Appearances and Disappearances (Luminous Creatures)

Photo courtesy of Emily June Street (via Luminous Creatures Summer of Short Stories Week Two)


Appearances and Disappearances

They are there one day, where once was just gravel and dirt, reaching skyward, thick and tall. Before nightfall they are the talk of the town. You go to see them, of course, amongst the curious in the crowds, to press a finger to the cold stone and wonder at the meaning of the symbols inscribed upon them. They are far up on each of them, too high to touch, surface too smooth to climb. You screw your eyes up against the light, hand above an eye, to try to see them clearly. An alien? A sea horse, perhaps? They blur as the sands shift in the breeze,clouding your vision momentarily. You hear someone say they see a winged dragon and smile briefly. Perhaps you are this year's community in joke - the season's take on the crop circle - captured on camera for posterity. You scan the mobile phones and cameras cautiously. They are pointed, one and all, front and centre, at the standing stones.

You circle the two pillars, walk between them, take a snap or tow to tweet before abandoning the site to dusk and dirt, as numbers dwindle. You think you will return for a closer look sometime, presupposing they are still there in the morning.

By nightfall next day they have multiplied magically, three freestanding, where once were two, fresh symbol imprinted on the tip, up on high. You struggle to see amongst additional sightseers, the sea of shufflers grumbling forwards, as they submit to queuing to take their turn.  The stones stand regimented, ruler straight in line. Impossible to see how deeply they reach down, though you scrabble at the base of one amongst the grains. They bury themselves under your nails.  You frown at the kick back, as you feel - or think you feel - a short, sharp shock to your fingertips where they touch the granite. You pull them back, raising them to your lips to cool the smart. There is heat where you suck them, though you see no red, raised marks or burn. You tell yourself it is your imagination which has been sparked by the mystery of the standing stones and what they may represent. You tell yourself aloud, then repeat it.

There are five at dead of night when you approach again, alone, as others sleep. You nod, once, twice, to each of them in turn, smile slightly as you take in the now familiar symbols and those new to you, completing the quintet. You inhale as you walk between the pillars, breathe out onto each in turn, inscribed images fully illuminated in your eyes now you see. You know where they will take you, with them, on their journey and where it ends. That those who travel to see the standing stones tomorrow will see merely gravel and dirt, where once were pillars and a girl.  You wonder how long it will be before they realise their silent stone visitors have taken a willing souvenir with them.


Comment

Another piece for the Luminous Creatures Press competition.  This one was second runner up and received lovely feedback!

On The Run (Angry Hourglass)

Photo courtesy of Ashwin Rao (via Angry Hourglass Flash Frenzy Round 25)


On The Run

It had started with the dreams.  Now Maddie was trekking in the midday sun, backpack creating sticky patches between her shoulders, clasping Phil’s hand, as his feet dragged in the dirt.  Helen was ahead with Kat, Seb piggy backing on her shoulders.  “Are we there yet?” Phil asked.

“Nearly,” Maddie answered, between breaths and a wipe of her brow.

 “You said that last time!” Phil protested.  “I’ve counted three hundred steps since then!”

“Sorry, sweetie,” Maddie said.  “We can’t stop.  Not yet.  We’re still too close.”

“To what?” Phil demanded. 

Maddie gave his hand a tug.  “Just a little further, I promise.”   Phil sighed, trainers stumbling on the parched grass.  “Okay up front?”

“Yep,” Helen said, glancing briefly at Maddie.  “This is right, isn’t it?” she asked.

“Think so,” Maddie answered.  “No way we could’ve stayed, anyway.  Not after Tess and Dan.”

“Little pitchers, waggling ears,” Helen said tersely.  Maddie made eye contact, raising her eyebrows, before letting out a long breath.

“Point,” she conceded.  They were several miles from the village, yet it loomed behind them, in the dip of the valley.  Maddie wanted it gone, though that wouldn’t rid her of the memory of makeshift wooden markers driven into arid mud.  She sighed again.  “Still wish we’d cottoned on sooner. Might have brought a couple more with.”

“No way to know,” Helen said, “without being psychic.”

Maddie gave her The Look.

“Sorry,” Helen said.  “Wasn’t really thinking.”

“It just bugs me,” Maddie said.  “Having so little to go on.  It’s not like there’s a clear thread through it.  Wish there was.”

“Don’t we all,” Helen responded.  “We’re here, though.  Let’s work with that.  Time to crack on.”  She hefted her rucksack, shifting it into position across her shoulders.  “Ready?”

