a bar stool that a ghost sent flying, and ended up in hospital. That the pervious owners of the building had left fearing for their lives and their sanity. It’s not like I was superstitious in the slightest, I’ve always been of the mindset that when you die, you’re dead and gone, and that the supernatural has always simply been stories to scare people. But the amount of people that came up to me with a different ghostly story had me a little on edge.

I lay in bed that night, exhausted but somehow unable to sleep. After hours of ghost stories, my brain had started to actually believe some of the stuff that was said, and every little noise I heard made me jump and clutch the duvet a little tighter. A creak here, a quiet clatter there. Whether it was just the building owners or a manager closing up for the night, and making sure the building was secure, I didn’t know, but in my head, a spirit was roaming the halls outside my locked room door.

I woke up the next morning with no idea when I fell asleep, but feeling disorientated and like something was wrong. I sat up, rubbing at my eyes, and realised as I looked around the room what it was that was off. There was a chest of drawers in my room, and when I went to bed, all three drawers were shut. I knew for certain, because I looked through them to see if anything had been left in them. Now, the top drawer had been pulled all the way open, and bent to the side on an angle to hold it open. I climbed uneasily out of bed, and checked the drawer, closing it when I found nothing else strange about it.

And then the next night, I definitely heard footsteps in the hall, that stopped just outside my room, and lingered beyond the door for at least half an hour of me panicking and being frozen in bed for fear that movement would alert whatever was by the door to my presence. The next morning, everything in the room had been unplugged, the plugs were lying on the floor next to the sockets. I requested a room change after that, but apparently it wasn’t possibly, because every room had been booked out. Strange, considering there was clearly no one in any of the other rooms.

In my spare time, the time I was supposed to be using for relaxing, watching television, and sleeping, I started researching the building. Simply searching the name of the building on the internet, along with the word ‘ghost’ brought up a string of web pages about the people who had died in the building, and stories of people who have stayed here, and what they experienced overnight. Flickering lights, footsteps in the hall when there was no one out there. Things moving around in the rooms. Terrible nightmares every night they spent here. 

I started dreading coming back to the hotel, a cold shiver ran down my spine every time I stepped through the door, and settled in my bones until I left the building the following morning. The end of the week was slowly nearing, and I would be going home, and I couldn’t wait, but voicing my concerns to my boss, asking to be moved to a different hotel… I had only just managed to get this job, and I didn’t want to come off as paranoid before I had a chance to prove myself.

I stared up at the ceiling, the duvet pulled up to my chin. A coldness had settled over the room in the last couple of minutes, and I started to shiver, but quelled the shaking and froze at the sound of footsteps approaching my door. They paused for but a moment, outside of my door, before continuing. Not down the hall, like every time before, but continuing towards me, the footsteps coming through the closed door and stopping right next to me.

I could barely breathe, frozen in place as the bed dipped, as if someone was sitting down on the side of it. I tried to pretend to be asleep, but my eyes refused to close, and my breath kept catching in my throat as air come in and out in shaky pants. When I saw a figure appear before me, I stopped breathing all together. He was pale, colourless, almost see-through. He slowly reached a misty hand out towards me, and touched it to my cheek. Icey coldness ran through my body, starting from the contact of his hand on my cheek, and I felt my body go numb, even though my mind raced on.

In weeks to come, people would talk of the woman who was found dead in one of the rooms upstairs. In months to come, when gossip quietened down, and people started renting out that room again, they would complain that it felt like someone else was lying in the bed with them, and whenever they lay down, a wave of fear would wash over them. They would describe it in online articles as if the woman who had died was still around, and in her final moments, she felt nothing but terror.

And done!

I'll be honest, I was going to scrap the idea of doing Spooky Season Week this year entirely. It was supposed to start yesterday, and go from Monday to Sunday. But obviously, I didn't have any posts ready to go out yesterday. So I'm going to try and do Tuesday to Monday instead. At least this will actually include Halloween.

And hopefully, I'll actually get some posts scheduled. I currently have one ready for tomorrow, and that's it.

Anyway, that's all for now...

Bye!

Short Story – Ghost Music

Sometimes, when I can’t sleep, and my bedroom is too hot and suffocating, I crawl behind my curtains, and sit in the windowsill with the window cracked open. Night air fills the lungs so much more satisfyingly than daytime air, and there’s something about looking out of the window at the dark street, knowing that you might be the only person awake to witness this particular moment in space and time, that gives me a sense of calmness and purpose. After all, otherwise I’m just an insomniac who’s sat in her windowsill at 1:38 in the morning. 

