Plot Medics 

An unfortunate reaction to antibiotics meant I spent about a week lying down, sometimes watching the ceiling spin round. It seems to have scrambled my brain too, because I had two flash stories die on me halfway through before I wrote this one.  And this one doesn't meet our definition of flash. I hope you won't mind getting a bigger slice of fiction this Friday. Enjoy!

The Friday Flash for 20th June didn't appear due to illness. We're back again this week.

There was a rose at the foot of one of the standing stones.

Margaret looked down at it.  Deep red, the breeze ruffling the edges of its petals.

Gulls wheeled against the blue, shrieking like souls denied heaven; the sunlight flared stinging-bright from the water. 

The sun felt as incongruous as the rose.  This was the Highlands, it was supposed to rain.  Had she, subconsciously, come here for that very reason?  Expecting the climate without to match the one within?

After all, it was only another failed affair, only another loss, only another emptiness in a life that seemed to have more gaps than substance.

And now someone had left a rose. 

He never brought me roses, she thought.  She realised she was actually, stupidly, about to cry at the thought, and a sense of her own self-pity swelled up, choking. 

Oh, for crying out loud, Margaret.  Snap out of it.  Stop wailing.

But I’m lonely.

She was still staring at the rose when the tourist coaches pulled up.

Margaret, flinching, hoped they weren’t Americans, prone to acts of sudden random friendliness.  She withdrew behind one of the stones as the two groups walked up the track.

Each group was led by a grey-haired woman.  One’s hair was set in the kind of rigid waves Margaret hadn’t seen for years; drenched in setting lotion and netted nightly so that not one hair escaped its assigned place.
The other had a careless bun from which wisps of silver escaped to wave in the sun. 

Their rich Lewis accents reached her before they did.
“…were going to build a factory here.  Unforrtunately, permission wasn’t granted, and the work went to the mainland…” Set Hair told her group. 

“…and there’s the Old Woman,” said the other Old Woman.  “Can you see her?”  she pointed at the range of hills opposite.  “She’s lying on her back, about to give birth.”

There were some nervous giggles among the tourists.  Margaret, almost despite herself, squinted, trying to see, but apart from a slightly breastlike roundness to the hills couldn’t see anything that looked like a pregnant woman. 

“We used to come up here as girrls,” said the bun.  “Daring each other.  Oh, we got up to some mischief!”  She gave a throaty laugh.

Set Hair, meantime, was pointing out to her group the place where there had been a tragic accident of some sort.

Margaret kept out of the tourists’ way as they photographed the stones, each other, the Old Women (all three) and a scowling toad.  After a few snaps it trudged grumpily off through the grass, blades waving behind it like the wake of a miniature, and very slow, tiger. 

“Oh, a rose,” someone said, and Margaret winced, as though it was herself, not the flower, that had been spotted.

“Och, that’ll be one of those new age lot.  They leave offerings,” said the bun woman.  “Leave it where it is eh?  Don’t want to be offending any gods, now, do we?  Never know who’s given us such a sunny day!”

Set Hair’s mouth thinned.  “Terrible mess, they leave,” she said.

“We’ve time for a cup of tea before the coaches pick us up.  And they do lovely cakes,” said the bun.  The groups set off over the hill beyond the stones.

Margaret hadn’t realised there was a tea-shop.  At least they’d kept it out of sight.  And now she’d heard about it, she wanted tea.  Slowly, aware she’d have to slog back over the hill to pick up her car, she followed the tourists. 

Waiting in line she overheard Set Hair saying to one of the coach drivers, “I’ve got my son and his wife coming over, so as soon as I get back there’s the shopping to do.  Oh, I told George, but he’ll have forgotten, of course.  And everything to be aired.  They’re bringing the children with them.”

“That’s nice, then.”

“They’re all rushing off to the mainland every five minutes.  The boy wants to go to some college down south.  And the way they behave, well, we wouldn’t have had it in my day.”

Bun was talking to one of the tourists.  “Met my Duncan up by the stones, sneaking out of school – oh, we were terrors.  Well, we thought we were.”