Maddie nodded, trying to clear her head of the missing.  She hated that it was kids; that she saw them slip through the cracks, at night.  Never a trace by morning; just gone.  Prayed that she was right to take them away, to seek to escape it.  Couldn’t quite dismiss the image of the flower bedecked crosses atop the lofty hills.  She could recall how many there had been.

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Another "Angry Hourglass" entry.  This came second!

Restoration of Faith (VisDare)

Photo Source (via VisDare-66)

Restoration of Faith

Ellie shakes as Meg sobs, holding her closely.  “Shush,” she says.  “Hey.”  Nonsense words after what has happened.  “We’re going to be okay, I promise.  Together.”  The promise is for herself, as much as for Meg, simply to say the words.  The cries have reached their crescendo and are dying down now, though Meg’s cheeks are still moist, tears dripping from her chin into the lengthy grass they are crouched amongst as she weeps. 

Ellie has her sister’s back turned so she cannot see the wisps of smoke rising from the remnants of what is left of their homestead.  The smog has dissipated slightly, drifting away with the breeze.  Though the flames are gone, she sees them still, etched into her memory.  She feels the heat on her skin, which is streaked by the soot which was left behind.  Though they are marked, she knows they are the lucky ones.

Comment

150 words based on a pretty powerful photo prompt.  The word prompt this week was "restoration".  I was thinking of Ellie's words as being the "restorative" responsible for calming Meg down. post panic and trauma of the (fictional) fire which has destroyed their home.

The Smiling Assassin (Horror Bites)

Photo courtesy of the Office Mango Horror Bites Challenge 6

The Smiling Assassin

“Ready?” Des asks.

Grace nods.  She is used to the drill, though this is the first time she has been involved in the Smiling Assassin’s case, save for the paper trail.  She has seen enough to disturb her sleep occasionally, thankful some of the photographs were black and white, not full colour.  “Has she been prepped?  She knows why I’m here?”

Des nods.  “Seems willing enough.  Guess I would be in her shoes.  Now she’s awake.”  His eyes meet Grace’s briefly, grim, before shifting away again, professionalism setting in.

“Room One?” Grace asks, moving towards the double doors at the ward entrance.  Des nods again.  She has her ID in her right hand already to display to Security stationed outside the door to the single room in which the vic is waiting.  She flashes it at them, having to pause as they look more closely; precautionary.  Grace stops, holding it out properly, colour photo clearly on show.  “Media?” she says.

The guard nods briefly.  “Vultures.  After pictures, obviously.”  They exchange a loaded glance.  “You’re fine.  She’s expecting you.  Remember to cleanse way in, way out.”  Grace is already heading towards the hand gel dispenser, gesturing to Des to follow.  “Good luck,” the guard says.  “Hope you get him after what he’s done.”

“We do too,” Des says, before Grace turns the handle and they are into Room One where Hannah Drew is waiting.  She looks up, eyes wide, as they enter, though they have been expected for perhaps quarter of an hour now.  Traffic was bad on the way in.

“Hello, Hannah,” Grace says quietly.  The girl’s throat works, swallowing perhaps or seeking to speak.  “I’m Grace.  I’m here to talk to you; to see if we can help you.  Try to find the man who did this to you.  D’you want to nod if that’s okay?  If you think you’re ready to try and help us?”

Hannah nods vigorously, though her eyes are blurry with unshed tears. 

“I need you to hold your hand up if this is too much for you at any point and you want to stop.  You’ll do that, won’t you?”  The girl nods again, brushing a hand across one eye.

“I’m going to give you some paper and a pen, if that’s all right.  I need you to tell me if you knew him – if you can give us a name.”  Grace holds her breath.  The girl had been unconscious on arrival, no chance of any interview; too traumatised afterwards.  Small wonder.

Hannah nods again, more strongly than before.  Her lips open wide without volition and Grace sees for herself the havoc the Smiling Assassin wreaks on his victims.  Hannah’s gums have few teeth embedded in them.  She cannot see a tongue in the shadows of her mouth.  Incantation kept her alive through the process.  The rest was makeshift dentistry by a madman.  “Tell us,” Grace says.  She watches as Hannah begins to shape the letters, as they lengthen into all too familiar forms.

Comment

My take on a horror piece involving a dentist's chair.  Think I took this off on a slight slant, once again!

