Birthday

The cake batter dripped down the inside of the microwave, looking not unlike the exploded skull (and contents of said skull) of an alien creature.

Apparently, irrespective of what was clearly good common sense, a microwave was not a good substitute for an oven when the baker had overslept and didn't have the required time needed for the cake to be baked in a conventional manner.

I sighed. Perhaps the three layer raspberry/chocolate/ goulash behemoth of a birthday cake had been a little out of the league of a beginner baker. Why was I even baking a cake anyway? Everyone who knew me, knew that my kitchen cupboards were filled with nothing but takeout menus and ammunition. The slide out herb/spice rack things were the perfect shape to hold my grenades for a start.

I sighed again. It was my stupid sister's fault. My stupid sister and her stupid french manicured friend had looked had looked at me so scathingly when i had turned up to the last soiree straight from work. So ok, not everyone liked the smell of gun smoke and ash but I swear to God it smelt a lot better than some of the animal hormones those women sprayed themselves with.

Normally I didn't let the looks get to me, sure I might not ever be the belle of the ball but someone had to take on the family business, and ever since our brother had absconded with the magician's assistant of a travelling circus, that responsibility had fallen to me.

And I was good at it. Good enough to silence all the naysayers, good enough to keep our family's position strong amongst the others jostling for position with the Crown and good enough that the others in my line of work treated me with respect, rather than a joke.

Which is more than could be said of the useless fripperies of the female persuasion who hung about and thought whoring their way to the top was more respectable than fighting.

Not that I bore a grudge or anything.

I looked again at the....thing in the microwave. Maybe it tasted ok? I reached out and dipped a finger in the batter and popped it in my mouth.

Hmm, I was going to have to seal and bury the microwave for the good of all mankind.

I scowled. I hated baking. But I hated my stupid sister's friends more. Not all men preferred 'feminine and ladylike women'. Not that I wasn't feminine, just because I wielded guns and axes.

And I could be girly if I wanted to. It's not as if acting weak and delicate like a limp doily was hard for chrisssake.

The batter glooped. Was it growing? I hurriedly slammed the microwave door.

I glanced at the clock. I had less than two hours until I had to present myself at court. Shit.

I looked around the destroyed kitchen in a panic - there had to be something I could do?! I refused to turn up empty handed.

My eyes lit upon the mostly full box of cornflakes tucked away in the corner. I grinned.

Who doesn't love chocolate cornflake cakes?

Hunting

The deer carcass creaked in the wind. The cold had sprung so suddenly in the night that it had flash frozen the meat. The windows to the hunting hut were now more ice that glass and already tendrils of frost had squeezed their fingertips through the cracks in the wood planking. My breath left ghosts of itself in the air.

I pulled the blanket tighter around me. He slept beside me, seemingly oblivious to the frozen air, the icicles forming in his hair, in his eyelashes. He slept on while his sweat formed, froze and fell from his skin with a musical tinkling sound.

My fingernails were turning blue, sea blue, blueberry blue, corpse blue.

I pulled the blanket tighter.

The fire had gone out an hour ago. I had tried to walk across the room to relight it but the floor was so cold it had clutched my feet to its grasp and refused to let go. There were now a few steps of bloody footprints leading from and to the bed. An abbreviated dance, the partner changing her mind at last second, just before the music starts.

The deer carcass continued to creak in the wind.

The walls were fully white now, the fingertips having stretched the holes wider and shoved their entire hand, arm, body, head, mouth, teeth through the gap, clinging to the walls, stretching themselves out, cocooning us in the ice and snow.

The lights went out, he still slept beside me and I could hear teeth grinding together in the dark.

I pulled the blanket tighter and listening to the deer carcass creaking in the wind outside.

Writing Practice

Not sure about this - writing it felt like the mental equivalent of trying to squeeze the last tiny bit of toothpaste out. Of course the trouble with squeezing the tube so hard is that the toothpaste goes everywhere but the toothbrush.

His knees pressed down hard into the sand, the guard’s foot on his back keeping him firmly in a bowing position. He could hear the sound of a whetstone being drawn over a blade somewhere nearby. The sweat trickled down his face, dripping from him like a light summer rain, the salt mingling with the discoloured sand below.

The sound of the whetstone stopped. The sand shifted as the executioner began walking towards him. Someone was saying something but he couldn’t hear anything over the sound of his heart thrashing around his chest like a caged alley cat, all teeth and claws and frantic yowls.

The light shifted.

And the world imploded.

Screams and curses sounded all around him as the various smokes bombs thrown into the arena went off, filling everything within the immediate surroundings with a dense white smog.

The guard pining him down was suddenly shoved away and an indistinct silhouette grabbed is arm.

“Run.” It shouted.

He ran, stumbling awkwardly, his balance thrown with is arms tied behind his back. The figure kept pushing and pulling at him, dragging him through the ever more chaotic crowd, the light fractured and the people no more than shadows screaming. At one point he could have sworn the smoke was humming.

