The Awakening Conscience

I pull on the large rope which hangs flaccidly next to the large oaken doors. Inside, a bell rings My hands shoot to my hair, checking my ribbon is in place, feeling for any strays. A bee floats in the flowers next to me. I watch it languidly drift in the summer air as I wait. A thirst begins to take hold of my throat, is he coming? Has he decided he has better things to do, other people to see? I can feel a light damp patch forming on my brow, the white cotton of my dress begins to itch against my legs. I lightly finger my lip (a habit of mine since my early years) as I think of what to do. Should I go? No, I've come this far. My hand reaches for the rope once more and suddenly the door flies open. A rush of cool air smacks me in the face. I let myself be pulled in. He laughs, muttering to me as he spins me around in his arms, tying a multi-coloured shawl around my waist. As I come to a stop I feel his hands lingering on my thighs. My eyes drift up from his gloved hands, over his jacketed arms and onto his moustachioed face. I notice his eyes flick up to my face, having been angled somewhere south only seconds before. He smiles at me and steps back, the floorboards groan under his feet and the back of his head appears in the mirror behind him. It's one of many in the house. It seems as though he must have had more mirrors than wallpaper when decorating.

I open my mouth to speak but he cuts over me, explaining that he's had the music room set up and I must come through. I nod compliantly as he takes my hand. He guides me past the ornate staircase and through the narrow hall. We enter a small, cluttered room. A large mirror hangs on one wall and a piano takes centre stage. He turns to face me, gently tugging my hair from its ribbon. He drops his gloves to the floor and falls heavily into the chair behind the piano. His hand drifts over the keys, his finger plunging at intervals as he holds his other hand out to me. I walk over and sit in his lap, his breath tickles the nape of my neck. I look down at the floor and see a cat's tail disappear under his chair. I feel his hands reach around my throat, tugging at the pink bow I had worn since I had begun to walk. I shiver as his fingers dart around searching for the clasp that held it. I lift my head and my eyes are met by a vast and colourful garden, stretching out through the open window in front of me. My mouth drops and I try to stand. He laughs, holding on to one of my arms as I try to pull away. I defiantly pull my arm free, whispering no as I walk towards the window and the garden beyond.

One Hundred Word Story

I push open the door of the capsule and we step out. We’ve landed in the centre of a barren field. Before us sits a city, seemingly abandoned.
“So this is the future!” says Felix, laughing nervously.
“Let’s go” I whisper, shivering.
We walk quickly across the dry soil, pulling our hoods over our red ears. Inside is a large courtyard and in the centre stands a statue, one arm stretched out and festooned with nooses. There’s something familiar about it. I see a plaque at the bottom. It says, King David Green. My stomach clenches. The statue is me.

I got it onto EXACTLY one hundred words, although it pained me to get rid of some of it. Some criticism would be lubberly jubberly. See you all on Monday evening!

Oli! :D

The Kissing Tree

A woman climbs to the top of the Kissing Tree, clutching at ripe fruits and fresh leaves. At her flat the carpet is mouldering, the wallpaper is peeling, her daughter is starving. The woman wears a long colourful dress, her hair is in a headscarf and a small basket is strapped to her back. Peach by peach she fills her latticed container, the straps cutting lovingly into her dark shoulders as she does so. The sun stretches itself across the blueberry sky above her, scolding any clouds in its path. Once she has filled her basket she begins her slow climb down the Kissing Tree. When her sandals touch the bottom she breathes in deeply, wiping the sweat from her brow with her wrist.
She turns and screams. She has been caught.

Opposite her sits a blind dog, its mangy coat covered in flies. The woman drops to her knees and howls, begging the dog to forgive her through yelping sobs. The blind dog stares into her eyes, watching her and waiting. The woman begins to crawl towards the dog, hands and knees scraping over the dusty ground. She reaches the blind dog and they are touching, nose to nose. A small tear falls from her face and moistens a spot of ground beneath her. The dog sticks its tongue out and licks her sharply on the lips. A brilliant light fills the orchard and suddenly in the place of the blind dog stands a regal man and in place of the woman sits a dog, surrounded by fuzzy peaches. The man ties a piece of rope around the dog's neck and guides it from the orchard.

A scream is heard in the distance.

