12shortstories.com . . . the first one for 2019. Yay!

No One Can Know.

Prompt: No one can know.

Word count: 1500 words

Her vision jerked into a blackness as dense as the thudding hangover that had occupied her head. As quickly as it blackened, morphing amoeboid bodies filled the screen with animated swellings, climaxing in puffed explosions of powdered chalk, releasing clouds of blinding colours. 

As one burst, another swelled and recapitulated gloriously in a spectacle that detached her eyes from her brain. While her brain fought to bring her eyes back online, they ignored the biting dryness, and refused to blink.

Her fingers betrayed them both, twitched, and de-activated the screensaver, terminating the dream. The window on top of her bright, graffiti, Apple desktop jolted her back to “send” or “cancel” encased in squares of vile green pixels.

She traced the black outline of the option boxes with her mouse. First the “send” box, then the “cancel”. She went back and hovered over each consecutively, then repeatedly dragged the obedient little black arrow backwards and forwards from one corner of the screen to the next.

Letting go of the mouse and turning her palm up to face her, she watched as the networked patterns of folds crinkled up and disappeared as she clenched her fists, confused. The unexplained cuts on her knuckles spread and winked a pink spike of pain as she re-opened her palm. 

Hannah clicked send. It was addressed to Lara. Hannah had listed her friends and colleagues, crossed off the ones she already owed money to, weighed up her options, and had come across Lara. Easily manipulated, and with wealthy parents, she was - Hannah admitted with shame – her best chance.

The e-mail detailed a large amount of Euros she had supposedly inherited, apparently from her family in Greece. It was ridiculously easy to download the bank’s logo and create an email signature of a banker in Athens.

Theodero Kyriakou was a name as greek as they come, coupled with the bank logo image and set up with authentic addresses and international phone numbers in the signature at the bottom of the mail, no one would ever know that it was fraudulent. Especially not Lara.

It had to be absolutely convincing or Lara would never agree to the loan Hannah had confronted her for. Sweet, lovely – and hopefully charitable - Lara. She had listened with such empathy while Hannah had spun her the sad story. 

If Lara thought that she had money in Greece, she wouldn’t hesitate to help her with a loan in the meantime. 

The pawn shop would hold her furniture and appliances for two weeks without interest. She could hopefully have the money to fetch most of it by tomorrow, and silence annoyingly nagging Steve. He had sent two messages yesterday, asking why he couldn’t see her payment this month. 

Plus, it was also only the first week of the month and she needed to eat for three weeks before pay day.

“Shit. It’s gonna’ be a rough month of 2-Minute-Noodles and apples again. You idiot Hannah.” She cursed under her breath. 

Her shaking hands fumbled the zip of the laptop bag as she packed up. Remembering there was one Red Bull left in the fridge, she yanked open the door and grabbed the can from its lonely spot on the top shelf before kicking closed the door. 

It was a very long time since she had put anything of nutritional value in there. It would probably fetch more than the microwave at the pawn shop, she noted. She shook her head and walked purposefully to the door. At the same time, vowing that she had to get some sleep tonight.

Not remembering what the time was when she had got in, she assumed by her shaking hands and dry eyes that it couldn’t have been more than an hour or two. Again.

She turned from locking the door to her tiny, and mostly empty bachelor flat to the parking lot where her car should have been. She then changed course and hiked up the steep driveway to the gates of the complex to where it hopefully was. Like last week.

She brought her hand up to inspect the cuts on her knuckles again. Hannah suddenly recalled the rose bush she had challenged on the way down to the ground out of the driver’s seat. It hadn’t mattered how gently she had grappled those branches, they were not letting her up free of painful evidence of the struggle.

“Jesus Hannah, the money!” she scolded herself as another memory blinked its way back into her mind. She’d dumped the bundles onto the passenger seat in the unsuccessful attempt to get out of the car with some grace, and had forgotten to take it with her after the altercation with the rose bush.

