Wednesday, 22 June 2011

Dear Diary (revised)

Dear Diary

1st January, 1991
Dear Diary, welcome to my life.

2nd January, 1991
Dear Diary, Crap day. Boss was an arse. Had me typing up a report all morning, then he decided to change it. Had to work my lunch break. Checked bank account, overdrawn and payday 10 days away. Wish I didn’t have an overdraft.

3rd January, 1991
Dear Diary, bank’s withdrawn my overdraft! Why can’t my account be in credit with lots of zeros on the end. Asked boss for sub till payday. Have to work overtime every day for the next fortnight to pay it back. I’m so tired. Wish I didn’t have to go to work. Would be nice to get up in the morning when I’m ready, sit and read a book all day, or just go for a walk.

4th January, 1991
Dear Diary, why is it that every time I write in you, something bad happens. Been made redundant. The boss is getting a golden handshake. Bastard! I get a measly £2000 redundancy money. I need another job.

5th January, 1991
Dear Diary, guess I’m was just paranoid, of course writing in a diary can’t make things happen. Didn’t turn out too bad after all. Boss is up on a fraud charge, they’ve confiscated all his assets. I got a job in the local cafĂ©. I walked in just as they put the notice in the window. I start in the morning. I hope I don’t spill drinks on anyone.

6th January,, 1991
Dear Diary, new job not going as well as I’d hoped. I didn’t spill drinks, but I did drop egg and beans in a customers lap, nothing to do with you is it? LOL. New boss cross, but the customer was ok about it. He had a napkin covering his lap, so it didn’t mark. I hope he comes in again tomorrow.

7th January, 1991
Dear Diary, Samuel, the customer I dropped beans on yesterday, came in again today. He gave me a big tip. I guess he was grateful I didn’t drop food on him again. I wish he would ask me out.

30th March, 1991
Dear Diary, sorry I’ve been neglecting you. Samuel has asked me to marry him. He’s is such a gentleman. He’s insisting that we wait ‘til after we get married before we . . .  you know. I can’t wait, I’m sure the earth will move.

30th May 1991
Dear Diary, yes, the earth moved last night. We had an earth quake. It’s no fun spending your wedding night standing in the street waiting for the buildings to stop shaking. Now behave yourself and leave  me alone.

16th December 1991
Dear Diary, I hate you. Samuel died last night. I miss him so much. We were so happy. Even planned for three children.

31st December, 1991
Dear Diary, the triplets doing well. The prison psychiatrist says I can have supervised access as soon as I accept it was me who killed Samuel, not you.

© Lindsey Chapman

Friday, 4 March 2011


Gleaming white teeth tore flesh from bone. Blood covered the beasts muzzle. Intent on sating its hunger, but still wary, its ears flicked back and forth listening for danger.

A low growl caused the large dog to raise his head. His eyes rolled upwards in their sockets, revealing a white band beneath them. With lips curled back, showing a maw of sharp teeth, powered by the immense muscles in his cheeks, he watched the intruder getting closer.

“My kill. My food.” The dog’s guttural voice warned the approaching bitch.

“Your kill. My food,”  she snarled back at him.

The smell of her, stirred his desire, but the need to defend his meal from being taken was stronger. The hackles on his back rose. He positioned himself between her and his kill.

“Know your place, bitch. You can eat when I‘ve finished.”

“My need is greater than yours.” Her nails scrapped on the hard ground beneath her feet. The scent glands in her feet marking the territory that she considered her own.

He could tell by the odour of her that she had recently pupped; some of his aggression waned. Knowing she was proven fertile, his interest in her became more intense. The food behind him now less important.

Reading the change in his stance, she drew nearer to his kill. For reasons he did not understand he drew back and let her take what remained of his skilful hunt. It took but a fleeting moment for her to fasten her jaws around the half eaten rabbit, then she was racing away. The scent of her leaving a trail on the ground that he knew he could easily follow.

He thrust his nose to the ground, slavering as he took in the smell of her. He didn’t know how long it would be before she was in season again, but he would easily recognise her scent when she was.