There are many things you can do in an windowsill, hidden behind the curtains, not hiding from the outside world, but the inside one, where the responsible thing to do is lie in bed, trying to fall asleep, so you can be up early and have enough energy for the day. You can read, scroll, binge-watch. You can remain as long as you can stay comfortable. I fit quite nicely in my windowsill. My head just skims the top, and if I point my toes, I can slouch and comfortably push my toes against the wall to hold me up and stop me from sliding. And with the window open, there’s a sense of freedom. That being in that windowsill is a choice of your own, and no one else in the entire world can tell you that you can’t sit in your windowsill, with the window open, in the middle of the night. 

And to begin with, I didn’t notice it. I am alone in being awake, on a quiet street that only the occasional car will drive alone, headlights briefly making their way into my eyeline, before passing on their way. There’s something about background noise, that you don’t really notice it until you start paying attention. The sound of a car engine catches my attention, the sound of an owl hoot, but the rustling of the wind through the leaves of the plants outside my window are practically silent, even though I could hear them if I tried to listen. It doesn’t sound like it makes sense, but it does. I didn’t start paying attention to the sound, until I heard a very human ‘whoo’. And suddenly, a whole new layer to the outside on this particular night joined the world. 

The soft thumping of bass and drums, and an electronic melody over the top. The kind of music you hear in a film, softly seeping through the walls of the nearby house, when a character who really does not want to go to a party sits in the car outside, trying to build up the courage to walk up the drive. The thing with this new sound, in the night that feels like my world, and my world alone, is that I don’t know what to make of it. Sometimes, I hear the chatter of people walking past my house, and sometimes, it’s scarily loud and close. But there’s a motion sensor light that lights up near my window if anyone gets too close, and I have a dog who is very good at waking up if an unexpected human gets near the house. 

And while the sound of the music is slightly muted, I can’t tell if it’s coming from a house, or a bad speaker. It sounds like it’s coming from the bottom of my driveway, around the corner where I can’t see from my window, but there’s no lights anywhere. As I listen to the music, and start to realise that, while I’ve never heard the song before, I quite like it, I begin to wonder if the music is really there. It could just be in my head. As far as I’m aware, everyone on the street is asleep, and I’m the only person awake to witness this moment in space and time. How could I find out? It’s not like I could ask someone if they heard that music last night if everyone was asleep. 

It’s tempting to pull a coat on over my pyjamas, and go to investigate, but I have an overactive imagination, and I fear too much for my life to have the courage to climb out my window at night to check out mysterious music. So I simply sit and listen. And imagine. Has my opposite neighbour forgotten her window is open, and not realised quite how loud her music is turned up? Or maybe someone is sat at the end of my drive, leaning against the wall and listening to music without realising their earphones are not plugged in properly. Maybe a group of teenagers are walking down the road with a speaker. It’s difficult to tell where the music is coming from, with it echoing softly down the street. Or, again, is it simply as made up as those scenarios, my brain trying to play me a lullaby to tempt me back into bed and allow me to drift to sleep. 

Either way, the longer I listen to the music, the more eerie and ghost like it becomes. What if the player of the music is not even alive? What if I’ve peeked through the veil and I’m glimpsing the world of the dead. I can find no proof that anyone else is awake. I see no lights, no torch beams. I don’t hear footsteps, or a sniff or a cough. Other than the initial ‘whoo’, all proof of human presence is gone. Maybe it’s ghost music, or maybe I’m sleep deprived and my imagination is in overdrive. 

Eventually, I close my window, and climb back through my curtains. The strange thing is, I can generally still hear things happening outside regardless of whether my window is open or closed. Yes, it’s usually a lot clearer with the window open, but you know what I mean. Well, when I close the window, I listen hard for the music again, but it’s gone. Disappeared. And something scares me about opening my window again, to see if I can actually still hear it. Superstition, maybe. Perhaps just fear itself. But as I lay in bed, still as awake as ever, I can hear the soft thudding of bass and drums in my ears, but instead of it accompanying a melody, and creating a symphony of notes, it’s my heartbeat, and the sound of blood pumping around my body. 

And done!

Is this based on a true story? Yes. I wrote it in the middle of the night. Did I hear ghost music tonight? Potentially. It’s really quite nice music, though, so I’m not complaining. 

Anyway, that’s all for now…

Bye!

Short Story – Intruder

There always was something about getting into your pyjamas at the end of a busy day. Something about rewarding yourself for being so productive by cooking and eating dinner in comfy sleep clothes, rather than wearing your work clothes to do both. 

Not that I could cook particularly well, but I knew how to boil pasta and mix in a ready made sauce. Plus, if you sprinkled enough cheese on anything, it would taste good. I sat in front of the television, a blanket over my lap to add to the cosy, relaxing nature I planned my evening to have. The bowl of pasta was warm, balanced on my lap, and I ate while flipping through channels. Nothing was on, and I couldn’t be bothered to get up and put a film on. 

I left the sound of some sort of cooking show on in the background as I tidied up after my meal. I picked up the bowl I had grated the cheese into. Strange, I was sure I had some left over. I always grated too much. I must’ve eaten it at some point. The only thing better than slices of cheese was a handful of grated cheese. 

