Day 19

Write a story that includes a gingerbread house, a stolen key and a surprising phone message.

The telephone rang with its usual nerve jangling burst of heavy metal rock music. I used that for my phone calls so that I would hear the phone above the sound of the kitchen equipment. This time, though, I was in the shower, and by the time I had grabbed a towel and rushed back into the kitchen it had fallen silent. The message light was blinking so rather than stand there shivering and dripping water onto the floor, I went back to the bathroom , dried myself properly and dressed in my usual casual wear of jeans and jumper – this was the weekend after all.

Brushing the tangles out of my curly brown hair, I returned to the kitchen to make myself a cup of coffee. Standing there, warming my hands on the mug, I looked at the message light, flashing there for the world to see and obey. Did I really want the outside world to intrude on my free time today, or would it wait till I get back into work mode. Trouble was, I couldn’t ignore that light. It was like a command – you will pick up this message or else!

I finished the coffee before it got cold; I felt like a disobedient child, watching the blinking red light and ignoring it for the moment.

Eventually, I knew that it would beat me into submission. I would have to pick it up and listen to the message, so grudgingly I grabbed the receiver and listened to the voicemail. The message was from my partner in the business.

He wanted me to know that he had lost the keys to the shop. What??? How the bleep can he lose the keys to the shop? When? Where? Now I was really worried. That’s the long relaxing weekend finished for me. My stress levels rose again, and my fingers wouldn’t dial his telephone number properly. Twice I tried to dial, and on the third attempt, managed to get the numbers in the correct order.

He answered on the first ring, and in answer to my frantic questioning, explained that he had been outside the shop when he realized. He had been putting the finishing touches to the new window display. He had gone outside and was standing back to admire his handiwork . The centerpiece of the newly designed gingerbread house looked beautiful, he said, and that was when he was nudged by the kid on the bike. He thought nothing of it then, except to shout after the little tyke to stay off the pavement. It wasn’t until he went back into the shop to put the alarms on and close up that he realized his keys were missing. His first thought was that he had dropped them inside the window while he was placing our goods on the shelving, so he had crawled back into the display and searched among the products on display. After an hour of searching the window, then the shop itself and cursing himself for his own carelessness, he put everything back in its proper place and phoned me.. Both of us panicked.

But a light went off in my head; the kid, the bike, could he have picked Steve’s pocket during that nudge as he went past on the pavement? Had the keys been stolen, not just gone missing. It seemed to be the logical reason for the loss.

Together we knew that we were going to have to get the locks changed, new keys for the shop, new keys for Steve’s home, and make sure the alarm systems were used regularly.

I didn’t think we’d ever see the kid again and personally , I felt real spiteful; he had spoilt my weekend off, I hoped his bike fell apart!

*********

“It’s perfect.” Mrs Lowe murmured, taking a step back to admire her handiwork. Hours of fussing and obsessing had revealed an intricately prepared gingerbread house that would take pride of place at tonight’s celebrations. No expense had been spared. The walls of the not so humble abode had been adorned with the finest sweets the local shop had on offer, each one painstakingly mapped out and held in place with icing she had made from scratch early this morning.

I’d like to see Mrs Renwich top that, the woman thought, pleased with the idea of besting her closest neighbour and greatest rival. Her husband never had understood the competitive nature of the housewives, much preferring the company of the wireless and a whisky to their bickering. If only he had noticed the pride the woman took in their homes, in their family, in perfection.

That was why every inconsequential detail became a competition between the two. Every baked good was judged; each child’s achievement ranked. Only one of the Lowe children remained at home now; the rest sent into the world of adulthood with more than a few tears and invitations to dinner. After Molly had... left, their mother had worked even harder to ensure her youngest was the best he could possibly be, whether he liked it or not. Mr Lowe knew his wife had been heartbroken when she had ‘thrown her life away’ but he hadn’t expected her to react so rashly. He had, of course, been disappointed, any parent would be. He had presumed it was a phase, a habit she would out grow in time.

Her mother had not given her the chance.

“Not while you are under my roof you won’t! Do you hear me young lady?” she had roared, her face blotchy with anger. She wouldn’t back down, so sure she was in the right. And it drove their daughter away.

She stomped upstairs, re-emerging minutes with a bulging bag over her shoulder and she had left. Without a word, without a goodbye.

Mrs Lowe was far too proud to apologise, to welcome her home. Before he knew it, it was too late. She had found a place to stay, a job waiting tables, much to her mother’s horror. She had a new life and they didn’t fit in it anymore.

A strange coldness had settled over the couple, each of them blaming the other. “You should have been firmer with her; she always listened to you.” The wife had crowed, desperately trying to avoid responsibility only to be met with a firm stare and silence. A silence she filled with fresh pies, homemade bread and her son’s success. They never spoke of it. Nobody did. It was as if they had had but four children, three boys, and a girl, but no raven haired child named Molly. Only her absence, the vast void she left screamed the truth.

