All Change for R.S. Bohn - Penultimate February Femme Fatale

February Femmes Fatales - 
February 27th

She may not forgive me for saying so but R.S. Bohn is bad to the bone - at least her writing is - in the most stunning and beautiful way. She consistently captivates her audience with the obscure and bizarre, treading with ballet-shoes across egg-shells, plunging us in and out of labyrinths.

She is myth and she is corsets; she is a challenge to psychology and a purveyor dreams. Rebecca Bohn is a writer I can't get enough of, and I await her fictional future with relish.

Rebecca's final Femmes Fatales tale First Time For Everything explores misconceptions and bigotry. It equally saddens, frustrates and maddens me; a clever achievement in under 1000 words.

First Time For Everything by R.S. Bohn

Victor’s at the end of the bar with the game machine, blowing smoke over it and taking sips of a martini. He’s not wearing the wig tonight, because it needs to be washed and re-styled, and anyway, it’s too damn hot in Frank’s. They’ve got the door propped open by him, but there isn’t a hint of a breeze. He sighs and rubs his temple. Wishes he could go to another bar.

The front door opens, everyone looks. A skinny kid in a long black coat, no shirt underneath, sunglasses on even as he makes his way through the gloom up to the stretch of polished mahogany, a relic of days when Frank’s was Frankie’s Place and the after crowd would hang here, talking about the play or orchestra or whatever the hell had gone on down at the Broad. Before the Broad closed and they all went away, leaving the junkies and people like Victor to fill in the empty spaces.

The kid's hair is greased, slicked back. Victor thinks the kids these days try too hard. He thinks this as he puts down his martini glass and cigarette and swivels up lipstick for a fresh coat.

He stares at the screen, waiting for the door to open again. The kid’s got a clique, no doubt. They’ll be in here any minute, loud, boisterous, annoying Frank’s regulars, who just want to drink their drinks and smoke their smokes and talk about how it isn’t like it used to be.

Another martini – no rocks, extra olives – appears at his elbow. He frowns at Danny. “What’s this?”

Danny grins. “You got an admirer.” He walks away. “There’s a fucking first for everything.”

“Fuck off,” tsks Victor after him, but he’s nervous. What does the kid want? He’s coming over, trying to sway, trying to make the most of the slim bit of chest he’s got, those matchstick hips. Twelve. He looks twelve to Victor. But then, they all do these days. Little boys.

“Hey. What’s your name?”

Victor could laugh at the dramatic huskiness the kid’s putting on. He puts a hand over his mouth, then says, “Victor. Thanks for the drink. Now kindly fuck off.”

The kid’s face falls. It’s a pretty face. Narrow, smooth, tanned. Dark eyes behind the cheap sunglasses. No. Victor will not fall for pretty boys that look Brazilian. He had enough of those seven years ago with Juan.

“I thought we could…”

“What? Talk? Go out back for a quick suck?” Victor rolls his eyes when the kid’s face momentarily lights up.

“I heard that…” The kid pauses. “I heard that this place, you know, Frank’s…”

“Yes, this is Frank’s.”

“You know. That sometimes, some guys. Uh.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-one.”

Victor stares.

“Eighteen.”

“That’s better. No lies.” He sips his martini and lowers his voice. “There are a lot of men in here who might be interested, but I’m not one of them.”

The kid shuffles closer. He smells like tanning lotion and Gaultier, dear god. He leans in. “Look. I’ve never done this before. You…”

“Look like I’ve done this before?”

The kid shrugs. He looks miserable.

Victor takes pity on the kid, who probably just got out of school after keeping his sexual orientation secret for four years. A kid who’s trying too hard, and doesn’t know the rules yet. And besides, he looks Brazilian.

The bathroom’s just behind them. Victor tips his head, the kid follows him. The light is dim yellow, the walls and ceiling burgundy rubber.

“What’s your name?”

“Paul.”

“Well, Paul, there is a first for everything,” he says, and undoes the top button of the kid’s jeans.

He’s amazed, though he shouldn’t be. He’s forgotten what eighteen is like: the kid probably woke up hard, jerked off, and has been hard all day since.

“Lock the door,” whispers Paul.

Victor, already down on his knees, groans and shoots the kid a look for making him get up off his old knees. He locks the door. When he turns around, Paul is zipped back up. He starts to think the boy’s changed his mind, when it hits him. The kid’s fist. Left cheek. He goes down to one side, unable to defend himself – it’s happening too quick. Another blow. Another. He can’t call out. He’s got no breath to call out. His head knocks against the sink, and he tries to slip under it.