I walked back to the television, to pick up the glass of water I had left on my coffee table, but it wasn’t there. I frowned down at the clear table. A soft clink made me pause and turn around, and I stared at the glass on the counter that I had just cleared. The glass that was supposed to be on the coffee table. 

A feeling of dread washed over me, soaking me from head to toe, as I tried to remember where my phone was. It should be on the sofa somewhere. I lifted my blanket, shaking it out and willing my phone to fall out and hit the sofa cushion, but there was nothing. 

My phone pinged from across the house, and I stared at the doorway, expecting to see someone standing there. It was dark through the door, there were no windows in the hallway, and I couldn’t see much past the wall of shadows. I walked slowly back to the kitchen, and drew a knife out of the knife block. My last boyfriend used to tell me I was paranoid, hearing sounds around the house and asking him to investigate, to make sure there was no one there. But this wasn’t just hearing sounds. Things didn’t just teleport across the house. 

I approached the hallway like one might approach a timid animal, as if something was going to jump out at me at any moment. Holding the knife out, I reached for the light switch and flipped it on, jumping back as the bulbs shed light over the shadows. There was no one there.

Slowly, I went through the rooms. The bathroom shower curtain was drawn, I pulled it like that after my shower in the morning, so it would dry off and wouldn’t go mouldy. I was having a hard time trying to figure out whether I would prefer to deal with mould or have peace of mind. I flung the shower curtain back, thrusting the knife forwards, just in case I needed to ward someone off, but the bath was empty.

My bedroom was next, and my heart was already pounding after the shower curtain. I checked my cupboards before taking a deep breath, and kneeling down to look under my bed. I lifted the blanket that was trailing off my bed, looking under, and through to the other side. There was nothing under there but dust.

Just when I was starting to feel a little better, the light clicked off, and my bedroom door slammed shut. I jumped to my feet in the dark, holding the knife out. There was a faint amount of late evening light creeping through the window, enough to know that there was no one in the room with me, but my hand shook as I held the knife up. There was no way this was paranoia. Paranoia turned shadows into people, sounds into dangerous scenarios. Paranoia did not move glasses, didn’t shut me in rooms and turn the lights off. Paranoid didn’t eat my leftover cheese.

I sunk onto the edge of my bed, trying to slow my somewhat erratic breathing. I listened, hearing footsteps along the hallway, and held my breath until I realised what a stupid thing that was to do. Whoever it was knew I was in here, what did it matter if they heard me breathing?

It dawned upon me that there was nothing in this situation I could control. I was in a room with no lock on the door, no way out, no way to call for help… but, I could change those things, couldn’t I?

I dragged my bed across the room, shoving it up against the door. It wouldn’t do much, but I couldn’t think of how else to block the door. I turned to the window. It didn’t open very wide, and I was two stories up, but I could squeeze through, I was sure.

The window creaked as I pushed it as wide as it would go. I could hear my kettle start boiling, and I frowned towards my barricaded bedroom door. Had this person broken into my house, shut me in a room, and sat down to make themselves a cup of tea?

I swung my legs out the window, wiggling through until I was dangling, holding on with just my hands. I made the mistake of looking down, but even the added nausea wasn’t going to stop me. I wasn’t going to stay in a house I wasn’t safe in. I closed my eyes, and let go.

I landed hard on the ground below, in a heap on the floor. I looked up at the sound of a window opening, and saw my downstairs neighbour looking out the window at me.

“Are you okay?” She asked, turning to look across the room when the cry of a baby filled the air. She glanced back towards me.

“Call the police. There’s someone in my apartment.”

The woman brought me inside as she called the police, her baby on her hip as she bounced it around to get it to stop crying. I sat on the edge of one of her sofas, biting my nails as I listened to her talk on the phone.

It took approximately one and a half cups of tea, and six nails bitten down to the quick before the police turned up. An officer knocked on the door of the woman I now knew as Lucy, and sat with me as he tried to get the whole story, although I had to keep backtracking, forgetting things and remembering them after I had finished that part of the story.

I glanced out the window when I saw movement, and watched two police officers flank my ex boyfriend as they led him, in handcuffs, to one of the two police cars parked outside. The boyfriend who had called me paranoid. Paranoid, my ass.

And done!

The post is up a little late today, I know, I know. I forgot to schedule it, and then left the house!

Anyway, that's all for now...

Bye!

Short Story – Flat Tyre

I stared blankly at the road ahead as I drove. The lanes were narrow, but I knew them, knew every turn, every bend that was a little sharper than anticipated. It was a good job, because I wasn’t paying attention to the road at all.

