2011 will see a short story of mine called The Firewood Collector published in Carillon Magazine. The story started out as a 150 word flash fiction piece used for a competition, but I decided to expand the story because I knew that there was more to say for the character of Reuben, the man in the striped clothes. This happens often; a flash fiction piece or short story just simply demands your attention and more often than not you come up with something amazing.
The Firewood Collector
Green over umber; these colours filled Reuben’s vision, vibrant and deep, reminding him of childhood summers spent in the Rhine valley. Childhood aside, he’d lived and worked in Berlin most of his life, until the war began, and now everything had changed, his life and his world had changed immeasurably.
Sweet smelling moss and pine laced the mist around him as he followed the soldiers along the path. The sky had turned grey, as though sullied by an unwelcome fear.
Reuben collected firewood every day for the camp, had done so for five years. It was a hard task, finding enough to stoke the furnaces and power the machinery. He dragged along a large cart which he had to fill with wood. Sometimes he made two or three collections during the day, which left him exhausted at night, although not as exhausted as some of the younger men in the camp.
They moved further up the hill. Mist clung to the trees like a cloak and veiled the crows hiding along branches, but Reuben knew they were there, he could hear them. The air was still, damp and somehow heavy, and each crunch underfoot seemed to carry across the forest.
He looked out from the hillside, saw the camp below. Square shaped huts dotted his vision, the darkened roofs reflecting the rain which must have fallen in the night. A large funnel of grey smoke billowed from the chimney of a nearby building, the smoke stack rising high into the air. The stench from the smoke stack didn’t reach the hillside, and instead drifting across the forest to the east, drenching the surroundings with a chalky coloured powder, slightly sticky to the touch. Reuben was glad he couldn’t smell it. It knew what they burned to make it so nauseous.
He looked to his right, saw the railway track leading up to the gates of the camp. The forest was silent today, but tomorrow there would be more people arriving, crammed into the wooden carriages. More men and women, more children.
The soldier in front stopped, lit a cigarette. The smoke coiled around his face, reluctant to leave. He exhaled slowly.
Reuben’s brow drooped. Lines in his once fresh face deepened. He pointed. ‘There’s no wood here. We have to go up to the clearing to get the best wood.’
The soldier smoked, shook his head. ‘No, here is fine.’
Reuben rubbed soiled hands down his striped clothes. ‘But...there’s no wood here...’
The soldier watched Reuben carefully with retentive blue eyes as he smoked.
Reuben’s grey eyes slowly turned dark. Afraid. He knew that look; he had seen it so many times. Behind him, he heard the other soldier moving about and it made him turn, the sensation of fear scuttling across his skin.
The other soldier stood near a muddy patch of ground, foot on a large boulder, his rifle slung around his shoulder. He stared at Reuben with dark, almost black cloudy eyes, as though they had lost sheen and no light could penetrate them.
Reuben shuddered, turned to the soldier in front. The clouds in the distance undulated and churned, it looked like more rain was coming.
‘There’s no need for you to collect firewood anymore, Reuben,’ the soldier said. The soldier lifted his rifle. ‘I’m afraid you’ve outgrown your use.’
Reuben shook his head. ‘But I don’t understand...’
‘I got my orders.’ The soldier coughed as though he had grit stuck at the back of his throat.
‘No...please!’ Reuben cried, his insides contracting with fear. ‘I’ve been a good worker, I’ve broken no rules.’
‘We know that,’ the other solider said from behind Reuben.
Reuben looked at him. ‘You need me. Who else is going to collect the firewood?’
‘The boys can do it,’ the soldier replied, indifferent.
The little boys, all without mothers, who picked around the camp, clearing up the detritus and the dead. There were always more of them coming in every other day.
‘But I know all the best places for wood,’ Reuben said.
‘The boys will find new places,’ the soldier said, pointing the gun at Reuben’s head.
Reuben stared at him, saw white knuckles on the trigger, poised. Wonderful memories shot through his mind; family dinners and parties, evenings around the piano, going to work alongside his father at the furniture factory on the outskirts of Berlin, getting married. Then the dark memories rose up and smothered him; losing his wife the day the soldiers came for them, losing his children. All three boys murdered on the sullied streets of Berlin. All these elements, all that he was, had gone.
He blinked.
The shot scattered crows skyward. Reuben fell, his shattered face buried in the moss, red over green.
‘Shame,’ the German soldier said, nonchalant. He flicked his cigarette. ‘I liked him. Still, he was a Jew nevertheless.’
More Winners...
Another little flash fiction won a competition recently. My fellow writing friend Lily Childs holds a weekly 100 word flash fiction competition, which is an excellent way of fine tuning one's micro fiction skills. I won last week's competition with Fell, the Breath, a slight breakaway from the norm of dark stories and instead this one touches on the subject of love.
If you fancy a flash fiction challenge, you can find Lily's blog here: http://lilychildsfeardom.blogspot.com/
Fell, the Breath
A mere touch, supple like the haze of Spring and yet so cherished with colour like pale pigmented blossom, I finally broke through her concrete defences to reach in and grab the block of cold quartz where her heart should have been.
I opened the bedroom door; hand gestures and soft smiles unwrapped the delicate ribbons of trust. I watched her defences melt.
First contact of hands to silken skin; the chain that had for so long kept me at a distance finally dissolved. A captivated breath fell from my lips; the rush of love.
I was her first girl.
If you fancy a flash fiction challenge, you can find Lily's blog here: http://lilychildsfeardom.blogspot.com/
Fell, the Breath
A mere touch, supple like the haze of Spring and yet so cherished with colour like pale pigmented blossom, I finally broke through her concrete defences to reach in and grab the block of cold quartz where her heart should have been.
I opened the bedroom door; hand gestures and soft smiles unwrapped the delicate ribbons of trust. I watched her defences melt.
First contact of hands to silken skin; the chain that had for so long kept me at a distance finally dissolved. A captivated breath fell from my lips; the rush of love.
I was her first girl.
I wrote a poem called Strength and Honour a few months back, which won the One Word Challenge over at Writer's Talkback. I'm fascinated with history, so I used that as inspiration for the poem by combining history with myth to write about a hero of mine - a certain man called Spartacus.
Strength and Honour
Graphite shapes stencilled in your eyes,
Seemed to hold back an imaginary darkness,
The sting of your words eased,
But you still swiped me with a spiteful claw,
Our malice sullied the air,
As thick as our blood in the sand.
Juddering heartbeats drowned us,
Like a collective fear,
The stagnant mist of death,
Came, cloaked, and in silence,
We challenged each other,
Braced and twisted and fraught,
Clash of iron and wood and flesh,
Sinews stretched beyond their means,
Two ruddy reflections beneath the sun.
One memory at a time climbed in,
To suppress the beast within me,
A woman and child lost to time,
Whose bodies lay among the reeds
And now withered against the heat.
But the pain drives my sword,
To strip any flower of its petals,
And as sunlight glanced from my armour,
The maiden glare blighted you,
I cracked you open,
And victory sprang from my lips.
Challenged and defeated at my feet,
Venting your spleen and soiling the ground,
The crowd roared my name.
Spartacus! Spartacus! Spartacus!
