“Dangling Modifier”

Well, looky looky, readers! I’m doing an Inspiration Monday post two weeks in a row! (Which actually means I’m being naughty, because I have eleven days to finish an assignment, and yeah, that sounds like a long time but it really isn’t, because this assignment is HAAAAARD…)

Anyhoodley, this week’s Be Kind Rewrite prompt is “hanging on a word”, and I’ve written an odd little tale for it.

Let me know what you think!

Oblivion, as they knew it, was vast and white, interrupted only by the sharp blackness of Times New Roman.

“New paragraph!” Craig cautioned, and Jake obediently made the leap, burrowing his boots into the safe crevices of lowercase letters.

Craig stumbled past a semi-colon. “This chapter is taking forever,” he growled.

“I know,” Jake grinned, hop-hop-hopping over a gaping ellipsis and taking the lead. “Isn’t it great? I hope it never—”

His sentence ended abruptly. “Jake!” Craig shouted, leaping past verbs and cursing at each impeding capital—but he was too late. He could only watch from atop the final full stop as his friend gave a mournful cry and tumbled into eternal wordlessness.

Cliff-hangers, it seemed, had claimed another victim…

- Love The Bad Guy

“S.M.A.I.T.H.”

Hello readers!

It’s been far too long since I’ve written anything for Be Kind Rewrite, so here goes! This week, I’ve written a short story in response to the Inspiration Monday prompt: it’s pronounced ‘Smith’.

Alas, it was written far too quickly for my liking, but I’ve hopefully tidied it up enough to remove any gratuitous spelling or grammar mistakes. Let me know what you think!

It was with some curiosity, but greater trepidation, that Phillip agreed to take Walt and the Semi-Mechanic Automated Invention of Territorial Hazing on its first mission.

“I don’t like it,” Phillip decided, tightening his fingers around his rifle. “It ain’t normal to have Goddamned robots out here fighting with us. They’ve got no sense of right and wrong, no sense of mercy. Hell, we’ll probably all be dead within the week, fallen under Smaith’s friendly fire.” He spat the name like poison and glared at the machine in question. It pounded its mechanic feet with the rhythm of a swinging pendulum, never stopping, never stumbling as it guided the two men through the thick undergrowth.

And that was another thing! He and Walt were supposed to be leading this thing on its mission, not the other way around. When the heck had it taken the lead?

Phillip frowned over at Walter, seeking agreement, but found that his young partner was entirely content. His gun was resting amiably against his shoulder as he strolled along the path formed by the machine’s giant footsteps.

Walt glanced over to meet Phil’s increasingly irritated gaze, and shrugged. “Smith,” he said absently, stepping over a tree that the Invention had snapped like a twig.

“What’d ya say?” Phillip snapped. His boot scraped awkwardly across the felled tree’s bark and he stumbled. Ahead, the S.M.A.I.T.H. paused for a fraction of a second; its mighty head swivelled 180 degrees and its reflective red eyes locked onto Phil’s hunched form. The man froze beneath the terrifyingly blank gaze, but the moment was already over—the metal head completed a full rotation and the machine marched on.

“Creepy,” Phil whispered. Walt barked out a laugh.

“He was just checking you were alright. That’s his job—protect our side; completely annihilate the other.” Walter jovially nudged his mate. “Smith will make our job that much easier, eh?”

Phillip quirked an eyebrow. “Smith? Who the hell—?” His eyes flicked to the Invention and back again. “You mean that thing? The S.M.A.I.T.H.?”

“It’s pronounced ‘Smith’,” Walter corrected.

“But it’s got an ‘A’ in it.”

“Doesn’t matter. His name is Smith. The Corporal told me so.”

Phillip snorted. “‘His’ name? It’s not a ‘him’, Walt. It’s an ‘it’, and it’s creepy as balls.”

Walt shot him a slightly disapproving look. “Don’t talk about Smithy that way; you’ll hurt his feelings.”

“Smithy?!” Phillip promptly exploded. “Feelings? Do you hear yourself when you speak?!” Walt opened his mouth to protest, but his partner barrelled on. “It’s a robot, Walt. A mindless machine that would shoot us in the head and not blink an eye. You shouldn’t trust it to do our jobs; you shouldn’t consider it as a person; and you definitely should not be giving it bloody nicknames!” Shoulders heaving, Phil resumed his glaring of the Invention’s vast, metallic back.

