Brave by Carolyn Glass

The trick was never to show fear. As a youth he had always been the first to try something new, he was never afraid to wade into a scrap to sort it out. In sport he was always in the thick of it, taking on guys twice his size in tackles. He was a decorated soldier; he had rescued an injured comrade when their vehicle has struck by a missile. He had later been captured and interrogated, they got nothing from him.

None of this had prepared him for today. He was shown into a small consultation room, where a man was reading notes, he looked up and told Max to take a seat. Max thought he could hear his own heart; it was beating so loudly, surely it must be audible to everyone. He was almost paralysed with terror, when he heard the instruction, “just open wide, it won’t hurt a bit.”

Brave by Lesley Whyte

"So, like, why was it called Brave?"

"Are you serious? Are you seriously asking me that?"

"Is it because the main character was a ginger princess? I mean, that was a pretty brave move by the people who made it."

"That's racist."

"I don't think you know what racism is."

"Whatever. So, was it the ginger princess thing?"

"Yes. Yes, it was."

"Oh. Okay. Good movie."

Day Eleven

And today's prompt is...

Brave

Unsaid Things by Nick Trussler

‘So, that’s it?’

‘I’m afraid so,’ she said, looking down at the floor.

‘Is it because-’

‘No.’

Silence.

‘Look, I know I wasn’t the best…’

‘It’s not that. That doesn’t matter.’

‘I mean the end doesn’t have to mean the end does it? I mean-’

‘Don’t, just…don’t.’

I can’t bear to look at her face. So I look at her feet instead.

She painted the nails red today.

‘I can change you know…’

When you don’t know what else to say you rely on clichés.

‘There’s nothing for you to change’

I’m half expecting her to add: “it’s not you, it’s me.” But she doesn’t.

‘Well…we’ll be friends though, of course?’

‘Mmm, yeah of course.’

Silence.

‘Maybe what we need is just a little time-’

‘No.’

‘But-’

‘No. I’m sorry, but after…’

Pause.

‘…after…all of that…I mean…I think you understand, don’t you?’

‘Yes, of course. No, I…maybe one day I will.’

‘Yes.’

I breathe in. I can smell her perfume. I feel a little sick.

Silence.

‘So I guess…’

‘Yeah…I should be going…’

God how to end this? It was nice knowing you? Good luck? Better luck next time?

So I say nothing. Sometimes leaving things unsaid is the only thing you can do.

Unsaid Things by James D. Irwin

Father is lying on the hospital bed. He looks old. He’s never seemed so frail and fragile. Or maybe he has and I just never noticed because I always see him as Dad and Dad is Superman. Dad is always thirty-eight. Dad is always laughing in the garden and drinking beer and incinerating sausages on the barbecue.

The nurses tell me it’s just a matter of time. It’s oddly vague yet sickeningly specific. I don’t know why I'm here. I don’t want to watch Superman die. And he’s going to. That’s what the nurses meant but couldn't say. Today’s the day!

One of them said I should talk, because he might hear me. There’s no real way of knowing. But I don’t know what to say. I never do. Dad wasn't much for feelings and emotions. He never told me he loved me, not in words. Men don’t want to hear men say ‘I love you… Except queers, I think.



Actions meant more to him than words. Words are small he’d say. I know he cared about me. He’s shown it in a thousand little ways over the years. He was there for my first breath, which was unusual for the time and unusual for him. Mother hadn't insisted he be there either. And now we’re full circle, pretty much. He’s not in a hurry to go. He never was.

I'm just sitting here and watching him… watching his chest rise and fall in slight and shallow breaths. I feel like telling him I love him, but I hear his voice in my head telling me not to. Sometimes things are better left unsaid. He knows how I feel—



how I felt about him.



I stand and close his eyes like I've seen people do on TV and ring the bell and think how it’s too late to say it now anyway.

The nurse enters and asks if I need anything. She’s young and pretty and unfazed by my father’s lifeless body. She has a delicate face and porcelain skin and black, black hair. I think she’s probably the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. Her voice is sweet and caring and husky and dirty all at once. The whole scenario reminds me of a porn film I've seen. I start to get a hard-on.

And in my head my father’s voice shouts two stiffs in here nurse! I begin to laugh, almost out of control. I hate myself but I can’t stop. The nurse touches my arm and I'm back in the real world and ashamed and embarrassed and I wilt.



She’s asking again if I need anything, or if I need to say my goodbyes. I tell her no, but I take Dad’s hand as if we’re shaking. ‘ I'm going to miss you’ I say. The nurse smiles weakly.



Then I call him an old bastard and laugh at a joke only I can hear.

Unsaid Things by Solomon Blaze

I’ve always loved bonfires; ever since I was a kid I’d grab whatever stuff I thought was tacky or that people wouldn’t care about – which they almost always did – and setting them on fire in the back garden.

It’s actually gotten me into some pretty big trouble twice (prior to this).

I wish they’d stop screaming though...it just causes a scene.

It’s her fault anyway!

~ You totally botched this, you useless fuck; you couldn’t even burn a building right ~

‘Shut up!’ I shout at the voice in my head; it cackles madly; dizzyingly...

Sooner or later one of the bridesmaids comes running out of the church’s front doors, a banshee of flaming violet fabric.

I just shoot her; I’m not really in the mood for gaes.

~Oooohooohooo niiice ~ says the voice.

‘Hmmm...’ I moan ponderously ‘I wonder what sort of trouble I’d get into for burning a church, filled with the guests to my ex-wife’s wedding...’

The church roof caves in;

The screaming stops.

Finally!