A piercing sound rent the air. It made the insides of his ears itch. Something came crashing through the bushes. A chemical smell assailed his nostrils, it drowned out the perfume of the bitch he had conversed with.

“I’ve got him, Emily .” The voice was familiar, as was its owners scent.

 Before he had the chance to escape a noose encircled his throat.

“I thought I’d lost you,” came the gentle voice of the elderly figure who now stood next to him.

A trembling hand smoothed the hairs along his spine. He moved swiftly to one side avoiding the metal pole, that swung carelessly near his head.  He felt a profound desire to protect and please this human. His human, his family. Thoughts of the beautiful, strong bitch started to fade. He submitted to the harness his human slipped over his head and fastened under his belly.

Slowly he lead his blind owner back to the path. He knew which way to go and confidently he walked them both back to the comfort of their home.

© Lindsey Chapman -

First Day

“Settle down sweetheart,”  said Helen, sliding onto the bus seat next to her daughter.

Jane shifted uncomfortably; the rough fabric of the seat pricked the back of her knees.

“I don’t want to go, Mummy.”

“You’ll enjoy it when you get there, Jane,” her mother soothed.

“But I want to play with Maggie.”

“Maggie, will still be at home when you get back. You can play with her then.”

“No, she won’t,” said Jane sullenly.

“Of course she will.” Not giving Jane the chance to reply, Helen said, “Now, have you got everything?”

Jane nodded.

Helen felt a little hurt that her daughter would miss Maggie more than her.

With her school bag clutched tightly to her chest, Jane settled and sat quietly looking out of the window. At last the bus juddered to a halt in front of the school yard.

Helen’s eyes brimmed with tears as she kissed her daughter goodbye. She watched as her little girl strode across the playground and disappeared through the door of the classroom. Tissue in hand Helen wiped her eyes, retreated from the gate and walked the few steps back to the bus stop.

The scream that came from behind her shook her rigid. The heel of her shoe snagged on the uneven pavement, as in panic, she turned seeking out the source of the scream. She was shocked to see Jane, her little legs pounding away the space across the school yard. The little girl collided with her mother, small arms wrapping round Helen’s legs.

“Sweetheart, what’s the matter?” Helen bent down and scooped the crying child into her arms.

“They are all horrible,” sobbed Jane.

“Why are they horrible?” A turmoil of feelings swept through Helen. Despite not wanting to see her child in such a distressed state, she was relieved that Jane was now clearly showing she wanted to be with her mother. The relief was short lived.

“They want to kill Maggie,” squealed Jane.

“Of course they don’t want to kill Maggie.”

“They do! They do!”

Helen, carried Jane back towards the classroom. As she approached the door, she could hear crying, screaming and a heavy thumping sound. Her mind raced, ‘what was happening in there?’.

Barging through the doorway, Helen was greeted with the scene of children standing on desks and the school mistress huddled in a corner, beating the ground with a long board ruler. In front of the school mistress sat Maggie. She seemed completely at home, totally unfazed by the noise that surrounded her. Her little cheeks looked fit to burst as she crammed in yet more food from an open lunch box on the floor.

“See, Mummy, see,  Miss is trying to kill her.”

“How did she get here,” wailed Helen, bending down to gently pick up Maggie Mouse.

“I brought her in my bag,” snivelled Jane.

The tears that fell from Helen’s eyes as she travelled home were of laughter. She carefully held the small box on her knee. Maggie replete with sandwich and cake slept blissfully unaware of the chaos she had caused.

© Lindsey Chapman - 

Friday, 11 February 2011

Mother's Ruin

“I wish you’d put things away when you’ve finished with them.”

“Yes, mum. I'll put them away in a minute.”

“Can’t you do it now? It wouldn’t take you a minute.”


Sheila picked up her books and headed for the stairs.

“Will it take you long to fix the computer? “

“Not if you let me get on with it,” Sheila muttered under her breath; out loud she said, “I’ll just put these books away, like you asked me to, then I'll finish fixing it.”

“It’s dinner time in half an hour, you’ll have it done by then won’t you? I don’t want the laptop on the table while we have dinner. Shall we have sausage and chips? If you nip to the chip shop, I‘ll warm some plates.”

