Challenge 23: Closet Secrets

Darren couldn't believe his luck when the lock clicked open. How many times had he come here? Never before as an intruder.
The wooden 'A' on her bedroom door was a little crooked. He reached out to straighten it, out of habit, but then pulled back.
A small pile of dirty washing sat on the chair, awaiting her attention. The thin silver laptop on her desk hummed and he flipped the lid up, hoping to find a clue to her decision. The desktop was dark with inky swirls. Like Sara's artwork, full of questions.
“I can't believe he did that!”
Darren's heart plummeted. Amber was home and not alone. He scanned the room. There was only one window, behind the desk on a security latch. The only one other option was the closet.
The sliding door clicked shut as Amber's rich laugh filled the room.
Darren's breath caught as he recognized the second giggle. His sister Sara. “Yeah, he used to be such a prat, but then we both were as kids.”
The closet door creaked open. Darren flinched. Amber shoved a coat inside as she said, “He isn't such a bad guy... maybe you should try talking to him again.”
The footfalls moved away from the closet again and the bed squeaked some more.
Someone sniffed.
“Oh hon, I'm sorry. You haven't told him yet, have you?”
“No,” Sara squealed. “He can't ever, ever know.”
“How do you plan to keep it a secret?”
Darren felt like he was suffocating on the pong of camphor. He thought only old grandmothers still used camphor in their wardrobes.
“Do we have to talk about this now?” Sara sighed heavily. “I missed you...”
A lump grew in Darren's throat as the bed springs echoed a new flurry of disturbingly familiar sounds. Amber would always moan, just like that, a little groan in the back of her throat, when he kissed her. He was powerless to block them out as the moans grew louder, interspersed with indecipherable whispers. His fist clenched around the hem of Amber's summer dress, head leaned back against the cool smooth wood of the closet.
Darren had no idea how much time passed, filled with creaks and squeaks and groans. His entire body had cramped up, but still, he dared not make any noise. His imagination ran wild with thoughts of the two young woman entwined, fingers tracing skin. His stomach heaved and his dick hardened in turn. Amber had never let him touch her below the waist, claiming she was saving herself for marriage. As for Sara, she lost her voice completely around boys. He thought she was just shy.
Eventually, the sounds crescendoed, then faded to puppy-like whimpers.
“I'm here, hon,” Amber whispered. “It's okay. You're safe.”
Safe? Darren almost jolted at the word. What could Sara possibly be afraid of.
“I get so close,” she sobbed, “but then that face rears up and I freeze. I'm sorry. I just can't do it.”
“Healing takes time... I would know.”
Darren's hand slipped from her summer dress and banged onto his knee, hard. He bit his lip to keep from crying out. They had both been drunk that night and she had looked so beautiful, his Amber. All he wanted was to feel those gorgeous tits, but then one thing led to another. Her dress slid so easily up her thigh. Her knickers were white and so thin. He could feel the heat of her butt through the fabric. God, he had wanted to much to touch her, he couldn't hear her crying for him to stop. Why wouldn't she let him.
His nose still ached from where she had punched him. Darren woke up the next day with the worst hangover and an even worse message on his cellphone. It was over.
Snores made him think he was safe, but then the closet inched open, silently, and Amber looked down at him, wearing only her pink fluffy bathrobe.
“You can come out now.”
Darren winced at the thought, as much as being discovered. It hurt too much to move. Amber grabbed his wrist and helped him to his feet. He stumbled out of the closet and into her waiting arms.
“I'm so sorry,” he murmured into her neck. He wasn't sure if he was apologizing to her, or Sara.
“I know.” Amber patted the back of his head. “I know...”
The scent of her made him want to cry. He glanced up to see his little sister sprawled on his ex-girlfriend's bed, her messy black hair sprawled around her pale face. Cotton sheets discreetly covered her naked body.
“Why...”
“We need each other, Darren,” she sighed. “Maybe one day, she will tell you.”

Challenge 23

The Closet

Write a story in which the narrator is snooping around an ex-boyfriend (or Girlfriend's) apartment because he or she still has a key. They whole story takes place in a closet in the bedroom that the narrator retreats to when said ex comes home with the narrator's best briend. The narrator must endure whatever this couple gets up to. Describe only what the narrator can see and smell inside the closet and what he/she can hear or guess is going on outside. Don't rub salt in the wounds, but rather focus on as much detail as possible of the outside world. You can present the narrators deep anger or sadness without having to describe it.

Wordcount: 500 (+/- 10%)

Challenge 22: Dreams of Ducks

The little yellow duckling perches on the edge of the river bank, wanting to follow his siblings into the water, but too scared to make the leap. I know how he feels.

