Thicket

The woods were dark, but they walked through them anyway. Two paths led towards the meadow and the road beyond: one that crowded the underbrush, and another delineated by the ancient, spaced-out trees in the centre. They chose the darker of the two. Vermin stirred the leaves around their feet, racoons swayed invisibly in branches criss-crossing overhead, and the two girls reached a bend in the path.

“Which way?”

“Through there –” the leader pointed to the deep underbrush.

“You didn’t bring a flashlight?”

An impatient sigh.

“No. Ready?”

A nod, they left the path and, snapping twigs, plunged into the densest part of the little forest. They’d watched the last of the dog walkers head home; they had a little while before the teenagers arrived with cigarettes and pot and bottles of beer to shatter against the trees.

“Do you think the police tape is still up? Do you think there’s still blood?”

“I don’t know.”

“What about the murderer?”

“Shut up.”

“Do you think they’ll catch him?”

“Do you want to do this or not?”

“I don’t know.”

“We’re almost there. I see something.”

It glittered through the trees, reflecting the faint starlight. They approached the great white boulder nestled at the centre of the undergrowth.

“She was here?”

“Yes, my dad said so. Lying on top of it like she was asleep.”

They examined the boulder, standing on tiptoe to see its blank, flat surface.

“What do we do?”

A noise behind them. A white wide-eyed look, and the two girls grasped hands.

“It was nothing.”

“Let’s run. Now.”

 “My dad says you should never run from a predator.”

They turned and gently pressed their way through the thicket opposite the rock. The trees embraced them, shadows hiding shadows, and the two girls crept towards home.

Ashley Woodward

The First Conscript

He looked at his feet, he could hardly see them in the dark. He fidgeted a bit, and the same thoughts kept going round inside of his head. He looked ahead wondering what it would be like when the day began. He began going over again the steps in his journey that had bought him to this point. At every step on the way he had wanted to walk away, but to protest, and to actually do it at the beginning, the recriminations, what would they have been. He dozed off.

Something woke him up. He wasn't sure what it was. He had dreamt about guns. He started thinking about the first time he had used a firearm. The twenty two was a necessity on the farm. It was used to control the increasing presence of rabbits. With his dog, this was his favourite activity after school. At sixpence a skin it provided good pocket money. He looked over to his left where his .303 rifle lay against the bank. He had never had to kill anybody before. He did not want to start now. Maybe this is the time to take action. He looked to the left and the right, saw men dressed the same as him, in the same position as himself and he wondered what was going through their minds. He looked back. Nowhere to go really. He had heard of people being shot doing just that.

He felt, rather than saw, people starting to stir around him. He had dosed off again. Breakfast was served, his uniform was tidied and adjusted and he stood silently with the same question, returning, going round in his mind. It was not long before the order came. The tiredness lifted, the adrenalin took over. He carefully checked his rifle again, it was in good working order. He loaded and he slowly and deliberately climbed out of the trench with everybody else.

He ran, then crawled forward, kneeled to get a better view, Crack! a direct hit and he was dead. He had been in action five minutes, and did not even fire a shot.

Should he have walked away.  

Grant Ward

It was May

It had been three months since the overseas lines had carried her message between sobs and his quiet, secret room in his Arab parents’ house on the other side of the world.

“I just don’t think this is going to work. I love you, but…I can’t. Your parents don’t know about me, mine are terrified I will move there….I’m sorry. I think we really need to do it this time and just call it over.”

“OK,” he whispered through tears I’d never heard from a man before. “I suppose you’re right.”

And like that, my heart shattered. Why is doing the right thing sometimes just so goddamned painful? You’d think our hearts would rejoice that we’ve saved our lives, moved on, gone forward, but the little buggers want to hang on more than anything.

So when the day of her graduation finally arrived – the day they had planned to meet again, when he would return and see her graduate, she fought back the tears, knowing he would not come and that it was for the best, though for the past year she had anticipated nothing else.

The phone rang that morning she would never forget.

“Hi,” he said. “It’s me.”

Silence.

“Where are you?”

“Around the corner. I just couldn’t stay away….”

