Saturday, 4 January 2014
American Psycho by Nick Trussler
…and she knew when she saw him that he was different and she knew she would end up back at his place but she realised she didn’t care. She enjoyed the hunt. And he came over, as she knew he would, and he gave the same story as everyone else and asked the same questions and she replied like all the other girls did and laughed at his teasing which, when she really thought about it, wasn’t funny at all and a very easy thing to do but it made him look clever and made him feel confident and was supposed to make her feel insecure so she let him think she was, for that was how the game worked. And so the inevitable happened and he leaned in for a drunken kiss and his mouth tasted bitter because of the beer but she tried to ignore it and they continued like this for some time until he whispered in her ear, slurring, to go back to his dorm and she agreed and then the hunt truly began. And she followed him back like a shy and nervous freshman, who had had too much to drink and a long distance boyfriend, should follow a confident and drunk senior and she entered his room and there were socks and boxers littered on the floor and there was an unusual aroma of processed cheese in the air. And he pushed her down on the bed and pulled down his jeans and she gave it a few tugs and he murmured something about the alcohol so she put it in her mouth and it soon became hard and it tasted salty which was a better taste in her mouth than his tongue. And after her jaw had become sore and he had grabbed and pulled at her hair she pushed him gently onto the bed and pulled down her panties and took off her top and bra and climbed onto him and he grabbed and slapped at her ass and she pretended to be lost in ecstasy and her hands ran over his chest and then rested on a pair of scissors on his bedside table and she wondered why he kept them there and then looked down and realised he trimmed his pubes and she couldn’t help but laugh to herself and he laughed too and called her a bitch and she carried on laughing and didn’t stop even when she had picked the scissors up and plunged it into his chest and stomach, her hand rising and falling with each thrust she gave him and though he screamed and tried to get her off him she pinned him down with her thighs and carried on laughing and with each fresh spray of blood that covered her bare breasts and body her orgasm grew and before she climaxed she slit his throat open and finished as the cloud of blood that had erupted from this last cut fell down onto his body and through into the soaked bed sheets beneath them.
Friday, 3 January 2014
Hook by Carolyn Glass
She noticed the hook when she first checked in, that was the thing with these quaint old hotels at the seaside, full of leftovers from a previous use of the premises.
This place was on the quayside and had been some sort of warehouse; the hook had been part of a block and tackle, used for lifting goods from the ship to the shore. All that hung from it now was a antique bird cage, with artificial ivy trailing from it.
She was looking forward to this weekend, the wedding of an old friend, she had arrived a day early to make sure she got chance to explore the area and use the hotel facilities. She needed a break, things had been stressful recently. When her husband had left her it had been a shock, but she was determined to make a fresh start, and this weekend might be the kick-start she needed. She had gone down the traditional route of anti-depressants etc. When all was said and done, she was better off without him if he didn’t want to be with her, why should she get depressed? She had been a little hurt that he had gone off with a younger woman, but now she was fed up with everyone being so understanding, they were treating her like she was fragile, crushed by circumstances, in need of sympathy. They would soon see she was fine and ready to get on with her life.
She had a quiet dinner and a few drinks, probably more than she should, certainly more than she was used to. She returned to her room and flicked the switch, a slight flash then nothing; there was sufficient moonlight that she could make her way towards the phone, to call reception for assistance. She had just lifted the receiver when she noticed the shadow. She replaced the handset and turned towards the window. There, hanging from the hook was a noose and underneath, the stool which earlier had stood beside the dressing table. She was drawn towards it like a moth to a flame, she reached up to touch it, it was soft, silky, she realised it was one of her own scarves; she was a little dizzy, confused, why was the noose there? What did it mean? She climbed onto the stool, planning to remove the scarf and complain to the hotel management that someone had been in her room, but the hook seemed to beckon her and she touched it, cold and smooth, the scarf tightly fixed to it. Almost in a trance she placed the noose around her neck, still staring at the hook, it was almost a relief when she realised the stool was no longer beneath her feet.
