Flash fiction

 

Like many, writing somewhere that isn't home often unlocks ideas and words that your home never could. It may be a local cafe or library or a shed at the bottom of the garden, but for me it's Geraldine, a vintage caravan who may never see the open road again but still has lots of stories to tell.

Though in the main I write stories for children, even those have a hint of darkness about them, more than a touch of peril too. I think many writers can use fiction to explore themes and ideas and for me flash fiction and very short narrative pieces let me play with ideas and characters for adult fiction. Maybe one day I'll expand on them and write a novel for adults but for now I play with ideas, just like the piece of flash fiction I share today.

A touch of crimson

She’d gone and no amount of screaming into the wind would bring her back. Rain lashed with fury and his footsteps left deep impressions in the wet sand. The wind tossed a fishing boat in the waves and gulls screeched overhead. He left the shelter of the harbour far behind, striking out across the shore, the tide creeping ever nearer. His thin nylon jacket clung to his back making him shiver. 

The last time he’d set foot there she’d been close beside him. She laughed as the water rushed over his feet, soaking the bottom of his jeans. She’d splashed in the waves, emerald in the summer glare. Her auburn hair hung tangled with sand, her crimson lips a splash of joyous colour against the azure sky, a promise of things to come. Her allure had been contagious, as virulent as any virus, her passion as intense as the heat which drew sweat to his neck and burnt his skin almost raw. He’d drunk in her lust for life, its taint of poison masked by her potency. If others whispered behind his back, it was just their jealousy. Even now her laughter seemed to blow in the wind and swirl with the rain. Nothing nature could grow could beat her beauty. No song from any bird could sound as sweet as her voice across a crowded room. 

But now emptiness stung like the needles of rain against his cheek. A seagull flew low, its cries filling the sky and with it he heard the insistent whisper of her voice in his ear. He thought he felt her touch against his skin as he battled into the wind, water now pooling around his feet. They should never have come back here. Her voice wasn’t laughing any more and the only crimson  was the splash of blood on his shoe which in time the sea would wash away.

He’d begun to untangle the lies and seen behind her charade. He only regretted it had taken so long. He’d made sure the only living thing which would touch her again were the worms which burrowed in the sand beside her head, buried where only the sea could release her, her touch of crimson gone for good. She’d never laugh at him again.