She steadied her laptop backpack on her shoulder with one hand and broke into a run, not remembering how much she had won last night, only that there were too many bundles to hold with both hands. 

Her car was stopped, not parked, in the middle of the complex entrance. The front bumper was missing, and the driver’s side door stood wide open.

Puzzled, she glanced at the messy splats on the side of the car before climbing into the driver’s seat. She didn’t remember it raining, but then remembering was not on the cards this morning. She stashed the bundles of cash under the seat.

Hannah forced up the tab on the Red Bull, while reminded again of the nagging cuts on her knuckles and the faint metallic smell in the car. 

The first sip of liquid energy soaked her insides with life, but the re-charge was interrupted by her mother. Forcing her presence into Hannah’s car with her own personal ring tone of a witch’s cackle that Hannah had personally assigned.

Hannah was consistently dumbfounded at that uncanny ability her mother had of always calling when the shit was flying. She ignored the call, and instead hit her PA’s number on speed dial.

“Margie? Hi. Samsung just called. They need an urgent invitation designed for some function planned next week. I’ll need to brief the studio this morning still so I’m meeting Sue now on my way in.”

“Okay. You alright? You sound all nasal. You sick?” asked Margie.

“Nah. All good. Had a rough night with series binging. I’ll catch up later. Cheers.” Hannah ended the call and was interrupted briefly by her conscience.

Her sweaty palms battled the grip on the steering wheel as she twisted the Jeep back into the road. It had been four years last week. Four years since five of Hannah’s friends had tricked her into arriving at her mom’s place expecting a calm afternoon braai and walking smack bang into an intervention.

“Hi mom! How’s it going? You early today.” Said Hannah into the phone, hoping the energy in her voice was sounding “on-the-way-to-workish” and not “I-have-no-money-for-breakfastish”.

“Hannah! Where have you been? You didn’t call me back last night. I called three times?” scolded her mom.

“All good mom. I left my phone in the car and got stuck into a series. It was a late night.” Said Hannah.

“How many times have I told you to keep your phone with you? I was worried sick that you’d been in an accident or something.”

“I’m good mom. Just really busy at work. This new Samsung account is huge. I’ll come visit on the weekend, maybe after Saturday morning’s AA meeting. OK?” lied Hannah.

“Right. Saturday. And keep your phone with you.” Her mom never ended the call. Hannah was pretty sure she was trying to figure out where Hannah was by listening to the background noise for as long as she could. Once, she’d let the call run on for five whole minutes while they had both listened in silence, connected in dis-connection.

A traffic snarl at the intersection let Hannah wonder unsuccessfully which way she had come home last night, or this morning, so she moved onto how Lara’s money would pay off what she owed her colleagues and buy some groceries.

Then, she promised herself again, it was over. For a very long time. Entirely – the gambling, the drinking, everything. Just five years and she’d be sorted and back to being debt free. Again. Hannah recalled her last, agonizingly long AA meeting.

“Useless bunch caught up in a stupid cult of honesty. Listening to that lot and their sad, broken lives is enough to drive anyone straight back to where you weren’t supposed to be.” She muttered to herself.

She glanced around to catch the scene holding everyone up. A pair of bare feet protruding from a cover, lay precariously half on the pavement. A pool of dried, brown blood escaped from under the edges.  

No ambulances, just a cordoned off area detailing some heavy skid marks, a couple of policeman guarding the scene, and a mangled bumper lying a few meters away still attached to its number plate.

“Well that’s an easy one to solve.” Smirked Hannah, as she inattentively read the numbers.

A Celebration by Maeve Kousiakis

Prompt: A Celebration.
Genre: Drama
Word count: 2500


The tiny green blades folded under her weight, spreading out around the form of her foot, their edges brushing her skin and sharing their dewy wetness. She picked up her foot, paused, and replaced it. The same soft contact of wet grass to warm skin sent unfamiliar messages of pleasure all over her body.

She shuddered and cringed as a loud scraping from outside the wooden crate let in more light and exposed an expanse of green she’d never seen before. Putting out her foot again, now not having to crouch in the opening, she was able to stick out her head.

