Bright Blessings

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The Screamer

Flora plunged her fingers into the warm earth, rooting around with patient dedication. She turned up nothing. Rising to her feet, head slowly turning back and forth, she heard the scream again. They were always so difficult to locate, the earth muffling their cries. She spent another hour snaking her way back and forth through the forest. All the usual spots turned up nothing but worms and mulch. Head swivelling like a satellite dish, ears constantly pricked, she worked her way deeper under the canopy, back where the elders grew, Ancient oaks, once the hiding place of kings, great pines, the ancestral homes of dryads, and none sheltering the screamer amongst their sprawling roots. Pausing to drink deeply from the clear waters of a stream which flowed in tumbling delight from the mountains, she caught the scream once more. So close she felt she could reach out and touch it. Ah, of course, the willows. Long had they deserved their reputation as often playful, occasionally sp

Experiment

Sam thrashed awake, but the grinding pain did not dissolve in the face of fluorescent brilliance. The claws tearing at his eyes resolved into his fingernails, shreds of bloodied bandage clinging, entangled. A door banged open followed by brisk tutting. Hands appeared in his pink-tinged vision adeptly wrapping fresh bandages into place, removing sight but not sensation. The howling screams continued in the depths of his brain and the urge to rip at his eyes was overwhelming. Even as his hands rose once more there was a sharp snick in his arm, fluid flowing, oblivion following. He didn’t feel the reassuring pat on his arm, the quiet words of Nurse Clarke; “Dr Arthur says it’ll be a couple more days before those can come off, hon. Patience now.” Sam slipped in and out of the next few days. He pain was constant, the urge to scratch his eyes so insistent they had to keep him fully sedated. When he tried to gouge in his sleep he woke to find his arms restrained, a nurse on

Chalk Painting

Amy skipped happily down the street, her rope making a satisfying whirr as it turned over her head and under her feet. The taps on her toes clicked merrily and she giggled in delight at the thought of defying her mother who had clearly stated Amy was not to wear her tap shoes out to play. There would be consequences, she’d warned with her trademark ‘Don’t you defy me, lady’ frown. Consequences were for later. Now it was summer, school was out and Amy was as free as a bird. Turning onto Rever Street, Amy grinned. Beneath her alternating feet passed a hopscotch grid. Another child, probably a girl in her limited world experience, had also enjoyed a happy afternoon. The colours sprang off the dull grey pavement in reds and yellows with green and blue hits here and there. Her skipping feet scuffed up minute dust storms in cloudy pastels. The grid seemed to stretch on forever, wending its way down Rever and turning the bend onto Somiar Avenue. About halfway down Amy began to

After

‘Not with a bang, but a whimper’. The words were almost a tangible presence in the still air. He found himself humming whilst forcing one foot before the other; ‘This is the end, my only friend, the end’. He battened down, drowning the lyric in the endless emptiness around him. He strained, concentrating every inch of his being on trying to hear any sound but the leaden thud of his feet. In the hollowness of isolation he walked on. The town was small, perhaps ten thousand souls, and the ghosts of those souls inhabited the houses and streets still. Washing fluttered on lines in yards, teasing clues to the personalities of households, families. Demonic prints on black tees, a moody teen with Goth pretensions. Work overalls streaked with oil, oil that probably never quite left the rims of fingernails, became ingrained in skin folds. Skimpy thongs caressed by stylish boxers, a new marriage which would never age. Snazzy sports numbers sat next to soccer mum cars on drives cr