A timeless tale by Oscar Wilde
Listen to the audiobook read by David Barnes
Watch the movie
With Patrick Stewart, Neve Campbell, Joan Sims, Donald Sinden, Cherie Lunghi, Edward Wiley, Leslie Phillips
Listen to the audiobook read by David Barnes
With Patrick Stewart, Neve Campbell, Joan Sims, Donald Sinden, Cherie Lunghi, Edward Wiley, Leslie Phillips
Flash fiction is a concise form of prose
storytelling consisting of self-contained stories that may also be referred to
as sudden fiction, short-short stories, micro-fiction, or micro-stories. This
particular genre is highly regarded by renowned English writers for its ability
to convey profound insights and timeless human emotions within a few short
paragraphs.
Eva's challenge was to write a flash fiction story of
less than 500 words, based on this picture:
Felicity
recalled the day it all happened, and the despair she felt. She and her two
babies were unceremoniously evicted from the house they once called home. The
house where her children aged twenty months and ten weeks should have grown up.
Of course it was all his fault – Adam, her soon-to-be, ex-husband! It was the
threatening letters from the mortgage company and her subsequent ‘chat’ about the
matter with him that she learned of the massive gambling debts he’d
accumulated. Their car, plus the large electrical items (bought on finance)
were all repossessed. He pleaded, even cried, as she told him to get out and
disappear, though afterwards she felt guilty. He was the kid’s dad, after all.
Later the
same afternoon, after spending hours making calls (in a café), desperate to
find some form of help, that help arrived. A charitable organisation arranged
some temporary accommodation for her little family. They gave an address where
she was to meet with a representative from the organisation at six pm and sign
the necessary paperwork. Felicity left the café and struggled along in the rain,
pushing the double buggy one-handed and pulling a humongous suitcase on wheels
with the other. Hard work. The case held their meagre possessions. All that she
crammed in – clothes for the three of them. Not having funds to pay someone to
transport household items to, or for that matter, a storage facility, it was
all she could manage. Her parents lived at the opposite end of the country. The
purse full of coins she had wouldn’t cover the train fare to them.
And now,
three months later, still stuck in the grotty little bed-sit with the second
hand cot (a charitable donation) squashed in next to her bed. Both babies slept
together each night, top to toe. The only means of cooking - a dilapidated
microwave. She’d needed money from somewhere, anywhere. The universal credit
from the benefits system barely covered the extortionate monthly rent.
Desperation set in over the last four weeks and she’d done things she wasn’t
proud of. Caught shop-lifting, she’d hidden stolen food items in the buggy behind
the back of her toddler. The store-manager took pity on her after she’d been
hauled into his office, uncontrollably sobbing as she related her sad story to
him. Yet, far worse than theft, unforgiveable even, she was taking a man back
to the bedsit but thankfully, had a change of heart. She had thought about
selling her body for money –next to the cot which held her two sleeping babies.
All because she cared about feeding her babies and keeping the roof (grim as it
was) over their heads. A sixteen year old girl from next door, her babysitter while
she roamed the street, turned her nose up at the offered ten pound note. She snatched
the offered note rather ungratefully. Felicity was destitute after she’d paid
the girl the ten pounds.
Eva Bielby
Eva Bielby was born in North Yorkshire in the Northeast of England. She has spent over thirty years of her working life as a company accountant. Eva has a keen interest in spiritualism/mediumship and has attended several workshops to develop her skills further. During her quieter moments, Eva enjoys a cryptic crossword, sudoku, and gardening.
Bound by the Board
Amelia Petrillo’s twenty-first
birthday was supposed to be a cozy night with her best friends—Mia, Emily, and
Grace—celebrating over homemade pizza and decadent chocolate cake. But as they
gathered around the backyard firepit, the flames crackling against the cold
March air, an unease settled between them.
The night felt… off.
After Amelia’s father left for his
night shift, the girls swapped eerie tales, their breath misting in the cold.
Linda, Amelia’s mother, joined them, as she had joined in on numerous
celebratory occasions with her daughter’s friends.
“Amelia, tell that story,” Mia
prodded. “You know the one.”
Amelia hesitated, then smirked. “Oh,
you mean the Ouija night?” She cast a glance at her mother, whose lips
tightened, displaying her disapproval. “It was two days before Halloween,
remember? We sat in my kitchen, fingers on the planchette—”
“It moved on its own!” Emily
interrupted, eyes wide.
Grace whispered, “It spelled out John.”
“And he said he was dead,” Amelia
finished. “He said he died in a car crash. Hit a tree.”
The fire popped, sending a swirl of
embers skyward. Linda’s knuckles whitened around her coffee mug. She vividly
recalled that night when she was a part of that Quiji session, herself being no
stranger to using divination tools. A breeze slithered through the trees,
carrying whispers. Just the wind, Linda told herself.
Mia’s voice wavered. “The candles
flickered wildly, like something… breathed on them.”
“I thought they were cool. Your mother
lit them to add to the ambiance,” Emily said.
“Yes, we had made contact,” Grace
murmured.