She took another step out onto the grass. Breathing in, she lifted her nose. The wooden crate smelled musty and dense, not unpleasant, but intimidating in it’s strangeness. She held her breath, and then tentatively took in some more air.

Pleasantly confused with the absence of the scent of expected wet, rusty metal, she turned her head right and left and tried again to detect something she knew. There were only gentle whiffs of fresh sweetness she couldn’t recognize. Her ears were flooded with breezy air amid tweets and rustles, completely void of the sterile bangs and choking aromas of her metal world.

She turned to check on the babies, and remembered again that there weren’t any. It was something she never got used to. She would feel them growing inside her and then push them out. Birthing them straight onto the metal grating. Once the pain had gone, like it always did after the last one was out, she’d shuffle her body over to the side as far as the rigid metal bars would allow before the jaggered rust dug inter her skin, so that she could nurse them.

She had tried the first few times to turn and clean them, but there wasn’t enough power in her to force her head round in between the sides of the metal bars around her. She’d given up and hoped they could wiggle their tiny bodies over by themselves towards her for milk. Most of them would get there.

She remembered once trying to get up to nudge one particularly small little baby over so it could feed, but she’d slipped and fallen and crushed two of the others already attached and feeding. She couldn’t even retrieve them from underneath her; the bars around her would just not budge.

It was only the next day when The Boots came in and chased her out while they cleaned the metal grating under her, that they kicked the little bodies aside. She’d been whacked on the head when she moaned and tried to sniff them.

She’d never moved again while nursing, the ache of lying in one position became so painful it made her cry out, but she dared not shift her weight. And those little ones that couldn’t get back to her underbelly to feed became quiet quickly.

Then there was this change. New voices and different Boots had shoved her out into the passage, pigletless again, but no time to grieve like she usually did.

The Boots had forced her out into the blinding light and herded her into a wooden box where they closed her into another tight space she could barely shift in.

Then they’d stopped moving and the one side of the crate opened, letting in that blinding light again, and here she was.
The grass under her feet was dotted with white flowery spots in between the blended palette of green. She put her nose to the soft petals and snorted. A foreign scent of whimsical flutters tickled her nostrils. She sniffed them again. And then again. Sweeter and fresher than the air engulfing her.

She had no idea where she was or what she was meant to do – but it felt good. She came right out the wooden crate and stood still, expecting a blow from somewhere to force her in a direction. Nothing. She took another few steps. Nothing.

She twisted round to look where she’d come from and saw the crate she’d been in and the two Boots next to it. Her initial anxiety in seeing them watching her dissolved when she realised they were not making any kind of move to rush at her and stamp their feet or whack her with those poles they always carried. These ones had no poles – and they just stood there, watching. Their mouths turned up and eyes sparkling.

The Boots she was accustomed to had straight mouths and dead eyes. There was no stillness about them, always rushing and whacking and shoving without waiting for her to figure it out and move on her own.

Realising that she was no longer restricted, she tentatively took another few steps and stuck up her nose again to take in the new world. The grass under her feet accompanied by the fragrance of the outdoors released the waiting catalyst into the brewing excitement and forced her into the air. She landed on the grass and tumbled straight into a roll, and paused upside down on her back. She shot up again and ran as fast her stiff legs would move, in no particular direction.

After another couple of leaps and bounds, she put bare buttocks to prickly grass and rested while taking in the smalls and sounds. The boots were still watching, but they had something they were busy with, and one was coming towards her holding something in his arms. It clearly wasn’t a pole, and he wasn’t rushing at all.

She did a couple more leaps and frolics and stopped again to prick up her ears to a familiar sound. She failed to hold back the urge to check her babies, and stuck her nose in the air to confirm the familiar squeak; tentatively sniffing she stood and grunted, armed with anticipation.

