The Next Three Days by Carolyn Glass

Only 3 days to go, what could possibly go wrong? Well I’m glad you asked me that. So far, the bride's dress damaged in a mystery dye spill accident (will be discovered by the shop owner tomorrow, shame she had just made her assistant redundant), a number of the guests suffering from suspected food poisoning after the hen night (shouldn’t be too difficult to spike the champagne in the club tonight and then persuade everyone to eat kebabs at 3am), the venue for the nuptials firebombed (tomorrow along with 2 other churches, probably be considered a hate crime with any luck). And if the bride and groom insist on staying cheerful, dealing with each incident calmly? An accidental death, preferably hers, (then I could sweep in and offer consolation and support) but his would be ok at a pinch. He’d regret passing me over one way or another.

The Next Three Days by Lesley Whyte

The next three days are vital. Everything has to be perfect. You have so much to plan. You don't have much time to do it in. You can't allow this stuff to go unplanned. Can you imagine what will happen if you do? Can you? You can't let that happen. You can't. It will ruin everything.

EVERYTHING.

So, with that in mind, which centrepieces do you prefer?

Day Twelve

And today's prompt is...

The Next Three Days

No More Sorrow by Ben Hayward

The corridor was covered in that cheap plastic board, the type that your local councillor's office is presumably covered in. The thin stench of cigarette smoke stuck to the old linoleum flooring.

“Well mister Daniels, we can see you're than qualified for this position.”
“You can?”
“Yes we can. This is just an informal interview, for us to get to know you.”

The interviewer crooned toward me, showing off her cleavage slightly. Her face had been dried out from a lifetime of on again off again smoking. From her breath I could tell that it hadn't been long since her last.

“So what do you want to know?”
“The tiny details, what makes you tick.”
“Why I should have the job over the others?”
“Something like that.”

She made some loose gesture toward someone behind me in the lobby. The lock on the door shut and the blinds went down, as if by clockwork. The haggard middle-aged woman seemed to be undressing me with her eyes, crawling slowly across the table.

“I swear I've seen a movie about this kind of thing before.”

As if by lightning her predatory gaze was shattered. I'd hit the panic button. The get out of jail free card. She resumed her place back in her seat and straightened her suit.

“Well I'm motivated, hard working and a team player. I know the ins and outs of Microsoft Office.”

Her face didn't move, remaining tight jawed. Eventually I just got up to leave. The door had not been unlocked.

“You know that there is only one way out of this office, right?”

I looked at the office's window and held my breath.

No More Sorrow by Solomon Blaze

‘She’s bleeding out...’ I say to Callum; the love of his laugh dying in his arms.

‘No more sorrow at least, I guess...’ he chokes through a dam of tears.

Kelly’s just splayed out on the floor, unconscious and bleeding to death from a gash in her abdomen that is just gushing out blood; neither of us can really do anything; there’s no point in trying to move her now.

The corridor’s white tiled floor is a paddling pool of oxidized plasma.

Gunshots fire from around the corner behind us. Screams, battle cries and finally a loud crashing noise that tells the two of us He is here.

The whistling starts and a tall figure steps out from round the corner, turning on his heel to face us. He’s handsome – like James Bond turned into a sociopath - with slicked back dyed black hair and a floor length trench coat that drags itself through the river of blood around his feet.

He stops whistling and smiles broadly, ‘so you are here!’ he shouts triumphantly down the hall.

I just get up, thinking fuck this with every inch of my being. Callum’s looking at me as if he wants to protest; he knows he couldn’t, so there’s no point.

‘Whoa-ho-ho-hooo, you look aaaangry!’ He says smacking his lips with his tongue.

I light my hands with the intense heat of Strong Nuclear Force Style; the hallway instantly sets alight with a violent, flickering orange glow.

He floods his hands with the bright electric blue light of the Weak Nuclear Force Style; the hallway is now a haunting violet colour.

The hum of power in this the tight atmosphere is nauseating; the walls and ceiling are cracking and breaking apart with the force of our combined and conflicting Wills.