It's funny how, when you're little, people think you don't understand anything. They have to tell you what to do. That little duck's mother is chirping at him, telling him to hurry up and do as he's told. It's very naughty to hesitate. My papa says that if I hesitate to follow his commands, it might kill me.

Twittering, the duckling pleads with mama to help him, he can't push himself over the edge. He backs up and tries to take a running jump, but at the edge, he stops. Mama turns around and paddles away, the line of ducklings following, not looking back. That is all the encouragement he needs. He can stand the thought of being left behind. He jumps. A splash, a surprised cheep and he's swimming furiously to catch up. Tough love.

When I close my eyes, I can still see Sonja, my big sister, paying for her disobedience. She has fat tears sticking to her cheeks as she leans over me to kiss my hair, then they drag her away and toss her through the blue wall of safety to the wilderness beyond. She is engulfed by the clouds of ash. A big hole opens up in my heart, but I can't let on, or papa my throw me out with her. I'm perched at the edge of a huge gulf and I'm too scared to jump.

The siren wakes me and I sit up straight away. I'm really good at pulling my boots on, then my jacket. I'm standing outside the door before my mind starts wondering what's wrong this time. The next thing, Simon comes running up the corridor. That's pretty normal, actually. Papa is too busy to come get me in emergencies. Simon scoops me up without saying anything. His face is really white, except for the huge bruise under his right eye. I don't struggle, not me.

We go down the stairs, through all the busy corridors. Everyone is scrambling about. No one notices me and Simon. Out through the mechanical-engineering wing and up the road past the big building people call Erskine. I asked Jack why once. She said some old guy gave the University a lot of money, but Jack makes up answers when she doesn't know them, so maybe she's lying.

There is a motorbike in the stand which looks like it hasn't been used for a very long time. Simon heaves me onto the front and revs it up. I am really surprised that it has any fuel. Things like that are rationed these days. I can't hold back a squeal of joy as we zoom off down the empty streets. I have no idea where we are going, but this is the funnest adventure in a long time.

There is a big supermarket about half way to the edge of the blue bubble. It's always under guard, but it's where papa keeps all the supplies organized. It has more than just food there now. Jack goes shopping for computer bits in the underground carpark, since no one drives these days. Simon grabs me off the bike and goes over to the grate. She's in there, arguing with some dude with floppy brown hair. The guy by the switch stares Simon down. “Whatcha want.”

“I need Jack,” he replies simply, not reacting to the hatred I can see in the man's face.

The guy grimaces and the turns on his heel.

“Oi, Jack,” he yells. “Michael's whore wants to talk to you.”

Jack's head snaps up and her eyes lock onto Simon's face through the grate. Slowly, she crosses the carpark to stand on the other side, but she doesn't open the grate. She looks at me in Simon's arms and says, “Aren't you old enough to walk, kiddo?”

“I need to talk to you,” Simon whispers. He lets me down and I crouch, pulling at my jacket. It's really cold.

Jack folds her arms, but doesn't walk away. In grown up's talk, that means she's listening.

“I need you to take James for a couple of days.”

I stand up at that, looking between Simon and Jack.

“You need me to, or Michael does?” She is pretty pissed off. “You're the one that's practically married to the bastard. I don't intend to be his pawn much longer.”

“Good,” Simon hisses. “Then take the kid with you for God's sake. I don't trust Michael around him anymore.”

“Oh merde.” She shoves her hands in her pockets. “You should come too, Simon. Just walk away.”

“I can't, Jack.” His voice is barely a whisper. He and Jack used to be about to get married but then Simon started working for my dad and Jack threw her ring in the trash compacter. “He depends on me.”

“Fine,” she says, turning her back on him so he can't see how sad she is. “Leave him with me. Sonja and Robbie will be glad to have him back.”

My breath catches. My brother and sister are out there, waiting for me, but I still have to jump. I won't let anyone just drag me over that ledge.

Simon walks away without saying anything and I run after him, crying. “Why are you sending me away. Papa will be so angry.”

Simon turns and kneels in front of me, putting his hands on my shoulders. “I'm sorry James, but it's not right, what your daddy does. I am going to try and make him stop, but if I don't succeed, I need to know you are safe.”

Simon got on the bike again and drove away. He didn't even look back. Tough love. I sat down on the pavement in the cold and cried. There was no choice now. I didn't want to be alone. I couldn't go back and get Simon in trouble. I would go with Jack into the unknown and maybe there would be a family of Collins out there to snuggle up to and make me feel a little bit braver.

Challenge 22: The day after the bubble

Jack was running up the stairs, but they just kept going. Michael and his team were in the room at the top, and that they had less than thirty-seven minutes to activate Project Genesis and pull the bubbles down over Christchurch and Lincoln before the missile hit. Her parents were at home, they didn't know. It didn't matter if the bubble didn't work.