“Yes, mum” called Sheila, as she ascended the stairs to her room.

By the time she got back down stairs her mother was still fretting about the computer.

“Are you sure you can fix it?”

“Yes, mum. I just need to check what you changed and set it back to how it was.”

“I didn’t change anything. A box popped up on the screen and I clicked it off.”

“What did the box say?”

“I don’t know. It was just a box.”

“Well, what where you doing when the box came up?”

“Using the computer.”

“Yes, I guessed that. What were you doing on the computer? Where you getting emails, using Internet Explorer or chatting to Peter or Margaret?” Sheila knew that was all her mother ever used the computer for.

“No, none of those. I was on google.”

“Okay. What were you doing on google? I mean what were you looking at?”

“A picture Peter sent me. It’s a cute little hedgehog.”

“Ah, that’s nice. You can show me when I’ve got the computer sorted out.”

“Peter suggested we meet and go for a coffee.”

“Did he, mum? That’s nice.” Sheila was pleased her mum had take to the computer and the internet. The chat rooms had given her a new lease of life. At 75, Sheila’s mother had almost cut herself off from the outside world. Her failing eyesight made her nervous going out on her own. Now she had a wide circle of friends of her own age and they chatted each night over the internet.

“Right. That’s it done.”

“Ooh, you are a good girl. What would I do without you?”

Sheila hugged her mother.

“Okay, where’s this photo Peter sent.?”

“There’s a link in his last email.”

Sheila opened the email peter had sent and clicked the link.

“Mum! That’s not a hedgehog!”

“Yes it is. Look, you can see its little pink nose poking out from its bristles.”

“I think you’d better get your magnifier.”

“Oooh , Sheila. That’s awful. Poor man, not very big is it?”

“Mother!” Sheila stared in disbelief at her mothers broad smile. Then decided she must be in shock having view the image of Peter’s nether regions.

“I’m sorry mum. I thought Peter was nice. But sending something like that. It’s disgusting. I‘ll put him on your blocked list.”

“Okay, sweet heart, but get the dinner first won‘t you. But I don’t fancy sausages anymore, will you get me fish and chips?”

“Of course I will.” Sheila gave her mum a hug. She was relieved that her mother had not been too offended by the image. As Sheila left the house and closed the door, she thought she heard her mother laughing. Quietly she re-opened the door and listened.

“Ooh, Margaret,” she heard her mother say, “He sent me a photo of his thing . . . I’ll forward it to you before Sheila gets back with the chips . . . yes, she can be a bit of a prude . . . I‘ll ring you again later for a chat . . .”

© Lindsey Chapman - 


The tramp sat, his back leaning against the bank’s wall. His stomach so cramped with hunger, he didn’t bother looking up as a suited man passed him. He had arrive in the town only yesterday, after being moved on from the last one. With the snow lying thick on the ground, he had hoped for more compassion from the passers by.

“Spare some change, sir?” he croaked.

The suited man ignored him and entered the bank.

“Charles, get on to the police and get that beggar moved.”

“Yes, Mr Faulkes.”

Jason Faulkes strode through the lobby and made his way to his office. Once inside he slammed the door and threw his briefcase on his desk, knocking over a photograph  frame. He picked it up and gazed at the image of a young man in uniform. Jason hadn’t spoken to his son, Darren, for thirty years, not since he had defied him by joining the army.

The emotions Jason felt when  Darren told him he was joining up, came flooding back. The gut wrenching fear for Darren’s safety, twisted and stabbed at him. He was assailed by guilt at not having tried to get in touch with him. In the thirty years since Darren left, he had been tempted to try and contact him, but his pride had always got in the way.

Jason, thought of the tramp he had passed. The vagrant had the look of an ex-service man. A man who'd served his country, yet when he had given his all, his country had obviously given him up.

He straightened his back and buzzed for his secretary.

“Janice, bring me a coffee and a sandwich . . . and Janice, tell Charles to belay that order to have the tramp moved on. Go out and give him £10.00 and a sandwich and coffee.”

“I can’t do that , sir.”

“You’ll do as I say or you’ll find your P45 with your payslip.”

