Terribleminds Flash Fiction Challenge: Choose You’re Opening Line

 

Yes, it’s that time again. Terribleminds weekly flash fiction challenge.

This time, we had to choose from a selection of opening lines; which was last weeks challenge.

I went with this imagination inducing line by C J Eggett:

“The ghost of a sparrow flitted through one wall and out the other”

And this was the outcome.

 

Untitled 

 

The ghost of a sparrow flitted through one wall and out the other. “They know we’re here” “so cops usually congregate outside abandoned tower blocks then?” He turned to her; if looks could kill, he’d have contradicted his purpose. “The police are the least of our concerns” he said. She joined him at the window; red and blue lights sparkled below. “You’ve gotten me out of worse than this Jack.” He turned to look at her; the deep ridges of his forehead drank in the flashing lights from below. The ghost of a sparrow flitted back through the room and out of the wall where they stood. Rosalee noticed it for the first time
“What was that?”
“A whole heap of trouble” he replied.

In the middle of the red and blue light display below, stands a man in a trench coat holding a megaphone, he is gesticulating with rage at a man whose white hair shimmers; he is standing beside another whose features are hidden beneath a hood.
“That man has killed fourteen of my men!” he spat “I don’t know who you think you are buddy but – ”
“Sergeant, if you continue to harass me I cannot promise you will live to see my rage” the man’s eyes seem to shimmer as he speaks. The Sergeant, uncharacteristically bows his head, he feels like an accosted child. Of the two men, one is silent and still, his head bowled slightly, a hood concealing his eyes. He shudders, his whole body seeming to spasm as he inhales deeply; looking up at the night sky. He looks to the man with the white hair “seventh floor, just him and the girl.”
The white haired man nods and then turns toward the trench coat wearing; megaphone wielding man who has been watching him the whole time. “Thank you Sergeant” he smiles, though there is nothing pleasant about it “we’ll take it from here.”
The Sergeant watches them walk toward the building; squeezing his eyes shut; he’s tired, overworked, he just saw a white sparrow fly into the hooded man.

Jack watched them part the crowd like a hedge trimmer does a thicket. He withdrew a Magnum from inside his long coat. Rosalee approaches him, watching the spinning barrel, he flicks his wrist and the barrel returns to its origin, ready to impart pain and death at its wielders behest.
“Jack” she said “I don’t want you dying for me.”
“I’m dead regardless” he said studying her, noticing her vulnerability for the first time. He thought of her as a package, nothing but a delivery to be made; fragile and handled with care. Just a walking, talking, proficiently sarcastic, package. She touched his hand, gazed deep into his eyes; he could see his own weathered reflection in the two perfect pools of azure.
“You have a good heart Jack, don’t succumb to darkness”
He felt the hair rise on the back of his neck; be it the breeze or the feel of her silky soft skin, he could not have said, but the door swung open and with it, came his attention. Jack rounded Rosalee, she settled behind him, peering at the doorway from over his shoulder. Jack waited. Fixated on the doorway; trying to decipher the darkness, from the Demons. His pupils dilated, but not nearly quick enough; he raised his Magnum, but the hooded figure from below was on him, its face three inches from his own. Jack squeezed the trigger. The noise of the shot exploded into the room. But the hooded man side-stepped before the hammer hit. He moved as though time did not constrain him. Jack heard the flutter of his sleeve; felt the cold touch of a blunt object colliding with the side of his head, and then the impact of brick as he hit the wall some twenty feet from where he stood. “Jack!” he heard Rosalee’s voice. His vision was impaired; blurred by blood, head blow and brick dust. He could feel the wood bowing beneath his head at the approach of someone. He fathomed a pair of black boots, and then was lifted; limp and yielding, he rose off the floor. “Thank you so much, for taking good care of her” the voice was gruff and came from behind a set of sharp teeth, his white hair shimmering in the dark of the room. Jack could see Rosalee; limp and draped over the shoulder of the hooded accomplice, as they left the room. The white haired man came back into focus “Farewell Jack” his shark like grin turned to a snarl, and he tosses Jack through the window. The glass shatters at his back, feeling as though he’s been pushed through tissue paper. The cold night air screams in his ears; his stomach squirms in panic, like a rat in a box, viciously searching for escape. He feels the tarmac hurtling towards him; the further the window gets, the closer he is to death. Jack closes his eyes; and with it comes the soft embrace of…something. Jack opens his eyes, the bright white light; sharp, yet soothing, eases his heart to a reasonable rate. Jack sits up, feeling the soft goose down of the duvet rustle under his weight. “I can’t keep saving your life like this” Jack looks to the foot of the bed; the voice belongs to a man dressed head to toe in white. “Thanks Gabriel” said Jack. Gabriel raised an eye-brow in amusement “You lost her Jack” he said shaking his head. “I know” he replied averting his gaze from the Angels. Jack began to get off the bed, wincing a little at the pain in his shoulder.
“Where are you going Jack?” Gabriel asked
“To get her back”

