WEP October challenge - my #flashfiction - The Strange House in the Woods.

Well, I'm back! Thanks to those of you who followed my trip on Facebook, but I mostly posted on Instagram. Was a wonderful five weeks, so now I'm struggling with jet lag which is particularly cruel this time. I'm getting about two hours of sleep a night, then teaching through the day which is a real hoot.

It's time for WEP again. Every October we host a Halloween challenge and we're ready to go. If you have a Halloween story in your files, you may like to post to the thread. Just click 'Submit' in my right-hand sidebar or go to the Write...Edit...Publish site. Love to have you.

Here goes...through the eyes of a child...

Inspired by a true story I read about what happened to those assisting foreign powers in war-torn countries.

The Strange House in the Woods

Yasmina hated being in these strange woods without her Dada.

By the time she and Mama reached the house, darkness was catching them. The house was big and black and trees stood all around, trying to hide the house from them.

Looking up at the sky, Yasmina saw a heap of tired old clouds with raggedy edges ripping apart, falling onto their heads like grey angels. The snow exploded while she danced around, arms in the air, catching snowflakes. Soon her gloves were soaked, so she ran across the frozen grass to the door. If they didn’t get inside it’d be dark. She hated the dark.

Mama was trying to stab a big key into an old lock, but she couldn’t budge the door. She was taking a long time, so Yasmina slapped her ears with her wet mittens and watched the snowflakes scattering.

‘Stop it!’ Mama yelled.

Even though she was freezing in the big coat the kind Red Cross lady had given her when she got off the aeroplane, Yasmina tried to stand still so Mama wouldn’t be angry.

‘Help me,’ Mama said.

They pushed and pushed against the door, grunting and groaning. Creak! Suddenly they both fell inside on top of each other. Yasmina laughed, but Mama said a bad word.

Mama hurried back outside and grabbed their suitcases. Dropping them onto the carpet, she said another bad word.

Snow had followed them into the house, blown in by the wind which howled like angry ghosts, swirling, tossing snow into their faces.

Bang! Mama kicked the big old door shut, then hopped around the room holding her foot and yelling lots of bad words. Finally, she stopped hopping.

Yasmina ran to the window and looked up the road where they’d walked from the car into the woods. Was Dada coming soon?

***

When she and Mama had walked the long and lonely road to the house, the trees scared her. They lined up along the road in black rows like the soldiers when they came to their village and took the fathers and boys away. She’d jumped with fright when clumps of snow dropped off the branches and fell to the ground, exploding like bombs. Mama had pulled her from her hiding place underneath some prickly bushes and she’d hit Mama, screaming, ‘I want my Dada!’

Mama wiped her tears and whispered, ‘I want Dada too.’

‘Why did Dada go?’

‘The bad men took him.’

‘Will Dada come back, Mama?’

‘He will never leave us, my child.’

***

‘Akham!’ Mama cried, slumping in the big stuffy chair near the fireplace.

Yasmina ran from the window and patted Mama’s twitchy hand. ‘Don’t cry Mama. Dada’ll never leave us.’ Finding an old blanket on the sofa, she covered Mama’s shaking shoulders.

Patting the flashlight in her pocket, she decided to explore the house by herself coz when Mama got the sadness for Dada it was best to leave her.

The room where Mama sat was big, bigger than their whole house back home, but not as pretty. The house where they'd lived before Dada went away with the bad men had coloured rugs on the walls and soft mats on the floors where they ate. Here, everything was brown, the colour of the bad men’s uniforms.

Pushing open a door, she entered a creepy room, with windows looking into the dark woods. There was a great big table in the middle of the floor with two lonely brown chairs. Opening the refrigerator, she saw food—not much—but Yasmina was hungry. Better not eat or Mama would be even angrier with her, so she took an apple from a bowl. Yasmina couldn’t remember when she last ate. Was it breakfast at the strange place where soldiers marched in rows outside? Or was that lunch? She couldn’t tell. The food had been strange.