On this particular night the silence was broken not by the sound of a busy kitchen, nor the consistent drone of a radio but by the shrill tones that came from the phone they kept in the hall. Mrs Lowe was running errands. Her husband locked away in his study.

It was their youngest who crept through the quiet house, a boy caught between child and man. It was his hands free of ink or flour that took the cold plastic in his hands. His newly deepened voice that called out. His mouth that fell in shock at the sound of a voice he had almost forgotten.

His bare feet hit the carpet quickly as he skidded through the halls before barrelling into his father’s sanctuary. As is customary for those not yet in control of their bodies, he landed in a heap. Before his father could question or scold him, he was speaking, the words tumbling from his mouth quickly.

“Dad! It’s Molly... she was mugged... they took everything. Her keys, her bag, her money. She’s ok but she’s in the hospital Dad. She wanted us to come and get her. I think she’s coming home.”

As his son’s hasty words sunk in, Mr Lowe rushed to his feet and in a tangle of coats and limbs to rival his youngest’s, he flew from the house, a paternal instinct awakened in him.

This was his little girl and she needed his help.

When Mrs Lowe returned home that evening, her arms like lead under the shopping they held, she felt a strange shame settle over her at the sight of her daughter. Nobody spoke for one tense moment while the two woman stared at each other, communicating what they knew they could.

The tension quickly dissipated when the eldest’s head nodded once. She knew she had been given a second chance, the opportunity to redeem herself and she wasn’t going to let pride repeat her mistakes. Not this time.

“You better set the table for four, boy.”

Day 18

Your character gets in a taxi but the driver takes has their own ideas about where they're headed...

I threw my case into the back seat, and told the driver where I wanted to go. He nodded and kicked the meter on, and started the vehicle. For the first few miles, my mind was elsewhere, wondering what had happened and how I was going to resolve the problem.

I hadn’t meant it to end like this. I hadn’t meant it to end at all. Where had it gone wrong?. Was it because I had assumed too much. Did we not mean as much to each other as I thought? Were we not meant to be together for ever and a day?

My thoughts spiraled round like a hamster in a cage. I was unsure whether to cry or to rage at the world. My only desire was to put as much space between him and me as I possibly could.

Gradually my breathing calmed, and as I gazed out of the grimy cab window, I realized that we didn’t seem to be heading in the direction of the airport. I tapped on the glass separating passengers from the driver, and shouted for him to turn round. I needed to get to the airport. I had to fly home. I couldn’t stand being in this city any longer.

The driver looked back at me through the rear view mirror, but said nothing in response to my voice. I shouted again, and banged like a madwoman on the shatterproof glass . I even took my shoe off and used that as a hammer. There was still no response, and no backward glance this time.

I grabbed the door handle. It wouldn’t turn. The doors were locked and I was in a taxi that wasn’t going where I needed to be.

Panic rose in my throat. I screamed at the driver; tried to wind down the windows to call out for help. Nothing in the rear of that vehicle would open for me.

I should have been concentrating when we set off; if I had not let my thoughts drift into the reasons why, I would have noticed we weren’t heading in the right direction for the airport.

What to do now? I had no idea. Where could he be taking me? Was I about to be assaulted or worse, killed. Once again the panic rose, threatening to overwhelm me. I squirreled deep into my handbag; did I have anything I could use as a weapon; no, I have removed everything that could be considered as useful, in preparation for the security check at the airport.

I unlocked my case. Was there anything in there that might work …… a bottle of perfume, some books spare shoes, my camera…………. My camera! I could take a photo of the driver and his meter number, at least when I was found, they’d have something to identify him! I pulled it from the jumbled clothing and raised it to take that snapshot of the back of his head.

The flash almost blinded me, reflecting back from the glass. For a moment I couldn’t see clearly, but as my vision cleared, I could see that the photo had not come out well enough to identify the meter number.

Still thinking hard, I rummaged again, tossing the camera back into the case. So concentrated was I, that it wasn’t till the vehicle started to slow down that I realized my time was up. Looking up from my task of trying to find some sort of weapon, I realized that we were close to a street that I felt I knew. What was this? As the taxi pulled to a halt, the rear doors unlocked and I scrambled out, heart racing. I grabbed my bags and set them down on the pavement.

I turned to face the driver …….. what the hell were you thinking of. I wanted the airport, why have you brought me here………………. Still shouting, I stopped, shocked into silence as firm hands gripped my shoulders. A scream was rising in my throat as I was turned quickly around to face…………….. him.

