Scream by Abbi Outen

He's not breathing. He was, and now he's not. I just needed him to be quiet. Just for a minute. Just so I could think. There was so much noise and I just needed it all to stop. But it's quiet now. Too quiet. He is turning cold and heavy in my arms. I can't put him down. I can't look at what I've done. All I can hear are my own thought thundering through my brain. And all I want to do, is scream.

Scream by Aimee Topham

I brushed away my daughter’s concerns as I lowered myself awkwardly into the wheelchair. Today was Sophie’s day. The seven year old skipped along beside me as her mother pushed the chair through the crowds, chattering animatedly about ice-cream, photographs and hundred-foot drops. I didn’t mind at all being the bag and coat moniter for the day, not at all. I was touched that Sophie had even thought to invite her Gramps to her birthday outing. I squinted around at everything as I was wheeled along, curiosity getting the better of my stiff neck. Such huge monstrosities, barely starting up this early in the morning, towered over us. At ninety five, I was too old for a place like this. I had never set foot in a theme park before in my life, and horror stories that I’d heard echoed ominously in my head as we moved along the paths. A carriage whooshed along a suspended track above our heads and fifty voices screamed in terror and excitement. My back stiffened, my nails dug into my palms as my mind hurtled back to the autumn of 1917.

Back to the trenches, watching Oliver cowering against the solid earth with muddy hands pressed tightly to his ears. His eyes were screwed up, tears tracking clear lines down his dirty face as he shook his head in denial. “No, no, no, no, no…” I remember, he kept muttering to himself, desperately trying to convince himself that he couldn’t hear it. I knew better than to try. Oliver was a new boy, just turned seventeen, only arrived a few days ago. I knew better than to hide from the screams. The cries carried on through the night. We never slept the night before going over the top; nerves tightened our stomachs, brave attempts at cheerful singing and last attempts at shared reminiscences of home filled the dark, and it seemed wasteful to spend what few hours we may have remaining in slumber. 

The screams made sure that we survivors didn’t sleep either. They stayed with us for years, echoing through our nightmares and our quiet moments. I remember Oliver, his eyes screwed up, trying to block out the desperate screams of the dying, mutilated friends we’d left behind.

I’d pulled his hands away, made him listen. He’d kept chanting, “No, no, no..” as if it would have made the begging shrieks for mercy and death stop.

“Listen.” I’d said. “Listen, and remember. Remember how they died. When someone talks about the glory of war, think of this moment.” Oliver had shaken his head, trailing mucus and mud as he wiped his nose on his sodden sleeve. The screams mixed with sobs.

As the memory fades, I find myself back in my wheelchair. A young man is holding something cool against my head, and talking calmly to me. I don’t listen to him. I try to push back the memories of those screams as I seek Natalie in the crowd. She moves into my eyeline and my eyes water in relief at the sight of her. My daughter nods reassuringly at me. “It’s alright, Dad.’

Scream by Carolyn Glass

Tonight was the night. He had been preparing for weeks. She was his dream girl and tonight he was going to show her just how special she was.

He dressed carefully, he had made sure the venue was ready, he had fuel in the car and he was sure he had planned for every eventuality.

He was waiting for her in the basement car park when she finished her shift, she approached swiftly, heels clicking, earbuds in, mouthing the words to whatever she was listening to. She never even heard him move up behind her, swiftly injecting something into her neck and then pushing her into his car boot. He hoped he had given her enough; it wouldn’t do if anyone were to hear her scream.

Scream by Lesley Whyte

It's late. I can't find my phone to check the time but it just feels late. Like, four or five o'clock in the morning. It's just so dark. I roll out of bed and pad carefully across the floor, determined not to stand on my phone and break it. Again. I make way down the stairs, running my hand down the wall to keep my balance. I don't want to turn the lights on and disturb anyone else. Into the kitchen, the floor cold against my bare feet. I struggle to find a glass in the cupboard so I go and turn on the light. I turn back just in time to see it hurtling through the window. I don't have time to scream before it rips my throat out. I lie on the floor, bleeding heavily, my life force pouring out of me as it devours my flesh.

My last thought, conscious thought anyway, is that I shouldn't have turned the light on. Now everyone in the house will die. If they're lucky.

Day Seven

And today's prompt is...

Scream

Mean Girls by Abbi Outen

Y'know I think my favourite thing is exploring someone's body. Seeing what makes them tick, in the bedroom, so to speak. And hey, they say knowledge is power so I never pass up an opportunity to ... Educate myself a little more. What can I say? I'm a man of learning. Let me get you ladies another drink.