The Descent (Luminous Creatures Summer of Super Short Stories Week One)

Photo courtesy of Emily Jane Street (via Luminous Creatures Summer of Super Short Stories Week One)


The Descent

The ruby red, rounded shape was there waiting first thing in the morning; strategically set on top of the sheets, when she woke.  Truthfully speaking, she has been expecting it for days, having dreamt of the grove of trees from which the junction of the rivers stems and the thick roots topped by the white funnel shaped blooms amidst the swarms of squeaking shadows. 

It is his way of playing, though as far as she is concerned, things are properly played out by this point in time.  She needs no outsized reminder of his enforced obligations.  “Hellfire!” she says, before the corners of her mouth twitch slightly at the words.  “And damnation indeed,” she adds, to an empty room.  She splits the fruit in a swift downward motion, causing a dribble of juice to stain the covers.  The seeds are packed in tightly amidst the flesh, so she has to dig a little with her nails to pull them out, right from the centre.  She counts a sparse translucent six; no more, no less.  “Figures,” she says, toying with a pip between her fingers, before raising it aloft and swallowing it down.  She shudders as she does so, frowning slightly.  “Pigging pomegranates!  Still sour, then.”  She pushes one after another after another passed her lips in quick succession, once she has stilled herself from swallowing the first.  Red stains her fingers, which she licks clean, wiping the sticky residue against her dark dress, irrespective of whether it shows or not against the dark fabric.  Their bitterness leaves its aftertaste on her lips, as the seeds churn in her stomach, refusing to settle fully.  She knows of old when and where the sensation will cease.  

Sephy sits, waiting for her escort into darkness; possibly Darkness himself, though she is most used to the company of obol-eyed Charon on her lengthy descents.  Easier to send someone who can’t answer back to challenge, query or quandary, she suspects.   She has never been trusted to walk the sections of the realm alone on entry, though left to her own devices on leaving.  “Take me to my husband,” she mutters beneath her breath, rolling her eyes.  He tends to keep her waiting, despite the early fruity wake up call.    

She feels them already – the simple skeletons, the frozen, the eternally blood-spattered alike.  Soon she will – must- pass amongst them again.  It is small consolation that she must serve only three months.  They do not – cannot – care, though for a time they are her people, without being capable of answering as such.

The door in front of Sephy opens and her eyes acknowledge the figure crossing the threshold.  She crosses to him, holding out her hand to take his.  They clasp palms and the bony fingers close firmly around her own.  Sephy nods.  “Ready,” she says.  “Again.”  The journey into the heart of Hades is long, capable of seeming to encompass one’s lifetime, though Sephy knows the truth.  She will endure this cycle forever on repeat.

Comment

This one was written for a new flash fiction competition running over the summer at the Luminous Creatures website.  The challenge involves writing a flash fiction story of up to 500 words based on the picutre prompt.  The fruit in the picture led me to writing a take on Persephone and pomegranate seeds.

Spreading The Word - NFFD

My flash fiction piece "Sampling Spirits" is now up as part of National Flash Fiction Day's "Flash Flood" here (explanation related to the "Flash Flood" here).  Pretty chuffed it was selected as one of the 144 featured out of 550 submitted!

Personally, I'm enjoying reading a number of the other entries which are going up every ten minutes or so at the site for the entirety of the day - feel free to check them out!

Additionally, there's a call out for submissions to the site's "Write In", should you feel inspired and want to join in on the fun!

Betwixt and Between (MWBB)

Betwixt and Between

“Spit,” the man demands.  Sal obliges, cupping her saliva in her right palm, where it mingles with the blood pooling from the cut across it.  She slaps it into his hand, where their fingers grasp each other firmly.  “Sealed,” the man says, confirming it is done.  His eyes flare for a second, flame red, across the black enlarged pupil, before returning to an indiscriminate grey.

“I leave it there?” Sal asks, casting her eyes towards the gravel where the crossroads intersect, which shows recent signs of digging.  The spade she brought with her is still standing in it, partially buried, enabling it to maintain its upright position.  He nods.  “Don’t I get to know your name?”

“Nice try, doll,” the dark suited man says.  “You don’t need it; not now.  Plus, if I tell you, you’ve got leverage for as long as I give you, although it isn’t that long to play with in real terms.  Doubt you’d have enough time to do much damage with it.  Still, never try to play a player.  I’ve been around too long to fall for that.  You’ll know my name before the end.  Once you do, you won’t want to – but it’ll be far too late by then.”  He smiles at her, without apparent guile, though it does not reach his deadened eyes.  Sal does not smile in response.  “Still your man though, given you’re getting what you wanted.”