* * *

“Here she comes. She’s not sure of the grass. She keeps picking up her foot and putting it down again. Lift the gate higher, Rick, so she doesn’t have to crouch to come out” said Maria.

“Its all the way up – wait, there. It was jammed on the left.” Replied Rick, as he forced the cage door all the way up with a jarring scrape, leaving the entrance to the wooden crate wide open.

“She’s so nervous. There’s one foot. Come on girl – you’re safe now. Take another step.” Cooed Maria.

“She’s never seen grass before. It’s foreign compared to that metal grating they spend their whole life on.” Said Rick.
“She’s sniffing the air. Why does she keep turning back to look in the crate?”

“I think she’s looking for her babies. Let’s just give her some time to come out and take in her freedom before we let them out.”

“There. She’s out.”

“Do you have your phone in your pocket? We need pictures. It will help with the campaign. If we’re gonna reach people’s hearts we need visuals.” Said Rick.

“It’s here – I’ve already taken a few. They won’t be great but they’re good enough for social media. Her name. Are we sticking with Sprout? Sprout The Wonder Pig? I think it’s apt,” said Maria.

“I like Sprout. The whole new beginnings and second chance and vomit-heart stuff you chicks love so much.” Said Rick.
“It’s not vomit heart stuff plonker. You know, I don’t know whether I should be laughing at your ability to acknowledge that you do actually recognize the intricate weavings of this very emotional situation, but refuse to express your own equally vested involvement just in case someone sees that you are actually capable of feeling.” Ranted Maria, “Or if I should be beating you round the ears in frustration and trying to bring you to your senses in realizing that showing an emotion now and then – especially good ones – are not going to throw you into the ring of pansies, as you call the men of the world who are in touch with their inner selves.” Replied Maria with arms waving perplexed accents.

Rick crumpled his eyebrows and looked perplexed. “What the hell are you on about?”

“Oh my god – she’s running! She just set off like a bat out of hell. And skipping steps and jumping off all fours like a puppy! Have you ever?” laughed Maria, hands on her cheeks and legs poised on tippy toes.

“I’ve never seen a grown pig behave like that. Are you filming this?” Laughed Rick.

“I didn’t get the whole little dance but I got enough. Don’t pretend that this didn’t make you feel all warm and fluffy inside Ricky-boy – I’ve got you figured out. That little upturned corner of the mouth has your secret betrayed. The same little feature was sneaking around when we first set foot on this farm, as it’s official owners. You’re just a fraud. I see right through you.” Said Maria, grinning.

Rick rolled his eyes and busied himself with his escaped shoelace.

“Right. So let’s get the piglets. If she’s this happy now, maybe we should get the vet here in case she overdoses on the ecstasy and keels over from heart failure.”

“Rick, don’t even joke like that.” Maria scolded. “Here, hold my phone and I’ll just lift them out one by one instead of unloading the whole crate.”

“These are the noisiest little babies I’ve ever come across. How does such a tiny little pink lump make so much sound?” Rick took the first piglet from Maria and gently set it on the grass. It fumbled around trying to make sense of the wobbly ground under its feet.

Rick pushed his fingers between his lips and let out a piercing whistle, bringing the dancing sow’s attention from the other side of the fenced off pen to Rick and Maria. She stood still. The whistle had frightened the three little piglets already on the grass and they were squeaking their protest loudly.

Sprout’s ears twitched, she stuck her nose in the air and flattened them against her head. She made another jump and a skip and fell on her back on the grass, rolling over and then perched on her rump while she stuck her nose in the grass again.

“She can’t hear them.” Said Rick.

“Take one to her so she can.” Said Maria.

Rick put palm to piglet belly and lifted it to his chest while he walked over to Sprout. She was still jumping up and squirming in the grass when Rick got to her. The piglet made a squeak and Sprout stopped short and paused, then tentatively moved towards the squeals. She lifted her front legs trying to get at the baby in Rick’s arms and grunted loudly.

