Flash Fiction #15: Solstice

 The fierce, sudden whoosh of the wind on the hilltop drowns out what Josie was saying, and Toby has to ask her to repeat herself.

“I said that this has been our best camping trip yet,” Josie leans forward in her seat so she's saying it right in his ear. Toby can feel her breath on him, despite the breeze. He grabs her by the waist and pulls her down from her deck chair to join him on the grass. She lies next to him, propped up on her elbows, and rests her head on his shoulder.

On the beach below them, Sara is paddling in the tide, expensive flip-flops dangling from one hand. Josie and Toby watch as Hugo sneaks up behind her, picks her up and drops her in deeper water. Her outraged squeals travel all the way up to the camp-site, and they laugh. Josie turns her head to look for Robin, but he's somewhere out of sight. Reading, or sulking, in one of the tents, most likely.

“I'm so glad Robin brought someone with him this year,” Toby says. “I think it made him feel more a part of the group, don't you?”

“Absolutely,” Josie nods emphatically. “You're not really one of us until you've fed the Man.”

“She was nice,” Toby continues. “I'd expected some poor dullard, but Francesca had something about her.”

“Tits,” Josie giggles. “What else do you think drew our Robin to her?”

Toby chuckles, then agrees.

“I think he'll really miss her,” Josie sighs. “Still, it has to be done. And it's over now, bless him.”

Toby kisses her on the temple and reminds her that it's their turn next year.

“Hmm,” she snuggles in closer. “There's winter to get through first, don't forget.”

Josie closes her eyes and tilts her face to catch as much of the glorious sunshine as possible. Toby decides to do the same.

The Green Man is happy, there's no doubting that. They've done their part. And although she didn't seem to take much comfort in it at the time, Francesca's sacrifice has ensured a prosperous summer for them all.

~

Flash Fiction #10: English Rose

Oh, Lyssie.  I shouldn't have waited.  I should have got down on one knee last New Year's Eve, I know now that's what you were hoping for.  It's too late now, of course, but I hope you know that I truly did love you.

When you showed up on my doorstep this morning, birthday cake held out in front of you as a peace offering, I was so relieved to see you that I didn't think it might just be too good to be true.  A lover's quarrel such as ours can rarely be forgotten easily.  On any other day I might have been suspicious, but you'd made the cake yourself.  The thought of licking that sublime trademark frosting of yours from your fingertip eclipsed any other worries in my mind.

It didn't seem curious to me that you didn't want even a single bite.  Some womanly reason, I'd assumed at the time; watching your figure, although of course I'd protest that you needed to do no such thing.  There wasn't even an aftertaste the way you might expect.  Just blackness.

Do you remember how we met?  Of course you do.  The black and white ball at your parents' house.  You, the centre of attention as always, stunning in virginal white, and you have no idea what that did to me.  Me, ill at ease in my rented tux, uncomfortable in my surroundings as usual, intimidated by the waiters and string quartets and marquees.  Only there to be the fresh face of the charity after old Lawson got done for embezzling.  I was surprised that you even deigned to speak to me.  That you fancied me came as the biggest bolt from an impossible blue.

I can still taste the strawberry frosting when I wake up.  It has made my lips sticky, and as I lick them I realise how thirsty I am.  I notice a lot of other things at this point.  Such as, the fact that I have been stripped of my shirt and tied to the headboard of my king sized bed.  I don't feel any pain until I look down and see the blood on my chest.  A series of angry-looking cuts, pinched and sore like bite marks, criss-cross my torso.

"Lyssie?"  You're standing next to the bed, summer dress creased and smeared here and there with something red (for some reason, I don't make the immediate connection - my blood).

"Lawrence."  You say in response.  Nothing more.  A simple invocation of names, confirmation that we are still the same people that we were yesterday, and the day before.

The instrument in your hand resembles a comically oversized pair of hairdressing scissors.  No, that's not right.  As you take a step closer, I can see my own shade of red dripping from one tip.  Pruning shears.  Secateurs.  French, fancy.

"Every rose," you say softly.

"What?"  I can feel my heart beating, hot and anxious, beneath the cuts on my chest.

"Every rose."  You say it with conviction this time, but your meaning is lost on me.  My mind is too preoccupied with my bound wrists, my bloodied chest, the girlfriend hovering over me like an angel of death, too preoccupied with all these things to ponder Lyssie's riddle.

You drag the shears across my chest again - at first all it does is chafe the skin.  Then the pressure increases, and I see your petite hands clench the handles together, scraping the insides of the blades against my ribcage.  I cry out, but it is only partly from pain.  Mostly, I just want to know why you're doing this.

That's a lie.  I know the reason you're doing this.  But I must admit, your actions have taken me by surprise.  Lyssie is such a sweet girl; who knew she had this in her? 

You were always my better half.  Made me good, more than I once was.  But not, it would seem, good enough.  I wonder how you found out about the other woman.  Not that it matters much now.  It hardly even seems worth asking - too late Lawrence, much too late.

My better half.  Who could have predicted that all the time this monster was trying to better himself for his angel, she was falling down to earth.  Deeper, ever deeper.

Oh, Lyssie.  The beauty to my beast.  You know what they say.

Every rose has its thorn.

