Henry and the Others

We all love a Ghost Story, don't we? I have been busy working on my NYC Midnight Short Story Challenge which I finally finished about an hour ago, 17 hours before the deadline. As I am unable to share this until such time as all entries are in and confirmation emails received, I thought I would share my spooky story written last term at College. I may not be close to that novel yet, but I could probably produce a book of short stories, thanks to Creative Writing and all who attend.

Henry and the Others

Ralph looked at the old house, he had passed it every day since mother bought it, but today he was moving in.  Mother had fallen in love with the dilapidated red-brick property with the fragile paned windows and had excitedly announced to Ralph and his father that this was her “project”.  Father did little to resist her determination and Ralph was in awe of the towering decrepit house.  He had only been once before and had stayed with Grandma whilst Mother began the renovation.

From the outside Ralph thought it to look exactly as before, this cheered him somewhat.  He stroked the intricately carved brass door-knocker and banged hard three times.  His mother appeared, flustered, happy, smeared with dust and shavings in her hair.  “Ralph, you’re here, why on earth are you knocking my dear boy? This is your home now, come in darling, come in”.

As Ralph made his way into the vast hall, he wondered what on earth his mother had been doing for the last eight weeks.  The entrance hall was roomy, airy and eerie.  Whilst the front door was now firmly shut an uneasy breeze blew down the hallway and grasped at Ralph with a chilly touch.  Its fingers circled around his body, tenderly fondling every inch of him as he huddled into his mother for warmth.

“Oh my sweet boy, come on in here where it’s warm” gathering him to her she lead him into the drawing room where a fire crackled and spat in the hearth.  The floors and surfaces became dustier, the floorboards creaked into life and there was torn paper hanging off the walls everywhere that Ralph looked.  The vintage furniture remained broken, unused, and superfluous. “Darling I have missed you.  We are going to have the best time.  Why don’t you take off your shoes and jacket and go and put them in your new bedroom.  Top of the stairs, third door on the right. There are clean pyjamas under your pillow”.

Ralph walked cautiously up the walnut swirling staircase, his footfall muffled by the threadbare carpet whose pattern had become obscure through dirt and wear.  He found his room instantly, it was exactly the same as it was in his other home, but bigger, much bigger.  His toys and models all had pride of place on the prodigious panelled shelving his father had so lovingly built, along with his toy box which sturdily sat beneath the sash window which was more bare rotting wood than white paint.  Ralph lead on his bed and drifted off to the muffled sounds of his mother fussing below.

Henry visited Ralph on his third night in the house.  After dinner, he returned to his bedroom and found Henry sat on his bed.  “Hello Ralph” he beamed up at the startled face before him.

“Who are you and what are you doing sat on my bed?” Ralph questioned.

Henry jumped up and stuck out an eager plump hand “I am Henry, it’s a pleasure to meet you Ralph”.

Ralph and Henry became firm friends and it was not too long afterwards that Henry introduced him to the others.  They would play together in the attic with its low beams and borrowed light, intermittent between the dusty gems. Every one of them had been stored in battered boxes and garbage sacks for later use or enjoyment. In truth, it was a graveyard for these treasures, a place for them to quietly die amongst the cobwebs, tainted by mildew and dankness.

This didn’t bother Henry and the others, they would while away the hours, scourging for forgotten riches, laughing and playing in clouds of dust, the occasional rat scurrying from a forgotten crevice.  Ralph excitedly told his mother about his new-found friends and she smiled, patted his head and whispered “that’s lovely Ralph, it’s nice you have made friends”.

“When is father coming” he asked.

“He will be with us soon Ralph, he just needs to tie-up some loose ends in the City” she mused.

This comforted Ralph, he missed his father and couldn’t wait for him to meet his friends.

It was a particularly cold autumn evening.  Ralph and his friends were housed deep within the rafters watching the rain falling in crazy chaotic drops, the gusting wind carrying them in wild vortices one moment and in diagonal sheets the next, banging against the lichen laden slates, causing them to clatter and shake.  Ralph giggled at the occasional droplet seeping through an exposed defect and landing on an oblivious Henry.

