The Chase

[I've always tended to write pleasant stories, with good characters who get what they desire - and deserve. In fact, I'm thinking of calling my next anthology Nice Stories with Happy Endings. Today's snippet of new prose was a deliberate attempt to buck the trend. Did I succeed?]

 

 

Her breasts heave as she struggles to catch her breath. The chase is long and hard. He starts running as soon as he sees her. They race up the hill, weaving between the trees, his heavy boots thudding through the dried leaves and hardened mud. Her sneakers make less noise and she is more agile on her feet.

 

The path splits; each takes a different fork, but the ways turn back together and then he's in front of her. Arms pinned down, a swift kick behind the knees and they fall to the ground together and roll under the bushes. Clothes pulled hurriedly away from hot skin, the action is savage and short-lived. A final thrust with a sharp blade mimics the coupling of moments before.

 

Climbing from her position astride the man, she utters a short prayer. Then, reaching into her pocket, she pulls out a cigarillo. And she smiles.

Danny's Jacket

Today's snippet grew out of  a writing exercise at Chudleigh Writers' Circle. We all wrote the opening sentences for short stories, then shared them with the group. The most popular sentence was then used by all of us - and, as is always the case with this sort of exercise, there was a wide variation in interpretations and resulting stories. I later entered this piece in the Worcester Literary Festival Flash Fiction competition and was delighted to be one of the finalists for the second year running.

 

 

The dog sniffed at the bundle, half-hidden in the seaweed, then turned back to Elsa, barking frantically. Elsa closed her eyes against the dizziness as her stomach rollercoasted.  She had prayed her suspicions were unfounded, but there was no denying this was Danny’s jacket. She’d seen the dragon transfer so many times before.

 

She’d met him on the first day of term, as she stood in the classroom doorway, tugging at the unfamiliar blazer, trying to flatten her unruly curls and wondering if anyone was going to talk to her. He’d been sitting on a desk, tapping his foot in time to whatever tune was playing in his head. He’d looked up and grinned at her.

 

Everyone told her he was trouble. He came from ‘the wrong side of town’, whatever that meant, his family always moving, never in one place for long. All she knew was he was kind to her, which was a first.

 

And then one day, he wasn’t there. There were rumours at school, snide comments in the coffee bar: he’d been arrested; he’d run away to escape arrest; the family had run off without paying the rent; he’d joined the army (although everyone agreed that seemed highly unlikely). Elsa didn’t believe any of them — and when he appeared again three months later with tales of a sick grandmother in another country, she’d been so pleased to see him, she hadn’t looked too closely at his excuse.

 

But now, with the printout of his rap sheet in her back pocket and the sniffer dog’s find as evidence, Detective Sergeant Elsa Jones knew she was going to have to talk to Danny one more time. And this time, there would be no excuses.

The Cheat

Today's snippet of new prose is a piece of flash fiction arising from another of Morgen Bailey's Story Writing Exercises: Monday Monologue: Her girl/boyfriend is cheating on her [25th February 2013].

 

 

It’s Sally who tells me. She can’t wait to give me the good news; bitch!

 

“Guess who I saw in The Happy Hunter the other night?” she says.

 

“Brad Pitt? George Clooney? Arthur Askey — no wait, he’s dead, isn’t he?” I joke, although I know what she’s going to say. I just don’t want to hear it. Until she says it out loud, it doesn’t need to have happened; I can pretend it’s just a mistake. He wasn’t really out with someone else when I was at home nursing a streaming cold, too ashamed of my blotchy face and snotty nose to let him see me. He was sitting at home, watching television — that RomCom we’d planned to watch together — well, I’d planned it anyway; I hadn’t actually got around to telling him, but I’m sure he’d have been okay with it — well he watched it on his own, didn’t he?

 

Well, no actually, he didn’t, the bastard! I tried to phone him around ten thirty — after I’d given up waiting for him to phone me — and his mum said he’d gone out with his mates. To The Happy Hunter! And I knew what that meant. Girls — lots of girls — free girls — free in all senses of the word, apart from the cost of a few vodka and limes, of course. More importantly, girls who were able to talk for more than a few sentences without stopping to blow their noses. Girls who would be happy to take my Marty away from me.

 

“Your Marty,” Sally says. “He seemed to be having a great time. Good of you to let him go out on his own like that." The bitch really is enjoying watching me squirm. "Most girls wouldn’t trust their fellas out on the town on a Friday night, on their own. You’re so brave, so trusting.” ‘So stupid’ are the words she doesn’t say, but they’re written all over her face.

 

I asked him on Monday if he’d done anything over the weekend. He just shrugged and said ‘not much’ and then shoved a bunch of roses into my arms. And not just petrol station flowers this time. This was an honest-to-goodness florist’s bouquet with raffia and pink cellophane, the works.

 

God, he must have been so bad to need to spring for one of those. I wonder how long I can make the guilt trip last this time. Could be good for some chocolates as well. Now I’ve got my taste-buds back, it would be nice to have something to nibble while we’re watching the film tonight.

 

Flashing in Worcester

Last week, I received an email telling me that I was shortlisted in the Flash Fiction competition running in Association with the Worcestershire Literary Festival. Yesterday, I joined other finalists in reading our entries before the winners were announced.

I didn't make the top three, but still had great fun reading my story and listening to all the others. The ten short-listed entries can be found here: http://www.worcslitfest.com/see-the-finalists-flash-fiction-entries-here/.

Congratulations to Amy Rainbow for a winning entry that reduced the entire audience to tears; well-done to all the finalists; and thanks to the organisers - especially Lindsay, Calum and Polly.