5 minute Freewrite story: “Empty”

At two thirty in the morning everything in the street is calm.

There is a trash can overturned in the alley on the corner where the deli sits, and a cat sits beside it casually moving it’s paw through the contents.

It must have found something, because it begins to eat. It doesn’t look up as I pass, it doesn’t notice me.

Perhaps, I do not exist. It is a thought I have often, at this time of the night.

When the streets are clear of the noise and bustle of human activity.

Perhaps the world has ended and I am the last human on earth.

Or, worse still, I have died and the world continues on and I am alone, unable to communicate with those around me. It is my nightmare, my terror.

It reminds me of high school when my friends (or at least that is what I thought of them) stopped speaking to me.

They ignored me .

—-

This story was written in 5 minutes using the prompt “it is what I do at 2.30 in the morning when I can’t sleep.”

If you don’t know what a freewrite is visit @mariannewest here is a link to the introduction post: https://steemit.com/freewrite/@mariannewest/writers-or-wanna-be-writers-wanted-be-free-freewrite

Check out my original post on Steemit

https://steemit.com/freewrite/@felt.buzz/empty-5-minute-freewrite-prompt-it-s-what-i-do-at-2-30-in-the-morning-when-i-can-t-sleep

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Good Work Minty (666 words – acrostic)

This story is part of my Humpbuckle-on-Sea series, stories revolving around characters living in the fictional English seaside town.

Tales from Humpbuckle-On-Sea

Happy to see, through the grimy window of the Rat and Sparrow, that Chris was already there, Jaz pushed open the door. Unfortunately, as she walked in, Jaz saw he was not alone. Minty – looking high already – was draped all over him, pouring words into his ear whilst pawing his chest and his biceps with her scrawny ring-clad hands. Pathetic woman – she always seemed to pop up at the least convenient moments: which, for Jaz was any moment at all.  Bugger it, Jaz thought, they haven’t seen me, I can slip out and text Chris an apology – this can wait. Uncertain whether to turn around and exit through the same door, or carry on walking and leave through the public bar, Jaz hesitated and was seen. Chris raised his right arm – dislodging Minty’s head – and waved. Knots in her stomach, Jaz waved back and attempted…

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A thief from the Night (410 words)

This story is also available in audio format on Soundcloud

 

Night began as a whisper: a rumour of shadows at the very edges of the Day. But once started, it quickly gathered pace.

Leba knew Day would fail soon. The dark cracks would spread, tendril-like through its foundations. Inevitably, Day would split, shatter, and crumble into the sea.

And when Day failed she would too.

As she ran, Leba risked a glance, back, towards the Waghorn. Immediately, her breath was sucked from her lungs, pulled back back towards the dark rocky outcrop. Despite this sign – this symptom – they were not following.

Not yet, anyway.

The tide was coming in fast, threatening to cut her off from her friends. The hungry sea licked at her feet. It tasted her. It wanted to consume her. Her feet sank a little deeper into the wet sand with every stride. A moment of doubt overcame her. She had left it too late. She would be swallowed by the sea, or the sand. Or the Night.

No. She could make it. She would make it. She had to.

Leba knew her friend’s waited for her, but could not see them. The distance and the diminishing light made that impossible. Over the sound of her breathing – in….OUT….in…OUT –  and the pounding of her heart and feet, she fancied she could hear them shout. Encouragement? Warnings? She couldn’t tell.

She could feel the sharp edges of the stolen object cutting into the palm of her left hand. The pain gave her comfort, strength even. Pain meant it was safe.

She could see them now, her friends. Emaj was jumping in the air, hands and arms all over the place. She could hear him, too. His words, shouted over the sand, distinct and clear: “You CAN make it Leba: come on!” Nimos was standing statue-like beside him. She could see he was not looking at her, but straight behind her.

She would not look back. Not now. She had seen them before and had no desire to see them again. She could feel their icy presence, as they closed on her, cold fingers at her neck. Emaj was yelling for her to HurryUpForFuckSake! She was close enough to read the expression of terror on Nimos’s face, to see the dark stain of urine crawl down his breeches.

She was nearly there. Emaj had stopped jumping and was reaching down, his strong hands reaching for hers. She was going to make it.
And then the Night came.

The End of the Road Cafe… part two

(This can be read without reading part one, but if you want you can find part one here)

_______________________

Ian stood open mouthed watching the car disappear behind a dusty cloud. He half-expected the car to stop, to turn round. To return. For Gemma to open the door of the car and tell him to get in, of course she wasn’t going to leave him. Not like this. Not now. Not here, anyway.
But no, of course she wasn’t coming back. He wasn’t stupid. Their relationship wasn’t a ‘forever’ thing, they both knew that. Even if he had wanted it to be. At first, at least.
He closed his mouth, looking behind him to see if anyone was watching. He had a sudden feeling that Gary, was standing there, laughing at him like he did when they were kids: “Ha ha! You look like a right gormless dick! What’s the matter, bro? Gonna cry? You big girl”.
Ian wiped at his eyes. No, he wasn’t going to fall apart. Not this time.
There was no one there. Unless someone was watching from the cafe. He peered at the building. No one at the window, not that he could see. Not that he could see much, as the window was covered in hand-painted celtic designs. On the roof, there was the strange arty sculpture thing, made out of things that should have been thrown away, looking vaguely like a woman. Ian couldn’t help but feel she was mocking him, too.
He stepped back and nearly slipped over.
Dog shit.
Brilliant, like he needed any more crap today.
He picked up a stick and, leaning against the wall, scrapped the sole of his shoe.
The café appeared to be open, at least. He could get a coffee, maybe something to eat, gather his thoughts, phone a cab.
Perhaps, it wouldn’t be as hippy-dippy-artsy-fartsy as he feared.
Perhaps things might start to go right, for once. Life might surprise him in a nice way for a change.
Or maybe not.