Through the vibrating voice of the rattling roof Ralph heard the crunch of tyres and jumped excitedly to his feet, standing on the tips of his toes so he could peer out of the attic window.

“It’s father” he yelled happily at the eager faces and scarpered from the roof space as fast as his legs could carry him.

“Father. Father, I’m here” he shouted, in time with his stampeding feet, but he didn’t seem to hear him and Ralph watched his father disappear into his bedroom.  Ralph paused for a moment, confused and then made his way through the open door.  His mother was lead sobbing upon Ralph’s bed, clutching his pyjamas, his father sat beside her, stroking her hair.

“What’s going on?” asked Ralph, but neither looked at him.

“My darling Evie, we need to go, leave here.  You cannot stay holed up in this rotting house anymore, please Evie, come with me”.

“But he is here James, I hear him, I feel him all around me, I can’t leave him here all alone” she pleaded.

“Evie, Ralph is gone.  You know deep in your heart that he is gone.  You saw him fall from the attic window. You saw them take his broken body away.  You were there Evie, eight weeks ago when we buried our darling boy with his Grandma.  Oh, Evie please, I need you and you need me, we can get through this, but we need to do it together, it’s been two months and I can’t bear to be without you any more, please come home with me”.

Ralph started screaming “I am here. Why can’t you see me? Why can’t you hear me? I’M HERE” he tried to run toward them but he couldn’t move.  Henry and the others appeared and held on to him tight.  He watched as his parents sat holding each other, rocking, weeping and eventually his father picked up his mother in his arms and took her from the Ralph’s room.

All that was left were Henry and the others.

Hayley Mars

(Madness Makes) Misery

Happy New Year! 

Hope you all have had a wonderful and restful Christmas holiday.

I finished my first 10 weeks of Creative Writing (part deux) just before Christmas.  I still have a couple of assignments yet to post, this being one of them.  Task was to take a classic novel and put your own twist on it.  Whilst I have never read Misery I have seen the film several times so I downloaded an exert from the book and adapted the same.  Some of the text is Stephen King's original work, some of it mine, all of it fiction.  I think we make a great team! 

I am back for my next 10 weeks on the 18th January 2017 and my NYC Flash Fiction Challenge is due to start on the 20th January 2017, it is still not to late to enter and details can be found at http://www.nycmidnight.com/Competitions/SSC/Challenge.htm

(Madness Makes)

Paul rolled his eyes in annoyance, “bring her back” was the woman insane.  Well yes she was a soupçon deranged, after all this is the woman who threatened to chop of his ‘other’ leg should he try to escape, and slice of his fingers, should he refuse Misery’s return. It was fair to say that Annie had issues.  If only she was not so damned hot.  He closed his eyes for a moment and inhaled her earthy aroma, she was not interested in him. Paul believed he just filled her with tired revulsion, all Annie cared about was Misery. It was then, whilst momentarily mesmerised by her buoyant breasts and injudicious hemline a plan began to formulate.

“Annie” he whispered, looking at her earnestly.  She glared at him, tears formulating in her captivating cerulean eyes.

“Annie” he repeated “I will bring Misery back, I will bring her back just for you.”

Annie gasped and then exhaled slowly.  Paul awaited the detonation.  This could go either way he thought, he could lose more limbs or, he dared imagine, she would be wrapping her limbs around him.  He watched her measured expression apprehensively, after all this was a woman who could go from Mother Theresa to Myra Hindley in a nanosecond.

“A novel! A wonderful big novel” she exploded.  “Like the others, no wait, maybe even bigger than the others” she began to pace back and forth, back and forth, her delicate, but deadly, hands clasped between those wonderful voluptuous breasts.  Suddenly she lunged toward him “what can I do Paul? How can I help?” Her perfect face was just inches from his own and it took all of his self-control not to take those plush, slightly parted, pink lips into his own and devour them, however the thought of what this modern day Delphine Lalaurie might slice off next, suppressed his ardent urge.  He had to tread carefully, which was fantastically farcical, given he only had one leg!

