Short Stories

Sorry for the long absences, but I don't see it changing any time soon. I'm back at home now and never seem to get around to the old blogging scene, lots of other stuff happening though. Thanks to hebburndelboy for the birthday wishes - I didn't see the message until today, but I really appreciate the thoughts. Anyway, thought it had been quite long enough so here's another short story to keep anyone who's still out there going until I can post again. I hope you're all well, and keeping safe :-).

Wings of an Angel

There was once a little boy walking along a forest path. This boy, no more than six years old, happened upon a rather wondrous treasure on that forest path. He found a pair of wings; such delicate feathers of pale blue were these wings that the young boy could not leave them on the unforgiving forest floor, so he took them gently under his childishly innocent protection. He walked on thinking that perhaps someone had dropped them and that he might be able to return them. They were such wonderful little wings that he thought whoever had lost them would be missing them terribly, and it made him sad.

In time the boy saw another person on the same path as he. There was an old man sitting on the dirt of the ground, and the old man was crying quietly to himself. Filled with nothing but genuine concern the boy hurried forward to the old man talking as he approached. ‘Please, sir, don’t cry. Here,’ the boy held out his precious find. ‘I’ve found your wings.’

The old man looked up at the little boy and his teary expression faded, replaced with a soft smile. ‘Thank you, that’s very kind,’ said the old man. ‘But they aren’t mine. I didn’t lose any wings.’

‘Oh,’ the boy brought the wings back to his chest. ‘I thought you lost them and it made you sad.’ After a slight pause the boy’s large blue eyes focussed on the old man again. ‘I don’t know whose they are. Can you help me?’

The old man was pleased to be able to help such a nice little boy. ‘Yes,’ the old man said, smiling even more. ‘Of course.’ So the old man stood up, brushing soil from his clothes, and took the little boy’s hand as they continued along the forest path.

The two of them were quiet as they continued hand in hand under the trees until the sound of a baby’s cry broke through the resting air. The little boy and the old man both hurried forward to discover a cradle in the middle of the path. Looking inside, the little boy saw a wriggling figure of a baby. Its face was scrunched up and its fists were balled and its tiny mouth was putting forth its worried little cries.

‘Oh,’ the little boy looked up to the old man. ‘Do you think he’s lost his wings? Is that why he’s crying?’

The old man couldn’t help but smile again. ‘No little one, I don’t think so.’ He ran a finger against the soft feathers held in the little boy’s grip. ‘The wings are small, but they aren’t small enough to be a baby’s wings.’

Considering this for a moment and looking between the baby and the wings, the little boy realised the old man was right. The wings were just a bit too big for the baby. ‘What should we do then?’ he asked.

‘I think it might be best if we kept going,’ the old man said as he picked up the cradle with one hand and took up the little boy’s hand with his other. ‘We’ll take this little munchkin with us and see if we can’t find its mummy, and we can keep looking for the one who’s lost his wings. How does that sound?’

The little boy smiled and nodded at the kind old man. The tiny baby was rocked by the gentle pace of their walking and fell asleep in its cradle; the quiet rustle of leaves settled around them.

Some time later the little boy heard yet more crying and compassion stirred again in his heart. He let go of the kind old man’s hand and ran forward towards the sound. Around the next corner he saw a young girl sitting at the edge of the path; she had her forehead to her knees and was crying into her hands. As he got closer to the young girl she looked up at him.

‘Please don’t be sad,’ he said. ‘Did you lose your wings?’ He held them out to her. ‘I found them for you.’

The young girl wiped her face and stood up, and the old man walked around the corner with the tiny baby. She held out her hands and the little boy gave her the wings. She smiled through her tears. ‘They are beautiful,’ she said looking at them and touching them in wonder. ‘But they’re not mine.’ She handed them back to the little boy. He looked down at them feeling sad again, but the young girl made him feel better by offering her help. ‘Would you like me to help you find the right person?’

‘Oh please,’ the little boy said. ‘Somebody’s lost their wings and I don’t know who it is.’

