#FridayFlash - A night for darkness

The house seems bigger tonight; the dark pushing itself up against the windows. I roll down the blind, but I have to look away from my reflection as I do. I don’t know why, it’s just this feeling I have at night – that a face will appear against the inkiness and it won’t be mine.

            With the blinds down the kitchen clock ticks louder, and the table and chairs seem to take up more space than usual. I flick off the light and step into the living room, shutting the door tight.  Everything is as it was five minutes ago – the throw over the chair is rucked up around the cushions, the tv guide is thrown on the floor and the Sky box is flashing where it’s recording a program for dad. But everything has changed too.

            A silence hangs over the room; it’s a heavy, late night sort of silence that makes you keep checking behind you to see what’s there. It’s a silence that makes goose-bumps rise on your arms.

            I should have gone to bed earlier. I promised mum that I would. I do this every week. It’s the one night they leave me alone. I feel fine when I’m heating up the pizza, and watching telly. It’s only when everything’s off, when the house is quietly breathing and I’m standing in the living room trying to find the courage to open the door to the stairs; it’s only then that I hear the moving upstairs.

         Creaks at first. The house settling, I think. I put my hand on the doorlatch. All I have to do is click my thumb down and I’ll open the door on the yawning darkness. But I don’t.

Then I hear the footsteps. On the landing above. Knocking noises as things are moved about, dragged across the floor. My mouth is dry, but my palms are sweaty. I glance over my shoulder again to check the living room. The sofa looks back at me. I look away.

My heart is beating faster. I put pressure on my thumb and the latch lifts up. I pause, straining my ears to listen, hearing the pounding in my head. I suck in my breath and then yank open the door. Blackness tumbles out and my hand is scrabbling around on the wall for the light switch. The dim glow of an energy bulb reveals the worn carpet of the stairs. And nothing else.

            I take a breath again and start climbing up. I leave the living room light on for mum and dad. And it means I don’t have to run to the other side of the room and turn it off. I go up with my back to the wall so that I can see the top and bottom of the stairs. And my wild heartbeat is back. The skin on my arms prickles. The landing is lit and I can see the gaping doorway to my room. Why do I never think to leave my light on?

            The moving is coming from downstairs now. The chinking sound of the springs in the chair as somebody sits down, the clunk of a mug set on the table, of plates clinking together in the sink. Five more steps to the top.

Footsteps across the room towards the stairs.

Four.

The latch clacking.

Three.

            I run the last two and throw myself into my room, slamming the door shut and flipping on my light switch. I wait for the blood to stop racing around my head, for my breathing to slow down.

            I imagine a weight against the other side of the door, of being flung aside of... of what? Ghosts? Maniacs? Darkness?

            I change into my pyjamas, my senses heightened to every noise of the house. I climb into bed and pull my duvet up so it almost covers my head. I lay awake watching the door. Light from the landing pokes in around the edges. I would be able to tell if those gaps widened even slightly. I watch the handle. I’ll see straight away if anyone begins to turn it.

            The crunch of gravel outside and light floods into my room with the whirring noise of a car engine. Light and sound are abruptly cut off as the car engine dies. There are thunks as car doors are closed. My mum laughing.

            I let out a long breath, feel my body slowly relax.  I roll over and close my eyes.

            And of course, that's when it takes me.

           I am in the room when my parents peek on me and I can hear the first anxious beats of their hearts as their voices call my name. But the weight of me is fading and I am spreading, spreading, stretching my long darkness into the house, consuming the light. Darkness becomes me, and I become darkness as beneath me my parents roll back the duvet, staring at only at the faintest impression of where I lay moments before. I expect my sheets are still warm. Darkness is cold, and darkness is hungry and I drift out into the embrace of it, into the stillness of it. Watching. Waiting. Hunting for the shining silence of lonely houses to fill the greed.

#FridayFlash - Poker Face

            There was no electricity in the shed. Dan said this created 'atmosphere' - just seemed dark and gloomy to me. We couldn’t see each other properly. Ruth had brought candles and she lit them with my lighter, melting wax onto the wobbly old table and lodging them upright. Shadow and light flickered across her face. The candles seemed to make the shed darker, it lit the area where we all sat balanced on stacks of unwanted books or hunched on old boxes and crates, but behind us the darkness deepened.