“Annie, will you tell me one thing?”

“Of course, Paul.”

“If I write this story for you”

“Not a story Paul, a Novel! A nice big one.” She declared.

He studied her face, her flawless features.

“Yes Annie, a nice big one! Will you take care of me Annie?”

“Oh Paul, of course I will, haven’t I already?”

He looked down at his severed limb and thought to himself “oh yes Annie you have been an absolute delight” instead he smiled warmly and nodded.

She jumped to her feet “come on then hop to it” realising what she had said she giggled.

Dear god, Paul mused as he looked at her beautiful face, her wonderful curves, the slight dip at the nape of her neck as she struggled to get him into his chair.  Loose blonde curls tickled his chin and her creamy cleavage was inches from his hungry lips.  Annie really was a pulchritudinous psychopath!

“I need you to help me Annie, if I feel alive I can bring Misery alive, you do understand that, don’t you?”  He could tell by the blank look on her face that the abyss inside her head had no concept, so he tried a different tact.  Shifting slightly in his seat he leant forward and took her hand, stroking her fingers, he gently kissed each finger.  She didn’t stop him, more importantly she didn’t kill him!  He watched as the veil of recognition shadowed her face.  When she whispered “I am glad I burnt that book” he knew he was in!

And so, it began.  Hour upon hour, day after day, Paul let his fingers re-create Misery.  It wasn’t too difficult Misery had been in his life for so long, the chapters just spilled out of his fingers onto the pages.  In return Annie, true to her word, relinquished herself to him, little by little, chapter after chapter, with Misery’s comeback came Paul’s pay-off.  Tantalising teasers of the grand finale. Paul knew what Annie wanted and he drip-fed it to her with every strike of the key.

Some weeks later, after an exhilarating penultimate chapter. Paul was resting in his bed when Annie walked in, the manuscript clutched in her fist. “Oh Paul” was all she said.  Paul was unsure if it was a favourable or unsavoury “oh Paul” he was weary and unsure of what mood elevator she was currently stationed on.  After all she was a walking talking bottle of nitro-glycerine, he imagined that when he got chance to bounce her around a little, there was a risk she may explode.  He didn’t have to wait long, releasing the manuscript from her clenched fist, letting the filled pages float to the floor, she pulled back the sheets and Paul groaned as her head disappeared between his thighs.

Paul began the final chapter.  He took great care and paid meticulous attention to detail to ensure that it was just right.  He endured Annie’s constant interruptions as the prize was in sight.  Paul was growing increasingly fatigued; the pain had diminished to a dullish ache.  He wasn’t a Doctor but due to his crude severed leg he suspected septicaemia had set it.  He deadened the pain by focusing on the rumbustious reward and his lascivious longing for the maniacal Annie.

Annie entered the room and closed the door, slowly behind her.

“Is it finished” she purred.

“It’s finished Annie, it’s Misery’s greatest climax ever!”

Annie gasped, covered her mouth her eyes widely expectant.  She looked like an extra from Moulin Rouge, all frills and feathers, however Paul cared not, for him it was what lay beneath those feathers.  Oh, boy was he going to enjoy plucking her later.  Annie reached out to grab those all-important final pages and Paul held them above his head.  “Me first Annie, remember? Me first!”  For the next few hours Annie gave Paul everything he wanted, and more.  She was like a drug, a lethal, deadly insatiable high.  Paul couldn’t get enough.  She was as intoxicating as she was toxic.  As delicious as she was demented, he absorbed every pernicious pore of her lithe young body.

Sated, Paul reached for a cigarette, inhaling on it slowly he nodded toward the discarded papers.

“Go ahead Annie, Misery is waiting for you.” She leapt from the bed.

He watched her read. Watched and waited.

“Nooooo” the long, painful howl reverberated around the small room.  Her face became distorted, his words taking her to a hellish dystopia.  “What have you done? What the FUCK have you done?” she screamed, over and over.

“I killed her Annie, just like before, but this time she is NEVER coming back.  It’s over Annie, Misery is dead.”

