Screaming House

The house on the corner had been empty for years, or so it appeared. The pale paint was peeling and the rusty iron gate shrieked at the smallest breeze. Looming up behind tall black railings, the building seemed encased in shadows, with not one glint of light reflecting from its long, dusty windows.

Julie rocked on the outer edges of her school shoes, standing just centimetres from the edge of the dark pointed shadow that reached from the other side of the street.

"I double dare you." challenged Heather, her pale blue eyes wide and serious.

Julie hesitated, staring again at the house across the street, its huge brass knocker ominous on the unmarked front door. She felt a shiver run up her legs, her blue gingham dress wavering slightly at her knees although there was no wind.

"If I'm going in," she replied slowly, "you're coming with me."

Heather's gaze flicked to the house and back before a malevolent smirk touched the corners of her mouth. She stepped into the road and crossed it in five steps. Julie was still frozen to the spot, paralysed by the fear of the house that they usually ran past. As she saw Heather reaching for the railings her legs started to move without her command, and then she was standing next to Heather and pushing on the gate with her.

The screech of the gate set Julie's teeth on edge, and its scream rang in the air as it swung shut behind them. They were in the garden.

The house was so dominating that Julie had never before taken note of the garden. Cracked paving slabs formed timid steps towards the doorway, and the garden appeared well-kept in death.The grass was not overgrown as one would expect, but short and uniform. The two cherub statues in the corners were not covered in lichen or moss, and their lifeless eyes stared stonily out onto pruned shrubs lining the railings. Julie looked around again, suddenly startled. Everything was grey. The grass looked as though it was covered in a thick layer of dust, and the bushes were tangles of dead, grey branches.

[Author's Note: At this point I started listening to Taylor Swift and couldn't get myself back into the zone for creating ominosity*. Might pick it up another time.

*I made that word up, but I like it.]

Unfinished. Gregory the Garden Gnome

It was going to be another rainy day, realised Gregory as a large drop of water rolled down his bulbous nose. He gazed outwards through bright porcelain eyes, seeing the same angle of the small pond and the grass and wooden fences behind it as he always saw. One windy Autumn he had been knocked over and replaced at a slightly different angle, and although for a brief few hours he had seen more sky from his horizontal position than ever before, his slightly altered position now meant that he no longer had a view of the beautiful snapdragons off to his right. He could still hear the bees buzzing around them in the summer time, and picture their fuzzy little bottoms disappearing into the flower before they backed out again with yellow powdered legs. Instead of the snapdragons though he could now see the butterfly bush just at the corner of his vision. He couldn't focus that far left for long, but for brief periods at a time in the spring, Gregory enjoyed seeing the fluttering colours and patterns meandering around the lilac flowers.

The Ride-Along

It was Monday! At last! Fiona had been counting down the days until Monday. The very best day of the week, especially this week. This Monday, today, her mum was taking her on a ride along in her police car. This meant sirens, baddies, and her mum being a genuine superhero. Fiona had been warned that it might not be as exciting as she was expecting, but she was glad they wouldn't be dealing with any scary murderers or robbers. Her mum was on traffic duty, which meant they'd mostly be sitting in a parked car watching people drive past them and making sure nobody was going too fast. Her mum had promised her that she'd even be allowed to hold the speed detector! And if anyone was driving too fast, or breaking the law by driving with their mobile phone, then the sirens would go on and they'd follow them. Exactly like in a car chase! Fiona couldn't hold in her excitement, and she kept getting told off by teachers for not concentrating properly or for distracting her classmates with wild stories of things that she might see that very evening in a real life police car. The teachers weren't really angry: she was always well-behaved in school. That was why her mum had said she could come along on her traffic shift. It was a reward for her excellent school report, and extra especially for getting 87% in her maths test, the best mark out of everyone on her table and a great result for her worst subject. Mum had said that it really shows all the hard work she'd been putting in, so she deserved a special treat.
The school bell finally rang and Fiona swept her pens and pencils into her backpack, throwing the open pencil case in on top. Everything fell out of the pencil case and tumbled around her bag as she zipped it up, but she didn't care in the slightest. She knew that her mum was waiting outside in her blue and black squad car, wearing her smart black uniform and shiny badge. Fiona felt like she was flying as she sprinted out of the school gates and round the corner. There she was!

There is a moment for every writer when you have to make a big decision. You have introduced a character, you have described a little of their personality and perhaps some background story. The big decision is: what next? Do all their dreams come true, as simple as that? Or does something unexpected happen? How sadistic can you allow yourself to be with this character, this innocent character who walked into your mind and asked to be given a story? The unfortunate truth is that easy lives don't make for interesting stories or identifiable characters. The nicest thing you can do for your character is have them experience difficulty and overcome it, grow from it. Or perhaps they never overcome it, but either way they'll probably be irreversibly changed. So, what to do with Fiona? Does she spend the evening bonding with her mum in a squad car, munching crisps and playing with the sirens? Or does something bad happen during that long-awaited trip? Even a traffic cop car is no place for a kid, after all...