‘Don’t worry,’ she replied taking his hand and dabbing once more at her eyes. ‘We’ll find them.’

And so, together, all holding hands, they continued down the forest path in search of the angel with no wings.

Eventually the little boy’s search led them to a large meetinghouse. They went inside and found a kindly lady who was willing to help each of them find their way back to where they should be, but before they went their separate ways the old man took the kindly lady aside.

‘You see our little boy there,’ he motioned across the room. ‘Well, he found some wings in the forest and he would like to return them to the owner. Do you know who they belong to?’

The kindly lady smiled at the old man knowingly. ‘I see this little boy quite often,’ she said, looking at the little boy fondly. ‘He’s a guiding angel,’ she explained. ‘He finds lost travellers on the road and guides them here for safety. The wings are his wings.’

The old man’s heart warmed in his chest as he looked over to his little friend… his guiding angel. ‘Oh,’ he said gently. ‘And will he know they’re his wings now?’

‘If you give them to him, he’ll know,’ answered the kindly lady with a smile.

So the old man walked over to the little boy and asked to hold the wings. The little boy handed them over with overwhelming trust in his eyes, and the old man offered them back to him. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, as if they had just met. ‘Are these your missing wings?’

‘Oh yes!’ the little boy exclaimed taking the wings carefully. ‘Thank you, mister. Where did you find them?’

The old man smiled at the little boy with tears forming in his eyes. ‘A little angel gave them to me,’ he said. ‘For safe keeping.’

I've been a bad, bad blogger. It's been a while but here is a quick one to keep the blog alive for another 90 days (well, hopefully less than that this time):

Fire. He was lost in the colours of the flame, the gentle flick of its tips held him fast. His blank mind comforted something deep within him, something he wanted to forget. He shied away as it started to surface, and he allowed the heat to draw him back into his own dark emptiness.

Fire. There was something mesmerising in the simple destructive beauty of it all. It caught his mind in a web of scorching silk and he was grateful he couldn't shake himself free, because he knew if he did... what? What would he remember? Who would he remember?

Fire. It has no memory hidden in the depths of its light. It recalls nothing of life, nothing of death; there is nothing but ash in its wake. Oh for his dearest memories to become dust, for his pain to be burnt away and a hollow core to be all that remains. Yet even now he awakes from his trance and the real world comes crushing down...

She didn’t know how long they had been walking, but from what she could tell the sun was about four fingers further through it’s fiery walk across the sky, and she’d once seen on TV that this equated to a rough hour. She sighed, noting how dry her mouth was and looked up again to see a line of trees barring their path a few hundred metres away. The trunks reached out with their vivid brown wood, but above them, although there were varying shades to the leaves, the overall feel was the same weak green as the grass. They continued closer and the trees grew to fill their view until finally he stopped, right on the edge of a forest path. Sophia halted her steps immediately, not wanting to be closer to him than she absolutely had to be, however he turned to look at her anyway, making a quick gesture to one of the dozen escorts behind her before turning back to the woodland. The other man, similarly clad in brown barbarian garb and only marginally smaller than his superior, came forward and placed a silver bowl of water on the ground at the mid-point of the metal lead. He returned to his place without even acknowledge her existence, but they all stood motionless, waiting.

Half a minute passed as she looked back at each of the guards – their eyes fixed firmly ahead – and then at the back of the one in front. He was as a statue. So, timidly at first, she took a step towards the bowl. Nothing happened; they all remained in their trance, and a stealthy second and third pace brought her within reach of the bowl. She dropped to her knees and drank deeply from the silver gift, the water as cool and fresh as any she had ever tasted. It was gone quickly and instincts told her not to linger, so she placed the small basin down where it had been and reversed three innocent steps to the full extent of her restraint.

When she opened her eyes again, the sultry red light was accompanied by the soothing touch of metal at her wrists. She struggled once again as the surprising weight pressed her back to the earth and she saw with dismay that the balm around her arms meant that she was now fettered to the leader of these people. He was, at least, standing further away, the links giving them about a seven-metre gap, and the energy he exuded was weaker, although she could still feel him, even at this distance.

