What Pegman Saw: Walking in shadows

Image: Google Streetview

‘The lady stayed in the shadows, mostly.’

‘Particular shadows? Particular places?’

‘I saw her in the park . On days when men came round and I had to leave the flat. The lady would be under the trees, waiting for me.’

‘When else?’

‘At school before I was excluded. In the flat too.’

‘Was that when your mum was taking drugs?’

‘Yeah. We had a cupboard in the hall. When Mum came back from her dealer, the lady would be in the cupboard.’

‘How do you know she was there? Did you see her?’

‘I heard her. She had a way of breathing.’

‘Can you describe it? This way of breathing?’

‘No.’

‘Do you still see her?’

‘Only when I’m off my meds.’

‘Like last week?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Did you really forget to take your medication, like you told the police?’

‘No.’

‘Then why -‘

‘Because I missed her.’

***

Written for What Pegman Saw, the prompt that uses Google Street View as its starting point. This week we visit Providence, Rhode Island. See here to join in.

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Crimson’s Creative Challenge #67: Twilight at Bicker’s Mill

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What remained of Bicker’s Mill still stood, the wooden pillar like a lighthouse in an ocean of reeds and sedge.

Mist was developing as we approached the whitewashed boards, not so much rolling in across the marshes, but rising upwards as if expelled from the ground.

Dor had waded close behind me all the way from the road, grumbling about the wet and the cold and the wisdom of being at the ‘Tween Place’ at twilight. She mumbled, the words becoming formless, an incantation against my foolishness.

‘Hush now,’ I said, taking her hand, and the warmth of me quietened her a little. ‘You know why we’re here.’

The sun settled low, the clouds ink and fire, the low mist a stubborn grey. I lit a smoky fire to warm our hands, to ward off the tremors.

As night crept in, Dor stared across the marsh. ‘There,’ she said.

***

Written for Crimson’s Creative Challenge #67. See here to join in.

Crispina’s talk of Boggarts and Trolls led me to comment about the nature of these between places and the belief that the margins between dry land and water were also margins between this world and others.

Perhaps also part of the reason bog body sacrifices such as Tollund Man (below) were made in Europe through pre-history.

What Pegman Saw: A million watching eyes

Image: Sukhbaatar Google Street View

Khunbish stared through the grubby window, out across the spine of the steppe. She smelt the clouds gathering, sensed the droplets of water shiver as they pinged together, eager to fall. Soon the brown grass would shimmer like a million watching eyes.

She’d played her role well. Allowed her father and brothers to bind her, bundle her in the little shed among the unwanted things. Grew still as they padlocked the door. It calmed the men to believe they retained control.

But she couldn’t rest forever.

As the first bullet of rain hit the tin roof she twitched her wrists, shook off the nylon twine. She reached out with her mind until it pinged against steel, felt for the gaps between the molecules in the padlock and encouraged them to grow. Metal fell to the ground with a bony thunk.

The time had come.

***

Written for What Pegman Saw, the prompt that takes you all across the world via Google Street View. This week we visit Mongolia. See here to join in and to read the other stories.

When researching Mongolian names, I found Khunbish, a gender neutral name which, according to Mom Junction means ‘not a human being’.

I suspect that describes my character pretty accurately.

Crimson’s Creative Challenge #47. Red/blue/fire/ice

#CCC47

Flames shine through the stained glass – red, blue – the colours falling on my cowering children, faces lit with fire and ice.

Our attackers have stopped beating at the door. The night is hushed, aside for the whimpering of the children. Jack’s eyes are wide, cheek crusted with blood. His sister wriggles in his arms, reaching for me. The men would have killed them – will still kill them.

The stink of burning grows sharp, smoke billowing soft under the door. A pyre for me. Those men – mule eyed, calf faced – how solid have they grown imagining flames licking my neck, devouring my hair? They will share grim smiles – the ones who brought the proud witch down.

I close my eyes against the blinding smoke. Red and blue vibrate inside me, pulling together, hard as ice, unforgiving as flame.

They forged a weapon tonight. That weapon is me.

***

Written for Crimson’s Creative Challenge #47 – thanks Crispina! See here to join in.

What Pegman Saw : No longer watching

Image : Google Streetview

 

Meo had told me where to find the place, to look for a fresco of the Virgin in a window by the Via Sant’Alò. He’d shot me a lopsided smile. ‘You’ll see her eyes are closed, amico. The lady no longer watches over us.’

At the sight of that battered little door under the steps, my heart lurched. Too small for an adult to pass through without bending double, it would have been perfect for my Ciccio. I could imagine his excitement – a door his height when all the world was built for grown ups.

I saw his smile, sparkling ebony eyes, felt a small hand slipping into mine. Then the hospital, the smell of cleanser masking body fluids, the hiss of the ventilator.

I wanted to run, find a bar, anywhere, just away …

There was a grind of rusted metal and the door swung open. ‘Lost something?’ said a voice.

Trembling, I stepped inside.

 

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Written for What Pegman Saw, a writing prompt that uses Google Streetview. See here to join in and to read and comment on the other stories.

 

 

 

Three Line Tales : A thousand plucked wires

photo by Samuel Zeller via Unsplash

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It was the spaces between the ribs Sam watched, triangles of black caught between bleached pins, growing and shrinking with each coil and flex. Crescent bones hooked together, held a moment then snapped apart, making a sound liked plucked wires.

‘How is it doing that?’ he whispered.

The serpent was stripped of flesh and muscle and skin, the elongated organs long dissolved to atoms. The diamond-shaped skull turned at the sound of his voice, blank eye sockets searching for him.

Col sighed, scrubbed his forehead with blunt fingers. ‘How are any of them doing it?’

Behind him, the sound of a thousand plucked wires.

 

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Written for Sonya at Only 100 Words’ Three Line Tales. See the pic and write a tale … And unlike me, try to keep it to three lines! See here to join in.

 

 

Friday Fictioneers : A visit to the Widow

PHOTO PROMPT© CEAyr

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The sun was fading as Sal approached the Widow, the crag black against a golden sky. The breeze was chill, autumn coming on before her time.

Producing the flowers from her apron pocket, her voice shook as she spoke.

‘Widow, I bring you rosemary for remembrance of him I lost. Heather for an earnest wish come true. Windflower for anticipation of my dear man’s return.’

Hands quivering, she placed the stems in the rocky hollows, the stone cold and rough against her fingertips.

The breeze blew against her ear like a warm breath carrying a whisper.

Windflower for fading hope … 

 

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Written for Rochelle Wisoff-Field’s Friday Fictioneers. The most fun you can have at a keyboard. See here to join in and to read the other stories.

According to The Flower Expert, heather ‘indicates that wishes will come true’ and anemones (known by some as windflowers) ‘symbolizes anticipation’ as well as indicating  ‘fading hope’.