M. E. Lucas

Writer, Tutor, Mentor | Flash Fiction, Short Stories, Novels, Betwixt and Between.

Fresh Start

Micro-fiction competition by Thread LitMag on Threads July 2024.


Dried salt tightens burnt skin on my face, crusted eyelashes crack as tired eyes open.

A fresh sun burns an unfamiliar coastline into focus.

I am cast from the sea’s watery womb, reborn on an endless beach.

Split apart by a searing cannonball, an iron manacle, heavy on my wrist, anchors me to damp, pale sand as a calm lullaby seawater swish chaperones my ebbing limbs.

Timber plank slivers edge the dry sand, under drooping palms and hanging fruit.

Not a soul.

I am free, but alone.


87 Words.

Edited from an Original Post on:

M.E.Lucas Threads Post

Image by The Author

The Message

A flash poetry writing post composed for June, inspired by the photo prompt; above.


The Message

From my fragile grasp both taken,
Dreams and aspiration,
A frozen life without another,
Choices made and I’m forsaken.

A thin jacket and woolly jumper,
Wrap my body’s senses duller,
I lace-up boots and strut.
Leaving my flat in a deep stupor.

Town streets, chilled and frosty.
Silent, muted, and empty,
Like my heart,
Struggling to beat with energy.

Those I see mind their own,
But trees greet with leaves un-grown,
At the edge of town country park,
I shuffle in, accepting fate and walk alone.

Along grey gravel pathways, I dream,
Betwixt herds of deer snorting steam,
An unknown, predetermined route,
Over fallen trees, a smoky frozen stream.

Tramping feet on iced puddles slip and skate,
Hours without the certainty of fate,
Body chilled, numb fingertips and toes,
Lost, I approach a tall, enchanting gate.

Rattling metal links echo a clunking din,
Secure lock and chains permit no way in.
Holding on, I fall to my knees,
The metal bites into my palm’s skin.

From my phone a text ping ricochet,
“I’d love to,” and emotional disarray,
Pulling myself up, the gate creaks open.
My destiny, this must be The Way.


192 Words.

Edited from an Original Post on:

Scribblers Forum – Flash Poesy 281

Image by The Author

A Leap Backward

Short Story – 3,650 Words


An afternoon walk through the park on the outskirts of the city was Emmy’s daily mindfulness exercise. This parkland was not the usual provincial, town-planned green space. There were no manicured lawns and borders of beautiful flowers in meticulous patterns. Nor broken Victorian fountains full with murky stagnant water, bits of bicycle, and empty alcohol-free beer bottles. This was a vast nature reserve comprising acres of moors and forests, which included a network of streams flowing in and out of freshwater lakes; miles of dusty paths leading in every direction, some with signposts; and roaming wild animals, most not wanting to be seen. This was a proper unkempt wilderness. The place to go for inspiration, untroubled.

Emmy, enjoying the fresh air, traipsed along an arid grass track surrounded by blooming spiky gorse bushes. He soon arrived at the ancient, dark forest; a woodland, which stretched over the hills to the mountains beyond, and entered.

A swirling mix of musty, damp aromas and sweet perfumes invited him in. The change in acoustics was quite deafening; no white noise, only crisp bird chattering and sharp snapping twigs underfoot. Warm rays of sunlight shone through gaps in the tranquil canopy, spotlighting silky threads of spiders and flitting insects. Many crooked, haunting shapes from dead tree branches caught his eye. Then he tripped. With an unbalanced gait, he staggered a few steps then fell, disappearing into a wide patch of green fern plants.

He sat, wiped his face and spat out mini fractal fronds, thankful he’d avoided nearby stinging nettles. After freeing himself from his unwitting hiding place, he glanced back to see what caused his embarrassment. A dusty metallic lump of tech stuck out of the ground. Several electric diodes flashed on the sides. Emmy was a little surprised he hadn’t seen the gizmo before tripping over it.

What was this undeniable man-made object doing stuffed between old tree roots in this unspoilt countryside location? Half-buried by a tech-savvy fox for later exhumation, he mused, or dropped by a super-sized thieving magpie. Or, perhaps, left behind by an employee of Project Blue Book while walking their chihuahua?

“Hey!”

Emmy ducked in surprise. He spun round, looking for the yeller, and heard them again.

“Yes, I’m talking to you. Stay there.”

A hundred feet from him, Emmy thought he noticed a bulk of a man pushing through bowers towards him. A covering of dark camouflage, flashing between light and shade the reason for his doubt. He sensed danger. Anxious, and not wanting to turn his eyes, he backed away from the approaching oddity, leaving the electronic trip hazard behind.

The figure trampled closer, and Emmy could make out the cause of their darkness. A smattering of grey paint or ash, and reddened patches of skin, possibly burns, as if they’d been smoking a huge cigar, which had exploded. No doubt they were in severe pain.

“Come here,” they said, and although high-pitched, the voice confirmed they were an angry male. “You owe me an explanation.”

This random event required clarity. Emmy had heard no explosion, neither had he seen flames, nor smelt burning, and in a dry woodland setting, such news travels like, well, wild … fire. This guy was unfamiliar, and Emmy would recognise someone he owed the tiniest amount to. And he didn’t.

