Tuesday, 29 March 2011

The Intruder by CW

It is cold, very cold.  Though I have been sat here for a while, at least an hour if not more.  The banging on the door had become too much for me, I just had to come outside.  I didn’t know who to call or even what to say?  Well technically that’s not true.  I just didn’t want to call them.  So I called Alex.  She would be able to help.  Explain. If I told them they probably wouldn’t understand.  They would just look at me as everyone did nowadays, like I’m crazy.  But I am NOT crazy.  In fact I would go as far as saying that I am the sanest person around. It’s everyone else who is crazy, telling me things that aren’t true.  Saying they are people who they aren’t.  But after tonight they will think I‘m crazy, once they’ve seen what I’ve done.

Nowadays they’re always on the side of the intruder, so called squatter’s rights.  What about our rights?  Are we not entitled to any?  You work all your life to get yourself on the “property ladder” only for some lowlife to try and take it as their own.  Only the other day I saw on the news this poor woman who’d returned from one of those mission trips to Africa, only to find her home filled with squatters and she was the one who had to sleep on the floors of friends and relatives!!  Well that’s not happening to me.  This is my home and it has been for the last 20 years and no one is going to take it away from me.


God, it is sooooo cold. I can’t help but shiver, but I smile as I think of my Edward and the first evening that we went for a stroll.  That night was as cold as this if not colder.  He was such a gentleman.  He took of his jacket and was shivering just as much as I was then and now, but he would rather that I was warm.  Such a gentleman!

“But Mr Banks I couldn’t possibly, you are just as cold as I.”
“Now, Miss Jeffries, I will be offended if you do not wear my jacket.”
“Well I don’t want to offend you now do I.”

Oh such good memories.  I miss him so much when he’s not here, which seems to be more often than not lately.  I wish he were here now.  I wish he hadn’t left me at the mercy of criminals and intruders, people without morals.  (Sigh) Honestly, what has happened to the world?  There was a time when you could leave your door wide open and come home to find everything in tact.  A time when neighbours would look out for each other, not like now.  I hardly know mine.  Oh why isn’t he here!!! He would know what to do.  I begged him not to take the job.  He is always away months at a time and with Alex at university, I am often left at home alone.

“Mum.”

Sitting next to me on the step is a woman.  A grown woman of about 40 years wearing the biggest quilted jacket and a red woolly hat.  I didn’t notice her drive up in the grey Ford Focus that is parked in front of the house, nor did I see her walk up the path and sit next to me.  I was too busy thinking of my Edward.  Looking into her eyes I can see her fear, her eyeballs shiny with tears.  Her face is so worn, it looks like she has had some years of worry, she looks far older than her age.  Poor thing.  That’s one thing people always compliment me on.  How good I look for my age.  “Never a day older” they say.  This poor girl has probably never heard those words, at least not with sincerity.

“Mum, what are you doing out here?  You’re absolutely freezing, you’ll catch your death!!”

She takes off her jacket, just as Edward had that night many years ago.  Before I know it she is wrapping it around me and starts to rub my arms. Oh that feels good. I can feel the warmth but my body still continues to shiver.

I can’t help but stare at her face.  It is kind and somewhat familiar.  Her presence makes me feel calm; some people have that affect on you.  Sometimes you can tell whether or not someone means you any harm and she could not hurt a fly.  I can tell that she has respect for her elders.  Some cultures treat their elders with so much respect that Miss or Mr aren’t good enough titles for them.  Saw a programme on telly once, where they were in some foreign country and they referred to the elders as Aunty or Uncle.  I think it is rather lovely and a lot of young people could learn a thing or two from this.  Us older folk are to be respected you know.

“Mum you called me, you said something had happened, that something was wrong.  What happened, why are you sat here on this step?  Why is the door wide open?” 

“I didn’t call you?  I called my daughter Alex.  Are you a friend of hers?  Where is she?  I need to speak to Alex, she will know what to do.”

