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Saturday, 14 May 2016

Stain(Ed) - A Week or Three - Fight For Life

Flash Fiction / Micro Fiction
Length - 100 words each

Three pieces written for the competition theme 'Phone Call'.



'It's simple,' I explain. 'If the black phone rings you live. Silver phone means you die.' I wonder if he hears my voice falter.
                'Please.' He begs. 'Don't do this!'
                'Sorry, Ed.' This time, his eyes are blue.
                'Why do you keep calling me that!'
                Tension's relieved by a buzzing on the table, Long John calling.
                This is the fifth man I've killed, but the face remains the same, borne into my conscience like a stain. 
                The black phone isn't even connected, just my little moniker. It was Ed's. If he rings, I'll bite the lead and apologise in person.


A Week or Three

'The old widow has a safe room. We find her, kill her, and leave her inside. She leaves tomorrow, but nobody will care if she stays out another week... or three.' He chuckled darkly.
                His partner pulled the door to and jumped at the metallic clang that followed.
                'Are we...'
                A dial tone interrupted him.
                'This is Rhonda, responding to emergency. Is there a situation?'
                No handset, another voice responded.
                'No dear it's fine, must have triggered the switch by accident. I'm going on holiday tomorrow, and it's just occurred to me to extend my stay another week... or three.'


Fight For Life

I'm sorry I couldn't be there Dad, although with my recent track record in hospitals maybe it's no bad thing.
                I've been called to my place in another pointless war where death means very little, while a thousand miles away the one I care about toils in a precious fight for life.
                'Phone call for you, Private.'
                I can't breathe.
                Some of the men know my ordeal, so my game face goes up under the weight of their anxious faces. For their sake, I choke back my pride.
                Victory tastes bitter-sweet.
                'It's a boy.'
                Sorry you'll never hear it, Grandpa.



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