Mulled Wine - Flash Fiction

“What if we never grow up?” She looks at me, the question heavy in her eyes as though it isn’t a childish fantasy. “What if we stay young forever?”

I smile, ignoring the seriousness of her tone and picking up my plastic cup. The mulled wine is warm against my fingers and the smell of the spices makes my mouth water. I take a sip then hold the cup up between us. “We’d have to lie about our age to buy drinks… forever.”

“True, but isn’t that half the fun?” Her eyes twinkle.

“I dunno. I sort of think it might be fun to buy a drink without the looming threat of getting caught.”

She reaches for the joint that rests between the fingers of my other hand. I pass it to her and watch her take a long drag. She holds her breath, refusing to exhale until the last possible moment. Around wisps of smoke she says, “Because you’re all about doing the right thing?”

I realise I’ve been holding my breath too, allowing time to stop for that tiny moment between us. I let it out, a long slow sigh that starts the world back into motion.

I don’t bother answering her question. 

“Don’t you want to grow old with me?” I ask, knowing I sound petulant.

“No,” she says, pulling me up off our makeshift seat of discarded crates. She spins me round until I’m dizzy, then sways with me to drum beats that bounce off the walls around us. “I want to stay young with you.”

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Next month marks the 15th anniversary of Rektango. Most people outside of Hobart (and many Hobartians themselves), will have no idea what “Rektango” is, but it was a hugely important part of my teen years. Every Friday evening after school we’d run down to a small courtyard off the wharfs. At that time it was a small event, but it grew pretty quickly. Families were there, old people, kids, and, of course, teens up to no good. That was us. They sold mulled wine there – the sort that makes your head spin from only a sip, but mostly due to the sugar content, and there was a constant refrain from the band reminding us that the event would be shut down if the police caught anyone smoking pot, “They can smell it, you guys.” The event was never shut down, though. The first band to play regularly was called Rektango, and eventually the event took on that name. Now it’s huge, and small at the same time (kind of like Hobart). Crowds of people stuffed into this tiny courtyard, dancing madly and without a care in the world to music that sings in your veins.

Anyway, I was just thinking about Rektango this evening, and being young, and other things, so I wrote this little piece. xx

Creepy Victorian Children

While doing some research for a story recently, I became distracted by photos of Victorian children. They are almost all horrifyingly creepy, others are just... well... hilarious.

Here is a small selection of my favourites:

Danica has been planning the murder of her aunt for a good ten minutes at this point. Not only did her aunt insist she wear the fugliest bow in the history of hair accessories, but she also gave Danica that bear for her birthday - even though it was clearly flee-ridden and even though Danica had quite specifically asked for a set of dueling pistols. I assume that shiny ball she's holding will be the murder weapon - I shudder to think beyond that.

30 seconds after he took this photo, Alphonzo regretted giving shovels to children.

Mistakes were made.

It should be clear to anyone looking at this photo that Clara is a witch. Right now she's having a vision of the photographer's demise at the hands of an angry clown. She may or may not tell him to avoid circuses as a result. It depends on how long he insists she sits still.

Maddie just hit the 30,000 word mark on her NaNoWriMo novel when her mother insisted she take a break for a photo. Maddie refused to stop writing until her mother took her pen by force. Her mother will pay later. First Maddie will kill her off in her novel, since this is no time to stop writing, later, however... shit's gonna get real.

Ralph and Timmy didn't intend for the day at the beach to turn so violent, but they got sand in their stockings (in all the uncomfortable places) and then had feelings.

Ms Sampson was telling the class about her relationship troubles again. She showed them her new Tinder profile and asked what they thought. They all agreed she might want to include pictures of anything other than her cat, but said nothing.

Twins and a dollhouse? This one's too easy. Obviously the dollhouse is an exact replica of their home and obviously the family just can't seem to keep a governess. It will always be a mystery how, exactly, Miss Daintree managed to drown herself in an empty bath.