She stops rubbing me and now she is putting her head in her hands. How strange.  I didn’t mean to offend her.  It was kind of her to stop and see if I was alright.  Not many people do that these days.  It’s not like it used to be.  Her face is wet, she has been crying.  Oh I’ve upset her.  Oh dear let me put my arm around her.

“There there, dear, there, there.”
“Mum.”  Tears flow down her face like a constant stream. “It’s me, Alex.”
“Who are you?” I rise to my feet.  “Who are you?  You’re not Alex.  My Alex is young; she’s at university studying Law.  You’re old enough to be her mother.”
“Mum, please.”
“Stay away from me!!!” 

She must think I’m stupid.  My Alex is a beautiful girl who is young and slim and has not one worry line on her head and this woman who looks like she has been through the wars thinks that I will fall her lies!  Oh no I won’t, she like everyone else seems to be out to get me.  What has happened to the world?  I wish Edward were here.

“Look please.  I’m sorry. You’re right, I’m a friend….. of Alex’s.  Please, you left a message on my.. I mean Alex’s phone.”

She ‘s holding the phone away from her so I can hear and yes indeed it is me, the message I left for Alex.  Looking at her face I know deep down she’s kind, probably not out to get me but then why would she lie?  Why does she have Alex’s phone?  Nothing makes sense.  Nothing makes sense at all.

“Why have you got Alex’s phone?”
“Er…. she gave it to me…..said I could help.” 

She walks towards me.  She doesn’t seem menacing in any way and Alex has always been a good judge of character.  She places her hands on my shoulders.

 “Where is Da… I mean your husband?”
“Not here.” I start to sob. “I wish he was.”  She holds me in her arms and releases, starting to usher me inside the house but I can’t go back in there, not while he’s still there.
“What’s wrong?”
“We can’t go in there.”
“Mum come on!”
“Will you stop calling me Mum!!  Look we CANNOT go in there!”
“Why?”
“He’s still in there.”
“Who?”
“The intruder.”
“Someone was in the house?”
“Yes.”  I return to the step and she follows, sitting beside me.
“Did you call the police?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“They will put me in prison!!!”  Her head returns to her hands.  Is she crying again?
“Mu….Mrs Banks tell me what happened, I can help.”
Now I start to cry.  What a pair we are! I don’t want to get in trouble.  I’m too old to go to prison.  What would my Edward think?  What would Alex say?
“Please tell me.”
“I can’t.”
“Please.”  I look at her face.  The poor girl looks so distraught.  I bet she wishes she had never stopped.  I bet she wishes that she had just kept on driving.
“I had an afternoon nap.  I always do, you can ask Alex, she always used to make fun of how much I sleep during the day.  Anyway I came down the steps to make a cup of tea and I heard a noise in the living room.  There was a man in there.  A stranger in my home!!!  So I locked him in there!”
“There’s a man locked in there?!”
“Yes.” I hold my head in shame. “I hit him with the rolling pin and locked the door.  I was scared.  I didn’t mean to.  Please help me!” 

Holding me in her arms, she tells me everything is going to be alright.  I sure do hope so.  She takes out her phone, says she’s calling the police.  Oh I wish Alex and Edward were here, I really do.

“Look let’s sit in the car, it’s warmer in there.”  She gets up, closes the door of the house and helps me up off the step.  Oh how stiff I am.
“I am sorry you know.  So sorry.  I really didn’t mean to hurt him.”
“It’s ok, it’s ok.”  She holds me in her arms, explaining that it isn’t my fault and that the police would understand as we walk towards the car.

“You didn’t say where Dad was, I mean your husband.”
“Edward. Oh he’s away at work dear.  He always has to work far away.  I begged him not to take the job but he said it was best for the family, especially with Alex at university. You know it’s ever so expensive.”

Suddenly she stops.  She looks at me and stoops down until we’re at eye level.