“Have you ever left Lewis?”  one of the tourists asked. 
“Och, yes, do you see a chain on my ankle?”

More embarrassed laughter. “We’d planned to go on a cruise, but he passed away not long before we were going to be married.”

Margaret winced again, but Bun didn’t seem distressed; her questioner was far more so. 

“Oh, that’s kind, dear.  Well, yes, he was a lovely man.  I could never fancy anyone else, somehow.  And I did go on the cruise, in the end; after I retired from teaching.  Saw some marvellous things.”  Her accent, and her enthusiasm, make ‘marvellous’ sound full and rich as chocolate mousse.  “I felt as though I had to look at everything more, you see?  Because I was doing it for Duncan as well.  And it was wonderful.  But of course it’s always good to come home.” 

Margaret turned the tea in her hands, looking at Set Hair; her drawstring mouth widening to spill out more miseries.  Behind her, Bun laughed.

Margaret finished her tea, went to the counter, and got a slab of chocolate cake, and one of passionfruit.

She walked back over the hill, eating chocolate cake, licking icing off her fingers, rolling it around her mouth, under the brilliant sky, the birds white as angels.  The stones were silver, full of complex and subtle shadows. 

She put the slab of passionfruit cake next to the rose, saluted the Old Woman of the Moors, (she still couldn’t see her, but it didn’t matter) and walked back to her car, her lips tasting of chocolate and salt.

Oops. After a little blip with the flash fiction, we're back. I wrote a long version of this that wasn't working at all, so instead I've distilled it down to 100 words. This is inspired in part by a New Scientist article.

Sarah's story "The Torture Orchestra" has been chosen for the Liars' League event in London on the 12th May. Professional actors read stories aloud, £3 on the door. For more details see the Liars' League website.

The last post marked a year of weekly flash at Plot Medics, and at the moment you can still read all 52 stories here. From now on, we'll be posting one flash a fortnight. Thanks to all our readers, and we hope you'll still drop by for free fiction.

Lucy's Toy (1077 words)

The day after my wedding my wife told me that she decided to marry me even though Captain Clucky told her not to. Of course, I thought she was joking.  As long as I’d known her, Lucy had been carrying that silly-looking toy around with its mad junkie eyes and that beak with the tongue sticking out. In fact, it was how we met.

I’d glimpsed her a few times at the SciPhantastiCon, sitting in a talk on designing steampunk mechanics, and playing the bongos in a filk session, always with the toy beside her. So when I found myself next to her at the bar, I said “Nice dinosaur, er duck chicken thing. What does it drink?”

She tucked her shiny brown hair behind her ear. “Absinthe daiquiri if he gets the chance,” she said, smiling. “But it’s a bad idea to give him anything with alcohol, caffeine or sugar. Captain Clucky, I’d like you to meet....”

“Will.”

She pushed out one of its wings/arms for me to shake.

“And how about you?” I asked.

”Oh, I’m fairly safe with caffeine,”  she said with a naughty glint in her eye.

So I bought her a cup of tea and we talked for hours while I tried not to notice her fantastic tits.

The first time I met her parents was the first time I saw Lucy without it.

“Where’s the Captain?” I said as she climbed into the car.

“God, no. I’m not taking him anywhere near...” She smoothed her demure, grey skirt and  tried to tuck some stray hair back in her plait.

“Hey, I’m the one who’s supposed to be nervous.”

At her parents’ house, Lucy sat bolt upright with her knees together and answered like a robot as her father asked her questions about promotions and her mother handed around tea and biscuits. I assumed it was just some moody girl thing with her dad that she hadn’t got over. He was nice enough to me, asked about my work at the local council and gave it his approval as a sensible choice. I didn’t mention my band, or the urban exploring.

Captain Clucky had his own tuxedo for the wedding, and sat in the front row. Lucy got one of her nieces to pretend she owned him. Lucy glanced at him before she said “I will”. He - no for frak’s sake – it, was sitting on a chair next to Lucy’s sister, Caroline, with some other mad-looking tuxed up toy with long rabbit ears and a sharp-toothed grin. I grinned back.