Covered in burns with flesh virtually hanging off, it was clear this man had a high pain threshold as he strode through the thicket of shrubs with ease. He vaulted decaying fallen logs like a professional hurdler using a springboard. Emmy couldn’t turn away, and careened sideways, careful not to stumble over branches or fall into badger setts.

“Stop damn you. We need to discuss what the hell you’re doing.”

It wasn’t obvious how this guy knew him. A simple case of mistaken identity or had Emmy been setup? He contemplated calling for help, but in this covered, sound-deadened wilderness it was pointless. When the runner hammered the bark from a branchless dead tree, it exploded in half. Pieces of rotten wood, worms, and insects feasting on the wooden carcass rained down in his wake. Then Emmy ran.

He struggled through overgrown brambles and branches spread across his path, not able to sprint. Slowed further by a deep forest carpet of decaying timber and years of discarded brown autumn leaves. Nature didn’t grow in the straight lines for getaways, and his route zigzagged around trees and shrubs.

The curious electric object came to mind. Why was a powered-up, working tech gadget lying in this ancient woodland? Then, distracted by his own panting and puffing, and low-hanging boughs, Emmy tripped again. Quicker to scramble to his knees on this occasion. An alien race’s computer terminal poking from dead flora.

“Stay there, you,” the guy’s voice bellowed.

Emmy glanced further down the freshly flattened track he’d made in the undergrowth and saw an angry red face. The man was close, kicking up debris and uprooting saplings in his wake. Yet, it was a flashing light which caught Emmy’s eye on the device, which pulsed from a button-shaped disc.

What harm could it do?

He reached over and pressed.

A flash, a jolt, and Emmy jumped from the thundering bulk chasing him. He squinted against the sun, finding himself in a wide clearing alongside a sturdy fallen tree trunk, a little dizzy. Several squirrels scampered to find the nearest branch for safety, checking over their shoulders.

“Not again. Can you stop doing the time-hopping thing? It’s so unfair.”

The irate man was distant, helpful but confusing, as Emmy had never experienced an instantaneous portal leap before. A perimeter of woods shaped the area full of grasses, wildflowers, and ferns, giving it a manicured appearance. Mature trees were absent, only their stumps remained. Several long-felled trunks littered the spot, rotting, and hollowed out by animals and birds searching for insects.

“Will you stay there? We need words.”

Relentless in his pursuit, the guy roared off-camera in the surrounding woods. 

On hearing the shout, a fallow deer revealed itself from behind a bush within the clearing, chewing fresh greenery. Its ginger-red and white spotted fur shone in the sun. Emmy was aware of his own warmth and itchy sweat from running. The pursuing man cracked and crashed through undergrowth and the animal trotted off, escaping into the darker cover of the tall trees.

Another glint, deep in the green and brown pasture, attracted Emmy’s attention. An identical piece of the fallen spaceship, or whatever these items were. He pushed up from the trunk and leant towards the electrical wizardry. He brushed away long grass and revealed a familiar blinking knob. But before he could reach to press it, a forceful prod jabbed at his back, and a female character cried out.

“Don’t move. Slowly, turn around.”

Involuntarily raising his hands, Emmy twisted to see three young women fronted by one pointing a double-barrelled shotgun at him. They were extremely attractive. Full lips, great locks of flowing dark hair, deep wide eyes, fully formed but ragged tee shirts, slim long legs in tight ripped jeans, and chunky walking boots. Each carried a backpack, several weapons in holsters hanging from their hips at jaunty angles, and a baseball bat caked in a rich crimson deposit. Perfectly dressed for a hike in nature, yet spattered in varying degrees of red paint. No. Blood! He wondered what hunting games they’d been playing in the woods. Another woman stepped forward.

“No more pressing buttons. Seriously, you’ll unleash multiple problems.”

Her face was perfect. Emmy couldn’t avert his gaze. Large watery blue eyes, tiny dimples on her cheeks; one with a slight scar, and the smallest of crookedness in a front tooth. His glare dropped to her Toblerone tunnel at the top of her thighs, through where, to his surprise, he could see a cheeky squirrel watching, hidden in a bush.

“Don’t let him press the button,” a familiar rasping voice said.

Emmy searched for the source and saw him entering the clearing, walking twenty feet to his side, a wisp of smoke smouldering from his clothes. Burnt stumps of blackened skin rose from behind his shoulders.

“We won’t,” the girls chorused.

“Great. I need answers,” he said.

“So do we.”

“Ask away,” Emmy’s voice croaked.

Unaccustomed to staring inside shiny pump-action shotgun barrels, he kept his hands in the air. The strong women gave an amount of protection from the scorched figure striding towards him. Yet, he couldn’t help but think they weren’t strangers.

“Step aside.” The shotgun woman signalled with her weapon. “So we can discuss these episodes further.”

Her cross, flared-nose expression was enough incentive to do as ordered, without the pointed gun. No matter how satisfied he would feel grabbing the shooter from her to defend himself, Emmy stood and stepped further from the women. A hand grabbed his shoulder, spinning him round, then two large, dirty hands throttled his throat and lifted him from the ground. Choking, with his feet dangling in the air, he held on to the man’s seared wrists. The guy’s skin was rough with burnt scabs and half his face similarly scarred. Clothes ripped and blackened, and the growth on his back oddly covered in scorched feathers. The smoky hulk smelt like a barbecue.

“I can’t. Can’t … breathe.”

“I can still hear you gasping.”

