Writers in Touch
Henry Curry • 1 April 2020
A story in second person...
Eternal Love or Something
It’s just typical of you, this. You never noticed anything, did you? I could have stood on me head, naked, in a bucket of blancmange and you’d have just said ‘Pass the remote, love.’ Remember that time when you got left to take the kids to your Auntie Seraphina’s wedding because of me haemorrhoids and our Hayley had her skirt in her knickers in all the photos. Typical of you that. And of your family an’ all. Not one person thought to put her straight. You never used to notice when I’d got a new hairdo, or any time I’d got a fancy frock on. Never notice it was time to paint the fence or pump up me tyres on me bike. And what about that time when the back bumper of the caravan caught on that old boy’s mobility scooter? Twenty seven miles the poor old sod was strapped to us. On his way to the corner shop, he was, and ended up in ruddy Skegness. How could you not have noticed him? And now this. Did you not wonder why I’d stopped cooking your dinners and darning your socks? Or why I’d stopped arguing about wanting to watch Downton Abbey instead of the ruddy motor-racing? Had you not noticed that you’ve had to actually go into the shops yourself recently, instead of sitting in the car listening to the rugby? Why do you think you’ve had to iron your own shirts and remember to put the bin out on a Monday? And if you think I’m dancing with you at the Lindy Hop, you’ve got another think coming. I’ve kicked the bucket, you daft bugger. Not that you’d notice, eh?
Fiona Dudley
It’s just typical of you, this. You never noticed anything, did you? I could have stood on me head, naked, in a bucket of blancmange and you’d have just said ‘Pass the remote, love.’ Remember that time when you got left to take the kids to your Auntie Seraphina’s wedding because of me haemorrhoids and our Hayley had her skirt in her knickers in all the photos. Typical of you that. And of your family an’ all. Not one person thought to put her straight. You never used to notice when I’d got a new hairdo, or any time I’d got a fancy frock on. Never notice it was time to paint the fence or pump up me tyres on me bike. And what about that time when the back bumper of the caravan caught on that old boy’s mobility scooter? Twenty seven miles the poor old sod was strapped to us. On his way to the corner shop, he was, and ended up in ruddy Skegness. How could you not have noticed him? And now this. Did you not wonder why I’d stopped cooking your dinners and darning your socks? Or why I’d stopped arguing about wanting to watch Downton Abbey instead of the ruddy motor-racing? Had you not noticed that you’ve had to actually go into the shops yourself recently, instead of sitting in the car listening to the rugby? Why do you think you’ve had to iron your own shirts and remember to put the bin out on a Monday? And if you think I’m dancing with you at the Lindy Hop, you’ve got another think coming. I’ve kicked the bucket, you daft bugger. Not that you’d notice, eh?
Fiona Dudley
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Here is the winner of our spooky ghost / horror story NAWG 2025 Autumn 250-word Flash Fiction competition . It ran from Friday 3rd to Friday 31st October, First, second, and third place entries will also be published in Link magazine. See the website HERE The prize of £25 for the winning entry goes to SUSAN KING for her story: RUSSIAN ROULETTE. I dread this day. Pumpkins with grinning faces and kids running about dressed as ghosts. Ghosts don’t wear costumes, they’d know that if they’d seen one. I can cope with all that – it’s the knocking on doors blackmailing adults into giving them treats that frightens me. Don’t they know how dangerous this is? Agnes has a bucket of Cadbury Heroes by the door. Her children have grown up and left home which is a relief to me, I can tell you I want to yell at the little ones who stand with expectant faces when she opens the door. Bugger off, I want to shout. But of course, I can’t. You can’t imagine the horror of watching her fill her syringe and pierce the wrapper of a chocolate bar, plunging the needle into the gooey inside and withdrawing it empty. You don’t know what it’s like to watch helpless as she smiles and hands out the sweets. She’s not daft enough to poison each one. For her it’s a game of Russian roulette. She waits for the post on the village Facebook page. She reads the hundreds of messages of sympathy with glee, scrolls slowly through emojis of crying faces, pink hearts and praying hands. She notes the date of the funeral and gets out her dark clothes. It’s the same black dress and coat she wore my cremation. A human black widow spider, she dispensed with me after our children were born. It’s just other people’s children she dislikes.
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