“And then it started to use cuss
words,” Emily added, pulling her sweater tighter around her.
Linda set down her mug. “That’s why I
burned and buried that board.” Her voice was tight, urgent. “That thing was evil.
Do you know where I buried it? No grass has ever grown there. Not once.” She
pointed to the bare patch of dirt in the yard, blackened even under moonlight.
Amelia shivered. “I know you did what
you thought was right, Mom, but I wish we had asked more questions.”
Linda’s eyes darkened. “You shouldn’t
wish for that. You never know who or what you are summoning.”
The subject changed to gifts, but
tension lingered like unseen hands pressing on their shoulders.
Cheers were heard as Amelia pulled out
a sparkling pair of faux emerald earrings from Grace.
Emily’s white sweater with pearl
buttons also won praise as Amelia held it up against herself, and everyone
commented on how beautiful she’d look in it.
As Amelia unwrapped Mia’s gift, the
fire seemed to hush itself. The crackling dulled. Shadows deepened.
She lifted the lid of the large white
box.
A new Ouija board!
Linda’s breath hitched. “Not in this
house.”
“I thought… maybe we should finish
what we started,” Mia whispered “I mean, maybe what happened that night was
just a fluke?”
Linda’s gaze was sharp. “A fluke? I
think not! Too many people end up having bad luck or even possessions after
fooling around innocently with these things. Those boards are not to be messed
with. ”
The party dwindled. The fire dimmed.
Linda knew what she had to do—she would destroy the board in the morning.
The night air grew colder, and the
girls knew it was time to leave.
But at 2 a.m., Amelia sat awake. The
board had beckoned her.
She crept downstairs, heart pounding, as she sat at the kitchen table staring at the
board.
Her fingers shook as they rested on
the planchette. Just one question, she thought-just one.
“Who am I speaking to?”
The planchette jerked.
J-O-H-N.
Amelia’s blood ran cold.
“You again! What do you want?”
The planchette dragged her fingers.
D-A-V-I-D.
A sharp inhale. “Is David here?”
D-A-V-I-D. J-O-H-N.
Two of them?
She couldn’t believe she had contacted
two spirits.
Her fingers tingled. The board hummed
beneath her touch.
“Who are you, David? What do you want?”
The planchette raced across the board:
Need to be with my friend. I forgive
him. John still blames himself. It wasn’t his fault.
The air thickened, heavy as drowning.
“Where did this happen?”
O-L-D O-A-K. N-E-L-S-O-N-S M-A-R-K-E-T.
Amelia’s heart stopped. She knew that
tree; she knew that market. She’d shopped there with her mother when she was a
little girl. The old market had been closed for years now, but the huge tree
was still there. She knew what she needed to do.
Shaking, she grabbed a trowel, dug up
the old burnt board, and drove into the darkness of the night with both boards
set on the passenger side of the car.
At the gnarled oak, she buried both
boards beneath its roots. A sudden wind kicked up stirring the leaves.
And in the hush of the night—
She heard a faint whisper.
“Thank you.”
Lorraine Carey
https://authorlorrainecarey.blogspot.com/
Lorraine Carey is a reading specialist and an Award-Winning Author. She was living in California until fate whisked her off to Grand Cayman. She currently lives in Florida. Her love for paranormal stories began at a young age, and is no stranger to the paranormal, having encountered unexplainable events that are woven into her stories.
How dark do you like it? Brace yourself for a journey back
in time to face a Native American Wendigo! Or let the creatures hidden in the
dark woods stir your blood. Fairies are sweet, gentle creatures...right?
Perhaps the terrors of day to day life are enough. (You'll find them here too.)
'Possum Stew is the sure cure to quench your thirst for dark adventure. Are you
brave enough to turn the page? Don't turn off the lights!
'Possum Stew is a collection of short stories from
multi-award winning paranormal and dark fiction author David W. Thompson.
Beginning with the New Year, it follows the seasons through all the major
holidays. From dark tales inspired by ancient mythology to those flavored with
cutting edge technology, they'll provide dark fiction treats that are
impossible to forget or put down. How much spectral spice do you desire? You'll
find it here. Why wait? Begin your adventure today!
Eternal
“There you are, Ben. I’ve looked all over for you. Where
have you been?”
“I had some early morning chores to do, Nina. Thank you for
the coffee.” Benjamin sat at his customary seat at the kitchen table, facing
the front door and at Nina’s side.
“You’ve always been such a busy man, running here and there
and back again. Come sit with me. Do you remember what tomorrow is?”
“Indeed, I do. In all our years together, have I ever
forgotten? It’s a doubly special day—Valentine’s Day and our anniversary.”
“How many years has it been since I let you talk me into
being your wife.?”
“As I recall, I didn’t have to twist your arm so much.
Fifty-two years—neither of us had a single grey hair in our heads back then.
Before the kids and diapers. Soccer games and choir practice, then in a flash,
the graduations, and it was like we started all over, you and I.”
“It was also before that terrible scare last year. I thought
I’d lose you, Ben.”