She fought off the light-headedness and managed to get to her feet, at which point there was a persuading tug on the leash and she started walking behind the barbarian with the crushing voice. To the right, the troops began their hollering yet again, but this time it was the raucous bellow of celebration and she could see that an enormous feast had been joined. She’d never seen so much food in her life and, as tired as she was, the first smells that reached her were so good that warm saliva coated the inside of her cheeks. She did not slow her pace though, not for anything would she risk angering a man that could strike a blow with his words alone. So she walked, trying to stay alert in the mugginess of the day, but creeping towards a trudging haze nonetheless.

The army was quiet now, unnaturally so. And she could feel a reverence seething beneath that combined strength of arm. It was not directed at her, of that she was sure, but at the beast of a man dragging her along the pallid ground. He was huge and well muscled, no doubt, but she felt it to be so much more than his obvious physical prowess. There was something at the back of her mind that balked at drawing his attention, and she wasn’t convinced that she would be able to withstand the full force of his presence if she stayed this close to him. She could almost see the power flow through his veins in gushing streams, and his pulse beat slowly where his palm was closed on her arm; that grip was oddly cool in the heat of the air.

Stray voices came to her from the left and she saw a small band of men approaching. They were all of them the same race as her captor and she now noticed the faint burgundy hue to their skin. Stopping a dozen strides away, the closest one spoke fluidly in a language Sophia could not identify. She could not even distinguish individual words – it was more like the melodic line of a classical song – but the chains passed from the back of the group made his meaning all too clear. Polished silver shackles were connected to a leather handle by a hundred or so finger-length loops and the man who had spoken brought them forward as the others held their positions with expert discipline.

Then came his voice.

She felt the weight on her shoulders double as the heavy, bass timbre of his voice sang a shockingly beautiful reply. It seemed to want to crush her under its authority, and she slumped, as wan as the grass she fell to.

The gritty, red colour of the light eradicated the green glow of the cell instantly; it also stung her eyes, blinding her for a moment. When she could see again, she took a few frightened steps back towards the safety of the room. The entire sky shone a dangerous crimson and the sun glared at her like a bloodshot eye even though it was high overhead. The plain under that angry stare was a vast field of white grass bending in the warm wind, and on that ashen grassland stood a terrifying army, great in number and many in unfamiliar races. She stumbled back, that strange weight still pulling her down, as every soldier watched her clumsy steps, and then the entire horde – man and beast alike – erupted with the thunderous roar of victory. The very force of it pushed her back another step and under that horrendous onslaught she turned and fled to a corner of the chamber, crouched and cried tears of shock, not caring that the dampness of the wall was soaking through her nightdress, sucking the very warmth from her body.

The noise continued unabated until her eyes were dry and a vital calm settled the shaking in her shoulders. She looked up with a detached anxiety as the tainted light parted with a silhouette and an eerie quiet followed the pounding in her ears. The shadow seemed almost demonic with the ruby aura surrounding it, and as it advanced on her, she saw a massive, broad-shouldered man emerge from the darkness. He towered over her and bore a resemblance to how she always imagined a ‘barbarian’ would look. He reached out a bare, amazingly muscular arm and spoke in a coarse voice with no discernable accent.

‘Come.’

At first she hesitated, but not having much choice in the matter she moved to take his hand. Before she got that far though, he grabbed hold of her wrist and pulled her to her feet with cruel indifference to the jolt of pain that pierced her shoulder. She tried to resist his overwhelming strength but he drew her inexorably towards the light as if she were no more than a troublesome child.

All she could remember next was a faint change from white to pale green, and her feet contacted something solid. But as her body rested on her feet again, the weight was too much and she drifted to the floor before the world came back into focus.