Liberation via Libation: now that’s a fucking motto.

 

I have come to a conclusion. It is one I was fully aware of, yet elected to ignore. But in life, if your mindset does not match your heart, whatever you attempt is futile. The following is a fair (slightly dramatised) depiction of my writing journey so far…Be Warned, it’s not pretty.

 

Happily, I would tell myself lies; in three years I can be a published author. Then I would wait, patiently; feet up, eyes toward the television, enjoying an LCD synthetic suntan, diving in and out of the PlayStation. I would wait very patiently indeed. Then, when no progress would come, I would seek to know how to be published. Trawling through publishers and agents, scoffing at those who did not accept “unsolicited” manuscripts – morons. Their loss, they will not stand to gain from my immense talent and the eye watering figures of my advance, Ha Ha Ha! I would say; then resume waiting. Sporadically, in between these bouts of waiting, I would write some words, if I felt like it. And if I didn’t, then I’d think about how to spend my HUGE advance, genius ideas like: buy up every billboard in London, and have them display such witticisms as – You shouldn’t have listened to Simon, Schuster! – And my personal favourite – What the fuck do Penguins know about books anyway. Then I would chuckle and continue to consume Doritos while playing PlayStation. When I was not active in such useful endeavours I would be brooding, wondering if I had waited long enough yet. Miserably, I lay in bed, wondering if the postman got lost with my cheque, or worse still, cashed it and was now living my life! My fame, my money, my kudos! I would leap out of bed, consumed by fury; rush down to the nearest post office, and at the top of my voice I’d tell them what thieving, immoral fuckwits they employed. To which the lady behind the glass would inform me that she could not take people serious if they were still wearing pyjamas. Dejected, I would traipse back home, retreat to the solace of my duvet, and commence a threesome with the harlots; Fear and Loathing. Reinvigorated, I would extricate myself from the sweat sodden covers and sit before the computer; where I would tell the page of my woes. After a thousand words or so I’d feel much better, so much better in fact, that I would continue to write religiously, day in, day out. The realisation; when I write, I am at peace. I would continue, until the vigour had dried up. Sitting before the blank word document, staring, into the infinite field of white, where the whispering winds of doubt would taunt me, all the way back to the duvet, where I would brood until I felt some sense of self worth. At which point I returned to waiting, because fuck me, my advance is on its way.

 

That was 2012, and the subsequent years. But if 2013 has taught me anything, it’s that I am nothing if not a creature of habit. Well I have had enough! No longer can I dance with Insanity. I am done with Delusion, and she can take her insatiable friend Expectation, with her. From this point on I am not going to write for anybody but myself. Because, if my name never graces a book (apart from the time I changed it to Charles Dickens) at least I will be happy. If life has a meaning, Happiness would get my vote.

Terribleminds Flash Fiction Challenge: The Secret Door

 

Yes it’s about that time, another Terribleminds flash fiction challenge.

This week, we followed a link labelled The Secret Door

We had to write about where it took us. Mine was somewhere in China, but the location was written in Chinese, so I cannot be sure of where. And I lack the ability of putting the image on this blog. So hopefully you’ll know it when you see it. Anyway, here’s the result.