And like that, pain was reversed into joy. Right out of a movie they ran into each other’s arms and it was quite possible they would never be separated again.  Never, ever, ever. Never mind her mother’s tears. Never mind  “how will we.”

But the phone rang again.

And just like that, four days later he was taking her to the airport, openly weeping as she left him at the gate to return to the life she had known before all this.

“How could you just walk away?” he wept.

How could I not.


Jasmin Webb

Just walk away

The astronauts tell us that, in space, random cosmic particles will pass through the human body, and, if the particle passes through the eye, the astronaut perceives this as a great burst of light. It sometimes happens on Earth too, but how long can a burst of light last?

They lay naked on the rug in front of the open fire. Neither of them had known of Leonard Cohen before they met. They had discovered his music together – their ‘soundtrack’ (with Nik Kershaw – ‘Near a tree by a river there’s a hole in the ground …’ and the BBC reports of ‘Desert Storm’ – best listened to deep in a bed with too many pillows):

‘So, the great affair is over

but whoever would have guessed

it would leave us all so vacant

and so deeply unimpressed …’

One Sunday morning he visited her house. Other Sundays she had declined to kneel at Mass: other Fridays he had asserted he would wear his dragon-covered Chinese skullcap to the synagogue, but that Sunday she asked
– What would you like to do?
– I would like to go to a poultry show and admire the beautiful pheasants.
– There is a poultry show?
– Not at all sure such a thing exists.
They went for a picnic instead. Their friends preferred marijuana or the pub: they preferred picnics.
Down the end of some random country road they stopped and got out of her car and – a pheasant burst from cover into the sky, a resplendent explosion of colour.
Later they strolled down the gravel road discussing life-drawing classes and the colours of cows.
Later still: ‘The number you have called is switched off or outside the calling area.’
‘The number you have called is switched off or outside the calling area.’
‘The number you have called.’


Barnaby McBryde

On Ha'penny Bridge

It’s not wide, the Ha’penny Bridge. Barely two arm-spans of arching asphalt crossing the Liffey from Temple Bar to Bachelor Walk. Too narrow to avoid the crumpled heap of humanity, cross-legged and deathly still against the white iron railings.

He shivers. With a chilling breeze whipping above the water, this must be the coldest spot in Dublin. I tense, still flushed from the joy of wine and music and lilting voices. One gloved hand tightens around the wallet in my coat pocket. Don’t look at me. He raises his head, sensing my approach. For a moment we connect and I stare into his unguarded, hopeless soul.  What does he see? Fear? Pity?  Whatever it is, he finds no comfort and I burn with shame.

Light from either side of the river, spilling out of bars and eateries, doesn’t throw far enough for me to read his cardboard plea. To be honest I don’t try. Where I come from, people don’t end up like this. We have policy, agencies, a safety net. We care – don’t we? How is it that here, amidst open-hearted neighbours, young men beg for change from the pockets of strangers?

Did I imagine him shivering? I glance back for confirmation. Silly bastard, move out of the wind. There are stoops and stairways on the other side of the river, sheltered doorways. I’m indignant, convinced I’m being played.  Try helping yourself, fella.

Along the river, cafés and chip shops ply their trade. A cup of tea, hot food would be better than cash. What you do for the least of these you do for me. And even while I debate with my conscience, my feet keep moving - left, right, left, right, wrong, right, wrong, right – carrying me further away, until it’s too far to reasonably go back.

It’s not wide, the Ha’penny Bridge. Barely two arm-spans of arching asphalt crossing the Liffey from Temple Bar to Bachelor Walk. It’s narrow, as narrow as Heaven’s gate for the indifferent and the hard of heart.


Rosemary McBryde

September

Global politics gone mad. Trump and Hillary. Squabbles and name calling in the local body elections. Threats to Humanities and humanity.  Sometimes it would be nice to just walk away. In September, that's your challenge.  A 300 - 500 word story based on the starter "Just walk away".

Anyone is welcome to join our happy band of writers. Email your contribution to rosemary.mcbryde@gmail.com by 30 September.

Don't walk way - stick with it! Your stories are delightful.