Type Triggers 2

You may remember that a month or so ago, I posted a number of flash pieces that I’d written for Type Trigger. Well, since then, I’ve written a number of other pieces. Given that I have nothing else to blog about this week, I thought I’d bring them to you. I don’t plan on making this a monthly thing, or even particularly regular, given that you can read them on the Type Trigger website, but it’s useful filler when there’s nothing else on.

So, without further ado, flash in 300 words of fewer:

Ashes to Ashes

Ashes to ashes, falling like snow. Drifting, dancing in the wind to settle atop more ash, piling up, inches deep, never melting, never disappearing, burying the earth in dull grey, choking the rest of the life out of a dead world.

The world has been burning for days now; fires raging in the heart of every city, smoke and ash being pumped into the sky, forming the blackest of skies, blotting out the sun. The sky is black, but for the red glow of the fires on the horizon.

Since the sun was taken, it's become cold. The ash could be snow; it feels like ice when it lands on bare flesh. But there's no moisture, no sustenance. The fires are the only source of heat, now. Raging furnaces, burning all that we gathered about ourselves; all the tools of our survival, all the engineers of comfort, burning bright and hot. Surrogate suns, warming our faces.

We, we sad few, we band of survivors, gather, wrapped in all that we own, our hands outstretched to the bonfires, seeking their warmth. There's hunger in our gaunt faces, thirst on our cracking lips, but we dare not leave the sanctuary of the raging infernos. We dare not venture out into the cold and the dark in search of the living. Nothing can live long in the barren, ash-covered hellscape we've painted for ourselves.

So, we wait for the fuel to finally run out, wait for our society to finally burn up and die. We are the final survivors of a society that has collapsed in on itself and dragged the whole world with it. Soon we will join the rest of those who fell into the inferno. Soon the last flame will die.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, fade to black.

Crack open the…

Crack open the world and see its insides. 

See the vicious, savage beauty. See the beast upon which we walk. 

See the lion chase down the antelope, the old, the sick, the slow antelope. The vulnerable one. It sinks its claws deep into the animal's flesh and pulls it down. Hear the scream of the prey as it sees its life about to end. Hear the scream cut short and the sharp teeth sink into the soft neck. See the fountain of blood. Smell the acrid stench of it. See the life flee from the antelope's eyes. See the lion feast. 

Over hundreds of years, see the Strangler Fig germinate high in the rainforest canopy. See the root run down the trunk of a tree and into the ground. Root after root. See the roots grow and swell, watch the bark of the tree disappear underneath the mass of roots. See the tree suffocate. See it die. See it rot away, leaving a hollow lattice of roots. 

See the bulldozers and the men with chainsaws. Carving the forest away. See the animals flee from the destruction. See the concrete and the bricks. See the builders throw up a dozen identical houses and make another identical suburban neighbourhood. 

Crack open the world and see its insides. See that the world is cruel and heartless and destructive. See that the fittest survive, and the weak and the small die. 

Crack open the world and see the rotten core. The world that doesn't care, the beast upon which we walk, and ask is it really worth saving?

Favourite Thing

Jenny was Sarah's favourite thing. You could tell because she had one eye missing, her right foot had been chewed and sucked beyond recognition and she was splitting at the seams, allowing the white, fluffy stuffing to spill out. Her mother had kept telling Sarah to get rid of it and let her get her a new one, but Sarah would have none of it. You could not simple replace Jenny. Jenny was special, Jenny was unique. Jenny was Sarah's favourite thing in the whole world.

So when her mother had told Sarah she was only allowed to take one thing with her, because they were in a hurry and had to leave, she had not even had to think before scooping Jenny from her bed. 

She'd followed her mother outside. All the loud noises had been scary, but her mother had held her close and told her to be very brave, for her and for Jenny. Sarah was not about to let either down, so she tried to breath deep and stop herself from crying. She hugged Jenny very close. 

Her mother had looked at her, right in the eyes. There was a funny look in her mother's eyes. A scared look, but also a determined look. Sarah did not understand how her mother could ever be scared. She had told Sarah that she was going into the house, but that she would be back very soon. she had told her to stay where she was and be brave for her. 

She hugged her, kissed her and said goodbye. Sarah thought she'd seen a tear in her mother's eyes, but thought she must be mistaken because her mother never cried. 

Now Sarah was waiting for her mother, hugging Jenny tight. Trying not to be scared, for either of them.

For the Taking

My soul was for the taking. And the Devil didn't want it. That was his first mistake. 

His second mistake was letting me walk out of Hell alive. 

His third mistake was letting me back in again. 

In his defence, I was his man down to my toenails. I was an evil man. One of the worst. The kind of evil man who makes murderers look like reasonable blokes. 

You would not have liked me at all. 

So when Satan decided to send the best servant he'd had in a long time back to continue fighting the bad fight, you can understand where he was coming from. 