 

 

Destiny

 

“I seek your wisdom Shaman”
“I know why you have come, young hunter” the Shaman looked up at Akala “sit” he said gesturing to the other side of the fire; it was all that kept the darkness at bay. Akala sat, staring across the fire, wary, but in awe. “So” said the Shaman “you seek an answer”
“Yes” replied Akala
The Shaman smiled, his headdress and face paint made him look sinister in the light of the fire “Then first you must ask a question.” Akala straightened up, fixed the Shaman with a look, and said “Do not toy with me Shaman, you know why I am here.” The Shaman nodded, the feathers in his headdress flapped like the birds to which they had once belonged “still, you must ask the question; the spirits guide me, not I them” Akala took a deep breath, gathering his patience, his father warned him of mystics, had begged him not to go. But he had to know; so he made the journey across the Sahara in search of the Shaman.
“What is the meaning of my dream?”
The Shaman scooped up some sand; palm open he held it before the fire, and then blew. Akala leaned back as the fire roared, before reverting to a gentle crackle. The Shaman picked up his stick, and held it in the fire briefly; then pointed it toward his left. Akala could feel the ground slither beneath him. He watched as the sand where the Shaman was pointing moved; cascading upward, as though rising from the depths of the Sahara itself. When the Shaman was done, there stood a door.

“You will find what you seek beyond the door” he said. Akala rose to his feet, he studied the door with the same uneasiness he had the Shaman. The fire illuminated its gnarled wooden surface, he looked at the silver head that protruded from the middle; a lion, with a ring in its mouth. Akala looked back at the Shaman.
“Is the Hunter stifled by fear?”
Akala simply glared in reply. He pushed the door open; the pitted hinges squealed in protest. Akala had expected to be bathed in light, but instead he was presented with darkness. Resisting the urge to look back, he crossed the threshold.

Akala was overlooking a pool; two streams floated down over rocks and led into it. All around were vivid pink petal’s, broken by the occasional patch of green. Akala noticed – though they had not noticed him – that he was standing beside a group of people who were different to himself; smaller, and their skin was pale compared to the deep brown of his own. They seemed to be enjoying the view, discussing it in a foreign tongue. Akala looked back to the water, and on a rock between the two streams, stood the Shaman. When he blinked, the Shaman was gone. Jumping the small wooden fence, Akala made his way down to the water. He could sense the Shaman, felt as though he was being pulled toward him. The water lapped up his shins as he walked toward the small alcove to the left of the streams. The Shaman was waiting. “Why have you led me here mystic?” asked Akala. The Shaman put a finger to his lips, and waved his stick across the pool of water between them. Akala watched as a vision appeared in the ripples.

A man stood atop a pile of logs, he was chained at the feet, and his arms were chained independently of each other and in turn, to the floor. An iron collar round his neck was tied to the chains that bound his feet. The man resembled those Akala had stood beside when overlooking the streams.
“Why have you brought me here to watch my dream Shaman?”
“The young hunter will see beyond that which his mind has shown him”
Akala frowned at the Shaman, and then looked back to the water. Other pale men were lashing the bound man; whips, chains and sticks. Akala could feel his pain, though the man did not flinch – he barely batted an eyelid. Another man stepped forward, clearly their leader, ordering them to cease. He walked toward the chained man; he held a stick, the top of which was alight. This was where Akala’s dream ended every night, waking him in cold sweats and leaving him with an impending sense of doom. But the vision continued to play out in the ripples of the water. The man threw the stick at the feet of the chained man; Akala watched as the flames danced across the logs, and began to rise. The man looked up, and for the first time Akala could see his face. He seemed to look straight into his eyes, as though he knew Akala was watching. Before the flames engulfed him, the man smiled. Akala looked to the Shaman, pleading for answers. The Shaman nodded toward the water. Akala watched the flames consume the man. A roar like nothing he had heard erupted from the fire, and then so to, did something else. Shooting upward; red, scaly and huge, it hung in the sky, its wings beating slowly. The men stared up in disbelief. Time stood still as Akala took in the sight of the creature. It roared again as it had in the fire and spat flames at its tormentors; the men screamed in pain, as the fire peeled flesh from their bones. The beast flew toward Akala, roaring as it did, and then darkness. Akala was sitting before the fire once more, across from the Shaman. He looked round, perplexed. “What was that?” Akala asked
“A Dragon”
“It seemed so real”
“It is” said the Shaman
Akala looked at him, his face convoluted with confusion. “Myths, Legends, Fables” said the Shaman “They never die, just lay dormant, but now they stir”
Akala stared into the fire, gazing at the dancing embers. “So what am I to do?” he asked. The Shaman grinned “Fulfil your destiny”