Oskar After Death

In death as in life, Oskar was a miserable sort. On his last morning as a living being, he opened the fridge to find that there was no milk, which meant that, instead of enjoying his usual bowl of muesli, he had to have brown toast and jam for breakfast. This was nothing short of a disaster. Breakfast, as it was well known, was the most important meal of the day, and so every bite of that toast was something important that had already gone terribly wrong.

As he swept away the crumbs from his plate and accidentally dropped his knife in the bin, Oskar knew that today was not going to be good. He could feel it in his heart. Little did he suspect that this was one of the last things he would ever feel in his heart, since his heart would stop beating a few hours later, and he would have to go on feeling things without it. With a deep and practised sigh, Oskar stooped to fish his knife out of the bin and put it in the sink to wash later. No, this was not going to be a good day at all.

Having managed to endure a miserable breakfast, miserable Oskar walked back to his bedroom and looked at his miserable form in the mirror. His beige linen trousers were not his favourite, which was especially unfortunate considering that he would be stuck wearing them for the rest of eternity. His round belly pushed at a brown belt, and the pale yellow polo he was wearing did nothing to cover his sallow and wrinkled arms, or to detract from his overall dreary appearance. He stepped a little closer to the mirror, examining a liver spot on his sagging jawline, peering at it with blue-grey eyes and prodding at it with blue-grey fingers. His thick eyebrows furrowed, enhancing the firmly settled frown-wrinkles on his forehead and just ever so slightly bringing forward his thinning hairline. A light from the window reflected in the mirror, briefly giving his eyes the impression of a twinkle that had not been there for decades. He grumbled to himself and left the mirror, still fingering the liver spot though his mind had already moved to other grievances. It was not that he was so old, our miserable Oskar, but life's joys seemed to have passed him by while he was busy having a bad day. It can have a tough effect on your appearance, when all of life's joys pass you by like that. You'll have to forgive him for looking like such a grouch. The fact is that he was a grouch, so looking like one just came with the territory. After he died, there was nothing more to be done about the wrinkles and the sallow appearance - although it certainly helped that the dead are all translucent white - but I'm sorry to say that even if a ghost's appearance could have changed to reflect their habits and moods, Oskar would still have looked the same. He was a miserable sort, and unfortunately being killed by a defective toaster oven did nothing to change that.

Camping

Shivering in my sleeping bag, I found myself awake. The blanket had fallen off, so I snaffled it back from him, letting my eyes rest for a minute on his peaceful face, watching as little clouds of condensation formed and dissipated to match his steady breathing. I curled up my legs and snuggled into his body heat. The rain was pitter pattering lightly on the canvas, and I could make out droplets gathering on the sides of the tent and then running a wavering path down towards the dampening ground outside. There were some droplets inside too, I noticed now. Created by the warmth of our breaths meeting the cold of the night air. One landed with a small 'plop' on my cheek and I scrunched my nose and wiped my face against the tartan blanket. I turned my head again to look upwards, to where the moon was throwing shadows against the roof, making patterns of the surrounding trees and occasionally flickering like a faulty bedside lamp. Probably there were bats or owls outside, hunting in the rain. The pitter patter on the tent was getting stronger, and soon I could convince myself that we were sleeping in the middle of a storm, perhaps the only survivors in a rainy apocalypse that had washed everything else away. I closed my eyes again.

The next time I awoke it was light, and very warm. I quickly manoeuvred my socks off my feet and released my arms from the oven of the sleeping bag into the cool air of the damp tent. The rain was still falling outside, and the little droplets of condensation above us had grown into heavy drops, wobbling from the rooftop and threatening to shower my face and newly released arms if we moved around too much. There was a small puddle in the bottom corner where we had shoved our boots. I pulled the blanket back over my already chilly arms and looked over at the giant bundle of sleeping bag lying next to me. Still asleep, and no doubt sweating like crazy under all that cover. I nudged him gently, then a little more forcefully, until he eventually rolled over with a groan and nuzzled into my cheek, breathing warm morning breath into my face and kissing my chin with his dry lips.
"Morning," I said, moving my face to return the kiss, "it's raining." He grumbled a response and pulled me closer, his eyes still closed. I found his hand with mine and interlocked our fingers.
"I don't think our mountain walk is a good idea in this weather," I said softly, kissing his cheek, "but we could grab a comfy spot on the sofas in that cafe we found, the one with the good hot chocolate. We could do some people watching maybe, and look out at the lake in the rain. What do you think?" He mumbled again and squeezed my hand. I could already picture the swirling greys of storm clouds mirrored in the water, the rain darting down into the depths of the lake and shooting back up through the turbulence in a broken reflection of the sky above.