“Gunther, put him down,” the girl with the quirky tooth joined in. “We have him now, and he will help us.”

“I’m not letting go, Crystalina, until I get answers.”

And with a dying breath Emmy thought, wow, what a sexy name.

“We want the same, my friend. This man’s life is precious. Only he can explain why we’re here,” said the third girl, walking forward juggling a coil of rope. “I’ll secure his legs so he can’t run from the scene, and then we’ll interrogate him.”

“Fine, Silvereen.”

The bulk lowered Emmy to his tiptoes, loosening his grip so he could breathe, but not letting go.

Emmy pondered her name, whilst Silvereen effortlessly bound his ankles and wrists with a single length of orange and blue striped nylon rope. Enchanting, but not as pretty sounding. A similar bondage situation with a hot-looking date would be pleasurable. But, stood with an unfamiliar crowd of characters making demands, his face reddened.

The guy pushed Emmy back towards the log when Silvereen finished, and with enough flexibility in the bindings he shuffled backwards and sat with a bump.

“Excellent. Now,” Crystalina said with an accusatory narrowing of her eyebrows. “What’s your story?”

“Story?”

“Yes. You know. Your conflict, the chain of events which bought your here. What do you want?” she said. “I mean, we’re grateful for providing the stash of weapons, but they’ll be useless against the hoards who followed us into the woods. Once they discover how to cross the river, they’ll outnumber our tiny group. So, what’s around the corner? Where are we heading? What future developments are ahead?”

“Subplots and arcs?” Gun-girl said.

“Trysts and twists?” Silvereen wistfully kicking the grass .

“Premise first.” Gunther, his feathers smoking. “We still have no clue about an underlying theme. Where’s our motivation?”

“Good point,” Crystalina said. “What’s your plot?”

“And who’s the real protagonist here?” Gun-girl stared at Emmy. “Are you?”

“Surely, not one of us?” Silvereen said.

“Can’t be. He’s the attraction drawing all the attention.”

“It’s mutual. The mesmerised way he looks at you girls, with his grey eyes. I expect you, Crystalina, could at least be a love interest. No?”

“I wouldn’t mind, to be fair. He is kinda cute.”

“Hello,” Emmy said, waving, a little moody. “I’m here.”

He hadn’t meant to. It was the disbelief of them implying he was in control. And surprise at Crystalina using the third-person to label him.

“Enough of this bullshit.” Gunther prodded Emmy. “Look at me, Man. You burnt my fucking wings off. Why do that? You transformed my life, raised me up, literally, and then destroyed me, just as I was mastering my flying ability. What was the point?”

“Stop!” Emmy said, staring at the rabble of demanding faces. How had his innocent walk in the park metamorphosed into an alternative reality? He wasn’t a dungeon or games master. “What the hell are you talking about? Weapons, wings, and wandering hoards. I have no influence on your problems.”

“Cute when he’s angry, too.”

“I admit you’re super interesting, and I’d love to know you better,” Emmy said, and turned to Gunther. “All of you. But when I entered these woods for my daily stroll, minding my beeswax, it was me who started seeing strange things.”

“Strange to you!” Gun-girl said.

“Tell us about the strangeness?” Silvereen said.

“A wild, smouldering brute chasing me through a peaceful forest. Three hot zombie-killer-babes sticking a shotgun in my face. All bizarre, but weird sci-fi teleporting portals?” Emmy nodded towards the curious doctored vegetation. “And then this.”

They turned to check.

“What?” they all said at once.

“The clearing. Or rather, its very particular shape. Don’t you see?”

The third girl lowered her weapon and stepped forward, examining the distant trees, then spun about and squinted past our little group.

“This guy has a point. It’s circular, and if I guessed, a complete, unbroken circle.”

The gorgeous Crystalina then checked. When she exaggerated a gawp, Emmy nearly came unstuck. Her backside was a perfect peach. She pointed.

“And look there. A round copse of trees dead in the centre.”

“Don’t say dead,” Gunther whispered as he twisted around to examine the boundary and the island in the middle.

“There is unnatural symmetry here,” Silvereen said. “Why? And who would trouble themselves in creating such a specific shape?”

“I think …” Emmy paused, not just for suspense, but he was unsure himself.

“You can’t leave us hanging, dude. What?” Gunther interrupted. “What are you thinking?”

“No, I’m not sure.”

“Don’t be shy,” the triplets said.

“Last chance, storyteller.” Gunther stepped closer, raising his fist. “Talk.”

“Gunther!” The girls came to Emmy’s rescue.

He lowered his hand.

“Excuse Gunther, mister,” Silvereen said. “But if you’ve the slimmest idea in your head, spill.”

“M.E., I call myself.”

“Lovely, M.E.. How typically anonymous. But what you need to comprehend, M.E., is your crazy notions and fun ideas manifest here. Therefore, it’s better to divulge the details now so we can prepare.”

“Manifest?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not … How? … What are you suggesting?”

“Not us. Invariably your suggestions, which you keenly hug to your chest.” Gun-girl raised her shotgun. “Your type are the damn same, forever drip-feeding the juicy bits.”

“Topazara. Enough with the gun-toting bitch act,” Crystalina said. “Can’t you appreciate this is totally abstract to M. E.?”

Emmy didn’t see Topazara’s name coming.

“You’re being too easy on him because you fancy the man.”