“I’m not a faggot.”

The blows have stopped. For the moment. Victor, hand over one side of his face, looks up. Paul is shaking.

“I’m not a faggot. Say it.”

Victor wipes a hand across his mouth, smearing blood and China Red. “You. Are not a faggot,” he says softly.

“No,” says the kid, staring down, wild-eyed. His thin chest heaves. He looks like he’s going to cry. He’s out the door, fumbling with lock, yanking it open and disappearing. The door shuts again, leaving Victor, the faggot, on the floor with a face full of pain. It’s not the first time. He wishes it was, but it’s not.

He thinks about Paul, running shirtless into the summer night, black coat flapping. No, it’s not the first time. It hasn’t been the first time for a long time now.

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Bio:

RS Bohn lives in a suburb outside of Detroit with a motley troupe of creatures and one lucky man. She's currently writing a steampunk novel, and you can find more of her shorter work here: http://rsbohn.blogspot.com/

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Counting Down, 1..2..3... Dorothy Davies, February Femme Fatale

February Femmes Fatales - 
February 26th

And so we count down to the final three days of the February Femmes Fatales showcase. The standard of writing has been extraordinary, and these upcoming pieces are by no means last in quality. On the contrary.

Dorothy Davies; author, editor, mentor displays herself here in a literary sense. Hers is a matter-of-fact declaration of intolerance. There is no moral high-ground, simply a territorial case of 'this belongs to me, and if you break the rules - you pay.' That's the way it is; if you don't like it...

Of course, as a piece of fiction we do like it very much. I've already read Do You Happen To Have... several times,  but I still want more. How about you...?

Do You Happen To Have... by Dorothy Davies

Do you happen to have...

No, before I ask you that, let me explain why I need to know. You know the best way to dispose of a body? Dump it in the cellar and let the rats feed. Simple, isn’t it? How come no one seems to have done it? Oh, there’s the small problem of what to do with the bones but – well, come night and a mallet, you can smash bones into tiny fragments which can then be tossed in with the household refuse and who knows what goes into the back of the refuse lorry and then to the landfill site?

That’s what I did with the charity worker who refused to accept ‘no thank you’ as a polite way of saying ‘I don’t care about your charity; I have enough to do catering for my own, thank you very much’. He would argue, so I invited him in. Fool that he was he came in, too, thinking he would convince me with his superlatives and his greased hair and his false teeth. He didn’t, he just gave me a good deal more to smash up. Good job I don’t have neighbours.

The rats fed well that night.

It’s not that I enjoy killing, you understand. I am not that heartless. I just – like the power of life and death. I like to survey the person standing on my doorstep and decide whether they should live or die. Are they of any use to mankind; are they better off being disposed of? Those who come to deceive and steal, they are of no use to anyone so they become – well, rat food, basically. Other people go to the supermarkets and buy cat food and dog food; I get rat food delivered to the door. On foot. No effort involved.

The rats are multiplying, though and they need more food than they did when I began. Oh, when did I begin? Who was the first to meet his fate in my cellar? I think it was the simpering irritating canvasser for the local Tory party. I don’t vote. Don’t believe in it. Why waste time and effort putting a pencil cross – and how demeaning is that, I ask you? Make your mark, peasant! No signatures needed here! – to vote in someone who you will never hear from again. No, I refuse and I told this simpering twit I refuse.

‘Suffragettes fought for your right to vote!’ he insisted.

‘No,’ I said, ‘you have it entirely wrong, little man. They fought for the right for women to vote. Not for me. I came into this world a long time after that right was given – and remember this, they didn’t win the vote; it came about through the war.’

At this point he put a foot in the house as if to attack me, so great was his rage, so I stood back and let him in. Not a thought in my head at that moment of anything but – shall I be honest? Pure malice. I wanted to confound him; I wanted to flatten the ego with which he came. Instead I flattened his head and threw him down the steps... No I didn’t, I rolled him down the steps into the cellar.

You see, I knew there were rats down there and I had done nothing about them. Animal lover, you understand, can’t bear to kill anything. No traps or poison for me. So they lived there quite happily, cohabiting with me. I didn’t bother them, they didn’t bother me.

Until they got the taste for flesh.

It’s a bit of a job keeping them supplied but I can do it, if I work hard enough at it. No sign on my door about no callers, I welcome them.

Then I invite them in to talk. And tea. And a visit to the cellar – that’s not optional, by the way, that’s compulsory.