Mama had whispered: ‘This is a hamburger. It is what Americans eat. We will get used to it.’ Yasmina’s stomach rumbled and hurt when she pressed it. Now she wished she had tried the brown meat bun.

She walked up the stairs, crunching the red apple which made a loud crack. She could walk to heaven. Maybe that’s where Dada was. The stairs groaned and cried louder than Mama. Spiders were knitting in the corners, trailing their threads down into the hall, their beady black eyes watching her.

She pushed open a door at the top of the stairs. Inside, there was a big cobwebby window in the roof and snow whirled around the black treetops and—she dropped the apple—there was a shadow in the corner. 

She screamed, but Mama couldn’t hear with the wind howling and her howling.

But maybe…maybe…

‘Dada?’ She ran towards the shadow, but the ripped carpet tripped her.

‘Dada!’ Her flashlight clunked onto the floor. She grabbed it and switched it on, but when she shone the light around the room, Dada had gone…again.

In the middle of the room there was a big high bed with a fat lumpy quilt. She was so tired after the long walk, she jumped under the covers.

The mattress was so soft, it felt like she was sinking to the bottom of the earth on a puffy cloud.

‘Goodnight Dada,’ she whispered. ‘Come back. Mama needs you. I need you.’

The snow whispered and rustled through the roof window. She pulled the quilt higher over her head so she couldn’t see the branches shaking angry fists at her.

She was nearly asleep when she heard a voice – ‘Alima...Alima…Alima…’

Dada! 

Who else would know Mama’s name?

Dada had come. Like Mama said.

Then she felt it.

A hand crept into her hand.

She wasn’t frightened.

Dada.

His hand felt cold. His fingers shook and curled into her palm, tickling, like when they played games at their home in the mountains.

She smiled in the dark, feeling safe. She’d been feeling scared for such a long time.

Dada's home.

Thanks for reading. Please click on the list in my sidebar with DL (Direct Link) after the name. Feel free to join the challenge!

Write...Edit...Publish February challenge -- Back of the Drawer. My #flashfiction, The Avalanche

Howdy!

January has scuttled off into history and here we are, February 2017! Un-be-liev-able! February is kick-off month for WEP (Write...Edit...Publish) where a friendly group of like-minded bloggers astound each other and random readers every second month with wit, wisdom, talent, sincerity and dexterity, depending on choice of subject.

February WEP is entitled 'Back of the Drawer'. Wide open to interpretation and genre. Everyone's welcome to have a crack at it. It's too easy. 

We accept flash fiction, non-fiction, poetry, photo essays, artwork...1,000 word limit (but who's counting?)

We offer an Amazon gift card of $10 to the winner (sorry, folks, that's all we can afford on writer's incomes) and fabulous badges to the winner, runner up and an encouragement award. These visual delights created by Olga Godim, badge-maker and cover-maker extraordinaire, can be posted on your blog to show everybody your brilliance!

As per usual, I've gone the flash fiction route. Sit back and giggle along. I guarantee you'll be reaching for the duster if you make it to the end...

All characters and events in this story are fictitious, and any resemblance to a real person is deliberate. 

The Avalanche

I’m one of those people who can’t throw anything away. You’ve seen me on telly. I'm called a "hoarder". They say I'm suffering from anxiety, depression, obsessive-compulsive disorder.

Whatever.

They don't understand that having my things around me makes me feel safe, secure, euphoric. Woooooo! But. God. I’m shaking when I remember this, but recently my husband gave away a box. Our daughter was moving out and needed some things.

I was furious.

Ranted.

Raved.

No. One. Takes. My. Stuff. Pfft!

When I came home from work, I noticed straightaway that a box was missing. How, you might ask? Well, every day I check my stuff when I leave and when I return. The coffee cups he gave away were in that bright orange box of six I bought in the sixties. The illustration on the side showed the cups were orange stonewear with lime green stripes. I’ve never opened the box, but one day I might need them.

My husband told my daughter to bring my coffee cups home.

And she did.

