Purgatory

Rees’ Motorpark, out of town industrial estate, 8am.

            They begin to arrive, hand their keys over the counter to Jed ­– I’m here to help – then sit down at plastic tables in a foyer overshadowed by a vast showroom where new electric Fords gather before them like a row of tanks.

            ‘Annual service,’ explains a skeletal old boy, leather jacketed. Former biker? Jed ponders. ‘Aye, down here on the paperwork, Mr Holland. Can I give you a token for the coffee machine?’ ‘Door latch,’ says the next in the queue, a woman in a trouser suit that is nearly as creased as her face. Jed nods politely.

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Cruelty and Kindness

What is retribution,

If not a never-ending cycle of revenge?

They say it is a penalty inflicted out of vengeance for a wrong act,

But they also say two wrongs don’t make a right.

So, can revenge ever reach completion,

Or will the whole world turn blind?

Who deserves retribution,

If not everyone for every wrong they’ve ever done?

Is it reserved for the homophobes, the racists, the liars, the cheats?

Or does it extend to the lazy, the manipulative, the privileged, and the foolish?

Does it even target the lucky?

Who determines retribution,

If it no longer exists solely with lawmakers?

If we now encourage others to design and enact their own form of retaliation,

And as a public judge whether it was fair,

Is it still retribution if we then punish the offender we helped create?

What is retribution,

If not cruelty extended,

Stretched out and continued long after the original offence?

And do you really believe petty revenge could hurt that type of crook?

No, the cruellest gift the Good bestow upon the Evil is time.

Time is the enemy of unhappy people.

Day of the Asters

I sense their presence before I open the door, despite their lack of scent. What’s the point of flowers without a scent? Just as I feared, I enter my kitchen to find it full of them. Asters. I hate the things.

They spill from vases and peer out of pots on the table, the floor, the windowsill. Some appear to be growing directly from the ceiling, strangling the light fittings and creeping down the walls. It’s a floral nightmare. Where have they come from?

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You killed Jesus!

Fat man berates another bus traveller

“Hey,” the man inquired “are you a Jew?”

“Guilty as charged,” Rossen smiled faintly and returned to his newspaper.

“You ashamed of it?” the man asked

“Didn’t have much choice,” Rossen shrugged and wondered if he should leap out at the next stop.

“Ya look Jewish,” the man sniffed.

“How depressing,” Rossen joked “you make it sound like the Innsmouth look.”

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Romans 12:19. Vengeance is Mine, I will repay, says the Lord.

Darren, God’s second son, was worried about the family’s legacy. Dad had an image problem, so he went to see him.

“Dad,” he said. “We need to give you a makeover.”

“What for?”

“All this divine retribution stuff,” Darren said. “It doesn’t play well. We need PR.”

“Where are we going to get that?”

“Ring the Pope.”

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Sorry Business

Sunset at Coonawarra was sublime. The harsh daylight and perpetual dust momentarily forgotten. The falling sun hit the rocky range and the skies danced from crimson to vermillion. A thrum of cicadas replaced the chorus of laughing kookaburras. “How good?” thought Craig, as he sank into his grandfather’s rocker on the property’s veranda, savouring his chilled Tooheys.

Then one sunset at Coonawarrah turned the red skies black.

“Boss, boss, come quickly!” said Big Foot, Craig’s right-hand man.

“What’s the John Dory mate?”

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June 2024 Task

HOMEWORK for deadline Thursday midnight, 20.06.24.

TASK: ‘Retribution’. Write 500 words or fewer about ‘retribution’. Your story title isn’t included in the 500 words.

Homework to be in by midnight, Thursday 20th June 2024. Use the contact form or email Pat O’Connor directly.

Meeting at 1.30pm, Sunday 23.06.24, Discovery Room, 1st floor, Central library. Finish at 3.30pm.

Escape

I heard stories about the Eternal Windstream. It will test you; it might break you, but if you’re strong enough, it will take you wherever you wish.

My search for it is finally over. I feel the flow of air and its pulsating energy before me. Excited, I step off the cliff.

The fall doesn’t last long. I spread my wings and enjoy the sensation of the wind in my feathers. And up the sky I go, gaining speed. Effortless.

I look back. The land gets further away. How far can I go now? How far should I go?

The wind gets stronger – now I have to fight with it to stay in the flow.

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Escape from Homophonia

Skreg looked at little Rhodri with tears in his eyes… well not really eyes; eyes is what you earthfolks call our assemblage of sensory organs. They generally work well …..until they don’t. Mine were working fine but Rhodri’s seem to have lost all functionality. Out of a sense of nostalgic allegiance, the partner progenitor had insisted on a name she had come across in the Incubatorium, whilst reading up on Ancestry.

“Rhodri Mawr,  father of seven children or eight, depending on the source, and distantly related on my pater’s pater’s pater’s side,” she elaborated.

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Dai Desert Rat

Billy Thomas was excited. His parents were going to a posh dinner in Swansea, this meant he was going to sleep in his grandparents’ house. A rare treat, they went there every Sunday for tea but rarely did he stay. 

