Wednesday, 29 October 2014

Dealing with the Fire - Flash Fiction

Not even saying goodbye to the old man, we were out of his house and sprinting down the country lane.

“Come on!” the woman shouted. My legs still hurt from my run earlier and running in general had never been a strong point for me – I could certainly remember that fact and more to the point, feel it.

Nightfall was heavily upon us with the moon as our only ally.

What are we running from? 

Where are we going? 

How has life suddenly taken a turn into a maze of complications? 

The emotion adjoining the questions was upon me in seconds, like a drop of your stomach on a rollercoaster or when you feel like you trip in your sleep - a slight shock in the surge of a sadness, that was getting stronger, deleting the bliss that The Institute had bestowed.

We kept running until we were well out of sight of the stately home and using the full faculties of our eyes to see.

“Okay. I need some answers. What’s your name?” I said, freezing behind her and prompting her to stop and walk back a few paces toward me.

She smiled. It was beautiful smile, even devoured in the darkness we currently resided in.

“My name is Eden,” she said.

Something about the name suited her immediately. It was natural and she owned it like the beauty of her green eyes against her light brown skin.

“Well Eden,” I said. “I don’t mean to be rude here, but we are running in the middle of the night and as you can see, there is no one chasing us, so-”

“Chris,” she said. “Christopher Charles. Listen to me and listen well. If this company catches us again, they will kill us. No questions.”

Great, so you know me as well, I thought.

“Don’t mind me if I say, what the fuck?” I blurted feeling slightly guilty about the profanity in the face of such an attractive woman.

“Look, we have to get a plane and head to Spain,” she said.

“Spain? Why Spain?”

“Because there we’re going to find some answers.”

I rolled my eyes and just shook my head.

Wednesday, 22 October 2014

Coping with Pain – Flash Fiction

I looked at her for a long time. There was profound familiarity in her appearance and scent, but I was confounded when trying to raise a memory of her – save the fact that she had been ahead of me in the queue back in The Institute’s lobby. 

“Who are you?” I said.

“You don’t remember me?” she asked with a clear hint of disappointment.

“I’m sorry. No. You seem familiar, but I’m having difficulty with my memories.”

She breathed a laugh. “That’s what The Institute does,” she said and moved over to sit at the end of the bed.

“So why am I feeling like I don’t want to remember?” I said.

“That’s what The Institute does as well,” she added.

“This is all so bizarre. What’s with the man who lives here?”

“He just helps people like us. Individuals that changed their mind during the process.”

“During the brainwashing procedure?”


“Does he still work for The Institute? I mean, why’s he living so close.”

“He isn’t close – you were running for a very long time.”

“Oh,” I said and frowned. “So who are you?”

“I was a friend – at The Institute. We became close. Do you remember at all why you volunteered? Do you remember what you said to me about coping with pain?”

“I genuinely don’t remember anything. The man that lives here said the answers will come back in time and that I set myself up for this.”

“It’s true.”

I stared at her again for a while. Her light brown skin. Her green eyes, extremely attractive yet not sufficient to dissuade me from the pressing matter at hand. “What are you here for?” I said.

“To escort you out of here and help you get back your memories. In the hopes that I will retrieve mine as well.”

“So. Um. Where do we go first?” I said, feeling again this bizarre trust for a person I didn’t even know.

“We’re actually going to have to move fast.”


“Because we’re going to have to go on the run from The Institute.” 

Sunday, 12 October 2014


I woke to the natural lullaby of an English countryside embracing dusk – the sounds of crickets and a gentle breeze outside. It immediately persuaded me to turn over in my bed and return to sleep.

Almost as instant as when I shut my eyes, the dreams came at me like a tidal wave crashing down on an unsuspecting sunbather. They appeared to be my memories – images of being in a loving home with parents and siblings as an infant – Christmas time with Nat King Cole playing in the background.

Then, the cinematic perspective shifted and I could see myself – a teenage version of me, with lots of other kids whose faces were unfamiliar. I was in a huge red brick building – a school – with a traditional appearance and teachers walking around like wardens.

The next scene – I was older still and behind bars. I could feel the injustice. Taste the fury that comes with being tagged with the worst label possible despite not falling into such a category. I had been convicted of something…wrongfully. All for a split second action of defending myself. My world had been turned upside down and I had suffered for it.

Waking to the light of dawn shining through the window onto my bed I looked across to see the silhouette of a woman standing over me. My eyes cleared and I could see it was the lady from The Institute; the one who had been in the queue in front of me.

“You,” I mumbled.

She was smiling. I smiled back.