When she finally got to the top, no one was in the office. She was alone with several computers, which should’ve been okay, and several other machines which made no sense to her. But when she turned to the first computer, it had no keyboard and all the monitor showed was a big red dot flashing on a black screen.

She dug her cellphone out of her large canvas bag and called Michael, but it was Simon who answered. "I’m just out of Lincoln – I’ll handle things here," he said. "You've got to work out what to do in Christchurch. It’ll be okay!" He was saying something about power sources but his mobile cut out and there was an engaged tone. Jack knew the missile must’ve hit, and the bubbles weren’t up. The beeping got louder, and Jack wondered if it was the interference from the missile.

She panicked for a moment when she woke up, but figured Simon must’ve messed with her alarm clock again. Jack never had crazy dreams when she woke up to Shaun and Geoff.

“Shit, Simon, I had the most awful dream you were dead,” she mumbled, rolling over, before she realised Simon wasn’t in bed and remembered she’d changed from the radio alarm last night because Shaun and Geoff and Radio New Zealand had probably blown up along with everything else. The bubbles didn’t connect, and most of the Lincoln team didn’t make it, and she hadn’t had parents for seventeen years.

Moaning a little, because it sometimes made her feel better, she extricated herself from the bed and stumbled into the living room, where Simon was sitting on the sofa with his arms around his knees. “You could’ve come to bed,” she said very quietly, so he wouldn’t hear, and perched on the other end of the sofa, watching him carefully. Simon unwound himself and stretched his neck. “I don’t mean to make it difficult – I know you want to help, but it’ll come right by itself.”
“Don’t you want to talk?” she settled back a bit.
“Not yet. Look, we’d better eat all the stuff in the fridge first. I think there’s a bottle of milk left – is that okay for breakfast?”
She ran after him, into the kitchen.

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Word count: 440

Challenge 22

Alarm Clock Dream

Write a short story in which an alarm clock going off in the middle of the story plays some kind of crucial role. Half of the story will be dream and half reality.Try to construct a mirror image on either side of this alarm clock sound.

Wordcount: 400 (+/- 10%)

Challenge 21: Butterfly Shoes

July 17th was the day I fell in love. Opening the box and peeling back those layers of paper, I caught my first glimpse of the soft velvety crimson, lined in black and topped with delicate little butterflies. Jimmy Choos spring collection had never been so heartbreakingly adorable. That entire day, I gushed to co-workers and customers alike. I sold fifteen pairs before closing time, which was a personal record, especially given their three hundred and seventy five dollar price tag. The next day was the same. Of course, people wanted them in different colors – blue, green, black and pink – but my heart belonged to the red ones. There was a box in my size sitting on the bottom shelf of our stock room and I had put an angel face on the label. Saving ten dollars a week from my pay, I would own those beautiful shoes in only thirty seven weeks.

The days went by and my love turned to a quiet obsession. I began to covet the display model. My smile was still wide and my enthusiasm genuine, but I found myself wondering what force of fate had given those doll-like girls such rich and handsome benefactors when I was all alone. My cheeks would heat at the thoughtless swipe of plastic, as if three hundred and seventy five dollars were as inconsequential as a three dollar bagel from Bagelman's across the street.

Weeks turned to months. Our supplies of the butterfly spring sandal dwindled to one pair of black size tens, a blue size eight and my red size seven. The supervisor came to me the morning before my birthday and said, “Emma, we can't hold these for you any longer. They have to go out on display.”

I nodded automatically, then hurried to the staff bathroom, still holding my breath. I stared at my face in the mirror, pale, eyes wide. Breathe, I thought. It's okay. I breathed, then a tear slipped out the corner of my eye. I brushed it away fiercely, hating myself for being so immature. I was twenty-four for God's sake! They were only shoes. Who cared if I had saved three hundred and twelve dollars, including interest? What did it matter if the shoes ended up on the feet of yet another faceless blonde bimbo with a rich sugar daddy? When would I ever wear such stupid impractical shoes anyway?

I dried my eyes and forced myself back out onto the floor. I smiled and nodded at all the right moments, even summoning appropriate enthusiasm when ladies eyed the last butterfly sandals. I couldn't stop the flood of relief, however, when the shop closed and the red ones were still sitting there, at the top of the plastic pyramid.

At home that night, I made myself a hot cup of peppermint tea. My cellphone went off just as I sat down on the couch to watch the news. My hand jerked in surprise and half a cup of scalding water ended up on my jeans.

“Hello?” I half-yelped into the phone as I searched for something to mop up the mess.

“Emma?”

“Jassie? I thought you were in the Himalayas. Do they have cell phone reception up there?”