I didn’t want you to go, he said, so I paid the taxi driver to bring you back. Forgive me. Please come back, it was all my fault. Sobbing , I fell into his arms.

****

“Piccadilly Circus.”

The driver merely nodded as I clambered into the car. Far too absorbed with the phone in my hand, I didn’t see the hungry way he had looked at me, sizing me up. It didn’t even cross my mind that his intentions could be anything but honourable. Sure, I heard the stories but who honestly believed it could ever happen to them?

I certainly hadn’t.

It was why I didn’t react quickly enough when he pressed the small square of fabric against my face , leaving me defenseless to the fumes that crept through my nose, taking my consciousness with me.

And just like that my life was taken from me. One mistake is all takes.

I guess that’s why I’m writing this. People need to know that it does happen. I’m not even sure if anyone will find this but I’ve got to try right? I need to tell somebody, anybody. He’s the only one I see now and he has never talked to me, like properly, a real conversation. He just barks his instructions, threats, whatever you want to call it. It has been seven long years since I saw any face apart from his.

Even my memories are no longer enough. The faces of my friends, my family, the people I left behind have long since blurred unrecognizably. It is as if they are nothing more than a dream, a fantasy about a happier time.

This room is my life.

Gone. The rest is gone now. I would give everything to get it back but I know I can’t. In those first few weeks, I fought as hard as I could. Of course, I did. I screamed until no more sound would come. I hit him, kicked him, bit him. It’s human nature. The will to survive.

It wasn’t too long until I realized it was pointless. He wasn’t human so I couldn’t beat him. He was something else; the monster nobody wanted to believe exists.

If he finds this he’ll laugh at me, at my foolishness but I don’t care, not anymore. This is my lifeline. Here, in this room, it is far too easy to lose yourself. Days are stretched, each hour excruciating. I’m no longer a part of the world but trapped within these four walls. The only thing I have left is my own thoughts but I fear that they too will soon be snatched from me.

They are all I have left.

I can not lose them.

So here it starts the memoirs of a missing woman.

The woman the world forgot.

Day 17

Put on music while you work and see what happens...

He heard the sound again. It drifted, wisp-like on the breeze. He strained with all his being to catch the harmony, to listen to the music. He looked around; no-one else appeared to be hearing anything. Walking off to one side of the picnic crowd, he brushed close to the edge of the cliff that rose above the rippling motion of the sea below him. It did seem to be coming from that direction, and yet, he could not be sure.

“Be careful” he heard the shouted warning” the edge might break away! It’s not safe, come away”.

The spell was broken, the music faded from his hearing . He turned from his view of the sea and walked back to the group of his laughing friends and family. “Sit down” he was invited” you’ll miss all the food , if you don’t sit down’ He complied willingly, sitting between his cousins and looking at all the dishes being brought out of the wicker baskets.

Fresh bread, cheeses, hams, salads, pastries, fruit; plates, glasses and cutlery were being displayed on the blankets now surrounded by the chattering group. Bottles of good wine, and home=made lemonade appeared from the depths of the baskets , and eager hands thrust glasses to the person who was ready to uncork and pour. His cousins leaned past him to gather the foods they fancied and then allowed him space to serve himself with some crusty bread and cheese and fruit.

Silence descended like a blanket, only disturbed by the sounds of eating, and the clatter of cutlery on plates.

The natural sounds of the world intruded only slightly; the humming of the bees, busily collecting the pollen in the heather on the clifftop, birds wheeling and calling in the air currents sweeping up from the sea.

Replete with good food and in some cases, refreshment of an alcoholic nature, the group of picnickers returned all the used and now empty food containers and utensils to their places in the wicker baskets and many lay out on the blankets to enjoy the warming rays of the late afternoon sun. Shadows slanted low across the grassy cliffs. Some of the group walked slightly inland to examine the ring of standing stones to examine the mossy circle of granite. Others simply lay, totally relaxed.

He remembered the stories he had been told about the stones; they held ancient magic; they were the bodies of fallen warriors, never to return; they had been carried to this place from far away by giants of another land. So many stories, but the stones were not what carried the music that only he could hear. That came from the sea. He knew that now; deep in his soul it was calling to him and to him only.

He followed the music to the edge of the cliff; it was no longer a faint whisper on the breeze lifting the birds into the spiralling air currents. ; it crashed and thundered like the waves below. The wind rose again, lifting the pale blond hair on his head; the hairs on his arms crackled with the energy he was feeling from the booming music of the water.

Lifting himself as high as he could on his toes, his arms outstretched as though to fly with the gulls, he stepped over the edge.

****

With weary movements he pushed open the door, ready for another night of loneliness. A surprised smile tugged at his lips when he heard the faint sounds of his wife’s singing. It had been months since the sound could be found in their apartment. Although it was out of tune and far from perfect, he couldn’t help but love it. If she was singing again, it meant she must be happy once again, or at least on her way there.