            ‘How’d you find this place anyway?’ Moggy asked, her rich Scottish accent warming the shadows.

            Dan shrugged.

            ‘It’s Grandad’s,’ I said, earning a sharp look from Dan for breaking his air of mystery. ‘Or was,’ I added. ‘No-one’s been here since he died. He grew potatoes in the plot. Couldn’t grow anything else.’

            ‘Alright Simon,’ Dan said, smacking my arm a little harder than playful. ‘They don’t want our life story.’

            Moggy took the lighter from Ruth and began playing with it, flicking it on and off. She smiled at me through the glow. Maybe Dan was right. No electricity was good.

            ‘What now?’ Ruth asked. ‘We’re just going to sit in the dark and stare at each other?’

            Dan shook his head.

            ‘Course not, I came prepared.’ He bent down and rummaged about in the plastic bag at his feet. ‘Ta da!’ he waved a large bottle of cider in the air.

            The girls rolled their eyes simultaneously and shared a glance.

            ‘Classy,’ Ruth muttered.

            Dan’s face hardened and I could tell he was on the brink of losing his good humour. That’s Dan for you. He’s fine as long as everyone thinks he’s brilliant, but as soon as he thinks you’re laughing at him, you’d better watch out.

            ‘There should be some cards somewhere,’ I said, before he could ruin everything. It had taken ages to persuade the girls to come up here alone with us. What was the point of all that sweet talking if he was just going to lose his cool and get moody on them? I don’t think girls like that moody act as much as he thinks they do. ‘Let’s play poker.’

            Moggy’s face lit up instantly.

            ‘Strip poker,’ Dan suggested.

           ‘Yeah, Dan, in a grubby shed, in the middle of November.' Ruth sighed and shook her head. 'You sure know how to show us a good time.’

            Moggy giggled and tucked her chin into the collar of her coat.

            ‘Come on then Si,’ she said to me, kicking me lightly on the shin, ‘get the damn cards. And Dan, pour the cider, I could do with warming up.’

            Dan frowned as he stared at the bottle in his hand.

            ‘I didn’t bring cups,’ he said at last. ‘We’ll have to swig from the bottle.’

            ‘Better and better,’ Ruth muttered, but she reached for the bottle anyway and Dan’s face cleared as he unscrewed the top and gave it to her.

            I turned away, my stomach squirming slightly with excitement. Ok, so this wasn’t exactly the most romantic place in the world. And maybe letting Dan sort the drink wasn’t the best move. But the girls were still here and they were laughing and joking and they seemed kind of keyed up too. I could feel Moggy’s bright eyes on me and my stomach squirmed again. I took a deep breath and began rummaging around in the boxes where Granddad had stored his supply of cigarettes, drink and cards. Empty bottles clinked, whispery things brushed my hand, my fingertips slithered over the layer of dirt and sludge at the bottom. Finally I felt the wooden edge of the box he kept his poker cards in. Clutching it tightly I turned back to the group. Moggy was drinking from the bottle, her mouth twisting at the taste as she passed it back to Dan.

            ‘Here.’ I set the wooden box down on the table. It was a faded, plain box with a rusty metal latch to keep it closed, but the dancing candle light threw patterns across the worn surface and I remembered Granddad snatching it out of my hands when I was younger.

            ‘It’s not for playing with,’ he’d yelled, his bloodshot eyes bulging slightly while Dan and I slunk away from him. ‘I told yer to leave it be.’

            Dan was looking at the box with a strangely sombre expression on his face. Was he remembering that same moment? Grandad was always an intimidating figure. Stinking of cigarette smoke and stale whisky. His eyes were yellow, and his skin seemed yellow too. He said it was jaundice from the jungles when he’d lived abroad... fought abroad. We were terrified of him, but he impressed us. He was tall and he kept his army figure right up until he died.

            Moggy reached for the box. I grabbed her wrist.

            ‘What?’

            ‘Nothing... I just-’ How could I say I had a bad feeling about opening the box? It was just a box.