Rick put the little piglet on the grass. Sprout nudged it with her nose and grunted again. This brought on a cacophony of squeals from the baby in recognition of mother and milk. Sprout responded with frantic nudging and licking and snorting and sniffing in recognition of her piglet.

She looked up Rick, as if to say, “Where are the others?” and then went back to pushing the piglet around with her nose, while her eyes were wild with excitement. By then, Maria had got to her side with the other five piglets, which she set on the grass. Frantic squawking ensued, as mother and babies were re-united.

“We need to show them the barn so she can nurse them, they must be starving by now. Come piggies, come piggies, this way” Sang Maria.

Maria and Rick picked up the piglets while Sprout snorted and grunted in protest, roughly pushing and shoving to get them back again.

“Come girl – there’s a lovely place for you to lie down. Come on . . . “ cooed Maria in that high pitched voice all woman tend to switch to as soon as there is a baby in close proximity.

“What the hell is that voice you keep using? She doesn’t understand you. You do know that, right?” said Rick sarcastically to Maria.

“Oh shut up Rick. Of course she does. Hey Sprout? Yeeesss, of course you do darling. Don’t take any notice of him.” Said Maria, exaggerating the exchange even more and glaring at Rick with a contradicting smirk.

Rick rolled his eyes. “So when are we picking up the other seven sows? They don’t have piglets, right?” asked Rick.
“Thursday. Two have piglets. Sadly the negotiations in rescuing eight instead of one from the farmer took longer than we thought, so we missed saving the others’ babies.” Answered Maria.

“Bugger.” Said Rick.

“It’s all good, seven sows and fifteen piglets is better than none. And to add to it, we left the farmer on good terms. He seems to be more concerned than most of the others about the wellbeing of his pigs after they’ve served his bacon mine.” Said Maria.

“So steeped in pig swill we shall forever be.” Said Rick. “Not in a million years did I think we would end up on a farm, in the middle of nowhere, with the clouds raining pigs and not a steak or chop or piece of tasty flesh in sight.”

“Hey, going vegan was not forced on you. You decided all by yourself that veggies are easier to look in the eye than murdered cows and pigs. I just supported you.” Said Maria. She winked at him.

“And those sly, well timed remarks about your abattoir visit and all those neatly posted PETA posts about the horror of meat farms had absolutely nothing to do with it.” Said Rick.
Maria grinned and pecked him on the cheek. Rick accepted the advance like he would a cold beer from a friend and kept up the pace towards the barn, until he realised there was an expected reciprocation of the show of affection that he had not replied to.

Maria rolled her eyes just as he met them.

“What? What? I’m carrying piggies here.” Said Rick defensively.

“You’re hopeless, you know that?” said Maria.

“That might be so, but I’m still carrying three rescued piggies through a farm you couldn’t live without in front of a huge smelly sow who thinks we night be going to cook her piggies.” Replied Rick.

Sprout was not impressed and was getting increasingly more forceful with her bumping and grunting.

“Here, this first one, she’s getting really panicky” Said Maria.
They quickly set down the piglets and closed the gate to the first pen in the barn after Sprout had pushed through to join them. More nudging of bodies and squeaking from said bodies, and she settled down on her side on the soft straw for them to nurse.

“Sorted!” said Maria. “One down and six to go. I’m pooped.”
As they stood and watched the piglets greedily taking their fill, Rick put his arm around Maria.

“So, bacon rolls for supper tonight . . . .” Rick didn’t even finish the sentence before Maria walloped him on the back of the head.

12 Short Story Challenge 2018! Number one . . .

THE BRIDGE.    
by Maeve Kousiakis

Prompt: The Bridge.
Genre:
Word count: 1200


The damn duct tape had gotten stuck to itself. She let go of his arm to rescue the piece she’d pulled away from the rest of the roll, but the stupefied arm smashed it’s way back to the bed through the objects on the bedside table.

Absconded coffee from the broken mug crawled its way to the cotton waxing strips lying in a heap on the floor. The lamp, now on the floor on its side – shade separated from stand - expressed its distress with flickering protests.