Terribleminds Flash Fiction Challenge: Ten Words Will Give You Five

 

This weeks challenge at Terribleminds, was to select five words out of the given ten.

I chose:

• Library
• Ethreal
• Undertaker
• Envelope
• Cube

And this is what I did with it.

 

Pandora’s Key

 

‘Hand me the crow-bar Pip’
‘Why are we breaking in to a public Library, Mr Fortune?’ asked Pip while reaching into a plumbers bag he was holding.
‘I’ve told you before Pip, my father’s name is Mr Fortune’ he shimmied the crow bar into the gap between the door, his face awash with concentration, his tongue poking slightly from between his lips, like the head of a wary tortoise. The door made a clunk, and then popped open. With a smile on his face he said ‘Call me, Simon.’
They entered the darkness of the Library. The ghostly white light of the moon illuminated small sections of the vast room, elevating the slightly eerie atmosphere to something more sinister. ‘The torch, Pip’ Pip fumbled through the bag in the darkness, then searched slowly for Simon’s outstretched hand ‘Thank, you’ he said, clasping the torch. Pip followed Simon through the maze of desks and bookshelves; the sound of their footsteps echoed across the parquet floor. ‘Mr For…Simon’ Pip asked, the words seem to catch in his throat.
‘Yes?’
‘Erm, why are we breaking in to a public Library?’ asked Pip.
Simon continued to swing the torch before him as he walked; the light was scanning the room, though it seemed to have no direction whatsoever.
‘Because we need to get in Pip’
‘I see that sir, but, why do we not just wait till they open?’
Simon stopped suddenly, pointed the torch to his left, and then walked down the aisle. ‘Because, dear boy’ he said while searching the shelves packed full of thick leather bound books ‘by then it may be too late – ah ha!’ Pip watched Simon reach up and pull a large book down from one of the higher shelves. ‘Come along Pip’ he said as he strode off. From the corner of his eye, Pip noticed something; he reached down and found it to be an envelope, it had once been white, but was now nicotine in colour, like his father’s fingers had been.
‘Mr Fortune sir I –’ Simon cut him off ‘Shhh, not now Pip.’
Simon placed the book on a large oak desk, and switched on a small brass lamp. He blew the dust off the brown leather cover and Pip could just about read the faded words on the front “Did the Greeks get it right: – Myths and Legends of substance.” Pip watched as Simon rifled through the pages, muttering to himself as he went. After several minutes passed he said ‘That’s it!’ Simon reached for his satchel; he rummaged through it furiously, until he pulled out a small cube and placed it in the light of the lamp. The cube was no bigger than an apple, but somewhat less edible. To Pip it seemed to shimmer, as though it were grey, then green, then black, then purple; and its sides were decorated with strange symbols. ‘What is that, sir?’ asked Pip. ‘This?’ Simon said picking up the cube ‘is the key to Pandora’s box’ he beamed, rather pleased with himself ‘it will open the box, and thus a doorway, either to the Ethereal plane or…somewhere I’d rather not think about’
Pip let the information sink in then said
‘So that’s why we’re trying to keep it from the Undertaker?’
‘Precisely dear boy’ he nodded ‘If the Undertaker got his hands on this, all hell would break loose – quite literally’ Simon turned back to the book and began to study the open pages, muttering to himself as he read. ‘It’s no good Pip; I can’t read all this information here. We’ll have to take the book’
‘Correction’ the voice had taken them by surprise; their hearts began to spasm as their stomachs filled with ice ‘I’ll take the book’ from out of the darkness a figure loomed; it was tall, the cape it wore shrouded it in black, as though it had no discernible shape, its face was pale white, contrasted only by mutton chops of dark hair, its eyes shimmered red in the lamp light, and on its head stood a large top hat.
‘Undertaker’ Pip heard Simon mutter the words under his breath.
‘It’s ever so kind of you to do all the hard work for me, Fortune’ his voice was dull and toneless, yet full of malice. ‘Leave the cube atop the book and step away from the desk’ Simon did as he was told, he stood beside Pip; never taking his eyes from the Undertaker. ‘Do whatever you will to me Undertaker, but do not harm the boy’ he said. The Undertaker smiled, it was a smile that would incite tears in children ‘The boy has suffered enough being saddled with you’ he chuckled slightly ‘presides, when you broke in you triggered the silent alarm, the Police will be here any moment and they’ll arrest you, by which time I will be long gone, with the key, and the book’ he smiled again ‘you’ve lost, Fortune’ with those words he faded into the darkness, with book and cube in hand, leaving nothing but the echo of his laughter. Pip could feel the anger in Simon, choosing his words carefully he spoke ‘Mr Simon, sir’ Simon turned and looked at him; he looked defeated, and the anger was all for himself ‘This fell out of that book when you pulled it off the shelf’ Pip handed him the discoloured envelope. Simon took it in silence; he opened it. He studied the letter inside for a minute, before his face seemed to combust with joy. ‘Pip!’ he exclaimed ‘This letter tells us the location of Pandora’s Box’ he grabbed the young boy by the shoulders and shook him ‘as long as we get to the box before the Undertaker, we can stop him’ the sound of police sirens could be heard in the distance. Pip said ‘I think, Mr Fortune sir, we’d better leave’