Strength and Honour
Graphite shapes stencilled in your eyes,
Seemed to hold back an imaginary darkness,
The sting of your words eased,
But you still swiped me with a spiteful claw,
Our malice sullied the air,
As thick as our blood in the sand.
Juddering heartbeats drowned us,
Like a collective fear,
The stagnant mist of death,
Came, cloaked, and in silence,
We challenged each other,
Braced and twisted and fraught,
Clash of iron and wood and flesh,
Sinews stretched beyond their means,
Two ruddy reflections beneath the sun.
One memory at a time climbed in,
To suppress the beast within me,
A woman and child lost to time,
Whose bodies lay among the reeds
And now withered against the heat.
But the pain drives my sword,
To strip any flower of its petals,
And as sunlight glanced from my armour,
The maiden glare blighted you,
I cracked you open,
And victory sprang from my lips.
Challenged and defeated at my feet,
Venting your spleen and soiling the ground,
The crowd roared my name.
Spartacus! Spartacus! Spartacus!
Horror Stories
What makes a good horror story? Well, lots of things. Setting, tension, atmosphere, tone and a knack of drawing the reader into a false sense of security. It also depends how much we want to chill our readers. I write horror (such a wide genre) and dark tales, as well as contemporary thrillers, and I like to explore my dark side every now and then.
I wrote Lonely Hearts for Thrillers Killers and Chillers (published November) which is a dark tale of revenge and justice, albeit in a nasty way. But then horror isn't meant to be nice, is it?
WARNING: Graphic content - may offend.
Lonely Hearts
She closed the diary, flicked the light off and left the house.
She had weathered an eight-year storm; lost on a cold, grey ocean of unlimited depth and for a long time, bilious undercurrents had swept her further from reality. Her life had been all but a slate coloured mist, except for the needle like pain of a moment in the past that periodically brought her to. This static encrusted memory kept her going because she knew she would find him again, however long it took.
She remembered his face; deep frown lines peppered with beads of sweat, the hint of whiskers poking through sun kissed skin. She remembered his scent; the mix of musky perspiration and beer and traces of Armani. She remembered the heady mix of desire and alcohol, the way he deftly lowered her defences when she least expected, as neatly as unzipping a dress.
The art of betrayal had ingrained in her memory, never to leave.
She remembered his stale breath against her face, his saliva like slime, left on her skin from a tongue hewn from granite, trailing like a snail from mouth to vagina. And his eyes, as distant as a blown star, never burned with depth or feeling. They were dark, indistinct and somewhere behind the burnished facade, a demon huddled, waiting.
She remembered his touch, rough like sand across her skin. He left marks across her flesh, deeper ones in her mind. He had sliced her with the penknife, leaving trails of blood soaking the bed sheets, eking out a name in broken flesh: slut. When he forced a path inside her and split her open, she haemorrhaged crimson clots, while hot streams oozed from nose and mouth.
He had snatched the thin thread of trust that she had forged during their date, ripped it from her in that moment of frenzy.
But she couldn’t fight him, couldn’t kick, nor would she dare or scream; she could barely raise a whisper. She had to listen to the screams in her head while the fear sat crushing her chest like churlish demon.
He worked in a hospital. A doctor. The drug he’d used was Benzodiazepine. It had clouded her motor functions, impeded thought and she unable to stop him and at first, she couldn’t feel the pain, but as the drug dissipated through her veins and began to wane, the fire in her groin became intense, like a container full of nails had exploded in her womb.
Long after he had spilled his seed and was gone, the pain in her abdomen remained for days, a grotesque reminder of her naivety.
She shook the memory from her mind and looked up at the face in the distance bathed in ochre from the street light. His was a familiar square face, suffused by the swirling darkness which protected him.
Clicking of heels over cobbles signalled primitive urges. Red lips, plump and waiting for a kiss, moved in perceived slow motion.
‘I’m Jen.’ A lie. ‘You must be Morgan.’
Morgan Smith looked at her from beneath lowered eyelids as though gauging her as he cast a probing shadow across her pale face.
As she moved to shake his hand, her shirt opened out to reveal her breast. ‘I have a lovely bottle of Chateau Neuf du Pape waiting at home,' Jen whispered. ‘Shall we?’
His voice was soft, rounded. ‘You’re much smaller than your picture. I thought you would be taller.’
She looked up. Subtle flecks in her pale green eyes bristled beneath the dull light. ‘Everyone says that.’ Her attention dropped to his left hand as he moved. The gold wedding band glinted. Her eyes narrowed.
He saw her expression, slipped his hand in his pocket. ‘I’m separated.’
She smiled to ease his tenuous expression. ‘Don’t worry, I meant what I said in my advert. No strings, right?’
The advert in the lonely hearts column of the local newspaper, the no strings fun of two consenting adults.
His eyes darkened. ‘Right.’
She walked along the cobbles, her footsteps echoing through the alley. ‘My place isn’t far.’
He followed, soft even steps mingling with hers.
Ten minutes later, she opened the front door and stepped into the dark umbra clouding the hallway. She walked towards a door at the far end.
Morgan closed the door with his foot. Immediately a shadow rose from the floor, growled, startled him. He stiffened against the door.
She flicked the light on. ‘Oh, don’t mind Jason. He’s wary around strangers, that’s all.’ She slipped into the kitchen.
Morgan gazed at the sleek black Doberman. The dog stared back at him, very still, upright, ears to attention like sharpened spears.
Morgan slowly eased past the dog and entered the kitchen.
Jen had already popped the wine. She handed him a full glass, then grabbed hers, gazed up at him, her green eyes glowing with a strange, eerie candescence. She sipped the ruby coloured liquid, licked her lips.
He watched, fascinated, took a gulp from his own glass.
She reached up and touched his face, saw how his eyes became like polished steel. She sipped her drink. ‘Drink up.’
He grinned, knocked back the glass. She poured him another.
She was silent as she took his hand and led him upstairs. She pushed open the door to the bedroom, allowed the feminine scents to tantalise him, draw him in.
A cool pewter glow from a full moon framed her silhouette as she stood by the window. The darkness crowded them, pressed against their piqued skin. She undid the coat and slipped it off.
Morgan could see her naked shape against the moon glow pressing against the window. He set the wine glass down and quickly unbuckled his belt and unzipped his trousers. Buttons popped as he ripped off his shirt, threw it across the room.
She moved forward, her milky shadow grazed by the light. She settled on the bed. She reached up and pulled him down on the bed beside her; lay close enough to feel the warmth of his body.
His scent tickled her nose. Armani and raw musk. Her memory fizzled.
She felt his hand sweep up her leg and hip, then up across her back, but the sensation was cold, insipid. Hot breath clouded her face as he tried to find her lips, but she had her head turned towards the pale light, her eyes focused on the moon through the half-closed curtains. The cold man in the moon seemed fearful.
She let him paw her.
After a long while of play she moved so that she sat astride him, rubbed her hands down his chest and groin. She could just make out the slight smile on his face as he settled back against the pillows.
She gripped him, thumb rubbing his against glans. From the greyness, she heard him moan. It was a subtle sound, almost lost in the darkness.
She eased forward, reached under the mattress with her right hand, continued to rub him with her left. Her fingertips touched the blade beneath the mattress, found the handle.
He moaned again, throbbing against her palm.
She tucked the knife tight against her wrist and sat up again.
His engorged penis throbbed against her thigh.