Wafting suggestions from the mess had brought Chicco over from his sleep on the chair to inspect the promise of a treat. Nikki leapt, kicking the waxing strips out of the encroaching spoils’ path on her way to grabbing the poodle before it indulged in the Rohipnol laced beverage.

“This is SO not going to plan. Trust me, you don’t want that, pooch.” Nikki said to the dog.

She pushed the fluffy scavenger out the bedroom and pulled the door closed. Retying her robe, she looked back at the scene. Adam was out for counts.

His arm hung over the edge of the bed overlooking a puddle of wasted coffee happily soaking up a pair of socks, most of the bedside mat and two scatter cushions that were in its path while the lamp had given up it’s distress signals and died, leaving the room in semi dark, coffee drenched quiet.

Chicco, intent on getting to the prohibited coffee, scrambled at the door, hoping it wasn’t latched properly.

The waxing strips managed a narrow escape, and were still dry and piled in a heap on the wooden floor. The tub of Mandy’s Microwaveable Water Soluble Hair Removing Wax had survived the arm attack and sat on the bedside table, warm and ready for application.

She’d pulled off the bed covers and stripped Adam naked as soon as he’d passed into the dumb haze induced by the drugged coffee. She smiled.

“Chicco! Stop it!” she turned and hissed at the door.

Nikki switched on the lights in the bedroom and fumbled around for the duct tape roll. Adam moaned in his numbed state.

“Oh no you don’t, I’m not done yet.” She replied as she returned to restraining her rotten excuse for a husband while he was still senseless.

“How many Adam? Did you do them in our bed? Hmmm? Tell me, darling, I need to know these things. I need all the sordid details.” She crooned to him sarcastically while she started anchoring the second arm.

His feet didn’t reach the posts of the four-poster. She had to fold the duct tape over on itself to make a “rope” and secure that to the bedpost, and then the foot to the secured rope.

“So, tell me angel-pie, what was that you said about “building a bridge?” I was so upset when you thought my reaction was over sensitive. You said I should get over it, and that it was a once off fling, in the heat of a drunken induced lack of judgment.” So sweet and serene, she sounded.

“I thought there might be something wrong with me. The first time nearly broke me, but you were right. Everyone deserves another chance. I really should be more understanding of boys night shenanigans.” Her tone suddenly changed from sarcastic innocence to icy anger.

“But then I came back to my senses.” She said through clenched teeth. “I’m in the process, though, of building that bridge. Like you said.”

Adam’s eyes were open now. He focused on her face, and then looked around.

“Wha . . . what are doing?” he groaned, trying to roll over.

“What- what the hell? Is that duct tape?” incredulous, her re-focused on her face as she settled next to him on the bed.

“Yes. Yes it is. Do you like it? One can literally do anything with a role of duct tape.” She cooed.

“What the fuck Nikki? Seriously, what the hell is going on? Why am I tied to the bed?” he said.

“My bridge, Adam, darling.” She replied. “You know, to get over the horror of the fact that you stuck your dick into someone else. Again. That jersey on your chest is . . . his-tor-y. Don’t worry, it will just hurt a little bit.” She grinned.

Nikki reached over to the bedside table for the wax. Dipping the spatula into the tub, she pulled out a globule. It sat around the edge of the spatula as she fumbled to put the tub back, then, catching up with gravity, the glob morphed its way down where her fingers held the handle.

“Holy crap that’s hot!” She dropped the globuled spatula into Adam’s groin. Right where the hair is thickest between the scrotum and the leg.

“AAAAAh!” Adam screamed. “It’s hot! It’s hot! Goddam it!” He writhed around, trying to move from under the hot wax.

“Shit. Shit. Shitshithshitshit. . . .” Nikki was knocked off the bed in the turmoil as she tried to put the tub of wax on the bed stand. The tub missed the edge of the bed stand and landed on the floor. It sat, upturned, on an island of wax while the coffee welcomed it to the chaos on the floor.