            She smiled, her lips soft and kind. She twisted her wrist so that we were palm to palm. My hand tingled.

            ‘Sure,’ she said, ‘he was your granddad.’ She drew her hand away and gave a small nod. ‘Go on then, you do the honours.’

            There was no other choice. I reached for the box. My fingers seemed to curl away from it, but I made them wrap around the solid shape. It felt warm. I drew it in close to my chest.

            ‘Grandad never let us use them,’ I said. ‘He said, they weren’t for playing with.’ I felt stupid as I spoke. Like a small child.

            ‘Come on,’ Dan snapped. ‘Grandad’s dead and the cider’s running out.’ He took another swig.

            ‘He wanted the shed burnt down after he died,’ I said, still staring at the box. ‘He left a letter to mum, said he wanted everything in it turned to ashes. She wouldn’t do it though.’

            ‘Simon.’ Dan leaned in close. ‘You’re kind of killing the mood here. Grandad was out of his head. He wanted to burn himself with it as well, if you remember - that’s why they sent him to the home. Now, either open that damn box and cheer up a bit, or give it to me and bugger off.’

            The box was still warm in my hand and for a moment I swear it shuddered in my grip. I almost dropped it, but as I looked up I saw Moggy’s large eyes watching me. I must look mad to her. She’d never let me talk her into coming up here without Ruth at this rate. I swallowed down the anxiety that was starting to bubble inside me and turned my attention back to the box.

            I unlatched the clasp. Lifted the lid and...

            A tired looking pack of cards sat inside.

            ‘These are well old,’ Dan said, reaching past me and grabbing the pack out of the box. ‘The old git picked them up from Vietnam, or Cambodia or China or somewhere like that.’

            ‘Cool,’ Ruth took them from him. She slid the cards out of the cardboard pack and fanned them out.

            I grabbed the cider and took a long deep drink, barely tasting it as it slid down my throat and into my stomach. My heart was beating madly and I had no idea why. My gaze was on the cards in Ruth’s hands, I couldn’t look away.

            Ruth’s face twisted slightly.

            ‘Ugh,’ she said, ‘these are creepy.’

            Moggy peered over her shoulder at them, her nose wrinkled.

            ‘What are these?’ she asked.

            Ruth turned them so that they faced us. Dan and I both leaned in. I frowned, squinting in the light to make them out. There were no usual images of queens, or jacks, or kings, or aces. Instead there were photos of people. Some were Asian in green khaki uniform, some were western with big perms and hanging hoop earrings, some were older with white hair and creased faces. All them wore a look of terror – their mouths twisted in silent screams, or grimaces of pain, their eyes stretched with fear.

            ‘I don’t want to play with them,’ Moggy said, drawing away and pulling her coat tighter about herself. A shock of wind made the candle flames flicker.

            ‘Look,’ Ruth said, pulling a card out of the deck. ‘This one’s normal.’ She held up a jack. The usual sort of jack you’d find in any pack of cards. My heart seemed to freeze for a moment.

            ‘Ruth,’ I said, and I knew as I spoke that it was too late. ‘I think you should put the card down.’

            Ruth turned to look at me. As she did so the card twisted in her hand. Not like cardboard. Like a living thing. Ruth let out a small cry of horror and tried to drop it. We all leapt back. The card wrapped itself around Ruth’s wrist, was slowly twisting up her arm.

            ‘Oh my god!’ Ruth was scrambling away from us, shaking her arm. ‘Get it off, get it off, get it off.’ Her face was stricken with terror.

            Moggy and I lurched towards her at the same time. Moggy wrapped her arms about her.

            ‘Simon,’ she yelled, ‘pull that bloody thing off her.’

            The card was like a red and white snake, entwining itself about Ruth’s arm. Her skin was turning an awful grey colour wherever it was touched.  Ruth’s eyes were wide, her breath coming in convulsive gulps, unable to utter any words. The thing wound up higher towards her neck.

            I grabbed at it. It was thick and muscled beneath my touch. And hot. Burning. I let out a cry of pain, snatching my hands back. Ruth staggered, her arm flailing wildly, knocking Moggy aside.

            The thing was up her neck, under her chin, curling up and over her face.