The chambermaid found her the next morning; she ran screaming from the room. Everyone was very upset but not altogether surprised. Jenny had been in a very dark mood since Gary had walked out on her, everyone knew she was on medication to help her cope; the final straw must have been the thought of attending the wedding. Poor Jenny, Gary shouldn’t blame himself in any way, she was obviously unstable, and who could have anticipated that she would react so badly to the breakdown of the marriage?
Gary was a lucky fellow, no messy divorce, no sharing his property and pension with his former wife, he could marry Angela, and now they could have an extended honeymoon. It was quite useful that she was a medical rep, who sometimes carried samples. She had told him about one particular batch of anti-depressants which were being discreetly withdrawn, as they had left people in a trance like state. It wouldn’t do for her to find out that he had helped himself to a few, or that he had been hiding in Jenny’s hotel room on that fateful night. He couldn’t believe his luck when she had put the noose around her neck, he had thought he might have to push her from the window while she was examining the hook and noose, all he had to do was kick the stool and it was all over. No it wouldn’t do for Angela to find out; he might tire of her eventually too.
This place was on the quayside and had been some sort of warehouse; the hook had been part of a block and tackle, used for lifting goods from the ship to the shore. All that hung from it now was a antique bird cage, with artificial ivy trailing from it.
She was looking forward to this weekend, the wedding of an old friend, she had arrived a day early to make sure she got chance to explore the area and use the hotel facilities. She needed a break, things had been stressful recently. When her husband had left her it had been a shock, but she was determined to make a fresh start, and this weekend might be the kick-start she needed. She had gone down the traditional route of anti-depressants etc. When all was said and done, she was better off without him if he didn’t want to be with her, why should she get depressed? She had been a little hurt that he had gone off with a younger woman, but now she was fed up with everyone being so understanding, they were treating her like she was fragile, crushed by circumstances, in need of sympathy. They would soon see she was fine and ready to get on with her life.
She had a quiet dinner and a few drinks, probably more than she should, certainly more than she was used to. She returned to her room and flicked the switch, a slight flash then nothing; there was sufficient moonlight that she could make her way towards the phone, to call reception for assistance. She had just lifted the receiver when she noticed the shadow. She replaced the handset and turned towards the window. There, hanging from the hook was a noose and underneath, the stool which earlier had stood beside the dressing table. She was drawn towards it like a moth to a flame, she reached up to touch it, it was soft, silky, she realised it was one of her own scarves; she was a little dizzy, confused, why was the noose there? What did it mean? She climbed onto the stool, planning to remove the scarf and complain to the hotel management that someone had been in her room, but the hook seemed to beckon her and she touched it, cold and smooth, the scarf tightly fixed to it. Almost in a trance she placed the noose around her neck, still staring at the hook, it was almost a relief when she realised the stool was no longer beneath her feet.
The chambermaid found her the next morning; she ran screaming from the room. Everyone was very upset but not altogether surprised. Jenny had been in a very dark mood since Gary had walked out on her, everyone knew she was on medication to help her cope; the final straw must have been the thought of attending the wedding. Poor Jenny, Gary shouldn’t blame himself in any way, she was obviously unstable, and who could have anticipated that she would react so badly to the breakdown of the marriage?
Gary was a lucky fellow, no messy divorce, no sharing his property and pension with his former wife, he could marry Angela, and now they could have an extended honeymoon. It was quite useful that she was a medical rep, who sometimes carried samples. She had told him about one particular batch of anti-depressants which were being discreetly withdrawn, as they had left people in a trance like state. It wouldn’t do for her to find out that he had helped himself to a few, or that he had been hiding in Jenny’s hotel room on that fateful night. He couldn’t believe his luck when she had put the noose around her neck, he had thought he might have to push her from the window while she was examining the hook and noose, all he had to do was kick the stool and it was all over. No it wouldn’t do for Angela to find out; he might tire of her eventually too.
Hook by Lesley Whyte
"Okay, so it's a love story. Boy meets girl and-"
"What's the hook?"
"Excuse me?"