“Don’t give me—”

“I think they look like shapes or letters,” Emmy said, keen to interrupt. He was not confident to hear Crystalina’s thoughts, as they might shatter the illusion. “I’ve come across similar clearings walking through the woods.”

“Could they spell a word?” Silvereen said.

“Perhaps.”

The group fell silent, and the rattling caw from a pair of magpies echoed around the peaceful glade. They hopped from stump to branch, and for a moment Emmy thought their squawks sounded like voices. Zees found a bridge. Rattle, rattle. Zees found a bridge. He looked at Gunther. The man was in such a state, burnt, scabbing skin and stumps from wings. Was he a kind of angel? His bloodshot eyes watered as he glanced in Emmy’s direction, but Gunther didn’t acknowledge any voices. Nobody did.

“Okay, people. Time we disappeared?” Gunther stomped off.

“Wait, where are you going?” Emmy said.

“Up the ridge.”

“We can’t,” Silvereen said. “It’s too dangerous. Somebody will spot us.”

“And you reckon standing around chatting is better?” Gunther ignored her. “Up there, we’ll have an advantage and discover what’s unfolding.”

“If M.E.’s telling the truth,” Topazara said. “He could be unreliable.”

“He could,” Crystalina said. “But I believe him.”

“You would.”

“Does his deep, sexy voice not give you a funny spasm inside?”

Gunther snorted, entering the edge of the darker wood.

The two girls scrunched their eyes, pulling pained expressions, and shook their heads, then followed.

“You can’t help yourself,” Silvereen said. “Come on. Let’s hope he’s worth it.”

Crystalina winked at Emmy.

“We must be careful,” he said. “I … I think the hoard might have crossed the river.”

“Don’t worry, darling,” she said and patted the handle of her long, blood-stained bat hanging from her belt. Then stepped into the shade and coolness of the tree canopy, following her friends.

When Emmy pushed himself from the log, they’d blurred beyond the dark perimeter.

“Wait for me!” Emmy hobbled in servitude.

“Sort yourself out, lover,” a weak voice said, dissolving into the sound-deadening woods.

“But I’m tied up.”

“Not now, honey. Press the blah blah.”

Emmy barely heard her words.

“What?” he shouted.

“… button …” a single discernible word reply.

The computer panel; buried in the undergrowth. Emmy glanced over, and it radiated, even in the bright sunshine of the glade. A red push switch. He shuffled towards it with tiny pigeon steps. The rope burned his ankles. He slumped to the grass on his knees between fern fronds. Pressing the damn thing wasn’t as easy as Crystalina claimed. Nudging it with his head was possible. He turned his torso and flopped onto his side, and noticed high above the tree canopy in the lush blue sky two moons. Grey and singular was familiar, but not a junior accessory.

A shotgun blast rang around the clearing. The zees were here. Emmy’s forehead depressed the button, which hurtled him into a void of light full of whooshing sounds. There was a stab of pain. His mind stretched between where he lay watching the heavenly orbs to arriving on a very hard surface, still observing the moons, but from a different angle. They both appeared real, and he wondered if they were a weather anomaly, but the skies were clear bright blue in all directions.

Emmy could hear pistol cracks in the distance and discovered sitting up with wrists bound to ankles wasn’t easy. He rolled onto his side. Flat bare rock with pebbles scattered on the surface lead away to an edge. Distant tiny fluffy clouds were the only other sight. He was lying on a high, barren mountain plateau. In the baking sun, which blazed down making him perspire just lying there. A cool breeze brushed over him as he reflected a while about recent events. Nothing made any sense. They were a jumble, and backwards to frontwards. Sweat tickled his sides. He breathed. Heat prickled his lungs. He swallowed. Dryness pickled his tongue. Time went.

“He’ll be there. Don’t worry,” a girl’s voice travelled on the air. “We all know you fancy him.”

“I do not!” Crystalina’s melodic inflection, slightly ruffled. And disingenuous, he hoped.

“Liar,” Silvereen or Topazara gushed.

“We saw you,” one said, with a laugh. “You couldn’t resist twerking your butt back there.”

“I did not.”

“Keep your voices down you overrated actresses.” Gunther’s deeper husky tone was quieter, but audible. “We don’t know if any zombies can hear. They found a bridge, they could climb rocks. Let’s get topside and hope M.E. isn’t spouting rubbish and reveals the truth.”

Lying there, fettered in the baking sun, with two moons floating overhead, Emmy thought about nothing but the facts; Crystalina. He’d met an attractive and amazing girl, and they connected. His luck, unbelievably changed. Then a sudden tremor made the ground tremble under him, and not metaphorically. The entire mountain shook. Pebbles jiggled. Emmy rolled over and pulled on his knees, crunched his abs, and twisted. The rock shifted beneath him as he sat upright. Treetops in the distance stretched out for miles. The nearest swayed until the shaking stopped. A low rubble echoed away, and the three girls appeared with Gunther.

“There he is, Crystalina,” Silvereen said.

They stepped onto the wide rocky slab towards him, their bats dripping with blood.

“What was that?” he said, his croaky voice dehydrated.

“Oh! You don’t know?” Gunther joined them with his sarcasm. “Another random occurrence you’ve apparently injected.”

“Some good reason, I’m sure,” Topazara said, her shotgun swung over her shoulder.

“Yes, foreshadowing an earthquake, perhaps.” Crystalina removed her backpack and squatted. “Or the return of a giant mystical beast trapped under the mountain?”