Gerald and Sebastian heard one of the servants whisper the phrase "The One Percent" in tones of loathing and perhaps a hint of rebellion. They did not know the plebs could do maths and were momentarily concerned until a delivery arrived with the new leopard skin rug Gerald bought for the 7th bathroom. Retail therapy makes everything better. They'll deal with that servant later...

This one is courtesy of Amy Jo Cousins, who wisely observed that all these kids are zombies. Thomas, the boy on the right, is Patient X. The outbreak has not transformed them completely yet. It's a slow moving, insidious virus. Yesterday, Thomas bit the head off a bird - yes he was already a little demonic - triggering a human-bird-zombie mutation. This morning he bit his siblings. The photographer is next. By tonight, the entire household will be hunting for brains.

***
I have more of these I might share the next time I have a deadline looming... In the meantime, do you have any favourite creepy Victorian photos? Please share! As you can probably tell, I'm taking procrastination to the next level and could use all the help I can get.

xx
Helena

The Manor - Flash Fiction

The manor was old and dark and it smelled wrong. The kind of smell that got under your nails, under your skin, and you couldn’t scrub it away no matter how hard you tried.

Mary shivered - it was cold too. She wondered whether any sunlight had ever penetrated the darkness of her new home. This forsaken place. Or was it she who was forsaken?

She couldn’t remember.

She couldn’t remember much these days. Not since she gave up.

Once upon a time she had tried. Awoken each morning with a sense of purpose. She’d gotten dressed and proceeded with the day as if it mattered. As if anything mattered.

Now she just went on.

She’d keep going on, she supposed, like the stones that kept holding up the manor despite all the time that passed, all the days and all the forgotten inhabitants.

“What do you think, my dear?” Tristan asked, pulling her forward by the arm a little too suddenly so she stumbled. “Won’t this be the perfect home for children?”

“Children?” Mary shuddered at the thought of bringing innocents to live in such a place, but Tristan went on as though he hadn’t noticed.

“You’ll feel better here, dearest,” Tristan promised. “Everything will be better now.”

Mary doubted that, but she went on anyway, following him as he showed her around her new cage.


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I haven't shared any of my writing in a while (what a slacker!), so I thought I'd share these scribbles from last night. Sorry it's a bit dark - I've been binge reading some of my favourite first wave feminists again and they always know how to kick me in the feels.

Possibilities - #DirtyGoggles

Title: Possibilities (798 words)

Twitter Handle: @Helena_Kendrick

Category: Steampunk

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“Blast! That is the end of that idea.” Clarice, investigator-come-inventor, dropped the mechanical arm she was holding to the ground and proceeded to give it a good hard kick.

It flew across the room, missing Jasper’s head by a mere hand’s width. Leaning casually against the wall and sipping from a teacup, he did not seem particularly concerned, but shouted nonetheless, “Watch out!”

 “You’ll live,” said Clarice, now rummaging around in a chest. “I was sure I had a replacement valve somewhere, but it looks like we shall have to pop down to Smithy’s.”

Jasper let out an exasperated sigh. “Can I finish my tea?”

“That would depend entirely on whether you can drink it on the go.”

Clarice sprinted up the stairs from her lab two steps at a time without waiting for Jasper. At the top, she glanced in the mirror. Her hair was in a state, so she pulled on a bonnet. Licking her thumb, she cleaned grease off her cheek.

“Do I look all right?” she asked Jasper as he reached the landing.

“That would depend entirely on whether you are going for the demented spinster look.”

“Touché,” Clarice said, grabbing him by the arm. She pulled him out the door, ignoring the clattering of his teacup on the floor.

As they reached the main road a steam carriage sped past. Its engine churning loudly and billows of steam rose above their heads.

Clarice pulled herself up onto the carriage’s luggage hold without concern for her skirts or the shouts of the carriage’s occupants. “Come on, Jasper. We’ve not got all day!”

Pulling himself up beside her, Jasper slumped against a suitcase.