The door to the office open and Janice shuffled in. “I’m sorry, sir, I can’t do what you asked because he’s gone.”

“Get me that coffee.”

“Yes, sir.”

The day wore on and Jason’s mood didn’t improve. The thoughts of the dirt stained, starving tramp made him think more and more of his son. Finally he punched in a search on his computer. The site that came up was a government one. Jason scanned the page and found a link for the MOD. He hit the ‘contact us’ link and started to write an email.

The reply when it came, two weeks later, came by mail.

We regret to inform you, that Darren Faulkes passed away on the 14th of March 2011. Please feel free to contact us if you require further information.

Yours sincerely,

 Margaret Bosworth.

Jason stood shaking; tears of regret tracing a line down his face.

A week later he was standing in the office of Margaret Bosworth.

“Take a seat, Mr Faulkes. We were about to  contacted you when your email was forwarded to us. Darren’s body was found in an alleyway behind the Morehaven Bank on the 14th March. It appears he died from Hyperthermia and other related problems. It also appears he may have being trying to get in contact with you.”

© Lindsey Chapman - 

Trying to please

I changed my hat,
They said it did not suit,
Then at my make up someone did scoff,
Trying to please I wiped it off.

My dress was deemed to bright,
my shoes, I was told were just not right,
My stockings to light and then to dark,

Oh, what a lark,
I can't go out,
My wardrobe's empty,
Nothing left to try,
Now, should I go naked to the park?

© Lindsey Chapman - 

Friday, 4 February 2011

Mercy (Short story 1449 words)

The clock ticked, its beat steadily marking yet another wasted moment. Karen surveyed the room; the dusty drapes, the stained furniture, and the body that sprawled at her feet. She reached out and touched the familiar face. Cold. Icy cold, no longer supple as it had been the last time her fingers caressed it.

“Ann?” There was no reply. “Ann?"

She scrambled in her pocket for her mobile. The phone call took longer than she had anticipated; so many questions. Why didn’t they just send someone? Surely they understood that every second counted - but of course now it didn‘t.

Slumping onto the faded sofa, she averted her eyes from Ann’s body, preferring images of her as she had been yesterday. She let her mind drift back to the previous day.

“Oh, Karen, you're here. I thought you weren’t going to come. Will you put the kettle on? I‘d have done it myself, but Jarred said, you‘d do it for me.” Ann’s face beamed; there was a glint in her eye that hadn’t been there for such a long time. Maybe she was in less pain today.

“Ann, Jarred’s not here.” Karen reached out and brushed her fingers tips against Ann’s cheek,.

Ann, for a moment looked confused, then shook her head and said, with confidence, “Of course he is, dear, where else would he be?”

She opened her mouth to remind Ann that Jarred was long since dead, but thought better of it. Why take away this moment of contentment?  Karen scanned the room looking for the photograph that always graced the table under the window. The curtain had knocked it over, so she stood it up again.

“Ann, your photo keeps getting knocked over by the curtains, shall I put it on the mantel-piece?

“If you would; that would be lovely.”

“You’ve been dusting, haven’t you?” Karen said, as she righted some of the ornaments. The dust had been disturbed, but only in places. She scooped up some fragments of porcelain that had once been the ear of a delicate rabbit. She turned the little ornament so that the missing ear was less noticeable.

“Jarred brought me that rabbit on our honeymoon, didn’t you, Jarred? He told me to leave it be til you came, but I wouldn‘t listen. I‘ve broken it, haven‘t I?”

“It still looks pretty, Ann. Don’t worry about it.”

“I’m not worried, Dear. Jarred’s going to get me another one to cele [cough] brate.” A spasm of coughing gripped Ann.

Karen turned to face her; maybe she should remind her about Jarred. Undecided, she said, “What would you like to drink?”

“I’d like a good stiff whiskey [cough] . . .  but a cup of tea will do.” Another coughing fit shook Ann’s body.

Karen busied herself making the tea. From behind her came the sound of voices. She got out an extra cup and saucer to put on the tray.

“I thought I heard Doctor Price?” Karen said.