"The hook, the USP. What makes your story different from the million other boy meets girl stories out there?"
"Oh, I see. Well, okay, yeah, so the boy's really smart. Headed for an Ivy League college, his parents have money, he's always had the best of everything. But the girl's poor, her parents have nothing and they've always had to scrape by."
"I know of ten books published this year with that exact story. You have to give me more."
"What if the girl had a rare blood disease? And he's working on a cure for it, and that's how they meet?"
"Eh, it's okay, but...well, the guy saving the girl? It's been done to death."
"So flip it."
"There's nothing sexy about a young guy with a rare blood disease."
"But it was fine when it was the girl? You know what, never mind. Not a blood disease. Maybe he's in a wheelchair or something? You never see heroes with disabilities, do you? That would be different."
"True. But maybe there's a reason for-"
"And maybe she could be black or hispanic, maybe. Just not white."
"A disabled male and a non-white female fall in love? I just don't see it. Maybe we should scale it back, stick to the boy meets girl. I'm sure someone somewhere will love it."
"What's the hook?"
"Excuse me?"
"The hook, the USP. What makes your story different from the million other boy meets girl stories out there?"
"Oh, I see. Well, okay, yeah, so the boy's really smart. Headed for an Ivy League college, his parents have money, he's always had the best of everything. But the girl's poor, her parents have nothing and they've always had to scrape by."
"I know of ten books published this year with that exact story. You have to give me more."
"What if the girl had a rare blood disease? And he's working on a cure for it, and that's how they meet?"
"Eh, it's okay, but...well, the guy saving the girl? It's been done to death."
"So flip it."
"There's nothing sexy about a young guy with a rare blood disease."
"But it was fine when it was the girl? You know what, never mind. Not a blood disease. Maybe he's in a wheelchair or something? You never see heroes with disabilities, do you? That would be different."
"True. But maybe there's a reason for-"
"And maybe she could be black or hispanic, maybe. Just not white."
"A disabled male and a non-white female fall in love? I just don't see it. Maybe we should scale it back, stick to the boy meets girl. I'm sure someone somewhere will love it."
Hook by Nick Trussler
Hook: A Short Play
The scene takes place on a pier. JAMES is trying to hold ELISE’S hand.
ELISE: Let me go you creep!
JAMES: God’s sake, Elise! I may have a hook for a hand, but is that all you care about, a piece of metal?
ELISE: It is when you’re trying to grab my hand with it!
ELISE lets out a piercing scream
JAMES: Oh god…it’s happened again!
ELISE: It’s gone through my hand!!!
JAMES: Well, you said lets hook up
ELISE: What?? Get me to a hospital you freak!
JAMES sighs and pulls his hook out of ELISE’s hand. She runs away crying.
JAMES walks to the end of the pier, holding his bloody hook with his other hand.
JAMES: Maybe I should just become a pirate and go and find a remote island, far far away but where somehow children have formed a stable island community, managing to survive and thrive in a place with very little natural resources and without bothering to hunt or farm…and no one ever ages though no one bothers to find out why, and I could vent my repressed sexual desires by having an irrational fear of crocodiles and an ineptitude when it comes to sword fighting and actual pirating…yes…that sounds like a plan…
Thursday, 2 January 2014
Frozen by Lesley Whyte
The gardens are quiet, still, frozen. Everything glitters in the frost. It looks magical.
This, she thinks, this is what heaven would look like.
She moves slowly along the path, enjoying the soft crunch under her boots, looking around in wonder at the arctic paradise she has stumbled across. She never wants to leave. She'll never leave this place.
Ahead is a fountain, the water turned to ice in a single moment. She reaches out and touches it, half-expecting it to burst into life at her touch.
Something moves.
She sees it out of the corner of her eye and her head flicks towards it.
There's nothing there.
A shadow, she tells herself. A leaf falling from a tree. Something innocent, something completely out of the extraordinary. The gardens are safe, peaceful, perfect. Nothing dangerous could exist inside its walls. It's simply not possible.
She shivers and huddles inside her coat. It didn't feel cold before. Something has changed.
