Month: July 2014

The day it happened, I was perched on the rocky outcrop overlooking our ranch. I’d had enough of Jake, my little brother, teasing me about the field-hand who’d said I was ‘blossoming into a very pretty flower’. I’d gone up there to let my cheeks cool. I’d gone up there to be alone.

You could see for miles from that outcrop. You could see the house with its twin chimneys and cedar shingles, the patchwork fields with their swaying maize and stubby pea plants, the meadows beyond spotted with cattle. Every time I took Jake up there he would make that joke about how the people on the ranch looked like ants. Most of the time I’d even laugh.

I must have been the first to spot the ship. I’d thought it was a vulture, circling on the thermals, but as sunlight flashed off its back, I realized that the rumours we’d been hearing for weeks were about to become reality.

The sky tore apart. Below me, our jeep fire-balled. Our crawler leapt from the ground and rolled over and over, wrapping itself in flame. The booms were like a double punch to my gut. My family, our field-hands, they all spilled out of the house and the barns, running to see what was happening. It’s stupid what goes through your mind at times like that, but I remember thinking: ‘Jake’s right. They really do look like ants from up here.’ But then the sky tore apart again, and all I could do was scream.

‘No! Stop! Run!’

It was only a breath later that the ship landed, its door opening before it had even scratched the dirt. For a minute, all was quiet again, but then another noise started. It sounded like corn popping on the stove, but I knew it wasn’t, and it went on for the longest time. I only realised which side had won when I saw the raiders fan out from their ship and wash toward the house like a wave washes up a beach.

By the time I made it to the ranch, everyone who was still alive had been coded and loaded and the raiders were picking through the debris, kicking over bodies as if they were piles of hay, looking for anything that would make them a profit.

They say your mind goes into a holding pattern when you witness things like that, things like seeing your family and friends attacked and killed or herded into cargo bays like the cattle you’d farmed all your life. It addles your senses, renders you incapable of making sensible decisions.

I’d crept up to the house and was hiding behind the kennels. Not three meters in front of me, one of the raiders was bent over, pecking through the pockets of the body at his feet. As I stepped out, he turned and raised his gun. I lifted my hands.

‘Please,’ I said. ‘Take me with you. I don’t want to be alone.’

I find him sitting on the steps of the motel, elbows on his knees, hat tipped forward over his eyes, a shield against the evening sun. Yesterday, I’d have been thrilled to see him there, my very own cowboy, all legs and shoulders and work-worn denim.

‘London?’ he says, lifting his head, an eyebrow arched. He pulls a piece of paper from his shirt pocket. ‘You’re going back to England?’

Damn. This is not how I’d wanted this conversation to start. I reach for the paper, the boarding pass I’d asked the manager to print for me. Dale whips it away, holds it above his head.

‘Let me guess,’ he says, grasping the rail and heaving himself to his feet. ‘It’s not me it’s you?’

My mind fumbles for a response. ‘Yes. No. I mean. It’s time. That’s all. You know I was only ever passing through. I never meant to stop this long. I only meant to …’

What? What had I meant to do? I’d meant to leave Ian and my two-up-two-down-nine-to-five-very-British life. I’d meant to cash in my savings and see the world. I’d meant to buy a car and drive across the States. It was supposed to have been the road-trip of a lifetime, a Shirley-Valentine-meets-Thelma-and-Louise adventure, except without the shooting, stealing and driving off cliffs. Ian had said I was having a mid-life crisis, told me I’d be back. I’d said I was finally living my life, told him to sod off.

‘Nicky.’ Dale takes off his hat and spreads his arms. ‘What’s going on?’

I shake my head. How can I explain? He’ll think I’m mad. Hell, I think I’m mad.

‘Come on, darlin’. Talk to me. Was it something I did? Something I said?’

Yes, I want to shout. Yes, it was both: we’d been to the rodeo, spent the afternoon watching men roping cattle, wrestling them to the ground, wrangling them into pens. It had been loud and hot and dusty; our clothes had glued themselves to our skin.