That is, I wasn’t paying attention to the road until some idiot came speeding around the corner in the middle of the road, forcing both of us to slam our breaks on and me to swerve out of the way, into the verge. I felt the car hit something in the hedge, but I was more preoccupied in sending the dirtiest look I could his way as he squeezed his posh car past the beat up old car I had been driving since I turned seventeen.

I knew something was wrong, though, when I pulled away and the steering wheel was difficult to turn. The car crawled around the bend, because I wasn’t sure I could turn it at any greater speed. I struggled on until the road widened, and pulled the car into the entrance to a field, turning the car off and getting out, looking around it for damage. It was when I saw the flat tyre, where my front wheel had hit the verge, that I sighed. I had a spare in my boot, but I didn’t know how to change it. 

I grabbed my phone from my car, and scrolled through my contacts, trying to figure out who to call. My finger hovered over my Dad’s number, and tears welled up in my eyes. It was always him I called for things like this. He was the person who came to my rescue when I didn’t know how to fix something, or who to call. 

I hadn’t properly grieved him, I knew that. I had sat, dry-eyed, at his funeral, listening to countless people say that they were sorry. Sorry. They weren’t the drunk driver who had smashed into him. They weren’t who needed to apologise. Besides, I had managed to convince myself that he wasn’t really gone. He had just gone away for a little bit. This kind of thing didn't happen, not in my family where nothing ever happened. It was a bad dream that I needed to wake up from.

Standing next to my car, with a flat tyre, I cried. Not for the tyre, but for my Dad, who couldn’t come to my rescue anymore. I couldn’t call him up when I needed him, or pop round to have a cup of coffee and listen to him rave about his latest motor obsession. He would never wrap me up in his arms again when I was upset, never reassure me that everything was going to be alright.

I cried until a car drove past, reminding me of where I was, and that even though I was off the road, I wasn’t completely out the way of danger, and I was still stranded in the middle of a long lane with only a beginning and an end, and barely nothing in-between.

I sniffed, scrolling through my contacts again, and clicking on one, holding the phone up to my ear. 

“James? I’ve got a flat tyre, and I’m in the middle of nowhere, and I don’t know what to do.” It was all I could do not to start crying again as my Dad’s best friend reassured me through the phone. I could hear him leaving the house, and getting into the car through the phone as I explained where I was.

He pulled into the field entrance as much as he could, switching his hazard lights on and getting out. I ran to him, and he engulfed me in the kind of hug only a father could do. But it wasn’t my father. 

James didn’t seem to care that I was getting his shirt wet with tears. He hugged me, on the side of the road, as I finally realised that my Dad was gone. He wasn’t coming back. It was the kind of hug that I had been missing from my Dad, but it was what truly made me come to terms with the fact that he wasn’t here to hug me anymore.

When I finally pulled away, and reached my hands up to wipe the tears from my face, it didn’t escape my notice that James had tears in his eyes as well. James sniffed, and gave me a sad smile.

“Shall we get your tyre sorted, and get you back on the road?”

I nodded, and opened my boot, throwing things from the boot onto the back seat, so we could get to the spare wheel.

“You know,” James sniffed again, “I can’t believe you don’t know how to do this. Your Dad rebuild four different cars from scrap, and he never taught you how to change a wheel?”

“He did,” I smiled at the memory. Me being a grumpy teenager who just wanted to lounge about in the sunshine, forced to take a wheel off and put it back on because my Dad wanted me to learn. “I was never enthused about the idea of getting dirty, so I never really paid attention.”

“Well, you can get dirty this time. I’m not doing all the hard work. I pulled a muscle in my shoulder the other day. You’re changing this wheel.”

Somehow, James making me do the hard work made me feel better. My Dad was always doing something on some car or another, tightening this, or fiddling with that. Now, I was the one doing those things. Granted, I was just changing a wheel, not rebuilding an engine, and I did have to get James to help me loosen the bolts in the first place, but I was fixing a car. Kind of. 

James hugged me again when the wheel had been changed over, a side-hug that said ‘well done’. My Dad might not be here to help anymore, but I wasn’t alone in missing him. It was clear James missed him just as much. 

“You need to get that tyre replaced, you can’t drive on the spare forever.” James told me as I struggled to lift the wheel I had taken off into the boot.

“Where do I do that?”

“We’ll do it now, yeah? I’ll go ahead, you follow behind me so you know the way.” 

I smiled, more to myself. My Dad was always doing that if we needed to take two cars somewhere, and I didn’t know the way. Driving ahead, so I could follow him. 

“Okay. Thank you.” I hugged him again, but this time, I wasn’t sure if it was him comforting me, or me comforting him.

And done!

I know, I know. Another sad one.

I don't actually have anything to say down here today.

Anyway, that's all for now...

Bye!

 

Short Story – Thank you for the Memories

“Can we sit down for a bit?” My granddaughter asked, pointing towards a bench. Her small hand in mine swung our arms as we walked along the path I knew so well, that she had yet to discover. 