She began rambling “no Paul she can’t be, you promised me Misery, you must do it again, yes, it’s not a problem, you can re-write the final chapter, yes that’s what we’ll do Paul, you and I we will bring her back, third time lucky!” she laughed, hysterically.

In her delirium, so absorbed was Annie in her second resurrection of Misery, she never noticed Paul close his eyes, take his last breath, and slip peacefully into an eternal sleep with a single white feather resting on his now still chest.

The End

Just Say Yes!

Week 4 Creative Writing Task.  Select a European Country and create a story describing in detail the location and  how an outsider causes conflict. With it’s verdant landscapes, Southern Ireland was my choice of Country.  

Just Say Yes

Aoife stood motionless on the rugged hills gazing out over the sprawling meadows of Killarney, the early morning breeze lifting her tarnished curls.  Tall grasses, stubborn in their aridity were flattened from the far hedgerow to the canopy of woodland leaves where she now stood drinking in the shade. Wild flowers were a cacophony of colour on the fading green. Purple thistles, blue cornflowers and tall asters with their yellow centres. There was no coordination like the displays in the village, just a free-for-all choreographed by the wind.

The meadow lay peaceful in the thickening light of late morning.  Flowing like a sea of green over the hillock, speckled with a riot of colour.  There was a shallow lake at the edge of the pasture, here the grass was thick and lush growing in dense tussocks, where the trees provided sun-flecked shade, a cool and refreshing respite from the mid-summer sun causing the white umbrellas of cow parsley to toughen and brown.  The rutted track toward the farm, once boggy, was mud hardened and cracked.  How she adored the lush iridescent pasture. Aoife gazed back towards home and sighed.

Today was her wedding day.  In little over an hour she would pledge her eternal love to Aidyn.  Her saviour, soulmate, protector. So why, amidst the cluster of cornflowers, was she musing, thinking of Elias?  If Aoife was honest with herself, not a day went by when he didn’t cross her mind, no matter how fleeting or how irrelevant, he was always there, only a thought away.

Aoife fell in love with Elias when she was eighteen years of age.  He stumbled into Aoife’s life and turned it upside down.  Aoife grew up on Killarney Farm with her father and five brothers, William, Patrick, Sean, Conor and Tomas.  Aoife never knew her mother, who passed away during childbirth, and she was raised by her father William, who was firm but fair and her five doting big brothers.  Aoife occasionally missed having a mother, but as she never knew her she often felt her feelings misplaced, unlike the grief her father and brothers openly displayed.

When Elias came into their lives, her brothers were fiercely protective, but Elias soon won them over with his American charm, his lilting accent and captivating antidotes.  Elias served for the US Army and was based at Killarney for six months. Six wonderful, joyous months.  Aoife loved Elias with every piece of her beating heart and when he left, six months later and she never heard from him again, each part was shattered into tiny shards along with every promise he had ever made to her. Aoife’s world became black, darker for his absence, loneliness crippling her every thought, until Aidyn.  Aidyn put her back together again.

“Aoife” she spun around startled, aghast, the very man on her mind was here, calling her, making his way over the meadow.  She froze, paralyzed with fear, with dread.  She opened her mouth, but no sound emerged.  What the hell was he doing here?

She managed “Elias” which was more of a whisper than a question.

“Oh Aoife, Aoife” he sang her name as he approached her “you look just as you did the last time I saw you”.

Aoife wanted to scream at him, make him understand, that on the outside she did look the same but on the inside, her core, she was damaged, she would never be the same.  Instead she just stood there and murmured “Hello Elias”.

Without shame Elias took Aoife by her hands and threw her into his arms, she remained stiff, unresponsive, fighting every natural urge to melt into his embrace.  He inhaled her scent, her headdress adorned with anemones and roses and for the briefest moment Aoife was sent hurtling into the past.

“Aoife my love, I have come back for you, for us.  Please forgive me my darling but not a day has passed when I have not thought of you.  The military dictated my future without you, but not anymore, I am here and I am free from them and I promise you Aoife I will spend a lifetime making it up to you.  It’s not too late Aoife, it’s not too late for us.” He paused, drinking her in, reaching for the ring “Aoife I love you, I have always loved you. Marry me?”.