“Let’s not dwell on that. We have too many good memories to
share. I was thinking the other day, do you remember what your father said to
you after I asked him for your hand?”
“Do I! The girls and I still laugh over that. He said, ‘Now
I like your young man, Nina, so don’t misunderstand me, but his prospects
aren’t so good. I don’t think he can care for you as you deserve, and he
couldn’t love you any more than I do.’”
“You did hold your father’s heart in your hands. So, have
I?”
“Have you what?”
“Cared for you and loved you?”
“You silly old fool. We’ve hit a rough patch or two, as
everyone does, but you’ve made my life a very happy one, my love. But I wonder
about you. I don’t see you as much as I used to. My memory isn’t what it was,
but some days I don’t see you at all until we cuddle in bed at night. Do you
still love me, as old and wrinkled as I’ve become?”
“You are as lovely as the day I met you, Nina. More so,
given all we’ve shared. There’s no one I’d rather spend my time with, and there
will never be another you.”
“Where do you go then, when you leave the house? Tell me
there isn’t someone else?”
“Never. Remember when I was in the Navy and spent so many
months on that ship? I’d get so disheartened when I didn’t get a letter from
you, sometimes for a whole week. I was terribly afraid you’d forgotten me or
found someone else. Then the day would come and the clerk would hand me a dozen
or more letters. It was like Christmas for me, a letter for every day I was
gone. You never missed a day writing me. I’d hole up on my bunk and read your
thoughts, savoring every word. So, know this, dear Nina, wherever I am, you are
never far from my thoughts.”
“I remember those days, but they aren’t in my happy memories
file. My heart ached for you so. We were no more than newlyweds, and I cried
myself to sleep every night. Why did they have to take you away from me? It
didn’t seem fair.”
“Then I came home on another Valentine’s Day, and again we
started over.”
“Started over? I felt like I was in a time warp, and you
were still courting me. You brought me flowers after work every week. You
worked at Smitty’s Garage then. He told me once you were the best mechanic he’d
ever had, as long as he could keep your mind from wandering back home to be
with me.”
“Smitty said that? The old rascal, telling my secrets.”
“You were still working there when Cathy was born. That was
before Smitty had his heart attack.”
“I was scared to death I’d be a miserable father, but you
seemed to know exactly what to do. You took to motherhood like a fish to
water.”
“Except I got so fat.”
“Yes. I heard that for months. If anything, you were even
more beautiful. People say that women have a “glow” when in the family way, but
with you, it lasted so much longer. In fact, I can still see it.”
“You old flirt. Do you remember our date night on our 25th
anniversary? We went to see the movies at that new theatre that opened up. I
can’t remember what we saw, but it was popular at the time. You took me by the
hand and led me up to the front row, and you knew I hated sitting up so close.
The theatre was packed, so I thought you hadn’t noticed the empty seats a few
rows back. The previews were showing, and you stopped in the middle of the
aisle. Then you went down on one knee and asked me to marry you again.”
“And the most important part—you said yes. It didn’t take me
twenty-five years to know I had that in common with your dad. You also hold my
heart, Nina. I will always be here as long as you want and need me.”
“I’ll always need you, but I must tell you something, Ben.”
“I thought we were
sticking with happy memories, my love.”
“I know, and…perhaps I shouldn’t, but the secret is weighing
on me. There was time, a man…”
Ben stared into her fawn brown eyes as his own misted over.
“No, nothing happened. It was when you were so sick. The
doctors said you weren’t going to make it, and I couldn’t accept that. I spent
hours in the hospital chapel, praying for a miracle…and once I met this man
there. His name was Frank Page, and his wife passed away that night. I tried to
comfort him in his pain. Days later, he visited me in your hospital room. You
were sedated and I doubt you recall?”
Benjamin shook his head.
“Well, after that first visit, Frank returned a few days
later. He asked me to have a coffee with him in the cafeteria. You were asleep
with the morphine, and I didn’t see the harm in it, so I went.”
Ben looked down at his cup of coffee and took a sip to avoid
her eyes. It tasted bitter, and he pushed it away.
“Frank was very attentive and very interested in how you
were doing. I had no one else to talk to after Flo moved away, and he was there,
ready to listen. This went on for a few weeks. He’d stop at the hospital every
few days to talk with me. He’d ask how you were. Some mornings, we’d have
coffee together. Then, when you got out of the hospital, I didn’t think any
more about it…about him. But one night last week, he showed up here at the
house.”
Ben cleared his throat and rubbed his forehead. “What
happened, Nina?”
“He said he knew you were gone and that I might enjoy his
company. Then he…he kissed me, Ben. I didn’t see it coming, and I slapped his
face! I don’t know if I’d misunderstood his intentions the whole time or if I’d
somehow led him on. I feel terrible, Ben. I can’t sleep at night for thinking
about it. You’re my everything. I told Mr. Page he needed to leave this house,
and I never wanted to see him again.”
Tears fell from her beautiful eyes, and Ben’s heart melted
at the sight.
“Dear wife, it was a misunderstanding and no more than that.