Letting the sound guide him through the halls, he reminisced about the first time he had heard the sweet melody. His chest had tightened with joy when he had seen the sheer bliss on her face as she had sung. That had been the moment he had decided to put a ring on her finger. Things had started well between the two of them, the honeymoon period stretching from a month to a year, one whole perfect year. Fights were resolved, decisions made but all with a smile and a look of love.

And then her mother had passed away.

Suddenly her ever present smile vanished. The woman who had lightened a room drew into herself, became little more than an empty shell, a shadow.

Her mother, who had been a single parent, was her best friend and without her, it was as if things became too much. He had tried to help her – of course he had – but it was if she couldn’t hear him, let alone see him. For days on end, she stayed in bed with the curtains drawn. When he returned from work in the evenings, the food he ahd put out were barely touched, as were the meals he brought each night.

He had watched in despair as the pounds dropped from her, her hair losing the glossy look he had always loved. The woman he loved was disappearing before his eyes and he didn’t know how to stop it.

Although he hated to admit it, there had been moments when he had wanted nothing more than to leave. As he coaxed into a shower, did his best to keep things working, he had wondered what he would do if she didn’t get better. The thought was fleeting but the guilt was not.

He had remembered the promises he had made and knew that he wouldn’t leave her, couldn’t leave her.

She turned when she heard his footsteps. The smile had widened; she was back. The radio which had been as silent as her, was blaring as she busied herself in the kitchen. The hurt was still there, as it would be for a while yet, but it was finally under her control.

“I thought we’d have lasagna tonight?” There was an unspoken apology, a plea for forgiveness in her voice.

“That’d be great,” he said and he meant it, because he was sure of one thing. He loved her and always would, no matter what.

Day 16

Rewrite your story from a different perspective

So, as I listened to the replies that Mrs. Blank gave me, I was wondering how this could have happened. I call her Mrs Blank, because the whole case is sub judice, you see. I can’t tell you her name because it might get out to the press and that’s more than my jobs worth.

Who am I? I’m the person who was first on the scene. Terrible it was. I’ve seen some horrible sights in my time with the Force, but this was rare for a town as small as this one. I was the one who had to interview the neighbor. Fat lot of good she was, all shaking and throwing up. Can’t blame her, mind; it was nasty, and if you’re not used to seeing dead bodies, it is hard. The more so, because of all the blood around this one.

Still she did her best to remember and tell me what had led up to her being the one to go to the house, and what she found there. Her description of the smell was right on ; it did smell like rotten meat . Bit warm for a dead body to hang around.

Mind you, her information didn’t even fill a page in my notebook. It seems she didn’t really know the neighbor who lived in that house very well, except that she was pretty normal. My superintendent won’t be too pleased with that bit of info. He likes to have villains who are definitely villain looking, if you know what I mean?

I mean, who could imagine that a normal woman in a normal little neighbourhood like this, would go that berserk. Then walk off down the street like she didn’t have a care in the world – and that’s after asking someone to pop round and water her plants. That’s really being cool and collected, that is.

Shall we find her; well, we’ll give it a good go. I suppose she must have had a good twenty four hour start on us, so the investigation trail will be pretty cold by now. Yes, they’ll block the airports and the docks in case she makes a run for it to get abroad, but if it was me, I’d lay low and keep quiet for a couple of years,. Perhaps have a bit of plastic surgery and change the hair colour. It wouldn’t be that difficult.

Fingerprints? No , not that I’ve heard. Plastic gloves, I expect, and probably no clothes on while she was doing it either, that way then all the blood will be washed off down the shower. Oh, yes, they can check the water in the drains to see if it there’s any residue. Will they catch whoever did it? Be nice to think so, don’t you think. Whether they will or not is another matter, entirely.

What do I think?

I think the neighbor who found it will be having nightmares for a long time, poor cow.

****************************************************************************************************************************************

Josh,

I’m sorry but I can’t make tonight. I’ve just been really busy and I think I need some time to myself.

I’ll call you.

Mia

He was surprised to feel hurt bubble through his chest. It was not an emotion he was normally subjected to. That was something weak people felt and if there was one thing he hated, it was being vulnerable. The moment you let your guard down, that was when people struck. He had been stupid to let Mia in, he knew that now but something in the way she had smiled had made him think he could trust her.

One thing was for sure, he wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

He had had enough of her mind games.

The streets were strangely empty as he raced through them, or so he thought, blinded by his feelings. How dare she make him feel like this? What gave her the right to change him so? His life had been just fine until she had waltzed in. He didn’t want to fall in love with her. More than anything, he didn’t want to be who he was with her. There was something about her that brought out the worst in him, pushed him over the edge.