Ungraciously.

She’d opened them! I ran for my packing tape as soon as she was out the door.

***

Today I worked overtime at the warehouse when the fork lift driver who relieves me didn’t turn up. 

By the time I get home, I'm in a high state. My stuff’s been untended for ten hours. There’s construction in our street. My boxes will be covered in dust…again.

I drink one restorative glass of bubbly after another, loving the pretty French wine glass from a new set I just opened. My old glasses finally carked it. Well, I do like my after-work swig. But the euphoria of opening that box that was three layers down for, what, twenty years! I recall the trip to the Champagne region where I bought boxes and boxes of the glasses over my husband’s protests.

‘Rachael, Rachael, think of the excess baggage charges!’ Pfft!

He doesn't understand. I have to collect things or I’d go crazy.

Drinkies done, I wobble to the spare room vacated by my daughter and hunt for the stepladder. It’s not easy, cuz I’ve been on a spree. I have this eight by twelve space to fill. There was a linen sale in town yesterday and I went crazy seeing all those gorgeous Moroccan-styled bedspreads. 

I go to the corner where I’ve stored them and pat the boxes. My husband better not think he's giving them to our daughter. I know she doesn’t have much, but she’s not getting my stuff. Why did she have to move out anyway? 

Kids these days.

I slip my hand under my daughter’s old creaky bed and pull out the little box of drawers I hide there. These treasures got me started. My husband would rant if he found it. And my daughter hasn’t done a day’s housework in her life so no chance of her finding them. She says she can’t work in a junk house. Junk house! Youth is wasted on the young! Pfft!

I plonk down on the threadbare carpet and open my box of odds and ends right at the back of the tiniest drawer. I’m not sharing this stuff with anybody. It's mine, mine, mine.

I pull out the napkin, now falling apart, but I can still read the poem my first lover wrote me when we were celebrating Valentine’s Day at Billy Bob’s. The words don’t quite rhyme, but they still make me cry when I read them.

"Will you be my Valentine?

The answer my friend

Is blowing in the wind."

(((sniff, sniff))) I still miss Willie. He blew off in the wind shortly afterwards.

Then I find the "Dear Rachael" note from my next lover who said he’s leaving me cuz I’m not right in the head. That really hurt. Then there’s the rusty old hotel key from that dirty weekend with Krispin. I don’t know why I want to be reminded of that disaster, but that's what happens when you can’t throw anything away.

Without my stuff, I wouldn’t know who I am.

I close the lid and slide it back into the bottom drawer. My daughter’s only been gone a month and already my stuff is growing up the walls, on top of her dresser, even in her bathroom. Soon, I’ll love this room as much as I love my living room, my kitchen and my garage. Surrounded by my stuff, I’m so happy. I’m never happy in the bedroom, though, because my mean husband won’t let my stuff grow in there.

‘We’ve gotta have one room in the house where I can breathe,’ he’s always said. Just yesterday when he left for work, he waggled his finger. ‘If you ever put stuff in there, I’m outta this tip.’

It’s getting late. He should be home. Maybe he’s found the stuff I hoarded in the back of our wardrobe. I tossed out some of his old shoes and suits to make room.

Why isn’t he home?

I need to move some of my stuff off the stove so I can throw dinner together. He rolls his eyes if I haven’t got dinner on the table when he walks in.

Where could he be?

I go to the kitchen, but I’ve forgotten to dust my stuff. Back in the spare room, I pat my new boxes, then drag the stepladder into the kitchen which gets the worst of the construction dust. I move to the living room, but it’s so full of my lovely stuff I can’t quite reach the top of the pile. I stand on a tall box of wooden toys I’ve bought in case my daughter ever has children. 

Damn. 

It’s flimsy. 

Everything comes from China these days. It wobbles under me. I lurch to the side, but there’s nothing to grab except boxes. I end up horizontal under a ton of stuff with boxes raining down on me.

Plop! Thud! Flop! 