The problem was that one does not simply walk out of the Underworld. Especially having got there through the legitimate paths. No songs for the ferryman, or wrestling with three-headed dogs. All legit. As you can imagine, God doesn't want anyone coming back from that. So Satan turned me into a ghost and sent me back. 

The problem with being a ghost is that you can't touch anything. I never had been one for jumping out of closets and scaring little girls. But let's not go into what I had been into. 

It was a bit like always going to brothels, then being told you had to go to a strip club instead. So used to doing whatever you liked, then suddenly, all you can do is look. 

I'd never really been doing Satan's work anyway, not consciously. That had never been my motivation. So I walked back into Hell, which isn't difficult when you belong there, and decided that I'd have a lot more fun doing Satan's job. 

So now I sit on the throne, torture the dead and use the devil as a foot stool. 

Not bad for a dead man.

Not the one

The man was tall. The tallest of the lot. She'd said he was tall. He wasn't fat, but he wasn't thin either, but then none of them were. One was a little heavier set than the others, one looked a little skinnier, a couple were a little chubby. He had a couple of day's worth of stubble that she didn't recognise, but clean-shaven could be fixed. 

His hair was the right colour, but it was short and very neat. The sort of neat that came after a haircut. She'd described the man as having long hair, nearly down to his shoulders. Straight and lightish brown. A couple of the others had hair that length, or longer. Long hair could be fixed as well. 

His eyes were icy blue. Just like she'd said. Looking into them sent a chill down her spine. She couldn't work out whether that was because of how they were, or just because of the memories that came with looking into those eyes. She'd had a good hard look that night. Eye colour could not be fixed, especially when you had those eyes. He was the one. 

She looked into those eyes again. Looked over the man that, in another time, another place, she might find quite attractive. What he'd done to her made it very hard for her to consider him like that. 

"He's not the one," she lied to the policeman. "I don't think so, anyway." 

A look of surprise, puzzlement and thanks flashed across the man's eyes. His face didn't change, only his eyes. He was good. Maybe he was used to this. 

She wasn't sure why she lied for him. He was the one who raped her. He should be going to prison. 

Then again, he was the father of her child.

Where it hurts

"You should just kick him where it hurts," Sarah said. She was always full of helpful suggestions. 

"How would that help?" I asked, suppressing a smile. 

"Well, he broke your heart, so you should break his dick in return," Sarah explained. "It's only fair, I mean you think with your heart and he thinks with his dick, call it justice." 

"I'm not sure that's justice, plus, I still don't see how this is going to solve the problem," I said, throwing myself melodramatically back into the sofa. 

"What problem? He cheated on you, for almost as long as you were dating. There's nothing to solve, just forget that asshole and move on. Kicking him in the dick is a great way of beginning that process." 

I had to admit, she made a convincing case. I sighed. 

"Oh god," Sarah said, looking at me in disgust. "You're not still in love with him, are you?" 

"I don't know-" I began, but Sarah cut me off. 

"He cheated on you, for a year. How can you even stand to think about him anymore? How can you even consider loving him?" She was standing now, shouting at me, her brown hair shaking in anger. 

"I can't help how I feel. I can't choose whether I love him or not. It's not something you have any control over," I protested.

"Of course you do. He's a lying, cheating, deceitful bastard who deserves to be kicked in the junk. Hard," she was still shouting. 

"How the hell would you know?" It was my turn to shout. "You've never had a real boyfriend, you've never really loved anyone, so don't go lecturing me about love." 

Her expression turned in an instant from anger to sorrow. 

I realised I’d hit her right where it hurts.

Type Triggers

Ok, so recently I’ve been doing some writing for a website called Type Triggers. The site publishes four, four words of fewer, ‘triggers’ for flash fiction, poems, musing, whatever you want to write, every day. You write it in under 300 words, and then publish it on the site for everyone and anyone to read. Awesome.

So far I’ve written 5 flash pieces that I thought I’d share with you. If you like them, feel free to head over to Type Triggers and read more of what I’ll be writing in the future, along with all the other wonderful writer who write there. You could even contribute your own piece.

Anyway, here are my contributions thus far, the Triggers are the titles. Enjoy.

Stubble

He needed to shave.

He rubbed is coarse, sand-paper chin and grimaced. As his hand passed over his mouth, his smelled the acrid smell of whiskey on his breath. His exposed armpit allowed the stench of his body odor to flood his nostrils.

He needed to shave. He needed to do a lot of things, but inertia was just easier. It was hard to get exciting about shaving.

He stared into the eyes of a stranger in the bathroom mirror. Haggard eyes with tired, black circles around them. He grimaced at himself - at what he had become - and dark stubble shifted across the contours of his face.

