Wednesday, 15 November 2017

Mid-Week Flash Challenge - Week 30

When sourcing this week's photo prompt I came across another wonderful artist/photographer - Todd Wall. You can see a huge selection of his work on his page at 500px website and on his facebook page.

I knew how I wanted to end this piece, but it took me a while to get there. I think it worked. Another one of my dark tales. I do enjoy them.  

The General Guidelines can be found here.

How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here.


He kept seeing her at the edge of his vision: in the peripheral, a flash of colour or movement, something orange: a dress. If he turned he’d see something, but it wasn’t her.

Callum continued to ignore it, on the surface at least, although it increased whenever he was out with Gina, his new girlfriend.

“What is it?” she’d ask him. “Nothing,” he’d say. And he was right there wasn’t anything – not in reality.

The dreams escalated, too, to a point where Gina would shake him awake on the nights she stayed over.

“You’re doing it again.”


“Shouting her name.”

“Sorry, I don’t mean to.”

“But who is she?”

“No one.”

Gina would give him a look. She thought he was lying, but he wasn’t. The woman had been no-one, just a figment of his imagination, a reflection of an old colleague, someone he’d fixated on and wanted something to happen with, but she’d been married. It’d only lingered in his head: imagined meet ups, imagined romance, imagined torrid affair.

He’d been lonely and desperate, but that had changed now. He’d settled in this new town, got to know a few people, date, and then found Gina. And that was the link: Gina. Since they’d been dating these glimpses had escalated. 

It made him think about this old work colleague again. He’d left the company, but had she? If he passed by his old firm would she still be there? The offices were on the ground floor; her desk would be visible through the windows. But when he went there he couldn’t see her. He bumped into another old colleague instead.

“Hey Callum, how are you? I didn’t think you worked round here?”

“I don’t, I was just visiting another company in the area. How’s it going? Still the same?”

“Yeah, the work’s still the same, just the people differ.”

“Oh? Have others left too?”

“Yeah a few. Jena’s disappearance unsettled everyone, especially the female workers. They thought maybe she’d been taken by someone in the area.”

“Taken? What do you mean?”

“Didn’t you hear? Yeah, they think she was kidnapped or something. No one really knows. “She was seen being forced into a car, but they’ve not been able to unearth anything else.”

Callum was stunned. “Wow, that’s bad. And there’s no leads?”


“How long ago was this?”

“Oh quite a while back, a year, almost two. Just after you left, I think.”

Callum’s stomach started to churn. Was he having these ‘sightings’ because she was in trouble and trying to reach out?

That night he had another dream. This time he was in a wood and he could see her body in the ground. He was digging at it frantically, trying to unearth it and when he did, her eyes flew open. He sat up gasping. He knew the woods. They were behind the house where he’d grown up. He had to check it out.

He called in sick the next day and drove out there. He’d put a shovel in the boot, but he wasn’t sure that was a good idea. If he did find a body, it would look strange, too prepared, but on the other hand, what was he going to use, his hands?

He went to the spot he’d seen in his dream. There was a small mound in the ground, under some trees where as a child he used to make a den. It could be something or nothing.

He dug round it. The earth came away easily. He dug further in and saw something orange. It was the dress; her dress. He paused, wondering if he should call the police. But he kept going. He revealed her torso and her hands. In one of them she was holding a ring - his ring: a signet ring his parents had given him. He looked at his hand, expecting to see it, but it wasn’t there. Then he uncovered her neck and found a scarf – his scarf, the one he’d worn at university. It was pulled tight; she’d been strangled with it.

Callum dropped the shovel and backed away. Images tumbled through his mind, images he thought he had made up in his daydreams about being with her. They crowded in, overwhelming him. He fell to his knees. But he was sure it was her husband he’d imagined doing these things to her; how he would’ve reacted if they’d had an affair. He would have committed murder, not Callum.

Wednesday, 8 November 2017

Mid-Week Flash Challenge - Week 29

This week's photo prompt came from someone taking part in a Sunday hashtag twitter photo theme called #SundayPix hosted by Michael Wombat. This one was #SundayPixBlue. I asked the owner Lou Armer‏ if he minded me using it, and he was happy to lend it as a prompt.

This story came easily, and I liked how it developed. I hope you enjoy it too.  What do you see in the picture?

The General Guidelines can be found here.

How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here.


He was the only one that saw them, he knew that. I mean, how else could people just keep walking by them without taking a wide berth? Sometimes he even had to cross the street.

In the winter it was even worse, with all the leaves gone the truth of these strange beings was exposed. And they were beings, he was sure of that. He heard them moving at night, talking to each other in their strange language that was similar to the sound of the wind on a blustery night.

He would stand in the dark at his bedroom window and watch. It would always begin around midnight. He would watch their movements; they would spin round, reaching out to each other as well as other neighbourhood plants and trees, connecting – communicating.  And in those movements their shapes would change and their bodies would appear. They were almost human in shape, as though dancing acrobats.