She glared at him through the gloom. His face hadn’t changed. His eyes were still dark and barren like a lifeless moon, still the same cold expression. Still the same stench poured from his skin.
Her insides juddered as she remembered him. Everything about him.
She curled her fingers around his penis, thumb and forefinger squeezing gently. She tucked her feet beneath his thighs. She eased the knife from the protective veil of the darkness, lifted his member and without a sound she sliced it at the base, pushed deep into the flesh.
Morgan screamed as the pain shot into his system, although it sounded more like an intake of breath meeting a cough, and he gurgled on his own saliva. He tried to sit up, found that he couldn’t.
‘What the f--’
‘Flunitrazepam,’ she said, cold, sawing through him. ‘Rohyphnol to you and me. And you know all about that, don’t you, Morgan? Being a doctor.’
Tears spilled from his eyes and mixed with saliva. ‘Bitttchh...what the hell...’
Even through the maw, she could see his distorted face, his neck swollen with pain, veins throbbing and crawling beneath his skin. Thin threads bulged in his face, looked as though they would burst any moment.
Something warm splattered and dribbled down her stomach.
She tore the last remaining sinew from him and his member detached. A slimy film of blood covered her hands. ‘Look Morgan, bits of you. This is what hurt me. This is the weapon you used against me.’
He was breathing shallow, hard, the creeping numbness in his body making him cold. He stared at her through his pain. ‘You crazy bitch!’
‘Eight years ago. You answered my ad in the lonely hearts column of the newspaper. You lived in North London. Single white female seeks fun with single male, 25 - 40. But it wasn’t any fun for me you bastard. I thought it was the alcohol, but you drugged me. That what you did to all your blind dates, Morgan? Drugged them and raped them?’ She waved his severed penis at him. ‘Not anymore.’
‘I’ll kill you for this you crazy slut,’ he rasped, his senses beginning to fog.
‘Eight years. That’s how long it’s taken to trawl the lonely hearts columns of the newspapers, week in, week out.’ She got up off the bed, grabbed her coat and slipped into her heels before she opened the door. ‘You might want to get to a hospital, Morgan, before you bleed out. Think of your poor wife. Oh, one last thing...my name is Melanie, not Jen.’
It took all of his strength to fight the numbing sensation of the drug to clamp his hand over the gaping hole where his cock had been. Melanie Clark, early twenties, brunette hair, mesmerising green eyes. Tiny little thing. Now he remembered.
Melanie wandered downstairs. She deposited the bloody knife in the sink and washed her hands and then walked down the hallway.
She smiled at the dog. ‘Hungry, baby?’
The dog sat up, barked.
From upstairs she heard Morgan wail.
Long glistening strands of saliva dripped from the dog’s mouth, splattered against the tiled floor.
She threw the bloody piece of muscle to the dog. ‘Enjoy, baby. Eat it all up.’
The dog snatched it up, chewed it eagerly through the flesh and fat. The deep, satisfying sound of mastication filled the hallway and drifted up the stairs like a sinister trail of vapour.
Morgan could barely move. He heard the dog chomping, screamed again.
Melanie smiled to herself, watched as the dog licked up the remaining blood. She slipped her coat on, grabbed her keys and left the house.
I wrote Lonely Hearts for Thrillers Killers and Chillers (published November) which is a dark tale of revenge and justice, albeit in a nasty way. But then horror isn't meant to be nice, is it?
WARNING: Graphic content - may offend.
Lonely Hearts
She closed the diary, flicked the light off and left the house.
She had weathered an eight-year storm; lost on a cold, grey ocean of unlimited depth and for a long time, bilious undercurrents had swept her further from reality. Her life had been all but a slate coloured mist, except for the needle like pain of a moment in the past that periodically brought her to. This static encrusted memory kept her going because she knew she would find him again, however long it took.
She remembered his face; deep frown lines peppered with beads of sweat, the hint of whiskers poking through sun kissed skin. She remembered his scent; the mix of musky perspiration and beer and traces of Armani. She remembered the heady mix of desire and alcohol, the way he deftly lowered her defences when she least expected, as neatly as unzipping a dress.
The art of betrayal had ingrained in her memory, never to leave.
She remembered his stale breath against her face, his saliva like slime, left on her skin from a tongue hewn from granite, trailing like a snail from mouth to vagina. And his eyes, as distant as a blown star, never burned with depth or feeling. They were dark, indistinct and somewhere behind the burnished facade, a demon huddled, waiting.
She remembered his touch, rough like sand across her skin. He left marks across her flesh, deeper ones in her mind. He had sliced her with the penknife, leaving trails of blood soaking the bed sheets, eking out a name in broken flesh: slut. When he forced a path inside her and split her open, she haemorrhaged crimson clots, while hot streams oozed from nose and mouth.
He had snatched the thin thread of trust that she had forged during their date, ripped it from her in that moment of frenzy.
But she couldn’t fight him, couldn’t kick, nor would she dare or scream; she could barely raise a whisper. She had to listen to the screams in her head while the fear sat crushing her chest like churlish demon.
He worked in a hospital. A doctor. The drug he’d used was Benzodiazepine. It had clouded her motor functions, impeded thought and she unable to stop him and at first, she couldn’t feel the pain, but as the drug dissipated through her veins and began to wane, the fire in her groin became intense, like a container full of nails had exploded in her womb.
Long after he had spilled his seed and was gone, the pain in her abdomen remained for days, a grotesque reminder of her naivety.
She shook the memory from her mind and looked up at the face in the distance bathed in ochre from the street light. His was a familiar square face, suffused by the swirling darkness which protected him.
Clicking of heels over cobbles signalled primitive urges. Red lips, plump and waiting for a kiss, moved in perceived slow motion.
‘I’m Jen.’ A lie. ‘You must be Morgan.’
Morgan Smith looked at her from beneath lowered eyelids as though gauging her as he cast a probing shadow across her pale face.
As she moved to shake his hand, her shirt opened out to reveal her breast. ‘I have a lovely bottle of Chateau Neuf du Pape waiting at home,' Jen whispered. ‘Shall we?’
His voice was soft, rounded. ‘You’re much smaller than your picture. I thought you would be taller.’
She looked up. Subtle flecks in her pale green eyes bristled beneath the dull light. ‘Everyone says that.’ Her attention dropped to his left hand as he moved. The gold wedding band glinted. Her eyes narrowed.
He saw her expression, slipped his hand in his pocket. ‘I’m separated.’
She smiled to ease his tenuous expression. ‘Don’t worry, I meant what I said in my advert. No strings, right?’
The advert in the lonely hearts column of the local newspaper, the no strings fun of two consenting adults.
His eyes darkened. ‘Right.’
She walked along the cobbles, her footsteps echoing through the alley. ‘My place isn’t far.’
He followed, soft even steps mingling with hers.
Ten minutes later, she opened the front door and stepped into the dark umbra clouding the hallway. She walked towards a door at the far end.
Morgan closed the door with his foot. Immediately a shadow rose from the floor, growled, startled him. He stiffened against the door.
She flicked the light on. ‘Oh, don’t mind Jason. He’s wary around strangers, that’s all.’ She slipped into the kitchen.
Morgan gazed at the sleek black Doberman. The dog stared back at him, very still, upright, ears to attention like sharpened spears.