There it was, everything Aoife had ever wanted to hear.  Three years too late.

Aidyn stood nervously at the altar.  His mother teetering on her ridiculously high heels, fussing, picking, irritating.  The choir shuffled impatiently in the pews and Aidyn closed himself off to his mother’s bestirring and absorbed the beautiful building.  The ancient stone walls which were once smooth were now pitted and scarred.  The midday sun seeped through the stained glass mullioned windows casting a checkerboard of vivid kaleidoscope sunlight onto the dark walnut floor.  Where was she?

The handful of guests shifted, coughed and sniffed.  He blanched under their scrutiny and whispers.  The vicar tapped his prayer book aimlessly.   He knew what they were all thinking, she wasn’t coming.  Aidyn felt the thump of his heart reverberating. Beads of sweat formed and tickled his brow, his mop of tawny hair absorbing the moisture. Suit trousers slightly too short, jacket slightly too big, weighing heavy on his tall but slim frame.  Aidyn wanted to walk out but his feet were anchored to the parquet flooring beneath.  His mother, tired of being ignored, had taken her seat next to his father who had the biggest smile on his face.  Still proud, still elated, forever the optimist.

Out of the corner of his eye Aidyn saw the vicar make a move towards him and just as Aidyn was about to beseech “five more minutes” the heavy church doors were thrown open and there she was. In the warm summer light, which surged through the open doors, her hair glowed chestnut, tumbling in curls to her simple white dress, the halo of the flowered-headdress making her appear angelic. Floating down the aisle on the arm of her father, clutching a bouquet of lemon roses, her eyes never left his. Aidyn just stood there mesmerized, she was a stunning vision to behold, his future, his life, his Aoife.

Later in the secluded grounds of the church Aoife took Aidyn’s hand and lead him to the rickety bench beneath the luscious leaved branches of the oak tree.

“Aidyn, why did you contact Elias and tell him about our wedding?” she probed.

He bowed his head. “I had to know Aoife, I am so sorry but I had to know.”

Lifting his chin, she whispered “had to know what?”

Aidyn stood and lifted Aoife to him.  “Aoife I know what he meant to you, I know he was never far from your mind.  I could not go through with today, I wouldn’t want you to be with me, if Elias is still the man you love”.

“Oh Aidyn, that was such a long time ago and yes, you’re right, a part of me did believe I still loved Elias, but seeing him here, today, well it just made me realise that those feelings aren’t buried Aidyn, they are gone, they simply do not exist anymore.

Aidyn blinked away the tears threatening to fall and smiled at Aoife, gathering her into him he kissed her sweet lips.  “Shall we get back to our guests?” he asked.

She laughed and let him lead her back to the church, her fingers insentiently stroking Elias’s ring tucked away in her bridal pocket.

Hayley Mars

"A Fruit for all Seasons"

As I am now back at College, I am producing more than I am getting chance to post! Which is a good thing, well actually a great thing! However my novel is taking a bit of a back burner, but after the chaos of Christmas I intend to knuckle down and make some positive progress.  As you know I entered the NYC Flash Fiction Competition (both entries posted on here) anyway as much I loved my first entry it did not achieve a top 15th place, so nil points.  However lots of positive feedback from the Judges.  Well my second story “Hinkley Honey” only went and got 9 points, 6th place out of 35 stories.  I was elated and as far as my story critique goes I obviously don’t know what I am talking about as I much preferred my first entry.  However 9 points was not enough to get me the in the top 5 out of 35 to go through to the next round, I did nonetheless get a respectable 11th place.

Here is what the Judges thought: -

• I liked the ending when David texted Bob. I thought that was a sweet moment.
• I really enjoyed the plot twist at the end of the story. The love connection was easy to engage with and cheer on. The depth of character development was great-- not too much but not too little.
• A great concept. I especially loved the reveal at the end that Bob had set the two up. Some nice humour throughout.