‘Wanna cool off?’ he asked afterward. ‘I know a place.’

We swam for hours, nothing between us but water. We lay on a blanket, nothing above us but sky. He talked about the plains and the mountains, all the places he wanted to show me. I listened, painting pictures in my mind.

As the air cooled, he leaned over me. ‘How much that motel costing you?’

‘Not much,’ I replied, shrugging.

‘Must be eating up your money though.’ He slipped his arm beneath me. ‘They’re hiring at the diner.’ He pulled me against him, circled his other arm around me. ‘And I got plenty of room at my place. You could save some coin if you come stay with me.’

I look at him now – all legs and shoulders and work-worn denim – and part of me wants to stay, but as he steps forward and reaches for my hand I find myself stepping back, and all I want to do is run.

Today, my short-listed National Flash-Fiction Day 2014 Micro-Competition story gets its first public airing at The Pygmy Giant.

It’s called Moments, is only 100 words long and starts like this:

You hate it that she can’t remember the moment you met.

To read the rest, head on over to The Pygmy Giant …

I hope you like it!

(This story won in the ‘Desire’ category of the 8 Days of Ether Contest.)

~A Price Too High~

‘You’re sure now?’ asks the shopkeeper, planting his hands on the counter. The badge pinned to his leather apron reads:

weswapanything.com.
Manager
Patrick

‘Yes,’ I reply, stabbing my hands into the pockets of my parka to stop them trembling. ‘I’m sure.’ It’s odd, but Patrick reminds me of Ian, my husband. He’s tall and broad and has the same lines scored at the corners of his eyes, the same flecks of grey in his hair. There’s something of Gerard Butler about them both.

Pointing to the sign on the wall behind him, Patrick says, ‘You understand the returns policy?’

I read the sign aloud: ‘“Absolutely NO Returns.” Yes. I understand.’

He pushes a pad of yellow forms toward me and pulls a biro from his apron pocket. ‘Sign this.’ A brown fingerprint smudges the curling corner of the top sheet.

As I take the pen and sign on the dotted line, he reaches below the counter. ‘Put your payment in here,’ he says, placing an empty tub next to the pad. I glance over his shoulder. Through the beaded curtain, I can see the stockroom shelves. They’re stacked with tubs exactly like the one in front of me. The tubs look like white, plastic bricks. The shelves look like walls. For the first time since entering the shop, I hear music. It’s coming from the back of the stockroom. I recognize the song. It’s one of my favorites: Coldplay’s ‘Fix You’.

‘Whenever you’re ready,’ says Patrick, tapping the tub.

I swallow hard. My hands are trembling again.

‘Look, do you want this or not?’

‘I want this!’ I say. ‘This is all I’ve ever wanted.’ Until last night, I’d thought it was all we’d ever wanted as well, but Ian said: ‘You’re making a mistake, Dee. Don’t do it. Please. Some prices are just too high.’

Patrick coughs. ‘Well then?’

The zip of my parka feels cold between my thumb and finger. It buzzes like a wasp as I pull it down. Patrick pushes the pad of forms aside and in its place he lays a knife. Its handle is black. Its blade is long and sharp. Breathing deeply, I pick it up and close my eyes.

Moments later, my heart lies bloody and twitching in the tub.

Slowly, Patrick turns and reaches through the beaded curtain. ‘Here you go,’ he says, finally smiling as he wheels my purchase toward me. ‘Enjoy.’

With steady hands, I grasp the pram and look inside, and there, right there, tucked beneath a pale green blanket, her eyes wide and blue, her tiny pink fingers stroking the air, lays my heart’s desire.

But … but something’s not right. Something’s … missing. For years, I’ve ached for a baby. We tried everything, spent every penny we had. My hands should still be trembling. My breath should be hitching. My heart should be pounding. But I don’t feel any of that.

I don’t feel anything.