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.

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."

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…

Day Three

And today's prompt is...

Hook

Cherry Cola by Ben Hayward

We've been told not to refer to it as a block.
To give it a name gives it presence.
To give it presence means we cannot pass it.
Fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate...

Sorry..

I like long walks on the beech,
I don't really enjoy thrillers.
My parents' had me home-schooled.
They said I was special.

They keep telling us not to call it a block
Why not call it a wall instead?

Cherry Cola by Solomon Blaze

Arthur ‘Silvertongue’ O’malley sits in the reception to an executive meeting room, halfway to the top of a 1980’s New York City skyscraper – 1981 to be exact.

These buildings always look the same, he thinks with an exhausted arrogance that most people perceive as charisma – for a short time at least, but is really just the result of too many people telling you that you’ve got ‘it’.

The rest of the Mad Men are sat in a stereotypical square of black-tie suite and faux leather, cherry lipstick red chair. The smell of brand perfumes permeates the air that fills the entire 28th floor; young, hopeful women pass back and forth – the ‘real Mad Men are far too important to be down here, with this lot.

One of the girls catches Archie and his crooked smile; she winks and blows him a kiss, then saunters off with the rest of them.

Another young woman opens the door to the meeting room, ‘Arthur O’malley?’ she calls out in a nasaly voice, scanning over each of the men with matching crew cuts.

Her lips are the same cherry red as the chairs.

‘That’s me.’ Arthur says with a dirty grin, standing up in that effortlessly catlike way and making his way across the reception; the other candidates size him up, comparing his bog-standard look to their own.

‘The Executive Producers will see you now,’ says the woman.

Archie steps over the threshold and into the zone.

The young woman with lips like smack to his eyes closes the door behind him, taking a seat beside three men, each maybe a decade or two older than Arthur and dressed in similar suites, save for the odd pinstripe here and there, with slicked back, crew cut hair.

‘Whenever you’re ready, Mister...,’ the eldest of the men says, looking closely at his clipboard, ‘O’malley?’

Knock 'em dead kid, Archie tells himself.

‘Lady and gentlemen of The Coca-Cola Company, without any ado whatsoever, allow me to guide you, through on a journey to the prodigal son of carbonated soft-drinks, and the saviour from the clutches of the dreaded New Coke Incident ,’ - he could tell, they were already hypnotized. He quickly whips The Poster - aah, thank god for The Poster – out of the tanned leather portfolio and props it up on the chair that was obviously meant for him, ‘I present to you; Cola-Cola Cherry, or as I like to call it, Cherry Coke!’

Slowly, the Executive Producers smile and begin to nod their heads, that each has a grotesquely smug smile painted upon it, as though they called all see 32 years into the future of their company.

Cherry Cola by Sara Travis

We walk through the front door, and the smell of pot hits us like a brick wall. I wrinkle my nose in disgust, but Darren just grins like a loon and starts bobbing his head in time to the beat of the music. It’s so loud the walls are shaking slightly, little flakes of the plaster coming loose. I didn’t even want to come - I hate Gary and he hates me. But I suppose, once in a while, it’s necessary to make an effort and attend one of his parties. I figure 15 minutes is all I need, put on a show of union for Darren, and then I can meet the girls for a cocktail or five.

We dodge the plumes of smoke in the living room and head for the kitchen. Darren hands me a warm can of Stella (I hate Stella) and wanders off to the stereo, so I seek out a quiet corner of the lounge to pretend to sip my drink.

Unfortunately, Gary sidles up next to me and sticks his face into mine.

“D’you want some?” he asks, his rank breath tickling the hair on my face.

“No, thank you.” I reply, side-stepping out of his reach. This doesn’t deter him, he comes closer; now I’m wedged between him and the wall – no escape.

“You don’t even know what it is!”

“If you’re offering it, I don’t want it.”

He laughs like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard, and I risk a glance at his face. His eyes are reddish and wild, his pupils tiny pinpricks.

“You’re stoned.” I say, for lack of anything better.

“It’s this new stuff, Stace,” he whispers, bringing his bearded face even closer, and pulling from his trouser pocket a blister pack full of ruby little gems, “I’m calling it Cherry Cola. It’s fucking rad.”

“No, thank you,” I repeat with a little more force, “now if you’ll excuse me …” and I raise my can to my lips to take a swig. But of course, it’s warm Stella, so I swill it round my mouth for a second before gulping it down. I hate Stella.