Nikki scrambled for the spatula, and not realising the hair had already been engulfed by seeping wax, she ripped it up. The hairy globule separated from Adam’s groin with a sticky ripping sound. Adam’s brain registered that part of his groin had just been separated from his body and announced its removal with a monstrous yell.

Nikki saw that the wax had fused skin and hair, and that a large amount of both were attached to the spatula and in her hand. Bloody spots began emerging from the ripped, skinless area on her husband’s tender bits.

“Well, will you look at that?” She said with satisfaction. “It’s not going that badly after all.”

She then caught sight of Chicco, and realised why the scratching on the door had stopped. He had conquered the door and was trying desperately to back away and remove his tongue from the heap of cooling wax underneath the upturned tub in the middle of the coffee bath on the floor.

Nikki dashed to the bathroom for water to dissolve the wax and free Chicco’s tongue, while Adam whimpered his profuse apologies and begged her to untie him.

“Nikki! Please! I’ll do anything, just untie me.” Begged Adam.

She stuck her head up from kneeling on the floor to look at him and paused.

“Well, that thing ain’t doing much for a while,” she smirked at his groin.

“Next time, it might not be wax, dear. And I might not be so nice.” She said as she stood up with Chicco under her arm, ruffling the poodle’s hair and kissing him on the nose.

She fumbled in the bedside table's drawer for the emergency-only-back-up-plan. Grasping the knife, she sliced through the left foot anchor, and dropped the knife next to the free foot. Adam squirmed.

As she left the room, amid protesting pleas from Adam, she shouted from the passage, “Good luck sweetie! Oh, and Lorena Bobbit sends regards.”

She Didn't Need It Anyway. By Maeve Kousiakis.

Prompt: She never needed it anyway.

Genre: Drama

Word count: 300

She repeated it again to herself.

“Check in with the nurse at reception. Find a chair against a wall. Take out the documents. Put them under my shirt. Put the gun in my mouth – pointing upwards. Pow.” She took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.

Vanessa got out of the car in the dark parking lot and made her way to the doors of the emergency room. She could feel the gun, like a comforting weight, grounding her to calmness. Relative to its size, it was ridiculously heavy in her handbag.

“How long to see the doctor?” she asked the receptionist.

“Ten minutes. Kindly fill in the form and take a seat.” replied the receptionist.

It was Friday morning, 9am. The hospital’s emergency waiting room was empty, just as planned. She handed the forms back and found a seat with her back to the wall. She took out Ashleigh’s photo with the note on the back.

“My darling Ash,

It is so wasted on me, this heart. The meds have no effect at all in fending off the darkness inside me these days. It would seem the soul purpose of my place on this planet was to grow you a proper, working heart. A bit of me will be in you forever now, beating life through your veins. May it serve you as well as it has me.

All my love forever, Aunty Van.”

She took out the papers and tucked them under her shirt with the photo. Safe from the impending fluid explosion inside a Ziploc bag, they detailed in heavy legal jargon, her compatible blood group and request for her heart to go to her niece.

Taking out the gun, she positioned it in her mouth, pointed it up, breathed in, and pulled the trigger.

Short story challenge entry . . . www.12shortstories.com

Prompt: Cut the Strings | Word count: 1000 | Genre: Drama

Cut The Strings by Maeve Kousiakis

Winnie watched the sky. It was Highveld Winter Blue, a perpetual canvas of blinding cyan, not a single wisp of cloud. She struggled to keep her eyes from being distracted by the chaos at the starting line.

Coaches were voicing jarring commands to runners busy with warm ups. Beady, judging eyes from sports scouts and gawking lenses of photographers jostled for the best view.
She kicked her legs and wriggled her ankles with her hands on her hips, sweaty palms to Lycra vest. If she pretended they weren’t there she could shut them out and focus.

Short Story Challenge - number 7 . . . for the mommies out there.

