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.

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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