Flash Fiction, Stories

Storm at Seascale

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Dedicated to the lonely pony from Seascale

The wind howled. Mrs Bootle brewed her chamomile tea. She stared through her dusty kitchen window at Alfred, the house pony. He looked bored, or perhaps lonely. His mane was soaked, but he just stood there, blinking in a chewed up garden. Rain chipped at the glass, like sharp pebbles in a pool.

Mrs Bootle poured the tea in a flowery cup. The scented vapours steamed her round glasses. Alfred neighed in a low tone. The tide had come in. The pony turned his head to look at it flood the garden with a thirsty gurgle. He snorted, then climbed onto a boulder, unfazed. He turned his head towards the window to watch Mrs Bootle slurp her tea with visible noises.

A wave crashed over the small stone wall at the brim of the garden. The sea burst through the wooden gate. Alfred was knee deep in water. He watched a jellyfish swim past, as the wave retracted. Still he stood there in the rain, like a loyal rock. Mrs Bootle opened a newspaper. It had the picture of a seagull with a sea captain’s hat, eating an ice cream. A second wave curled over the wall, foaming at its tip.

Alfred frowned as water picked him up. He floated to the windowsill, his legs still stretched, as if standing. Fish swam around him, but he did not move a muscle. He kept staring at Mrs Bootle with a feeble twinkle in his eyes. Suddenly half of the stone cottage drifted off the sandy cliff like melting ice cream on a brownie. Salty rain drizzled the woman’s newspaper. Her flip flops soaked the intruding sea that was racing in through the opening.

Mrs Bootle reached to place her cup on its saucer, but found it had moved. She blinked audibly, waist deep in water. Furniture was floating around her, while she shuffled to the door. She opened it in time to see Alfred floating past. He neighed courteously as if tipping a hat.

‘Where are you off to Alfie?’ the lady creaked in a composed, upper class voice. She then grabbed her umbrella and sifted through the sea to reach her pony.

‘Come here boy!’ she rang, shaking a bag of wet toffees.

The house collapsed as she stepped off the porch. Alfred now stood on a little muddy hill, staring at the raging sea. Still he did not wince. Mrs Bootle gave a few strokes with one arm, her head erect, toffees in the other hand. She pierced the muddy hill with her flip flops as if escalating a mountain.

‘There you are my little lad!’ she puffed. ‘That is a pretty cloud, isn’t it Alfie?’

Alfred snorted and placed his snout on the bag of toffees. Mrs Bootle took out a lumpy piece and placed it into his mouth. His snout was foamy and grassy, leaving her hand sticky. She patted him with the sticky hand and giggled polite sounds. The swelling sea clambered onto the little hill. Past hooves and past flip flops it went. The sun sank behind the mount of water, as it swept over the sky and over Mrs Bootle and Alfred’s smiling faces.

Andy wailed, his chubby legs splayed onto the wet sands of Seascale. His yellow toy donkey was floating a couple of yards away.

‘Mommy!’ he cried and pointed.
‘Shush, I’ll get it!’ Anna shouted.

Andy looked at her with round, twinkly eyes. He then giggled as he watched his big sister splash through the water in her flip flops. He then resumed splatting the little hill the sea had made of their sand cottage.

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Chasing the Light, Flash Fiction, Stories

A Step in the Dark

This piece was inspired by the following painting.

'In Manus Tuas, Domine' Briton Riviere (1879) Manchester Art Gallery

‘In Manus Tuas, Domine’ by Briton Riviere (1879)

The horse’s hooves trembled on the misty rocks. Their sheen bolted in crackling sounds as the white beast slid on the frost covered earth. 

‘Quiet Edmund!’ the knight on its back whispered.

His armour was untouched, with the emblem of a double headed eagle on his chest. His eyes were weary and talked of nights of restless contemplation. A blunt sword served him as a cross, blessing the dark chasm that opened at his feet. 

Three bloodhounds followed their master with reluctant whimpers. Their tense, muscular bodies urged the man to retreat from his imminent fate. The knight spurred the horse’s sore flanks. His breath stopped in his chest as his left arm lifted his father’s heater shield.  