How will I ever pack them right again? Ouch. That hurt. My poor head. Probably the box of tools I’ve been hoarding for my husband in case he turns handy. Then more boxes, and more... Another bang on my head. Oh, sweet boxes, don’t do this to me.

I’m completely squashed. I’m buried in an avalanche like those poor people in Italy last week. I hurt. All over. I can’t...breathe. I’ll have to conserve oxygen until my husband comes home.

I’m drifting into unconsciousness, then a terrifying thought hits me.

‘What if he found my stuff in the bedroom?’ 

Pfft.

WORDS: 1091 - sorry, but it was so fun you didn't notice, right?

FCA

With thanks to songwriters: Chely Wright / Liz Rose, for your inspiration. And a young friend who told me the coffee cup story (her mother is a hoarder).

CLICK on the list in my sidebar to read more entries...

Thank you for reading!

I'm over at Write With Fey being interviewed by Chrys Fey on scintillating subjects like Paris, WEP, blogging and more...

Thanks for coming by!

For the next few days I'll be over at Chrys Fey's being interviewed on topics of her choice. Luckily she was interested in my Paris obsession and my love of WEP. 

Please note Yolanda Renee's and my next WEP challenge...GARDENS. Surely all of you in the Northern Hemisphere are so excited to have winter behind you and the gardens blooming. Been seeing some of your great flower shots on Instagram just as we go into winter Down Under (but nothing like YOUR winter! Bliss!) 

Here's our blurb at Write...Edit...Publish for the GARDENS challenge:

This challenge will be a great opportunity for the photographers, but also for writers attempting to describe the most beautiful gardens ever seen. For example, nonfiction on 'The Best Gardens in the World', or historical--'The Hanging Gardens of Babylon', travel- 'The Lingering Garden at Suzhou' or something similar for travelers. Also, as always our fictional pieces with a romantic/unromantic garden scene, or photographs of mind-blowing gardens to motivate people...

Sign up...August 1st for posting between August 17 - 19. 

So..,if you can afford the time, please click HERE and pop on over to Write With Fey. Both Chrys and I would love to see you!

My sister is about to hit Paris for the first time! Pity about the garbage littering the streets...remember seeing and smelling that in Naples (Napoli) in Italy's south where it is a way of life thanks to Mafia control. But the French always fight back when the government tries to change the status quo...rightly or wrongly.

The Seven Deadly Sins of Writing ... over at Yolanda Renee's blog.

Hello all!

Well, I'm a bit under the weather in more ways than one. I've just been visiting in Northern Queensland and boyohboy is it hot already, then there were huge thunderstorms in Brisbane last night, so my flight home from Townsville was delayed. Got home at 4am!! So, lack of sleep and a good dose of heat exhaustion, and here I am...to tell you I'm over at my mate Yolanda Renee's today, talking about the Seven Deadly Sins of Writing Paranormal Romance.

Please click the link to Yolanda's blog and check out what I've dredged up over the past year or so as I wrote my paranormal, Under the Tuscan Moon.

Once I get a few chores done, I'll be over. Then at 6 in the morning I fly to Melbourne for a few days R&R...and cooler climes I hope (usually is!).

See you for the IWSG!

Then tomorrow, the InLinkz list goes up at Write...Edit...Publish (WEP) for the science-fiction challenge...Holiday Celebrations that are out of this world (literally). Soon I will add the link to my sidebar.

Currently, we have the awesome Alex J Cavanaugh guest posting at WEP, giving us a few pointers for writing science fiction. Please hop on over there if you'd like a little sciency help. You might join us for our December challenge. Postings begin on Dec 16th and continue to the 19th.

Thanks for coming by...

How to boost our creativity by asking questions.

Hello there!

Just came across an article in Writers Digest by Tom Sturges where he tells how asking questions to which we don't know the answers is a great creativity boost. He calls them Excellent Questions--questions you have no idea about. The opposite of Trivial Pursuit. 

