The Silence - A Short Story

I was meant to put some writing on the blog last night, but I had a bit of a problem. Ok, I was a bit lazy. But I have been keeping my writing quiet the past few days because a short story I was writing had me in two minds due to recent events in the news. Plus, a tiny part of my feels a bit guilty that I haven't been doing much editing for my main story or writing the other main story (Confused?). So, I wanted to write something short and this is it.

This is something that popped into my head a few days ago and, after manically writing it down, I liked it quite a lot. I might use it in the future (with a few word changes), but I thought I would share with you. ENJOY!

*

“What do you know about The Silence?”
“The Silence?”
“It's a creature older than Time itself. It hides in the shadows. It hides in the darkness. It hides, only to be seen out of the corner of your eye. It is a creature more terrifying than any other creature alive. No human has seen it. And if they have, they suffer a fate worse than death.”
Pause. “There's no such thing.”
“Are you certain about that?”

Fearless Threads - A Short Story

Another short story blog. Well... you all have really surprised me. YOU REALLY LIKE MY WRITING! Am a tad shocked, but it so lovely to read your comments and go "They like my writing! They not faking it!". So thank you for liking the previous few stories and I hope you like this one. No real idea where this came from. I just felt I had to write it.

I hope you guys like!

*

The me in the mirror looked nothing like me.
The me in the mirror looked strong-jawed, stubborn, defiant, totally kick-ass.
He looked nothing like how I felt.
A walking lie.
I slowly took deep breaths, my insides twisting and writhing painfully as I stared at myself in the mirror, my knuckles white as I gripped the sink.
I closed my eyes and focused on my breathing as a spike of panic stabbed the back of my brain.
Deep breath in, hold, deep breath out.
Oh my God!
Deep breath in, hold -
This can't be happening! This shouldn't be happening to me!
- deep breath out. Deep breath -
They made a mistake!
But they didn't.
I opened my eyes and saw the me in the mirror. His skin looked pale.
I gripped the sink tighter as my knees nearly gave out. I gasped and forced myself to remain standing as my stomach knotted and my lunch threatened to come up.
There was a gentle knock on the bathroom door.
“Sweetie.” My mum's concerned voice. Of course. “Is everything okay in there?”
“Yeah. Everything's fine.” My voice answered as my brain screamed, No. No, everything's not okay. It's not fine. Everything's wrong!
When did it become so easy to lie?
I waited before I risked letting my hands release their vice-like grip of the wash basin. My knees didn't buckle.
Without thinking about it, I raised my hands and my fingers touched my hair. I liked my hair. I never realised that before. I quite liked my short yet messy black hair that I couldn't tame, no matter how hard I tried.
I felt my face twitch in a smile. But it never really met my lips.
I tried to take a mental photograph as I lowered my hands. I reached out and took hold of cool plastic.
I forced myself to take a breath. Breathe, I told myself. Just breathe.
I stared at the mirror and a rush of doubt knotted at my windpipe.
Before I could think too much about it, I leaned my head over the sink, turned on the hair cutter and buzzed cut my hair off.
Don't cry, I mentally chanted. Don't cry. Don't cry. Don't cry.
I felt a rush of emotions coursing through my veins and push down on my bones. Terror, fear, shame and yet... liberating. It felt odd feeling these mix of emotions and yet feel lighter somehow.
When no more hair fell into the sink, I turned off the hair cutter. Closing my eyes, I raised my head up to its natural height. Then opened my eyes.
And fought the urge of hysterical laugh.
I looked like a bald egg with painted-on lips and stuck-on googly-eyes.
And yet, the me in the mirror looked more like me. Or how I felt. Smaller somehow, deflated, terrified.
The doctors told me to name it. According to them, giving it a name that I hated would help me beat it.
Apparently, calling it Leukaemia isn't enough to beat it.
I thought of names but dismissed them, all the while never taking my eyes off the mirror.
The me in the mirror looked the same as before. Smaller, frailer. But there was something about his eyes. My eyes. It was small, but it was there. A glint of something.
Defiance.
“You listen to me, you son of a bitch,” I growled at the mirror. “I'm going to beat you. You can bet on it!”

6 Minute Story

So, you guys know I sometimes write short stories (or something like that) within 30 minutes (blame Michelle Zink). Well, I came across something on Twitter, where you ave to write a short story or Flash fiction within ... wait for it... 6 MINUTES!!!