She didn’t answer when he knocked at her door but he had expected this – she never did. It was one of the many problems they faced. She always ran. Mia was not one to deal with a problem, she never had been. Maybe if they had found the courage to admit there were problems, to try and fix it, things wouldn’t be like this.

He shouted until his voice was hoarse, the skin on his fist raw from the contact with the door.

Only then did let his hand fall to his side, defeated. He could still feel it, the pang in his chest, as he trudged towards his favourite haunt.

“Back again?” asked the barmaid, sliding his usual drink towards him. The hurt had morphed with anger now. She had abandoned him, leaving him to face it alone. Why did she always do that?

He knew he had made some mistakes, still felt the guilt but he hadn’t meant it. He had been so frustrated at the way she shirked the issue; he knew it was no excuse but it was true. All he had wanted was for her to face up to it but no, she couldn’t do that.

She was too damn weak.

He had lost count of the drinks when a familiar song had began to play. It was their song. It had been playing the first time he had set eyes upon her. He had been transfixed by her smile, the honest look on his face. If only he had known how untrustworthy she could be he would never have taken that risk, made himself so vulnerable.

They were just two people who never should have been together. Putting them together had been fate’s mistake. It was like taking a lit match onto an oil rig. There was only one outcome.

It was only when he woke late the next day, still fully dressed and swearing he would never drink again did he hear of the poor girl’s death.

She was in the wrong place, he thought, a victim of a broken hearted man.

Day 15

Write a story that includes a blind man, a tent and a train

When I was a child I would lay awake early in the cold frosty mornings listening to the squabbles of the jackdaws on the roof, and hearing the panting of the steam train starting its day in our local station.

Even though the station was a couple of miles across my father’s fields, I could still hear that extraordinary sound clearly through the still air. As I grew up it was usually the signal that it was time to emerge from the cocoon of blankets that were keeping me warm ; push back the covers and dash to the bathroom for a quick wash. It was too cold to do much more than jump into clothes that had been nestled in the bottom of the bed to keep them warm. Dancing on cold feet I made my way to stand on the rug in front of the window.

The frost made floral designs on the inside of the windows of my bedroom, and if I blew gently against the glass, they would slowly melt away into nothingness.

I slipped on my thick socks and slippers, huddled deep into my sweater, and made my way down stairs to the kitchen, where porridge was cooking gently on the range. My parents had already been hard at work in the darkness of the early day, and now returned to the farmhouse for their breakfast. Hot strong tea and thick porridge would keep them going till lunchtime, and I joined them at the well scrubbed kitchen table, which was drawn as close to the black leaded range as possible.

We sat there in silence , enjoying the warmth and knowing that soon each of us would have to brave the icy weather outside. The animals had to be cared for whatever the weather, and it was our job to keep them in good health. Calves had to be hand fed, the piglets needed their sty cleaning out, the milk had to be skimmed for the cream ; all these jobs and more were our daily tasks.

Finishing breakfast, each of us got to our feet and headed to the porch for our coats , scarves, gloves and heavy work boots. We knew that we needed to wrap up warmly – it was brutally cold out there. Water pipes had already frozen solid, needed to be thawed out for drinking water for the beasts, and we were well aware that no amount of foot stamping and hand wrapping was going to keep our extremities warm forever.

Taking one of the dogs who was very reluctant to leave the warmth of the haystack where they had been curled up sleeping, I picked my way gingerly across the farm yard and its icy concrete, to the gate to the first field. It was my job to check that the hedges and fences were still strong enough to keep our cattle in, and to keep out unwanted guests from other farmers lands.

The gate was icy to the touch, and the metal stuck to my hand briefly, as I unlatched it. Swinging it shut behind me, my boots crisped the grass as I moved down into the first field. Along the hedgerow I walked, looking for any indication that the hedge had been broken down by the frosts, and watching the warm breath from my body puff out into the chilly dry air. My dog pranced alongside me, sometimes running ahead, sometimes lagging behind as a particular scent caught her nose.

Suddenly she took off, running hard and barking ; I couldn’t see what it was, but ran , following her, stumbling in my heavy boots, and catching my feet on the frost hardened tussocks of grass.

As the dog and ! drew nearer to the end of the hedgerow, I saw what looked like a bundle of old rags on the ground beneath the overhanging branches. The dog circled warily, no longer barking, and I walked closer. If this was some old rags that someone had dumped, I’d have to clear it up; it could be dangerous to an animal who got tangled up in it. But why was the dog cautious. That bothered me, for some reason. Normally she would have nosed the rags for a scent, then finding none, would lose interest and search elsewhere for something more interesting.