I started a new game last week. Not killing them first. Oh the fun I had hearing the squeals and shrieks and screams and hammering on the cellar door. They don’t know I bribed the local builder to reinforce that door with steel. Looks like old battered wood on their side. What a joke, I laughed myself silly first time it happened.

I just have this small problem. The rats are multiplying and like I said, no traps or poisons for me, animal lover that I am.

There’s only one solution and you might be able to help me with that.

Do you happen to have the mobile number for the Pied Piper?

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Bio:

Dorothy Davies, writer, medium and editor, lives on the Isle of Wight, that small haunted island off the south coast of England. There she writes her very strange stories and channels books from spirit authors about their lives and loves and their need to put the record straight.

Dorothy Davies Author, 'Death Be Pardoner To Me', the life of George, duke of Clarence.

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Lily's Friday Prediction

The glory of morning rises over the Sussex coast... or at least it would if it wasn't so damp and squib-like. (What is a squib anyway, and why does it always have to be damp?) Anyway, it's my final day off and I intend to use it, skin-sucking mist or not.

This is of course has nothing whatsoever to do with the Friday Prediction so I'll ram my fist into my big mouth and get on with it.

Firstly, many congratulations to Mimimanderly whose poignant and dignified tale Letting Go was the winner of last week's challenge. Well done too to Melenka for her marvellously twisted poem Wed, which caught the runner-up cup.

To me, this week's words are simple but immediately evocative. I just know they'll inspire you. And for regulars, I'm sure you'll be relieved to know I'm giving your Thursdays back - at least for the time being.

• Fertile
• Thirst
• Denounce

Rules:

The rules are: 100 words max flash fiction or poetry using all of the words above. Please add your entries in the Comments box below. You have all week until 9pm UK time on Thursday 3rd March to enter.

Winner will be announced next Thursday or Friday. If you can, please tweet about your entry, using the #fridayflash hashtag, and blog if you feel like it.

I look forward to your scribbles, drabbles, poems, coquettish prose and dangerous flash. In fact, I'm hungry for them...

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Sparkling and sumptuous Susan May James - February Femme Fatale

February Femmes Fatales - February 25th

Susan May James opened the February Femmes Fatales showcase with Shadows. Her second generous offering, Rubies is equally well-written, and just as strange.

There's a poetic magic to the story of Jasmine and her rubies; the conversations she has with them twinkle as much as the fairy-lights in her London apartment.

But I will say no more, except that life is not all roses, even if they are ruby-red...



Rubies by Susan May James

Pulling on her stiletto boots Jasmine sits on the bench near the door and casts a final glance around the studio flat. Everything is perfect; the dark burgundy curtains are drawn, fairy lights twinkle in strands from the ceiling to the walls and unlit candles dot tabletops and shelves. The sofa bed has been made up with satin sheets and topped with a crushed velvet throw and three plump pillows. ‘Sumptuous,’ she coos as she stands up and crosses the room. Her steps are heavy, causing her heels to echo against the laminate floor. Pausing in front of a small table in the corner of the room she closes her eyes for a moment, breathing deeply and calming her nerves. Incense wafts up, drenching her in a cloud of sandalwood as she opens her eyes to look down at her collection of crystals and gemstones. Amber, rose quartz and amethyst catch her eye but her hand reaches out to wrap around a large polished piece of aventurine. Holding the pale turquoise coloured sphere tight to her chest, absorbing its properties, she reaches with her other hand for a small velvet bag. After a few moments, she replaces the sphere, slips the velvet bag into her coat pocket and leaves the flat.

Sirens blare as she makes her way along Camden High Street. The street is wet and the air damp and thick with the smell of fast-food. She darts down a small alleyway and into a bar. Music pulses and her eyes take time to adjust while she buys a drink and sits down, her long skirt brushing the floor. She takes out the velvet pouch and shakes three raw rubies into her palm. Each the size of the tip of her baby finger, they are dull and flecked with impurities. Nonetheless she smiles as she holds them, knowing the process won’t take long.

She sheds her leather coat and is just leaning back to sip her drink when a man at the next table smiles and tries to catch her eye. She grips the rubies but nothing happens and so she ignores him and checks her watch. The man turns away and she sighs, looking round the room as she strokes one of the rubies between her thumb and forefinger. The second one is more self-assured as he approaches, greeting her with a cocky grin. He sits down and introduces himself but his voice is lost in the dull roar that washes over her. The experience is similar to holding a seashell to her ear, only much more intense. As the rush fades, the rubies grow cool in her palm and when she glances down she sees that they’ve grown darker in colour. The rubies work more quickly now. Looking up at the man she meets his gaze and smiles. He is the one, the rubies whisper.

