More Drabbles - sort of all lumped together until I have time to separate them - sorry!

I only stabbed him because I couldn’t poison him. Literally, it couldn’t be done. I put rat poison in his food for 3 weeks and he didn’t have so much as a stomach ache! Do you get it? Do you see what a fucking nightmare he was? I even had to lock the children in their rooms so they wouldn’t see the mess, he was so fucking messy. I was always cleaning up after him. He cooked well though, the last meal he gave us was a good one. He was so fat that his meat was succulent and tender.

He loved her when she couldn’t love him back but he resented her for it, she couldn’t be comforted or healed and the pressure would have broken him eventually. He blamed himself when he saw the soulless spectre that walked in place of the vivacious beauty he had married; the fiery eyes that could hold anyone’s gaze were now dull and lowered permanently to the floor. With each pill, he remembered her dancing on podiums with carefree abandonment; he looked down at the woman who could barely leave her bed, poured the water into her mouth and kissed her goodbye.

I clamber up to join you whilst clinging fearfully to the rail beside me. Below the police calmly control the crowds of voyeuristic people clamouring to look, half hoping to see you plummet. I stretch to touch your hand but you are just out of reach; I call your name but you don’t acknowledge me. I push myself closer to you, telling you everything will be OK when we both know it isn’t true. “I love you” “You’ll be OK”, empty reassurances intended to calm and soothe you. You turn around, our eyes lock then you are lost to me.

Little by little I watched you close yourself off to the world and I did nothing about it. I waited, hoping it would resolve itself and you would return. I saw it coming, I was complicit in its happening and I cover for you every time. I’m not ignorant of the shoes caked in mud, the clothes that disappear or the car that constantly needs cleaning. On the news a local girl is reported missing and you are suddenly engaged, transfixed, studying her friends and family as they hopelessly appeal for information. A mother always knows. Your mother never tells.

Your Honour, I enjoyed killing him. I don’t feel remorse and I will spend the rest of my days with a song in my heart. Oh yes, I can see his widow and children in the gallery and, yes, I understand that I am due to be punished in the name of Justice. The tabloids will make a monster of me and the public will wish me dead; psychologists will analyse me, doctors will disagree on my diagnosis; I will be despised but I shall be at peace. I haven’t had peace since the day I gave birth to him.

You lie beneath the snow flocked ground, just close enough to reach. I dig with bare hands, scrabble until my nails rip from my fingertips; blood soaks into damp cold earth as I frantically try to find you. Finally a glimpse of dirty pink satin, a shimmer of glitter and a hint of bone peeks out. Relieved, I continue more cautiously revealing you in fragments then finally lift you out. Your party frock is ruined so I dress you in something new, purple this time. I kiss each broken bone before laying you back to rest. Happy Birthday my Angel.

Despair hung like an apron over his heart, shielding him from care and compassion. He trudged through the cover of the night cowering with each lash of the wind and fighting to stay upright when his feet gave way in the mud. Finally he reached the Master’s house and fell to his knees on the stoop; weakly he knocked and crawled inside when the door was opened to him. With trembling fingers he drew the grail from a shabby knapsack and it skittered across the marble floor; the Master snatched it up and inspected it closely before walking hurriedly away.

Dad slept in our greenhouse. It’s not as though he lived there, he came in for his meals, to watch TV and to have a wash but it’s a small house and we have no room for another bed. He couldn’t sleep on the floor, we’d keep tripping over him and it wasn’t fair to make him sleep on a bunk bed with one of the kids on top. He had his privacy out there anyway. We were all incredibly shocked when he died, it was very sudden and we still don’t understand what happened. Doctor said it was pneumonia.

Cowering behind a curtain in a corner she maintained quiet, shallow breaths; any sound would betray her position and she had nowhere left to run. He decimated every room as he rampaged, homing in on her. Tentatively she reached out and felt around, hoping for something to use as a weapon; her fingertips touched something hard and cold, his hand clasped around hers, twisted her arm and dragged her across the carpet. She screamed as the sole of his boot smashed down towards her face and she felt the blood gurgle in her throat silencing her once and for all.

A Collection of drabbles

Blood ran in raging rivulets charging across the deep indigo of her skin, fierce gaping wounds glared angrily up towards her. She set her jaw firm and lashed out again with the blade angled towards her bicep then exhaled as more blood flowed. Control the pain, punish the soul. Breathing hard, she inhaled her tears as she cut again and again and the viscous, crimson liquid oozed onto the bed. She dressed in a long sleeved blouse that covered the bandages, a sleek pencil skirt and heels, got in her car and headed off to another day in the office.