"Of course.”

She led the way to the bench, pulling me along behind her. I knew everything about this path, every tree, every plant. I knew that bench. I came to visit every week, ran my fingers along the engraving. 

“Can I have a drink?” She asked, and I sat down, digging through the bag I carried with me for her water bottle. She took it from my hands and tipped it up, drinking deeply, and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand afterwards. I looked up to where the tops of the trees brushed the sky, aware of my granddaughter turning on the bench and looking around.

“RTB.” She said quietly, and I dragged my gaze down to her. Hearing the initials I knew being spoken aloud felt like a spell had been broken, and yet, at the same time I longed to hear them spoken again. “Who do you think it was?” She looked up at me, and I turned my attention towards the engraving. RTB. Thank you for the memories. 

I knew who it was. I knew better than most. I knew that Robbie was the love of my life the moment I saw him. It was the summer, and heat beat down on my head as I walked through the fields. I heard laughter, and my eyes found the source, a group of boys from my class at school, kicking a ball around. He saw me looking, and held up a hand in greeting. I had blushed at the attention, and at being caught, and rushed home, but I couldn’t get his face out of my head. The splattering of freckles across his pale skin, the sun tanned crinkles at the corners of his eyes from smiling. The bright orange curls that had been the object of teasing when we were little, but was quickly forgotten. 

I went back to school after the summer holidays, a year older at 16, to find a flower on my desk, just a daisy, but one that beamed up at me as I sat down. I glanced around the room and saw him staring at me, grinning. I fell into the seat and tucked the flower into my bag before anyone else saw, smiling. 

He started walking me home from school, making conversation. When the summer warmth left, and cool autumn breezes set in, I tried to convince him that I could walk home fine by myself, concerned about him going out of his way in the cold to see me home, but he refused to cease accompanying me. Secretly, I was pleased. 

By the time summer came back around, we were sweethearts, holding hands and stealing kisses when we were by ourselves. He took me out for the day, and we walked along a path with trees either side of it, the birds singing in the sky and among the leaves. I carried a picnic basket, swinging it as I held his hand, smiling in contentment as we walked. He took me to a clearing, one he obviously knew well, and we ate sandwiches and kissed. As afternoon turned to early evening, our kisses escalated, and for the first time, we were wrapped in each other’s arms on the picnic blanket, with no clothing between us. His arms were a cocoon of love, and I never wanted to leave him. 

The day he didn’t turn up for school, I walked alone to his house, missing him in his entirely. I missed his hand in mine, the lilt of his voice as he talked to me, the look on his face when he listened to me talk as if I were saying the most interesting things he had ever heard. I knocked on the door, and when his mother answered, I asked after him. Sick in bed, she said. I was not to come in, lest I too grew ill. I walked home in silence, eagerly awaiting the day he was well enough to return to school, and to walk with me again. 

Three lonely weeks passed of me visiting his house daily, seeing only his mother or older sister at the door, and never stepping foot inside. I never knew I could feel dread before anything bad happened, but there was a pit in my stomach when I walked up to his door one day, and knocked hesitantly on it. No one answered for a few minutes, and I knocked again. His mother opened the door, tears running down her cheeks, and pulled me into a hug as she sobbed. I stood shook still, trying to process what I knew was the truth. My Robbie was gone. 

His funeral was a quiet affair, and I stood by his mother as they laid the coffin in the grave, a handkerchief grasped in the hand that rested against my belly, where I was now certain our child grew. My Robbie was gone, but there was a tiny piece of him, coming to life inside me. Despite my weeks of crying after Robbie left, he did not return. Yet, my child grew, and I vowed to give them enough love for Robbie as well.

“I think it was someone very loved,” I wrapped my arm around my granddaughter, and tucked a bright orange curl behind her ear. Her mother had the same hair, and still, only I knew where it came from. I hadn’t shared Robbie with anyone, but had kept his memory to myself all these years. But, the bench that I had put here, to keep his memory alive was not doing that. No one knew who RTB was, only that it was a person who was no longer here. It had been long enough. 

“His name was Robert Thomas Brown.” I told her, and she looked up at me, the freckles across her nose so much like his. “And he was your grandfather.”

And done!

Yes, it's kind of sad – I know, I know.

The inspiration for this came entirely from going on a walk and coming across a bench with an inscription that had three initials, and then said 'thank you for the memory'. My writer brain instantly came up with this story idea when I started to wonder who they had been, and who had dedicated the bench to them.

ALSO – I just realised I named this after a Fall Out Boy song when I titled the post... it's nothing to do with them, I didn't copy the title or anything, it was literally an inscription on a bench!

Anyway, that's all for now...

Bye!