In a loud cry he entered the dark cavern of twisted trees and thorn bushes. A pair of fiery eyes glimmered in the belly of the chasm. The hounds howled but dared not follow in their master’s steps. The breath of fire pierced the knight’s pale skin, as he looked into the eyes of the Vasan dragon.

The sword was flung with the precision of an arrow into the creature’s scaly heart. Its dark grey head crushed the ash covered trees around it. The rider slid off his horse, under the weight of his burning armour. The horse bolted into the morning light as the knight whispered his forgiveness. 

With his last breath, the knight took off his helmet to behold the beauty that emerged from the ashes. A diaphanous nymph crawled from underneath the dragon’s pitch black claws. She ran to her saviour with eerie footsteps and gave him a kiss as his soul departed his chest. 

‘May our love be renewed when the sun will set over this world,’ she whispered and walked out of the darkness in silence.

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Chasing the Light, Flash Fiction, Stories

Murmur

A writing exercise done during a Bath Writers: Beyond the Margins meeting…

Someone let the cat out in the rain. Or did it leave by itself? Doing what most people at the Broken Institute could not do. The cat stepped reluctantly onto the wet grass. Its white persian fur was covered in hard dents of rain. It shivered, but stepped forward.

Soon the windows of the building were filled with faces. Porcelain faces of people wrung with regret. Their hands flattened against the glass. One red haired lady mouthed the word ‘Murmur’. She was dressed in her lavender nightgown at four in the afternoon. ‘Come back!’ she whispered.

Her eyes were swollen from the tears she had cried in the morning. But Murmur had comforted her then. The cat would come to each room, to be stroked. It would start with her, Lorelei, and then walk to each of her neighbours. From morning till dusk Murmur was the sole comforter. It would hear each sigh, and wipe even the smallest tear away. It would listen to stories of woe, of lost children, of burnt down houses or harsh words, spoken at a wrong time.

At night, Murmur would rest by the fireplace, where it could lay aside the worries of the day. But now someone had let the cat out. Or maybe it left by itself. Maybe it thought people could comfort each other. Or at least step out into the rain.

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Chasing the Light, Flash Fiction, Stories, Thoughts About Life, Traveling

Lost in the Forest of Dean

Silence never felt so deep and yet, I was not alone. I looked up at the haunting sway of trees, their branches both sheltering and menacing me. A gun was shot in the heart of the forest. My heart stopped for a moment. My flee from the Dean’s castle had not gone unnoticed. But I could not marry this shadow of a man. He who had lurked in darkness, watching his own men die on the battlefield.

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I knew a place where I would be safe, The Speech House. The lady of the house would surely host me and send my pursuers away. I stepped over the moss covered branches, pressing them deeper into the mud. My feet were cold and wet, but eager to make haste. The sky was on the brink of sunset and I seemed to have lost my way.

A crow hissed a warning as I got closer to its nest. I took that as an omen to turn away. How long had I been running for? Hours, perhaps, but they weighed on me like days. At last I could see the welcoming lights of the manor house on top of a hill. The statue of a stag watched over me as I squelched my way up the hill. I could hear hushed voices amongst the trees.

My dress got hooked by a thorny branch. I turned to untangle it. My eyes filled with fright at the sight of four men with their hunting dogs on thick leather leads. As I forced myself free I could hear the sound of the leads being set loose. With the last bit of breath I flung myself over the massive oak doors of the Speech House. They were locked! ‘Let me in!’ I cried. The dogs were almost at my feet, their growls drew nearer with every pound on the door. I covered my face in anticipation of a fierce encounter.

*

The doors of the bus open. I have been waiting in the snow covered night for half an hour in front of The Speech House, in the Forest of Dean. ‘Are you going to Coleford and then Gloucester?’ I ask the driver, a young man, not more than twenty two. ‘Yes, there are no other buses coming this way.’ ‘You saved me!’ I say. ‘I would have been stuck here for the night if it wasn’t for you.’ I get in, shivering from head to toe. At least I can get home now. What an adventure it was!

 

 

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