“Yeah, yeah. Can we move along?” Gunther said and pulled Emmy to his feet. “Show us what this is about M.E..”

Silvereen dropped her bat. It clattered and spat red blobs on the hard surface. Then draw a shiny blade from a sheath at her side.

“I’ll help,” she said, approaching with her glistening knife. Emmy backed away. “Relax.”

She sliced the rope around his wrists and as he rubbed them; she cut the tether on his ankles. He flexed his legs. Crystalina gave him a water bottle.

“You look parched,” she said.

“I am, thank you,” Emmy said, and swigged back several large gulps. “So, let’s have a peek.”

He hesitantly shuffled towards the edge of the ridge not knowing what he’d find. The others followed. The moons hung high and the mass of woodland trees stretched further the closer they stepped. Considerably taller, Gunther saw it first.

“He’s only bloody right.”

“I knew he would be,” Crystalina said.

And there they were, formed in the vast, ancient forest, a dozen clearings, shaped in a row of capital letters. And confirmed they’d been standing in the letter ‘O’. Natural growth had roughened the outlines a tiny amount, and they weren’t quite in a straight line, but the spelling was clear. A short sentence which blurred away at the end, as trees thinned into distant grass pasture by a glistening stream where a herd of red deer grazed.

O N C E   U P O N   A   T I M E …


Image by Daniela from Pixabay

Flash Fiction Poetry: The Recipe. May

A flash poetry writing post composed for May. This piece is a poem, of no more than twenty-five lines, using the following words: verdant, open, silence, richness, compassion, and recipe.


The Recipe

The recipe,
I crave it, desire it,
Must open the page of measurements,
To prosper and thrive,
Not survive.

The recipe,
To climb it, walk it,
A verdant landscape to explore,
To grow and improve,
Not prove.

The recipe,
To read it, study it,
Sit in its silence to breathe,
To stop and meditate,
Not deliberate.

The recipe,
To enjoy it, utilise it,
Consider the richness of narrative,
To discover and expand,
Not reprimand.

The recipe,
To embrace it, love it,
Unlock answers within compassion,
To gain and promote,
Not remote.


90 Words.

Edited from an Original Post on:

Litopia May Flash Fiction Competition

Image by Pfüderi from Pixabay

Short Story Writing: Lonely Adventure.

An entry for a two-thousand word short story writing competition organised by Writers & Artists in February. This piece is a short story about an elderly lady leaving home for the first time in months following isolation.


Lonely Adventure

The cold water bottle falling out of the bed wakes her. In cold weather, she sleeps in her dressing gown too, because modern hot water bottles don’t hold the heat for long when compared to old thicker types. A bottle bought from Boots years ago did a great job. It was still in the cupboard somewhere and perished. She should throw it away, but you know.

Her warm hand pierces the cold of the room as she leans out of bed and pulls aside the nearest curtain, letting more bright sunshine in. The thin curtains should have been thicker for the winter, but she didn’t have strength or the inclination to hang lined ones. Even opening a lighter curtain was an effort. And besides, the days are getting longer now.

She throws the bedclothes off and slowly twists herself out of bed. Letting out a long groan, she pushes open the remaining curtains with help from one of her sticks. Then she checks her alarm clock; nine o’clock, which never ceases to amaze her. In the summer she’s up at six, never this late. A lack of sun, she concludes.

Kids have such a huge choice of sweets now. In her day, only pear drops, or liquorice if she was lucky, yet she’d worn false teeth on a plate for decades. The remaining pearly whites grow crooked and discoloured, but they’re hers. She picks up her dentures from the bedside table, slips the plate in her mouth, and adjusts it with her tongue. A quick smile in the mirror reveals more than a few hairs adrift, but a good volume of colour for a woman her age.

The population finds living without central heating an inconvenience, but not her. She’s never had it. Not in the sixty years living here, and she only knew fireplaces and ash for warmth before this bungalow. She’s hardened to winter months. The house had gas once, but she thought it was dangerous all those years ago, so they took the pipe out. There is an electric night storage heater in the hall. Walking by, she feels a little warmth. Another stands in the sitting room, on the blink, as it throws out sparks when it gets too hot. Near to the kitchen, she passes the airing cupboard and flicks the switch of the emersion.

Tea first, and a news catch-up on local radio, always before dressing. She listens to the presenter, with the volume turned up, and awaits the weather forecast to plan the day’s gardening tasks and clothes washing. The neighbours never complained about the blaring radio or TV to her; probably just as deaf. A bowl of cereal loops with tropical fruit juice, and not because she’s lactose intolerant, but they taste nice and sweet. Milk’s for tea only.

Presently, she’ll get a hearing aid, but she makes do for now.

A quick game of Boggle to keep the brain in trim while the kitchen warms with a dodgy ring on the electric cooker, which doesn’t turn down; the other front one doesn’t work. Another thing to replace.

‘I wonder if demic is a word?’ she says to the slowly warming kitchen. ‘It must be. We are in the middle of one.’

She reaches across to the windowsill for the scrabble dictionary, and flicks through. ‘D, d, d, deme, de-mes-nes, demic: adjective, of population. Thought so.’

With breakfast finished, she leaves her cup and bowl in the sink to wash-up later. No point wasting water.