Beside him, Walt dropped his gaze to the destroyed foliage underfoot. The odd trio continued on in silence for a full minute.

Then Walt muttered sulkily, “’Course he wouldn’t blink an eye. He ain’t got no eyelids.”

“GODDAMN IT, WALT!” Phillip shouted, throwing his arms into the air.

In hindsight, he should have toned the volume down.

Out of nowhere came a sound like thunder; Walt yelped and fell to the dirt, abandoning his gun in favour of pressing his hand against his shoulder. Blood oozed immediately through his quivering fingers. “Phil,” he gasped. His eyes were wide and frightened, and Phillip was reminded of exactly how young the lad was.

The two of them lay low to the ground as the cacophony of war filled their ears. “We’re outnumbered,” Phil growled needlessly. Of course they were outnumbered; this was meant to be a routine run with the bloody S.M.A.I.T.H., not an assault; they hadn’t even known that the enemy had broken through their defensive lines.

“Phil?” Walt quavered again. His khaki shirt was turning red, too red, and Phillip shushed the man by pressing his hand over Walter’s own.

“It’ll be right, mate,” he promised, flinching as the tree behind them spat splinters under the bullets’ force.

Walt offered a weak chuckle. “Yeah, we’ll be fine.” A shaky grin. “We got Smithy.”

Phillip subconsciously clenched his fingers, and Walter shuddered uncomfortably beneath the too-tight pressure on his wound. The older man quickly relaxed his grip and rested a cool hand against his mate’s clammy forehead. “Nah, Walt. I’ll get you out of this. Trust me. We don’t need any help from some creepy hunk of metal with a stupid name and a stupid—”

Screams sliced through the sound of gunfire, and Phillip flinched. Turning slowly, he could only stare, aghast.

Just as Walter had predicted, the Invention was completely and undeniably annihilating the enemy forces. The snipers in the distance, unseeable to Phillip’s human gaze, were swiftly silenced by a blinding green laser; simultaneously, a barrage of bullets emerging from within the S.M.A.I.T.H.’s wrists was spilling into the undergrowth, eliminating their attackers with sinister accuracy.

The Semi-Mechanic Automated Invention of Territorial Hazing was, quite literally, a killing machine, and Phillip was afraid.

But as Walt’s fearful shivering eased, comforted by Smithy’s presence, Phil grudgingly felt a sliver of gratitude. So long as he could get his partner out of here, nothing else would matter.

Amidst the sounds of chaos and panic, Phil vaguely acknowledged the sound of a rifle’s single gunshot. And then he was on the ground.

“Phil,” Walter rasped. Phillip hated the sound of panic in his friend’s voice; he tried to reassure him, but the words died in his throat.

Only then did pain make itself know, blooming from his spine and spreading to every inch of his body. He groaned, but stubbornly reached out to Walter; blood pooled sickeningly across the back of his shirt.

“S’alright, Walt,” he soothed through gritted teeth. For a moment, the two men made eye contact, each willing the other to hold on. Then Walt’s eyes fluttered shut; though his chest still rose with rapid breaths, his exhaustion was winning.

And suddenly—silence.

Phil huffed a sigh as he dragged himself closer to his fallen friend and rested a hand against his chest. The reassuring thud of his heartbeat pushed against his palm.

Distantly, he heard the thud, thud, thud of long, heavy strides.

Phillip jerkily turned his head. Towering above them was the Invention; its wrists were smoking slightly and a spattering of blood canvassed its mechanic face. Those depthless crimson eyes stared into Phillip’s own, watching impassively as his life bled away.

Phil coughed, clenching his fingers into Walt’s shirt. “Come on then, you bloody thing,” he grunted. “What are you waitin’ for? Get us back to camp.” He coughed again, cringing at the wetness spreading rapidly along his back. “For God’s sake, Smaith, help us!”