The sound of the distant train whistle came clearly and with that the bundle of rags moved. Both the dog and I stopped in our tracks. Moving closer I put out my hand to move the fabric , and found it grabbed in an icy grip. With a gasp, I jumped backward so hard I slipped over. Hard…., onto very hard ground!. Not funny, especially since the dog danced around me, thinking this was a new game.

Shouting at the dog I got myself gingerly to my feet. By this time the bundle had changed from a bundle of rags into the shape of a person, although still muffled to the eyebrows in fabric. Taking off my now wet and icy gloves, I touched the one part of the shape I could see. It felt very very cold. I knew then that I had to help ; Catching hold of the bundle, I pulled the man, for that is what it was, upright. The rags , or what I thought were rags, now revealed themselves a s a tent, and the inhabitant of the tent slumped against me. Dog growled low, obviously concerned for my safety; it wasn’t often that a man would be that close to me, especially this far from the farm. Growling back at the dog to be quiet, I hoisted the man’s arm over my shoulder, and started walking. As we stumbled awkwardly forward I could tell that the person wasn’t fully conscious, and it was obvious that the biting cold had almost killed him. I sent the dog on ahead in the hope that someone from the farm would see her and realize that there was a problem. She raced off , leaving me to shoulder the burden as best I could.

Making our way gingerly across the field, weaving almost drunkenly from side to side, the effort was nearly too much for me. At one point I tripped and fell, bringing him down with me. I scrambled back to my feet, pulling and pushing him till he was standing again. We had no breath to spare for words; the cold was biting into my bones now, and I had no idea how ill he must have been feeling.

Almost at the end of my strength, I heard the dog barking, and heard rather than saw the tractor coming across the field. Galvanised by the sound into using the last bit of my strength, I stood , panting hard. We helped the man onto the trailer and I lay down beside him, covering him with my coat to try to warm him. It wasn’t until we brought him into the farm house and unwrapped all the cloth that jumbled around him that we realized he was unable to see us. Blindly he drew closer to the warmth as he thanked me for the rescue. We were going to hear his story but that would wait till he had thawed out.

***

The train was silent, it’s inhabitants under sleep’s firm grasp. Only one passenger had escaped it. He sat crooked in his seat, eyes straight ahead, showing only blackness. It had been many years since he had been subjected to any other colour, any other shape. There was only nothingness.

It was the sounds, the symphony unnoticed by all others that painted for him. He could tell the field from the park by the groans of protest they produced under his feet. Sight may have been snatched from him but he did not think of himself of blind. He saw what others couldn’t. While they overlooked a petal’s pattern, his touch revealed it; the way something felt can produce a much better image than people assumed.

He had long thought it ironic that those whose eyes still captured the many shades of life could be so blind.

The man hadn’t always thought this way. During those first fateful days when the darkness had been so consuming, he had screamed and cursed at whoever’s fault it was. He had been camping with friends when the black dots had begun to override his vision. He had called to them, desperation in his voice, as the walls of the tent vanished before him.

He had never tasted fear until that moment.

So sure that his dreams snatched from him, he drew into himself. Why should he be a part of a world he could not see?

His plans, his wonderful plans had taunted him. They had been taken from him unfairly of that he was sure. He could not face a world that treated him so cruelly and so the hospital bed became his prison.

Not even his art interested him anymore. Since childhood, he had dreamt of the day he became a ‘real‘artist, the day people understood that that was what he was meant to be. He had thought it was his destiny. His family did not know how to treat him. What could they say when they had what he most craved? Of course, they wished they could change it but they soon realized that life does not bend to the hopes of man.

This was his life now.

It was the nurse that slowly coaxed him back, accepting each relapse with patience. He had often wondered what she had seen in him, a young man slumped in defeat. He had certainly never been grateful for her help instead firing all his anger and hurt at her but it was still her hand he reluctantly held with his first steps, her arms that had pulled him back to his feet.

Most importantly, she had been the one to place the clay in front of him that fateful day. To say he took to it like a bird to the sky would be a lie. He remembered the frustration he had felt as he struggled to mould it without seeing it. It was only as he began to adapt, to learn just how inconsequential it is to see when you trust his body, that his talent was revealed. After all, it is in human nature, the instinct to change, the way it readjusts, survives.

He could still remember the pride in the nurse’s voice as he slowly reentered the world, no longer just a caterpillar but something better, something almost majestic.

For weeks, he moulded the clay, breathing life into it until he could feel that every tiny detail was ready.

On the day, he went home, he had pulled her aside, wrapping her fingers around the sculpture. It was the goodbye he couldn’t say.

“It’s so beautiful,” she breathed, her gaze upon the intricate butterfly the man had produced and she couldn’t help but be struck by the detail. He learnt much later that she had kept the token to her death, a prized possession. Since that first time, he had created many more sculptures but he had never felt as content with them. He had been told they were of a better quality, that he had only improved with practice but he wasn’t so sure.