Excellent Questions are a way to pursue new knowledge in an interesting way. It can be played in groups or individually. I couldn't help relating it to the questions we as writers ask ourselves...sort of like the 'what if?' questions that can get a story idea humming along. 

Questions are a vital element of creativity. Instead of being annoyed at the child who keeps asking questions, we need to applaud this child's creativity. It's the way to develop this crucial area. 

Where would writers be without creativity? 

So, what Excellent Questions can you come up with? What would you like to know?

Hmm. I'm a dunce when it comes to most things scientific. I could ponder questions about the planets...which is the biggest? How do they differ? Which is closest to the sun? To earth? 

Now people. Much more difficult. Hmm. How many different ways are there to be unique? Why do we like certain foods and hate others? Why do some people want to live alone, shun society, while others live for a sense of community? Why do some of us like to travel and others feel satisfied travelling through their television set? Why are some people born beautiful and others consider themselves as drawing the short straw in the looks department.

Aha. Now I've reached my point. I've been pondering some questions about people as I've been brainstorming ideas for a creepy story for the WEP Halloween Challenge. Which brought me to thoughts of Beauty and the Beast. And the rest, as they say, is history. All will be revealed when I post on October 21. Nice and creepy. I posed the odd Excellent Question. But I won't be giving any answers!

So if the idea of Excellent Questions appeals to you, let's get that creativity happening. If it leads to Halloween-inspired creepiness, feel assured you are welcome to share it on WEP next month!


Hmm. Why are some kids afraid of the dark and others are not? Why do some kids see monsters under the bed while others see cuddly toys? Why aren't we all afraid of the same things? 

All Excellent Questions.

Thanks for reading. 

• Do you have some Excellent Questions? 
• Would you think about posting something creepy for WEP's October challenge--flash fiction, poetry, non fiction, photograph/s, artwork? Love it if you would...
• Sign up on October 1st so we can have a gigantic creep-fest. You might even win a prize!

The challenge of an online writing community - sharing WEP's successful Spectacular Setting's challenge.

Hi all!

Another week has begun for some of us! What an exciting week I've just had with monitoring the WEP challenge with Yolanda Renee. It was a mammoth effort, still ongoing. We've yet to choose a short-list of the 3 best entries to hand over to our Guest Judge, Donna Hole, who will put them in the order of Winner, Runner Up and Encouragement Award. This is the hardest part of WEP, especially this challenge as we received nearly 50 entries to read, comment on, promote, and finally judge. The winner will receive a $10 Amazon Gift Card and there will be a surprise gift decided by the numbers we load into random.org.

The entries have been amazing and those that participated have been blown away by the quality.

Halloween is usually our biggest roll up. How many are going to turn up in October with their creepy stories, photos and artwork?

Here is a sample of some of the entries for Part A where you had to share a setting that blew you away, then tell us why:



Angeline Chee from Cutting the Map shared why she loved this night shot of Singapore...

"I revel daily in the history and architectural marvels of England, always feeling regretful that Singapore had chosen to rid ourselves of many a heritage marker in order to build the modern city. At that moment, though, (watching the National Day Parade), the glitz and glamour of our Central Business District (CBD) stopped my heart."

Part B asked that you shared something you created yourself:

Michelle Wallace from Writer in Transit shared a fantastic shot of  Moyos, South Africa's first building on a pier then wrote a flash fiction using that setting:

Moyo means heart.

It’s a place that holds my heart; a place where the heartache began. In another lifetime. When I was another person. No good dwelling on that now. All in good time…

Today is a new day…

A new day means endless possibilites. Just like the sand grains stretched on either side of the walkway which extends to form the pier, jutting 150 metres into the Indian ocean.

The surrounding location is popular. Competitive vendors offer over-priced beverages, stale breadrolls and quick-congealing condiments. Accidents and near-misses occur between slow-moving pedestrians and high-speed rollerbladers. A bicyclist wobbles through throngs of walkers and joggers, his cell phone glued to his ear.

Sand sculptures dot the area, transporting it into a living gallery of artwork that is unique.