Off to the bathroom. Today isn’t a bath day, thank the Lord, because bathing is a struggle and dangerous getting in and out of the tub with her knees and hips. Today is a flannel wash and scrub, same as most days.

Underwear is doable sitting on the bed, although her thick, red tights aren’t easy, but a few tugs and they’re on. Fleece-lined dark-blue tartan trousers worn over the top keep her legs warm, even though they make her look fat; she doesn’t care. A yellow woolly jumper and purple fleece zip-through over the top creates enough layers. Although the temperature was only a few degrees above zero, there was no frost last night. And she feels toasty.

Thick blue socks and green Crocs are the easiest. Slip-on shoes are good in winter and summer; in fact, she never takes them off. A wide fit, and a small tuft of real sheep’s fleece tucked in the toes to add comfort for her corns, makes them comfy. And there are no awkward laces to bend over and tie.

She pulls her jacket on, leaving it unzipped. Otherwise she’ll roast. Then sticks her head through the strap of her handbag, grabs her sticks and is ready for her adventure. In the hall mirror, she notices all the bright colours she’s wearing; perfect.

In the last few months, she’d been very lucky to have one of those volunteers call to drop off food and repeat medicines. She’d tried giving them a tip for the help, but they took nothing. She was grateful, but make no mistake, she missed the chat most and would have paid for a good old natter. But the busy volunteer talked a tiny amount, only dropping shopping on the doorstep, then off to another needy person. Good things end, and the young man needed to go back to work after his furlough. She has been out of the house, but only with another volunteer, a driver taking her to the surgery for her jabs. Today is different.

Next, she fixes her mask. The damn thing is a pain, but better to sort problems here so as not to embarrass herself with the inevitable struggle later on. Goodness knows how it would work with a hearing aid in the way, another reason to put off making an appointment.

Done, she slides her forearms into crutches, the pair she’s been depending on for the last few years following her knee and hip ops, and especially if she walks further than down the garden. She opens the door; there’s nobody there. She didn’t expect anyone, but a familiar face would be nice. She checks her handbag for door keys and steps out. It’s cold but dry.

The sound of the front door closing echoes around the quiet road. Not a soul to hear the noise, as nobody seems to use their front gardens anymore. They all stay in these days watching TV, and the kids play on their computers instead; no fresh air. Unlike everyone else, she didn’t have the internet, or knew what it did; she used books if she wanted to find information. She’d never owned a computer; used one once, years ago for audience research. Such a great job, all those people she’d met and chatted with, the tales and stories. One day she’d write them all out by hand and let someone else type them up.

People had no time to talk these days. They just jumped into their cars and whizzed down the road. Some said hello walking by, but only when she was too busy to talk in the garden, bum in the air and weeds in hand.

 As she walks up the drive, she hears the shriek of a red kite; common nowadays, not like years ago, which is a good thing she supposes. Thankfully, her garden is too small for them to land and steal the other birds’ food, as over the years the lawn area reduced in favour of planted borders and the many specimens she’s cultivated from cuttings; and why weeding is an endless task.

From the drive, she waddles along the pavement on her crutches. At the junction, she needs to be careful, so steps into the road. The quiet cul-de-sac has little traffic, although the vehicles are not the problem. Last spring, she’d fallen up the kerb. No one came to her rescue and thankfully she hadn’t hurt herself. She was glad nobody saw her tripping over the pavement, making a fool of herself, but remembers her lesson and wants to avoid further risk and embarrassment, so walks in the road instead, just for a bit, until she’s across the junction.

She recalls neighbours, not by their houses, but by the flowers and shrubs in their gardens, the neatness, the leaves and buds, the smells, or by vegetation missing, dug up, or just dead because the owners were not competent gardeners. Plants were easy to remember, people’s names not so, and none of the original people lived here anymore, but their flowers and shrubs lived on in her memory. For now, she lived on; the last original resident in the close. The divorcees, the deaths, and those drifted away. Some who moved away still wrote to her, and she to them. They kept her going with their news and kind words. Greater sense of friendship from miles away at the end of a pen than those over the fence. Talking of which he’ll never cut his damn trees down, the overgrown firs, the ones overshadowing her darkened garden, twice as high as they should be; obscuring the winter sun and shading most of the summer. Stifling her garden’s potential.

At least her dahlias and chrysanths where talk of the village show, or were. The village horticultural club newsletters are regular and still come through the letterbox. Yet if only there was a face-to-face show, not one held online with photographs. You can’t smell a photo or feel the stems or examine the petals on a computer screen. She has no screen, but doesn’t stop her growing them all the same.

She raced along with her gammy hips, as much as she could with crutches, keen to be on time. At the end of the road, she double-double-checks each way and crosses in the chilly air, thinking about a similar walk of the past. A trip to the local outdoor school pool for a dip in the sunshine. The thought warms her.

Finally, her destiny appears in the distance. Not far now.

Along the path around another bend and she hobbles by the strawberry tree, which reminds her of that silly woman. The one always complaining and ruining others’ enjoyment. She was sure the woman had moaned about her garden to neighbours, but couldn’t prove anything. And written to the council about this very tree, saying the fallen fruit on the pavement was dangerous. Ridiculous, didn’t even mention it to the owner who could have cut it back had they been aware. Oh no, the council was best informed, along with a litany of complaints. People have too much time. The woman covered her garden in shingle and moaned because there were no butterflies. Well, they’ve nothing to enjoy, have they?