Terribleminds Flash Fiction Challenge: They Fight Crime!

 

Okay, so it’s been a while since I played, but I could not resisit this one. The task was to head on over to They Fight Crime! A random generator that offers two character discriptions that always end with; They Fight Crime!

I got:

He’s a sword-wielding guerrilla paranormal investigator, searching for his wife’s true killer. She’s an artistic, snooty, research scientist, with a birthmark shaped like liberty’s torch. They Fight Crime!

I adapted the sentence slightly by turning the word Guerrilla into the word Gorilla.

And here we have:

 

The Pentalpha Conundrum

 

‘Hello’
the voice came soothingly through the darkness
‘I said, Hello’
a sting in his cheek removed the darkness like the flip of a coin.
‘That’s better’
the voice was somewhat less sweet now, more upper class snobbery than lullaby.
‘What. Is. Your. Name?’
‘Pa…Paul’
His eyes had been open, but lacked focus. Only now could the voice’s owner be deciphered from the blur; she wore thick rimmed glasses, her blue eyes shimmered through the lenses, studying him. Her hair was in a tight bun, the blonde highlights stood out amongst the otherwise neutral brown.
‘What happened here Paul?’
The blunt tone of her voice reverberated around his tender skull; he felt as though he had downed a litre of whiskey – the cheap stuff.
‘I…don’t know’
Paul looked at the shadow that loomed from the corner of his eye
‘Is’ he frowned, the back of his head throbbed ‘that a Gorilla?’
‘Yes, now let’s concentrate on the important things shall we’ she said ‘What did they want, and which way did they go?’
Paul continued to stare at the Gorilla; it stared back.
‘Why is it wearing clothes, and is that a sword?’
She sighed, it was full of frustration, like an impatient teacher ‘Yes, now if you could tell me what they were after, or anything, anything at all’
‘What, who, what are you talking about?’ Paul asked
To Paul’s surprise, it was the Gorilla that spoke ‘It’s no use Liberty, they put the freeze on him’
‘Well, it was worth a shot’ she stood up, and Paul noticed she was wearing a pristine, white lab coat.
‘Did it just talk?’ said Paul, gesturing to the Gorilla
‘Don’t be rude Paul, it has a name’
‘Big Gee’ she gestured to the Gorilla. ‘Paul’ she gestured to Paul.
The Gorilla Scowled at him, if his head did not feel like it had been mistaken for a baseball, he might have felt intimidated.
‘We have to find out what they took’ said Big Gee
‘Agreed’ replied Liberty
Paul looked round him, the vast marble floors began to look familiar ‘am I at work?’ he asked
‘You’re in the museum’ Liberty replied ‘But I doubt you’ll have a Job by the morning’