“Look at the sand sculptures! Can you believe it?” Familiar words uttered by a steady stream of visitors.
Faceless people, nameless people… aboard the conveyor belt of tourist living.
A new day.
The same routine.
A replica of countless moments.

Father smacks his crazy brat whose tantrum competes with the life-guard’s whistle. The high-pitched squawk of a lone seagull completes the trio of cacophony.

“Look, the rickshaw man. Let’s stop him. If you behave, maybe we’ll go on the ride.”

Bribery is a good diversion. It works with kids. Well, most times.

“But dad, I thought we didn’t have enough money? Plus you promised we could take a photo with the sand dragon. How are we gonna go on the ride and take a photo if——–“
A hot glare is the answer. It rivals the blazing midday sun, silences any further comments from the older sibling.

I feel a headache coming on. Hold tight. Why do I subject myself to this? Breathe. Slowly. In and out. Remember the goal. This is temporary… so close to finding out…

“Where’s mom? She’s taking forever…”

Breathe. In and out. Another day in paradise. The conveyor belt is in motion. Predictable, as usual.

“Dad, does he build these all by himself?”

… kid, you’re watching me with an odd expression. I don’t bite, you know. I’m not mute or deaf either, just in case you’re wondering…

“Wow. How does he get the alligator’s skin to look so real? The other sand guy built a rhino. I also saw the big five. The animals. Really cool stuff. We’re talking about poaching at school, dad. ”

You can show your admiration for attention to detail by donating something. A ten or twenty to have your picture taken next to the sculpture? Surely you can spare that?

“You got some cash on you dad? Whoa———– a wad of notes! Does mum know? You said money went missing from your bag…”

A five? You can’t be serious. What’s that in your currency? You ARE a foreigner, aren’t you? You can be more generous. 
That’s it kid. Take the ten.

“Not a word to anyone, you hear?”

Ah, I see your wife. She’s waving. The one in the leopard print bikini? Oh, THAT’S your wife. Quick, pass the money. She doesn’t have to know. Can’t disappoint the boy now, can we?

“Dad what’s poaching?”

“Ask your mom. She’s the expert. It’s what she resorted to the first time we met…”

Cherry lips purse followed by a disapproving stare as she cradles a puppy who wiggles in an attempt to get loose.

“Mom, what took you so long?” Brat tugs at her hand while she inspects her facial artwork in a compact mirror.

You’re back madam. Mmm, I see your face has been painted. You went for the intricate floral design? Surprising choice. Lots of designs, patterns, shapes. Reminds me of life. It moves in unruly patterns… in circles… it’s never linear. The miniature paw prints… now that seems more your style. You strike me as an animal lover. No disrespect.

“Dad who taught them how to make these? How long does it take to complete one?”

A slew of ingredients such as sand, sea, time, patience, lots of love… that’s all you need to know. The process? Nothing special. You’d be bored stiff.

“Do you know the artists pay a monthly fee to the local council? But they don’t make much money from these works of art. What a pity we’re a bit cash-strapped.” A sigh flutters away. She gazes at the sand sculpture.

The older boy smiles at his father, who’s attention is divided between the brat and the puppy. A tug-o-war stalemate.

“Look. The Rickshaw ride. There it goes again. You said that we can go on the ride after—–“ but his brother scoops him up, swings him around and they tumble onto the sand.

No, the sand sculpting story is not very exciting. But I could tell you another story. One that haunts my sleep. 
A story of skeleton beams and life before sand sculptures. 
Now that would keep you riveted. 
But look, the tide is turning.

“What happens to the sculptures when the tide comes in? Oh no, don’t tell me they’re washed away! What about night time? Do they just leave it?”

I sleep next to my creation, ma’am. No warm, cosy bed for this artist. Well not yet. But soon.

“Let’s walk to the end of the pier, honey.”

Run along. Cocktails at the pier bar is an experience you don’t want to miss.

“Boys, come, let’s go!”

Ah, new customers… step this way, sir. Would madam like a photo next to the sand sculpture?