Impossible, right?

Well, I had a go. It was hard, but I had a go. And this is what I came up with...

http://sixminutestory.com/read/paper-cranes

Yeah... I know it's my work and I had a stressful time writing, I'm not going to put it on the blog. I might change my mind. But until then... let's look at this BEAUTIFUL picture I found which was taken by Jenny Terasaki!

Body - a 30 Minute Write-Off! (Short Story)

So, every now and then, I make myself have a go at writing something out within 30 minutes. Or I try to, seeing as today, my keyboard was playing up. So, I wrote in 35 minutes (because I had to run and get batteries!). So, enjoy!

Warning - this short story deals with dead bodies. (Thanks Kathy Reichs and Tess Gerritsen).

*

I know death. I work with it. Hey, you can say we’re the best of buddies.

I am a forensic anthropologist, and let me tell you, my job isn’t exciting. Don’t believe that CSI crap. I deal with dead bodies. Whether they are burned, decomposed, mummified (don’t ask!), mutilated, dismembered or skeletal. So, they’re not exactly a chatty bunch.

I prefer working with skeletal remains. Nothing scary about skeletons. It feels safe working with them, knowing that there are 206 bones in the body. It’s like working on an old maths question you feel comfortable with.

I do not feel comfortable working with anything else. I have to pushed into the autopsy room, half the time. Mostly because I don’t have a Starbucks in my hand (other coffee brands are available). But the idea of doing a Y-incision into the dead’s chest – doing it to a female is more disturbing, but if you’re a man (or a lesbian), you’ll instinctively look at the breasts. And then you have get to the brain, which is worse because you have to cut through the scalp, collapse the face (!), and then saw through the bone.

Yeah. Dealing with skeletal remains is much better for me.

And it was dealing with a skeletal remains of a woman (black, mid to late thirties) is when I heard it.

I heard something. I wasn’t sure what, but I heard… movement?

Now that was impossible. I was the only person in the morgue. I was working late to make sure all my notes and findings made sense. I was getting dental records tomorrow and I was sure that we would have an ID for her. For her and for her family’s sake.

“He-hello?” I called out.

Nothing. As quiet as the grave.

I sighed, looked at the clock – 10:47pm – and decided that I should really go home. I was seriously behind on my Grey’s Anatomy – a secret vice no one knew about. Plus, I wanted a shower. I wanted to wash the smell of death that I knew had clung to my clothes, my hair, my skin.

I stretched, feeling my joints pop out of my sockets when I heard it about. A low, muffled sound. I stood perfectly still, arms still above my head, trying to pinpoint the sound.

There was nothing.

I should ignore it. It’s nothing. I mentally told myself. And yet… and yet, I knew I couldn’t.

So, guessing that weird the noise had come from, I walked across the morgue, pass the gurneys and pushed the doors open.

A chill ran over my skin. I felt goosebumps rise. The cold room has that effect on people. It never bothered me before. But it did now.

Eight stainless steel gurneys were taken. Each holding a black body bag. I felt my skin tightened as I walked to the first. I forced myself to work confidently. I had nothing to fear here. It wasn’t like the dead could rise again.

I checked the tag. White female. No date. No time.

Okay, that’s odd.

I unzipped the bag. Inside was a naked white female. Her skin was practically translucent. Her black hair looked wet and was pulled back, revealing a woman with a large forehead. Her eyes were closed, given the impression that she was sleeping.

“Oh, get a grip of yourself.” I told myself aloud, zipping the body bag shut. “You’re tired. You’re cranky. Go home.”

I turned to leave. I made two steps before I stopped. Okay, that time, I definitely heard something.

I turned. It had to be my imagination. Had to be. There was no way -!

Slowly, I edged back to the body bag I had just opened. Then stopped, hand frozen in mid air.

“Get a grip,” I told myself, as I took the zip and unzipped the bag.

Again, there she laid. Her eyes closed. Her hair still pulled back.

My fingers, acting of their own accord, moved towards her throat. If she was dead, there would be no pulse. If she was dead, she would be cold skinned. If she was dead –

The corpse’s eyes opened.

I gasped, recoiled, almost lost my footing and stared, opened mouth.

Her eyes were open!