Prepared Confrontation

I can't move. The whole week I have been psyching myself for this moment, arriving at your house and knocking on the door. I had big plans for what I was going to say; why did you leave? Why did you stop talking to me? Am I still your daughter? You used to be my daddy, we were so close, how could you ignore that? How could you do that to me? Do you ever think of me? Can you even remember the memories that come floating into my head at inopportune moments every day? I'll pop out to get milk and have a sudden flashback to you whizzing me down the supermarket aisles in the shopping trolley, or to the time we had a flour fight when we were supposed to be baking a cake for Mother's Day. I'll be watering plants in the garden and suddenly I'll remember you dragging my new sledge out of the shed, and how we laughed, and how rosy your cheeks were as we ran up the snowy hill together. Do you ever remember me?

I have so much to say, but the words are a jumbling chaos in my head and my hands are stuck to the steering wheel like it's made of ice. I've been further than this before. Last time, I strode all the way to the front door before the waves of self-doubt, of anger, of hatred and of hurt came crashing down around my ears. I just want to understand, to piece the jigsaw of my life together and see it objectively. I want to move on. I want my thoughts to myself instead of having them run off to you every time the lights turn off.

I look down at my hands on the wheel, white-knuckles under cracked skin. The mole on my wrist that matches yours. I force myself to loosen my grip, and then to put my hands on my lap. I lift my head and turn slowly to the right, to see your house through the slowly steaming window. Uncut grass. No flowers. A white plastic door with a dark curtain blocking the window from the other side. The path and door are to the right of the unkempt garden, and a small brick wall with moss growing on it separates the path from the house next to it. I look back down to the inside of my car door, running my finger along the black plastic. I trace the red nub that would lock me in, and follow the line along to the pointed edge of the handle, pressing my thumb into the rounded point a few times. I stretch out my fingers then wrap them under the handle and pull. The door is open now, and I find the energy to unclip my seatbelt and leave the car. The cold air chills my spine and I close the door and step forward, my head raging with thoughts my tongue can't articulate. Two steps, three. I am suddenly very conscious of my face; my eyebrows are so tense that my temples are starting to throb. I raise them in mock surprise to loosen my face, and that is the exact moment that the door opens and I see you for the first time in three years.

A Big, Dramatic Storm Out

Kelly stamped through the snow and suppressed a wail of frustration that the wheely suitcase was not making for a suitably dramatic exit as she dragged it after her with both hands through the fresh and thick snow, fully aware that she was being watched with an infuriating amusement from the window of the first floor apartment she had just left.

Reaching the corner at last, she kicked at the build up of snow that was hindering any further dragging of the suitcase, readjusted her hat (which, she realised now, had probably been bobbling along hilariously as she had attempted to storm down the street, ruining even further the image of strength and independence she had been trying to portray) and, unable to resist, took a last glance at the window of the house she had just left. Empty. He hadn't even bothered to watch her walk away. She pictured him sighing as she slammed the front door and returning immediately to his video game. What a bastard. With a much too high-pitched "hmph!" she flicked her hair from her face and flounced around the corner, still attempting to look proud and strong, although painfully aware that her daring strike for independence looked from the outside more like a pathetic street tantrum.

Finally around the corner and out of sight of the window, Kelly found herself a little lost as to what to do next. The suitcase she was dragging behind her contained enough underwear for two weeks, but only one change of clothes and no pyjamas or toiletries whatsoever. She had grabbed her passport before she left, as if she had been so hurt and offended that her only option was to leave the country, and luckily she had remembered her purse with all her bank cards and travel pass. Something niggled in the back of her mind as she looked down the street trying to decide what to do next. She had forgotten something more important than pyjamas and toothpaste: her phone was still charging by the bed. She had no way of contacting anybody, no way of accessing the internet, and no GPS. She swore under her breath, a small cloud puffing from her mouth as her warm breath hit the cold air. There was no way she was going back for it, not after the embarrassment of such a melodramatic exit. She had no choice but to carry on without it, dragging her suitcase along with less fervour now as she trudged towards the bus stop. She felt like a child running away from home: the sort of runaway who packed two Kit Kats and hid in the park until sunset before returning, cold and hungry, to a family who hadn't even realised she'd gone.

She boarded the first bus that pulled up and sat by the door, hugging her arms to her chest and feeling altogether stupid. This wasn't the first time she'd stormed out after an argument, but it was the first time she'd taken a suitcase with her.