We were out of Diet Coke but don't worry, I had Coke Zero. Oh! What are you-? Why are you-? When I said I was an explorer, I meant of ... Friendly territory. Home ground? You have it all wrong. What I mean, girls, is that I'm gay. So please, put your mysterious forests away and we can pretend it never happened.

Janie's Got a Gun by Ben Hayward

"Today I was told that I took out some body insurance. It's not like health insurance or life insurance, it's for my own vanity, like a patent or some-shit."
"A patent implies that you own the rights to something like legs."
"Yeah... Well I did say someshit, dickhead."
"What exactly does body insurance give you?"
"Well let's assume I get some hideous disfiguring injury, the company will pay me to um..."
"Recover? Isn't that health insurance?"
"No, the man said that it's a bit more like a get-well present."
"You mean like a reward for GBH?"
"No, well yes, but well..."
"He was very persuasive, I assume?"
"In more ways than one."
"Um ok, thanks for that."
"Moving swiftly on from that, surely with this body insurance people will be tempted to abuse it."
"Abuse?"
"Mistreat, act without thought. What I mean is that some more suicidal people might want to use the payout as an extra way to get cash."
"ah, there was a decoration."
"decoration?"
"You know a signy thing."
"A declaration, what did it say?"
"Something along the lines of 'do you plan on killing yourself?'"
"Well surely most people are going to deny that with the prospect of extra money on the horizon?"
“I guess...”
“Did you read the terms and conditions etcetera.”
“I thought it was pretty clear.”
“So what do you have to do to get the money?”
“Well I have to be involved in an accident in the last five years either at home or at work that wasn't my fault.”
“That sounds a bit too familiar...”
“Yeah I saw them on the telly.”
“On what channel?”
“The shopping one. The one with the jewellery.”
“Ok, have you written down their number somewhere?”
“I've got them on my call history, why?”
“Ok, Kate, I need you to ring them back and cancel it with them.”
“I can't do that.”
“Why?”
“Well I've given them my bank details”
“You know where the motorway is then.”

Janie's Got a Gun by Sara Travis

Janie’s mama is lying on the kitchen floor, her face red and black and blue. Janie’s daddy stands over her, swaying and breathing heavily, his fists clenched into tight balls by his side. Janie stands behind the door, peering through the gap between the door and the frame. She’s not afraid, at least, not for herself. She’s afraid for her mama. She knows the routine. She’s waiting for her daddy to stagger out the back door so she can help stick her mama back together. She’s a pro at that now, her mama says. But sometimes her daddy doesn’t quit it for a while, and on those days it’s even harder to stick her mama back together. One time it was so bad, her mama couldn’t open her eyes for a week, they were so big and puffy. Janie was put in charge of cooking for her daddy, and on the third day, she burnt the eggs and her daddy beat her with his belt until the pain got so bad and everything turned black. Her mama says that day it was her turn to stick Janie back together.

From the gap in the door, Janie can see her mama on all fours, trying to stand. Her legs and arms wobble about beneath her, and she spits out a tooth onto the laminate. Her daddy aims a kick at her stomach but misses, catching her jaw, and her mama’s head snaps back and lands with a crack on the floor. Janie starts to worry. Her daddy’s usually finished by now, out the door in search of lickor, and her mama’s not moving, not even a little bit. Her daddy nudges her with his toe and she rolls over, but Janie can’t see if her chest is moving up and down, her daddy’s in the way, she can’t see anything at all.

She hears her daddy sigh. She sees him shake his head. She watches as he pulls his revolver from the back of his jeans. He holds it limp in his hands, and to her surprise, she hears him start to cry. The gun slips from his hand and lands on the floor with a thud.

Janie doesn’t think. She doesn’t hesitate. She dashes for the gun, raises it up high above her head, and she puts a bullet in her daddy’s brain.

Janie's Got a Gun by James D. Irwin

The Lounge was a haven for writers. The bar looked like a library. A fire crackled, even in summer. Books, leather bound, tiled the walls. The waitresses all dressed like the naughty librarians that only exist in filthy minds and sordid entertainments.

The chairs were cracked and tan and leather. They weren't chairs one sat in, but were consumed by. It was always lively, but never loud. Old jazz records played so low you didn't notice them until they stopped.

I didn't usually show up until after nine— nobody who was anybody did. I liked to think I was still somebody. I ordered a scotch and soda, then scratched the soda. It wasn't a social call.

I scanned the room. Jay was off in the corner, already sloppy with gin. His charm was failing him. The girl he was with threw remnants of a perfectly good martini in his face, then stormed off. Jay wiped his face, laughing to himself. They’d be other girls. There always were. He was still young, and more than a somebody.