‘The Pentalpha’ exclaimed Liberty.
Paul frowned ‘the Jewish game?’
‘No, the ring given to King Solomon by one of the archangels’ the Gorilla’s rumbled.
The sun was announcing its arrival as the light streamed in through the windows. They had scoured the entire museum before they noticed what was missing. Despite the hours that had passed, Paul’s head continued to throb.
‘Gee, that’s not good’
The Gorilla nodded ‘We have to get out of here before the morning staff arrive’
Paul watched as the blonde and her Gorilla walked away ‘Wait!’ he yelled. They both stopped, though only Liberty turned round ‘Yes?’
Paul walked toward them ‘I have no idea what has happened here, but clearly I’m involved’ Paul ignored the snort from the Gorilla; despite it echoing along the corridor.
‘Look, Paul’ Liberty said, attempting – but failing – to use her most sincere tone. ‘What’s going on here is a little bit beyond your world’ she smiled; Paul was almost convinced she meant it.
‘I don’t care’ he said ‘these people, whoever they were, took something on my watch’ Paul winced, rubbing the back of his head ‘and left me with a splitting headache’
Liberty turned to Gee ‘He may remember something valuable once he’s defrosted’
the Gorilla looked less than impressed; it snorted, then fixed Paul with a scowl ‘Fine’ it said.

 

Paul followed the unusual duo, though he could not be sure of the journey – mainly due to the throbbing in his head – he found himself in a derelict warehouse, on the outskirts of town. He rubbed the dust from a window and peered through the circle he made, the wet pavement outside was a long way down.
‘Gee, I think I’ve found something’
Paul turned to see the Gorilla amble toward Liberty, who was sitting in front of a computer; the light from the screen was only source in the room. Paul noticed a strange mark on her neck. He could not fathom why, but he immediately thought of New York.
‘So that’s why it’s been stolen’ said Big Gee
‘But, by whom?’ replied Liberty
‘let’s hope the night watchman remembers something when he thaws’ looking toward Paul; Big Gee flared his nostrils ‘I’d hate to think we’d been putting up with him for nothing’
Pauls head still pounded, but he had become more aware of the Gorilla’s dislike for him.

Later, when she was alone, Paul spoke to Liberty.
‘Why is he so angry?’
‘He’s perfectly placid, do you mean, why is he full of anger?’ Liberty asked
Though he felt perplexed, Paul nodded.
‘Well how would you feel if you woke up one morning next to your wife, who had been butchered to the point of non-recognition, and the police believed you to be the prime suspect?’
Paul sat open mouthed, staring at liberty
‘Oh, and to top it off, you’d been turned into a Gorilla’
unsure what to say, Paul replied ‘Oh’
‘The sword was laying next to her, it was the weapon they used’ she said all this in the most matter of fact manner ‘He’s determined to use it on whoever owns it’
After a lengthy silence, Paul asked
‘so, are you two like’ he searched his mind for the word ‘superheroes?’
‘Good heavens no’ she said ‘I’m a research scientist, and Big Gee was a paranormal investigator, before someone from the other world took a disliking to his investigations’
‘So why are you looking for whoever stole that ring’ asked Paul
‘Because these are not your average criminals’ she said ‘they’re of a paranormal persuasion’
‘but you said you weren’t superheroes’
‘Superhero, suggests super-powers, and neither of us have those’
Despite his size, Paul had not heard Big Gee approach, so his voice made him jump
‘But’ he said ‘We Fight Crime’

Terribleminds Flash Fiction Challenge: Inspiration from Inexplicable Photos

Yep, It’s that time again. Terribleminds flash fiction challenge.