Something...something isn't right.
There! Again! Just a flash of something, just beyond her eyeline.
A dark spot, moving.
Moving fast.
Moving towards her.
This, she thinks, this is what heaven would look like.
She moves slowly along the path, enjoying the soft crunch under her boots, looking around in wonder at the arctic paradise she has stumbled across. She never wants to leave. She'll never leave this place.
Ahead is a fountain, the water turned to ice in a single moment. She reaches out and touches it, half-expecting it to burst into life at her touch.
Something moves.
She sees it out of the corner of her eye and her head flicks towards it.
There's nothing there.
A shadow, she tells herself. A leaf falling from a tree. Something innocent, something completely out of the extraordinary. The gardens are safe, peaceful, perfect. Nothing dangerous could exist inside its walls. It's simply not possible.
She shivers and huddles inside her coat. It didn't feel cold before. Something has changed.
Something...something isn't right.
There! Again! Just a flash of something, just beyond her eyeline.
A dark spot, moving.
Moving fast.
Moving towards her.
Frozen by Nick Trussler
Her body lay already frozen on the ice when the doctor approached. She was about eight years old, dressed in a winter overcoat that was too big for her. Her lips were already blue and her blonde hair was stuck to the ice. It made it difficult for the doctor to turn her on her back without ripping her hair out. A small breath escaped her mouth. Despite the futility of it the doctor bent over and blew hot air into her mouth and tried to shake her awake. Her lips were frozen. The doctor picked her up with some difficulty, for someone so small she was surprisingly heavy. He walked along the ice trying not to slide, treading carefully. The sudden sound of the cracking of ice sent a shiver down his spine, leaving him frozen on the spot.
Frozen by Carolyn Glass
She stares at him, speechless, how had it come to this? They had been happy at the start, a perfect couple, he was a little older but nothing worth mentioning, but of course that was in age only. When she realised that he was middle aged in his 30’s she should have run a mile, but she just didn’t see it.
Now here they were, him talking about retirement, she realising she had a lot of living to do. She had been building up to this for some time, she needed to get out before it was too late, that was when she thought of the almost empty chest freezer in the garage.
Now here they were, him talking about retirement, she realising she had a lot of living to do. She had been building up to this for some time, she needed to get out before it was too late, that was when she thought of the almost empty chest freezer in the garage.
The Hangover by Carolyn Glass
It’s supposed to be a reminder that you had a really good time, even if you don’t remember it. Nowadays though, it is all too often a reminder that I’ve been drinking alone, hoping to forget everything, then the realisation dawns that there isn’t enough alcohol to make me forget. Might as well open the next bottle, got to keep trying.
Wednesday, 1 January 2014
The Hangover by Lesley Whyte
Last New Year's, we threw a party at the house. Music, friends, wine, food, tequila. It was great. A great night. A perfect night, maybe. We spent the whole week between Christmas and New Year preparing for it, I wasn't prepared to leave anything to chance. Hank probably would have preferred to just throw something together on the 30th - race around the crowded supermarket grabbing anything we could lay our hands on, but that's stupid. That's no way to plan a party. If you want something to be perfect, you have to put the work in. You have to put in time and thought and effort.
Hank doesn't like to put time or thought or effort into anything.
So the party was perfect. Of course, the next morning was less so. A pounding headache, a queasy feeling that wasn't confined just to the stomach, and then the mess. Oh, it makes me sick even now to think of the mess we had to clean up on January 1st.
Of course, Hank didn't mind.
This year was a little different.
No party. We stayed in. There was still a lot of preparation, naturally, though I didn't realise how much mess I'd have to clean up this morning. I look at it and frankly, it's funny. I can't seem to stop giggling. It started as a twinge in my stomach, something I thought might be guilt or regret, but now it all just seems so funny.
I step carefully over the messiest area in the kitchen, not wanting to get anything on my bare feet, and pick the phone up out of its cradle.
"999. What's your emergency?"
"I need the police, please."
"What's your emergency?"
"You need to come and arrest me."