I took my glass over and offered him a smoke. He accepted. We sat in smoked in the easy silence of old friendship. It was comfortable, but after a while I got bored of pretending to look bored.

‘Your wife knows’ I said, drawing on my cigarette.

‘And so what if she does?’

I didn't say anything for a moment. Jay kept fierce eyes on me whilst he took a violent swig from his gimlet.

‘You know Janie’s got a gun?’

Jay shifted uncomfortably, his bravado washing away. At his core he was a coward. He always had been. I finished my drink and left. We never spoke again.

Janie's Got a Gun by Lesley Whyte

Janie's got a gun

The rumour spread through the dorm within hours. Everyone heard it. Even the RAs, though they dismissed it as just gossip. In fact, most people did. The room wasn't searched, not officially, and nobody asked Janie about it. They were too scared. Not that she'd use the gun on them, but Janie had always been intimidating. She was the girl who never participated, who always watched with cool disdain, who always had better things to do, who always had cooler people than us to hang out with. I guess nobody really believed she actually had a gun.

I believed it.

I had to find that gun. I waited until she and her roommate were both out. It didn't take long, neither wanted to risk spending time with the other so they were regularly out. They only returned to their room to sleep occasionally and, in Janie's case, to skip class. The room was messy. You know that expression 'it looked like a bomb had hit it'? That didn't even begin to cover it.

Where would I hide a gun?

I sifted through mountains of clothes and a veritable jungle of shoes, but then I came to the wardrobe - the only thing in the room that looked like it hadn't been touched. In the bottom of the left side was a shoe box. I opened it. Inside was the gun, small and silver, not exactly what I had been imagining. I picked it up and felt the weight of it in my hand, surprisingly heavy for such a small object. My fingers closed around it.

It was time.

Jamie's Got a Gun by Nick Trussler

Jamie’s got a gun. Well, not really. More a metaphorical gun. A metaphorical gun pointed at the bookseller. He also has a knife except that this knife is actually a knife, and at this very moment it is pointed at the bookseller’s throat.

‘Now, I’ll ask again, I want a book with no pages.’

The bookseller stared wide eyed into the simple and plain face of Jamie.

‘But, Sir, I told you all our books have pa-’ the blade was pressed tighter against the bookseller’s throat, causing a tiny trickle of blood to swim on the edge of the blade.

Jamie started to twitch, his left eye opening and shutting with surprising speed.

‘No paper, no paper…’ he started muttering.

The bookseller’s eyes started to roll in the back of his head and then, from the corner of his eye, he spotted the solution to his problems.

‘Sir, sir – I think I have it!’ he cried, stretching slightly to his left to pick the object up.

‘A Kindle! You see, no paper!’ he cried and he gave the Kindle over to Jamie with shaking hands.

Jamie looked down at it for a second and then quickly withdrew the knife from the bookseller’s throat.

‘Excellent, excellent!’ he cried, and began to shake the bookseller warmly by the hand. ‘You see,’ he said, pointing the knife excitedly at the bookseller as he talked, flicking specks of blood all over the bookseller’s nice, clean counter, ‘ the customer is always right.’

He began to walk away before quickly coming back. ‘Oh, where are my manners?’ he said, and took out a crisp £20 note from his wallet. ‘Will this suffice for our transaction, my good shopkeeper?’

The bookseller nodded vigorously, ‘Oh yes sir, absolutely sir.’

‘Capital! Capital,’ Jamie said and then added, ‘incidentally, this knife – it was always more of a metaphorical knife you know…you do know, don’t you?’

The bookseller nodded.

‘Knew you would! Knew you would…’ Jamie muttered, and with a wave of his hand and a fond, ‘Cheerio!’ he exited the bookstore.

Day Seven

And today's prompt is...

Jamie's Got a Gun

On the Rocks by Matthew Tomlin

The sea lapped calmly at my ankles. That was what brought me around. In front of me I could see nothing but the rippling expanse and the puffy white horizon, smothered by clouds. I was suspended from the rocks, I soon realised. Metal shackles bit into my ankles and wrists, holding me tight on the smooth surface of a cliff face. What had I done to end up here?

As the day went on and the sun emerged from its bed of clouds, the sea level rose. My ankles stung from the salt as the shackles rubbed my skin raw.

To my horror, I was shocked out of my irritancy by a scream. Looking up, I saw a man, clawing at the air as he fell. The silence that followed made me cry out. Where his body had landed the sea churned, briefly revealing rows of sharp rocks. My lip quivered as a pool of red tainted the dull, grey waterscape. I cried out for help.