 

Short Story – The Call of the Sea

My feet pounded against the beach, my shoes kicking up sand behind me. I couldn’t spend another minute in that house with my father. Not with him trying to tell me how to live my life when he barely knew how to live his own. I had run upstairs, slammed my bedroom door shut, and climbed out the window. I looked through one of the downstairs windows as I passed, and saw him already sat down in his armchair with a glass of whisky in his hand. 

The summer sun was starting to lower in the sky, but it would be light for a while yet. That was what I loved about summer, the long evenings. The air was warm, but a slight breeze had begun, and it cooled the sweat on my face as I ran. 

I crossed the beach and slowed, stumbling into my family’s boathouse. It was run down, a partition wall collapsed, and holes in the roof that let rain in.

I pulled the doors open and climbed into my little boat. The engine started with a splutter, and I sailed it through the doors, out onto the open water. The sound of the engine rumbling, and the waves lapping at the paintwork, seagulls calling out above me – this was my happy place. The place where nothing could get to me, where I felt the safest, alone on the water. 

I took the boat around the coast, watching my house come into view, half hoping my father would be outside, looking for me, making sure I was alright. The house stood solitary, and the only people I could see were the elderly couple who lived down the road from us, walking slowly along the beach. Who was I kidding, my father probably hadn’t even gone upstairs to realise I wasn’t there. Why would he come to apologise, or talk to me? There was no point in talking if I was going to be the only one listening. 

I turned the engine off, letting the boat drift. The waves were calm, and I walked across the deck as it rocked, a practiced motion of staying upright. The shore was small in the distance, and I sat, staring at it. I couldn’t see my house anymore, or the couple on the beach. I couldn’t see the individual trees that I knew from climbing them in my childhood. What I could see, though, was the colours of the land. I could see the pale sand, the darkness of trees and the lighter patches of grass. I could just about make out the town.

The air lost its warmth as the sun continued its descent. I could see the moon, pale against the still blue sky, and the white trail left behind from an airplane. My attention drifted as I watched the water, sat crosslegged on the deck, the gentle rocking calming me. I breathed in the salty air, the hair on my arms raising with goosebumps from the new chill in the air. I reluctantly pushed myself to my feet and went in search of the blanket I kept on the boat, finding it tucked away and wrapping it around my shoulders. 

The engine reluctantly came back to life, and I directed the boat back towards the shore, to its captivity in the boathouse. A broken down home, where it had no choice but to stay. Somehow, I would rather stay in the boathouse. That, or take my boat and sail somewhere, anywhere. I could travel along the coast, follow it to another beach town and find my place there, or just keep going, live on the boat as I travelled.

The walls of the boathouse enclosed me in, and I cut the engine, jumping out the boat to close the doors. I would stay here tonight. I couldn’t face climbing back into my room, or going through the front door and explaining where I had been. I didn’t want to face my home tonight.

My boat had a little cabin, with a small kitchen and a place to sleep. I kept things here, things I would take if I ever were to just up and leave. I pulled open one of the drawers, and took out a framed photo of my mother. This had been her boat, left to me when she passed away a few years ago. That was when my father had changed as well. Now, he would rather spend money on a bottle of alcohol than pick flowers for her grave. 

I settled into bed, laying the blanket over the duvet, and tucking both around me. My father didn’t understand why my mother and I loved this boat so much. He didn’t get why we would rather be out sailing than on land. But there was something about being on the water, the rocking of the boat, the sound of the water – I even slept better in on the boat than in my room at home. Being on the water was home for me, and it gave me a way to keep my mother’s memory alive. Every time I took the boat out, I could almost hear her voice in the sigh of the wind, and could almost feel her hands over mine on the wheel, like how she used to help me steer when I was little. 

I rolled over, and yawned. I would go back tomorrow, talk to my father. I suppose I had to. For now, though, I would sleep. One day, I was going to take the boat and go. I could feel it. I was just waiting for the day to come, and in the meantime, I dreamt of the open water, the wind in my hair, and no one around to stop me.

And done!

I wasn't sure what to call this story, 'The Call of the Sea' was the first thing that came to mind.

Well, actually, the first thing that came to mind was 'Boat Story', and it was sat on my desktop with that title for a few days before I actually made this post. I think 'Boat Story' would've sufficed. Anyway.

That's all for now...

Bye!

Short Story – Walking the Trail

 

I was starting to regret listening to my sister about this trail. People had been telling me I needed to get out more, that I spent too much time inside, so on a rare day off, I followed my sat nav to this out of the way trail through the woods. I had driven past the entrance twice before finally pulling my car in and parking. The signposts had been easy to follow to begin with, but the more I followed the little arrows, the further I seemed to go from the car park. 

I had chosen the shortest route, following the arrows that had the green writing on them, but I had been walking for hours, and the steps tracker I downloaded to my phone said I had walked at least four miles, not the one I had intended to.