She was laying on the ground, feeling as if someone was pushing down on her chest, and this is how she first saw – uncomprehending – the horror of her new life. She tried to sit up, but as her mind cleared it was obvious that the pressure on her chest was not a lack of breath; it felt as if her whole body had been encumbered with a thousand tiny weights making her every movement an excessive struggle. After a few minutes’ attempt, she was on her feet, though her legs were already feeling the strain and she had to work to keep them steady. When she felt firmly planted, she raised her head and swallowed the details of the room down a throat that was somehow both raw and numb with disbelief. Her room had been transformed from a large, fairly neutral – yet comfortable – bedroom, to a rank, squalid, hole of a cell that stank of the besmirched smell of blood. Her wide eyes scanned the slimy-looking walls as she instinctively made small steps towards the centre of the space. Water trickled down one corner and made the perilous journey across the edge of the grimy stone floor to disappear through the wide gap at the bottom of the ill-fitting door. Seeing that door, and the way it was flimsily propped up against the frame, she moved quickly, ignoring the slippery feel it had against her palm, and pushed her way out to feel a strong heat blow her blonde hair back from her shoulders.

* * *

a laboured breathing from behind her. She stood up and spun around, the broken mirror temporarily forgotten, to see a man in painter’s overalls doubled over with obvious strain standing at the foot of her bed.

‘How did you get in here?’ she asked, fighting down a bubble of hysteria. ‘Who are you? What do you want?’

It was clear the man was not listening, but he caught his breath and eventually straightened to face her. He looked at her with haunted eyes, and then held his paint-stained hands in front of him with an expression of disbelief. ‘Seven years...’ he told himself. Then, as if finally noticing her, he surveyed the room quickly and fixed his eyes on the ruined mirror at her feet. The look he gave her then was less haunted and more pitying, and he moved his head gently from side to side. ‘Bad luck.’

‘What are you–’

‘Just remember,’ he interrupted. ‘It will end... eventually.’

And with that the room became unfocused... she felt strangely heavy; soon she couldn’t distinguish anything in her bedroom and she began to sink through the hazy, white floor. She should have screamed or panicked or something, but she just felt numb and helpless as she sank lower and lower into a white nightmare.

Good evening, and may I introduce you to my beautiful assistant... your computer. Oh, wait, you've probably already met. Oh well, back to the fiction, which I hope will be better...

Okay, actually, change of plans. I was going to continue with the spur of the moment stuff, but instead I'll copy in a bit of a story I'm working on at the moment in the hope that when I get to the end of what I've written, I'll be motivated to kick up the pace to get it finished for you. So here's the first little snippet, I hope you enjoy it:

Seven Years Bad Luck

She walked across the clean, wooden floor, stepping two passing prints into the white sheep’s wool rug, and sat down on the stool at her nightstand. Her nightdress was thin to counter the summer’s heat, and she took pleasure in brushing her fair hair with the window open just enough to stir a breeze. Scanning the lacy top of the stand, her eyes wondered over all the small, treasured possessions she’d been given over the years. As always, her gaze lingered on the tiny chip cutting into the side of her crystal ‘Sophia’ – the last present she had received from her mother’s mother.

Her brushing started up again as she rose back from childhood to stare once more at her reflection. Then, finally satisfied with the result, she picked up her ornate silver hand mirror, courtesy of an ex-boyfriend with whom she was still on good terms, and imagined herself to be the princess of a mystical land full of intrigue and handsome princes all perfectly willing to bow to her every whim. One would be massaging her head, another giving her a pedicure, a third feeding her grapes… a foot rub… a steaming hot bath… She could feel herself beginning to crave a spa visit, but as she moved to replace the mirror, the handle clipped the surface of her nightstand and fell to the floor. There was a moment or two in which she cursed her own clumsiness, but she did not have time to react until the top of the curve impacted the wood and she heard

* * *

Two in two days, now there's a turnout for the books. Not sure where this'll lead today but another go at winging it. It's a bit earlier today as well so it's not likely to be quite as heavy as yesterday's musings. Here we go, enjoy...

Discarded Thoughtfulness

As Andy reached up to the handle of his bedroom door, he stopped and listened again with his pillow grasped tightly under his left arm. He did not want to wake his mum, it was too early for her to be getting up. In fact, it was earlier than Andy could ever remember being up. He looked through the darkness to the red glow of his alarm clock - 6:15, with both the middle dots flashing on and off like an old friend winking at him, wishing him well on his mission. Excitement bubbled through him and he didn't feel at all tired. He pulled the handle down and opened the door slowly.