Sal opens her mouth to protest, before shutting it again, cutting off the words.  “I’m used to high stakes,” she says, instead.  Surprisingly, it produces an impromptu laugh from the bony stranger.

“Can’t push the ante past this point,” the man says.  “You’ve dealt yourself the dead man’s hand.”  His tone is mocking now that the deal is sealed and there is no reneging from it.

“Can’t live forever anyway.  Wouldn’t want to,” Sal responds.  The words falter as she breaks off, leaving the silence to speak for her once she is done. 

“Hmmm,” the man says, pointedly.

“When will it take?” Sal asks sharply.  “You’ve got yourself your deal; it’s done.  What about Sara?”

“Already taken care of, my sweet.  See for yourself shortly.  Good as new.  She’ll live out a healthy life.”

“Minus a mother.” Sal’s tone is bitter, briefly.

“You knew the stakes when you signed.  Gambling’s always been a fool’s game.  Take it from an expert; I’ve seen enough of them to know by now.  All players in, seats open, playing for the high one; born to lose in life.”

“Nice to know that’s how you get your kicks,” Sal says.

“I haven’t even started,” the man replies.  “There’s the second round yet.   You’ll like me much better than my final friends, I can promise you that.  They like to play more than me, though they’re less polite about it.”

Sal shudders at the words, though she tries to keep from shaking so it can be seen.  “Will I see them?” she asks.  “The hounds?”

“Yes.”

“Will I know when they’re coming?”

“You have about a year, give or take.  No more, possibly less.”

“But will you warn me?” Sal prompts, again.  “Do I have time to prepare, to make plans?”

“Not so much,” the man says.  “Unfair, you think?  Maybe so.  I told you though - I always make sure I hold the winning hand.”

“The ace,” Sal says.

“The only card I ever need,” the man agrees.

“My need,” Sal clarifies.

“Precisely so,” he says.

“Can I leave now?” Sal asks.

“Enjoy your time,” the man, whose name she does not yet know, invites.  “You’ll hear them coming.  They tend to bay when hunting their prey.”

“Sara can’t see,” Sal warns.

“Not part of the deal,” is his response.  “You’ll have to take your chances – and, after all, how will you know one way or the other, when all’s said and done?”

Sal turns on her heel swiftly, before turning back for a final glance.  He is gone.  She does not know if recovering the cylinder containing the graveyard dirt covering the sliver of bone and her photo from underground will help.  She has less than a year to find a loophole.  All part of the game, perhaps.

Comment

This last week's Mid-Week Blues Buster entry, based on Motorhead's "Ace of Spades",  It was a really pleasant surprise to wake up this morning to find out it had won!

Step By Step (Flash! Friday)

Photo by Lewis Hine National Archives Public Domain (via Flash! Friday)


Step By Step

Sweat coats Rose's brow as the sun beats upon it, whilst she labours, weighed down.  She bears the berry filled boxes at the crook of either arm; balance and counterbalance.  She has gathered all she can find.  She sinks further into the sand beneath her bare feet today, making it harder to gain purchase; to keep herself moving further and forwards, on towards home.  Her toes curl under; slip, slide and stumble, whilst her eyes watch their distant goal.  Soon, she tells herself.  Soon!  She will - must - get there; fairy steps or not.  She is - will be - waiting when she gets there.  Rose sets herself to counting, though she is countless after what would have been first, second or third.  She thinks she reaches several thousand.

"I have them," Rose says, into the contrasting cool of the homestead, as she crosses the threshold.  They are gathered, mute, by the bedside.  "But I fetched them!" Rose protests.  "So we could eat."

Comment

Another short piece of 160 words for this week's Flash! Friday competition.  The word prompt this week was "friendship".

I Sent Some Ships A Sailing By (VisDare)

Photo Source (via VisDare-64)

I Sent Some Ships A Sailing By

Jo crafts her origami ships carefully, before she sets them to sail, melting candlewax to coat the paper to waterproof it thoroughly.  She is methodical and thorough in her methods.  She tries to make each one slightly different in design, even though the basics are the same.  She smiles as she sees them ride the water’s waves, travelling towards destinations unknown.  There have been many maiden voyages to date, though they never return to tell the tale of where they have run aground.  Still, she lets them go to make their way in the world, her handwritten hello inscribed on the inside for the one careful enough to look for it.  Time turns before the more traditional response, through the letterbox.  After all, the river runs but one way.  A respondee must find another way.  Jo grins as she reads the words.  The Nadia is a survivor and found land.