With cold brutality, the Invention’s hand reached out, gripped around Phil’s wrist, and pulled. The man’s eyes widened and he screamed as his frail body was stolen away from Walt and lifted into the air. The S.M.A.I.T.H. observed him, this tiny dangling thing, with the sort of curiosity a child would offer to a mildly interesting insect. Numbness spread along Phil’s limbs and each breath grunted from his lungs. Held aloft by a single arm, he was very much aware of his vulnerability; his panic was subdued only by the darkness leaching into the corners of his vision.

A new ache stabbed through him; it took him a moment to realise he’d been dropped by the metallic beast, and now lay crumpled beside Walt.

A whirring of mechanic movement sent a spasm of fear through him; the vice-like hands returned to his vision and he whined pathetically in anticipation of the Invention’s inescapable strength.

He was ignored. With an unexpected gentleness, the massive S.M.A.I.T.H. curled its prong-like fingers beneath Walt’s fragile form and, cradling him like a small child, brought him against the safety of its steel chest.

Phil shuddered weakly as a bleak blackness wrapped around him. Despite his efforts to keep Walt in sight, his head lowered against the earth. “Walt,” he croaked. “Smaith!”

Blood was pooling and the darkness was encroaching, but there was no avoiding the cold, metallic voice that screeched through the silence.

“My name… is SMITH.”

Those red, dispassionate eyes were the last thing Phillip would ever see.

- Love The Bad Guy

“Trouble Feeling”

Look! I’ve managed to crank something out for Inspiration Monday! HUZZAH!

This week, it’s a series of haikus — one for each prompt. I’ve tried to play around with tones (instead of just dark, darker and darkest), so let me know what you think. And I always like hearing which ones are your favourites.

Also, thank you all for the kind words and well wishes as I start my uni year. Cheers!

He bleeds for pleasure.
Not for death, nor blissful black—
just the reminder…

TRUST THE EXPERTS

His hands are too cold,
too bold and brash. But it’s fine.
Trust the doctor… Right?

FREEFALL

Take the plunge and fall
into my arms. I promise
to catch you. Always.

ALIEN EARTH

In peace, came the beasts.
Yeah. Right. We’d heard that before.
Blow them up, Scotty.

WHERE FOOLS GATHER

Here, the fools gather,
and satisfied, She smirks. Swift,
brutal death awaits.

- Love The Bad Guy

“The Time Thief”

I’m not even sure what this is, readers. I saw the prompt time thief on Inspiration Monday, and I started writing a story… And as seems to be a frequent thing with me, it turned into something else entirely.

So, I hope you like this twisted, uh… Fairy-tale? Nah. Whatever you wanna call it, please enjoy it!

Grandma used to tell me tales of the Time Thief.

“He’s a wily demon, that Time Thief,” she’d whisper with a wink. “He arrives at the exact moment that you wish he’d stay away.”

“What does he look like, Grandma?” I’d ask every time, just to hear her speak the familiar rasped words.

“Oh, he’s wicked, my dear,” she’d grin, tucking the blankets around my shoulders. “Most horrid, indeed. He has twelve bulging eyes as dark as the night, and just as many fingers, clawed and ugly. But the very worst thing about the Time Thief is that you’ll never know he’s there; he hides himself. His heart beats as loudly as a ticking clock—and that’s all you’ll ever think he is.” Before I shut my eyes, I’d look at the swinging pendulum of the wall clock. To and fro. Seconds pounding past. “By the time you realise the Thief has visited you”—she’d kiss my forehead, and hum the final words—“your time will have already been stolen.”

Time passes, whether thieved or not.

I grew older, and Grandma stopped telling me the Time Thief tales. And then she passed away. I was with her at the end, as she lay pale and sickly in the hospital’s whiteness. She smiled at me, in that mischievously knowing way, and murmured, “He’s gotten greedy. He’s taking it all now.”

The monitor screamed a final, heartless tune.

I knew full-well that she was speaking of the Time Thief, my long-forgotten bedtime story character. I surrendered to a degree of nostalgia and began to tell others his tale. He would crop into conversations in off-handed, subconscious ways: I’d complain to co-workers that he’d stolen my weekend; I’d explain to other passengers that he’d made me miss the earlier bus. “He’s wicked,” I’d nod sagely to complete strangers. “Most horrid, indeed.”