“No, Dear, just us. Doctor Price came first thing this morning.” Ann reached out to take her cup from the tray.

The afternoon sun streamed in through the partly drawn curtains. Motes of dust swirled in the air, twinkling like small stars in the gentle draft from the open window. Karen itched to give the place a good clean.

“Would you like me to run the vacuum round for you, Ann? “

“I won’t hear of it. They only pay you to come and talk to me.” Karen was taken aback by the sudden harshness of Ann’s voice. “Eases their consciences, and they think it will stop me from writing them out of my will. It won‘t, you know.”

“Won’t what?” Karen asked, a little uncomfortably.

“Stop me writing them out of my will. I’ve left everything to the Dogs Trust.” Ann gave a chuckle.

Karen didn’t comment, there were strict rules on discussing wills and bequests. She changed the subject.

“Would you like me to come earlier tomorrow? I could take you to the park, we can sit near the bandstand and have tea and cake, if you want to.”

“Not tomorrow, Dear. You know I‘ll be with Jarred.”

“If you change your mind, ring me. I’m sure Jarred won’t mind if you come with me instead.”

“Karen, I’m very grateful for all you do.” Ann paused. “I’ve made my decision. When you’ve finished your tea, put my pills out and you can go. I want to watch some television now. You will come tomorrow afternoon, won‘t you? You did promise.” There was no animosity in Ann’s voice, just a gentle dismissal.

A sharp rap on the door brought Karen back to the present. She stood and made her way to opened it. The paramedics hastened to where Anne lay.

“Did you find her? Are you a relative?”

“Yes, but I’m not a relative, I’m Ann’s friend. I work for the Volunteer Befriending Service.” She showed them her identification card in its plastic wallet suspended by a blue cord that hung around her neck.

The medics bent down to examine Ann. The examination was a brief one.

“Do you have a contact number for Mrs Bell’s family?”

“Yes. I’ll call them.” Karen bowed her head for a moment and felt the tears sting her eyes.

By the time she had finished speaking to Ann’s son, the medics were wheeling in a stretcher. She watched as they lifted Ann’s body and covered it with a pale yellow blanket. Something small and white tumbled from Ann’s fingers. She bent down to pick it up. The smooth porcelain felt cold in her hand, her fingers brushed over the sharp edges of the little rabbits broken ears. She moved to the mantel-piece to set it in its rightful place.

A silence pervaded the room, Karen thought she heard the neighbour’s radio, but she couldn’t quite make out the words. A breeze brushed past her cheek, as soft and gentle as a kiss. Wiping away the tears and closing her hand around the broken rabbit, she slipped it into her pocket. What harm could it do, no one else would want it, no one would even miss it. She wanted something to remember her by; something that Ann herself had loved. Overwhelmed by a strong urge to tell Ann that she was going to take it, to tell her that she would look after it, she called out to the medics. “Wait. Please wait. I want to say good bye.”

The medics look round and nodded. They stepped away from the stretcher and busied themselves with the clasps of the green bag they had brought in with them and the unused oxygen bottle.

In her pocket, her fingers stroked the little rabbit. Her conscience started to prick; it wasn’t hers to take. She sighed stood it on the mantel-piece. She stood with her back to the room, tears blurring her vision.

Karen tidied the room, then left, locking the door behind her.

 The sun was still shining. She felt that it should hide its face to match her grief. In the short time that she had known Ann, she had come to care deeply for her. Was Ann a replacement for her own mother who had died last year? The image of her mother's face racked with a pain that the morphine barely touched, caused her to shudder. The pain that had filled her as she stood helpless while her mother finally succumbed to the cancer, was as raw today as it had been then. Was it selfishness that had prompted her to join the befriending service? She didn’t know, and today she didn’t want to analyse it.

Wandering through the park she found herself beside the bandstand. The band was playing a medley of 1940’s music, Ann would have enjoyed it. Not being able to face returning to her own home and its echoing emptiness, Karen settled herself at an empty table and sat listening to the music. She regretted replacing the rabbit on the shelf, but knew she had done the right thing. Sliding a hand in to her pocket, her fingers came into contact with something cold and smooth.