Comment

The word for this week was "awash".  Think I went in a different direction with this one but I had an idea for the story and ran (or sailed) with it!

Shades of Laughter (Angry Hourglass)

Photo courtesy of Ashwin Rao (via The Angry Hourglass "Flash Frenzy" Competition Round 23)


Shades of Laughter

Em watches her skip and sway through the darkened corridor and into the sunlight.  Soph giggles, swishing the white skirt of her new dress around her knees, put on especially to go play in, so it creates its own breeze.  She begged so hard Em had to let her, just this once.  She said she would be careful not to get it dirty.  Em knew she’d try, at least.  “Don’t go too far!” she warned, as Soph gambolled into the street, all limbs and laughter.  Em hears it echo along the walls, as she stands there, though it has long since faded, out and away.  She had been just behind her, just those couple of minutes.  Too many; too long.

Em watches Soph skip in laughter to darkness, unknowing.  She cannot stop herself seeing, the moment playing on restless repeat.  She sees without seeing the invisible hand of the perpetrator who took Soph, smiling; wrestled her off into the dark of perpetual, oblivious oblivion.  The street had been silent when she stepped over the doorstep; no Soph, not even as a speck in the distance.  She had known, then, though she had asked around the neighbours; called friends and casual acquaintances.  No one had seen her or heard a sound.  Perhaps the unseen assailant had silenced Soph somehow or other.  Still, Em fancies she can hear as Soph’s laugh fades to nothing, as she is dragged off into the distance.  

Em knows how it ends now, has seen it for herself.  It does not, cannot - has not - helped her.  She sees the ragged remnants of the white dress, once pristine, now dirt covered; hem blackened by grit and mud on the slab before her.  It bears the bloody stains of the struggle she was not there to see, though she bears witness to it now, silent observer.  She knows Soph fought to keep her dress clean – that she tried to the end.  The bruised body tells its tale, though the stare is sightless blank.  Her patent shoes are missing, likewise socks; a toe nail torn away.  She should have been – was – just behind her.  Too long; too late.

Comment

Another Angry Hourglass "Flash Frenzy" entry.  Something about the image of the girl skipping through the doorway kept coming back to me, which possibly led to the formatting and eventual idea for how this story should be told this week.  Unusually, no spec fic element either.  Straight, sober fiction for this week's effort.

Sampling Spirits (Angry Hourglass)

Photo courtesy of Ashwin Rao (via Angry Hourglass "Flash Frenzy" Round 22)


Sampling Spirits

“Young,” Matt states decisively, passing the unmarked bottle to his left. 

Sam sniffs.  “Too imprecise a classification, I’d say.”

“Right though, aren’t I?”

“Sweet yet spicy,” Sam counters, setting his glass down.  “Do we have another?”

“Try this one.  Dex brought it with.”  A suit clad male lounging lazily at the far side of the table raises a mostly empty glass as they glance across.

“Do we know where he got it?”

“Do you care?”

“I guess not.  Hope he was careful though.  If word of The Distillery gets out…”

“Then what?”

“Nothing, I guess…”  Matt places a large black glass into Sam’s left hand and a smaller version into his right. 

Sam raises an eyebrow.  “Guess Dex doesn’t want his source traced.  Pretty precautionary.”

“We’re in it together.  Besides, you said it.  Where’s the evidence once we’ve drunk it all?”

Sam’s eyes flash once, locking in, then away.  “Swirl,” he says, though the colour of the glass prevents it.

“Sniff,” Matt responds.

“Sip.”  Sam raises the liquid to his lips, sampling.

“Savour,” Matt says.

“Complex,” Sam concludes.  “A beauty, I’d say.  Make sure she doesn’t go to waste.”  He passes the larger glass to the other man.  “You’ll appreciate this one – or, rather, you’d better.  Dex is becoming a connoisseur in the sensory perception selection process, sly dog.  Love to know where he found this one.  Might even ask him if I have the bottle.”  Sam’s mouth quirks slightly at the quip.

“Any more for any more?” Sam asks, when Matt does not respond in kind.  The debris and detritus of their evening is in front of them; numerous empty glasses and bottles they have drunk their way through already, mere dregs at the bottom, scarcely enough to fill a quarter of a glass.