            I could hear Moggy’s terrified sobbing, behind me Dan was cowered against the wall. The thing now covered Ruth’s entire upper body and was working downwards. Waist, hips, thighs...

            One moment she was there, a heaving mass of white and red. The next there was nothing.

            I staggered back, knocking against our table. The candles toppled off. Silence fell with the darkness.

            ‘R-Ruth?’ Moggy’s voice filled the shed. ‘Ruth?’

            I fumbled for a candle.

            ‘Moggy,’ I whispered, ‘do you have my lighter?’

            I heard her moving over to me, her touch trembled on my arm, she pressed the lighter into my palm. It took me a couple of tries to get the spark to ignite. Each time Moggy’s face flared pale and sweaty in the brief illumination. Finally I lit the candle. The flame wobbled. Daniel was still pressed against the wall, his face stricken.  Moggy stood beside me, her breathing ragged.

Ruth was gone. I stood up and moved forward, to where she had stood a moment before. A playing card lay in the dust at my feet.

            I bent down and picked it up. I turned it over.

            Ruth’s face stared up at me, frozen in a look of terror.         

Paper butterflies and silent stories

Well, you can tell the Easter Holidays are over and I'm back at work, because suddenly the desire/time to blog, tweet and write mysteriously disappears!

This is a blog post that I've been meaning to do for ages but have only just found the time and motivation to sit down and write it.

At the beginning of April I was part of the Golden Egg Social that travelled to London to meet, drink and be merry (and creative!) It was a lovely day, so nice to spend time with people happy to talk about story plots and characters and who are all so generous at sharing their ideas and suggestions. That day fired me up to start writing after a fairly lengthy hiatus and so a big Thank You to Emma Greenwood who organised it all.

Emma was fantastic not only for organising the day but also because one of the best bits of that day was a Scrawl Crawl around WC1 with Emma as our muse and guide. Emma led us through the streets of London pointing out the various interesting nooks and crannies and hidden faces that we might not usually see and she set us off on writing tasks to get our creative juices flowing. I thought I would share with you some of the free writing that I did on that day - I've left them exactly as I wrote them then.

The Silent Watchers

The Outer Temple, Lloyds Bank, Law Courts Branch

Heads bowed, stone bones creaking, muscles groaning and necks aching. Nostrils full of the smog and smoke of life, eyes cloyed, lips rimmed with age. But they Breathe. Their stony abdomens expand millimetre by millimetre, draw back in. Inhaling the sweat and rush and hurry as they remain stoic, poised, heads down, dreaming of the otherworld, of the space they were dreamt from, of the place where they were not real but were only light and air and thought and nothing but ideas.

The Paper Butterflies

Shiver of wind against the paper membrane, shocking to the very core. The rise and fall of human buzz and the thick odour of cloying beer and chips. 

They rest briefly, their bright light colours like boiled sweets against the grimy stone building. They feel the hum of the city through their crease and folds. A spot of sunlight, a snick of wind and they rise again, dancing and twirling up above the rooftops, away over London's skyline.

These are not the actual butterflies we saw that day, but I think those, like the ones pictured here, were part of Free Art Friday

The final stop of the day was the national portrait gallery where we were tasked with finding a portrait and consider it as a character to inspire some writing. I didn't quite get round to that exercise as I was too absorbed by some of the paintings I came across.

One was a portrait of Mary English, Nee Ballard, Greenup who lived from 1789 - 1846. I'm really interested in Victorian explorers, particularly women explorers and have been writing a story about a Victorian girl who gets caught up with a Victorian female explorer. I've started to do some research into this area, and Mary English seems to be a good place to start as she certainly seems to have had a colourful life!

Finally I was arrested particularly by a portrait of Ayuba Suleiman Diallo - the earliest known portrait of a freed slave. Beside the portrait was a poem entitled 'Diallo's Testament' by Ben Okri. It's a moving and beautiful poem and demonstrates how inspiration can be sparked by a face drawn in oils on canvas and that stories hide behind so much around us. My favourite lines of the poem are below and you can hear Ben reading the rest here

'Behind me are silent stories

Like a storm. I have worn 

History around my neck like chains.'

Thank you Emma for a wonderful day!