Morgan slowly eased past the dog and entered the kitchen.
Jen had already popped the wine. She handed him a full glass, then grabbed hers, gazed up at him, her green eyes glowing with a strange, eerie candescence. She sipped the ruby coloured liquid, licked her lips.
He watched, fascinated, took a gulp from his own glass.
She reached up and touched his face, saw how his eyes became like polished steel. She sipped her drink. ‘Drink up.’
He grinned, knocked back the glass. She poured him another.
She was silent as she took his hand and led him upstairs. She pushed open the door to the bedroom, allowed the feminine scents to tantalise him, draw him in.
A cool pewter glow from a full moon framed her silhouette as she stood by the window. The darkness crowded them, pressed against their piqued skin. She undid the coat and slipped it off.
Morgan could see her naked shape against the moon glow pressing against the window. He set the wine glass down and quickly unbuckled his belt and unzipped his trousers. Buttons popped as he ripped off his shirt, threw it across the room.
She moved forward, her milky shadow grazed by the light. She settled on the bed. She reached up and pulled him down on the bed beside her; lay close enough to feel the warmth of his body.
His scent tickled her nose. Armani and raw musk. Her memory fizzled.
She felt his hand sweep up her leg and hip, then up across her back, but the sensation was cold, insipid. Hot breath clouded her face as he tried to find her lips, but she had her head turned towards the pale light, her eyes focused on the moon through the half-closed curtains. The cold man in the moon seemed fearful.
She let him paw her.
After a long while of play she moved so that she sat astride him, rubbed her hands down his chest and groin. She could just make out the slight smile on his face as he settled back against the pillows.
She gripped him, thumb rubbing his against glans. From the greyness, she heard him moan. It was a subtle sound, almost lost in the darkness.
She eased forward, reached under the mattress with her right hand, continued to rub him with her left. Her fingertips touched the blade beneath the mattress, found the handle.
He moaned again, throbbing against her palm.
She tucked the knife tight against her wrist and sat up again.
His engorged penis throbbed against her thigh.
She glared at him through the gloom. His face hadn’t changed. His eyes were still dark and barren like a lifeless moon, still the same cold expression. Still the same stench poured from his skin.
Her insides juddered as she remembered him. Everything about him.
She curled her fingers around his penis, thumb and forefinger squeezing gently. She tucked her feet beneath his thighs. She eased the knife from the protective veil of the darkness, lifted his member and without a sound she sliced it at the base, pushed deep into the flesh.
Morgan screamed as the pain shot into his system, although it sounded more like an intake of breath meeting a cough, and he gurgled on his own saliva. He tried to sit up, found that he couldn’t.
‘What the f--’
‘Flunitrazepam,’ she said, cold, sawing through him. ‘Rohyphnol to you and me. And you know all about that, don’t you, Morgan? Being a doctor.’
Tears spilled from his eyes and mixed with saliva. ‘Bitttchh...what the hell...’
Even through the maw, she could see his distorted face, his neck swollen with pain, veins throbbing and crawling beneath his skin. Thin threads bulged in his face, looked as though they would burst any moment.
Something warm splattered and dribbled down her stomach.
She tore the last remaining sinew from him and his member detached. A slimy film of blood covered her hands. ‘Look Morgan, bits of you. This is what hurt me. This is the weapon you used against me.’
He was breathing shallow, hard, the creeping numbness in his body making him cold. He stared at her through his pain. ‘You crazy bitch!’
‘Eight years ago. You answered my ad in the lonely hearts column of the newspaper. You lived in North London. Single white female seeks fun with single male, 25 - 40. But it wasn’t any fun for me you bastard. I thought it was the alcohol, but you drugged me. That what you did to all your blind dates, Morgan? Drugged them and raped them?’ She waved his severed penis at him. ‘Not anymore.’
‘I’ll kill you for this you crazy slut,’ he rasped, his senses beginning to fog.
‘Eight years. That’s how long it’s taken to trawl the lonely hearts columns of the newspapers, week in, week out.’ She got up off the bed, grabbed her coat and slipped into her heels before she opened the door. ‘You might want to get to a hospital, Morgan, before you bleed out. Think of your poor wife. Oh, one last thing...my name is Melanie, not Jen.’
It took all of his strength to fight the numbing sensation of the drug to clamp his hand over the gaping hole where his cock had been. Melanie Clark, early twenties, brunette hair, mesmerising green eyes. Tiny little thing. Now he remembered.
Melanie wandered downstairs. She deposited the bloody knife in the sink and washed her hands and then walked down the hallway.
She smiled at the dog. ‘Hungry, baby?’
The dog sat up, barked.
From upstairs she heard Morgan wail.
Long glistening strands of saliva dripped from the dog’s mouth, splattered against the tiled floor.
She threw the bloody piece of muscle to the dog. ‘Enjoy, baby. Eat it all up.’
The dog snatched it up, chewed it eagerly through the flesh and fat. The deep, satisfying sound of mastication filled the hallway and drifted up the stairs like a sinister trail of vapour.
Morgan could barely move. He heard the dog chomping, screamed again.
Melanie smiled to herself, watched as the dog licked up the remaining blood. She slipped her coat on, grabbed her keys and left the house.
Triple Flash
Three sets of short flash fiction (100 words), Uriel's Foolishment, Abner and Honey. It's quite a feat to fit in a plausible story into 100 words, but it can be done.
Uriel’s Foolishment
Cold breath coiled into the morning mist. Naked silverbirch trees stuttered against the breeze. A carpet of honey and wine coloured leaves softened his approach like a silent invitation.
He glanced up at the keep, saw the shadow at the window; the King’s bedchamber overlooked the woodland.
Uriel’s clammy-tinged fingers tightened around his sword. The King’s dead kestrel dangled from his leather belt, next to the sword sheath.
The troubled face in the window caught sight of the dead bird, then his falconer.
Uriel oozed from the protective clasp of the haze.
The King would be headless by nightfall.
Abner
The sound of time tickled the stagnant silence and wrested the fear from his frozen expression. A droplet glistened beneath the winter sun and dribbled down Abner’s unshaven face. It looked more like a tear than a globule of sweat.
The shadow standing over him blocked out the haze, yet cradled within his tormentor’s face he saw a churlish demon, burnished with unspeakable malevolence.
The German officer’s eyes were blackened pearls; gleamless, empty.
Betrayed by his cousin, Abner faced the officer’s gun. His knees grew cold. He waited for his mind to implode, to saddle him with instant death.
Waited...
Honey
Dark, wide, peacock eyes blinked.
His smile burned through the dimly lit candescence cast by a row of candles along the fireplace. His shadow flickered as though momentarily shuddering.
The soft glow caressed her demure face. She was skinny, small breasted, but he didn’t mind.
A masterful flick of the wrist, a hint of lime, and the drink fizzed. An offering, to ease him into her trusting cloud. Her eyes appeared vague, already lost.
A dark rancour slowly crept across his skin as he closed the door to the bedroom. ‘Let this be our little secret...don’t tell the other children...’
Uriel’s Foolishment
Cold breath coiled into the morning mist. Naked silverbirch trees stuttered against the breeze. A carpet of honey and wine coloured leaves softened his approach like a silent invitation.