“Just this, I think.” Matt gestures to a wide bottomed flask.

“Vintage?” Sam queries, as Matt swigs a sip, before grimacing.

“Vinegar,” he says, wincing.

They look towards Jem to their far left, accusing.  “Perfectly captured,” he responds, saluting them with his own glass.  “Pretty sour when we were together.  Had to get rid of her somehow.  Feel free to stick her down the sink.”

(360 words)

Comment

Somehow this became a story about a gentleman's club with a difference from the photo prompt...

Ed: To add have found out this placed as second runner up for this week - my first placing for Hourglass to date!

Fight The Fear (MWBB)

They are here and they have found him.  Marc finds himself closing his eyes of his own volition, to shut out that first glance.  Now he kids himself he is alone in the darkness; that the hunger does not stalk him, though he feels – or thinks he feels – the shadow across his eyelids, despite the fact that they are squeezed tightly shut, scrunched together as hard as he can manage.  White patterns dance in the darkness, with intermittent spots of blue.

Marc knows what they are; knows how best to deal with them, as do they all.  They have been schooled in their methods, the theory of the practice, many times since the first disappearances began.  His breath is laboured, as he seeks to still it; air whistling past his teeth in ragged rattle before blow.  Too fast, too quick!  His heart picks up pace – pitter patter – as he realises, before he can calm it and he knows he is lost.  He feels the hunger latch on to him, home in, creeping, crawling towards him.  Coming.  For him.  For him alone.  Tonight.

There is no avoiding it, now the process has begun – he knows it.  He was ill prepared for how it would feel; the reality of them.  A second and he is caught, though he finds himself putting foot in front of foot, running blindly towards homesteads through scratchy shrubbery and resistant branches in the hope of chancing upon familiar faces.  He knows he won’t make it.  The thought hits him hard, though he seeks to still it, box it away, before he can process it properly.  Too late!  It is upon him and they are on it, with it, with him, getting closer, as he fights for calm, to control instinctive reaction.  An impossible task and he knows it, as the adrenaline created by his flight pumps through his body, muscles tensed – and they are riding the thought and towards him, closer, still nearer.  Marc thinks perhaps within reach - and again, the chill runs right through him, hairs standing on end on his arms, as he brushes them briskly.  All so inevitable now.  He should never have been out after dark, though they hit without notice, where and when they will.  Daylight, dark, seek and find a susceptible target – a moment of weakness and gone!  Perhaps he has lasted longer than most.  Again, his pulse races, the jump of the heart.  Slow, Marc thinks.  Slow!

He thinks he should pray, though he knows there is no mercy here.  Not now, not ever.  Simply for something to do - to fill his mind with words over thoughts, to stop them riding rough shod over him; through him; in him.  Marc knows the prayers of those who went before him went unanswered – and there have been many, too many, of those.  So few left now, in reality.  He is cold now, through to the bone, though the evening was mild before, he thinks.  He finds he no longer knows, for definite.  Finds he cannot run; not now, not any more - body encased in an ice of fear, impossible to break through; chip away at.  With that, he is done, dealt the final self-inflicted blow, sinking to the sodden ground beneath him.  He is lost and they will find him.  Marc finds himself closing his eyes of his own volition, to shut out that first glance. 

A brief breath of wind announces their arrival; the silent stalking assassins.  They are here and they have found him.  He finds he cannot help himself, again, that one last time.  Marc opens his eyes.

Comment

Another piece for this last week's Mid Week Blues Buster.  This came second this week.  The music prompt was Gary Numan's "Here In The Black".

Bottling It Up (VisDare)

Bottling It Up

Claire is cramped and contorted upon herself in the space she is afforded by the confinement of the glass, limbs curled on one another.  They tremble and ache with the lack of movement.  Soon they will grow numb, before atrophy sets in.  The outside world is oblivious to her plight, as intended, though not by her.  She had thought to make things easier in speaking the words; instead, her discomfort is doubled – now literal and metaphorical alike; no escape from either, cocooned by bottle walls.  Her wish had been simple – to bottle up her problems; stow them safely, where they couldn’t trouble anyone.  She should have thought about her phrasing.  Claire’s worries are indeed stored securely now; unable to bother others.  She should have realised she could not separate herself from them so easily though; now she is poisoned by them forever.  She shouldn’t have settled for the quick fix.

Comment

Another VisDare entry for VisDare-63.  This week's word prompt was "poison".