  

Flash Fiction #8: A Senseless Crime

 

Anya stands in the patio doorway, gazing out into the rainy garden.  I wonder what she makes of it all, oblivious as she is to the menacing sound of thunder, the shrill wail of the wind.  Can she still appreciate the violence of the storm, its fierce and godlike nature?  Or does her soundproof world render everything peaceful, benign?  Her slender silhouette has a stillness to it, a serenity, as if the absence of one sense has freed her from distraction, tension, whatever it is that leads me to constantly, nervously fidget.  Our flimsy deck chairs jerk and dance across the lawn, tumbling and rolling apart only to collide again.

 She doesn't hear me approach, has no idea that I'm there until it's too late, until my right arm is wrapped tight around her waist and my left hand is over her mouth, cradling her jaw, caressing her throat.  She moans, and it is a hollow sound, unable as she is to convey feeling through her voice.  I carry her to the bedroom and she expresses in other ways her delight at me taking her by surprise when I wasn't due home for hours.  It is a game we play often.

Later, Anya brews some tea in the kitchen, wearing nothing but my shirt.  She carries the cups back to bed and together we lie there in silence, drinking and dozing.  Soon Anya is fast asleep, but I can't seem to drift off – the foul weather outside still rages, and I feel restless in the pit of my stomach.  I carefully ease myself off the bed and get dressed.  Things to do are definitely in short supply; I don't much fancy having a drink, and going for a drive on a day like this would be sheer stupidity. 

I content myself for a while with flicking through television channels, then scanning the first page of a paperback over and over.  The restless feeling returns and I find myself pacing, itching for I don't know what.  The sound of the rain on the roof, constantly hammering, is starting to drive me mad – for once, I envy Anya.  There's a girl who'll never know a sleepless night.

The doorbell rings once, then a second time only a moment later.  It’s Laurel from work.  Laurel whose pencil skirts know exactly what they’re doing.  Laurel who laughs louder and longer than is necessary any time a man she likes tells a joke.  Laurel who I fucked two weeks ago and haven’t been able to get out of my head since.

She smells like the rain.

“I missed you,” she says, stepping over the threshold and out of the downpour before I can invite her in or tell her to get the hell out of here.

“My wife is asleep upstairs,” I whisper hoarsely, by way of response.

“Don’t worry baby,” she smiles.  “We can be quiet.  We shouldn’t need to be, anyway – right?”

“Please go,” I say.  “I’ll see you tomorrow–”

“I can’t wait,” she tells me, and presses the full length of her drenched body against mine.  I feel her cold wetness blotting through my clothes, and a shiver goes through me as her thin arms circle around my waist.

Her lips are slick, salty against mine.  When her hand works its way inside my boxers, it is clammy and moist.  My cock stiffens despite my resistance, and all I can think of is my sleeping wife above us, separated only by wooden beams.  I suddenly want Laurel out of here, far away from our empty mugs and battered lawn furniture.

But she won’t go.  At least, not until I give her what she wants.

I push her against the now-closed door, reach inside her raincoat, under her dress, and yank down her knickers – no doubt expensive, probably ripped now.  I push myself inside her and she squeals with an almost childlike delight.  It pierces my eardrums and I wince as I thrust into her again.  Knowing that Anya can’t hear it doesn’t make me feel any better.

It’s over quickly.  Not soon enough.  Laurel insists on kissing me hard before she leaves, as if to leave her imprint on me, a memory of her that will not fade or wash away.  I try not to grimace as I close the door behind her.

I check myself in the hallway mirror: no lipstick smudges, no unsightly love bites.  The perfect crime.  I decide a shower is a good idea, and head up to the bathroom.  Anya and I meet on the stairs.  Her lips part as if to say something, but when Anya chooses to speak it will be with her hands.  She takes in the state of me: hair disheveled, clothes covered in damp patches, flies still down.  My wife is deaf, not stupid.  When she asks me everything with just that one look, I can't even shake my head to deny it – I smell like the rain.

  

Flash Fiction #7: Two Minutes

It's surprisingly easy getting your hands on a pregnancy test when civilisation has all but crumbled around you.  Pharmacies are one of the first places to get looted - people stocking up on painkillers, bandages, caffeine pills, cough syrup, fucking contact lenses - but nobody's in a real hurry to pee on a stick.

I'd witnessed the end of the world along with a handful of others, fled my house without even a backwards glance.  I'd adapted to a life underground, only returning to the surface on salvage missions with Ty.  I'd quickly schooled myself in the arts of self defense and interrogation.  I've earned, quite rightfully, a reputation among our new community as quite the hard-ass.  But none of that prepared me for the agonising, seemingly endless two minute wait.

Two minutes.  Long enough to ponder what the hell I was going to do if it was positive.  If I was going to be relieved if it turned out negative - after all, it's not like bringing a child into this world would be the responsible thing to do.  I hadn't said a thing to Ty - at this very moment he thought I was fetching more medical supplies, not crouching in a doorless restroom, wishing I still had a watch so I could track the passing seconds.

Could I be a mother?  Before the world ended, I'd always just assumed I'd make the decision when I was older and more mature.  While life had forced me to grow up a hell of a lot faster than I'd intended, I still wasn't sure whether I had what it took.  Kids were hard work, apocalypse aside.

Ty would be thrilled, though.  We've known each other for a year, and been together for less than that.  But I know he would make a great father.  I've seen him protect strangers, horrible people who didn't deserve saving.  But he did anyway.  Because that's who he is.  If they ever do manage to rebuild, to launch an Earth 2.0, Ty would make an excellent blueprint.  Me, not so much.

Two minutes.

Of course, it was positive.  Life just wasn't complicated enough these days.