Opening her hand she gazed at the unblemished, porcelain rabbit that sat in her palm. A smile formed on her lips. “Thank you,” she whispered. "If only you could forgive me too, Mum.” Her words were barely audible. “They won't punish me for letting you live and die in agony, at least Ann spared herself that fate." Taking her phone out, she carefully pressed its keys.

The number rang out for a long time before it was answered.

“Officer, I want to make a confession.”

© Lindsey Chapman - 

Saturday, 29 January 2011

Fairies in the Garden (Flash Fiction 201 words)

'Hannah! You must not tell lies.' Dawn's hand connected with Jasmine’s leg leaving a red mark. 'Just admit you broke the glass and that will be that.'

Jasmine’s eyes filled with tears. 'But I didn't break it mummy. The fairy knocked it off by accident.'

'Go to your room!' Dawn raised her voice but not her hand. She was ashamed of slapping her child.

'I hate you. You're mean and horrible. I'm going to live with Nana,' with that Jasmine grabbed her teddy and ran out of the door.

Dawn didn't follow the girl, she knew her mother would look after her and anyway she was only next door.

'Hush, child.'

'But Nana, mummy smacked me.'

'I know my poppet. She doesn't mean it though.'

'They are real, Nana. They are! I didn't tell a lie.'

'I know they are my sweet.'

'Then why can't mummy see them?'

'Because only two sorts of people can see fairies: those, like you, who are young enough not to have been taught that they don't exist and those, like me, who are old enough to know they do.'

Jasmine thought for a moment, then smiled and handed the rose fairy one of her Nana’s cakes.

© Lindsey Chapman - 

The Dowry (flash fiction 443 words)

He lifted the the trapdoor leading to the cellar. The rusted hinges creaked in protest. Descending a few steps, he reach up and grasped her lifeless hand. Her face appeared above him. With his hands around her neck, a quick tug brought her body sliding down the steps.

He could still hear the rain beating on the window panes as it had been doing for more than a day. A damp, musty odour rose from between the cobbles that made up the floor of the dark cavernous space beneath the kitchen.

Sweat broke on his brow as he toiled to dig her resting place. Tendrils of cold, moist air wrapped themselves around him.

“I'll have no wife argue with me. I told you, I didn't want it here, you stupid bitch. It's evil. It's cursed. It's not staying in my fucking house,” he swore, heaving her body into the deep channel he had dug. He laboured for over an hour restoring the cellar floor, seating each cobble in its place

Standing back to admire his handy-work, he noticed water rising between the cobbles. Outside the storm continued unabated. The water soon covered his feet, climbing icy cold towards his shins. His stomach tighten in fear. He sloshed his way to the steps that lead to the safety of the room above.

Thunder cracked and rumbled, the sound distorting as it travelled down to meet him. His head breached into the room above, his feet scrabbling on the slippery stone steps.

In the kitchen he wrapped his fingers around the wooden handle of his axe; hefting it above his head he swung it at the dresser. An ear piercing clap of thunder and a blinding flash of light disorientated him. He did not hear the glass shatter as the lightening passed through the window, nor did he see the heavy dresser move with the impact. The dresser fell, and in doing so knocked him through the trapdoor into the rushing torrent that was rapidly filling the cellar.

The water licked just below his chin, before it forced its way into his mouth and nostrils. His last breath burned in his chest; his lungs screaming for air. His fists hammered on the fallen dresser that blocked his escape.

The last sounds that penetrated his brain were a voice, as sweet as a child's, which mingle with two others which were coarse and strident.

“That dresser was my dowry, my mother's before me and hers before that. If we cannot have it in life, you shall not live to destroy it,” they chorused.

The storm over Pendle Hill raged on into the hag-ridden night.

© Lindsey Chapman - 

Thursday, 27 January 2011

The Professor and the Student (flash fIiction 428 words)

She sat on the couch. It was comfortable and made from the softest leather, but she felt far from relaxed. The room was dimly lit, soft music played in the back ground.

‘Please, Miss Carter, try to relax.’

She tensed further when she heard him open his note book.

‘I’ve never had a student with this type of problem, do you mind if I take notes?’