…With hindsight, I can understand why the Time Thief would take an interest in me. I never shut up about him.

It was little things, at first. Things that happen to everybody on occasion. I’d wake up much later than usual; I’d realise I was still working long after my colleagues had gone home. But soon, time was slipping through my fingers all too quickly, too unnaturally. Entire hours would pass in mere minutes. I struggled to eat, to sleep, to work, to live, and I realised, with horrifying clarity, that the Time Thief had sunk his claws into me—all twelve of them—and he had no intention of letting go.

I stopped talking about him after that, hoping he’d divert his attention elsewhere. No such luck. Instead, time flowed ever faster until I was dizzy with the rush of it. Hours became days; days bled into weeks. I’d awaken from a nap and realise entire months had passed me by.

At the age of twenty-eight, I looked into the mirror and was met with the face of a ninety-year-old woman. So much like Grandma… But lacking in mirth. Despair, instead, shadowed my eyes, furrowed my brow, permeated my skin.

Rage hit me, and time was lost once more. I wailed a long and haunting cry and smashed the mirror with my bare hands. It wasn’t enough. I hobbled through the house, seizing each clock, watch and timepiece with withered hands, and dashed them to the floor until they lay in pieces.

All was quiet.

The wall took my weight as I fell back, sliding to the floor. An unfamiliar ache gripped my heart, burned through my chest and along my arm. Blackness crept into the edges of my vision and the impenetrable silence bellowed in my ears.

But then the silence ended.

Distantly, there came a ticking, a steady, mocking drumbeat of time as it marched cruelly onward. But not a clock. Instead, a wily demon, who blinked its twelve eyes and stroked its twelve fingers along my hair as it stole what little time I had left.

The darkness consumed.

The Time Thief had gotten greedy…

- Love The Bad Guy

“Ounce of Courage”

Morning, readers. A quick response to Inspiration Monday, today. It is an etheree (a poem of increasing syllables) in response to the prompt, ounce of courage. Feedback always welcome.

Not

an ounce

of courage

could be found in the faces of their

warriors. They would fight.

They would defend. They would die,

like good little puppets dancing

on their strings. But no, they would not wear

bravery. Courage was for fools on thrones.

- Love The Bad Guy

“Don’t Touch The Floor”

Good morrow, fair readers. I present today a second response to Inspiration Monday, this time using all five prompts for a selection of Twitter Fiction tales (all 140 characters or less). Let me know what you think!

“The floor is lava!” the boys cheer, leaping on couches. A single smirk; a spell softly spoken. Child-bearing chairs ooze into the eruption.

 

He arrived bleeding

He was dying, and so was she. “Give him to me!” Instead, she was left to wait with a spreading redness and a stomach swollen, but empty.

 

History unravels

The time machine worked. He went back to kill Hitler, as many would try to do. He was successful. Shame he never traced his family history.

 

If you can read this…

She knelt to read the headstone’s tiny print: “You are too close…?”

The reaper lunged from the grave earth in search of its new companion.

 

The middle of everywhere

Mum went to Heaven, of that I’m sure. Dad, I think, is in Hell. My fate was always to be in Limbo. As I was in life, so shall I be in death.

- Love The Bad Guy

“Can You See Me?”

Time for another Inspiration Monday short story! This week I’ve used the prompt if you can read this, and wound up with a somewhat dark fantasy tale.

I hope you enjoy reading it.

It was an unassuming envelope that Meredith Saunders discovered sitting on the park bench that fine Sunday afternoon. She did not open it immediately, of course, for she was not the type of person who would pry into one’s personal business. However, she was not without an innate sense of curiosity, and as her perusal of the slightly browned envelope produced no results—no address, no stamp, no mark of any kind—Meredith succumbed to gentle interest and lifted the unsealed fold.

Inside was a single piece of paper, or parchment, perhaps, given its archaic, thickly-made appearance. She flipped it over, and…

Blank.

Somewhat disappointed, Meredith flicked her wrist, observing each side of the parchment again, lest her eyes have missed some minor detail. But not a thing was to be found. She sighed lightly, revealing to herself the heights of her curiosity and the consequent disappointment of finding no secret message or long-lost love letter or even a simple doodle.