A fantastic entry, as were so many others.

Thank you Angeline and Michelle for giving me permission to share parts of your entries.

• Will you join us for a creep-fest in October?

Spectacular Settings: WEP challenge - Part A - Pat Conroy. Part B - My flash fiction, The Child. #wepff

Hello all!

Write...Edit...Publish (WEP) restarts today under a new format. Yolanda Renee and I have teamed up to present this challenge which will generally run every second month. This first challenge is in two parts. Participants can complete one or both parts.

Part A is where you share a found setting that you love: in a novel, poem, photo, artwork...Then you explain why you love it.

Part B is optional, where you share your own setting piece, either written expressly for the challenge or one previously written or compiled--whether flash fiction, non fiction, a photo montage or essay, an artwork you created, a playscript you wrote...the choice is open!

If you like the idea, please sign up in my sidebar and post to the guidelines above, or check out this post at WEP for full guidelines. You have until August 26th to post.

My entry:

Part A - An excerpt from the Prologue of Beach Music by Pat Conroy, my favourite novel.

If I’d just opened a random page, I could have found some amazing setting to share with you. Chapter 1 begins with such a sensuous description of the Piazza Farnese in Rome you have to blink to make sure you’re not actually there, so strong is the smell of freshly-brewed coffee and so vivid the descriptions of the morning activity in the Piazza. And I’m sure South Carolina never had prettier words written to describe it. But the descriptions that never leave me are found in the Prologue. I have taken excerpts from pp. 19-23, where the teenage Jack is sky larking with a group of his graduate high-school classmates who have gathered in a condemned house on St Michael’s Island, South Carolina, on the night it was predicted the house would break up and fall into the sea. This section is reminiscent of the whole novel, where Conroy, a master of setting as character, parallels the coming together of himself and his great love, Shyla, against the backdrop of the raging Atlantic Ocean. 

This of course, foreshadows one of many tragedies which is to come...

"THE sea rose invisibly beneath us and the moon shone smooth and bright. A glossy flute of light, like velvet down a bridal aisle, lit the marlin scales and the backs of whales migrating a hundred miles at sea. The tides surged through the marsh and each wave that hit the beach came light-struck and broad-shouldered, with all the raw power the moon could bestow. Magically, an hour passed and we, ocean dancers and tide challengers, found ourselves listening to the sea directly beneath us as the waves began to crash in earnest against the house...

I looked around to see Shyla Fox in the moonlight. She looked as though she had dressed for this moment with the help of the moon…

We danced toward the central motion of our lives. The winds roared and a strange love rose like a tide between us and rested in the crown of waves that was loosening the frame of the house. Alone we danced beneath the full moon…

I heard the house shudder and push off as it took its first primal step towards the sea. The house tilted, then fell forward as though it were prostrating itself before the power of this tidal surge.

We went out to the newly imbalanced balcony, holding hands. The moon lit the sea in a freeway of papery light and we watched the boiling white caps feeding on the broken cement scattered beneath the house. We continued to dance while the house kept its appointment with the long tide and I blazed with the love of this young girl. 

Our love began and ended with seawater."

270 words

Part B

This is a reworked flash fiction which I wrote for #FridayFlash, my first online foray into flash fiction. It seems fitting to use one of my war stories seeing it's the 70th year anniversary of WW2. 

I write in Australian English which uses the 'u' and 's' and double 'l' and 're' not 'er', where you might use no 'u' and 'z' instead of 's' and a single 'l'. Just so you don't correct my spelling, lol! As I've waxed eloquent on Conroy, I've edited my story down, well under 1,000 words.

The Child

The desert was pitch-black, the only sound the Muslim call to prayer that rang out across the Baluchi Valley, punctuating the silence with staccato bursts.  

We marched single file into mayhem.

I slipped and slid behind the soldier in front of me, his form a shadow in the darkness. I’d had no sleep the night before, so terrified was I at the spectre of the mountains and deserts of Afghanistan, the caves seething with displaced insurgents. I struggled through oceans of sand, so thick around my ankles it dragged at my regulation boots. My knees screamed, my thighs burned, my lungs caught fire as I fought the grainy enemy.