I hadn’t dressed for anything other than a quick walk, in the midday sun, and the sun was starting to go down now. My phone sat, dead, in my back pocket, and it had been at least twenty minutes since I saw a signpost. There had been two crossroad paths, and I had picked straight on each one. Perhaps that was a mistake, simply taking me on the most direct route away from my car.

A snap from behind me had me spinning around, ready to fight some sort of person or animal, but there was nothing. Frowning, I turned around again, and continued on, my sore feet plodding along the path. If anyone ever told me I didn’t get out enough ever again, I was going to tell them where they could stick the outside. The outside world didn’t like me, and I didn’t like it. That was all there was to say.

I shivered and rubbed my hands along my arms, trying to generate some heat. I wish I had brought a jumper, or a coat. But it had been hot earlier, neither had been necessary. 

A strange glow in the distance caught my eye, and I started walking towards it, stepping off the path and through some ferns. I scratched my arm on some brambles, and considered turning back, but the glow had given me hope I hadn’t had before. Light meant people.

Why was I talking like I was about to find myself lost in the woods for days, weeks, before being found? ‘Hope I hadn’t had before’. I read too many books, watch too many films. At least I kind of know how to survive. I could light a fire, if needs be. It can’t be too hard.

But, it wouldn’t be necessary at all. The glow I was following was soon joined by a faint crackling, and I could smell smoke in the air. I was walking towards a fire, and when I stepped into the small clearing, it became apparent that it was an intentional one. A small campfire, with a ring of rocks around it, some sort of makeshift spit made of stripped sticks suspending a small, skinned animal over the flames. 

I looked around, stepping closer to the fire and relishing in the warmth, while trying not to think about how good the roasting meat smelt. It was a woodland creature, probably a squirrel. Most likely not washed properly before it was stuck on the spit. Besides, shouldn’t it be turned? Someone had to have put it here, where where they? 

I crouched down next to the spit, and rotated it slightly. Maybe, if I helped this person, they could direct me back towards the car park. 

A twig snapped, and I spun around to face the noise, but I couldn’t see movement in the trees. 

“Hello? I don’t mean to alarm you, I’m just lost. Could you point me in the direction of the car park?” I called out, but the only response was the call of a bird, high above me.

I sat by the fire, spreading my legs out in front of me. My feet were thankful of the rest, and when I slipped my shoes off and peeled off my socks, I saw blisters, along the backs of my ankles, the pads of my feet and one big one on my right big toe. It was my own fault, going walking in flat shoes, with no support for walking miles on end. I slipped my socks back on, and grimaced as I forced my feet back into my shoes, leaving the laces loose and untied, to give my feet at least a little freedom.

I turned the spit again, and watched the orange flames flicker, and jump up and down. Darkness fell quickly once the sun slid away, within ten minutes I couldn’t see further than the clearing, and even that was only because of the campfire, casting a yellow glow over the area. 

Where was the person who had lit the fire, set up the spit? If I hadn’t found it, the squirrel would be burnt on one side, and raw on the other. Surely they couldn’t have just left it? That was a forest safety issue. But, I suppose, if you’re able to catch squirrels and cook them, you know about forest fires, and how to prevent them. I studied the rocks around the fire, placed directly in the centre of the clearing, as far from every tree as possible. This person clearly knew how not to burn the place down.

A problem arose when the squirrel reached what I assumed was fully cooked, and no one had come to claim the fire and help me. I picked it off the spit, and held the stick from both ends, the squirrel in the middle, staring at it before glancing around. There was nowhere for me to put it. Out of ideas, I pulled the two Y shaped sticks from the ground, from either side of the fire, and moved them away, setting the spit up again, but without the fire underneath it. The person was going to have to reheat their meal if they didn’t hurry up and come back.

I heard the hoot of an owl in the distance, and wondered how long I had been sat here. Maybe someone would see my car in the carpark, and come looking for me. My sister was bound to realise I wasn’t just ignoring her calls after several attempts of trying and not reaching me. She would call someone. Someone would come.

I heard another twig snap, and turned to look, although I wasn’t expecting to see anything at this point. Maybe simply waiting out the night by this fire would be the best idea. It would be easier to find my way back in the daylight.

As I turned to look back at the fire, I felt a hand tangle in my hair, grasping it tight, and I screamed. I squirmed, tears springing to my eyes with the pulling of my hair. I felt coolness against my throat, and stilled, steady breaths against my ear. The person chuckled, a deep sound, before whispering to me.

“I’m going to need a bigger fire.”

And done!

I wasn't entirely sure where this story was going to go until halfway through, when I became absolutely certain I was going to kill the main character.

Ah, the life of a writer!

Anyway, that's all for now...

Bye!

Short Story – Moments

I don’t have a story to tell.