He glanced up at the keep, saw the shadow at the window; the King’s bedchamber overlooked the woodland.
Uriel’s clammy-tinged fingers tightened around his sword. The King’s dead kestrel dangled from his leather belt, next to the sword sheath.
The troubled face in the window caught sight of the dead bird, then his falconer.
Uriel oozed from the protective clasp of the haze.
The King would be headless by nightfall.
Abner
The sound of time tickled the stagnant silence and wrested the fear from his frozen expression. A droplet glistened beneath the winter sun and dribbled down Abner’s unshaven face. It looked more like a tear than a globule of sweat.
The shadow standing over him blocked out the haze, yet cradled within his tormentor’s face he saw a churlish demon, burnished with unspeakable malevolence.
The German officer’s eyes were blackened pearls; gleamless, empty.
Betrayed by his cousin, Abner faced the officer’s gun. His knees grew cold. He waited for his mind to implode, to saddle him with instant death.
Waited...
Honey
Dark, wide, peacock eyes blinked.
His smile burned through the dimly lit candescence cast by a row of candles along the fireplace. His shadow flickered as though momentarily shuddering.
The soft glow caressed her demure face. She was skinny, small breasted, but he didn’t mind.
A masterful flick of the wrist, a hint of lime, and the drink fizzed. An offering, to ease him into her trusting cloud. Her eyes appeared vague, already lost.
A dark rancour slowly crept across his skin as he closed the door to the bedroom. ‘Let this be our little secret...don’t tell the other children...’
Expressive Poetry
I wrote End of the Line for last month's Writer's Talkbalk entry for the One Word Challenge, and the terrible events of 7/7 inspired me. The word we had to use was 'silence'. I tried to imagine that silence in the aftermath. What would it feel like? Oppressive, fearful...a relief?
Expression in poetry works the same as expression in prose, and free verse allows you to do this to great effect. The title of the poem has a double meaning: end of the line, meaning death, and also the end of the line on a railway track.
End of the Line
Dirt and vapour and the taste of iron filings
Settled on his tongue.
The saintly glow of fire swelled
In his mind, and despite the diminished light
It brought him to with a jolt.
Somewhere in the peripheral
Papers fluttered like stricken birds
Tossed and ushered by a breeze
Reluctant to fall or cease.
A dark swirling cloud of dust
Danced in the gaping hole
Where the doors should have been
Spinning out the aftermath
Of innards, splinters and sparks.
But all David could hear was the
Gabble of his heart rubbing against
Cracked ribs; the demure trickle of life.
He touched his face; dried parchment skin
Stretched taut and wetted by blood and grit
Muscles cramped like singed hairs
Forced pain into every knotted fibre.
Death stalked like a shrouded figure
Yet he was mindful of the terrible sound
That swept in and stifled him.
The sound of silence.
Pinned, unable to move, he turned his head
Gazed at the curling corners of a map.
Colourful lines in lined patterns mesmerised
And the words, through the haze:
Welcome to the London Underground.
Expression in poetry works the same as expression in prose, and free verse allows you to do this to great effect. The title of the poem has a double meaning: end of the line, meaning death, and also the end of the line on a railway track.
End of the Line
Dirt and vapour and the taste of iron filings
Settled on his tongue.
The saintly glow of fire swelled
In his mind, and despite the diminished light
It brought him to with a jolt.
Somewhere in the peripheral
Papers fluttered like stricken birds
Tossed and ushered by a breeze
Reluctant to fall or cease.
A dark swirling cloud of dust
Danced in the gaping hole
Where the doors should have been
Spinning out the aftermath
Of innards, splinters and sparks.
But all David could hear was the
Gabble of his heart rubbing against
Cracked ribs; the demure trickle of life.
He touched his face; dried parchment skin
Stretched taut and wetted by blood and grit
Muscles cramped like singed hairs
Forced pain into every knotted fibre.
Death stalked like a shrouded figure
Yet he was mindful of the terrible sound
That swept in and stifled him.
The sound of silence.
Pinned, unable to move, he turned his head
Gazed at the curling corners of a map.
Colourful lines in lined patterns mesmerised
And the words, through the haze:
Welcome to the London Underground.
Remembrance
Transmit and Receive is a sort of ghost story, written after I wrote an article about one of the men who served aboard HMS Repulse in 1941, and who, sadly, perished with hundreds of others when the ship was bombed by the Japanese. In essence, the story is based on true events, but explores the possibility that modern technology could tap into the past. This story is dedicated to the man who gave his life almost 70 years ago, and inspired the story.
This short story is included in the anthology Something From The Attic (shown on the right), available from Pill Hill Press.
Transmit and Receive
The sun flickered behind a cloud, almost made it translucent, and a bright corona seeped across the cobalt sky. Thick, hazy sunbeams struck the water.
The silence grew heavy, listless, as the water parried and bristled against the side of the ship. Hundreds of faces glanced skyward, waiting and watching. The brightness made them squint and most raised their hands as a barrier against the glare.
Still nothing.
The heat had steadily been rising and shimmered in the distance like a fuzzy beer fuelled dream. Across the ocean, the remains of the British fleet burned beneath the pale, distended haze. Thirteen minutes earlier, the Japanese bombers had descended like angry hornets, dropping bombs in quick, ordered succession before making off into the azure sky. Thick, oily bands billowed up and soiled the vista. Three ships had spilled their innards; hundreds of men had been burned alive or had slowly drowned in the gallons of oil spilling across the surface of the ocean.
Able seaman Francis gripped his Vickers gun, felt a clammy film of sweat gild his fingertips. Unnerved, he wiped them on his shirt as though removing a terrible dark stain, readied himself. He looked up at the sky. Clouds drifted over, unhurried by the sense of foreboding and fear which clung to the surface of the ocean like an oil slick.
He’d never heard silence like it, a state not even broached by the hiss of the water, a sound they’d found so comforting over the last three months. Even from this distance, the scent of death parched his throat.
The bombers would come again. They all knew it. They came in waves; around thirteen minutes apart, attacking from a distant point across the Pacific ocean, then splitting into smaller attack groups before assailing them and bombarding them from all directions.
Francis was desperate for a cigarette, but daren’t leave his station, not now, not this close. He glanced round at the others standing at their ack-acks on the deck above, quite still, as though afraid to move. They too, watched the sky.
His ship was the only one left. No match for the countless bombers.
A churning sense of fear filtered across the deck; the smell of misery sullied the whole ship.
Francis wiped his brow, thought about his mother and his three sisters. A strange sensation permeated his conscience. Something within his very being knew that he would never see them again. The sensation crackled in his mind, singed the precious memories. His heart slowly flooded with sadness.
He had barely had time to write the date in his diary: 10th December 1941, before the first siren sounded the approach of the Japanese bombers.
“Hello?”
This sound, scratchy and distant like a memory, made Francis turn to his mate, positioned just behind. “Did you say something?”
The young gunner shook his head. “No.”
Francis turned back to his gun, wiped fine beads of perspiration from his brow again as he peered at the horizon through the gun sight. He gripped the gun, ready, his heartbeat pulsing steadily in his fingertips as though tapping out a mayday signal against the cold iron of the gun handle. He took in a breath, but then he heard the sound again. A female voice, distant and yet strangely close. He turned; looked about, half-convinced the stress of the first wave of attacks had sent his mind into meltdown.