Gary’s still leering, so I sigh and shove my shoulder into the wall to pry myself away from him. I hear a mad cackle behind me.

“Enjoy …” he wheezes, and skulks into the haze of pot smoke.

I frown for a second. The taste of the beer still lingers on my tongue, but something seems off. A strange aftertaste at the back of my mouth, almost acidic, but with a hint of … cherry. I stare down at the can, a knot of panic forming in the pit of my stomach. The can slips from my hand, hitting the stained carpet with a thud, the contents glugging out in spurts.

“You fucking bastard,” I say, but the words echo, as if spoken in a tunnel. I blink and the party has slowed down, the smoke seems thicker, brighter, it’s almost glowing, and the music is still pounding, I can feel the beat in my chest, I blink again, but it takes an age for my eyes close, and if they make it I’m not sure they’ll open again.

“You fucking bastard.” I say once more, but the words never reach my lips.

Cherry Cola by James D. Irwin

She chose the name because it was her favourite drink. It wasn't the worst name in the industry, but she regretted it all the same.

Cherry Cola by Nick Trussler

Cherry cherry cold. Your lips taste like cold soda. Cherry cola.

I pull back and look over your bright red lips, painted fresh for this occasion. I kiss them again, this time I slip my tongue between them. Your teeth are in the way. I could always knock them out but you look so beautiful, like a painted portrait. I don’t want to disturb one hair on your body. Nothing must be out of place. You are perfection. You are my marble Aphrodite. I rub my cheek against yours. It is rosy, painted blush on white skin. I kiss both cheeks, leaving my damp imprint on your timeless skin. I want to climb in beside you, no, on top of you. But I dare not. I cannot disturb you too much. So I explore your body, with my mouth and my hands. Every orifice, every dent, every crook and every hair. Like a sculptor carving living tissue out of lifeless marble I am engrossed in my work. Time passes and I am done. I walk slowly away from you, leaving as quietly as I can and, with a last glance at you, I leave and close the morgue door behind me.

Cherry Cola by Lesley Whyte

"Oh, hey, they're bringing back cherry Coke," Stephanie said.

I looked up from my guitar. "They never stopped doing it."

"Are you sure?"

"Certain."

Amy was obsessed with cherry Coke. Every time I kissed her, I could taste it on her breath. It was the only thing I didn't really like about her, because I'd never liked the drink myself. I mean, I'd tasted worse things, a lot worse things, but I'd never been a fan.

She always used to take a bottle of it to house parties and then frown when other people drank it, that tiny puckered line appearing between her eyebrows. We'd be sitting in someone's garden, surrounded by music and laughter and warm bodies, and she'd get that little line because she'd spotted someone coming out of the kitchen with Coke. It could have been regular Coke, but the suspicion was enough to bother her.

I remember she even took a couple of cans to my cousin's wedding, stashed in her handbag. The first time we slept together, she shared her cherry Coke afterwards. Sometimes, when she was low on funds and she ran out of the stuff, she'd be really crabby, like a smoker denied her nicotine fix. She always asked for it in the pub, even though we went there at least twice a week and she knew they didn't stock it. Then she started bringing it with her and we were asked to leave, so we ended up in the park, swigging from her smuggled cans like teenagers with a can of cider, only somehow less glamorous.

Cherry Coke was Amy's one and only vice. Well, that and the part where she slept with my best friend.

"Oh, you're right," Stephanie said. "It's vanilla Coke they're bringing back. Gross."

I nodded. Vanilla Coke was just awful.

Day Three

And today's prompt is...

Cherry Cola

LATE ENTRY Fireside by Matt Tomlin

Jane could smell burning. It wasn’t the beef casserole she was slaving over, she was sure of it. A quick inspection of the kitchen showed no signs of burning foodstuffs. Paul had said something about lighting the fire. In a frenzy, Jane abandoned her kitchen utensils, sprinting to the living room as fast as the obstructing furniture would allow. Images of the cream carpet ablaze and streaks of fire assailing the walls entered her head. Even her daughter Emily, lulled to sleep by the strangling fumes, lying motionless, surrounded by flames.

Flying into the living room, with her hands holding her to the doorframe, Jane gasped.

The room wasn’t ablaze. It took a moment for the adrenaline to fade, for the panic to subside before Jane could instil a calming breath.