Carrying his bag of clothes he set off, his mam’s warning ringing in his ears to behave. Nan was waiting at the door and ushered him in, hugging him. She smelt of lavender and she was tiny – Billy was almost as tall as her – and she reminded him of a small bird. 

Grandad was ensconced in his armchair; he had a ruddy complexion thickset with hands like shovels. ”Alright our Billy.”

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The Undoing

It was a tiny mistake. A lapse of judgement while I drove to work fuelled by caffeine, death metal, and anticipatory rage. I was only seven miles per hour over the limit, but it cost me my driving license.

“Sorry, Jacqueline,” spat Nigel, my boss, in a tone denoting no sorrow whatsoever, “but I must let you go. Platinum Estate Agency can’t condone recklessness, nor can agents attend viewings by bus, or God forbid, on foot. Vacate your desk.”

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Some Sort of Trouble

‘Are you in some sort of trouble love?’ asked the taxi driver.

Nishi squirmed in the hot vinyl hugging her toddler closer, her free hand tightening on the chubby leg of her five-month old.

‘Please… if anyone asks… you never made this journey’ she pleaded, hiding her black eye.

Nishi glanced back at what had been her home, nestled in the verdant hills, diminishing out of view.

The picturesque village with the 16th century church, weekly fete and mother’s group epitomised a rural idyll. Yet the dream was never Nishi’s, and the othering was relentless. The playgroup mothers asking her where she learnt English. Same place you did, from my parents, when I was a baby she thought but never retorted. The barely hidden speculation on what colour her unborn Indian-English child would be. The titters about their house ‘smelling funny’. She had tried so hard to fit in. Eventually exhausted by Murray’s hostility, she had given up.

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Two Big Lads

The two big lads squeezed into groaning chairs in the snug. Regulars compared the pair to two large teddy bears in a broom cupboard.

            ‘A couple of babes on the go; how did I get myself into this mess? ’ McDonagh said, palming sweat from his pale forehead.

            O’ Shaughnessy took his first slurp of Murphys which formed a cream ring around his mouth and said, ‘There are worse problems.’

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Stella

1985

‘Pass us a Carlsberg’, Brian grunted from his recliner.

Stella hauled her heavily pregnant body back to the kitchen and grabbed her husband’s beer and her own TV dinner.  

‘Move – I want to see the beginning of this!’ Brian said in an irritated tone, as his wife of three years passed by his seat. There was no way he would be missing a moment of Crimewatch.

As the now-familiar theme tune began to play, Stella crossed the great divide to the floral, velour sofa that was fast-becoming out of fashion. She sat down, finally resting her swollen feet. Nick and Sue appeared on-screen and started discussing a woman who shot dead her husband.

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Conspiring to return

I love a conspiracy theory, don’t you? Say what you like about them, mine is the best. It’s about…well let me take you to our inaugural meeting to hear believers and the yet-to -be convinced shouting the odds…

Newbie 1: You’re saying Earth is a penal colony used by several peaceful and well run planets to deport their undesirables? Well that makes complete sense to me. I’m in. Who do we have to kill?

Newbie 2: Where did you get the information? Q Anon are very clear about their origins.

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Escape Clause

Man and daughter stand before a vault deep in the bowels of the Earth

Tobermory held his daughter’s hand as they walked along the corridor, their footsteps echoing from the stone walls. He sensed her looking up and gave her a little squeeze.

“Don’t worry, daddy,” Eleanor said, “I’ll be okay.”

“I know, Pumpkin,” he said, displaying a sad smile. “We’ll all be okay.”

“Did you bring Flibut?”

Tobermory pulled the stuffed, one-eared camel from his bag. “Yes, he’s here.”

“Because I couldn’t go without Flibut.”

He looked down at her earnest features, a pixie face in a halo of red curls. Just five years old, he thought, how could there be a god?

He could have scooped her up right there and bounded back down the corridor. But he knew the guards would pick him off before they got out. And a stranger would make the long walk with her.

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Prompt for May 2024

HOMEWORK for deadline Thursday midnight, 23.05.24.

TASK: ‘Escape’. Write 500 words or fewer about ‘escape’. Your story title isn’t included in the 500 words.

Homework to be in by midnight, Thursday 23rd May 2024.

Meeting at 1.30pm, Sunday 26.05.24, Discovery Room, 1st floor, Central library. Finish at 3.30pm.

Members: send all homework to Pat

Joiners: contact us through the Facebook Group

Ruin

I’ve developed a grudging respect for my disease, it’s merely  fighting to survive same as me; both of us were unwitting guinea pigs of doctors  who misdiagnosed us, then prescribed inappropriate treatment, courtesy of the deplorable Sackler family.  It was an osteopath in the end  who felt the adhesions under my skin, with more skill in her fingertips and common sense than the scores of medics who had assessed me before. What precisely are they trained for if they can’t spot a disease as common as diabetes that only occurs in women?

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