Lucy got her promotion. She got up at six, dressed in grey, and came home at eight looking as grey as her suit.  Some nights she’d grab the Captain, make herself a huge gin and tonic and sit in a knot in front of the fire, clutching him. Other nights she’d look at him, and say “Damn good idea”. She’d pick him up, and her drumsticks, I’d get my guitar and we’d all go down into the basement and make a loud kind of music. 

“Are you ok, Luce?” I asked on one of the gin nights.

“This job,” she said, slurring. “It’s like I have to shut off one half of my personality. Just like the old days.”

“The old days?”

“Caroline knows.”

After a year, the gin nights happened almost all the time. I found myself watching Kelly in accounts, the sway of her tight little arse and the swing of her long blonde hair, and wondering. One evening I came back from my nine to five to find Lucy already home, dancing around the basement, swigging beer.

“Are you ok, Luce?”

“Oh, yeah. Much better.” She was red in the face, her hair wild. She looked great.

“Did you take the day off?”

“Kind of. The Captain was right, that job was killing me. I quit.”

“What the hell Luce? You should have talked to me first.”

“Look, don’t worry. I’ve got enough savings to pay the mortgage for a few months. I just need a bit of a break. Alright?”

I grabbed her, and she grabbed me back. It was a good night. It was a great month, until Luce told me that she was starting a mechanic’s course at the local college. Captain Clucky had told her to go for it.

“For God’s sake Luce, you’re a grown woman. You don’t need to hide behind a toy to make decisions. If you want to do this course, great.  It’s nice to see you happy again.”

“You don’t understand.”

“You’ve got some problem with your Dad, you’re old enough to sort it out. You don’t need some stupid prop.”

“I’ll be able to get work at the end of the course, fixing things. It won’t be as much money, but I know I’m going to like it. Until then I’ve got a job, at the supermarket,” she said. “It’ll cover most of my half of the bills. It’ll work out.” And she looked at that bloody toy again, for reassurance.

It was like a switch flipped. My head spun, I grabbed Captain Clucky, and I flung him into the fire.

“Just fucking grow up!” I shouted.

Lucy howled, a sound of raw agony. She reached towards the flames. I held her, struggling, in one arm while I tried to fish the toy out with the poker with the other. It was no good, whatever the Captain was made of burned too fast. Lucy got up and brushed herself down.

“Sorry,” she said. “That was really silly.” She went upstairs, into the spare room  and I followed.

“What are you doing?” I asked as she booted up the computer.

”Job hunting.”

Lucy found one. She got up at six, dressed in grey, and came home at eight. When she got in she cooked the dinner, and cleaned the house, and went to bed and got up and did it all over again. That’s all she did. Finally, I realised she wasn’t punishing me.  There was nothing else left.

I phoned Caroline. “Can you come over? I think your sister needs to see you.”

“Of course. Is Lucy ok?”

“I burnt... look, that rabbit toy thing at the wedding. Is that yours?”

“You may address him as Cedric the Wise.” There was an echo of Lucy’s old teasing tone that made my eyes sting.

“Bring him too. Please. And I hope you and Lucy used to share your toys.”

 

I think this came from various conversations about the state of the world.  And staring at my duvet cover when overtired.

Patterns by Gaie Sebold (747 words)

Maeve, Binty, Joachim, Frank.

“There  you go, dear, take your pills.  What are you making today?”

Maeve looks up, but doesn’t say anything.  Passively she swallows her pills.  But as the nurse moves on, Maeve and Binty flick each other a quick, impish smile.

Maeve’s fingers twist and weave.  The nurses bring her wool; before that she used whatever she could find, sometimes to the detriment of the hospital fittings.  They have decided a crochet hook is permissible, so long as they take it away from her at night.  She’s quite capable of making another one from the most surprising things, anyway.

She’s probably safe.  After all, she only really gets upset when someone asks her if she ever thinks about her old life, when she worked in the City.