He looked up at the speaker mounted on the wall next to him, his pale blue eyes misted by uncertainty. He looked at his mate. “Tell me you heard that.”
His shipmate frowned. “Nothing but the silence, old chap.”
The fragmented female voice broke the silence again. “Can you hear me? This signal is terrible...”
“There!” Francis said, pointing at the speaker. “Just then, an English accent. I definitely heard it.”
The gunner peered up at the speaker. “I think you need to see the ship’s doctor...there’s nothing from the speakers, not yet.”
Not yet meant a long, stilted wait for the Captain’s word to man all stations. To ready themselves for the final battle. For every minute that passed, each man’s heart grew faster, heavier, louder.
Francis stepped away from his gun, stood tiptoe to listen to the speaker. “Allo? Can you hear me?”
The sound of static crackled softly through the air.
“Get back to your station, seaman,” the gunner said. “The Captain will have our hides.”
Francis ignored the young gunner. He listened to the static, heard the blips and hiccups in the transition of the sound, and the longer he listened the more attuned he became to her voice. “She’s transmitting.”
“Who is?” the gunner asked, looking round surreptitiously. “I don’t hear anything.”
Francis pointed to the speaker. “The woman...I can hear her in the static.” He frowned. The lines in his face had grown deeper these last few months, made him much older than his twenty-three years. “I’m receiving, but I can’t transmit.”
“You’ve lost your marbles, man. It’s a speaker – no one can hear you.”
Francis looked up at the speaker. The dark grille pricked his curiosity. “Allo? I can barely hear you and I can’t transmit.”
“Hello. Who’s this?” the female voice asked.
Francis straightened, eyes dilated. He stared at the speaker, surprised. “She heard me...that’s impossible...” He turned to the gunner, kept his voice quiet. “Tell me you heard that. That was loud and clear. A woman’s voice.”
The gunner looked at Francis with a blank expression. He slowly shook his head. “I don’t hear anything. What’s with you?”
“I’m telling you, I can hear her.” Francis cocked his head towards the speaker. “This is Able Seaman Francis Millford. Who are you?”
“Oh, I’m sorry; I’ve called you by mistake.”
“No no, don’t go. Who are you? It’s been a while since I’ve heard a female voice. We don’t get much female company around here except on leave.”
The cold whistle of static enveloped a short pause and then the woman’s voice broke through. “Sorry to have disturbed you, Mr Millford.”
The static returned and seemed louder. It seeped into his mind like waves washing against the rocks, jarred his thoughts and suffocated the droplet of rudimentary happiness at hearing a female voice.
“Damn,” Francis said. “Come back. Allo?”
The gunner snorted. “Get a grip and get back to your gun. Any minute now we’re going to have a sky full of Jap bombers.”
Francis reluctantly returned to his ack-ack. He eyed the speaker, curious, bewildered. He couldn’t figure out how a transmission had seeped through the ship’s system, or how she could hear him. He wondered whether the woman was trying to get through to the Captain, or whether she was a foreign spy, entangled in the airwaves. Just because she had an English accent didn’t mean she could be friendly.
He dismissed it, looked out across the water. A jaded light caressed the clouds. Dark distant specks freckled the horizon. The Japanese bombers were coming, bellies full with rage.
“Hello?” the female voice said.
Francis turned as though physically yanked. He gazed up at the speaker.
“Hello?” she asked again.
He left the gun and stepped over to the speaker again. “Allo? It’s Francis.”
The woman’s static encrusted voice broke through the palliative silence clinging to the deck. “Oh sorry, I’ve called you again, my mistake.”
“Who are you trying to reach? Is it the Captain you need to speak to? You’re on the wrong frequency.”
“Captain? No, I don’t want the Captain...wait, are you a crew member?”
Francis smiled and his voice lightened. “Yes, able seaman Francis Millford, HMS Redoubt.”
“Oh I see. I’m trying to call home,” the female said, brusque.
Francis placed his head against the wall. The ship’s cool outer skin soothed his sweat-peppered brow. Home. Such a powerful word that sank down his gullet like a shard of glass and sliced him from the inside out. Home, the little two-up, two-down red-bricked house he shared with his mother and three sisters in Liverpool.
Home, where he would rather be, instead of floating on a tin can in the Pacific. He imagined standing in the ripe fields just outside his home, catching rain spotted gusts of wind against his face and breathing in the potent grip of cool air that filtered down from the hills.
His voice wavered. “Where’s home?”
“London,” the voice replied. “I’m really sorry. I really don’t know why I’ve called you because my friend is on speed-dial.”
Francis frowned. “Say again? What’s speed-dial?”
“I’m sorry, I have to go.”
Francis looked back across the rail; saw that the black flecks in the distance had grown bigger, advancing in tight formation. His heart belted against his sternum, fear returning to flood the caverns within. Salty streams hurried down the side of his face, his body’s response to the latent fear inking his insides.
An imaginary clock ticked silently in his mind; a countdown to the inevitable.
“Listen, tell my mother, Agnes Millford, tell her...tell her we’re all in fine spirits here, we’re on one of the fastest ships in the fleet.” He hesitated, something caught in his throat. “Tell her that I’ll be home for the New Year, tell her that won’t you?”
The female voice changed. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand--”
The flecks in the distance now obscured the clouds as midday approached. The blackened shroud crept forward, undulated and churned out vapour trails in spiteful spurts.
“Tell her, please just tell her,” Francis urged. “I don’t have much time...”
“Okay okay...Agnes Millford, I got it.”
A different sound boomed across the tannoy and sliced through the silence like a rigid heavy cleaver. “Attention! Enemy aircraft approaching. Man all stations!”
Francis stared across the side of the ship. Something trickled into his guts. His anus tightened.
The gunner gestured. “They’re coming. Get back to your station, Millford!”
“I really do have to go,” the voice said. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you again.”
The sound of a hundred aircraft engines swept across the surface of the ocean and resonated against the ship with a contemptible thud. The sound pulsed against his skin. He shuddered as a rolling cloud of vapour oozed forward.
“What’s your name?” Francis asked, watching the sky darken. “I need to know.”
Another pause.
The blackened cloud approached quickly, blotted out the sun and darkened the entire ship.
“It’s Aimee,” she replied.
Francis smiled, closed his eyes for a second. The sound of his heart calmed a little, no longer thumped hard against his chest, nor pounded in the side of his temples. Somewhere outside of his fear, he heard the multiple sound of gunfire; the scream of engines overhead, the whistling of strafing bullets against the ship’s skin and the sharp clank of shells against the deck as the AA’s discharged. Then he heard the explosions and then the screams, the distended cries of men ripped from their stations and flung into oblivion.
The guttural tear of metal formed a gash through the hull, and yet Francis remained huddled against the wall, eyes shut, and in his mind, he was walking through the tall grasses, heading toward home, the little red-bricked building at the end of the street.
His voice remained calm. He opened his eyes. “Aimee? Tell them we fought well. Tell them that, won’t you? Tell everyone.”
The static fizzled into the void, crushed by silence.
* * *
The connection pitched and squawked in Aimee Rutter’s ear, startled her. “Shit.” She glanced at the phone. The signal stuttered. She peered at her watch. It was just a minute after midday.