Clarice watched as London rushed past. The familiar buildings blurred together, but above two airships sailed through the sky, their huge balloons chasing away any notions of the ‘impossible’. Clarice smiled. With a replacement valve, a little luck and some elbow grease, she would have herself a working automaton in no time.

“Next corner,” she shouted at Jasper above the sound of the wind.

As the carriage slowed down to take the bend, she and Jasper leapt down. Clarice stumbled only slightly on the cobblestones, but had to catch Jasper as he toppled forward, nearly heading straight into an apple cart.

“You are going to be the death of me,” said Jasper, brushing off his coat.

“But such an exciting death it shall be,” Clarice returned with her most maniacal grin.

The two wandered down a lane and arrived at a building that had seen better days. Windows were boarded up and grime coated the façade, but Clarice was unconcerned until she saw the half open door. The sign which usually read “Please Enter” was lying upside down on the ground and fragments of glass spilled out from inside.

Clarice edged slowly through the entrance, her feet crunching on the glass. “Stay outside, Jasper.”

She did not wait for a response, but walked further inside. Clarice could not make out the precise source of the glass as the entire room was a wreck. A table was upturned and the shelves which usually held an assortment of mechanical odds and ends had been tipped over.

“Deidre?” Clarice called out.

She heard a muffled sound from the back room and rushed towards it, ignoring the sound of broken possibilities underfoot.

Deidre Smith was tied to a chair, her mouth gagged with a cloth. Her wide eyes strained and Clarice understood their warning. Twisting, she slammed her elbow into the chest of the man who had stepped out from behind the door. He grunted but continued to move forward, his arms wrapping around her.

Clarice threw her head back, expertly smashing the back of her head into the intruder’s nose. He released his grasp on her waist and Clarice turned, throwing a punch across his jaw. The man recovered, though, and before Clarice could take another swing, he dashed through the front room and past Jasper, who had ignored Clarice’s order and come inside. Torn between chasing the intruder, and helping her friend, Clarice watched as the man vanished onto the street.

“What on Earth?” asked Jasper.

Clarice returned to Deidre’s side, unbound her hands from behind the chair and pulled off her gag.

“Dearest, are you all right?” Clarice asked, placing a hand on Deidre’s shoulder.

“Fine,” said Deidre, “But my shop.”

“I shall find out who was behind this, I promise, but I do not suppose you know whether any of your 15mm valves are still in one piece?”

“Clarice!” Jasper broke in. “This is hardly the time.”

“This is precisely the time,” said Clarice. “I need to build myself an assistant!”

Jasper sighed. “Just a thought, Clarice, but have you considered hiring a human?”

"Oh Jasper, sometimes you really are too preposterous.”

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The above was written for the #DirtyGoggles flash competition, hosted by Jenn, Stephen and Ruth. You can find out more here: http://ruth-long.com/?p=481 

It's 3.30am now, so I'm not entirely sure my story makes sense, but the other entries in the comp are well worth reading - they are all linked on Ruth's blog, so check them out! The character's in my tale are old friends from a series of short stories I've been writing, which I may, some day, turn into a novel (or something). Maybe.

Worry Dolls - Flash Fiction

Daniel pulled his hand from under my pillow, retrieving the little box I kept hidden there. "What's this?"

"My worry dolls." I snatched the yellow box from him, intending to hide it again, but at the questioning look in his eyes I pried it open. "See?"

He held his hand out and I shook the little world into his palm. Seven tiny dolls, my friends since childhood, stared up at us. Each of their faces wore different expressions. Millie, the one with the blue skirt, always looked the most concerned, and sometimes I worried that the others weren't all that fair when sharing my troubles.

"What are they?" Daniel looked confused and I wasn't surprised.

I traced my finger along the length of each of the dolls in his palm. Their bright outfits were a stark contrast to the grey/blue of my bedroom walls and their entire existence was out of place in my life of scientific textbooks and rational thinking.