She returned the aging envelope and earthy parchment to its place on the bench and lightly folded her hands in her lap. She felt uncharacteristically bored, though she usually enjoyed her time of quiet contemplation in the park, and placed the blame on that distracting, unmarked piece of paper.

For some reason—she knew not what—her eyes were drawn back to said distraction in a fleeting glance. She paused. Blinked. And leant closer.

Upon the parchment were words, looping and wild and quite beautifully formed, but foreboding in both their sudden appearance and in message, which seeped slowly into Meredith’s mind.

If you can read this, you are already dead.

Of one thing Meredith was quite certain—she was not dead. She was perfectly alive and well, thank you very much. Which could mean only one thing: a threat.

Her hand danced to her throat as she studied the park’s occupants, each going about their business with little concern for the penetrating horror one woman now felt.

She would go to the police, Meredith decisively concluded. It was surely nothing; a simple prank, perhaps not even meant for her. But one’s life was no laughing matter! Yes, she would show the letter to the proper authorities, and—

The letter was blank.

Meredith grabbed it with a swiftness she’d long forgotten and held it so tightly it crumpled slightly. The words burned painfully in her mind, but were nowhere to be seen upon the parchment, which was once more a tauntingly blank canvas.

Her heart pounded uncomfortably in rhythm to her hurried footsteps. She needed to go home…

* * *

Granite eyes watched as the small woman rushed away, the letter still clasped within her fingers.

“Could she read it?” Myria asked. She leaned close, and Lox growled a warning as her serpentine hair coiled around him. She merely grinned, refusing to move until her question was answered.

“Yes,” he responded curtly. The truth was clear in the woman’s eyes. It was always easy to spot those who could See.

“Shame,” Myria casually sighed, slowly sidling away so that her coal-black locks slithered over his flesh. “The poor old duck seemed quite nice.”

“They’re all nice,” Lox snarled. “We don’t judge this on ‘nice-ness’.”

He pounced away from Myria’s side in pursuit of the one who could See.

* * *

Windows closed, doors locked, all lights switched brightly on. Meredith was quite safe.

Until she wasn’t.

She didn’t scream when she saw him, though he was most frightening in appearance. Inhumanely tall and with eyes as sharp and cold as stone, the boy was almost feral.

“Can you see me?” he asked. His voice held an undertone that Meredith was too frightened to decipher. She couldn’t even form a response—instead, she squeaked, backing away until her spine hit the wall.

It was answer enough for the wolf-like boy, who nodded sagely. “I always hope that the letter is wrong,” he said softly. “…It never is.” He flexed his hands, and Meredith’s whimpered at the sight of the impossibly long black claws protruding from each finger. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “But as long as people can See, we won’t be safe.”

He finally dropped those cold, grey eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

He lunged forward and took the woman in his grasp. She was dead before she could scream.

Lox left quickly, his work bloodily completed, and tried not to think about Meredith Saunders and her empty, unseeing eyes.

- Love The Bad Guy

“Bloody Mary”

Good morrow, readers. I have today a short story response to this week’s Inspiration Monday prompt: haunted word.

To be honest, I haven’t a clue where this story came from. I started writing something else, and instead finished with this macabre horror story. The tone of it changes towards the end, so I hope it isn’t confusing. But more than that, I hope you enjoy it!

Try reading it at night. Maybe that’ll make it creepier…

The candle light flickered and danced in rhythm with the girls’ nervous quivering. The final lamp was switched off with a sound click, and the house was plunged into a darkness that the tiny waxed flame could scarcely penetrate.

Hands tightly gripped, the young trio entered the bathroom. The air smelt of bleach and lemon, and the tiles were cool beneath their bare feet.

The candle’s flame reflected dimly in the mirror as each girl faced it resolutely.

“Who’s gonna do it?” whispered Charlotte, holding the candle carefully so as not to drip wax on her mother’s floor.

The determination and excitement in the girls’ eyes was fading into an anxious shadow. Amanda folded her arms in a posture of defiance. “I won the game, so I pick,” she said firmly. With a wicked smile, she looked past Charlotte’s candle light and nodded at the smallest, most timid child. “And I pick Mary.”

