“Life’s a beach”. It was the third time she had walked past in that t-shirt and this time she was smiling. I twisted, waved and caught my hand in the sunbed. I looked down. Saw blood. Fainted. I woke up lying next to her. She had fainted too.
50-Word Fiction Competition for Scottish Book Trust
The blood-red heart in the plastic is real blood, you say. As you lock the chain around my throat, I shiver. One day it will rust, you whisper, and smile. When never again meets always forever, something has to snap, but this time I do not know.
gave blood today
saved a life today
gave blood today
saved a life today
watched the flowing through the plastic
watched the darkness of my heart blood
watched the ceiling fan slow turning
watched the darkness of my heart blood
gave blood today
saved a life today
gave blood today
saved a life today
thought of how many teaspoons needed
thought of other reasons bleeding
thought of walking home soon after
thought of other reasons bleeding
lucky to be giving
lucky I’m not needing
lucky to be giving
lucky I’m not needing
gave blood today
saved a life today
gave blood today
saved a life today
The bus shelter must have been hosed down afterwards. Frosted ferns spread across the clouded walls. Thinned-rust ice dribbles meaninglessly down to the gutter. People frown at the sooted lamppost then see the torn blue tape. A robin cocks its head, challenging our gaze.
The year of blood stretched its weary limbs. Clots dripped in the half-light.
The new year of ice bared its teeth. They are mine now, the wind whistled. And they have done it all themselves.
But in one corner, one quiet corner, the green and yellow nestled. It would take time, a long time, and human touch and heat, but the blood and the winter would come to an end. That time was coming. Hope could be felt.
There! A way through! Hope rushed through his veins. But no, he’d tried that before. The hope soured into a sickening slow poison.
Watching slow blood drip can be relaxing. I move my foot a little and the flower on the waiting room floor grows dotted petals. I have been here for three hours so I decide to fill in the spaces between the dots. My picture will be complete by the time they call me. I’m betting they will call me in just under an hour so they do not break any rules.
But after three and a half a cleaner shouts at me and wipes the floor beneath my foot into a sticky red veil. She’s right – I wouldn’t bleed on my own floor like that. But my foot is still bleeding so there is little I can do.
At three minutes short of four hours (I was so, so close) I am called to sit on a different chair, this time around a corner. Hurrah! No sanctions!
Two more hours later, my foot is still oozing – then three stitches in less than two minutes and I can limp home.
I avoid the angry cleaner on my way out.
Jac mixed each drop with amber, pulled and twisted with pliers and a knife forming teardrop red pearls. She would show them blood money.
I thought her tattoo was very realistic. But as people saw the tanned Jesus on her shoulder crying tears of blood, they began to cross themselves. Some knelt. Some hissed as she reached her towel and her friend wiped away the signs that she had scratched herself on the lava rocks as she climbed out of the water. His eyes were blue.
They still talk about the day Liam dove into the river, stayed down and then came up again, blood streaming down his face. They still talk about his da and his uncle jumping in together and his da reaching him and pulling him to the shore and carrying him across the field to the road and getting a ride to the hospital and Liam being stitched up and sent home and being kept off school for a week. They still talk about him waking up and asking for his da and then his uncle. They still talk about his uncle.
Published on http://flashfloodjournal.blogspot.co.uk/2015/06/the-day-liam-dove-into-river-by-simon.html 27 June 2015