My life hasn’t waltzed by in chapter titles, or numbered pages, or paragraphs that flow from one to the other, following the rhythm of life’s dance. Because books usually follow a trend, in that there is a story, that the reader can follow from beginning to end. What happens to the characters before and after isn’t important, the part of their life that is written is when something happens. Something changes. 

My life so far hasn’t had that moment of change. I haven’t had the build up to a turning point. I’ve been following a course, and the waters have been calm, any rough patches haven’t been enough to toss me aside, and send me somewhere else, because I haven’t had a clear destination. I don’t know where I want to go, so my ship can let the water throw it around, and I’ll be happy just to arrive somewhere.

No, I don’t have a story to tell. I just have moments. 

I have the memory of how I felt, at five years old, jumping out the car after much too long. Pulling on my father’s hand, trying to get him to walk faster, as we went from the car park to the beach, my mother trailing behind with my little brother toddling along next to her, his little hand reaching up to hold hers. The sun on the top of my head as my mother spreads suncream across my face, the smell that I only associate with summer sinking into my skin. Desperate to take my shoes off and run to the sea. Digging deep enough with my little yellow plastic shovel to find the sand that is colder, better for building sandcastles, and the cold taste of an ice-cream, impossibly tall, that drips down the cone and leaves you with sticky fingers.

I have the thrill of the first big snowfall I remember, not just a dusting, but enough that your boots sink into the soft powder, crushing and compacting the snow with a satisfying crunch. My younger brother running after me, and throwing handfuls of snow at the back of my head until I stopped and showed him how to make a proper snowball. The neighbour’s children, all coming out and throwing snow at each other through the white air of snow still falling, until we grouped together with the help of a parent and built a snowman taller than some of the younger kids. Heading inside when we got too cold, with sodden trousers and bright pink fingers we couldn’t feel. Our mother ready with warm clothes, and hot chocolate, which we drank while watching a movie, all of us huddled up together in a pile of blankets.

I have the excitement of my first trip away from home by myself, waving to my family through the window of a coach as I waited impatiently for the engine to start and drive me away so we could arrive and the fun could start. The nervousness of not knowing anyone, but a girl coming to sit beside me, and the journey somehow seeming not so long with her chatting to me. The buzz of carrying our bags through an already busy camp, and getting set up with our tents, given free roam of the site that had plenty of activities strewn about, things like a rock climbing wall, and a zip line. Things that meant you had to stand in line for an hour, with the sun beating down on you, and decide if it was really worth waiting so long, but you’re nearing the front of the line now, so there would be no point in leaving. Lighting a fire when it started getting dark, too many people trying to fit around it, leaning over each other to wave a marshmallow on a stick near the flames. The loneliness that set in at night, when I realised how much I missed being near my family, and wanting to go home, but somehow falling asleep and waking up excited to find out what this next day would bring.

I have the memory of exhaustion after a sleepover at a friend’s house, when we thought we were missing out of the amazement of pulling an ‘all-nighter’. Pretending to go to bed when their parents did, and being as quiet as we could for half an hour, after which we decided it had been plenty long enough, and they must be asleep by now. Watching movies on a laptop, both of us lying on their bed, even though we didn’t really fit. Getting drowsy at two, but pushing on with sugary snacks and breaks to sneak downstairs and raid the cupboards of cookies and the fridge of the leftover pizza from dinner. Somehow making it to seven, out of sheer determination, and spending the day in a strange state of being, between being asleep and being awake, in a dream world while in the real world. Pretending we weren’t tired when asked, because we thought we couldn’t let anyone know we had stayed up all night, thinking it was something that needed to stay a secret.

I haven’t got a beginning, middle, and end to my story, because I don’t know where it’s going. I don’t have a major plot point that the rest of everything is built around. I don’t know if I’m even the main character. I might be the side character in my brother’s story, the older sibling who is there for one or two chapters, to make a cup of tea and offer support when something’s gone wrong. 

I might not be the main character in the story I feature in. But I’m alright with that. It’s not like I have nothing. I have my own side plot, there just isn’t enough information about me for the reader to be able to predict the outcome of my story. I’m there for some of the scenes, and while they might be inconsequential to the story, they are important to me. Those days at the beach, in the snow, moments that aren’t even necessary enough for the story to be mentioned – they are what make up me. I am those moments, those memories. They created who I am, and if who I am is a side character, I will do my best to make everyone around me shine, because while I’m still not sure who the main character actually is, I don’t want to mess up my moment in their story.

And done!

I'm not really sure what this story is. I was scrolling through Pinterest, trying to find some inspiration for a story, and all I was getting was things like 'a storm, the old oak tree, a scar.' 'A dying fire, red hair in messy braids, a grey fox with silver eyes.'

Things that weren't really helping me at all, but also kind of gave me the idea just to write about different moments. None of those things are things a story is about, they are just fleeting moments in the story, a setting for a conversation before the story moves on.

So yeah. That's the inspiration.

That's all for now...

Bye!