“Why me?” the girl instantly complained, her voice shrill, though whispered.

“Because,” Amanda proclaimed, “It makes sense for Mary to play Bloody Mary.”

Charlotte shivered, and the flame danced once more. “Play…” she repeated softly to herself, then added, “Maybe we shouldn’t—”

“It’s just a game!” Amanda cut in. She grabbed Mary by her tiny shoulders and pushed her close to the countertop. “Look in the mirror, turn and say ‘Bloody Mary’ three times. You have to—it’s a dare.”

“But what if Bloody Mary does show up?” Charlotte quivered, backing towards the door and stealing the light. “What if—”

“It’s a game!” Amanda insisted crankily. “We’ll wait out here. Do it.” The candle was taken and left near the sink, and Charlotte gratefully allowed herself to be steered out of the bathroom. The door clicked softly shut, and little Mary was left alone in the flickering darkness.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Okay.” She shuffled closer to the mirror and stared into her own frightened eyes for a moment. “Just a game,” she reminded herself..

Beyond the door was silence; Mary could hear nothing from her friends, and wondered if they were even there. Perhaps they were in the lounge room, laughing in the light of the television. Mary considered leaving—she could lie, she could pretend she’d done it. But Amanda would know. She always knew when Mary was lying.

“Just a game,” she repeated once more. Then, with a deep breath, she began.

“…Bloody Mary.” The small girl paused, spun on the spot, and stared at her reflection. Alone in the mirror.

“Bloody Mary.” Another spin, slower. The candle light twitched uncertainly, and Mary closed her eyes.

“Bloody—”

“Maaaary.”

She could not find breath to scream. Her lungs were crushed by the sudden coldness that filled the air as the candle’s flame flared for a moment, revealing the reflection of a ghostly girl with gaping, bloody holes where her eyes should have been, and then it wisped into nothingness.

The young girl shrieked voicelessly as the horrid spectre gripped her arms, fingers like talons. “Maaaaary,” the creature rasped. “At last. At last…”

With no light to see, Mary could only sense as the darkness surrounded her. The smell of blood choked her; she could taste it on her tongue. A permeating iciness enveloped her like a hug as a single, claw-like hand rose to caress her face.

“I am free,” sighed the shadow. “Thank you…”

Talons rested gently against her firmly clenched eyelids. Mary sobbed.

With the swift brutality of a striking snake, blood was drawn, and she knew nothing more.

* * *

There is blackness, coldness, pain. A vile wetness oozes from her eyes and nothing she does seems to ease the ache. She tries to call out, but her voice has been taken—or perhaps the darkness steals the sound before it reaches her ears.

She knows nothing. Is nothing.

But then, a voice.

“Bloody Mary.”

Echoing around her, as loud as a scream, as soft a whisper within her own head.

“Bloody Mary.”

The name is familiar, and she gropes for it, allows herself to draw closer, reaching through the black until the coldness drifts away. The voice is gone, and she silently wails, writhing in her frantic search.

“Bloody Mary.”

There.

She hears a gasp, feels the death of single, flickering flame, and tastes the enticing fear of the companion she has found.

“Help me…” she moans, and the words rattle within her throat. The tiny creature tries to flee, so she holds it tight like a frightened rabbit, filled with an unexpected anger.

“HELP ME!”  she screams, and the girl screams too. She draws closer, but—

This is wrong.

She is not a Mary. She is not her salvation.

With a fury burning, she claws at the child in her arms, brings to it the darkness that has become her world, and finally, when the warmth is gone, drops her to the floor.

Blackness. Coldness. Pain.

She returns to her world of nothingness, and awaits a Mary to set her free.

- Love The Bad Guy

“Ten Lords a-Leaping”

Third-last piece to the tale, dear readers. I almost can’t believe it! I’ve certainly been creeping up on Christmas while writing it.

Today, we’re back to Suzie’s POV, and it’s a fair bit longer than the last few stories. I used an Inspiration Monday prompt with it: trying not to cry. (That should probably warn you that this segment will not be as fluffy as the last two…)

Thanks to those of you who have “liked” or commented on my works. Please don’t stop now!

The beginning can be found here.