“I said you wouldn’t get a signal out here,” John Rutter muttered to his wife. “Not in the middle of the Pacific.”
She looked at him with a silent scowl.
“Who were you talking to anyway?” he asked, flicking the newspaper.
Aimee looked at her phone. “Wrong number. Some man called Francis, a crewman on another cruise ship.” She stood up, looked out across the stern. The horizon remained barren, an empty sky and an empty ocean separated by a hazy horizon. They were on a cruise ship in the middle of the largest ocean on the planet, alone, looking forward to the upcoming Christmas festivities. “He said he was on one of the fastest ships in the fleet...what was it...oh yeah...Redoubt.” Quietly perturbed, she gazed at the empty vista. After a while, she turned to her husband and her expression drooped. “He said to tell everyone that they fought well. I don’t get what he was talking about.”
John Rutter placed his newspaper down. “Fought well? What was the name of the ship again, HMS what?”
“Redoubt,” she said.
His lips slowly turned into a wry smile, and then, without warning, he laughed at her. “Redoubt! I think someone’s pulling your chain, babe.”
She moved away from the rail. “What do you mean?”
He eyed her disquieted expression. “HMS Redoubt aint a cruise ship. It was a large battle cruiser, part of a big British fleet, joining the Americans and ambushed by Japanese bombers 10th December 1941. She was practically bombed in half and sank to the bottom of the Pacific right beneath us, just after midday, along with three other ships. Thousands lost. No survivors.” He raised a furtive eyebrow. “Sounds like some weirdo is having a laugh with you.”
Aimee stared at him for a while, unsure what to believe. Her brows lowered, puzzled yet defensive. “Francis isn’t a weirdo. He told me to tell his mother he’d be home for New Year...”
John Rutter tutted, raised the newspaper and continued to read.
Aimee sighed as though defeated by her husband’s logic, and yet the sound of Francis Millford’s voice seemed as clear as the water that shimmered in the swimming pool beside her.
She looked down at the date and time on her mobile phone. Her throat tightened when she realised.
It was 10th December, approximately seven minutes past midday.
She quickly pressed redial, rang the number again, put it to her ear.
But all she heard was static.
Dedicated to Able Seaman CF Young who heroically died in battle in the Pacific, aboard HMS Repulse, 10th December 1941.
This short story is included in the anthology Something From The Attic (shown on the right), available from Pill Hill Press.
Transmit and Receive
The sun flickered behind a cloud, almost made it translucent, and a bright corona seeped across the cobalt sky. Thick, hazy sunbeams struck the water.
The silence grew heavy, listless, as the water parried and bristled against the side of the ship. Hundreds of faces glanced skyward, waiting and watching. The brightness made them squint and most raised their hands as a barrier against the glare.
Still nothing.
The heat had steadily been rising and shimmered in the distance like a fuzzy beer fuelled dream. Across the ocean, the remains of the British fleet burned beneath the pale, distended haze. Thirteen minutes earlier, the Japanese bombers had descended like angry hornets, dropping bombs in quick, ordered succession before making off into the azure sky. Thick, oily bands billowed up and soiled the vista. Three ships had spilled their innards; hundreds of men had been burned alive or had slowly drowned in the gallons of oil spilling across the surface of the ocean.
Able seaman Francis gripped his Vickers gun, felt a clammy film of sweat gild his fingertips. Unnerved, he wiped them on his shirt as though removing a terrible dark stain, readied himself. He looked up at the sky. Clouds drifted over, unhurried by the sense of foreboding and fear which clung to the surface of the ocean like an oil slick.
He’d never heard silence like it, a state not even broached by the hiss of the water, a sound they’d found so comforting over the last three months. Even from this distance, the scent of death parched his throat.
The bombers would come again. They all knew it. They came in waves; around thirteen minutes apart, attacking from a distant point across the Pacific ocean, then splitting into smaller attack groups before assailing them and bombarding them from all directions.
Francis was desperate for a cigarette, but daren’t leave his station, not now, not this close. He glanced round at the others standing at their ack-acks on the deck above, quite still, as though afraid to move. They too, watched the sky.
His ship was the only one left. No match for the countless bombers.
A churning sense of fear filtered across the deck; the smell of misery sullied the whole ship.
Francis wiped his brow, thought about his mother and his three sisters. A strange sensation permeated his conscience. Something within his very being knew that he would never see them again. The sensation crackled in his mind, singed the precious memories. His heart slowly flooded with sadness.
He had barely had time to write the date in his diary: 10th December 1941, before the first siren sounded the approach of the Japanese bombers.
“Hello?”
This sound, scratchy and distant like a memory, made Francis turn to his mate, positioned just behind. “Did you say something?”
The young gunner shook his head. “No.”
Francis turned back to his gun, wiped fine beads of perspiration from his brow again as he peered at the horizon through the gun sight. He gripped the gun, ready, his heartbeat pulsing steadily in his fingertips as though tapping out a mayday signal against the cold iron of the gun handle. He took in a breath, but then he heard the sound again. A female voice, distant and yet strangely close. He turned; looked about, half-convinced the stress of the first wave of attacks had sent his mind into meltdown.
He looked up at the speaker mounted on the wall next to him, his pale blue eyes misted by uncertainty. He looked at his mate. “Tell me you heard that.”
His shipmate frowned. “Nothing but the silence, old chap.”
The fragmented female voice broke the silence again. “Can you hear me? This signal is terrible...”
“There!” Francis said, pointing at the speaker. “Just then, an English accent. I definitely heard it.”
The gunner peered up at the speaker. “I think you need to see the ship’s doctor...there’s nothing from the speakers, not yet.”
Not yet meant a long, stilted wait for the Captain’s word to man all stations. To ready themselves for the final battle. For every minute that passed, each man’s heart grew faster, heavier, louder.
Francis stepped away from his gun, stood tiptoe to listen to the speaker. “Allo? Can you hear me?”
The sound of static crackled softly through the air.
“Get back to your station, seaman,” the gunner said. “The Captain will have our hides.”
Francis ignored the young gunner. He listened to the static, heard the blips and hiccups in the transition of the sound, and the longer he listened the more attuned he became to her voice. “She’s transmitting.”
“Who is?” the gunner asked, looking round surreptitiously. “I don’t hear anything.”
Francis pointed to the speaker. “The woman...I can hear her in the static.” He frowned. The lines in his face had grown deeper these last few months, made him much older than his twenty-three years. “I’m receiving, but I can’t transmit.”
“You’ve lost your marbles, man. It’s a speaker – no one can hear you.”
Francis looked up at the speaker. The dark grille pricked his curiosity. “Allo? I can barely hear you and I can’t transmit.”
“Hello. Who’s this?” the female voice asked.
Francis straightened, eyes dilated. He stared at the speaker, surprised. “She heard me...that’s impossible...” He turned to the gunner, kept his voice quiet. “Tell me you heard that. That was loud and clear. A woman’s voice.”
The gunner looked at Francis with a blank expression. He slowly shook his head. “I don’t hear anything. What’s with you?”
“I’m telling you, I can hear her.” Francis cocked his head towards the speaker. “This is Able Seaman Francis Millford. Who are you?”
“Oh, I’m sorry; I’ve called you by mistake.”
“No no, don’t go. Who are you? It’s been a while since I’ve heard a female voice. We don’t get much female company around here except on leave.”