An unknown dog walker approaches her, and their dog barks. The owner doesn’t cross, and the dog doesn’t stop barking. So she steps aside, making room.

‘Mustn’t like the crutches,’ she says.

The walker mumbles something, but she can’t hear exactly what because of her hearing, but smiles and nods. The walker is swift to pull the dog away and goes about their business.

Another one with no time.

Onward, past unkempt gardens and unruly shrubs, which could really do with a decent chop. And then the beautiful sweet smell from a peace rose drifts. She stops and looks around to see where the rose grows and is pleased to see it. No matter what time of year it is the plant always emits a lovely aroma, which is a happy reminder of the summer ahead.

At the door of her destination, she’s proud of her achievement. A chore which wasn’t as bad as she first thought. Her endeavour is over for now, although she struggles to open the heavy door with her cumbersome crutches. Through the shopfront glass, she sees a staff member running to assist her and the door opens wide.

‘Hello, Mrs Blackford,’ the hairdresser says. ‘We thought you’d died in the pandemic!’


Words: 2,000.

Edited from an original short story writing Competition Entry at:

Writers and Artists Writers’ & Artists’ Short Story Competition 2022

Image by PublicDomainPictures from Pixabay

Flash Fiction Writing: Two Forks. March #2

Another fifty-word flash fiction writing post composed for March. This piece is a brief story about new friendships, shyness, and cake.


Two Forks

She’s here again, drinking coffee with her friends. She gives me a smile, and I nod with a grin.

And as usual, they all laugh, so I walk away.

Lost typing words, someone sits at my table. I glance up from my laptop screen.

It’s her, with cake to share.


Words: 50.

Edited from an original Anonymous Post on:

Litopia March Flash Fiction Competition

Image: 95593357 © creativecommonsstockphotos | Dreamstime.com

Flash Fiction Writing: Borscht. March #1

A fifty-word flash fiction writing post composed for March. This piece is a brief story about war, cold, hunger, renewed friendships, and soup.


Borchst

Cruel weather. Despite modern material ingenuity, once cold seeps in, harder to recede.

Months of stand-off, no washing water, barely to drink. No fuel, ammunition low. She approaches.

Bowl in hand, she smiles. He stares a moment as steam wisps rise.

Enough.

Discards Kalashnikov, takes off helmet, accepts her spoon.


Words: 50.

Edited from an Original Anonymous Post on:

Litopia March Flash Fiction Competition

3496456 © Irminkam | Dreamstime.com

Flash Fiction Writing: Shocking Find. February

Another fifty-word flash fiction writing post composed for February. This piece is a brief story about a murderer, burying a body, and electric shock.


Shocking Find

The mains’ exact position was unknown, but laws dictate electric cables require encasing and protection. The shock punishment nearly killed him.

After the bang and street blackout, a neighbour unearthed him disoriented in the flowerbed.

He scans the view through prison bars and wishes he’d buried her in the woods.


50 Words.

Edited from an Original Post on:

Litopia Website February Flash Fiction Competition

Image by Goumbik from Pixabay

An Update to End All Updates

Happy New Year, Everyone!

There are always updates, aren’t there? Often around this time of year too, when people realise they’ve been slacking for the last twelve months, since their last post.

For consistency, I’m no different. But the aim here is to bring about change, knowing past updates led nowhere, or didn’t accomplish their purpose. I made promises, which fell short of my belief.

To aid my commitment to change, I’ve plumped for a new WordPress theme, which is simple (much like the user). Clarity for a muddled mind.

We all know, December over-excess leads to making January resolutions. We understand breaking them during the rest of the year is part of those obligations. It says so in my writer’s bible, the dictionary, specifically about writing:

The part of a literary work in which the complications of the plot are resolved or simplified.

3c. thefreedictionary.com/resolution

The inevitable happens; we simplify our resolutions to a satisfactory conclusion:

  • I want to eat more healthy food, becomes: eat more food!
  • I want to learn a new language, becomes: I already know several foreign words, like: linguini, paella, sauerkraut, köttbullar, piri-piri, and the pièce de résistance (see what I did there), bon appétit!

This year I’m undertaking a redefined route. A blog promoting my chosen path of word scribbling goes pen-in-hand with my new drive. For the last few months I have written lots, not tomes I admit, and most is hogwash, but sometimes I write something interesting, so it’s not been a complete waste of my energy.

I mean, writing is important, right?

Which leads me to, what kind of writer am I? A writer of blogs, a writer of short stories, a writer of a longer novel-length story, or a writer of phooey that nobody enjoys reading?

Yes, I’m all those (the last one mostly). Though, it matters not. I’ve decided I’m a writer, so I need to follow my literary alleyway and blog my way into writing more.

Although, if I’m blogging, then surely I’m wasting time in not writing what I want to write: a novel.

No, I need to write, full stop!

To save time, I’m using technology. The cool, fast way to write in this modern age is to dictate. It was quite clever years ago, but meant dictating to someone, which is expensive and I don’t know anybody who could stand to listen to my gobbledegook except for my very smart phone.

The most productive route to utilise this technology is while taking a stroll, leading us back to resolutions, and undertaking more exercise. Fresh air and vitamin D sunlight, and muttering to myself whilst walking. Dictation is handy, but a tiny piece of the puzzle, because I will have to edit the arse off this snippet to make it blogable.