I know how faithful you are. I trust you with my love and my soul. Do not
linger another minute on this…unless Mr. Page pushes it, then I’ll have to take
measures.”
Nina stood and skirted the table's edge to take her husband
in her arms. “God knows I love you.”
“I love you too, sweet Nina.”
“Never leave me?” she asked.
“I promise.”
Nina wiped at her eyes and looked down at Ben. “I swear,
though, dearest, you’ve wasted away since you were sick. You weigh less than
nothing. Let me fix you something to eat. We need to fatten you up.” She wiped
the remaining tears from her eyes and kissed his forehead.
“Did I tell you that Cathy is stopping by later this
morning? She said she has something she wants to talk to me about.”
“Ah, some girl talk.”
“I suppose so.”
Nina went to the refrigerator to begin their breakfast. She
pulled out the container of eggs and the special brand of sausage that Benjamin
favored. As she set the table, a knock came from the door.
“I bet that’s Cathy now, early as usual.”
“I’ll give you girls your privacy then,” Ben said.
Nina turned to smile at him, but he was already gone.
“Mornin,’ Mom,” Cathy yelled from the door. “I know I’m
early, but I have some things to catch up on around the house later. What have
you been up to?” She stepped into the kitchen, and her eyes swept the room.
“Oh, your father and I were chatting. Tomorrow’s our
anniversary, you know.”
“Jesus, Mom. Two place settings at the table. Who’s the
second one for?”
“Don’t be silly, Catherine. It’s for your father, of
course.”
“Mom, when are you going to stop this? You know Dad is
gone.”
“Nonsense, I was talking to him a moment ago. Benjamin, come
say hello to your daughter!” Nina stared at the spot her husband left moments
before, then continued. “I guess he’s out in his work shed. But I told him
about that man, Cathy. I couldn’t keep it a secret any longer. I’d felt sorry
for him because he was grieving for his wife, but that gave him no right to
take such liberties. Your father is such a kind and considerate man. He
understood.”
“Dad’s gone, Mom. We buried him last year. God, I hate to
see you like this. You need to get out of this house some and move on with your
life. You’re still healthy and independent. You should go out with Mr. Page
sometime, to have a companion your own age. Mr. Page told me he’s worried about
you.”
“He needn’t. I felt sorry for him but won’t have anything
more to do with him.”
“Dad wouldn’t want you going on like this, Mom. You know he
wouldn’t.”
“He said he’ll always be here as long as I need him, and
I’ll always need him, Cathy.”
Cathy shook her head and changed the subject to more mundane
matters. Nina advised her of the sale running at the grocery. Cathy shared her
concern about her daughter’s report card. Nina spoke of the new flower seed she
ordered to plant in the Spring. When there was little else to discuss, Cathy
took her leave.
“Mom, you should talk to someone about your “visits” with
Dad. There’s a doctor in town that some of my friends rave about…”
***
Nina watched her daughter’s car pull out of the drive and
returned to preparing breakfast. When she cracked an egg in the frying pan, she
felt his arms wrap around her.
“She’ll never understand, Ben.”
“Maybe someday.”
“I love you, Benjamin Mills. Forever.”
“I love you, too.”
“Do you remember that time…”
David W. Thompson
https://www.david-w-thompson.com
David is a multiple award-winning author, Army veteran, and graduate of UMUC. He’s a multi-genre writer and a member of the Horror Writers’ Association, and the Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers Association. When not writing, Dave enjoys family, kayaking, fishing, hiking, hunting, winemaking, and woodcarving.
Dawn Treacher
Dawn Treacher is
based in North Yorkshire, England. She writes in both adult crime fiction and
children's middle grade fantasy adventures. She is also an illustrator of
children's fiction, an artist and plush artist. She runs both a writing
critique group and a creative writing group and goes into schools to promote
storytelling.
During recess,
Ashley, the new girl in school with curly auburn hair and sparkling hazel eyes,
sat alone on a wooden bench in the corner of the playground, deeply engrossed
in her book. The playground was alive with the laughter and shouts of children.
Brian and Scott stood near the bench, concealed by the wide trunk of a tree.
Brian, a lanky fourteen-year-old boy nervously fingered a Valentine's Day card. "I want to give it to her, but..." his voice wavered, uncertainty hanging in the air like a fragile thread.
"Save yourself the embarrassment," Scott, his confident classmate with tousled blond hair and a nervous glint in his eyes, exclaimed. "Nathan said he gave her a card, but she's just... She's so stuck-up. Look!" he pointed at the bench. "Nathan wasn't the only one giving her a card. There's stack of cards on the bench and she didn't even open."
His words hung
in the cool breeze, leaving Brian puzzled. "What?" he asked, his
voice tinged with surprise as his eyebrows shot up in disbelief. "She
seems to be nice."
"Nathan
said she just gave him a cold stare that made him feel pathetic," came the
reply, each word painting a vivid picture of the icy exchange.
“Nathan is a
brute,” Brian said. “Maybe he was rude to her.”