Binty doesn’t crochet.  Binty weaves baskets.  It’s so traditional it’s almost embarrassing; but she makes baskets and placemats and needlecases as though she had a deadline, as though she were on commission.

“Hello, dear, oh, that’s pretty,” says the nurse.  For a moment she pauses, frowning, and glances back at Maeve.  Then, pills dispensed, she shakes her head, and moves on.  Binty used to work in banking.  Such a shame, they say, so bright, doing so well!  She’s another one who’s mostly co-operative, unless they ask her about her job.

Joachim is on another ward, with Frank.  Joachim fills in crosswords; but seldom all of one crossword, and not in words that seem to have anything to do with the clues, most of the time.  Or words that seem to have anything to do with language, either.  Joachim first saw Frank as he was frowning over a couple of Joachim’s crosswords that were lying side by side, looking at the exact juxtaposition of the filling in of certain squares, a sort of recognition rising on his face. 

They haven’t talked about it.  Frank does sketches; tiny, intense sketches, thousands of precise narrow lines.  There are no people in them, no monsters, from the id or elsewhere.  Just lines.  The therapists have theories.  That’s all they have.

Joachim was a stockbroker, too.  Frank dealt with computerised banking systems.

They all went mad within a few months of each other.  Are there more?  Each of them sometimes wonders, but it’s no longer really relevant.

A very young nurse is being tried out on the women’s ward; they’re considered slightly more easily handled than the men.  She deals with the patients confidently and well, and is eventually transferred to the men’s ward, which still, strangely, is considered a position of slightly higher prestige.  Just before she is transferred, however, she speaks to her supervisor. 

“You did say to report anything that was bothering me,” she says.  “It’s not bothering me, exactly, but I did wonder.  Binty, and Maeve.”

“Ah, yes, sad cases,” says the supervisor.
“They don’t seem sad,” the nurse says.  “Actually, they seem very contented.  But I just noticed that, well, the stuff they make…there’s a kind of similarity about it.  I couldn’t say what, exactly.  It just seems to follow a kind of pattern.”

“They’ve been on the same ward for months,” the Supervisor says.  “These things happen.  And sometimes we see patterns where there aren’t any.  It’s what the human eye looks for, after all.  Patterns.”

“I asked Maeve what she was making.”

“Oh?  Did she answer you?”

“Sort of.  ‘A new pattern’, she said. But it looked the same as everything else she’s made to me.”

“Ah well,” said the Supervisor.  “At least she interacted with you.”

On the men’s ward it isn’t long before the young nurse notices Joachim’s partially completed crosswords, and Frank’s sketches. 

One day she has a sketch laid side by side with three crosswords.  She’s glaring at them as though they were one of those magic-eye pictures, and can feel some kind of focus dancing just beyond the reach of her aching eyes.

Frank sits down opposite her, and pats her hand. “You’ll get there,” he said.  “It was trauma, for us.  Hope you find a better way.”

“But what are you making,” she says.

“The world,” says Frank.  “We’re making the world.”

And the young nurse feels a trembling in the soles of her feet. 

The next day the headlines announce collapse of the markets, trembles in the metal heart of finance. 

The young nurse reads the headlines, and knows that on the wards, Maeve and Binty, Joachim and Frank, are weaving and stitching and sketching and smiling.

Just so there's no misunderstanding, I love "Pride and Prejudice".

The Unadventures of Mary Sue Flowershine (1096 words)

“There she is,” said a fake-tanned blonde, standing in a little group of friends. “The new girl.”

Mary Sue kept her head down, letting her soft shiny brown hair swing forward to hide her pensive face with its snowy skin and unfathomable green eyes. She had been dreading her first day in the new sixth form. So far she’d made it to lunch.

“What has she got on?” asked another girl. “I mean, who wears ankle-length skirts?”

“Someone more interesting than you,” said a male voice, thoughtfully.

Mary Sue didn’t dare turn her head to see who was speaking. She’d find out soon enough. She strode purposefully on her long legs out of the college gates and down into the town.