He raises a curious eyebrow, with a dirty smirk that I’m gonna’ blast off of that disgustingly perfect mug, ‘you suuure you wanna’ do this?’ He says spreading his arms apart as a taunting insult to me, my best friend and –probably dead by now – lover.

I hold his gaze and despite the almost electromagnetic repellent effect of his antagonistic soul, I strut towards him with my fists clenched;

Fuck you...

No More Sorrow by James D. Irwin

Sometimes you get to feeling that drink tastes sweeter for sorrow-- 'least sorrow is sweeter with drink if you ask me.

I’d been at the drink so long I’d got to forgetting what I was feeling so blue about, almost. She walked out of my life, but they all do sooner or later. I liked her a lot, and I think the girls did too— and the girls don’t always do.

There’s a lot of sad talk amongst them now. But nothing lasts forever, I guess. Not whiskey nor sorrow, nor careers at the Ranch.

They’ll be a new girl come along in time and they girls’ll like and they fuss and fawn over her and forget about Celeste. And there won’t be no more sorrow or sad talk in the cat-house.

No More Sorrow by Sara Travis

I place a gentle rose on his coffin. When they start shoveling the dirt on top I hardly feel a thing. Hands are shaken. Soft words are spoken. And before I know it, we’re back at the house, eating ham sandwiches and sipping cold tea. The day is mostly a blur of flower arrangements and cling-film wrapped lasagnas and embraces that don’t last long enough to impart any sincerity. I know what’s hiding behind their eyes, the words that swell in the back of their mouths. I know what they’re thinking. So I flit from guest to guest, I dab my face with a moist tissue, I offer a brave smile and I politely decline any offers of a bed for tonight.

“Are you sure, Susan?” they say, “Are you sure you want to stay here, tonight of all nights?”

“You shouldn’t be alone, please, say you’ll stay just one night.”

“But it’s the house, Susan. You don’t want to stay in the house, do you?”

I stretch my face into a small smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes.

“I’m fine. It’s comforting to be here, in the house where he took his last breath. So many … happy memories.”

Their heads tilt to one side, they give a simpering smile, and nod as though they understand. But they don’t understand. They can’t.


Sometime after midnight I pour myself a glass of his scotch and retire to our bedroom. Under the duvet, I cradle the revolver to my chest. Her sickly, putrid perfume still clings to the sheets and it turns my stomach. But I can’t bring myself to change them. Not yet. When I close my eyes I see them together, writhing on our marital bed, a tangle of pale, fleshy limbs. A flash and then red, everything is red.

I slip the gold band off my finger and put it in the bedside drawer. There will be no more sorrow. For me, at least. With hindsight, I can see that death was an easy way out. But if he makes it to heaven, he’ll know that he’ll face me there one day, too. And then I’ll make sure he gets what he deserves.

No More Sorrow by Lesley Whyte

You're probably starting to notice things going wrong in your life. I say probably, it's entirely possible that a colossal ass like you hasn't noticed anything. You've always been very insular. Still, you might have noticed, and you might even have wondered if I had anything to do with it. I doubt it, but again, it's possible.

Because you were right, George. As much as it pains me to say those words, you were right. About me, about you, about us. About everything. When you hurt me, when you knocked me to the ground and then kicked me in the stomach for good measure - I'm speaking metaphorically, of course, look it up if you need to - I'd simply curl into a ball and cry. That part isn't a metaphor. You hurt me and I would cry about it. I would be sad, I would wonder what I'd done, how I could fix it. How I could be better. How I could be the person that you deserved. And when I told you that, you told me I was pathetic.

And you were right. You were right, George. It took me a long time to realise it, but now I can see it. And I've changed, George, I swear I've changed. I don't expect you to believe me, I plan to show you. I don't expect you to want me back, though I'd be lying if I said I didn't want that. The thing is, I don't want you back. I've made so many changes in my life and I just want to say thank you for causing those changes, for making me into this person. Because I like her. She's great. She's also pissed.

So, that's it, really. No more sorrow. You have been warned.

