The Fairies... -short story

When it rains the fairies come out.

‘When it rains, the fairies come out…’ She whispered into my ear so it tickled. I had to giggle, even with tears streaming down my flushing cheeks. Her voice was brimming with mischief and cheekiness, and her eyes lit up in the darkness when my grin flared. She could make me feel better just by being her.

The rain continued to trickle dismally down the windowpanes, and the thunder boomed menacingly in the sky, but with her at my side, it just wasn’t as scary anymore, especially with the fairies about. That was our secret, mum and I, one she took to her untimely grave.

The rain was lashing down in an attempt to soak the whole of Harrington on sea. Small rivers were cascading ardently into the gutters either side of the road, and puddles were swelling into small ponds. Karly looked out onto the estranged street, the fairies were out today, surely.

Rain didn’t smell like it used to. Back home it smelt of magic and adventure and a fresh new world. But here it smelt of a damp and depressing urban jungle, mingling with fumes and litter. But it was still rain. It was still the precipitation that Karly so desperately treasured, and it was the first downpour since mum had passed last month. She was going out.

Equipped with wellington boots and a sticky yellow mackintosh, she stepped out of the forlorn looking house. It inexplicably seeped memories of dark times. The street was almost flooding now, and with every step the constant flow of water resisted her further. The water toppled over her boots, no wonder, they were tiny, from 2 years back when she was only 8.  But she carried on labouring forwards, she had to make it up Sunny Hill. It would be dryer there, and she could enjoy the sincere view, the whole village grey and coated in liquid quiet. It was getting harder and harder as the hill steeped and the charging stream became forceful. Karly gritted her teeth and chanted, ‘When it rains the fairies come out…’ her voice hoarse, willing herself to push further into the relentless torrent, but she could feel her legs failing on her no sooner than halfway up the slope, she wasn’t going to make it, she was going to hurt herself… she steadied herself on her hands and knees, it was all she could do to brace herself as the gushing water hit. The water, it was so cold, Karly was shivering so much that she couldn’t control her breathing, let alone call for help. All at once, there was an awful scraping sound, the main gutter had torn, unleashing yet more icy water in Karly’s direction. The wave broke over her frail, yielding body, and with a ghastly effort, she lifted her head to see a brick but half a meter before her, heading for her head.

Her body was laid to rest later that week, next to her mother under fresh earth, her father and brother left numb and anguished. The sun shone averse through a foggy screen, hesitant as the clouds drizzled gently over Harrington church. Flowers adorned the half-way mark on Sunny Hill, a mucky bus pass lay uncovered in the school’s lost property, a few hair clips were left scattered underneath a friends bookcase and a single yellow wellington boot lay in a gutter somewhere on Moorey Lane. This was what Karly left behind. Inevitably all forgotten within 30 turns of the year.

What will you leave?

A Fire Is Born- short story

Just a little story, not much background I know, but still...!

The match lingered on the head of the box. I didn’t know what I was doing, I was young, naive and grief stricken. Take pity, relate, excuse me for my crime.

Is what I wish I could say.

I knew exactly what I was doing, tonight, on the anniversary of my sister’s death, I was to kill a man. Sparks danced hauntingly in the reflection of my glazed eyes, and all at once, I held a flame. Small, good-tempered, warm and bright, with all the ambition of a champion, and all the potential of a king. In a matter of minutes it would be a furious, burning, merciless killer, licking at the body of its victim, feeding off of the convulsion of a man. That man. He stands in front of the stained glass window, a silhouette of a short and stout businessman in a bowler hat and a stiff-collared coat.

‘What are you doing with that flame?’ inquisitive as an inspector should be.

‘It’s cold in here.’ I lie. But not for long I think.

The conversation ends there to my surprise, and inspector yes, but clearly a bad one. He’ll never find out I did it.

I killed my sister, and now I will kill him.

The rain lashing down on the slate rooftop couldn’t dampen the mood more, not a perfect day for a fire, but a good helping of diesel would light up the wooden panels with ease. I stare into the mystic glow of my ever growing blaze, but in my peripheral vision I keep my target closely monitored. He shuffles back and forth, obliviously content, with an almost humorous look stretched upon his toad-like face. For a moment I took pity on him, he was no more able than a baby bird from its nest, yet that sympathy was snatched away as I felt the heat rising up the match, nearly at my fingers, it’s now or never. Lead by the glow I walk solemnly for the corner of the church, if one looks close enough, you can see the panel in that area soaked with a sticky black fluid, where underneath a barrel lies, now’s my chance. I’m ready for this.

But before I can drop the match and unleash a torrent of searing fire, the inspector clears his flemmy throat and says, ‘I know what you’re doing Delilah.’

‘Sorry?’ I say, wishing I had put more effort into my drama lessons, my mouth hangs loose for a moment and I tilt my head unconvincingly like a puppy.

‘Oh yes Delilah,’ He rocks on his toes and puts his bowler hat behind his back, with a pitying glance. This man I see is not a short-sighted country bumpkin. His eyes are intelligent and humbly perceptive, his lined face gives him a complete air of wisdom. Dammit, he does know doesn’t he…? ‘You killed you’re sister in this very church last year, and we both know why…’

‘I have no clue what you’re talking about!’ I tremble, conferring I do, he continues,

‘You killed her because… she asked you to.’ He benignly finishes.

The flames lick at my fingers timidly, and I fumble at the match, but I drop it.

Into the oil can.

A fire is born.

Whoops

Well that didn't work out too well did it, I don't even want to look at the date when I last posted my 'Intro' that was soon followed by nothing at all!!! I'm changing the aim of this blog more as a place to store my stories. Poetry was a lot of fun when I was little, but a couple years have passed and if I do write, I write short stories, not very good ones, but it's a start! So here I'm placing my stories, feel free to tell me what you think if you somehow stumble upon this page!