‘What are those?’ he asks as she puts them back into their velvet pouch.

‘Oh, just my lucky charms,’ she replies before taking a sip of her drink.

His name is Thomas and he works for a small PR firm in Kentish Town. “I don’t normally come in here,” he says. “But it’s been a long day so I thought I’d stop in for a swift half.”

Jasmine nods, he’s not really her type, but that doesn’t matter, it’s not her decision. She notes the faint line on his finger; slightly indented and pale in contrast to the rest of his tanned skin.

“Are you married?” she asks.

“No,” he is quick to reply and changes the subject. “What do you do?”

Looking away so he doesn’t see the flash of resentment in her eyes, Jasmine finishes her drink. “I’m a pharmacist.”

Thomas stands up, “So, what are you drinking?” he asks but she hesitates, explaining that she prefers to get her own drinks.

“It’s just that I don’t know you,” she says as he sits back down. “I’m sorry if I’ve offended you but I like to be careful.” He accepts this and passes her a banknote before she heads to the bar.

As she waits for their drinks she turns her back to him and slips her hand into her skirt pocket, discreetly working a small tablet into her palm. Then, as the bartender turns away, she deftly drops it into the drink and reaches for a swizzle stick. Smiling, Jasmine returns to the table.

It doesn’t take long for the alcohol and drug to take effect and they stagger towards her flat. Although Jasmine is sober, she stumbles under his weight as she guides him up the stairs. Once inside, she just manages to get him onto the bed as he passes out. With a sigh of relief and anticipation, she quickly rolls him over and cuffs his hands behind his back. She then lights the candles and a fresh stick of incense, taking a moment to switch on the stereo and lava lamp. The sound of pan flutes fills the room as she spreads a large tarpaulin onto the floor and drags her tools out from under the sofa bed. Fairy lights twinkle and she pauses to admire the atmosphere.

After awhile she heaves Thomas onto the floor and strips off his clothes. Folding them into a bundle she places them into a carrier bag; tomorrow she will donate them to a charity shop.

Hours later she sits with her head on the kitchen table, exhausted. Her task is near completion; the cutting had been arduous but now all the pieces are individually wrapped in plastic and packed into two large suitcases. It had taken her longer this time and daylight now creeps in round the edges of the curtains. Disposal must wait.

Nonetheless she is satisfied; she always listens to her rubies and follows their bidding.

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Bio:

SUSAN MAY JAMES is a Canadian born writer living in London. She writes flash fiction, short stories and is currently working on a novel. Her other passions include travel, photography and history and she can be found scribbling and scattering on her blog; Scribble & Scatter.

Prediction Winner

Giddy up and get those hosses on the run. I'm off to the pub and thar's rum to be drunk. Actually more like a sedate white wine and orange juice, but even so...

Excellent Prediction entries this week, though the numbers have dropped a bit. Seems there's a lot of poorliness going round at the moment so big hugs of good health going out to all.

OK, enough of the niceties and over to the matter at hand. To summarise:

• In David's Lights Out a manipulator uses the narrator to exact revenge without getting blood on his own hands.
• The victims in Ellie's story ebb and flow against the cliff in hope of capturing their killer, in Waiting for the Fall.
• Mimi told a tragic but touching tale of assisted suicide in Letting Go.
• A girl in the throws of deluded adoration takes the final plunge in Sandra's Bastard.
• Antonia has the strangest of creatures learning the even weirder ways of the world in Alien Invasion.
• Diana's back, and she's carrying blades, in Chris' Moonless Night Sonata in D.
• A flight from hell severs its passengers' heads from their travel-weary bodies in Sue's Delayed In Transit.
• Twisted matrimony sees Melenka waiting for for her ex-lover's cast off in Wed.
• A victim of abuse escapes to the Land of Liberty but will never forget her tormenter in AJ's Slowburn.
• The Gods are angry and looking for breakfast in the guise of a fat coach driver in Col Bury's Moody Bastard.
• Erin's murdering weregirl hides her evidence within her scent and under her nails in The San Francisco Slayer.
• My story A Lonely Soldier He tells of one ghost waiting for another, above and below the crumbling cliffs of Sussex.
• Grumpy and thirsty, Anthony's character sees his own face in a dead girl's pram then turns on the boring girlfriend in Nursery Crimes.
• Aidan runs a painful race, planning his revenge through the agony in Crosscountry 2038
• Smugglers take no prisoners in the rush for whiskey barrels for the Abbey in Kim's Holy Water.