Be seeing you soon,
Natalie.

No More Sorrow by Nick Trussler

‘Don’t cry! Men don’t cry,’ I receive a slap on the back of my head from my father for this.

But I can’t help it. It is my mother’s funeral after all. I close my eyes so he can’t see the tears. I must be a man. I must harden my heart. There must be no more sorrow, so at least when it’s time for that bastard’s funeral I won’t let even one single, accidental tear to roll down my cheek.

Day Twelve

And today's prompt is...

No More Sorrow

Lunch Date by Lesley Whyte

Nina practically trotted over to the window seat with her sandwich, and then wolfed it down, leaving a trail of marinara sauce down her chin. She gulped down her Coke before wiping it away with a napkin and then disposing of the evidence. She left the sandwich shop and crossed the road to the restaurant where they were due to meet. She gave the false name he always used for their reservations and was shown into the dining room. Here she was sat down at the best table and handed a leather-bound menu. She poured water from the pitcher in the centre of the table and then waited.

And waited.

She would order the avocado salad today, no dressing. And she would leave the avocado. If he thought she was eating again, if he thought she might start gaining weight...

Nina's phone buzzed in her handbag. She fished it out and answered it. He would be late. He wasn't coming. Something had happened. Gillian was back from her skiing trip. She wanted to have lunch. She wanted to be taken shopping on Rodeo Drive. He would be late back to the studio. He was sorry. He would make it up to her. He would buy her something special. Nina fixed a smile on her face and told him not to worry. She understood. She would head back to the studio now and make his excuses.

She hung up and left a tip, even though she hadn't ordered anything. It was her own fault, really. Why did she keep falling for men who were so good to their wives?

Lunch Date by Emily Chadwick

She was late.

Eli tore his napkin into fretful strips, tossing anxious glances at the diner’s door.

She was late. She should be here by now. She had said so.

He took a sip of his water, his fingers trembling as he held the glass.

Why was she late? Was it his hair? His clothes? Did he smell bad?

He tried to give himself a discreet sniff, but stopped when he realised that a wizened old man was staring at him from the next table.

“Would you like to order?” The waitress tapped her pencil against her skirt, cherry-red lips twisted in a fake smile.

“I – I’m waiting for someone, thanks.”

“Okey-dokey.”

The waitress tottered away, hips waggling. Eli stared intently at the fingerprints on his glass, his cheeks red. The waitress was probably laughing at him in the backroom.

Maybe she wouldn’t come after all.

All he could do was wait.

Lunch Date by Sam Smith

Here is a detailed list of things that a pigeon will not eat. The research for this list comes from personal experience gained due to having an hour lunch break from my job at Phones-4-U but no one to share it with and a wide selection of food in the Sainsbury’s along the road. If the pigeon picks up the food and puts it back down after one bite, it still counts as not eating it. These instances are marked with a *. Other exceptions will be included in the notes section and marked accordingly.

Cold chicken tikka. Lettuce*. Blue cheese. Red pepper. Green pepper. Yellow pepper*. Fish fingers*^. Quorn deli style ham slices. Raw egg. Custard. Dark chocolate. Frosties. Polish sausage. Cat food (rabbit). Heinz baked beans. Sainsbury’s brand baked beans*. Jelly^. Mint ice cream. Beef Stroganoff baby food. Ham slices*. Cherry Muller corner yoghurt*. Brussels Pâté. Tomatoes^. Hummus. Strawberry jam. Onions*. Rice^. A birthday cake*. Cous cous. Bombay Bad Boy Pot Noodle (cooked). Sausages. Sweetcorn*.

^Fish Fingers: The pigeon attempted to eat this, but it was frozen.
^Jelly: Pigeons are scared of jelly, no matter what flavour it is.
^Tomatoes: When confronted with a tomato, a pigeon will appear eager, but quickly become dissatisfied when close up to the tomato.
^Rice: Included only because the pigeon ate one grain of rice and promptly died.

Conclusion: Pigeons are pickier than a wife would be.

Day Twelve

And today's prompt is...

Lunch Date.