In his heart, he knew a sculpture to rival the first would never come from his fingertips.

After all, that lump of clay had saved him.

It had been the first time the blind man had truly seen the glory in life

Day 14

A change of environment can sometimes refresh and recharge the brain. Do

you normally write at a desk or at your kitchen table? Today, go someplace

different to write. For example, try writing outside or in a public place such as a

coffee house or mall…

Write a story in a different environment – that is the instruction for today

Frankly, for me, that is an almost impossible task. Any-one reading this who is also self employed will know exactly what I mean. My stories have been composed and typed into my office keyboard for the whole of this 13 day writing experience so far, mainly by coming into the office a little earlier than usual and banging away before anyone else arrives.

Although I do leave the office occasionally – no, I’m not super glued to my seat – those occasions are usually for meetings of a business nature, and not conducive to writing a fictional short story. So, instead of changing my environment, I am going to visualize being in a coffee shop for my change of environment.

Sitting here over my cup of coffee, and being tasked to write a short story in 10 minutes or so , I decide I am up for the challenge. Pulling a notebook out of my handbag, along with an old pen that I found in the depths of it, I put pen to paper. Not! The pen and the paper do not connect. Have you ever tried this? You will be surprised at how difficult it is just to pick up a pen and write something.

People stare at me, hunched over that single cup of coffee. The whoosh of the cappacino machine, the murmurs of other people sitting their bistro style tables, the screech of the metal legs of the chairs being dragged across the tiled floor, all of these are distractions I could do without. Do I have some earplugs in my bag? Nope, so I have to tune these noises out, somehow.

The words don’t come easily – what am I to write about? My life is a boring one; work and family, family and work. My business takes almost all of my attention, even in my moments of relaxation. The television cannot engage my attention for very long; my sleep is interrupted by wakeful moments when a bright idea comes to me in the middle of the night. Even my unconscious mind is still working on the business.

The waitress is here to clear my dirty and now cold coffee cup away; does she enjoy her work. From her sulky face. I assume not. I ask her politely if I could have another. That leads me to look around the coffee shop again. How many of these people, young and old, really enjoy their lives. What are their stories? Probably a good deal more interesting than mine, I think.

The old man in the corner over there; why is he alone? Has he lost his wife?. Where are his family?. Is he living in an old folk’s home, and just comes out every now and then to have a cup of tea and see the outside world from a table in a coffee shop? What about the girl in the middle of the two boys; shouldn’t they be at school? She looks older than them, but I know that most girls always look and dress and behave older than boys of the same age. Perhaps they are her brothers, and she has been tasked with taking them out of the way of a long suffering and busy mother.

My pen rests on the unused paper of my pristine notebook. Oh, what’s the use. I need to get back to work and concentrate on something to do with the business. I can’t waste time here drinking innumerable cups of coffee waiting for inspiration to come.

***

Can’t you hear it?

It won’t leave me alone.

Every second, it’s there.

When I sleep, it creeps into my dreams, an unwanted guest.

I thought it would be easy.

I thought that once I made my decision, the hardest part, it would be over.

I thought I could leave my past behind me.

I was wrong.

The lines of past and present have long since blurred, leaving behind this state of nothingness that has become my everything.

Can’t you hear it?

It’s pounding in my ears.

It’s so loud.

My skull is ready to cave under it.

I am half-crazed, its presence constant.

It will be my undoing.

Can’t you make it stop?

The sound of my guilt.

The sound of a dead man’s heartbeat.

Day 13

Write the ending of a mystery story. Then write the beginning.

The camera hadn’t lied…………………

Peter had been so thrilled to receive the camera for his birthday. He had asked and asked his parents for one for such a long time, but their regular answer to his requests was “ when you’re a bit older, Peter” and with that he had to be satisfied.

Now he was old enough at 12 to have the top of the range camera he and his parents had gone out together to buy. For years Peter had been seeing things in a different way to most people. When he was much smaller, he had a secret playmate. When he tried to tell his parents about his friend, that no-one else could see, they laughed and said it was normal; that every child had a secret friend, and that he would grow out of it. His parents chose to think it was because he was an only child and needed company, so they enrolled him in a pre-school group. To Peter, that was betrayal – his parents didn’t believe him, and once he started the pre-school, nor did anyone else. As Peter grew a little older, and started the years of his education, he began to realize that no-one wanted to hear about the ghostly figure of his friend. They didn’t want to hear that his friend had told him stories of other worlds, and that Peter had seen pictures in his mind of how those other wordly creatures looked.

Peter became well aware that it was thought he was having hallucinations when he spoke to his friend when he was alone in his room. His parents would knock loudly on the door and ask him if he was OK.