This week, we followed a link to some peculiar photos taken from behind the Iron Curtain…that’s Russia, incase there’s a place in Amsterdam called the Iron Curtain, I can assure you this is not that kind of post.

Anyway I chose #17 as my inspiration…Enjoy!

 

Strangers on a Train

 

‘She had Tit’s like prize winning pumpkins!’ he extended his hands out in front of him as a visual aid. Chris smiled; shaking his head
‘Toby, every woman you’ve ever had, seems to have a massive rack’
‘I swear’ he put his hand on his chest ‘scouts honour’
they both began to laugh. Chris looked around the tube carriage. No one had seemed bothered by Toby’s rather public rendition of his Thursday night, apart from an old lady, who looked like she lived in Knightsbridge, owned a few cats; which Chris imagined she treated better than her Husband. She sat, stern faced, not looking at them. Her bag was large, filling her lap; other than her head, only her gloves could be seen over the top of it, clasping the handle. Toby tapped him on the shoulder, and did an uncanny impression of her. Chris felt her eyes dart toward them and they began to chuckle, only stopping when she got off at the next stop. It was at this point that Chris noticed something, something he was sure he should have noticed sooner.
In the corner of the carriage, standing just beside the door was a woman. She was dressed all in black; her lank hair and lipstick, her knee high boots, fishnet tights, the raggedy flowing skirt, which looked like the feathers of a few dead ravens. She wore a decretive headband, it protruded slender black horns; strangest of all was her pale white face.
She was looking straight at him, but at the same time, past him. Chris frowned at her and turned to Toby
‘When did she get on?’
Toby looked in the direction Chris had gestured ‘Who?’
‘By the door, Dimwitt’
Toby stared over at her, then looked at Chris as though he had suggested they go for a swim in the Thames
‘You’re winding me up’ said Chris ‘The goth chick standing in the corner’
‘You need some sleep mate’ Toby said shaking his head ‘There’s nothing in that corner but a suspicious stain’
Chris looked again. The girl stood clear as day, and as ordinary as a Hippo in a bathtub.
‘This is my stop mate’ Toby said ‘See you Monday’
Chris turned and nodded; he watched Toby get off the train with most of the other passengers. He attempted to look back to the other door, where the pale faced woman had stood, and yelped in surprise to find her filling the empty seat across from him. A middle aged man reading the Financial Times looked over the rim of his glasses, his eyes full of resentment. The white faced woman stared at Chris. Her eyes were completely black, like she had been licking exotic toads. Feeling uncomfortable, Chris loosened his tie.
‘Hi’ he said
She said nothing.
‘You, off to a party?’ he asked
She said nothing. Just stared at him; Chris felt as though her eyes were swallowing him.
‘It’s rude to stare’ Chris said with a little less patience.
Still she remained silent. Feeling eyes on him, Chris turned to see the Financial Times reader staring over the rim of his glasses.
‘Can he see you?’ Chris asked her.
She shook her head, in a slow methodical manner. Chris looked back to the man; who had returned to his paper. Chris guessed he had seen queerer things on his commute. The pale faced woman got to her feet as the train rolled into the station. She walked toward the door where she had been standing.
‘Wait’ Chris got to his feet ‘where are you going?’
She extended her index finger, and began to flex it slowly toward her. The train stopped and the doors opened.
Chris followed her out of the carriage. She walked in the opposite direction to everyone else who exited the train. ‘Hey!’ Chris called after her ‘Where are you going, the exit’s this way.’ She continued to walk on. Chris took a deep breath and followed her. The train clattered out of the station, while the pale faced woman walked toward the mouth of the tunnel.