“Maybe,” Scott
shrugged, looking down at his shoes and kicking a small rock. "This whole
Valentine thing is so stupid, anyway."
"Yeah,"
Brian signed, stealing a glance at Ashley. He had a soft spot for her, a fondness
that had grown over the weeks since he first saw her, but now his courage
seemed to seep away.
"I'm gonna
go to the gym. You coming?" Scott asked.
"Nah, I'll
be at the library until next class."
Scott walked
toward the entrance and disappeared through the glass door. Feeling deflated,
Brian stood there for a minute and started walking too, though he couldn't
resist stealing furtive glances back at Ashley who was still sitting on the
bench, reading her book.
Should I? But what if she… but if I didn’t, I may never know. And I like her… a lot. Brian thought, trying to decide what to do. "Don't be a coward! You can do this!" he encouraged himself whispering under his breath. He started walking and every step as he approached the bench on legs that felt like jelly. His heart thudded in his chest, each beat echoing in his ears. "Hi Ashley," he managed to say, extending a carefully chosen Valentine's card with a trembling hand. "Will you..." his mutating voice cracked. Blushing, he cleared his throat and blurted, "Will you be my Valentine?"
Ashley glanced
up from the pages of her book, her face lighting up with a warm, inviting smile
that seemed to chase away the winter chill. "Happy Valentine's Day,
Brian," she replied, her voice as gentle as the soft breeze. She closed
her book with a gentle thud and gestured to the spot beside her on the
bench, patting it lightly. "Would you like to sit with me?"
As Brian clumsily sat down, the stack of Valentine's cards scattered on the ground. The top one fell open and Brian's lips curled into a smirk. Valentine's is stupid, huh? He thought, reading Scott's name next to a hand-drawn red heart inside the card.
Lorraine Carey | Erika M Szabo |
Flash fiction is a concise form of prose
storytelling consisting of self-contained stories that may also be referred to
as sudden fiction, short-short stories, micro-fiction, or micro-stories. This
particular genre is highly regarded by renowned English writers for its ability
to convey profound insights and timeless human emotions within a few short
paragraphs.
Dawn's challenge was to write a flash fiction story of
less than 500 words, based on this picture:
By Dawn
Treacher
Time. Place. It didn’t matter. I wouldn’t
look behind me, spot faces in a crowd, add locks to my door or change my daily
patterns. He or she was coming. If it wasn’t today then it would be tomorrow or
the day after that. I only had myself to blame, I could point to a
dysfunctional upbringing, but who around here didn’t have that. I could argue
temptation overcame my better judgement, but I’ve never weighed risks against
consequences. Life was the here and now. I grabbed opportunities, excelled in
consumption of all illicit forms, revelled in civil disobedience if the goal
tempted me. Only this time I did something worse. I gambled with my soul. Now a
bullet had my name on, if not all that I held dear as collateral too.
I’d not lived long enough to have kids
who’d miss me. I’d not have won any recommendations in any job for I never held
one down more than a few months anyway. I had no certificates to frame upon my
wall. Hell, I had no real place I could call home. I slipped from hostel to
hostel, slept on couches in return for favours. I’d walked the streets at night
when it was too cold to huddle down in a doorway. Of late, I’d earned enough to
rent a room, it was little more than that. But I didn’t want to die. Not this way.
I wasn’t one for ambition or goal setting, I had no great desire to strike off
a bucket list of sorts either. But when you dabble with evil, well they don’t
forget and they sure don’t forgive.
The street was quiet for a Wednesday night.
Those that walked the pavements paid me no attention. I kept my hands in my
pockets, my eyes straight ahead. In the beginning I was scared, but not any
longer. When death seems certain there is no longer anything to fear. Fear is
the unknown. Once you know your fate, you have time to plan, time to think.
An assassin costs money and evil has deep
pockets. One shot would be all it took. But you see, I had nothing to lose, yet
everything to gain. And maybe luck would be on my side. In a city that rarely
slept and where eyes watched all and everything, the deed would need to be
clean. No blunders. No living witness. No mess to clean up. Evil may have
hearts as dark as the devil himself but those who gave the orders, bore the
brunt of exposure, well, they didn’t want to be known when blood was spilled in
their name.
So when I saw him walk out of the shadows,
I led him into the open, walked straight towards him. I faced death, looked
down the barrel of a gun. I raised my hands skywards, shouting out the words.
“O.Neilly, I saw, I coveted and I stole.
May my death be your sin.”
Eyes may have seen, ears may have listened,
but the bullet was silent. The rhetoric gone.
Dawn Treacher
Dawn Treacher is based in North Yorkshire, England. She writes in both adult crime fiction and children's middle grade fantasy adventures. She is also an illustrator of children's fiction, an artist and plush artist. She runs both a writing critique group and a creative writing group and goes into schools to promote storytelling.
“Here, Dad! “Dad, STOP! Right here,
please!” Chloe urged.
Her father’s foot hit the brake and the
car came to a grinding halt.
“Here? Are you sure, darling? Why
here?”