Unsaid Things by Sara Travis

Love was easy in the beginning. Like a beautiful spinning top, it whirled gaily and exhilaratingly fast, mesmerising everyone with its loud melody and pretty, gaudy blur. We fell hard and fast. Picnics in the sunshine. Walks along the seashore. Late night movies, back-seat passion Idyllic. Fresh. Exciting. Perfection.

But then the spinning top started to slow, and we saw exactly which shapes and hues were there, and suddenly we were uncertain whether it would tumble and fall, or keep on spinning gently and steadily forever.

Now we sit at opposite ends of the sofa, and the distance between us is full of the things we don’t say to each other. I’m not happy. This isn’t working. I don’t feel the same way about you anymore. We’re not right for each other. Please, let’s end it.

He reads the paper. I paint my nails. He sighs, and stands to stick the kettle on.

‘Love you.’

‘Love you, too.’

Unsaid Things by Lesley Whyte

Picture the scene. It shouldn't be hard, it's one you've seen hundreds of times before. On TV, in movies. Probably not in real life. A graveyard. A day that's not too bright and sunshine-y, but it's not raining or overcast either. A funeral, the whole shebang - glossy casket, big-ass hole in the ground, guy in black robes reading something from the Bible.

There are people there, not many but still a better turnout than anyone would have expected. Sure, for most of them the alternative was an afternoon of AP chemistry, so the funeral of their classmate is a lot more appealing, but still. They didn't have to be there. The dead girl's parents are there, too - one of them openly weeping, the other silent. Stony-faced. Which one does which varies, but here the father is crying. The mom is holding it together.

A young guy steps up to the casket, attractive and athletic, a jock. You know him. He's the type of guy the girl in the box would never have stood a chance with. Guys like that don't date girls who take AP chemistry. He carries a rose and sets it down on top of the casket and he whispers, so quiet that nobody else can hear him.

"I wish I'd had the courage to ask you out, to tell you how amazing you are."

My reaction? I fucking wish you had, too.

Unsaid Things by Ben Hayward

There's this guy who hangs about on street corners
He wears a tabard, saying that he's 'not begging'.
No one says anything, they only look down
And silently wave him away, when he comes close.

He asked me to buy him a sandwich once.
He gave me a wolfish grin
Set through poorly shaven facial hair
And cigarette yellowed teeth.

He didn't like my offer for me to purchase his lunch for him.
Maybe he felt it degrading, but probably not.
I wouldn't give him the money up front,
To which he spat in my face, figuratively.

Day Eleven

And today's prompt is...

Unsaid Things

Brooklyn Nights by Matthew Tomlin

I miss those nights.

Where Tasha would play monsters with me under the kitchen table.

Where Bobby would race me out in the garden.

Where Granddaddy would tell me stories about my mum when she was my age.

Where Grandmamma would help me to read as I sat on her lap, covered by a patchwork blanket.

Where Mum would let me have a cookie just before I brushed my teeth.

Where Dad would pick me up and spin me around in the living room.

Where Buster would bark at me until I cuddled him.

Where Gary would purr when I snuck him ham from the fridge.

Where Annie from next door would return the football I kicked over the fence.

Where I always knew, no matter what,

That Mum and Dad would tuck me in, kiss me goodnight,

And say ‘I love you.’

Brooklyn Nights by Meg Burrows

Brooklyn Nights shy away from me,

I burn too bright for the street lights

and I hold things down too hard for the cement cracks.

Brooklyn Nights keep away from me,

they know I’d influence the nights monster,

I’d throw a tea party and have him all eating the cake.

Brooklyn Nights by Lesley Whyte

The room feels sticky, the air conditioning's out again. The windows are thrown open, hoping to tempt in a breeze. The room is still. Across the water, the bright lights of Manhattan, the place where dreams come true. Sitting together in the hot apartment - the apartment where the floor throbs with the bass from downstairs, the apartment where the futon doubles as the master bedroom, the apartment where the bare brick wall is hidden under towers of books - the beers in a bucket of ice and the lights turned down low...well, this is a kind of dream, too.

Brooklyn Nights by Emily Chadwick

The city was quiet, strangely so.

Usually, at this time of night, there would be a dog or two howling across the spaces between the concrete skyscrapers. The rumbling of engines would echo down the emptying streets. Drunken shouts would pulse through the darkness. Periodically, a siren would shatter the sounds, wailing its two-note melody.

But tonight, all was silent.

Fog hung heavy over the river, spilling out over the asphalt like floodwater. The air was thick, moist. Breathing felt like drowning.

The lights in the skyscrapers, usually shining like stars against a smog-grey sky, were dull, if they were lit at all.

It was as though death had visited and swept all the people away.

Of course, that was not the case at all.

The final of Britain’s Got Talent was on.

Brooklyn Nights by Sam Smith

It’s too claustrophobic. I tend to stay inside when it’s dark. At least in here, I know that something is there. I know where my walls are, know what’s behind them, and know that it will always be there. Go out on to the streets of Brooklyn in morning, walk along Pike Street to Park Slope, don’t talk to anyone. It’s okay. Nothing feels bad apart from the sense of wasting a life in a way that most people who don’t live here think is glamorous but it’s not. The sky is blue.

Go out again at night and find Brooklyn too close for comfort. The glamorous stalk out of their apartments and congregate in the same streets walked earlier that day. The stars are out, but not in the sky. Light pollution from our lives shields the night from our eyes, smearing it a rusty brown. It’s lower than it should be. Who knows if it will stay like that? What if the pollution leaks out into the day? What happens when the ceiling is only so high? It’s too claustrophobic. I tend to stay inside when it’s dark.

Day Eleven

And today's prompt is...

Brooklyn Nights.