“Mum, Dad stopped working a long time ago.  He’s retired, you both are.”
“I am not your mother!!!  Why do you keep saying these things?  He’s not retired.  He is only 45!  He’s away.”
“I’m sorry, please calm down.” 

She places her palms on both of my shoulders. 

“I can’t believe he’s not here.  He should never have left you on your own.”
As the words leave her mouth her face starts to change.  She has a look of horror and her eyes have opened wide.  Now she’s running towards the house her phone pressing against her ear and some keys in the other hand.  She uses the keys to open the front door.  Why does she have the keys to the house?  Did Alex give them to her?  I run after her scared that she might let him out.  I can hear sirens in the distance.  Oh the body isn’t what it used to be. 

I run through the hallway and into the kitchen and there she is holding a vibrating phone in her hand.  It’s Edward’s, which is strange.  He never left the house without it, especially when on a business trip.




The last one of the four


Hello there.  I am Charlene, the last of the Writerss Blocc Writers.  My first piece will follow shortly .......

Saturday, 26 March 2011

"Floating" by Rob


I woke, the sound of thunder in my ears, and a taste of blood in my mouth.

I resisted the urge to open my eyes, and took stock.  The thunder was engine noise, loud, low and rumbling from all around me.  Markwick's cargo plane, at a guess.  Two voices over the engine sound, I couldn't quite hear what they were saying, but I mentally filed away their direction, and distance: close but not very close.

What else?  I was sat on a cold hard surface, metallic, a crate, possibly.  Hands bound behind me, tied with rope, tight, but I thought I could get out, at the cost of a little skin.  All that would do would be to add to the pain, and there was already enough of that to go around.  Marwick's goon had worked me over for a while before consciousness had blissfully departed.  

I quietly tensed muscle groups in turn, hoping it didn't show, making sure everything was working.  I clenched my teeth at a sharp pain in my left calf, bad, but not so bad that I couldn't manage a short sprint.  I wasn't going to be running any marathons.

"I thought I saw him move."  One of the voices, same direction, but closer, still shouting over the engine sound.

Two people, plus any who hadn't spoken yet.  It was a risk, but the odds would only get worse if they checked and rebound my wrists.

Now, now, now!

I surged upwards, opening my eyes, trying to soak up information as I threw myself shoulder-first at the approaching voice.  I recognised Markwick's goon with a certain satisfaction just as I struck him squarely in the stomach.  We tumbled together, rolling along the metal floor, I managed to get on top as we slid to a halt against a jeep tied to the deck.  I knelt on the goon's windpipe, taking cover behind the jeep and trying to work a hand free of my bindings.

More information.  There had been two startled cries when I moved, one from Markwick himself, standing next to a small stack of crates.  He had the virus tube in his hand, the secure case I'd been carrying it discarded in a corner.  The second voice came from the back of the cargo area, he would have to be my next target.

Long slices of skin peeled free as I yanked the rope off my left wrist.  I couldn't quite stifle the cry of pain.
The goon at the back of the plane did me a favour by dithering, he had a gun out, but was reluctant to fire.  He should have called forward for more help, but perhaps there wasn't any.  It didn't seem likely I'd be so lucky, but was determined to ride the luck while I could.  

The goon under my knee stopped struggling and went slack.  Without looking down, I stood and ran, keeping low, sharp pain shooting up my leg each time I put my weight on my left foot.

This broke the dithering and the second goon fired, twice, but wildly.  I ignored the shots except to offer a silent prayer to the god of ricochets, grabbed the goon's wrist and slammed it into the wall repeatedly until he dropped his gun.

Which is where my luck ran out.

The plane lurched as the cargo doors opened.  Seems I'd hammered the wall right next to the release button.  On top of it.  I heard Markwick cry out in alarm, then a clatter.