“Oh – OH MY GOD!” I couldn’t stop myself from saying the words. I grabbed the gurney and kicked at the brake.

Get her out of the cold!

“Sweetie!” I said, kicking at the brake again and feeling my foot making contract. “It’s okay. I got you. You’re going to be okay.”

I hope.

I wheeled the gurney out of the cold room. I thought I heard someone.

“Call an ambulance!” I called out, hoping that I wasn’t alone.

Not Another Michelle Zink Writing Challenge

I'm afraid it is!

I know I should be sitting down and REALLY focused on my own writing, but I felt a tiny bit guilty for not doing more Writing Missions, so this morning I sneak onto Michelle Zink's website (when I was meant to be working! And I was... kinda...) and looked up this week's writing challenge. This week was one I HAD to do. In this week's task, Michelle revealed a tiny nugget from her upcoming novel "Guardian of the Gate" (a book I am going to get) and she wanted us to take the paragraph and turn it into something new within 30 Minutes. Yeah, I was at work. So, I gave myself till the end of the working day to write something and, wherever I ended, I would just upload it.

I'm not going to tell you what Michelle gave us to work with (you have to click on the following link to find out - http://michellezinkbooks.wordpress.com/2010/06/24/thursday-night-write-guardian-of-the-gate-clue/), but this is what I made of it. And I was surprised with myself because I found myself, near the end, not liking my main character. He seemed so arrogant that it bothered me. But, I like the story. Maybe, one day, I might go back to it...

Until then, enjoy!

*

For as long as I could remember, I have always been able to see them. The ghosts that are trapped here, wanting desprately to move on to “The Other Side” (I don’t believe in that “Go into the Light” crap). And ghosts that refuse. Point blank. Some out of stubbornness. Some out of fear. But most stay because they want to. It’s fun to stay and watch. They’re not ready to go. Not just yet.

And then there are those that aren’t ghosts at all. The Frighteners, as I call them. They’re made from bad energy, from what I can guess. Bad energy, evil energy. They want to be human, or as close to human as they can. Expenience human emotions. They’re the reason people get depression or have horrible thoughts. It’s frightening to walk down the road and see them close to someone, and knowing that I could help. Or try to. But I can’t. I can’t do anything.

Cos I’m a freak. A weirdo. An oddity. The curiousity. And those are the kind names people have called me. Hence why I rarely talk about my ability.

It was because I was standing in a field that I was a little afraid. The field’s openness was terrifying, though the sun shined brightly, turning gold the wild grass and swaying wheat that stretches in every direction. For all its beauty, the field left me no place to hide. If a Frightener came, I would have to run. And I tend to fall down when I run. I tend to fall down A LOT.

I sighed. The ghost had changed its mind. It wouldn’t surprise me. It’s not like I’ve met a ghost who hasn’t changed his or her mind, or worry if they are making the right decision.

It was too humid to wonder why the ghost had changed his or her mind. Plus, I had to get back and finish those English Literature assignments. I couldn’t fail with these assignments. If I didn’t get a decent mark, I basically flunked my class. I couldn’t flunk this class.

So, I turned to leave. And jumped as the ghost stood there, a little too close for comfort.

Ghosts blink. That’s why he was so close to me. Ghosts don’t walk or float up to you. Some do, but that’s a tiny percentage of the ghost populous. The attention seeking kind. The rest of them Blink. Well, I call it blinking. One moment, no one is there. The next, Bam! There they are. Most people think it’s a trick. They blink and they see the ghost without realising it. I know that they are ghosts. Ghosts don’t have auras like humans do.

“Oh! I’m so sorry!” He took a step back, releasing he was in my personal space. “Are you alright?”

“I – I’m fine.” I lied. I rammed my hands into my pockets. When I lie, my fingers tend to twitch. “Just give me moment to catch my breath.”

“Okay,” the ghost smiled and fell silent. He seemed pleased that I came, as if he feared that I won’t. that I would change my mind.

He doesn’t know me very well.

“Okay,” I said after a moment, taking my hands out of my pockets and flexing my fingers. “So, I’m here.”

“Yeah, sorry.” He looked my age, wearing clothes that were about five, maybe six, years out of fashion. “I can only talk here.”

“Why here?” I questioned.

“Because I can’t leave the field. I’m stuck here.”

Well, that was new and unexpected.

