Wednesday 2 May 2018

Mid-Week Flash Challenge - Week 53

The first photo prompt of year two is a photo taken by Johannes Plenio, a photographer from Munich, Germany. He has a lovely collection over at a free photo site called Unsplash.

A picture that can represent dark or light. But you know me, I can't resist dark at the best of times. Since spotting this photo I've been dying to write for it. Here's where my head went.

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How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here.


Cold. So cold. So cold it hurts. But I must keep walking. I must. I’m free.
You’re not yet.
I am.
No, not until you’re home.
Shut-up, you’re just the voice in my head, you don’t know.
I do know. It’s not over yet.
It will be now I’ve got the handcuffs off.
That was impressive.
It was, in this cold.
Frozen locks.
To my benefit.
You’re sure you haven’t been spotted?
He glances back.
There’s no one behind me.
You don’t know that.
There’s no footprints in the snow.
It means nothing. You know how good she is at leaving no marks.
He rubs his wrists remembering.
You were foolish.
Was not.
You should never have believed her story about why she wanted to go to the cabin.
She loves me.
Does not.
She felt badly about how she’s been.
You still believe that?
I want to.
He glances behind him again.
If you go home she’ll be there.
She won’t. She won’t believe I got free, she’ll think I’ve died on the run.
Don’t you think she’ll check?
I have nowhere else to go.
And she knows that. You need to go to someone else.
Who would believe me?
They only have to look at you to believe you.
They won’t believe it’s her.
You think they don’t know?
How could they?
Remember how Wayne looked at you?
He believed my story.
No he didn’t. He was just saving you embarrassment.
He knows I box.
Those bruises weren’t from boxing and he knows it.
He won’t want anything to do with me. He’ll think I’m weak and pathetic.
You don’t know that.
He’ll laugh at me.
He won’t.
How do you tell someone you’ve been held prisoner, for what days?
You think it’s weeks?
I do. Although it’s hard to tell. I passed out so many times.
He stumbles.
I can’t feel my feet.
Keep walking.
They’re numb.
Keep going. It’s not far now. See there’s a house over there.
He makes out a building ahead. A farmhouse. There’s lights on in the windows.
What will I say?
The truth.
I don’t know if I can.
You have to.
Get them to call the police.
Maybe I should just see if there’s an outhouse or barn or something to hide in.
You need to speak to someone, Steve. You need to tell someone.
He lets out a sob.
You can do it. You have to.
What will they think of me?
They will help you.
I’m bleeding.
It will have stopped by now.
But they will see.
It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that you survive.
I need to survive.
You do.
I need to stop her.
You do.
He stands at the door, jittering. When the door opens he falls through the entrance onto the floor sobbing.
He hears gasps, ‘He’s naked. So much blood.’
Someone calls to someone else. Hands on him. Blankets round him. Warmth. Water on his lips.
Voices around him, three or four: ‘What shall we do?’ ‘I’ve called an ambulance.’ ‘Where did he come from?’ ‘Out of the field on the right, there’s a blood trail.’
Sirens. He’s lifted up onto a gurney. More gasps.
“Who did this to you, son?” A soft, gentle voice.
“She did.”
“My wife.”


  1. The Narrator by Kevin Hammond

    “Keep on running. Don’t stop. Don’t stop.”
    “There’s nothing here.”
    Alan stopped, bent forward struggling for breath with his hands on his knees. The snow went on like the ocean, never ending until it touched the unreachable horizon. Under his labored breath, he cursed “I told you I don’t want you anymore. I don’t need you.”
    “Don’t need me? Are you daft? I’m the one who got us out of that hellhole prison. I’m the one who set us free. I’m the narrator, pal. It’s my story, I’m telling it. You’re just the character in it.”
    Alan shook his head vigorously, side to side with salty tears blocking his vision. “It’s my life and you’re nothing to me. You don’t live for me, and I can out run you.” He took off running, listening to the wild shriek of the narrator falling away behind him. The elation of getting free of that sinister voice was a thrill. It wouldn’t let him sleep, eat, or even watch tv in silence without making noise in his head. Now it was a tormented whisper far behind him.
    Across a wide expanse of winter frost, Alan sprinted until the burning sensation overwhelmed his body. His sides were splitting, he could barely gather breath.
    “You killed a man,” the narrator said. “You fried his brains in butter. You were looking for some clean dinner plates when the cops showed up.”
    “Go away. I hate you!”
    “The cops even chased you through the house. You wouldn’t leave until you had a bite. But you couldn’t find a clean plate in the whole house! You hate me? Try being around you. Filthy slob.”
    “That was then. This is now. I’m not dangerous. Not anymore.”
    “Totally believable,” the narrator howled. “Tell me then. Why are you covered in blood?”
    “I’m not.”
    “Yes you are.”
    Alan screamed into the wide open blue of winter. He was covered in wet, warm blood. It was on his hands and pooled on his clothes. He tried to wipe it away from his face but couldn’t tell if he was making it worse. “Stop. Please stop it.”
    “I told you, pal. It’s my story. I’m the narrator and you are my character.”
    “I’m going to kill myself,” Alan promised.
    “We can be together forever if you do. Go ahead.”
    Alan fell to his knees “What do I have to do to get you to leave me alone?”
    “I want a hundred sacrificed virgins and a pepperoni pizza.”
    “Are you serious?”
    “Na'h,” the Narrator chuckled “All you have to do is make a choice, pal. Either you put the cuffs on…”
    “What cuffs?”
    … Those ones by your feet. Put those on and you will be with me forever.” Handcuffs, shining silver tainted with a glistening winter frost appeared open on the ground.
    “Just run away. Keep running. And you will kill again, and again. It won’t ever stop.”


  2. I'm slowly catching up. :) No way anyone's ready for this one... :)

    Pink Flamencos

    1. I really liked this one. Love that you changed it to a salt flat. Works well. Thanks for joining.