Brains in his pants

Sitting half-naked behind the wheel of a 67mustang, handcuffed to a totally naked beautiful blond hadn’t been on Sheriff Raiden’s bucket list.
But, of course, when the opportunity presented, he hadn’t said no.
Probably not the wisest thing he had ever done, in retrospect. But – to be fair – how could he have known her husband would show up?
He struggled again against the dead weight of the woman.
The very dead weight of the very dead woman.
He was trapped: handcuffed to a dead woman and the steering wheel of a classic car.
His gun (used to shoot his lover, and flung back into the car), his badge and his mobile phone were in the passenger footwell, tantalisingly out of reach.
As the lake-water filled the car he reflected that it wasn’t the first time his brain had been overruled by his dick.
But it did very much look like it would be the last.

31.10.3110

Captain Alfred “Freddie” Parkway stood in the docking bay staring at the huge hunk of meteor-beaten metal in front of him.

A transporter. Origin unknown. He read the seriel number on the side, for the umpteenth time: AL1 HAL10W5 EVE

The maintenance androids had completed their inspection, it had been scanned, checked for viruses, explosive devices (there were still boobytrapped vessels floating about left over from the Spectre War, over 2 centuries ago), and life. All negative. Not surprising. Aside from Tabitha, the ship’s cat (she would be currently curled up asleep on the bridge), it had been years since he had come into contact with another living being.

It was time to open it up. Freddie watched the two droids as they forced the large doors open.

As he stepped inside, a metallic smell filled his nostrils. The floor under his boots was sticky. Thé droids filled the space with light, and Freddie saw that all the surfaces were painted red. No not painted. Splattered. Even before the droids identified it, Freddie knew it was blood.

In the centre of the room stood a barrel. Freddie had never seen a real one, not made of wood, like this. It looked exactly like the ones he had seen on bottles of brandy. Although it had been years since he had tasted real brandy. Probably, the last time he had been in the company of another human.

It was also the only thing in the room NOT to be covered in blood.

Knowing he should be making a swift exit, leaving the droids to investigate, Freddie found himself walking over the tacky floor towards the barrel.

The barrel was large, chest-hieght and lid-less. He peered inside.

Curled up inside the barrel was a human figure, pale and shrivelled as if all the blood had been removed from it. Clutched in the corpse’s arms was the body of a dead cat. A piece of paper lay beside the cat.

Freddie reached into the barrel and took hold of the paper. He stared at the three words.

GET OUT NOW!

From the other side of the room he heard a noise. A clunk.

Something brushed against his leg and he jumped, nudging the barrel. The body shifted and Freddie found himself staring at his own face, dry, wrinkled. Dead.

Something touched his leg again. Looking down he saw Tabitha.

He turned towards the door.

Shut.

Locked.

Trapped.

Just before the lights went out, he saw them crawling towards him

The 4th Apocalypse

Hugh shuffled to the door, crunching broken plates, and tea cups still further into the carpet beneath his boots. He sighed as he stared out into the wasteland.

Just a few short weeks ago he would have been admiring his neatly manicured lawn, hedges, and flower beds. Or looking past them, with a scowl on his face, watching Jack at number 22 polish the penis-extention he called his car.

Now, there was mud, burnt out cars and garbage everywhere.

Not to mention the half-eaten human corpses.

The neighbourhood had definitely gone downhill.

The end of the world as he knew it had started, not with the much predicted zombie apocalypse, but with vampires. The rushed and untested vaccine had caused the werewolf plague, and the inoculation against THAT had caused the zombie apocalypse.

The first two apocalypses hadn’t bothered him, much.

The vampires were polite, had knocked at the door, and asked if they could come in. Hugh’s approach to Jehovah’s Witnesses had paid dividends: a quick “fuck off!” and a slam of the door in their face, and that was that.

The werewolves seemed mostly to be high school students interested only in taking revenge on their classmates, or having sex with them. So they left Hugh well alone.

Anyway, in the end, the lack of fresh blood had caused the vampires to die out, and the werewolves were only really a problem once a month.

The zombies were more persistent. They were thugs, vandals, and they hung around like a bad smell.

And boy, did they smell.

“You’ll be OK,” Jack had said. “They are only interested in people with brains”. Two days later Hugh had found putting a bullet slap-bang in the middle of Zombie Jack’s forehead somewhat satisfying.

In the end it was the fourth apocalypse that Hugh had found the most irritating.

The Ghost Apocalypse.

All the moaning, wailing was annoying but it was the throwing things across the room that really got his goat. Hugh had lost count of the number of plates, mugs and ornaments that had been broken.

Jack had been an irritating bastard when he was alive.

Dead, he was simply hell to live with.