These Walls
I built these walls for a purpose. Using big thick slabs. Granite. Limestone. An impenetrable fortress.
You are not getting past these walls.
Through to me.
I’ll bite your head off. If you so much as try.
You say you’ve heard of someone finding a way in.
There is no secret passage. No hidden door. The walls are on deep foundations, towering to the sky.
You are not getting in.
You say you’ve met me truly once. A beautiful aberration. A delicate wonderful butterfly, or was it a flower?
It’s a lie, that never happened. The walls are impenetrable. I’ve told you. They’ve stood always.
Step away. Walk on past there’s nothing to see. I’ll take the drink.
‘Cheers!’
As much as you’ll get from me.
You’re a nice guy. Gentle. Intelligent. Good looking.
In another world I’d give you every chance. I may even have chased you myself.
Here and now though these walls are protecting you as much as me. Probably more. There are other people here. People you know. Fuck off and spoil their night.
There’s no way in. If these walls ever fell the world would regret it. That would be you first, dickhead!
Another drink.
‘Bottoms up!’
‘Haven’t seen you about for an age,’ he said, ‘Where you been?’
Think I answered; his face suggested I did.
Something innocuous. I don’t do conversation. You are not going to find me. These walls, you know.
I built them for a purpose. There was indeed a time when people could get in. There were doors. Locked, but there was a key. There could be a way through.
But I became more damaged. A quantum menace. Simultaneously a rose frozen with dry ice and a humungous bomb on a hair trigger.
Dry ice. Rocks.
Whisky.
‘Salud!’
You can do better, what can I give you, but headaches and heartaches?
If there was a door. Just say, there was. If there was a door, what would happen?
You’d smash the rose into a million pieces with a simple touch. That could happen. Or I could explode and scatter you and me throughout the hemisphere.
Either way I’d be broken.
I’m damaged goods. I’ve become a bio-hazard. A chemical hazard. Bubbling away on the edge of oblivion.
I don’t do people. Not any more. The only damage I’m going to suffer will be self inflicted.
‘Cheers big ears!’
There is no way in. The walls are solid to the sky. On deep deep foundations.
You were feeling for the door. A secret way in. Did you find it? No. It’s not there.
You’re safe. I’m safe. The walls have held.
Now fuck off.
________________
(444 words) MWBB Week 24 - Prompt: “You Know I’m No Good’ by Amy Winehouse
The Pudding Ban
There are always unexpected consequences to change, but the side effect of the 2013 Black Pudding Ban was to prove severe.
In northwest England since the 60s and the advent of the pill and free love, the resultant difficulty in locating virgins had become a major concern for many vampires. It coincided with a time when many of them were becoming humanists though. So, as the age of Aquarius was welcomed through a drug induced haze, the vampires were also led into their new age of humanism with their own alternative life style.
In contrast to the bright psychedelia of California the new beginnings for the ancient communities of Lancashire came out of Lesley Bradshaw’s butcher shop in damp Oswaldtwistle. His black puddings became a way of consuming blood without resorting to unfortunate incidents with friends, neighbours or livestock. Black puddings were literally to become the lifeblood for many in his community.
By 2013 after four decades of living with their human friends simply going back to the former way of life was distasteful to most. After black puddings were outlawed, for some spurious moral reason dressed as health & safety, the butcher's shelves emptied and there was an inevitable rapid climb in recorded disappearances of young people throughout the northwest.
Elizabeth was a fervent vegetarian though everyone knew she had a quirky love for black pudding as well as for John. A mortal, John had never had a preference for older women, but despite her 600 years Elizabeth had always looked younger and more vital than him, especially after a good helping of pudding. He had eventually been made aware of Elizabeth’s predilection for blood and why, and confessed he found it quite arousing.
When the ban came she felt she had wanted to fight it, she didn’t want to go back to the old days of stakes, fear and hiding. And she feared for her love. Unfortunately the majority in England could easily live without the black pudding delicacy. There was no chance of a groundswell of support to overturn the ban. It was not clear how long it would take for a reliable underground supply of pudding to fill the void.
Elizabeth quickly started to suffer without her dose of pud. Her rosy cheeks went first and wrinkles spread across her face like a rapidly shriveling prune under a time lapse camera. As for the bingo wings, less said.
TV and tabloid news was full of chupacabra attacks on cattle and disappearances of young people. Mostly these were accepted as nonsense and teenagers being teenagers, but John and Elizabeth knew the truth, and worried.
John would do anything for Elizabeth; they were soul mates, if not cell mates. He knew if he gave it time nature would take its course.
One night he cradled Elizabeth in his arms as she lay across his lap breathing the shallow breath of the dying. She looked more like his grandmother than his young love. Closing his eyes, he lifted her head to his shoulder and moved his head aside.
He waited.
_____________
A Rose By Any Other Name
It was a close run thing as to whether the garden or their children was the love of their lives. It was best not to ask unless you enjoyed awkward silences.
Rose was their eldest. She was an accountant. Their second was Marigold a personal trainer for the C class stars of YouTube and Instagram. Petal was the second youngest, a driving instructor living far away; in less than exotic Northampton. They each hated gardening with a passion. In family get togethers they would muse whether their names were the reason for the animosity towards all things gardening. Rose said they had reverse nominative determinism.
The only exception was the youngest, Brenda. She loved the garden and worked in a florist on the high street. Petal said it proved Rose’s assertion that all the children had reverse determinism and argue it must be a genetic condition. Petal, Rose, and Marigold were jealous of Brenda’s name and she of theirs.
Brenda got married in a dress that looked like it had been made by fairies from the petals of wild white and pink flowers picked fresh from the forest. It was the essence of summer for her; although she married her sweetheart, Benjamin, on a cold and wet day in November.