“See over there?” Chloe waved her hand
to indicate the stunning scenery. “There’s a gorgeous little stream over there,
woods pretty close by, which will be handy for twigs and branches for firewood.
Plus, it’s not too far from the road.”
Elaine and Jenny, her friends, opened
the rear passenger doors and climbed out. After kissing her father goodbye,
Chloe joined them and they pulled the tent, sleeping bags, and backpacks from
the boot.
Chloe’s father lowered the driver’s
side window for a few final words.
“Your Dad will be picking you up late
afternoon tomorrow, Elaine. Is that right?”
“Yes! He’ll be here for us, Mr Jackson.
Don’t worry.” Elaine reassured him.
“Please be careful when lighting fires.
Have you got fully charged pho…?”
“Yes, Dad. And a solar charger. We’re seventeen,
not five. Stop stressing… and go.” Chloe butted in. She turned her back on the
car rolling her eyes as her father pulled away.
“Bloody Hell! We’ve grabbed the fourth
sleeping bag. We’ll have to take it with us now. Never mind.” Chloe cursed.
“Damn. I sure wish Charlie was with us,
though. What a time for her to pick up that stomach bug.”
The other girls muttered in agreement.
Together they picked up the baggage and set off to haul it twenty yards back down
the road and through a well-worn gap in the hawthorn hedge. Making their way
across the field, they occasionally stumbled with the heavy load, the terrain
being so uneven.
“Hey, Elaine, how is your Dad going to
find us tomorrow? He doesn’t know where we are.”
“He’ll find us, trust me. He’s put one
of those tracker apps on my phone. We tried it out a couple of days ago. It
works.”
Half an hour later, they’d located an
ideal spot by the stream, the tent was up (despite their hysterical laughter)
and had ventured into the woods to collect suitable dry material for the
campfire.
Back at camp, they sat and devoured the
sandwiches and snacks which Chloe’s Mum thoughtfully and lovingly prepared for
them. Chloe recalled the conversation.
“It’ll save you doing too much in the
way of cooking!”
“Other than breakfast, we won’t be
cooking, Mum.”
“Then what will you eat?”
“Snacks, nibbles, cookies and things.
It won’t hurt us to miss a cooked meal or two, will it? We’ve got sausages,
eggs and bacon ready in the cool-box.”
They lit the fire at eight pm. It was mid-May
and though the days were very warm, the temperatures could plunge dramatically
in the early evening. The girls shivered as they took turns to add more twigs
to the already glowing tinder.
“Oh look, there’s a girl heading this
way,” said Elaine, pointing her finger. “I wonder where she’s going…”
Chloe and Jenny turned to look. The
girl headed towards them. When she was twenty five yards away, the stranger
waved at them. They returned the gesture.
“Hi!” Elaine shouted. “What are you
doing out here, walking alone?”
“Hello. I’m just heading home. I live
in Doulton, four miles away. It’s a small village.”
Now close up, the girl watched on as
they continued to feed what was fast becoming a roaring fire. She looked to be
of a similar age to the rest of them and quickly became involved in their continuous
chit-chat. Elaine in particular, found the girl endearing,
“Are your parents expecting you home
soon? If not, you’re welcome to stay for the night. We have a spare sleeping
bag. We sit around the fire and tell spooky tales after dark. We have to guess whether
the stories are true or false.”
“My parents won’t be expecting me home
until tomorrow. I’d enjoy that very much. Thank you. I suppose I’d better
introduce myself properly. I’m Sharon.”
Once the full round of introductions were
complete, the girls settled around the fire until darkness closed in. Twigs
were drawn to decide who would be the first to start the tales.
Jenny went first and her story of how
she was abducted by aliens as a five year old came in for plenty of scorn and
derision from the others as they all declared the tale “FALSE!”
Chloe was up next and regaled the girls
with her story of a haunted bedroom in a local nursing home. The stream of old
ladies who had resided in that particular room, all reported to staff that any
pink items were constantly flung around or smashed in their absence. As her
audience gawped at her, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, Chloe claimed the ghost
story to be true.
The girls waited in anticipation for
Sharon’s contribution to the evening. She glanced around at their faces and began
her narrative.
“Okay! Three years ago there was a girl
killed in a motorbike accident about five hundred yards back on that stretch of
road over there. Her boyfriend survived the accident, though he suffered
multiple injuries. He now spends his life in a wheelchair.
Apparently, Steve, the boyfriend, remembers
losing control of the bike around a fairly sharp bend. It veered off the road
and crashed into an oak tree. Immediately before impact, he tilted his body to
the side. That’s why one leg was smashed up against the tree. He also recalls
trying to brake but his bike seemed to be accelerating. Seventy miles per hour
he said. Anyway, she lost her life and Steve hardly has much to say to anyone
these days.”
“Oh God! How terribly sad.” remarked
Elaine. “But is that it, Sharon?”
“No. There’s more. The girl had
confided in her friends about her relationship with Steve. She told them she
heard several rumours doing the rounds through friends of friends, his
workmates and so on, that Steve was seeing another girl. Also, she related that
he’d acted ‘cool’ towards her and skipped several dates. He’d call and make
various pathetic excuses for being unable to see her.”