There's an exhalation of breath on the other end of the line, the woman's irritated. She's probably dealt with hundreds of similar calls from drunken idiots in the last twelve hours. I'm not drunk, I'm about as sober as I could possibly be. Hank drank enough last night for the two of us. Enough to not notice I wasn't drinking anything.
I wait for her to speak.
"Really? What've you done?"
"Oh, I killed my husband."
Silence.
I can't say I blame her. I mean, what on earth do you say to something like that?
Hank doesn't like to put time or thought or effort into anything.
So the party was perfect. Of course, the next morning was less so. A pounding headache, a queasy feeling that wasn't confined just to the stomach, and then the mess. Oh, it makes me sick even now to think of the mess we had to clean up on January 1st.
Of course, Hank didn't mind.
This year was a little different.
No party. We stayed in. There was still a lot of preparation, naturally, though I didn't realise how much mess I'd have to clean up this morning. I look at it and frankly, it's funny. I can't seem to stop giggling. It started as a twinge in my stomach, something I thought might be guilt or regret, but now it all just seems so funny.
I step carefully over the messiest area in the kitchen, not wanting to get anything on my bare feet, and pick the phone up out of its cradle.
"999. What's your emergency?"
"I need the police, please."
"What's your emergency?"
"You need to come and arrest me."
There's an exhalation of breath on the other end of the line, the woman's irritated. She's probably dealt with hundreds of similar calls from drunken idiots in the last twelve hours. I'm not drunk, I'm about as sober as I could possibly be. Hank drank enough last night for the two of us. Enough to not notice I wasn't drinking anything.
I wait for her to speak.
"Really? What've you done?"
"Oh, I killed my husband."
Silence.
I can't say I blame her. I mean, what on earth do you say to something like that?
Monday, 3 June 2013
Thank You
So Flash 31 is over, and I just want to thank everyone who got involved, whether it was by submitting flash fictions or taking the time to read ours. We really appreciate it. Hopefully we'll be able to do this again soon (and not wait a whole year again) so stay tuned for updates!
Sunday, 2 June 2013
Blue Jeans by Sara Travis
“We don’t need the money. We can make it all work,” she says.
“I know you think we don’t need it, but we do. I do,” he says.
She sighs. She shakes her head and crosses her arms over her chest. She stands in the doorway, he sits on the sofa, one leg pulled up over the other. He doesn’t look at her. He can’t bring himself to. She’s glad. She knows that if he looks at her she’ll melt, and all the troubles won’t matter anymore because she loves him, and he loves her, and when you love someone you can forget all the bad stuff as long as you have each other. But this is really bad stuff, and she doesn’t think she can forget.
“There are other ways of making money. Safer ways. I don’t like this, you know I don’t like it. We don’t need it, we can manage.”
“Why should we have to manage? Why do we have to live our lives just ‘getting by’? We deserve more than that. You deserve more than that. And I can give it to you.”
She risks a glance in his direction in spite of herself. He’s picking at the frayed hem on his jeans, still avoiding her eyes. She lets her arms drop to her sides.
“I don’t want the money, I want you.”
“And I want to do this for you! It’s all for you, you know that. You’ve always known that.”
“Don’t put this on me,” she says, her voice breaking slightly, “I’ve never asked you for anything, I will never ask you for anything. I don’t need the stuff, we don’t need it. It’s just paper; you’re chasing paper. But I’m real, I’m here and I’m yours. We’re in this together. We can still walk away from this and we’ll be okay.”
He stands and walks to the doorway, stopping in front of her. He takes her hands in his and before she’s aware of it, she’s lost herself to his deep, hazel eyes.
“I can’t walk away. I won’t. I want to do this for you. For us. You’ll see, when we’ve got the money and we’re out of here, somewhere far away from here, you’ll see that it was worth it.”
He places his lips to her cheek and walks straight past her, out the door, without a backwards glance. And suddenly the room is colder, emptier than it was before, and she knows, somehow she knows in her gut, in her heart, that she’ll never see him again. He’s gone, and he’s taken a part of her with him.
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