As time went by, Peter learned to keep his feelings under control . He no longer explained to people that he could see someone unlike anybody else, or that he could speak in another language.

It became an obsession of his to prove the existence of the creature that had befriended him, and so through his school terms, Peter started to study the art of photography and the mechanics of developing black and white pictures.

His parents were relieved to see him taking up a “normal “ hobby and encouraged him by buying him an inexpensive camera on which to practice his growing skills. As Peter became more proficient in the use of his camera and the teachers at his school got accustomed to seeing him working in the Art class and photography lab during break times, they began to encourage his skills. The young male teacher of Art and Photography offered to give him some extra tuition after school, and the teacher of English suggested that Peter write stories to go with his photographs.

That was when Peter’s parents decided that he was ready for the expensive camera that he had set his heart on; the one that would , he hoped , take black and white images of his friend. No one realized that this was Peter’s ultimate aim; that he wanted to prove to his parents and all the other adults that he was not mad, and that it was not his imagination working overtime; that his friend really did exist, and wanted to show Peter the other lifeforces in the universe.

After school one gloomy afternoon, Peter walked in the other direction from his home. Some of his school friends called and asked him where he was going, but he hurried along, head down, and didn’t answer. Afterwards, one of his mates said they thought they had seen him carrying his camera and a tripod, but couldn’t be sure in the gathering dusk.

When he reached the quiet solitary spot he had chosen for this very day Peter set up his tripod and loaded his camera with black and white film. He had mentally planned this action, for a long time and now it was time.

He sat quietly in the gloom and welcomed his friend into his mind. He asked his friend if was alright to show the photos when they had been taken. The otherworldly figure gave agreement and stepped out into the dusk ; Peter felt the presence leave his mind and release from his brain. Horrified, he covered his face with his hands – that first glance had shown him that the figure that he thought was a similar shape to his own, was not! The faceless being that hovered in front of him was nothing like his imagined friend.

Peter pressed the remote button on his camera just as he felt himself being taken …………………

*********************

She may have killed her husband but no one could call it murder.

It was the neighbours that found his body. The blood had crusted around the bullet wound in the centre of his forehead when Mrs. Jenkins entered the apartment the couple owned, on her way to collect this months rent. When there had been no answer to her knocking, the angry old woman and dug through the pockets of her apron for her copy of the key.

That same key fell to the floor when she saw the slippered feet of her tenant. Anger was replaced with shock as she inched further into the apartment, hugging the wall. It was a grotesque curiosity that powered her legs. A part of her wanted nothing more than to turn around but she couldn’t. She needed to see it for herself.

The tiled floor was slick with blood as she made her way into the kitchen. How can one person have that much blood in them?, she thought, completely transfixed by the corpse in front of her.

What she didn’t expect to see however, was his wife sat a few feet away, knees pulled into her chest like a child, tears falling freely, a gun at her feet.

Mrs Jenkins knew she hadn’t been seen when she backed from the apartment. She doubted her neighbour was seeing anything other than the body of her husband in front of her. There was not even the slightest feeling of guilt in Mrs Jenkins’ mind when she dialed the three numbers that would bring the police to the apartment block. If she had taken the time to speak to the young couple she may have realized that there was more to the situation than meets the eye.

The young woman hadn’t moved when the police arrived. When they dragged her to her feet, placed the cold metal of the handcuffs around her wrists, she never once looked away from the body of her husband.

It was as if a part of her had died too, leaving the empty shell that sat before the police.

“Mrs Young, your fingerprints are all over the gun and – “

“I know. i was the one who...who pulled the trigger.”

The police were shocked – this had to be a new record for a confession. She hadn’t even tried to deny it. They quickly set about filling out the necessary paperwork, filtering from the room until only one policewoman remained. She was in her fifties, hardened by the things she had seen but this was different. This woman didn’t have the eyes of a killer.

“Why’d you do it?”

The young woman froze. How could she explain it? How could she justify what she just did?

“My husband was a very proud man. If anyone perceived even the slightest weakness it would ki-,” she couldn’t form the words, not when his lifeless body was laid on his kitchen floor.

She took a deep, shaky breath.

“The doctor’s said the tumour was inoperable, there was nothing they could do. He would just get weaker, until, one day, he would be gone.”

The tears were falling freely now on both the women’s faces.

“He couldn’t bear the thought of having to be taken care of, of being that vulnerable. ‘I don’t want it to end like this’ that’s what he told me. He asked me to do it, asked me to pull the trigger.”

“I loved him, with my whole heart.We were meant to grow old together; he was meant to be my forever-“

Her words were drowned by her sobs, sobs that shook her whole body. They were ripped from her chest, her pain obvious to anyone who looked.

No, the police woman thought with pity, she may have killed her husband but no one could call it murder.