Diverse and varied themes made the Prediction a challenge to judge but my winner this week is the poignant and dignified Letting Go from Mimimanderly. Congratulations Mimi, a truly touching read.

Runner-up is Melenka with her matrimonial poem Wed, I loved the delivery and the final twist. Well done Melenka.

I can't finish without a special mention for Anthony's concept of his antihero seeing his own face on the doll in the pram. Tony - the graphic is just for you ;)

Back tomorrow - I'll be waiting...

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Listen to Laurita Miller - February Femme Fatale

February Femmes Fatales - 
February 24th

Welcome to Laurita Miller's second Femmes Fatales entry, Consumed. It's an appropriate title as according to Laurita's blog she has been consuming the old vino lately. If you are considering a wine trip or a tasting festival she has some very sensible advice - in vino veritas.

Reaction to Laurita's earlier short, Red was excellent. I'm sure you will enjoy Consumed just as much. The delivery is vocal and clever, and the whole piece is full of Laurita's unique style and dark, teasing prose.

I - for one - absolutely love it.

Consumed by Laurita Miller

She worked from dawn ‘til dusk on the farm her daddy left her, trying to coax milk from emaciated cows and crops from the dry, cracked earth. Only destitution thrives here.

She wanted better things, fine things. Instead she suffered a solitary life, chained to a ramshackle farmhouse, unable to keep a farmhand long enough to bring in the pitiful harvest. They seemed to disappear as fast as they arrived, leaving her to take care of things on her own once again.

She said she was meant for great things, remarkable things, and she was right. She said nothing ever happened here, nothing worth staying for, and she was right about that too.

Nothing ever happened here, until that day Jim McNally found those indentations behind the remains of her barn, six of ‘em, and the whole town came out to see the other remains, the ones that lay beneath the soil.

They would have asked her about it, but no one has seen her since that night the farm burned to the ground.

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Bio:
Laurita Miller enjoys writing in the dark and walking through revolving doors. Her work has been featured at Gloom Cupboard, Six Sentences, Flashes in the Dark, The New Flesh, Yellow Mama and has appeared in several anthologies. She blogs here: http://ringkeeper.blogspot.com/

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A.J. Humpage - oh, the human horror. February Femme Fatale

February Femmes Fatales - 
February 23rd

A.J. Humpage's skill is in laying bare the bones of human discord, revealing the extreme horror that man - and woman - is capable of. She tackles taboo events of war and abuse, targeting the evil that lies in the hearts of the guilty, exploring too the excuses that are used to defend such behaviour by the individuals themselves but just as frighteningly, by their protectors and governments.

A mistress of sensory description Ally weaves though taste and smells, and also captures the unsubstantiated sense of intuition. Here, in Push the theatre of drug addiction is splattered with filth; the scenario is vile, the victims - tragic. I've already mentioned in a previous Friday Prediction my phobia of heroin addiction due to somewhere I worked for many years where I met both the unfortunate, and some wicked, wicked shites.

Ally's description of the pimp and his victims is spot on. I was always told heroin can't be smelled on users - but I beg to differ. It's a sweet, heady, sickly scent that sticks in your throat like malignant honey. I used to know before an addict even walked in the room that he/she was on their way. I can still sniff out them in the street.

Push is brilliant. It is disturbing, horrifying - a nightmare. Be prepared. I will have to tell myself over and over again not to dream about this tonight.

Push by A J Humpage

The walls gleamed with a strange kind of mucus; a sticky leftover stew gilded by the foul air. Dark, fetid handprints led a path down the silent hallway. The piss-tainted stench, caught by the breeze that rattled through broken windows, lifted from the cold floor and wafted through darkened, rat-infested passageways. Bits of paper and rubbish scuttled against the cool air, settled again.

Distorted reflections shimmered from corners.

A line of dangling light bulbs flickered in tandem. Bare concrete, cold like ice sheets, sucked the dim light from the narrow corridor as Danny parted the darkness and hunched forward, each footstep an empty echo that reverberated long after his presence had drifted into the shifting umbra. He turned a corner, focused on the thin shaft of light at the end of the hallway. The light wavered momentarily; a shadow moved.

He poked a sullen grey face around the broken doorframe. The muted glow from dozens of candles freckled his expression and highlighted every line, every blemish, every droop and every dark, shrunken vein.