Well back to my college work and back to Week 2.  Our task was to tell a story of our life through food.  As I was raised above a Fruit & Veg Shop, and in memory of my wonderful mother, it seemed only right to tell my story about growing up amongst the apples & oranges.

“A Fruit for all Seasons”

As the first orange, hued rays of sunrise kissed the litter laden, worn grey paving stones of the deserted streets, silent and still. Whilst I was still curled in the silent slumber at peace, my consciousness swirled in the land of dreams, oblivious to the physical world. My mother bartered, traded and loaded her van with the produce for the day. Monday to Friday she rose at 3am in order to make the Preston markets for 4am, working tirelessly, without complaint to ensure I had the privilege of my peaceful sleep.

You see, I didn’t have a front door, a front garden or indeed a back garden. I had a shop door, a back yard and an outside toilet. I was raised above a ‘Fruit & Veg’ shop, it was never a house, but always my home. From as far back as I can recall, I lived and played amongst the freshest of foods, back when the bananas came housed within crates, straight off the boats, together with the occasional stow-away spider, terrifyingly bigger than my tiny hand. When we had a ‘spud-bin’ where potatoes were poured, straight from the sack and then bagged and weighed by me to earn my pocket money, as soon as I could reach the scale. The same scale which was used to weigh my baby brother, born at home on the 13th October 1976.

Whilst part of me craved the normality of living in a house, it was always to my home everybody came, it was a novelty, enticing, as much fruit as we could stuff into our eager faces. Numerous days spent sat in boxes in the shop window, treats from the customers as they admired my flushed cheeks and wild red curls, Easter eggs, selection boxes, the odd ten pence thrust into my fervent fist. Where everybody knew my name and the shop-assistants were my un-related Aunties. I was the proud daughter of a greengrocer.

With the rich smell of strawberries, this little fruit royalty wearing its deep green crown, perfectly red, flawlessly formed, bearing no resemblance to the ones you now get in the supermarkets with their diffuse flavour and unsightly white skin. Golden delicious, wet and crisp, as I bit into it, it broke between my teeth with a soft crunch. The lingering sounds drifting around my ears, filling my heart with pleasure. Icy sweetness filled my warm mouth. Oranges of all shapes and sizes, they lure you with their brightly-covered coating and the promise of a healthy sweet snack, by the time you penetrate that illuminous coating, pith and peel, chewy and tough. There must be an easier way of getting my vitamin C?

Rows upon rows, of the finest fruit, vegetables, salads and more. All our meals, always home cooked, consisted of produce freshly bought from the markets that morning. There isn’t a cabbage that I haven’t tried, no type of apple I haven’t bitten into, too many potatoes that I can honestly recall. A prohibition on Jersey Royals when they first came into season as they were far too expensive for my youthful palate. My phobia of mushrooms, where I couldn’t even touch one without collapsing into a heap of unnecessary revulsion. The battle of the sprouts every Christmas time.

As the residuum of summer would melt into autumn, Halloween brought pumpkins galore, on the shelves and on the floor, tough and heavy, a dirty orange, but what made Halloween extra special was the home-made toffee apples made by my mother. It was her secret recipe that she took to her grave, but never again have I tasted anything quite so delicious. The colour was fresh, a bright shiny brown. The toffee a gooey honey like liquid stimulated with a sweet and buttery taste, oh how that toffee melted on my warm tongue. Every batch that my mother would prepare, the last one was always saved for me. The caramel never quite covering the Golden Delicious lurking beneath, but the toffee was thick, delicious and filled me with delight.

All too soon the nights grew longer, the days shorter. Customers seeking refuge from the driving, freezing rain, together they would huddle around the Calor Gas heater, strategically placed, munching on hot mince pies and drinking mulled wine. The shop adorned with festive attire, swinging and swaying against the draft from the door. Clementines, Cranberries, Sprouts and Walnuts. Christmas trees lining the walls. Plentiful orders for families festivities. Each one prepared lovingly by my mother’s fair hands, little extras for the less fortunate households, collected or delivered by Christmas Eve.