Nothing. Not for an hour.

I called out again for help. A woman’s shrieking answered me. As she hit the water, soon swallowed, I was sorry. Sorry I ever asked for help. I didn’t want to see anymore.

I screamed and screamed and screamed when her body bumped into my feet, kicking her away in a spray of crimson seawater. I became so short of breath that my consciousness faded.

“He’s coming to!” I heard, on the cusp on regaining my senses. “Quick, get the easel, I’ll grab the paints and brushes.

As my eyes opened and I sat up, I relished the hard ground beneath me, the absence of the sea. A brush was placed in my limp hand.

“Go on, paint!”

I was an artist. Beachy Head; the suicide spot. I’d asked to be chained there, under the cover of night. Nobody’s ever seen what I’ve seen. The descent, the last glimpse of life before the rocks claimed it. Now they could.

On the Rocks by Meg Burrows

On the Rocks is where we sat until the sun said goodbye to the day.

On the Rocks is what Aunt Zara says every time she goes to the bar.

On the Rocks is when Charlie Griston can no longer stand upright outside Benny’s.

On the Rocks is how some people see their marriage.

On the Rocks is here in the tumbler.

On the Rocks is that bloody seagull again.

On the Rocks is supremely wonderful feeling of euphoria looking out onto a deep canyon of unaltered bliss.

On the Rocks by Sam Smith

This shall be my last journal entry.

All members of my crew have either died of starvation or murdered each other in a fit of madness.

Their captain is all that is left.

Never have I sailed a ship for myself. The masts have been left high. The wind decides where we shall go.

An end on the rocks seems fitting for such a poor captain.

We were dead before the ship even sank.

On the Rocks by Emily Chadwick

Darryl looked around at the girls on either side of him, grinning widely and holding up his glass.

“A toast, for all the beautiful ladies.”

The girls laughed and raised their glasses. All except for one.

“Why do they call drinks with ice ‘on the rocks’?” she said, tilting her head to one side. Dark beguiling eyes watched him from below long dark lashes.

Darryl peered at his drink.

“Ice is kind of like rocks?” He tilted his head the same way as her. “Isn’t it?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “It makes me think of shipwrecks, and then I get sad. You should be happy when you’re drunk, right?”

“Unless you’re drinking because you’re sad,” a redhead to Darryl’s left put in.

“I suppose,” the first girl said. She put her glass down on the table with a loud clunk. “A toast then, to ships on the rocks.”

The girls laughed and raised their glasses again. Darryl excused himself.

On the Rocks by Sara Travis

I bang about in the liquor cupboard, not caring who I disturb at this late hour. When you need a drink, you need a drink, you know? I rummage and discard the brandy, the vodka, the gin. I want the hard stuff, the good stuff, the stuff that’ll punch me straight in the gut, burn my throat and help me forget. I want the scotch, goddammit, where’s the scotch?

I find it, lurking at the back, hidden behind the rum. Sophia must’ve hidden it again. The stupid bitch, she’s always taking my stuff and hiding it, thinking I don’t notice but I do, I’ve known about it for ages, I’m just biding my time, waiting for the moment, the opportune moment to get her back and pound her skull into mush. Is that the right phrase? ‘The opportune moment’? It sounds right, but when I try to say it out loud the words come out in a jumble, I can’t get my mouth to form that long ‘o’ sound. Fuck it, who cares? I’ve only had a couple, and that last one at the bar went straight down my shirt anyway, some idiot who’d had one too many knocking me as he passed. I showed him, though. I’ve got the bloody knuckles to prove it.

The bottle clinks against the glass as my liquid lady friend chugs out. A little more. A little more. It’s missing something though, there’s something missing here. ICE. I need ICE. I almost shout the word as my mind clicks into place, and stuff a fist into my mouth to suppress my laughter. Shh, David! Sophia is sleeping, you can’t wake her, the fucking queen she thinks she is. God forbid you wake her and face her wrath. The gold bands around our fingers are the only thing we have in common these days, and even then it’s practically worthless. I screw around, she screws around, although I would definitely deny that in a law of court. Wait, no – a court of law. Yeah, that’s it. Heh.

I use the prongs to plop the ice into my drink because I’m classy, and classy people use prongs. Although when some of the scotch splashes out of my glass, I remind myself that classy people probably have butlers to fix them their scotch on the rocks when they come home at 3:00 am in need of a drink after a long evening of very heavy drinking. But like I said, that last one at the bar was wasted, really. So I’m owed this one. But before I have the chance to knock it back, I hear a sigh from somewhere behind me, and I know it’s her before I even turn around.