I shifted my grip to my opponent's head, and slammed it into the wall with as much force as I could muster.  I must have caught an edge, there was a wet cracking noise from his skull, and he went suddenly limp.
I let go, turned and looked for Markwick.  He was struggling to stand, the rush of air through the cargo doors pulling at him, a few loose items fluttered past him and were blown out into the sky.  Markwick wasn't holding the virus.

Where?  Oh no.

The vial seemed to spin in slow motion, caught in an eddy.  I tried to tell myself it wasn't being blown out of the plane, to fall, break, and release its deadly contents on the unsuspecting world below.  But I tried to tell myself this is I began to sprint, kicking off the back wall, ignoring Markwick, ignoring the pain in my leg, ignoring everything, focussed on the vial as it was blown free of the plane and out into the blue.
I didn't break stride, just threw myself out after it.

Two objects falling in a vacuum on earth accelerate at 9.81 metres per second per second regardless of their masses.  But neither the vial or I was in a vacuum, suddenly it was a race between wind resistance and terminal velocity.  It was a race that would be won or lost in seconds, I was sure I would fall faster than the vial in the long run.

Focus.

I forgot the plane.  Forgot the rush of air.  Forgot the aches and pains from every part of my body.  Forgot the seeping wetness in my side that perhaps meant the god of ricochets had not been kind.
Just me and that vial, hanging in the air.  Matching velocities, I floated towards it.

My fingers closed around it.

And the world snapped back in focus again, and I was falling.  Falling faster.  The ground still seemed a long way off, but I doubted that would last.

Fortunately Q had prepared me for just such an eventuality.  I pulled at the middle button of my jacket, and the whole jacket unfolded around me, forming a makeshift but serviceable parachute.

Yeah.

That would have been nice.

No.  This was the job, this was the risk.  I hadn't followed the vial out of the plane to rescue it, but to prevent the virus getting out.  I placed the vial in my mouth and tried to swallow.  It wasn't easy.  My mouth was dry, I was disoriented.  I was afraid to die.

But if the vial landed by itself it would smash and release.  If it landed inside me... well hoping it wouldn't break was perhaps a little optimistic, but perhaps, perhaps the shroud of meat and pulverised bone could keep it contained long enough.

My fault.  Markwick would have done worse with it, but this is my fault.  I can see a small town below me now.  I really hope my plan works.  I hope you will forgive me.

Sometimes, this is the job.

Tuesday, 15 March 2011

Hunger - by Shelly Berry

Here's one from the back catalogue...

Cathie wrapped her long black cardigan tightly around her.  A mismatch of autumn leaves and a white plastic bag swirled around her feet.  The wind pulled at her royal blue pencil skirt and nylon neck scarf.  She shivered as she looked over the city below her, the grey sky merging with the horizon beyond.  An aeroplane above gently jolted her from her wandering thoughts.  She looked at her watch.  2.33pm. 
I really should be going now. 
The airline did not react kindly to her turning up late.  The last time it had happened she thought that was it, she was going to be fired.  If they had smelt the alcohol on her breath, seeping through her pores, she no doubt would have been.
She turned from the dismal view towards the bench on her left.  On the floor beside it was a Tesco’s carrier bag.  She had only meant to pick up a sandwich and a new toothbrush.  But as soon as she walked into the shop she had seen them right in front of her.  She didn’t even have to purposefully walk down the specific aisle.  It was almost like they had been put there just for her, deliberately, to entice her.
And £3 for a bottle of Shiraz isn’t bad.
Cathie slowly walked towards the bench, deliberately stretching her legs in front of her in what she hoped would appear to be a nonchalant stride.  She plonked herself down onto the bench, her hands thrust into her cardigan pockets, and looked down at the carrier bag on the ground to her right.
Good job I don’t have a corkscrew on me really.
She leaned forward and stretched towards the bag.  She grabbed it and quickly placed it on her knee, hoping no one would notice the urgency with which she did so.  Not that anyone was around.  She opened up the bag and looked in.  It was as she has feared.  A screw top.  Frustrated and ecstatic at the same time, she crumpled the plastic sheath over her tormentor as though this simple act would make it go away.  She could feel the smooth cool glass through the flimsy barrier, teasing her fingers. 
A grumble of engines above brought Cathie back to earth with a bump.  She looked at her watch again, cradling her contraband with her free arm.
2.35.  Oh Shit!
Cathie bit her lip and looked desperately around her, hoping someone would come running up to her shouting NO, to tell her she was stronger than this, that there was more to life than the comfort and warmth she could only find at the bottom of a bottle.  But of course no one did.  Not even a stranger, a Good Samaritan, to share their wisdom with her.  Even a disapproving glance would be better than this, sitting on a park bench with a bottle of wine, nobody knowing or caring that she was there.
Cathie opened up the bag once more. 
Just one mouthful and I’ll go.
She hunched over the bottle, unscrewing the top without removing it from the bag in a vain attempt to disguise what she was doing.  After a furtive glance around her, she raised the bottle to her lips and tilted the bottle to allow the smooth blood red liquid to slide into her mouth.
As she slowly and carefully screwed the top back onto the bottle, she felt a shift within her, a softening of her muscles, a glow in her stomach, clarity and calm in her mind.  She carefully replaced the bottle in the carrier bag, laced her wrist through the handle and stood up confidently.  Crossing her arms over her body, she strode down the path with purpose, the carrier bag bumping against her hip rhythmically.