Peter would shiver and close his curtains in a hurry. Rushing to bed and snuggling down deep. In the morning they would be back to their stationary positions, conning people into believing they were harmless and inanimate.

But he knew differently. He knew the truth. And it had all begun one moonlit night when he was returning home from drinks after work.

Peter hadn’t been alone that night; a co-worker he’d been successfully flirting with was with him. They had both been tipsy and giggling, paying no attention to the trees, even taking a short cut through the little park near his house, something he wouldn’t ever consider doing now.

He’d been engrossed in his companion, not looking at the trees or their movements, and was oblivious when a branch had swept down and grabbed his new love interest.

Richard’s hand had been wrenched out of Peter’s as the branches had taken him up and enveloped him. The only sound he’d made was a short yelp. Peter had stood in shock, unable to speak or do anything. But he had registered the movement in the next tree and managed to leap out of the way before it took him too, running all the way home, and not stopping until his back was against the inside of the front door.

His mind had raced: Should he call the police? What would he say? Would they believe him or just take him for a drunk? Would he be arrested for wasting police time? Maybe it was safer for someone to miss Richard first, then he could step forward.

After a restless night Peter had gone to work the next day wondering how Richard’s absence would go down, but he was shocked to find they all believed Richard was on holiday; apparently his leave had been approved the week before and he would be gone for ten days.

Peter had been unsettled by this. It meant it would be even longer before anyone noticed he was actually missing. But he was powerless to change it - saying ‘he’s been eaten by a tree’ would be laughed at, or even cause them to think he had a mental illness. He’d have to wait it out, and see how things changed when Richard didn’t return.

But stranger still, Richard had returned, breezing into the office on the Monday he was due back. He’d looked fine and behaved normally, and Peter hadn’t known what to make of it. He’d tried tentatively to find out, but Richard had no recollection of ever going home with Peter. In fact the laugh and incredulous look he’d given him at the suggestion implied it wasn’t something he would have ever considered. Peter had masked his upset and kept his distance for the rest of the day.

And that night he’d gone home feeling dejected, and even walked through the park, stopping in front of the tree that had taken Richard, daring, even willing it to take him too. But it hadn’t. It hadn’t even moved. Although he was sure he’d seen a shiver pass through the leaves, like a laugh as though it was mocking him. He couldn’t be sure.

But he was sure that the thing in the office calling itself Richard was an imposter. He’d seen it, a strange movement in the eyes and occasional stilted walk. It wasn’t right. And it was only a matter of time until they were all taken. 

Wednesday, 1 November 2017

Mid-Week Flash Challenge - Week 28

This week's photo prompt is another one from Sarolta Ban who is a Hungarian photographer and artist. I love her surreal work.

This story developed as it went along. I did rather enjoy it. Hope you do too.

The General Guidelines can be found here.

How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here.

Cutting Action

Roger found the first one on his desk when he returned from his hourly walk round the house.

Writing wasn’t just a solitary business it was a motionless one too. The walk round helped him clear his head, especially when he was busy editing. It was so hard to decide what to cut out and what to keep. He was so undecided on what worked and what didn’t. The walk not only got his legs moving but his mind too.

The tight ball of paper was lying in the middle of the blotter pad when he came back. He wondered if someone had thrown it in from outside, but the large leaded windows were shut.

He picked up the crushed paper and unfurled it. There was one letter written on the lined sheet of notepaper, a large C. It looked handwritten. It looked like he’d written it, but he knew he hadn’t. He frowned and screwed it up, tossing it into his wastepaper basket.

An hour later when he went to the kitchen to make a cup of tea, he found another one by the kettle.

Roger checked the windows, they were all closed. He even tried the backdoor, it was locked. This time the letter was a large U.

He made his cup of tea and took it back with him to his desk, racking his brain as he walked trying to imagine who would have thought it was a fun game to play on him. He half expected to find another ball of paper on his desk, but this time it was a pair of scissors, lying there as though someone had just been using them.

He sighed and put them back in the pot on his desk. How could any of his family members or friends be doing this? They were all at work or school.

“Hello?” he called out the study door, hoping to prompt anyone who might be lurking into a response or movement. But besides startling himself with the loudness of his own voice, there was no other sound. He stood in the doorway for a few seconds, letting the silence permeate. All that reached his ears was the ticking of the clock in the hallway.

When Roger turned back to his desk there was another ball of paper.

The fear that ran up his body rolled all the way along his arms, too. He watched the hairs lift with the goosebumps. He edged his way to the desk and peered at it, a little afraid to touch it. He forced himself to breathe and relax; he was being silly. He snatched it up, opening it to find a big T this time. 
Cut?” he mumbled to himself. What could it mean?
But he didn’t have time to ponder as a strange sound emitted from the kitchen. It was like the cutting sound Magpies made. Were there birds in the kitchen?

He didn’t hesitate to find out and rushed along the hallway, coming to a sharp halt at the door: There were scissors, lots of pairs spread out across the counter. What?!

He watched them, waiting for them to move or make a sound. Nothing.