"I tell them my worries," I said, smiling at the silliness of my statement. "And, like magic, they make my worries go away."

The look on Daniel's face was starting to resemble that of Millie's and I could tell he was struggling to understand. Out of habit, he brushed a strand of hair behind my ear, the lightness of his touch gliding along my skin as he said, "But they aren't really magic."

I knew that was true as much as I knew fairies weren't real and my prayers were just whispers that disappeared pointlessly into the night. I didn't really know it at all.

But I knew what he needed to hear - my sweet Daniel, who saw the universe in black and white and grey, but never rainbow.

"No, they aren't really magic," I said. "Just a bit of fun."

Daniel visibly relaxed as I placed the dolls back in the box and closed the lid, leaving it resting in his hand. He rolled on top of me, but not before carefully placing the box under my pillow. Leaning down, close enough that his lips touched mine, he said, "You don't have anything to worry about tonight."

Seeing the hunger in his eyes, I wasn't so sure, but as I arched up just enough to grasp his lower lip in my mouth, I hoped my worry dolls weren't listening all the same.

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This morning I was scrabbling around in some old boxes and found the wee worry dolls of my childhood. They were still in pristine condition, despite the devotion with which I loved them as a child. It got me thinking about all the things we believe (or know for certain) as children, but forget or disbelieve as we grow up. I remember knowing without a doubt as a child that there were fairies at the bottom of my garden, just as I remember telling friends and partners that such beliefs were childish nonsense as I grew up. Now I like to think I was right the first time round.

Cut Carrots - Flash Fiction

The first time I saw her I knew it. Without a doubt. I was looking at a goddamn angel. I didn't voice the thought because it was too much of a cliché. The sort of thing a creep at a bar says about five minutes before you throw a drink in his face. Also, I couldn't have opened my mouth if my life depended on it. I sat, dumbstruck, as she casually dropped her bag onto the bench beside me.

"Anyone sitting here?" she asked after she'd already sat down. When I just stared in response she didn't even notice, too busy tipping her head back to drain the last of her coffee.

She wore black skinny leg jeans and a flannelette shirt. About as far from angelic as clothing could get, but the way she wore it gave her away. Everything about her was a little too intense, too blunt, like she was trying too hard to cover her grace.

"Fuckin' ay," she said in the same tone someone else might say 'Dear God' - not blaspheming, but with total reverence. "This weather. Bloody gorgeous."

She stretched her legs out in front of her and my gaze drifted along their line to the park before us. I tried to see what she saw, but couldn't. The sun was piercingly bright and I felt sweaty from the heat.

She pulled out a tupperware container from her bag, opened it up and held it out, offering me the contents - carefully cut carrots and a side of dip. I wondered whether she had prepared them, or if someone at home had made lunch for her. She didn't seem like the cut carrots type. "You come here often?"

I laughed then. It came out louder than I expected and she raised her eyebrows at me.

"Do I come here often?" I repeated. It was about as cheap a pick up line as they came, and seemed totally out of place given our setting, though no worse than some line about angels falling from Heaven.

"That's not what I meant to ask." She looked flustered then, which was weird, because angels shouldn't look flustered. She tugged on her ear in a way I could tell was a nervous habit. "Fuck."

She was laughing too then as she ran a hand through her short spiky hair. I took a bite of carrot. When I'd finished chewing and her laughter had given way to silence, I said, "What did you mean to ask?"

She pointed at the duffel bag at my feet. "I was gonna ask, where you headed? And, can I come?"



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I wrote this piece very late last night / early this morning, so my inspiration was a combination of insomnia and memories of a girl I used to know. She always seemed like she was in a perpetual state of going somewhere and coming from somewhere else. She wore flannelette shirts like they were some kind of manifesto.

Bittersweet Book Love!

I wrote a little rambling post on Love Reading Romance this week about my mixed feelings when it comes to reading a good book. It is possible I take reading a little too seriously...

A Melancholy Look at the Magic of a Good Book