“Mummy?” Came the innocent voice of Emily. Little Emily, breathing, alive.

“I can smell burning; honey, are you alright?”

“Yes. It’s smelly though.”

“What is, darling?”

“Percy is.” Emily stated simply, pointing to the fire. Jane walked into the room, her eyes fixed on the fireplace.

“Emily!” Jane cried, throwing herself down onto the carpet.

“But he’s an ugly teddy!” She justified with her brutal, yet honest reasoning.

Ugly he might have been, but Percy is, was an old bear, Jane thought as she watched the teddy crumple under the weight of the flames. Not from her mother, nor her grandmother, but her great, great grandmother. That was three corpses that would be turning in their coffins tonight.

“Stefanie told me too. She didn’t want to catch his ugliness.” Emily said. Jane eyed the pink furred teddy huddled in her daughter’s lap. She couldn’t return her gaze to the fire. Percy was gone, after all those years. All those tempestuous nights with Percy snuggled beneath the bed sheets to keep the generations safe from the scary weather. Never again.

“Mummy?” Emily asked as Jane stared into space. “Don’t let dinner burn!”

LATE ENTRY Fireside by Nick Trussler

The fire roared and cracked as the old man poked it absentmindedly. He coughed and spat a dark spittle of phlegm onto the hearth. He smoked too much. People said it was good for your health, cleared the lungs and body of ill humours but he had seen enough men coughing, being blinded by the smoke on a far distant battlefield, to know that it was nonsense. Still, out of habit, his hand reached his tobacco pouch. Empty. It had been empty for a long time now as had his belly. He poked the fire some more. Each stab into the crackling wood was replayed in his mind as some enemy now long dead, but who still returned nightly to haunt his dreams. He would not sleep tonight. It was not just the hunger keeping him awake. All the glory had gone, if indeed there had ever been any. And now he just sat here, a shell of who he used to be. He sighed. He could not even remember what he had looked like in his youth. He could not afford to be painted, like some gentleman. Not even a rough sketch of him was ever made. It was all vanity anyway.

The fires of hell would come for him, he knew, to punish him for all his wickedness in youth. He had laughed in the face of the evangelical then, but now he knew he was damned. He could face the devil fighting but what was the point? In a way he welcomed death. There was nothing for him here anymore. He poked the fire more vigorously now, each strike sending a wave of sparks that grew perilously close to catching his clothes on fire. He grinned and poked some more.

Later as the hours of night slowly drew back and let dark blue morning slowly reveal itself the fire had already spread to the lower part of the house. From a fluttering ember landing on a table cloth it had grown and roared into life as it ate the possessions of one person’s life.

Now the smoke choked the night air.

The old man lay in bed and did not open his eyes. Hell had come for him at last. As the smoke filled his lungs, he welcomed the pain. Breathing deeply, trying to hold the coughs that were now ravishing his chest he wore a sardonic grin. Let the devil come, he thought, let the devil come.

LATE ENTRY Fireside by Ben Hayward

“See this oak here son, it stood in our village for a thousand years. It was here when William the Conq beat ol’ Harold. It was here during the Blitz. It was here when Ollie Crom taught that toff Charlie who's boss.”

Dad’s head sunk while he was trying to make the next statement. Carefully I liberated his hand of the block of wood, and placed it on the floor beside his chair, so as not to damage the well-finished flooring. I decided that it was best to leave him in his chair beside the fire to keep him warm. If I were to move him he wouldn’t get back to sleep. Not to mention the fact that he’d continue to rant about that blasted tree. I’d only taken a branch off.

I let the dog in to nestle against his leg. In the absence of electricity he proved to be a useful alarm system. I hope the power comes back soon so I don’t have to dismember the rest of that tree. I’ll never hear the end of it.

Fireside by Sara Travis

The glow of the fire casts gloomy shadows around the room. Eerie creatures lurk in the corners, under the heavy oak desk, behind the thick drapes. I stand at the fireside and watch as the flames dance in my own private performance, I hear the crackle of the flames, the thud as a log slips, and step back as it spits its embers across the rug.