From what I had been told by my Grandmother (who had the gift too – it “supposed” to have missed a generation with my mother. But I don’t believe my mum. As the song goes, “Deny, Deny, Deny”), ghosts don’t haunt one place. They can come and go as they please. Most haunt places that mean something to them – a house, a garden, a public garden. I saw one haunt one of the London Underground stations. Also, I have never come across a ghost that haunts a graveyard, much to everyone’s surprise. And I should know – I live oppisite a graveyard. It’s one of the few places I can go without hearing, seeing or sensing a ghost. It’s a place I can turn my brain off from the ghost frequency.

But to be stuck in one place…

“So, you can’t leave this field?” I said, slowly, trying to get my brain round the idea. “But you’ve been trying to contact me.” It came out as a question.

“I have.”

“How?”

“Little things. But mostly when you slept. That seems to be the easiest way.”

Ah, he’s one of those ghosts…

Some ghosts, not very many, have the horrible knack to send messages and ideas into dreams. It’s very rare. One or two of them can even enter your dreams, which is kinda freaky to say the least. It has only ever happened to me once, when I was sixteen and having a fairly steamy dream involving myself and two other people (one of them was the member of the oppisite sex) when a ghost appeared, stared over us and started screaming at me, telling how dirty and wrong it was. How preverted it was. Ever since then, if I have one of those dreams, I change it to something extremely dull incase a ghost walks in. Like tofu.

Numb Weight - A "I'm Not Sure What This Is" Work

There’s a numbness in my heart,
That’s weighing me down,
Making it almost impossible to carry me around,
So don’t throw me off a cliff, my darling,
Cos the freefall will feel strangely superb,
But the crashing into the ground will bring the numb back.

There’s a numbness in my heart,
And it spreading into my head,
Crushing the brain within my skull,
So, please, my darling, don’t take me to the river’s edge,
Because the drowning will feel so wonderful,
But the drowned won’t feel at all.

There’s a numbness in my heart,
In my head and now in my veins,
Chilling me in ways that warmth will never reclaim,
So don’t take me to the bonfire, my darling,
Because the burning will be exquisitely beautiful,
But the smell of burnt flesh might be too much.

There’s a numb weight within me,
I’m a dead weight in your fragile arms,
So leave me on the ground in a small tiny ball,
Go, my darling, and live your emotion-filled life,
For then I’ll live inside this strange empty void,
Till the tears of the stars wash this numbness away…

Something I Randomly Discovered

I discovered this in my drafts on Facebook and, remembering what this is for (it was a draft of a story that I never finished), I've decided to upload this you all to read. Enjoy!

It was the ghostly fingers made him aware that what he was seeing wasn't real. They felt real, but they felt as if they were made of plastic, not true human fingers. And he kept hearing voices, but they were always in the background, as if he was in one room and the voices were in another.

But they didn't matter.

He was stuck in, what he was sure was, a memory. The last memory he had before it happened. The last true memory. Something solid for his mind to hold onto.

She was there. Beautiful as always. Her blond hair tied back in an odd ponytail, her pale eyes watching him, her lips curve into a gentle smile.

“I love you,” she whispered.

And that was when the memory ended.

Sin - A Short Story

QUICK AUTHOR'S NOTE - This story isn't a story. Yes, I know I say it is in the title. But this idea came to me yesterday as I was driving. I have no idea what made me question the idea of sin, but what I found more interesting is the "voice" this story took. It seems so different from how I usually write, I decided to challenge myself with it. I hope you like...

*

Sin.
Every person knows of the seven deadly sins. And every person is capable of them.
There is no sight of a sin affecting a person. There is no aura, no sight, no sound, no warning sign.
We all have the capable to commit one of the sins, and we all trick ourselves. We believe that Biblical demons are tempting us. We believe that for every sin, there is a virtue to redeem ourselves.
Because we want redemption once we cause the sin. Because we don’t see the act of the sin itself. We see only the effect and only the aftermath. And we try to fix the damage we have caused.
But we must remember. We must remember that there is a difference between sin and evil.
An act of sin is redeemable. An act of evil isn’t.
Every human on this planet we call Earth is capable of an act of sin. Very few are capable of an act of evil.

Another Writing Task (Inspired by Michelle Zink)

So, last Thursday, Michelle Zink did another one of her writing missions (I try and do these. If not on the date then a few days after.) But this time, I was determine to do this task (write a short story in 300 words or less).