It was strange looking at the hallway in the eerie morning light when the cold still clung to his feet. The carpet was all wrong; the faint patterns looked different because of the milky-grey colour it had turned, but he ventured out with determination. He passed his mum's door and took his time to step over the single creaking floorboard just outside the bathroom. Success! The hallway had been passed and the stairs dropped away before him. He repositioned the pillow further under his arm and, putting a hand out to the balancing presence of the wall, he started the descent. The first few steps were no problem, good solid steps. Yet he knew that the hard part was yet to come. He continued down, counting carefully, and stretched over the seventh step. Eight, nine, ten. Then came the challenge. Not only did step number eleven make the most awful noise, but step number twelve also squeaked loudly. However, he had planned meticulously and now that planning would come into its own. He took the pillow in both his hands and held it out steadily. He breathed two deep breaths and gently tossed the landing pad to the bottom of the stairs. It tottered for a moment before flopping with a soft puff into the perfect position. Andy smiled and bent his knees just enough to spy the morning sun through the window above the front door. It lit his sandy hair golden and covered the green of his eyes in copper. Then he was flying for the briefest of moments - there were only four steps left after all - and landed uncomfortably, but safe, inches from the door.

That was it, he had made it. He rushed to put on his trainers, the pillow's glory forgotten at the foot of the stairs, and hurried to the back door. The key was in the lock and he winced even at the tiny click it made. Then he was out in the morning air, cold in the shadow of the house, but exhilarated all the same. This is why he was up early - the sight of hundreds of red flowers just waiting to be sorted through. The task seemed endless; their garden wasn't very big, but his mum really did like red flowers and they had sprung up right round the edge of the small space. He rubbed his hands together like he had seen his granddad do just before starting a job, and then he was in among the flower heads. He looked at each one individually, dismissing all of them in turn, looking for the perfect one.

The mud coated the bottom of his trainers in less than ten minutes but the velvety feel of petals still seemed new at each and every touch. Given a big enough garden, there was no reason why he couldn't do this all day. A few heads stood apart from the rest and Andy had to start smelling them to narrow the possibilities. He had eventually reduced the candidates to four particular flowers. There was the big one, ten layers of flower heads at least. It looked like a tiny apartment building he had seen on the television, only bright red and sweet smelling. Then there was the rose, the only one he knew by name. It was nice enough, but there was something about roses that just didn't sit right with Andy. He left it in the final four for now, but knew it would end up being the first to go. The last two were the real contenders. One had six petals of red with a line of yellow running down each of them to meet in the middle of the flower in a big patch of sun-like colour. There were also six wormy arms of yellow stretching out from the middle with tiny little black dots on the ends. It smelled wonderful and was the best looking of its kind with not a blemish on it, but as he turned his attention to the last prize he had found, he knew with youthful certainty that this was the one he would take. It was perfect. Red all over, it looked like one big petal with wavy rumples in it. There were dark lines that looked the same as the circles in a tree trunk, and right in the middle it was such a dark red that it was almost black. But the deciding factor was the single white-speckled leaf halfway up the stem. He looked at it for a while and eventually plucked it with a practiced hand. Then, his mission an overwhelming success, he trotted back into the house to find his mum up and his breakfast waiting. What a start to the day!

Transporting the flower to school would have been the hit-or-miss part of the plan, but his mum had driven him in so that it would get there safely. Now here he stood in the playground, faded chalk on the ground at his feet. And he held the flower out to the love of his life. He couldn't have imagined a more perfect execution as she smiled at him with her dimples showing briefly, and took the gift gracefully. Brightness built in his heart and his own smile beamed. Then, just as easily as she had fulfilled his dreams, she turned and ran away with her friends, the flower released from her hand as soon as she reached the grassy area. It floated to the earth silently and bounced gently on the soft, green carpet. He stood, transfixed by the injustice, and no one saw the tears that started running down his cheeks.