I was in hell, a place where nothing was as it appeared.

Who was friend?

Who was foe?

I was on covert foot patrol with Australian and Afghan soldiers.  We were outside the wire, tramping through deserts, skirting a meandering river, scaling rocky hills under the pressing weight of body armour and supplies. I hadn’t yet acclimatised to the blistering temperatures or the altitude.

No one stopped when I tripped and fell. On patrol, to stop would jeopardise the mission. I dragged my feet from their burial place in the sand. No princesses here. In uniform everyone is treated the same.

How I prayed for sunrise.

***

The line paused.

The lead soldier signalled with his crooked finger, pointing to our surroundings, then held a finger to his lips. Word reached me that the desert was revealing Kuchi camps, Bedouins’ homes.

We crept silently as mountain cats into the night.

“Police checkpoint ahead”, someone whispered. In briefing I’d been told that these checkpoints were best avoided.

No one even breathed as we crouched and duck-walked along the ground, swinging our weapons side to side, holding tight.

An almighty screech, then a huge spotlight shone down on us, bathing us in blinding light.

­­

Someone screamed ‘Darawem!’ ('Stop!')and we froze like sphinxes in the desert, clutching weapons to our chests. 

Two policemen yelled at us in a language I didn’t understand, while their fingers stabbed the air.

We stood.

Statue still.

I struggled to control my bladder, knowing I could be shot right where I stood.

Someone down the line yelled ‘Australians!’ The police muttered to each other, nodded their heads, then motioned us on.

Further into the desert.

‘They were skittish because just yesterday they confronted insurgents in Kakarak across the river. Shots were exchanged,’ whispered the soldier behind me.

‘Thanks,’ I whispered back. My eyes were seeing insurgents behind the rocks, across the snaking river, in the shadowy menace of the mountains.

***

Sunrise.

A glorious orange orb broke over the mountains into the valley, skittering across the water till it reached the shock of green land at our feet.

In the near distance a small boy, not four years old, shepherded his family’s goats through the spiky fields. He could be my son, but my son slept in cosy comfort, surrounded by stuffed toys and his father’s love. More children hid shyly in doorways as we filed past their simple rammed-earth homes. 

Children. 

Everywhere.

Watching. 

First regulation stop. An exchange with tribal elders. They constantly looked to see who was watching them. They risked death for talking to Australian soldiers.

We moved on. Further into the desert. Away from the river.

Over broken bricked walls and through crumbling aqueducts we waded towards the hostile village of Sorkh Morghab where coalition forces had built a school, market and medical centre. 

We wandered through the market area, apparently casually, weapons held across our chests. Men and young boys showed us their wares and tried to sell me a burqa. I was just a woman, one who needed to cover herself.

One little boy approached me, hand outstretched. He was about six years old. Tears sprung to my eyes at his rough brown tunic draping his wasted body. I thought of my son, but this little boy’s eyes reflected a man, an angry man. I shivered with an unnamed emotion. 

A soldier pulled me roughly, backwards against his chest. 

'Don't,' he said.

'Let me,' I said, pushing him away. 

I reached into my pocket. 

I pulled out two soggy chocolate bars for the poor little boy. He was only a child.

The child smiled a gap-toothed smile but it didn’t reach his old man eyes.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a large apple. We smiled at each other in a very easy but powerful gesture.

I stepped closer so we could exchange our bounty. It was then I saw the apple had blackened with age. Oh. It looked like a--no--it couldn’t be--

‘Nooooooooooo…’ someone yelled, a voice full of pain and regret.

I felt the fire on my lips. 

I tasted the fire as it burned in my throat.

I crumpled as the fire hit my belly.

I heard voices and staccato bursts of gunfire.

I heard the wailing call to prayer begin.

I heard the cry of a child.

THE END

 ©DeniseCovey2015

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