‘You can’t go down there’ called Chris as he watched her walk into the dark. Against his better judgement, he followed. Chris found her in the dim, red tinged light of the tunnel. She held open a maintenance door, gesturing for him to go in. Chris frowned, his feet were carrying him through the door before he fully thought it through; a recurring problem in his life.
The door shut behind him, and Chris found himself in a dark room; it was tinged red by a caged light that hung on the wall. The drip of a water leak could be heard amongst the hum of electrical wiring.
‘Hello, Christopher’
the rasping voice came from the darkest corner of the room, where the red light could not reach. Chris squinted, but could not make out the source
‘Who’s there?’
the reply was a dull clunk, followed by another, and then another; until from out of the darkness Chris could make out the figure of a small man, supported by a walking stick, he was hunched over beneath his brown hooded robe.
Chris could still not define him, but he was certain he did not know him
‘How do you know my name?’ he said ‘Who are you?’
‘I’m the gatekeeper Christopher’
‘The wha – ’
‘Gatekeeper’ the old man cut in ‘you’ve already met, Viola’
Chris turned to see the woman from the train, her face glowing like a full moon in the darkness. He was sure he had entered the room alone, when the Gatekeeper commandeered his attention
‘You have a debt to pay Christopher’
‘What?’ Chris said ‘I don’t even know you’
‘True’ the Gatekeeper agreed ‘But that does not change the debt that you owe’
Chris frowned ‘I don’t owe anyone any money, least of all an old cripple and a’ he gestured to the pale faced woman ‘whatever that is’
‘True’ the Gatekeeper said in agreement.
‘So what the fuck is this all about?’ Chris spat
‘There is no need for such language’ said the Gatekeeper ‘The debt belonged to your father’
Chris sighed, shaking his head ‘I barely know the man’ he said
‘True’ said the Gatekeeper
‘He’s a dead beat’ Chris said this to himself mostly
‘Some of this is true’ said the Gatekeeper
‘Here, this is all I have on me’ Chris reached into his pocket and pulled out a few folded notes. After counting them he said ‘Here, there’s eighty quid’
‘I’m afraid this is a different kind of debt’ said the Gatekeeper
‘Well, that’s all you’re getting from me’ Chris said throwing the money before the old man’s feet. ‘The rest he can pay himself’
‘How so?’ asked the Gatekeeper
‘I don’t know, I don’t care’ Chris said ‘not my problem’
‘Dead men cannot pay debts’ said the Gatekeeper
‘Wha –’ he stammered ‘dead…he’s dead?’
‘you said so yourself’
‘what, when?’ said Chris
‘you said he’s a dead beat’
‘I meant he’s useless!’
‘Well yes’ said the Gatekeeper ‘he’s dead’
Chris felt overwhelmed; he may have loathed his father, a man who was no more than a shadow in his life; but his mouth was dry, he found it hard to swallow, though he put this down to the tennis ball that had materialised in his throat.
‘So’ said the Gatekeeper ‘you are now the owner of the debt’
Chris looked at the man as though he had suggested they play twister. ‘Fuck you’ he spat ‘and fuck your debt!’ Chris made to walk away; but found himself face to face with Viola; her onyx like eyes glinted in the dark.
‘I’m afraid, Christopher’ said the Gatekeeper ‘in the Underworld, debts are always repaid’
Chris looked round at the old man and said ‘yeah?…make me’
The Gatekeeper shrugged and said ‘Very well, Viola’
Chris watched as the pale face of the woman turned – instantaneously – from placid, to what Chris could only compare with an eighty year old vagina, with teeth. Whether it was a blow to the head, karate chop to the neck or the sudden shock of what he saw; Chris passed out.

Terribleminds Flash Fiction Challenge: Three Haikus Tell One Story

Another blog post, another Terribleminds flash fiction challenge.

This week…Three Haikus 5,7,5 format, to tell one story.

To my best recollection, this is my first attempt at haiku.

I call it…

 

Lucifer

His way was weakness.
“Sheep, shepherd thyselves.”
I accused him meek.

Assemble my allies.
Said; “We shall take what is ours!”
Dethrone the almighty.

Beat by his forces.
Exile; Banished from heaven.
Son of the Morning.