Then came a tearing, crunching sound from his study. He rushed back. A collection of scrunched up balls of paper were piled on his desk. What was going on?

The cutting sound came again from the kitchen, then the crunching sound in the study. The balls of paper shuddered and rose.

Roger sank to the floor. He must be going mad. He shut his eyes and covered his ears willing it to stop. He stayed that way for several minutes.

When he uncovered his eyes the pile was still there, but when he took his hands away from his ears there was silence.

He waited. Nothing.

He slowly stood up and went over to the desk. He picked up one of the balls and opened it. Besides the letter there was a number on it. He opened another and found the same. He opened them all and then put them in number order. The message spelled out:


Wednesday, 25 October 2017

Mid-Week Flash Challenge - Week 27

This week's photo prompt was taken by London photographer Andy Bate as part of a Powder Dance series. He's got a wonderful portfolio, go take a peek.

Warning: possible triggers for Self Harm and/or Suicide
I had an opening for this story, but it came out differently. Being someone who has experienced mental health issues I know how sensitive these topics are. I personally have no experience with what I have written, but I have friends that have and have an understanding of it. Maybe this will help others understand too.  

The General Guidelines can be found here.

How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here.


Maddy was bleeding and she was relieved. It was coming out thick and fast and covering her in its glory. She ran her fingers over it and felt its warmth, the first warmth she’d felt in years.

It glimmered and shined in the dim bathroom light, the candles Maddy had set out picking up the nuances of texture as it slid down her skin.

She smiled.

It felt like a part of her had been released, set free from all the pressures of the world around her. It was like she had opened up a hole in her soul and its bright light was shining out, in all its red glory. She adored it.

She felt for the first time in so long, and it felt good to feel: positive rather than negative, happy rather than sad. It emitted from her like a beam, glistening off the walls and shimmering in the mirror when she looked at her face.

Maddy was not old, barely in her twenties, but she felt old and tired to her very core. Normally the mirror reflected that, but not tonight. Tonight the lines on her forehead had cleared and her eyes shone. She felt alive and energized.

She sat down on the edge of the bath, her legs almost jelly like in the excitement of the release, but balancing became tricky, so she slid down the side of the bath onto the floor.

As Maddy’s energy level subsided she felt a wave of tiredness sweep over her. She wrapped bandages round her cuts and secured them before allowing her eyes to fall shut. She would clean up properly after a rest, and before she faced the world again.

Wednesday, 18 October 2017

Mid-Week Flash Challenge - Week 26

I tracked this week's photo prompt down to being taken by Niki Feijen, a male Dutch photographer. The Internet says it is an abandoned chateau in Belgium, but I can't confirm that, or, if it was, which chateau it was taken in. Such a shame.

As soon as I looked at this picture I saw these two characters sitting in the chairs, but what were they saying? And what was their story? So I wrote it to find out. What will you see?

The General Guidelines can be found here.

How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here.

Country Pile

“It had strong foundations, don’t you think, Payton?”

“It did that, Roderick, it did that.”

The two men nodded as they surveyed their surroundings from their armchairs: the majestic arches rising to the ornate ceilings, the large dramatic windows overlooking the acres of once manicured gardens. They sat as kings in their own palace.

“If only we could have saved it from falling into the hands of the Sackville’s we might have had a chance.”

“Yes, they were conniving. Bronte - that’s where it all began.” Just saying her name Payton looked like he’d tasted something nasty.

Roderick sighed. “Yes. She knew how to entrap her victims. Those beguiling eyes. She entranced us. Had she not attended the Opening Ball when father had finished refurbishing the house, we might still be here.”

“Or at least our family line might be.”

“Yes. But she knew how to pit brothers against each other. It was clearly a dance she had been trained to lead.”

“Her father set her up to it; he admitted as much the night of our fight.” Payton gave an abashed glance at his brother.

Roderick’s eyes grew round. “Really? Now that is news to my ears.”

“Well yes, it would be, our fight was fatal for you. I’ve never forgiven myself.”

“Now, now, we were both enraged that night. She played us for fools.”

“Indeed. And mother never recovered from the scandal, and without her father couldn’t manage it all alone. The downfall began – both financially and socially.”

“Yes, but had you managed to sire just one child with her it would have been worth it.”

“Excuse me? How dare you!”

“Brother dear, we are long past recriminations, it’s just a fact.”

“But Roderick, what you miss is that she didn’t want to sire my children. Why do you think I am here?”

“I seem to miss your meaning ...?”

“She was in love with Mortimer all along. I was just a financial conquest for her to gain favour with him. Bronte was clever with chemicals and biology. She pretended grief at my death because she had been the cause.”

“Payton, dear brother, you mean she murdered you?”

“Yes. Mother might not have had strong genes, but father did. I’d never been sick a day in my life until I married her.”

“Did you know?”

“I had an inkling, but she made sure I didn’t have the strength to investigate further.”

“A sorry tale, brother.”

“It is indeed. And the house reflects it.” Payton waved what was left of their family estate.