Adapted from an acquaintance’s real life experience.
A Happy Mother’s Day
Mother’s Day. Miserable day. Well, she wasn’t a mum so for her there’d be no breakfast in bed, texts, cards, flowers or gifts.
Her phone flashed with a new message.
Happy Mother’s Day!
She didn’t recognise the number.
She smiled. It must be from her niece. She wondered what the rest of the message would say. That her niece would rather have her as her mum? That her favourite Channel handbag was in the post? Or, perhaps she’d booked a weekend getaway to Spain…?
She continued reading. The text was from her favourite Pizza Take-Away.
When he’d told her he loved her she only smiled and said, “That’s good to know.” Now he knew why.
She died suddenly in a car crash. He was so heartbroken he couldn’t bear to go through her belongings. When he finally did, he found a box and opened it. He wished he hadn’t. It was full of pictures. She’d planned to tell him on his birthday. The wound he thought had healed started bleeding again.
On the back of each picture she’d written just how much she loved him and why. Tears streamed down his face uncontrollably.
And yet another! For those of you who live beyond these shores, the UK Justice Minister Chris Grayling (who thankfully has no control over Scottish justice) has just outraged all right-minded people by banning gifts of books to prisoners, even for study. A serious right-winger, he wants “prison to be more spartan”. As you can imagine, it’s not gone down well with the literati. So here’s a story especially for him.
WEAPONS OF MASS DESTRUCTION
You’ve forgotten he’s there, haven’t you? He’s slowly developing a plan, a plan so dastardly that you and all your smug friends will soon have the smug smiles wiped off your smug faces. But lock people up like caged animals and they start to behave like caged animals.
Desperate people resort to desperate tactics. He’s got hold of a weapon, something no prisoner should be allowed anywhere near. And he’s coming for you with it, for all of us, in fact.
If only you’d listened to wise Mr Grayling. He knew how dangerous it was to let prisoners have books.
P.S. Mr Grayling and I do at least have one thing in common: our hairstyle.
P.P.S. If you can contribute to the campaign to reverse this in any way, please do.
Jane, I add my hopes for your health, Ann-Louise I’m delighted you are back with your favourite genre and Gordon – I think spring fever has hit you. Janette, I wish you and your 99-year-old peace.
Anyway, here is my late entry for this week:
“I’m late, I’m late – for a very important date!”
Alice whirled round. A small extravagantly dressed rabbit had just run past her. Thankfully he wasn’t being pursued by the cat. The sight of quivering bunny might just prove too much for the cat’s Buddhist principles.
“Late for what?” she wondered, also examining her conscience carefully. Had LSD been imbibed of late? Carlos was an occasional indulger, perhaps she had joined him and was now experiencing a humdinger of a trip.
“THIS IS YOUR CONSCIENCE CALLING…”
Of course! She was a day late with her Friday Flash Fiction challenge. How remiss.
Meantime, with apologies for flooding you with stories: this week I couldn’t decide which of two to throw at you all (and there was also that cold-call true one, too). Anyway, the loser is burning a hole in my laptop, so here it is.
THE KILLING FIELDS
They stood to attention, in massed serried ranks. They were perhaps a little green, but there was unity in strength and they were developing fast. Already, it felt as though they had a good hold on their position.
They hadn’t counted on the green monster about to be unleashed on them. They heard it first – a great roar from their left, then their right, then their left again – before they saw it. And by the time they saw it, it was too late.
After the beast had gone, row upon row lay fallen, decapitated.
Perhaps they’d fare better next week.
“How do you feel, Hannah?” Dr. Bauer said.
“I’m lonely. No one to talk with anymore,” said the thin, gray-faced woman. “The voices were such company.”
“But you know now that the voices were never real, don’t you? And they told you to do bad things.”
“Yes, but they were my only friends.”
“I’m your friend, Hannah.”
“But you wanted to make the voices go away, Doctor.”
“We succeeded, didn’t we?” said the doctor, looking down at Hannah’s chart. He never saw the blow coming.
“You are my true friends. He couldn’t hear you. That’s why he had to go.”
Sorry, Folks, but it’s been too long. I just had to kill again.
“What’s wrong, bro?”
I scoffed. “Those jerks tossed my swim fins in the middle of the pool and I can’t get them.”
My little sister Kylie smiled. “Are you sure?”
“Well, unless I can walk on water, yeah.”
“You mean, something like this?” Kylie strutted straight towards the pool without stopping.
“Kylie! Look out!”
However, she walked across the top of the pool water, grabbed my fins, walked back, and calmly handed them to me.
“But how … you just … that’s impossible!” I stuttered.
Her Mona Lisa smile told me I’d never find out.
After thorough rumination of the case she dared to look in – to her left nipple. It was not a nipple, she found out after gently turning her three kids fed organ towards her eyes. It was psychic umbilical cord to her deepest fear. Just three days ago her curious index finger had found the lump, just there, just there, just there under the saggy flesh. And then came this lucid dream where she tried to see inside.
She raised her gaze and marvelled her eyes in the mirrow. Her right hand was still holding the breast, now looking relaxed.
Yes, this is semi-autobiographical, It happened yesterday, all but the conclusion. which is wistful thinking. But all turned out fine.
The third time did it.
She was being prepped for minor surgery –nothing critical involved. She had followed all the pre-op instructions and medications, and now she was wearing one of those one-size-fits-none gowns and waiting to be wheeled into the operating room. The nurses were trying to insert an IV.
The first one said she couldn’t make it flush, whatever that meant. The second said she needed different equipment, which she couldn’t find. The third muttered about “mobile veins,” as if that were her fault.
Tired of being stuck – it hurt—she stood up and walked out.
He felt the smooth ax handle slide through his grip. The rhythmic sound of the blade cutting into the log beat in time to the tune playing in his head. With each swing, a vibration traveled up the handle into his forearms, and he squinted to keep the flying chips from his eyes. His arms began aching as he breathed harder, clouds of wet mist shooting from his mouth into his beard and the winter air. Eight or ten geese noisily flew out of a nearby tree. He never heard the footsteps approach from behind through the leaves.