Trembling hands reached for the cold razor. It heavy in his hand; a weighty, solid object. It felt good. He caressed the 'on' button with his thumb, feeling the shape of it, daring himself to press it, to feel the switch give in to the pressure of his action.

He stared at it. His savior, his redeemer. He hated it. He hated the idea of action, the idea of standing up to be shot down, again.

He looked back at himself in the mirror and realised that he hated what he saw even more.

The buzzing of the razor echoed around the bathroom like an angry wasp.

He needed to shave. He needed to do a lot of things.

Too Much Coffee

Daniel charged down the stairs, into the living room, over the sofa, around the tv (somehow not tripping over the web of wires connecting it to the wall), back out of the living room, into the kitchen, under the table, past the oven, out the back door, over the cat (who looked absolutely terrified), through my tulips, around, through, over and under the climbing frame, around the house, in the front door, back up the stairs and leaped onto his bed.

I knew it was only a matter of time before he got bored of mashing his face into the pillow and decided to try to continue his training for the Olympic around-my-house dash.

That was the day I discovered that, for a four year old, any amount of coffee was too much coffee.

Heading South

It was roadtrip time.

Every year we did this. When school broke up for the holidays and the rains arrived, we headed south. South. To where the summer is. My old man had a beach house on the Sunshine Coast. Beautiful. It would be barbies on the beach, surfing, playing cricket and drinking stubbies all summer long.

Before, it had always been mum, dad, me and maybe a few mates. But dad couldn't get time off this year because of the economy, so they'd said I could go without them. Brilliant. Just me and a couple of mates. Heading south. Away from the rains and the stinking heat.

We loaded our gear onto the back of my Ute and set off down the Pacific Highway. Roadtrip. Heading South. The first big storm of The Wet saw us off. That's what we call it up here; The Wet. 'Bandenyirrin' as the abbos call it. We had to learn about all that shit at school.

It was a great summer. Mum and Dad came down for a week around Christmas, but apart from that, it was just the three of us. Drinking, surfing, rooting the sheilas who wanted some summer love. Best summer of my life.

Until a week or so until we had to go home. Lochie came into the house one day, still dripping wet from the surf.

"Turn on the TV, mate," he said, "fucking Cyclone's hit up north. Destroyed half of Cairns!"

I turned on the shitty old TV and saw the pictures. Wind and rain smashing my home town to pieces. The swell had swept through the centre of town. The whole place was underwater.

I tried ringing mum and dad, but I couldn't get hold of them.

There was nothing I could do. I'd headed south.

In the Aftermath

In the aftermath of the apocalypse, I knew that just two things were true. That you were alive, and that I had to find you. I don't know how I knew you were alive, it was just inconceivable that you were not. Despite all the thousand and one inconceivable things that had happened to the world, despite all the things I did not know, that no-one knew, I knew you were alive and that I had to find you.

So I did. Well, I tried. I found my old camping pack from the ruins of my house and salvaged as much food and water as I could find. And I set off towards your house. I had to force myself not to run, not to try to sprint every step of the 100 miles.

I knew the way pretty well; I'd driven it a hundred times. It felt odd, walking down roads that I'd driven along only days before. It happens in a flash, A to B in minutes. I can get to the Motorway in quarter of an hour from my house. It took me most of the day to walk there.

I slept in the burnt out husks of cars, trying to ignore the stench of burnt, rotting flesh. I tried to ration food and water, but soon, I was thirsty. I tried doing some of the Bear Grylls stuff, but nothing works as well in real life as it does on the TV.

Tired, thirsty, stinking like death and sweat, I arrived at the ruins of your house. The one-and-a-bit walls and not even half a roof.

In the aftermath of the apocalypse, I know that just two things are true. That you are dead, and that I still have to find you.

So Vain

He was just so vain, my ex, so arrogant.

I remember when I first met him. He waltzed into the room, expecting all eyes to turn to him. He talked to me as though I already thought he was a god. There was a twinkle in his eyes that I'm sure meant he knew that I had already fallen head of heels in love with him. The thing is that he was right.

He used to spend more time getting ready to go out that I did. He'd stand in front of the mirror, prodding and pulling at his already perfect hair. That's all he seemed to care about; his own appearance. Sure he said 'you look lovely, tonight.' in that deep, sexy voice of his, but it always sounded like he was looking at a mirror.

Honestly, that whole time we were dating, I don't think he ever really saw me as anything more than something to make him look good; a pretty face on his arm, a nice young girl for him to tow along so that he could look complete.

Then he ended it. I wasn't needed anymore, surplus to requirement, thanks for coming, we've upgraded to a better model, we appreciate you wasting your time for us, don't let the door hit your ass on the way out, you gullible little slut as if you let yourself believe that vain piece of shit ever actually liked you you were kidding yourself this whole time and you know it men like that don't need girls like us they only need themselves the vain little fucks

God, how I miss him.