The cold whistle of static enveloped a short pause and then the woman’s voice broke through. “Sorry to have disturbed you, Mr Millford.”
The static returned and seemed louder. It seeped into his mind like waves washing against the rocks, jarred his thoughts and suffocated the droplet of rudimentary happiness at hearing a female voice.
“Damn,” Francis said. “Come back. Allo?”
The gunner snorted. “Get a grip and get back to your gun. Any minute now we’re going to have a sky full of Jap bombers.”
Francis reluctantly returned to his ack-ack. He eyed the speaker, curious, bewildered. He couldn’t figure out how a transmission had seeped through the ship’s system, or how she could hear him. He wondered whether the woman was trying to get through to the Captain, or whether she was a foreign spy, entangled in the airwaves. Just because she had an English accent didn’t mean she could be friendly.
He dismissed it, looked out across the water. A jaded light caressed the clouds. Dark distant specks freckled the horizon. The Japanese bombers were coming, bellies full with rage.
“Hello?” the female voice said.
Francis turned as though physically yanked. He gazed up at the speaker.
“Hello?” she asked again.
He left the gun and stepped over to the speaker again. “Allo? It’s Francis.”
The woman’s static encrusted voice broke through the palliative silence clinging to the deck. “Oh sorry, I’ve called you again, my mistake.”
“Who are you trying to reach? Is it the Captain you need to speak to? You’re on the wrong frequency.”
“Captain? No, I don’t want the Captain...wait, are you a crew member?”
Francis smiled and his voice lightened. “Yes, able seaman Francis Millford, HMS Redoubt.”
“Oh I see. I’m trying to call home,” the female said, brusque.
Francis placed his head against the wall. The ship’s cool outer skin soothed his sweat-peppered brow. Home. Such a powerful word that sank down his gullet like a shard of glass and sliced him from the inside out. Home, the little two-up, two-down red-bricked house he shared with his mother and three sisters in Liverpool.
Home, where he would rather be, instead of floating on a tin can in the Pacific. He imagined standing in the ripe fields just outside his home, catching rain spotted gusts of wind against his face and breathing in the potent grip of cool air that filtered down from the hills.
His voice wavered. “Where’s home?”
“London,” the voice replied. “I’m really sorry. I really don’t know why I’ve called you because my friend is on speed-dial.”
Francis frowned. “Say again? What’s speed-dial?”
“I’m sorry, I have to go.”
Francis looked back across the rail; saw that the black flecks in the distance had grown bigger, advancing in tight formation. His heart belted against his sternum, fear returning to flood the caverns within. Salty streams hurried down the side of his face, his body’s response to the latent fear inking his insides.
An imaginary clock ticked silently in his mind; a countdown to the inevitable.
“Listen, tell my mother, Agnes Millford, tell her...tell her we’re all in fine spirits here, we’re on one of the fastest ships in the fleet.” He hesitated, something caught in his throat. “Tell her that I’ll be home for the New Year, tell her that won’t you?”
The female voice changed. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand--”
The flecks in the distance now obscured the clouds as midday approached. The blackened shroud crept forward, undulated and churned out vapour trails in spiteful spurts.
“Tell her, please just tell her,” Francis urged. “I don’t have much time...”
“Okay okay...Agnes Millford, I got it.”
A different sound boomed across the tannoy and sliced through the silence like a rigid heavy cleaver. “Attention! Enemy aircraft approaching. Man all stations!”
Francis stared across the side of the ship. Something trickled into his guts. His anus tightened.
The gunner gestured. “They’re coming. Get back to your station, Millford!”
“I really do have to go,” the voice said. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you again.”
The sound of a hundred aircraft engines swept across the surface of the ocean and resonated against the ship with a contemptible thud. The sound pulsed against his skin. He shuddered as a rolling cloud of vapour oozed forward.
“What’s your name?” Francis asked, watching the sky darken. “I need to know.”
Another pause.
The blackened cloud approached quickly, blotted out the sun and darkened the entire ship.
“It’s Aimee,” she replied.
Francis smiled, closed his eyes for a second. The sound of his heart calmed a little, no longer thumped hard against his chest, nor pounded in the side of his temples. Somewhere outside of his fear, he heard the multiple sound of gunfire; the scream of engines overhead, the whistling of strafing bullets against the ship’s skin and the sharp clank of shells against the deck as the AA’s discharged. Then he heard the explosions and then the screams, the distended cries of men ripped from their stations and flung into oblivion.
The guttural tear of metal formed a gash through the hull, and yet Francis remained huddled against the wall, eyes shut, and in his mind, he was walking through the tall grasses, heading toward home, the little red-bricked building at the end of the street.
His voice remained calm. He opened his eyes. “Aimee? Tell them we fought well. Tell them that, won’t you? Tell everyone.”
The static fizzled into the void, crushed by silence.
* * *
The connection pitched and squawked in Aimee Rutter’s ear, startled her. “Shit.” She glanced at the phone. The signal stuttered. She peered at her watch. It was just a minute after midday.
“I said you wouldn’t get a signal out here,” John Rutter muttered to his wife. “Not in the middle of the Pacific.”
She looked at him with a silent scowl.
“Who were you talking to anyway?” he asked, flicking the newspaper.
Aimee looked at her phone. “Wrong number. Some man called Francis, a crewman on another cruise ship.” She stood up, looked out across the stern. The horizon remained barren, an empty sky and an empty ocean separated by a hazy horizon. They were on a cruise ship in the middle of the largest ocean on the planet, alone, looking forward to the upcoming Christmas festivities. “He said he was on one of the fastest ships in the fleet...what was it...oh yeah...Redoubt.” Quietly perturbed, she gazed at the empty vista. After a while, she turned to her husband and her expression drooped. “He said to tell everyone that they fought well. I don’t get what he was talking about.”
John Rutter placed his newspaper down. “Fought well? What was the name of the ship again, HMS what?”
“Redoubt,” she said.
His lips slowly turned into a wry smile, and then, without warning, he laughed at her. “Redoubt! I think someone’s pulling your chain, babe.”
She moved away from the rail. “What do you mean?”
He eyed her disquieted expression. “HMS Redoubt aint a cruise ship. It was a large battle cruiser, part of a big British fleet, joining the Americans and ambushed by Japanese bombers 10th December 1941. She was practically bombed in half and sank to the bottom of the Pacific right beneath us, just after midday, along with three other ships. Thousands lost. No survivors.” He raised a furtive eyebrow. “Sounds like some weirdo is having a laugh with you.”
Aimee stared at him for a while, unsure what to believe. Her brows lowered, puzzled yet defensive. “Francis isn’t a weirdo. He told me to tell his mother he’d be home for New Year...”
John Rutter tutted, raised the newspaper and continued to read.
Aimee sighed as though defeated by her husband’s logic, and yet the sound of Francis Millford’s voice seemed as clear as the water that shimmered in the swimming pool beside her.
She looked down at the date and time on her mobile phone. Her throat tightened when she realised.
It was 10th December, approximately seven minutes past midday.
She quickly pressed redial, rang the number again, put it to her ear.
But all she heard was static.
Dedicated to Able Seaman CF Young who heroically died in battle in the Pacific, aboard HMS Repulse, 10th December 1941.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