“Under here.” His saviour said, “Quick, quick.” It shoved him through a gap in the fence, barely wide enough for a child let alone a full grown man.

“Hurry, hurry.” It said, kicking his arse behind him.

He somehow pushed himself through and took deep gulping breaths of the smokeless outside air.

‘This way, this way.”

They ran towards the river, a boat pulled up to the dock and waiting for them.

His bonds were finally cut.

“How on earth did you distract them long enough to throw the bombs?” He asked his wife.

She grinned at him, her eyes bright against her filthy skin.

“Bees.” She said.

“Bees?” he asked, incredulous.

She nodded. “I threw a whole hive of them I collected into the crowd. Nothing more distracting a whole load of pissed off bees.”

“Who stages a prison break out using bees?”

“Your head is still attached to your body, yet I am really not feeling the gratitude here.” She said, pouting. “If you want I am happy to send you back.”

“No, no,” he said hastily, “I am very, very, very grateful. Viva bees!”

“Humph.” She said, then changed her mind and smiled. “Well, I am somewhat glad you’re not dead so I guess I’ll let you off this time.”  

Writing Practice

Her fingernails were scratching at the cheap plywood of the folding table, caressing the pressed unvarnished wood, the tips of her nails catching on the random dribs and drabs of dried spilled paint and wallpaper glue.

He had thought with the application of the gag and blindfold she would finally be rendered mute but no. The soft scritch scritch of her nails spoke volumes.

Anticipate

The second hand of the clock was slicing up the hour like a pro chef slicing up an onion, the knife moving so quickly that you cringed in anticipation of bloodshed.

I twitched uncomfortably. I could not stop the way my legs stretched cautiously against their enclosures but they found no leeway, just a warm and inescapable embrace.

“Are you sure doing it all at once was the best option?” I asked the women in white.

She didn’t even look up from her nails. “Of course. Nice and quick for you.”

I went back to staring at the ceiling. It looked like the place had a damp problem – tendrils of pewter grey and green mould had filigreed themselves over the pale peach paint.

My teeth itched.

There was a rustle of fabric and the woman appeared front of me. From my semi prone position I stared up at her brilliant white teeth, the brightness of them clashing against the darkness that lay behind.

She reached down to my left leg and took hold of the first wax coated strip.

“Now,” she said sweetly, “this may sting a little.”

And yet more practice (otherwise known as 'How I feel most weekday mornings)

She awoke with the taste of rotting seawater festering in her mouth, half remembered dreams of dwarves, Italian weddings and shelves of unused dusty glasses fleeing her mind like startled mice. She glared at the blurred streak of red light of her bedside clock, the digits refusing to come into focus for her sleep smeared eyes. She gave up and pulled the duvet back over her head. She knew it was past time she should be up so what would five more minutes cost?

More practice

The midday sun stabs through the dusty venetian blinds, strewing sharp edged blades of light across the table. It glitters off the cheap, chipped nail polish painted on the bitten fingernails of the girl hunched over at the table. A mobile phone is cradled between her shoulder and ear as, having bitten through all her nails, she now proceeds to chew on her hair.

A black cat watches from the other end of the table, its bored expression mirroring the girl’s own.

“Are you even listening?” A voice on the other end asks in exasperation.

“Yes.” The girl lies.

“It won’t be my head on the chopping board if you screw up.”

“Yes.” The girl murmurs, the rhythm of her voice is completely unaffected either way by the thought of the hypothetical guillotine.

The cat stretches, its long sinewy body looks more like a snake than a cat, as if it could be a creature more biblical or sinful than a domesticated pet.

“Do you think cats go to heaven?” The girl interrupts the nagging on the other end of the phone. “Do you think they follow their masters?”

The voice sounds even more exasperated. “What the hell are you going on about now? Just focus on the job at hand.”

“The last job.” The girl repeats softly.

A pause. Then “Yes. The last one.”

“Just like the last one.” And this time there is a hint of mockery in her monotone voice.

The voice on the phone brushes it aside. “This is for the greater good. We’re heroes remember.”

The girl looks at the cat again. Its unblinking yellow eyes stare back into hers. From what she remembered from her picture books as a child, heroes were people who didn’t lie. The voice on the phone lied a lot. But then again, so does the girl.

The voice continues. “Have you finished the upload?”

The girl checks her computer screen. “10% left. I don’t think they do you know.”

“Do what?” The voice is clearly at the end of its tether.

“Follow their masters to heaven.”

“You’re talking about the damn cats again?”

“They don’t have masters.” The cat has grown bored with this game and now sleeps at the end of the table. “They just do what they want.”

“I really don’t understand you.”

“I see.” The dial on the screen fills with red, the circle complete.  “Goodbye.” The girl presses enter on her keyboard.

There is a load explosion mixed and flavoured with screaming. Then silence, only static over the airwaves.

In the distance sirens howl. The cat continues to sleep, its ears twitching. The girl continues to chew her hair and watches the blades of light slide across the table towards her.