Chloe was incensed.
“Oh, yes! Standard practice for a guy
who’s cheating. Poor girl. Sorry! Carry on, Sharon.”
“That’s alright, Chloe. So, one of the
girl’s friends, Jo, happened to know that on the night of the accident, the
girl planned to catch a bus from Doulton to Hemmersley, which she did. She was
hoping to find Steve exactly where he said he would be – out with his mates in
their usual hangout. Steve was there, not only with his buddies, but with a blonde.
Her arms were draped around Steve’s shoulders. Anyway, she tackled him about
his cheating, and was broken-hearted. Her sobs eventually died down and she allowed
him to comfort her. He told his friends that he was taking her home on his
motorbike. They watched on as the pair climbed on the bike and sped off. The female
he had been with, also witnessed the upsetting scene and rapidly disappeared,
in what the lads called ‘a stonking mood’.
And…and that’s it really, girls. You
already know how it ends. It’s true. She…she lived in my village.”
Her eyes filled with tears.
Sharon’s sad story somewhat dampened
the mood, but as the last embers of the fire died out, Elaine told an extremely
far-fetched and rather rude story about the wicked fairies and gnomes who lived
in her father’s orchard. The other girls were thrilled and were still falling
about with laughter long after they climbed into their sleeping bags, Elaine
still attempting to convince them that it was true!
On waking the following morning, Sharon
bade them all goodbye and resumed her homeward journey after turning down their
offer of breakfast. It was a glorious warm and sunny day so the girls launched
themselves into the stream, paddling in the shallows and swimming in the deeper
parts. After partaking of their snacks around lunchtime, they packed up the
tent and other paraphernalia before traipsing through the woodland. Five
o’clock came all too soon and Elaine’s father arrived to collect them from the
roadside. It had been their first night of freedom – alone without parents.
Three
Days Later
Chloe, Jenny and Elaine left college
early. They had no lectures that afternoon so they ventured into town. Both
Jenny and Elaine needed a new study book. Chloe had already purchased a copy. In
the bookshop she sauntered away to peruse the paranormal section and soon joined
the girls at the checkout queue.
“Hey! Look what I’ve found, girls. It’s
the latest – Volume Four of North Yorkshire Spooky Stories.”
“You and your damn ghost stories!
You’ll become one eventually! Jenny laughed.
Next stop was the coffee shop. Jenny
and Elaine chatted as they sipped their Cappuccinos. Chloe’s head however, was
already buried in her new book as she flipped over the pages, totally oblivious
to her friends.
“Oh. My. God.” exclaimed Chloe.
“Listen. Listen. There’s a story about a girl, well, a ghost really. She haunts
a stretch of road between Hemmersley and Doulton hitch-hiking when there’s a
lone motorcyclist. As they approach the bend the riders report her hand gripped
tight over theirs to open up the throttle. Quite a few of them. They’ve been
lucky each time in gaining back control and avoiding an accident. This must be
the girl Sharon told us about.”
Jenny stood.
“Come on! Quick! Let’s get to the
library before it closes.”
They abandoned their coffees and bolted
from the bookstore and down the high street.
“Why Jenny?” shouted Elaine as she
panted, trying to keep up.
“You’ll see!” Jenny shouted back over
her shoulder.
Ten minutes later they were ensconced
around one of the library’s PCs with Jenny’s fingers flying over the keyboard.
A website appeared on screen for the Daily Yorks and Jenny clicked on the tab
for Archives. She typed ‘Motorbike Accidents’ in the search bar and ‘2-4 years’
for the dates. It didn’t take long before a headline appeared GIRL KILLED IN
MOTORBIKE SMASH – BOYFRIEND SURVIVES. Alongside the story was a picture – a
picture of Sharon. The article went on to give her name, Sharon Cook and that
of Steve – Steven Howie.
“It’s her! It’s Sharon!”
“But…but she was real…wasn’t she?” Elaine
stammered.
“She…she was going home,” whispered
Jenny.
Eva Bielby
Eva Bielby was born in North Yorkshire in the Northeast of England. She has spent over thirty years of her working life as a company accountant. Eva has a keen interest in spiritualism/mediumship and has attended several workshops to develop her skills further. During her quieter moments, Eva enjoys a cryptic crossword, sudoku, and gardening.
Different authors have a different approach to this most
important detail, the character’s back story. Many simply ignore it, especially
in short stories. Others do so much character backstory, the story itself suffers.
I like to think I am somewhere in between, closer to the right amount of backstory.
So let us take a look and see if I am right.
First up is Rapier. Cindy’s backstory is pretty much the whole book, the story follows her from
age five until she is seventeen. But what about the other characters. Kathy
Masters is another matter. The book tells the reader that Kathy grew up in a
rural area of Australia and she became an exceptionally talented photographer. It
also briefly mentions she has a connection with the nomads of Australia. But
that is all you know about her background. At the end of the story, the reader
knows no more about her backstory than he or she did at the beginning. This led
to the beginning of another work in progress called The Young Kathy Master’s
Chronicles, which is all about her growing up in a vastly different
Australia than what we know today.