A soiled, stale odour of unwashed skin and greasy hair found its way up his nose as he walked through the cans, bottles and cardboard boxes that littered the floor. His young prostitute, Tiffany, sat beneath the broken window while the dusk pressed against the jagged remnants. She swigged from a cider bottle, seemed at ease with his invasive presence, though he suspected that had more to do with her need for a fix.

He dropped onto the stained mattress opposite her, lit a cigarette. The candle flames invoked lithe shadows that flitted across her face, lightened the contours of her sunken cheekbones with irascible definition. Her eyes, just visible beneath the dishevelled fringe, looked like two ball bearings rolling around in an empty skull.

He reached into his coat, pulled out a small foil parcel and dropped it on the floor in front of her. ‘I want paying, so you better get out on the street tomorrow.’

She stared at the silver packet, mesmerised by the way it glimmered beneath the light, the way it seemed to draw her in beyond the gleam, beyond the superficial nature of it. It plunged her headlong into the darkness of want.

‘You had everything yesterday,’ she said, throaty, absent. ‘I’m sore...’

Movement in the corner caught his eye. ‘Tough. You better get me my money, Tiff, or I’ll sling the kid off the balcony.’

Tiff’s four-year-old daughter stood tiptoe in the shit-stained cot, blue eyes bright through a grime-riddled face. She cried out for her mother.

Tiff unfolded the silver parcel and emptied some onto a dessert spoon. She picked up a nearby hypodermic needle, drew up some water from a cup, released some over the powder.

Danny eyed the child, the result of the first time he’d forced Tiffany.

Tiff placed a lighter beneath the spoon, watched the mixture bubble. After a short while, she picked up the syringe and drew the liquid.

Danny looked at Tiff. ‘Suck it up, bitch. That’s good shit.’

The colour of night painted her skin as she turned from him; it withered against the quiet corridors in her mind as insipid eyes rolled back in her head.

He picked up the syringe, drew some of the discoloured liquid.

Tiff crawled forward, shuffled to the cot and picked up the girl. She returned and sat next to the window, scratched around the floor. She found a stale piece of pizza and handed it to the child.

Danny grabbed the needle, pushed it into his bruised flesh, leaving a small amount left in the syringe.

The child fingered the mouldy pizza, watched him.

He sat back, patiently waited for the illusions to creep in to spin their webs.

Time slithered around the room.

After a while, tall thin silhouettes oozed into Tiff’s imaginings, iced her dark eyes like a blackened glacier. She slumped back onto the mattress, but in her mind, she was dropping like an imaginary stone into an abyss.

The child looked up.

Sounds minced inside Danny’s head; how they swirled, spinning like a drunken, nauseous haze and setting him adrift from the darkness of reality. His head suddenly lolled and vomit spilled from his mouth in a thick watery stream. He gurgled and slumped onto the cold floor, embraced by the empty cans, newspapers and bile. His voice broke into a long laugh.

The little girl peered at the strange shapes across the walls. She pointed, spoke into the coiling darkness, her child speak lost to the motionless shapes on the floor. She slowly got to her feet. The tattered curtain above her billowed against the breeze from the window and cast a cold haze across her mother’s skeletal, fading features.

The child turned to Danny, watched his cold breath coiling from the bilious crust forming around his mouth.

She picked up the syringe.

An engorged silence pressed against her as though urging. The needle glinted in the light. The liquid inside moved about, fascinated her.

She crouched beside Danny. Remembering how her mother and Danny had done it, she placed her thumbs against the plunger. Her mother referred to it as medicine, to make people feel better.

She pushed the needle into the soft skin between Danny’s knuckles, pressed down on the plunger and watched the liquid disappear from the tiny tube.

It would make him better, she thought. The medicine. After a nice sleep.

She patted his arm, left the needle sticking out of his hand and went back over to her mother. She sat down and pressed a button on her toy and listened as Twinkle Twinkle Little Star played into the silence that crept through the corridors, the hallways, the open doors, the wretched abandoned rooms, the blackened staircases and the empty floors of the lonely, crumbling tenement block.

Echoes.

She watched as Danny’s skin slowly began to change colour - turning blue, then deathly grey - before eventually falling asleep in her mother’s stiff, cold arms.

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Bio:
A J Humpage has stories published in many anthologies like 6 Sentences, Pill Hill Press, Static Movement and many e-zines. She also writes articles and dispenses writing advice at http://allwritefictionadvice.blogspot.com. She has completed her first novel and some of her stories and poetry can be found at http://ajhumpage.blogspot.com.

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