One More of the Four!

Hello There!  I'm Shelly Berry.  I hope you enjoy our stories.  My first offering is coming up...

Wednesday, 9 March 2011

"illuminate" - Anna Sheppard March 2011


Short exercise to get the mind whirring ...

Illuminate

After an appalling day, everyone in the office wanting a piece of me, I walked through the market place, putting the day behind me.  The wooden carts were stacked up at the sides of the road.  The air was thick with the smells of fruit and flowers.  Women chatted over coffee at the wooden stall to the left of the florists.  The baker had pulled the blinds down on his shop window, hiding the wooden bread baskets for the night.

As I approached the bus stop, the sun was setting and I felt the cool air on my arms.  I pulled my cardigan and coat around me.  “Due” said the electronic timetable.  A girl stood to my left reading a newspaper and absently fingering her long knitted scarf.  I looked again at the timetable, “Due”.  I played with the button on my coat.  “What should I eat for tea?”  “Shall I have wine?”, “I really need to do some dusting”, “I’m so tired!”, “I really need a holiday”.  I could not quieten my mind.  As I looked up the road the air felt damp and then the rain came down.  Still the bus was “due”.  I looked down as my worn black shoes, wriggled my toes and watched the shoe wriggle.  Rain splashed the ends of my shoes, the ends of my hair, the arm of my coat, I moved back into the stand to keep dry.  I curled my hands in my pockets.  I could still smell the faint fruit aroma from the market in the wet heavy air.  The puddles in the road were illuminated by the bus as it approached the stand.  I held my blue pass out to the driver and got on the bus.  I looked from the window, the rain ran in streams and smudged everything outside into a blur.  The traffic streamed by in a colourful streak “perhaps I could go trekking in America for my holiday break?”, “I must check those eggs in the fridge, are they still in date?”.  My mind was working over time.  I tried to calm myself.  Empty my mind for a while.  It didn’t work.  My mind kept going but I started to feel tired so it slowed a little.  I rested my head lightly against the damp window.  The bus approached my stop.  I pulled my bag to my shoulder and stepped off the bus.  The rain was lighter now but the sky was dark and leaden.  The rain sprinkled my shoes, settled in my hair.  There was no traffic, the roads were still and the street was dimly lit.  Only one light shone out onto the street.  The light from my small bay front window bounced to the pavings in front of me as I approached from the road.  My small window lantern illuminated my path and doorstep as I unlocked my green front door, stepped inside and retreated from the wet weather.

Anna S - 9/3/2011