She’s stood in the doorway wearing her robe, arms folded across her chest and a look of utter contempt on her face. Who would have thought I’d marry a woman like that?

“Yes?” I say, although the ‘s’ sound at the end is slightly slurred. I like it though, and I drag it out a little longer, so it sounds more like, “Yesssssssssssh?”

Sophia grinds her teeth while she eyes up the stains on my shirt, and for a second I lose my balance and stumble forward. I’ve always said this house was built on a slope, but Sophia never believed me. But here’s the proof!

“When you’ve quite finished, perhaps you’d be so kind as to take the spare room tonight?” Sophia says, barely able to hide her disgust. “And then at least I’ll be spared a night of inhaling your rancid breath.”

I lunge at her, careful not to spill any more of my drink, and grab at her robe. “Perhaps you’d be so kind as to sign the divorce papers when I pick them up from our lawyer tomorrow? Then at least I’d be spared a lifetime of your self-righteousness and smarmy attitude?” I try to glare, but can’t seem to focus on her face. She prises my sweaty hands off her robe, and staggers backwards.

“It would be my pleasure!” she hollers, before turning on her heel and dashing back up the stairs.

I cheer loudly as she leaves, and down my drink in one, rocks and all.

On the Rocks by Ben Hayward

He swanned slowly up to the bar with a cool swagger and a dirty smirk on his face.

“Could I have a scotch on the rocks?”

“Is that supposed to be a line of some kind?”

He seemed taken aback; it had been a long time since someone had challenged him in any capacity. He quickly recovered, maintaining his cool, and placed his hand firmly on the bar.

“Whatever do you mean by that?”

“Well Hastings is famous for its rocky beaches for one thing.”

Beads of sweat emerged on his scalp. He wiped them away and broke the mould of well-formed hair that covered his scalp. His yellowing teeth were now showing as he struggled to maintain his smile.

“Can I just have my drink please?”

“Sure thing, no need to get fusty, love. It doesn’t suit you.”

She looked behind to see if there were any bottles of scotch left, returning with a bottle of Jack-Daniels.

“That’s not what I ordered.”

“It’s all we have.”

He slammed the table hard, drawing looks from several onlookers.

“I am not drinking that Yankee trash!”

The barmaid gritted her teeth, biting down in a conscious effort to hold her tongue.

“Excuse me, sir, what would you prefer?”

“My order, for one thing.”

The barmaid looked toward one of her colleagues, making a vague nodding motion.

“I am sorry sir, the taps are dry, and we only have fizzy drinks left.”

“A second ago I saw you pour that guy there a pint!”

A burly man appeared behind him and took him by the arm. You could see a flash of fear in his eyes as he was led away from the bar.

“How may I help you Ma’am?”

On the Rocks by Lesley Whyte

They slipped away from the wedding party and into the night, leaving behind the white marquee bathed in golden lights, the merry guests, the music. They came to the edge of the cliff. He stood and looked out at the farthest reaches of the black ocean. She heard the waves crashing below them and looked down at the rocks, sharp and jagged shapes rising up out of the surf.

She clutched his arm, feeling a little giddy from the champagne. "What are we doing here?" she asked, unable to stop a giggle from rising in her throat. 

He placed his hand gently on hers to steady her, but kept looking out into the black night. The blacker ocean.

Behind them, the music stopped. She twisted around to see why. They were missing the throwing of the bouquet, but that didn't matter. She would be the next to get married. She had the cubic zirconia ring to prove it. He insisted it was a diamond, but she knew better and loved him all the more for wanting to give her a diamond.

"What are we doing out here?" she asked again. A cold wind whipped against her bare arms and face. She wanted to go back to the party. She wanted to go back to the light and the warmth of the party behind them.

"I can't do this anymore," he said finally. "I don't want to."

"What...what are you saying?"

"I'm sorry, Clo. I can't marry you."

"But...but you...we..."

"I'm sorry, Clo," he said again. He turned to look at her, but she could hardly see his face in the darkness. He kissed her forehead and then lifted her hand from his arm. He turned and went back to the party.

She watched him go, tears and the wind burning her eyes. She felt a sob rising up from deep inside her and turned back to the ocean. She didn't realise she had been twisting the ring around her finger until it slipped.

"No!" She fell to her knees, searching in the grass for it, groping blindly between the blades. And then she saw the rocks again. She striaghtened up. Suddenly, they didn't look so scary. They looked almost welcoming, like open arms rising up out of the ocean to embrace her and bring her home

Day Seven

And today's prompt is...

On the Rocks