I’ve found cosy writing indoors on a computer can be calming, peaceful even (if you’re lucky). When composing on the fly (must have been something I trod in), you can dictate, albeit not privately, or loudly, and ears eavesdrop on your strange ramblings, but write I must, so dictate I must.

(Incidentally, the best part about modern speech-to-text dictating by phone is I don’t have to listen to how ridiculous my voice sounds!)

This new update states I’m undertaking a lot more writing, blogging, and dictating (which sounds funnier than it should).

Overt use of dictation has advantages; it gives one the appearance of being someone important, enabling one to spout drivel and nonsense, allowing one to get it all off one’s chest; blah blah blah, blah-di-blah blah, and one believes one’s recording stacks of funny anecdotes. At least until one returns home, ready to edit just minor tweaks, and one reads back one’s words and realises even rewriting this twaddle won’t produce a stimulating blog post for oneself.

The dictation/blog thing is part of an overall New Year overhaul thing, and follows quite a year, as years and things go. A year fraught with personal change, which demanded to be unravelled.

Now, enter a new year, and I’ve changed. I’m unplugged, a new man, so to speak; as Mr Smith once said. The primary aim is to look forward to four fresh seasons, and concentrate on using my right hand (oh please, holding my pen or pointing my cursor).

Last November I completed NaNoWriMo (for those uninitiated, this stands for National Novel Writing Month), which was brilliant and meant writing over 50,000 words in the thirty-one days of November. December, however, was a bit of a zeppelin moment and I struggled through unable to fully . . . concentrate . . . sorry, got distracted there, watching a lollygagging dog being dragged by a boy behind a reversing car, thought they might get squished, but they didn’t, thank goodness!

One of the best things gained from NaNoWriMo (or Nano Rhino, as the speech-to-text converts), was the dedicated London writing group I joined on the Discord platform, which introduced me to a whole new set of writer buddies, and in this New Year an introduction to sprinting; writing sprints (or colloquially known as spronts, not sure why, but I’ll find out).

Spronts Sprints are literally when you sprint for fifteen to twenty minutes (or more, if you have the energy), writing as fast as you can, no stopping, no formatting, no editing, just “words from the word god”. As many words as you can write.

Various sources within writing and publishing say a writer should write 1,000 words a day, which is hard sometimes (note: change to ALL the time); sometimes you just can’t do it. Sprints force you to focus, but in bite-size portions. NaNo pushes you to write 1,666 words a day. These sprints keep this going. Your mind is off the slower editing process and it’s all about words, words, words, and more words.

With you’ve finished sprinting, you may have twenty words written or two-hundred (five-hundred plus, if you’re an Olympic sprinter), which are more than you had before you started. Time to stop and celebrate, have a cup of tea, no editing, and repeat. It’s great to build on your word count. Added to my Nano Rhino amount, I will soon have a decent amount of words to edit and polish into a speculative novel; for the new year.

With life’s personal changes, comes necessary compromise and unexpected benefits. For me; I’ve spent a lot more time with my mother during a pandemic when she couldn’t spend time with anyone (although, I’m sure she thinks more means too much), however, now is time to start afresh (new year and all that) and I’m moving to a new flat (box room) in London somewhere soon, to concentrate on my writing (and annoy new virtual rhino friends).

Life appears to be coming together, now I’m doing the dictating.

The words I’ve been preaching to my hand-held blog writing device, whilst out walking, have taken me to the other side of the village where I live, which leads me to ponder several thoughts: I’m I being dictated to by my voice? Do I have a mountain of messed up jargon to decipher on my return to shape my diatribe into something coherent? Or, they have spotted me spewing random sentences at passers-by and are coming to get me?

Psychotic thoughts aside, if I can blog often, it means I’m writing regularly. Even though this sounds like a load of repetitive nonsense, it’s still written nonsense. There is a downside. I’m not exclusively writing the words I want to write, the story I want to finish and share with the world, but I’m convinced both will help the other; it’s all positive; it’s all writing.

I believe (or spend a lot of time persuading myself) I am an actual writer, albeit unpublished, which actually, strangely as it may seem, does not mean I write all day. Factually, I do very little writing. Instead, I partake in the pleasures associated with the job; researching, editing, and the wonderful past-time every writer endures called procrastination.

Procrastination means you have licence to do anything in the name of writing. Which writers call, amongst other things, research. This allows them to get firsthand knowledge of characters traits and flaws, particularly describing real-life experiences, how to: load a dishwasher correctly, or a washing machine with matching colours; leave a bed unmade, so it’s easier to jump back into; memorise what every button on the TV remote does; discover the best genres to watch on Netflix or read on Kindle; sort Spotify playlists; file items alphabetical, which need to be filed or not; watch YouTube videos and search Google endlessly (for reference).

To recap: New Year – New Writing

To negotiate my journey and knowing how life sometimes gets in the way, I’m circumventing the old me, starting with this blog piece, but will it work? Can I sustain and continue my revised balance of writing? Will penning a blog on writing impede my craft?

I’m also interested to hear how other writers have tackled a return to word production, leave a comment, you know it’s good for your writing skills.

Finally, note to self: leave enough time to edit this dictation into a pukka blog post before midnight, because dictating is the fun, simple part, which takes the least time. And is frankly just messing out.


Next blog post: Reading (as in: to read, not the town/wannabe city).

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