“Oh god, Emma,” she sobbed. “I am in so much shit. The border guys in China caught me with coke in my bags. I swear I was set up, but if I don't pay them a lot of money, I don't know what they're going to do.”

“How much do you need?” I didn't even contemplate the possibility that Jassie was lying. My sister was a crazy thrill seeker, but she would never do anything to put herself or her friends in real danger.

“Two thousand, maybe more...”

“Do they take pay pal?” My joke sounded pathetic, even to me. “Look, I'll send a bank cheque or something. Let me check it out tomorrow morning and I'll have you out of there as soon as I can.”

Morning came and I realized I hadn't slept all night. My cellphone reminded me it was my birthday. I rolled out of bed and called my workmate Karla to tell her what had happened. About half an hour later, I trudged down the road in a zombie-like stupor to catch the eight a.m. bus.

“Two thousand yuan?” the lady behind the counter raised an eyebrow. “And this is to be sent to the China State penitentiary? Very well. That will be three hundred and five dollars including exchange fees.”

I just nodded.

At work that day, the red butterfly shoes seemed to taunt me. I knew I had done the right thing. I was even glad for my long obsession, because it had caused me to save some money, money that may well have saved Jassie's life. When I came back from my fifteen minute afternoon break, the shoes were gone. I figured it was better if I didn't know who had bought them.

My till balanced perfectly at the end of that day, though it had an unusual amount of small change. Seventy five five dollar notes, in fact.

The yell of 'surprise' startled me as I entered the staff room to collect my satchel. So many faces staring eagerly into mine. Birthday streamers and balloons lined the walls. Karla, my best friend, stood in the middle, grinning at me. The crowd parted then, and I could see the box sitting on the coffee table. It was wrapped with lacy red ribbons, but I could still see the angel face I had drawn on the label. Fresh tears came to my eyes as I pulled Karla into a fierce hug.

“It's from all of us,” she whispered.

“Thanks.”

I could feel their hands on my arms and shoulders. Suddenly I didn't feel so alone.

Challenge 21: Her shawl

This is how a girl wraps her shawl: Draped over her head. One end next to her face. Once end around her neck and flung over the same shoulder.

A girl can't make do without a shawl. Particularly when it's raining, or when she’s walking at night and the boys lounging against a wall on the street might stare at her. When she’s wearing a shawl, they can't tell if she’s a ninety-year old grandma or a sixteen-year old girl.

What she didn't realise was that they can mug a ninety-year old grandma or rape a sixteen-year old girl, and it doesn't make much difference to them either way.

Her shawl was silky and blue on one side, and silky and pale purple on the other, and elegant and rectangular, (without frilly bits, because she insisted) and she bought it at the shop right across town when I gave her the money I'd been saving for weeks as her birthday present.

I knew about the boys lounging against the walls on the streets, because they stared at me too, and called out (though more often they threw rocks and old bottles). But I didn't realise either. I go out to work at six in the morning, and stack things at a warehouse all day. I used to come home just after dark, except when we were short of money and I had to find some. In the meantime she took care of herself, visit the neighbours, make up stories to tell me - and when she got a job at the grocer's she worked some days too. She was always home before me. The oil lamp would be lit, and we'd cook over the small gas stove, or eat some bread if I'd bought any, and laugh about her stories, the grocer, and the other guys at my work.

Except one day, when she wasn't home and I went looking for her, and saw a flash of silky pale purple trampled into the ground.

I saw her after she made her statement. She found her way to the station, after I’d already been there. I was at home, curled up in a corner of the room we shared, when they all knocked on my door and my heart started pounding so hard I didn’t think I could reach to open the door. She came in first, her shawl limp between two fingers in her left hand, and they went away. I wanted to give her food, and comfort, but I didn’t have either.

I didn’t go to work the next day, but I had to buy bread, and when I came back she wasn’t there. It’s my fault, because I didn’t ask her what happened or tell her she was always my sister and that I loved her and all of the other things I should’ve said. I still don’t know what I should’ve said.

I looked for her, but it was a long time before I saw her next.

I’m four years older than my little sister. She doesn’t know some of the things I did to feed her when I was sixteen. I learned how to call out and how to answer when the boys on the street call (and really mean it), so that she wouldn’t ever have to. I wish I’d told her about it though, because maybe that last night, when we each huddled in our corners and I pleaded with her, she saw herself through my eyes without knowing what my eyes saw.

Now she makes me see her through her eyes. Because I’ve seen her on the sidewalks too, with a short skirt and red on her cheeks, and a slinky bit of blue hanging around her hips. I’ve tried to talk to her, but she doesn’t recognise me any more – I know, because she called out to me once or twice.

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Word count: 649