Why? Well, two reasons. I fancied a challenge and, second, she talked about in her blog (which I am very flattered with. [It was my birthday and I was called a "die-hard fan of my work, an online friend, and a supporter of my as-yet-unapproved tour of the UK." [come on, Atom Books. You know you want to...?]). http://michellezinkbooks.wordpress.com/2010/05/13/thursday-night-write-9/

So, the plan was to write a short story about birthdays. Seemed the right thing to write. But stuff happened - Florence and the Machine gig and a weekend of mad - so I got down to it today. Only, I didn't write a birthday short. I wrote this instead.

Oh, the quotes from Florence and the Machine - They don;t count towards my word count. I just thought they were cool lyrics! ENJOY!

*

My boy builds coffins for better or worse
Some say it’s a blessing, some say it’s a curse
He fits them together in sunshine or rain
Each one is unique, no two are the same

My boy builds coffins and I think it's a shame
That when each ones been made, he can't see it again
He crafts every one with love and with care
Then it's thrown in the ground, it just isn't fair
“My Boy Builds Coffins” by Florence and the Machine. (Taken from the album “Lungs”)

No more dreaming of the dead as if death itself was undone
“Blinding” by Florence and the Machine (Taken from the album “Lungs”)

I awoke into a world of total darkness.
I blinked, and the blackness I saw with my eyes shut was the same as when I opened my eyes.
I took a silent breath as I lifted my head, and was surprised when my head made contact with something. Something solid. Something that made a wooden echo.
I lowered my head onto the pillow and, gingerly, raised my left hand and touched the cold surface. I felt a strange knot in the surface and realised that the surface was made of polished wood.
I moved my hand to above my head. Polished wood.
I moved my hand to my left. Polished wood.
I moved my hand to my right. Polished wood.
I didn’t wriggle down and made my feet check if there was wood. I knew there would be.
I knew. I just knew.
I was in a coffin. A simple coffin, but a coffin nevertheless.
Then everything came rushing back, almost knocking the breath out of me. I remembered the car accident. I remembered the hospital. I remembered the smell. I remembered the beeping machines. I remembered asking for a simple funeral if I did die. I remembered –
Was I dead?
My hands flew to my throat as I checked for a pulse. Yes. Yes, it was there. Thump. Thump. Thump.
I breathed a sigh. Then hesitated.
Was… was it my imagination, or did the wood feel warm? Unnaturally warm?
I froze as a small wave of horror ran through my veins. I was being cremated. Being burned alive.
I relaxed.
Shouldn’t I be panicking? Shouldn’t I be screamed?
But I wasn’t. I laid there, quite calm. I almost smiled to myself.
I yawned, closed my eyes and fell into a final sleep.

Untitled - A Short Story (Written When I Was In A Foul Mood!)

how do i come out?

even though most people know, they’re all waiting. all expecting me to just tell people. tell my family that I’m…

…sigh…

it’s just not easy. why does everyone think that it’s easy to do it? i mean, even i’m not a 100 per cent sure if i am or if this is a phase or if i’m bi or whatever? surely, it shouldn’t matter.

and yet, it does. so much so that people make a HUGE deal over it and then you feel guilty because you haven’t made a HUGE deal over it yourself and then you have to tell people which turns, again, into a HUGE deal.

basically, it’s all your fault. it’s your fault that you were born this way. your fault that it took you this long to realise it and then come to terms with it. your fault that when you have told people, you’ve been the one stressing out on it. and then when you do tell, it’s your fault for being true to yourself. basically, you’re the bad guy.

well, that’s how i feel at the moment. the bad guy. and, oh, how wonderful i feel. seriously, i feel like i’m walking on air with joy!

the horrible feeling i have in the pit of my stomach? nah, that’s happiness. the fact i slept so badly last night? excitement. and the fact I was considering making myself be sick, cutting myself or starting to smoke, just to hide the fact that there’s something wrong? overwhelming pleasure. i live for this kind of shit.

surely, i’m the one i should be pleasing. i’m the one who knows when it’s the right time to tell people. surely, I’m the one to know all this. i mean, this is me and surely i’m the best person to know…

so why do people think otherwise?

so why do i feel like the bad guy? like i’m the one in the wrong?

and why do i believe them when they say that?