Modern Love Story

We stand in the kitchen. The room feels suffocating, like it's being slowly filled with stagnant pond water. His words have wrapped around me like a boa constrictor, pulling my throat tight. I drop into the worn kitchen chair and rest my head in my hands. I notice the smell of tomato soup still hasn't left the room.
"Look at me" he says, his voice breaking lightly, "Please."
I look up, I'm blinded by the sudden burst of bright sunlight from the large window above the worktop. I see him only in silhouette for a few seconds before he shifts into focus. He looks old. The usually endearing faint lines around his eyes seem deeper. I spot a small brushstroke of grey on the side of his head.
"Why?" I breathe, looking him up and down, "Just...why?"
He closes his eyes and his nostrils flare as he breathes. His hands feel for the edge of the worksurface behind him and he leans back. I slowly stand and walk to the other side of the room, adopting the same position as him I wait for an answer. I notice how faded the blue on the cupboard doors is, how stained the cooker has gotten over the years.
"I did it because...I don't...don't think I'm in love with you anymore"

My fingers tighten upon the worktop. A small tear carries itself down my face and hangs on my chin. He takes a step towards me and I put my hand up, resting my palm on the chest of his grey t-shirt. I shake my head and my black curls bounce about my face. Biting my bottom lip I turn and look out of the window. Free of blinds or curtains I can see our two little boys running about the garden. I breathe slowly, in through my nose and out through my mouth. My hands rest next to two dirty mugs and a pile of used teabags, my chin falls onto my chest.

I hear the door close behind me.

A Grain of Sand.

At night the darkness is impenetrable. The wind sweeps the empty streets, angrily pulling down signs and pushing over bins. There are six of us in total, me, Maria, John, Monica, Simon and Mohammed. We stick together. It's a way of holding onto the last vestiges of humanity really. Community. Friendship. Love. Such meaningless words now. How can words have meaning anymore? When the end has come and carried off your mother, your father, your neighbour, your teacher.

Humanity. Once a great mountain upon the Earth, now a grain of sand floating in the ocean. There was no panic, no urgency in death. "Of course I won't be affected, I'm the centre of my universe, I can't die". The last error of the human race.

I suppose I should tell you more about Us. We're the immune.
I was a baker, of course, there's no flour now. Maria was a nurse, she saw the original waves first hand. She doesn't talk much. John was a model, the third wave left him disfigured. Monica was a famous singer, I didn't really know her until the second wave left her deaf. I was all over the news. That poor woman. Simon was a history teacher, he was in the very first quarantined school. All the students and teachers choked to death in front of him, their lungs filling with blood. Mohammed was a photographer, well I suppose he still is. He documents everything we find with disposable cameras. He has hundreds in his trolley.

We've discussed repopulation. No one wanted to. Who would want to bring a child into this world?

Sometimes I sit and laugh. All those laws and wars about religion, race, gender, sexuality. What was the point? We had a chance to be happy and we squandered it.
Still, we walk on. The six of us. We tell stories, writing them down for Monica, we huddle together for warmth, we carry each other when we get too tired, we quarrel, we love. Isn't it funny? How on the brink of everything, at the precipice, surrounded by death, humans resort to one thing. Love.

Inspired Arthur C Clarke's quote: 'Two possibilities exist: either we are alone in the Universe or we are not. Both are equally terrifying.'

Spring.

Yesterday the blossom appeared on the Tree.
Powdery pinks and powerful whites strung themselves on the ends of mint green branches. A small spider busied herself amongst the bottom branches, repairing her damp web after the previous night's gale. She spun and spun, creating an intricate trap for the next unsuspecting insect to cross her path. A small team of ants marched just below her, up and down the trunk, collecting food with military precision. At the top a small thrush squealed with delight, spotting an unwary worm enjoying the moisture in the grass below him. He puffed up his body and swooped acrobatically down from the tree, snatching the worm up in his beak. At the trunk of the tree a rabbit nibbled on some grass, chewing with one ear pricked up. A small beetle scuttled past, rushing through the grass in search of food and shelter. Inside the dense foliage a caterpillar munched on a small leaf. he was surrounded by his brothers and sisters, already sealed into their chrysalises. A bee hovered up to one of the buds of blossom, bumbling around it until he could be sure there was nothing worth taking yet. Another bee shot past him and he raced after her, in hot pursuit. A small cluster of aphids settled on one of the uppermost leaves, agreeing on a tactic of everyman for himself. Unknown to them a ladybird waited in the branches below.

Today the Tree was cut down.

Modern Red Riding Hood, ReDraft

White painted fences line the street,
I have her legs, her arms and her feet.
She's been here since last winter time.
Still, mother awaits the doorbell's chime.

She'd come exploring with a light,
that through the darkness shone so bright.
From in my room I heard her feet
And took my axe into the sleet.

Now her head rests in my fridge,
oh, how she shouldn't have crossed that bridge.
I'm warning all you girls and boys,
Who enters my wood, my axe destroys.