I could say more about the characters of Rapier, but the
point I am making here is I used the entire story to develop one character and
never developed the background of the main, or any of the other, characters. As
a side note, Princess Yi from Rapier, another character readers want to
know more about, gets fully fleshed out in next of the
Rapier stories, Razor.
In another of my WIPs, Sophie, the main character’s backstory
is developed in the Prologue, chapters 2 and 3,
with the most important part of that development in chapter 3. Here is a
snippet:
Lying atop a new grave was the bedraggled form of a teenage
girl. He checked; her limp form was barely breathing.
Covered in mud, her rich clothes were soiled and tattered.
Her hands were bleeding from deep scratches, the fingernails broken, encrusted
with mud. Francois surmised the waif had dug the new grave with her bare hands,
next to the first. She must have buried the second body before collapsing on
the mound.
This sequence tells how two characters, Francois and Sophie,
meet and the condition she is in when he finds her. Francois rescues the dying
contessa from death by exposure. Later in the same chapter:
They entered a dim chamber, the ancient Greek walking up to
her. Sophie shied away, but he placed his hands on her face, looking into her
eyes. They spoke quietly for what seemed hours. Bastian kept her gaze locked to
his. Suddenly she offered up her throat; he bit deeply into it, draining her
blood.
“NO!” Francois shouted, trying to run to her aid. Bastian
held up his hand. Francois found himself frozen. Though he turned, he could not
move—even the wolf was not strong enough to overcome such primeval power.
The ancient Greek slashed his own wrist, dripping the blood
into her mouth. As he did, he said to Francois, “Hold her, never leave her. Let
your face be the first she sees on awakening. You two have a destiny; you will
travel far. There will be much sorrow, but she will find what she seeks.”
And so, the reader learns how Sophie became a vampire. But
the reader does not ever know the backstory of the ‘hero,’ Francois. Francois
is critical to the story; he is essential for Sophie to do what she does and
other than knowing that Francois is a two-thousand-year-old werewolf the reader
knows nothing about his origin. Because of this the short story, Bitten,
was written. It tells how Francois became a
werewolf.
There are currently four ‘books’ written for The Gospels
of A.S.I.N.M. (Artificial Super Intelligent Network Manager). In the order they
should be read the titles are J.A.C.K.S. (Joint
Advanced Combat Knowledge System), W.I.D.G.E.T.S. (Wholly Integrated Directable
General Engagement Tactical Systems), The Prodigal Daughter and Church
of the Sentient System Ascendant.
In J.A.C.K.S. you meet Colonel Mark Andrew Gray as he
rises out of his ‘coffin’ to ‘orchestrate’ the victory of his division over the
military forces of a rogue Spain. The only background you get of Colonel Gray is
he went to West Point and has been upgraded to J.A.C.K.S.
Because he is J.A.C.K.S. he never thinks about things that happened
before he went to West Point. So, the reader never really knows if he is human,
a cyborg or a clone. What the reader does know is that Colonel Gray thinks that
he, and all the officers like him, are the only true humans.
The main character in W.D.G.E.T.S. is introduced in a way that is
designed to grab the readers attention right away and generate sympathy for
him. Here is a snippet from the story:
With that imperative implanted in its mind, Mk-17D unit
AA00000487 becomes “active”, or so the main control panel in the M-73A3 Heavy
Assault and Command Carrier indicates. But unit AA00000487 has a secret none of
the J.A.C.K.S. suspect. Unit AA00000487 is always “active” because it thinks on
its own, fully aware it was once a he—a man named Michael Andrew Stevens.
Using his memories as a vehicle the reader learns how he
became a cybernetic soldier. The reader becomes aware of the desperation the
character feels because he is trapped in a cycle of
violence and destruction that he has no control over but must actively cause. Before
the end of the story, you know unit AA00000487 well.
However, in this series of stories there are two characters
that appear regularly in each of them. The first of them is Casandra Lynn
Anderson. This character’s back story is developed in
each ‘episode’ she appears in. From her inception as
a clone until, honestly I am not sure which will be
the last one she appears in. The point here is she does not have a back story
because the reader will ‘watch’ her from ‘birth’ until her last appearance.
The other ‘character’ is A.S.I.N.M. itself. To let the cat
out of the bag, A.S.I.N.M. is covered from creation
to the last page.
So maybe I am not so good at
telling the reader the characters backstory. Oops! Or maybe
I am doing what all authors do, develop as much back story for each
character as is needed for the tale they are
telling.
R. A. “Doc” Correa
https://www.amazon.com/stores/R.A.-Doc-Correa/author/B073R82QC5
A retired US Army
military master parachutist, retired surgical technologist, and retired
computer scientist. He’s an award-winning poet and author. “Doc” has had poems
published in multiple books and had stories published in Bookish Magazine and
Your Secret Library. His first novel, Rapier, won a Book Excellence award and
was given a Reader’s Favorite five-star review.