Words That Can Never Be Spoken - For Wendy

Words That Can Never Be Spoken

Your very first breath was your last; I held my breath in the hope that I could hold the last of your life if I didn’t exhale. I cried tears enough to swell the ocean as I willed warmth into your algid form. I felt my hands caress you, my arms embrace you and my body bury you as though I could unite our bodies once again and feel your heart beat inside me. For one brief moment I was the one thing that I will never be called. Mum.

We watered the ground with our grief as your tiny pink coffin was engulfed by the earth; we scattered baby’s breath and heather before you were buried beneath the mounds and bracken covered the disturbance. Pain and misery will never blight you again. Your spirit remains in the tranquillity of the woodland, your voice will be heard in the morning birdsong and your touch will be felt in the gentle strokes of the wind. You will grow as nature grows around you, you will play as the deer frolic between the trees and you will rise to kiss the sunlight.

A Collection of drabbles

Tom opened the door to a potential lodger who’d come to view his spare room, he looked ordinary enough. Having discussed rent and housekeeping the lodger asked about parking despite the advert stating none was available. With this confirmed the man changed suddenly and pounced violently, his hands clamped hard around Tom’s neck, throttling him then tossing him aside broken and helpless. From the floor Tom’s head lolled sideways, his eyes resting on his 5 year old daughter who had crept downstairs and was watching, terrified and screaming as he breathed his last breath and the man lunged towards her.

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From across the bar I watched her dance, carefree like a whirling dervish. Laugher came easily to her and it was infectious, she lifted everyone who caught her eye into her sparkling world. I slipped unnoticed into the hub around her and joined in the wave of movement swaying this way and that until we were shoulder to shoulder alongside at least a dozen other drunken revellers; I had no trouble casting the blade into her side then cruising back out. Several moments passed before anyone realised anything was wrong, the throng of bodies holding her up suddenly fell away as she collapsed to the floor, the pool of blood beneath her clashing violently with her magenta dress and the smile still fixed to her face.

A Collection of drabbles

Paul watched the stranger merge into the brume as he raised his hand to his neck; silently bleeding his only hope was that Laila wasn’t so badly injured. His hand snaked across the console reaching for hers; when their fingers entwined he felt reassured by her gentle squeeze on his palm. He felt her reach across, touch his cheek and turn him towards her own face which was ravaged beyond recognition by a smile, a wicked, gleeful smile. As their eyes met he soundlessly implored her for mercy but none was forthcoming as she exited the car and walked away.

It was just meant to be a road trip

We were young and the thought of a 'road trip' across the Kuwait desert to see the Iraqi border seemed as good a way as any to amuse ourselves. The four of us piled into the Jeep, turned the music up and made light hearted conversation for the 3 hour drive across the sands but our laughter stopped abruptly. We came across a curious place that caused us to pull over and disembark. Struck by silence, we walked on automatic pilot as the eerie structures beckoned us forwards longing to tell a story. Bullet holes indiscriminately spattered the crumbling, deserted remnants of this once peaceful village and a fallen pylon served only to compound the destruction and highlight the extent of the attack on this defenceless hamlet. The leftovers of people's lives were strewn around us with hate filled abandonment; an upturned sofa slashed to pieces, smashed crockery and clothes torn to rags provided snippets of insight into before and after the soldiers came. Consumed by shock and disbelief I kept walking around the village, each horror filled sight drove me forward into the next one. A stable intended to house goats and provide a future and a livelihood now housed ghosts and violent memories, a few faded playing cards were stomped into the ground alongside a soldier's balaclava and I fought my imagination not to play out what had happened there. I was too stunned to cry even when I walked into the shell of a lovingly constructed nursery which had become a dusty burial ground for broken toys and an unfinished childhood. I took my camera from my pocket and aimed it at a washing line which had snapped in half and lay on the floor next to a battered, blue laundry basket but I couldn't take the picture, no snapshot could do justice to the unspeakable wickedness which had occurred here and I wouldn't need a photograph to remind me of what I'd seen. Some memories burn instantly into your mind and become a part of you. Without warning, revulsion washed over me as ghosts and demons flooded out of the walls pushing me to leave. Emotion overwhelmed me as I ran back to my friends, sobbing and demanding that we go back to the city as I couldn't bear one more moment in this place. The looks on their faces reflected the pain in my heart, we turned and walked back to the car burdened by solemnity. This unnamed village was within sight of the Iraqi border and had taken the first onslaught of the unexpected invasion; tanks, guns, soldiers intent on pointlessly obliterating all that lived here before moving on to the city. These people were farmers, they held no weapons and they caused no harm. They were simply victims of war mindlessly murdered because they were on the wrong side of the border. Not that there's anything simple about that. That day I learned about real hatred and the purest evil and what we are capable of when consumed by both.