It was a typical new town; its heart was tied into a tedious little circle inside a ring road, fenced around with red-brick insurance offices hemming in a shopping mall. Where were were the woods and fields that she spent hours wandering, composing poetry, her soul soothed by the scent of grass and whisper of leaves? No gentle deer here to come to her hand. She lingered in front of a florist and gazed through the window at the deep red roses, severed from their roots.

“Are you lost?” said a familiar male voice.

“Yes. And no,” said Mary Sue. A tall, slim boy with silver blond hair and glacier blue eyes stood looking down at her. He wore a leather jacket and black jeans.

“You are interesting,” he said. “But you look sad,” he said.

Mary Sue blinked back tears. Why did her father have to die? Why did her mother have to move to this miserable town? And why did her life have to be like this?

“I... ”

A screech of brakes, a girl’s shriek and a thump drowned out her voice. Mary Sue sped towards the noise. The fake-tanned blonde was lying on the pavement, bleeding from her thigh. Her friends huddled around, screaming and crying.

“One of you phone an ambulance,” said Mary Sue, tearing a strip from the bottom of her skirt to bind the blonde’s leg.

The girls gawped at her.

“You heard her,” said the boy. He gazed at Mary Sue over the prone blonde.  “I’m Xavier," he said. "I’d like to see you again. Under less extreme circumstances.”

”That would be nice.”

“Th – thank you,” stammered the blonde. “You helped me. None of my so-called friends did.”

”That’s what I do. Apparently,” sighed Mary Sue.

#

After Xavier’s tragic death on their wedding night, Mary Sue moved to the big city. On her very first day, she came out of a coffee shop and bumped into a man running down the street. They were both knocked to the ground and covered in a fountain of hot cappuccino. The man sprang up with supernatural speed, and helped her to her feet. He was tall, with long black hair pulled into a ponytail, and bright green eyes over angular cheekbones.

He looked her up and down. “There’s something about you,” he said. “Can you run?”

Mary Sue shrugged. She’d always been fast on her feet, although she never trained.

“Then help me. I’m chasing someone. Well, something. You go that way. We’ll trap it in the alley.”

Mary Sue ran, dodging pedestrians and cars and blurring past windows, with bemused shoppers gawking out. She cut round the city block to the other end of the narrow passage.

Something huge, green and slimy slashed a claw at her. Mary Sue leapt aside, and threw the remainder of her hot coffee, still clutched in her hand, in the creature’s eyes. It howled and writhed.

The tall man appeared from the other end of the alley and drew a sword from beneath his black leather trenchcoat. With one swift blow, he struck off the creature’s head.

“I could use an assistant with your... talents,” he said, green eyes sparkling.  He held out his hand. “Arial Bold. Private Investigator. Amongst other things.”

Mary Sue shook hands.

”Well, how about it?” he said. “Do you want the job? It’ll be exciting.” His eyes smouldered with unspoken promises.

“Let’s see,” said Mary Sue.

#

She and Arial parted, heartbroken. A chance discovery revealed her daemon heritage, and with his elven blood, a moment of ecstasy between them would have killed them both. She moved back to the quiet little village where her mother still lived, and where she’d wandered the woods as a girl. She applied as an assistant in the bakery. The baker said she’d never seen such light fingers with pastry. Mary Sue sighed, but took the job.

The first morning she was working there, the door opened with a merry jingle, and a tall, handsome man with sad brown eyes came in, holding the hands of two little blonde girls.

“How can I help you today?” asked Mary Sue, waving at the girls. “Are you looking for something sweet?”

“Do you have anything that will tempt me?” said the man, raising an eyebrow. “A wholemeal loaf. And two chocolate cookies for my girls.”

Mary Sue danced the cookies over the counter and the girls giggled.

When he’d gone, the other assistant Becky rushed up. “Do you know who that was? That’s Darcy Huntingdon-Black, from the manor. It’s so sad, his wife died two years ago. He’s very rich, but terribly haughty. He almost smiled at you.”