‘No, of course not, professor.’

‘Now, tell me, when you start having problems with your writing?’

‘I’m not sure. I think it was after writing my second book.’

‘Hmm. Go on.’

‘Well, for some reason I started to use my own name instead of the character's.’

‘Hmm . . . And then?’

‘Things that I wrote about my character, started to happen to me.’

‘What do you mean? Give me an example.’

‘This morning I wrote that my character went to see her creative writing tutor.’

‘That’s interesting. What did she do?’

‘She exposed her fangs, bit into his neck and drained all the blood from him.’ she said, licking her lips and pushing his lifeless body to the floor.

Bending over she retrieve the note book he had dropped. Flicking through the pages she found a short story and started to read it . . .

‘She sat on the couch. It was comfortable and made from the softest leather, but she felt far from relaxed. The room was dimly lit, soft music played in the back ground.

‘Please, Miss Carter, try to relax.’

She tensed further when she heard him open his note book.

‘I’ve never had a student with this type of problem, do you mind if I take notes?’

‘No, of course not, professor.’

‘Now, tell me, when you start having problems with your writing?’

‘I’m not sure. I think it was after writing my second book.’

‘Hmm. Go on.’

‘Well, for some reason I started to use my own name instead of the character's.’

‘Hmm . . . And then?’

‘Things that I wrote about my character, started to happen to me.’

‘What do you mean? Give me an example.’

‘This morning I wrote that my character went to see her creative writing tutor.’

‘That’s interesting. What did she do?’

‘She exposed her fangs, bit into his neck and drained all the blood from him.’ she said, licking her lips and pushing his lifeless body to the floor.

Bending over she retrieve the note book he had dropped. Flicking through the pages she found a short story and started to read it . . .’

© Lindsey Chapman -

Tuesday, 25 January 2011

Dismembered (flash fiction 177 words)

The metal reflected the sunlight streaming through the window. Its edge glinting, razor sharp and powerful. Blood smeared the fingers that curled purposefully around its handle.

A curse issued from the blade-wielder as he slashed the knife downwards. Slicing through flesh and sinew, his knife struck bone. He mopped his brow, knife still in hand. Wordlessly, he moved the body he was dismembering so that he could slide his knife between its ribs.

So engrossed was he, that the voice behind him made him start. He span round quickly. His eyes coming to rest on a small elderly woman. He could see the defiance in her eyes. He drew a quick breath and moved towards her, the blood still dripping from the knife in his hand.

“What are you doing here, mother? What do you want?”

“Hello, dear. Just popped in to see if you would bring a pound of mince home for tea tonight.” She hardly waited for him to reply, before turning and walking out of the butcher’s shop to finish the rest of her shopping.

© Lindsey Chapman - 

To Look , Not See

The birds chirruped,
I heard the noise,
But not the singing.

The fire burned,
I felt the heat,
But not it's warmth.

The sun shone,
I saw the light,
But not the beauty it illuminated.

The flowers bloomed,
But all I saw was weeds.
So I closed my eyes and dreamed of better times,
'Til I mourned the life I'd dreamed away.

© Lindsey Chapman - 

Monday, 24 January 2011

Win or Lose (Flash Fiction 165 words)

‘It‘s a gift,’ he beamed

‘But a gift demands a gift?’ The caution  in her words was beaten by the avarice that shone in her eyes.

‘You’ll get your chance to repay me,’ he reassured.

Sarah, bowed her head, her eyes wide with excitement. The sunlight glinted off the handlebars of the brand new racing bicycle.

The muscles in her legs burned from the exertion. Her heart beat heavily against her ribcage. The sweat dripped from her forehead, stinging her eyes. The finish line was only meters away. A final thrust with her legs and the front wheel crossed the white line.

Cheers, whistles and a thunder of applause rent the air, but all Sarah heard was a soft whisper in her ear. ‘A gift demands a gift.’

With an unseen swipe of a clawed hand, the demon took his prize. Sarah’s body slumped over the handlebars. The racing bike slewed to one side and skidded down the road, as the demon swallowed her soul.

© Lindsey Chapman -