I sigh, the thick smoke heavy in my lungs, and fight the urge to cough and splutter. This is my penance; I must suffer still longer. The room is too hot, the smoke too intense. My collar is wet with sweat, this tie around my throat is too tight, this woollen blazer so heavy on my shoulders. I can’t bear it, the tie must come off, the jacket must be removed. My fingers, damp with perspiration, fumble with the knot, and the tie very nearly ends up in the flames. I am careless with the jacket, throwing it over the arm of the armchair behind me. I turn back to the fire, unbuttoning my collar, glad for some respite from the heat.

And then I see it – did it fall out of my jacket? Her black and white eyes still smile, despite the flames that lick at her face, her long hair is charring already, the corners of the picture curl round as her face is devoured by the blaze. The panic rises in my chest, a small yelp escapes my lips, and without thinking, I shove my hand into the flames.

Fireside by Sam Smith

I didn’t live there anymore, so I burnt it down.

We moved in four years ago. Mum was the first to hate the house. She didn’t want to move. She said it was wrong to leave the place where I was growing up. I told her that it didn’t matter, but she was still worried.

It took five minutes driving on a muddy track through thick trees to reach the house from the road. There were no other houses along the track. Even the postman wouldn’t come to the house because it was too far out of the way. Dad doesn’t like to talk very much, so I think he wanted to be far away from everyone else.

The house was old and small. I said it was pretty, trying to convince Mum that it would be fine. She didn’t say anything. Neither did Dad. We got out of the car and carried all of our boxes and piled them in the kitchen. Every surface was made of a light wood, with lots of lines all over it.

For three years we lived in the house quietly. The loudest noise coming from the house was the creaking when it was very windy. Otherwise, it was silent. We disturbed nothing around us. It was like we weren’t there.

Dad went outside to smoke a cigarette. He sat on the windowsill in front of the house like he always did. When he came back inside, he brought a box into the room where Mum and I were sitting. He found it on the step leading up to the front door.

The box was never opened. It was as big as a shoe box, but made of dark, heavy wood. Dad put it in the corner of the kitchen, under the table.

The night that Dad found it, I crawled under the kitchen table to open the box, but it wasn’t there. When I looked in the morning, it was back. Dad sat at the table, one foot resting on the box.

Mum wanted to open the box, but Dad didn’t. He told her that it was not meant to be opened, it was meant to hold us together. I wasn’t sure what he meant and asked him about the box. He told me not to think about it. Every morning he would put the box under the table and every night he would take it somewhere.

Last night, I found another box. I heard a noise outside and opened the front door. The box was on the step, where Dad said he found the last one. I picked it up and took it up to my room. I opened it. There was a note inside. It read ‘There is no other box’. I didn’t believe the note. I hid the box under my bed.

When I went downstairs the next morning, Dad was sat at the kitchen table, his foot on the box. He turned and asked me who I was. Mum came downstairs and asked who I was. When I told them, they disagreed. Dad asked me to leave.

As I walked out of the house, there was another box on the step. I opened it. Inside was a match. I stood from behind a tree and watched as the house fell to the ground. Hot air rushed past me.

I didn’t live there anymore, so I burnt it down.

Fireside by Alison Wink

‘Come,’ he beckoned her, ‘Sit with me by the fireside. You are only wearing a thin dress. You must be freezing.’

She moved a little closer. She was shy, but she felt safe. He was a priest after all, a man of the cloth so his motives could only be good.

Fireside by Kim Warren

The fire was lit and a blanket had been placed by the fireside, with a picnic basket and two glasses of wine on top. Gentle, soothing music was floating through the house, the kids were at their aunts and the dog was locked in the back room. Everything was ready and waiting for her arrival. She would be leaving work soon and then the most romantic birthday of her life would begin. He had planned everything perfectly.

The door was closed and jammed with a chair so no one could disturb them. Moaning and heavy breathing was coming from within the manager’s office, were the contents of the desk was all over the floor and the wife of a loving husband was earning her promotion in the easiest way she could think of. She had never been one for hard work.

Fireside by Meg Burrows

Reduce, change, revolve and lift,

you the flames of tumbling wit,

do whisper me some stranger’s sighs,

all in secret, at firesides.

But swift and quick, the embers growl

a jealous heat does smother now

the beauty that lay in the smoke

that held the words, the flames you spoke.

Fireside by Samuel Gore

Fire beats Ice

Ice beats Rock

Rock beats scissors

Scissors beats paper

Paper beats possibility

Possibility beats procrastination

Procrastination beats studying

Studying beats flash fiction.