“Oh great hairy arses on fire,” said Mary Sue. She took off her apron and threw it on the floor. “I’m not going through all that again.”

“But where are you going?” said Becky.

“Back to the city. I’m going to get a job as a sales executive and be bad at it and be bored out of my mind. I’m going to screw up an account and be reprimanded and be terrified that I’m going to get fired, because then I’ll have to go and look for another shitty job that I don’t want. I’m going to get unattractively drunk and in that state I’m going to finally get laid, probably by a bloke from marketing who farts and forgets my birthday and cheats on me. Maybe if I get lucky I’ll find out what I actually like doing, meet some women who have their own lives, and be best friends with the IT guy who’s totally right for me if only I’d notice.”

She left, slamming the door behind her.

“Wow,” said Becky. “She’s right. Why let our lives be defined by men?” She sighed. “I wish I was more like Mary Sue.”

Shortest one I've done, I think.  This a 'subtext' challenge - thank you Sarah for providing the both the challenge and the situation - or there wouldn't have been one this week.

A Housewarming Gift - 514 Words 

“What do you think?”  Marcia peered at a black glass and marble table lamp. 
“Very…um…designer,” Suze said.  “So, have you seen their place?  I mean is that the sort of look they’re…”
“No, well, I don’t know.  It’s Barry’s sort of thing, though, isn’t it?”
“I suppose.  Yes.  He likes things like that.”
“It’s not just for him, though, is it,” Marcia said.  “The trouble is I don’t really know what she likes.  I’ve only met her a few times.” 
“Oh?”  Suze said, picking up a paperweight and weighing it in her hand, looking at the flower frozen in the glass. 
“Well, you know.  We’re all so busy these days!”
“That’s the twenty-first century for you,” Suze said, putting down the paperweight, and absentmindedly rubbing her left arm.  “Everyone rushing about, no time to pay attention.”
“Well quite.  I feel a bit bad,” Marcia said, “I mean my own brother, you know, and I hardly see him.  Anyway Deirdre seems nice enough.”
“I’m sure she is,” Suze said. 
“So anyway how are you?”  Marcia said, abandoning the lamp and moving towards a basket full of eggs made out of marble and onyx and steel.  “These are rather fun.”
“Quite expensive, though,” Suze said.  “Unless you buy one a year, and build up a collection, like a charm bracelet.  I’m fine.”
“Funny running into you like this.  So, are you getting them something?”
“Oh, no,” Suze said.  “Barry and I…we’re not really in touch.” 
“That’s a shame,” Marcia said.
“What’s she like?  Deirdre?”
“Well, like I say, she seems nice enough.  I mean the couple of times I’ve met her. Lively girl.  She’s younger than him, of course.  Well you were too, weren’t you?”
“I still am.”
“Well of course, you know what I mean.  She’s a bit like you, actually.  If you don’t mind me saying.”
“Oh?”
“Yes,”  Marcia said, turning and looking Suze up and down, with a marble egg in one hand.  Suze’s eyes followed the egg, watching it as Marcia gestured.  “Yes, she’s slight, and dark, like you.  Wish I knew your secret for staying so slim.”
“Stress,” Suze said, with a half-smile. 
Marcia turned away and put the egg down and Suze’s shoulders relaxed. 
“Oh, and it’s funny, there’s another way she’s like you.  Accident prone!”
“Oh?”  Suze moved to a shelf full of thin glass vases, and stared at them.
“Yes!  She was laughing about it.  Great bruise she had, all up her arm.  Shut it in the car door, silly girl.”
“Funny,” Suze said, “well, they say men go for a type, don’t they?”
“I suppose so.  Oh, dear, I can’t make up my mind.  Maybe I’ll buy that lamp after all.”
Suze looked at the lamp.  It was big, dark, heavy.  The base had brutal corners.  “No,” she said.  “No, how about…” she cast around for something else, grabbed one of the vases.  “How about this?”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Marcia said.  “That doesn’t look like Barry’s sort of thing at all.”
“He likes fragile things,” Suze said.  “He doesn’t worry about breakages.”