All the Thornberrys were sure Brenda had chosen Benjamin for his surname. Brenda Bloom would never admit it, but of course she did.
__________
WC: 306
Mid Week Flash. Week 190
Toying With Gravity
‘It’s weak, yeah. But it’s constant and that leg of yours is gonna lose the fight in the end. Anyway, we were talking about last night’s television weren’t we?’ Sean said.
Selma shrugged. She’d heard it all before.
Gareth drummed his fingers against his mug. His brows suggested he had thoughts to let free.
‘Did you even watch the telly last night?’ Sean asked. ‘That last episode left us on a right twist and a cliffhanger.’
Selma snorted so that tea almost came out of her nostrils. ‘Don’t talk about it if he hasn’t seen it. Spoilers are the devil’s work.’ She wiped the tea from her nose with her sleeve. ‘Gareth, if you didn’t watch it, what were you doing?’
Selma and Sean saw Gareth’s gravity defying eyebrows pass to and beyond his hairline; a clear sign a decision had been made.
‘Right, you’ve got to promise not to tell anyone. Not a pinky promise, a full on "on the life of my parents" promise.’
His always less than serious face looked surprisingly serious. Selma thought it made him look relatively normal.
Ultimately they promised on various family members lives, and a couple of pets to be sure.
‘Great. Well you know the gravity problem I’ve been working on. I’ve solved it.’
With other people this may sound like an interesting essay or philosophical treatise, but not with Gareth. They’d seen him cross a tomato plant with Japanese Knotweed last year to produce giant super fast growing tomatoes that were already available in shops. And many an allotment had been taken over by this student experiment. So hearing Gareth talk about the ‘gravity problem’ was, at the very least, a bit intriguing.
‘Do you want to see something cool? All the kids will want them.’
Gareth proceeded to pull out a pair of trainers out of his rucksack - a pair with homemade amendments. ‘They’re not finished yet. We’ll need a logo to make them look cooler. But for now I’ve just drawn on a go-faster stripe with a Sharpie.’
Sean looked at Selma and was glad to see she looked as non-plussed as he felt.
Ten minutes later Selma was a flying around the room in the boots trying carefully not to hit her head on the light fittings, whilst keeping away from the window in case she was spotted. But she so wanted to open the window and fly outside too.
It took some patience for Sean to get his turn, but he duly did.
‘Gareth, you are a fucking genius. I don’t care about your projected millions from your Knotweed Tomato hybrid monstrosity: these are going to make you the richest man on the planet.’
Selma squealed with excitement and clapped. ‘Or off the planet. Musky baby, eat your heart out!’
Gareth nodded. ‘I know. But you haven’t seen the best bit yet.’
‘What the hell can be better than anti gravity boots and flying everywhere?’
Reaching back into the rucksack Gareth pulled out a tote bag, which had a picture of his monster tomatoes on it.
‘This.’ He said, sliding out a plastic gun. ‘The gravity gun!’
‘The G-Gun! Cool.’ Said Sean. ‘How does it work?’
‘I’ll show you tonight. You’re right, it is way cool.’
That evening the three of them played with the gun on the peatland behind the motorway fence. Great swathes of peat were strafed by Sean and Selma with the sky partly speckled by organic matter that was never supposed to leave the planet going for a brief flyby. The highlight was when Gareth shot some glacial boulders behind the old quarry and both Selma and Patch, her bemused dog, floated on them some 15ft in the air.
Sean asked how he’d developed this in just a weekend.
‘It’s taken me decades this.’ Said the fifteen year old, pulling out what looked like a wristwatch. ‘This is my time travel device, could sell well too.’
Gareth swivelled a couple of bezels around then clicked a button on the side. "Shit!" he exclaimed. Then he was gone - and never seen again.
______
WC: 750
#MidWeekFlash - 03.03.21
Them Apples
Dan was jumping around like a Mexican bean. Chasing the waves down the beach and then running away as they came back. His mouth was a slobbering mess, his tongue looked two feet long out the side of his mouth; ugly beast.
Bounding up he sent slobber onto my jeans and then shook himself showering me in brine.
I picked up the stick and made to throw. Dan stood fast waiting for me to let go. I threw it along the beach and he bolted of to fetch it. He dropped it at my feet; those pathetic eyes.
No messing. I flung it as far as I could into the sea. Dan set off adjusting his stride to get through the water. He was soon borne away by the waves and lost in darkness and distance.
It was a shame. That’s what I’d say. A horrible accident. Undertow. I tried everything.
Why had she named the dog after the love of her life? How was I ever to bond with that mutt? Reminding me how I was a replacement. She loved Dan: the dog, and the man.
Well, now both Dan’s were gone. Let’s see how she likes them apples.
________
WC: 200 words
Last Line First, January 2015
Shooting Unicorns is Bad Form
George was an addict – if it moved he shot it. No qualms at all. He’d been taken to court many times, mainly for shooting seals. You can’t shoot seals, they said. Protected and cute. But he always got off. Men you see; guns and the American way. Bang bang.
George knew he had a problem though and began to limit his shooting to one animal a day. Preferably something not protected, but sometimes… well, you can only shoot what presents itself.
He shot the unicorn right through the temple. He’d never seen one before. He’d been fairly sure that they were only in fairytales. But there it was; a perfect, bleach white unicorn, flowing mane and a proud single golden horn. Sublime: and in his sights.
Of course the media frenzy was distasteful afterwards. How was he to know they’d been shooting a film on the beach? He hadn’t noticed the starlet riding the unicorn. George had been surprised when the papier-mache horn crumpled as the horse fell dead to the sand.
He probably wouldn’t have shot it, if he’d known it was just a horse.
He definitely wouldn’t have shot it if he’d known he was to face an all woman jury. The gavel fell twice. Bang bang!
________________
WC: 210 words
Flash Friday