The halfway point can be found here.

On the tenth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: ten lords a-leaping, nine ladies dancing, eight maids a-milking, seven swans a-swimming, six geese a-laying, five golden rings, four colly birds, three French hens, two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree…

The casket is simple, plain and brown, like dry earth. I can’t help thinking he would have preferred the black.

A tiny hand tugs at my sleeve. Amelia, looking pale in her dark dress, gazes up at me with wide, curious eyes. “Mummy,” she says loudly. A few heads turn, and Kenny squeezes her hand to silently remind her of the talk they had before we left the house. She continues in a whisper. “Why didn’t I get to meet Grandpa?”

My heart flutters uncomfortably. A quick glance to my left tells me that my mother heard the question; an unnatural stillness grips her as she, too, waits for my answer.

I stumble across one: “Sweetie, Grandpa was… He was… He loved you, very much, but…”

I hear a quivering sigh near my left ear, and realise these must be hauntingly familiar words. I love you, but—

“But sometimes people are better off alone,” I murmur. Mum nods sagely and rubs along the base of her finger. It still bears a tan line, even after all these years.

Not a flicker of understanding passes Mel’s face—how could it? She’s known only kindness and love everlasting, not fleeting or desperately sought. I thank God for that every day.

The sermon is soon over, and the lid of my father’s casket is lowered. Mel’s baby-soft fingers tentatively take my own, and my shoulders shake with the effort of trying not to cry. I have a final glimpse of Dad’s scarred, balding scalp and the deep age lines etched around his eyes before he is stolen from sight with a decisive thud.

Heads turn towards us once again, and it takes me a moment to realise that I’d not heard the sound of the casket closing, but of my mother’s knees hitting the unforgiving hardness of the church’s floorboards.

“Mum!” I cry, crouching down beside her. She doesn’t turn, react or acknowledge me in any way. Instead, her hands claw at the solid wood beneath us, and her body heaves with heavy, shattering sobs.

“Oh God,” she gasps. “Oh God, oh God, oh God…”

People turn their faces away. Kenny guides Mel to the back, shielding her from this unadulterated grief. And I—

I count.

My mother shamelessly voices her pain, crying out the same words over and over again, begging for relief, for comfort, for the man she both loved and hated.

But all I can do is numbly recognise that she has the strength to call out eight, nine, ten times before her energy is spent, and she collapses fully to the earth.

- Love The Bad Guy

“Seven Swans a-Swimming”

I started off so well with my quick drabbles. Now I can’t seem to do it! I must be having fun.

This one is a short third-person story, with a random lil’ haiku at the end for my own amusement. And hopefully for yours! It also ties in to one of this week’s Inspiration Monday prompts: drift. Please take the time to leave a comment.

Go back to the start — click here.

Go to the halfway point — click here.

On the seventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: seven swans a-swimming, six geese a-laying, five golden rings, four colly birds, three French hens, two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree…

“Do you think those are ducklings or cygnets?”

Suzie startled at the unexpected voice. Turning, she found a young man sitting amiably beside her. His eyes twinkled with a friendly blue glow.

“Baby swans,” he clarified for her, and she bristled slightly.

“I know what a cygnet is,” she responded trimly, “And those are definitely ducklings.” She waved her hand dismissively to the little entourage of fluffy creatures on the pond.

Her strange companion tapped a musing finger against his lips. “Maybe,” he agreed. “But isn’t it nicer to think that they might be the ugly ducklings, just waiting for the chance to blossom into something beautiful?”

Suzie held his eyes with a steady gaze, and found that she didn’t care if he noticed the bruise smudged stubbornly against her temple. “I think they’re beautiful already.”

The young man smiled and softly complied, “Yes, they are.”

She blinked at the immediate submission. Still the man was staring at her, and so she turned back to watch the seven little ducklings, each caught in a private, gentle drift across the water—content to let it take them where it would.

“You don’t remember me, do you?”

Her head tilted back to him. He smiled broadly. And waited.

Suddenly Suzie gasped, and her fingertips caressed the simple silver band around her middle finger.

“…Kenny?”

Seven little birds
Waiting to be beautiful,
But already there.

- Love The Bad Guy