My childhood is amass with poignant memories, of a mother who worked tirelessly to raise her family and run a successful business. The years rolled by. Seasons came and went. All too soon the menace of the Superstore emerged and the traditional fruit and veg store could survive no more. Times were hard, the price of potatoes went through the roof. We had to branch out, introduce groceries, fresh bread and cakes. Homemade sandwiches, salad boxes and sweets. It was a tough time but my mother survived, the business survived, my home survived.

The resilience of my mother was unwavering, over the tough times she fought assiduously to keep her business, her legacy, alive and she triumphed, so that many years later my children could also enjoy a childhood I had once relished. ‘Nanny Shop’ she became lovingly known as, and just as I had done way back when, her grandchildren laughed and they played, cramming their faces with delicious delights, until such time as my mother turned sixty five and hung up her greengrocer gloves for good.

Forever in our memories, forever in our hearts.

“In loving memory of my mother Carole 1942-2015”

Tenby Tunnel

I have to say the last 12 months have flown by and I am, as you know, back for my second year of Creative Writing.  I have already posted my third week assignment "Oblivion" so I will rewind to week one and "Picture Prompt" flash fiction of 500 words or less.  Take certain elements from a picture together with descriptive words to develop a short story.  One of the things I most enjoy about writing flash fiction is that I create them without any particular strategy in mind.  I literally watch it unravel beneath my fingertips.  

TENBY TUNNEL

Michael escaped through the gargantuan glass doors, unceremoniously spilling the deluge of the city’s proficient upon the tired grey stone, groaning under the haze of the setting sun.  Unregimented footfalls reverberated within the lofty structures with the carelessness of an undisciplined march.  Michael lifted his collar melting into the throng of the masses as they surged ahead.  Inconspicuous.  Determined.  Alone.

Whilst the City was fast-paced, almost chaotic, Michael remained serene, tranquil.  He greedily inhaled the aromas from the nearby restaurants and brasseries and his stomach moaned appreciatively.  With head bowed and hands thrust deep into his pockets he disappeared, unnoticed, into the stench of the grime-ridden underground.

The light in the toilets flickered intermittently and just for a moment Michael gazed, motionless, at his reflection in the tarnished mirror above the chipped ceramic bowl.  He had done it.  Taking his crimson stained hands from deep within his pocket he vigorously rubbed soap into his tainted skin, the hot water taking the burnt orange residue into the drainage below.  His cheeks flushed and his lips displayed the semblance of a satisfied smile.

As Michael quickly changed his clothing, removing all traces of any remaining bloodstain, the final rays of the evening light bounced rhythmically off the soiled tiles beneath his feet.  Removing the bloody hunting knife from the safety of his inside pocket, Michael proceeded to meticulously parcel the knife within the clothing he had removed.  As Michael left the camouflage of the underground, parcel securely underneath his arm, he was greeted by the sky dyed a pomegranate pink.  The heaviness of the earlier surge had lightened.

“May there always be sunshine, may there always be blue skies” Michael mused.  Turning toward Tenby Tunnel, the vagrants milling around the brazier even though the temperatures were far from cool, the plume of flame licking at the musty surround.  Michael approached the cluster of the cities forgotten, their deprivation etched in each hard line on their aged faces and swiftly dropped his parcel into the brazier causing the hungry flames to devour, like a great famished beast, belching out plummets of black smoke.  He walked away leaving their angry protests lingering in the still air.

Michael gazed over to the Tenby River, the water lay flat, silent, as was his emotions, as if one were a reflection of the other. The fading orbs of light recoiled and eventually melted into the water, causing the river to appear like a huge pool of deep red.  Michael thought of Harry.

Harry’s blood didn't gush in a constant flow, but in sync with the beating of his heart. At first it came dense and strong, flowing through his fingers as he clutched his ripped flesh. Michael looked on, fascinated, watching the blood ooze over his hand, the thick fluid finding its own direction and staining the clothing beneath. After just moments the blood was still leaving his rapidly paling flesh, but his pulses were slower, weaker. Michael didn’t leave until Harry had taken his last breath and his heart had given its final beat.  Only then did Michael walk away.

Hayley Mars