Coming Undone by Maeve Kousiakis

“Haggis! Oh my god, do you have to . . . every . . . time. Aarrgg. That is so utterly, despicably horrible.” In her attempt to conserve energy in order not to throw up, Meghan had deserted the toddler’s nappy and focused on the dirty bum first, so the nappy had found itself sneakily ensconced in pug drool on its way to being devoured at a quieter retreat.

Just twenty minutes ago, Meghan was on her back on the couch with little Billy fast asleep on her chest and Haggis the pug, unusually, asleep at her feet. She had heard the Barbet calling from the tree outside the window and the smell of rain wafting through the breezy curtains in a smidgen of short-lived peace.

Billy had stirred, realised that he had lost the battle against keeping his eyes open and broken into a howl. The pug, now recharged, had made an instant beeline for Billy’s bottom, producing an explanation for the smell increasingly asserting itself.

Meghan got up holding the toddler while fending off the persistent pug still tugging at the nappy. Once up, she realisied there was a reason she had been on the couch. Nausea welled up and all the previous nights cocktails were diluted to an insipid cup of tea.

Meghan, putting Billy on his back, prepared for the onslaught of yuk and got lost in her thoughts about how last night’s “Girl’s Night Out” was maybe not that worth it after all, and that hangovers and kids go together like custard and sardines.

A tip that people conveniently left out about having kids. Just like the other little things. Small, nasty details like stomach muscles that separate during pregnancy that give you a lifelong paunch and that you will never jump on a trampoline again without soaking your knickers because the muscles down there no longer take part in bladder control. It’s a long list.

“Get a baby sitter. Go out. It’s good for you.” The advice had fed a nagging urge for a taste of life before kids. Meghan was in love with motherhood, but sorely missed the world of music and movies and fine dining.

Snapping back to the stinky chore at hand, Meghan had caught sight of the escaping pug. She clambered over the floor peppered with toys, catching up with it on its way to the garden for an appetizer of toddler excrement.
Forcing the pug between her legs as she knelt, she grappled sticky gels and teeth, prying open stubborn jaws. The pug, not ready to relinquish it’s find, scrambled and jumped at her hands as she stood up.

Managing to connect a tooth with the nappy, the pug succeeded in presenting the cream carpet directly to the mushy, digested bits of last night’s supper. Stumbling as it returned to the ground from its attack, the pug landed on top of the face-down-mess, introducing the soft goo very much more intimately to the dry carpet fibers.

Gagging, Meghan lifted it up and stumbled back to the drawer and grabbed the box of nappy bags. It was empty. The new box sat staring at her in defiance in making any step through this maize of chaos easier for her. She grabbed it and ripped it open with her teeth, while dangling the rescued nappy between finger and thumb.

The pug, undeterred in its course of action, was frantically licking the carpet. It’s back legs circling the front, head and mouth fixed to the carpet, as it desperately tried to ingest carpet and delicious condiment, while Billy was whining to be picked up.

“Gimme a second Billy-boo. I’ll get you now. Mommy’s got a small, tiny little challenge here.” She dashed out to the kitchen dustbin (which had found a new lookout position on top of the counter to avoid further raiding by the pug) and grabbed cloths and floor cleaner.

The toddler, as toddlers do, did not stay still. He rolled over and down the side of the bed and landed firmly with his bum - more of last night’s digested supper sandwiched between bum and carpet - and toppled onto his back. Wriggling over to his stomach and up to a sitting position, a brand new artwork of contrasting brown smudges on cream canvas appeared.

Meghan got back to multiple wounds to the cream carpet. (Another thing to add to the list of conveniently forgotten details: Don’t have cream carpets. Actually, don’t have carpets at all).

Lifting up the toddler, before he realised that the brown stuff on the carpet could make more streaks with the help of his fingers, Meghan fumbled with the bottle of carpet cleaner. It fell. She expertly swung the toddler - with bum side to jersey – under her arm attempting to catch it. The carpet cleaner bottle bounced and released its contents, which spread over the carpet and neatly missed the scene of destruction it was supposed to have addressed.

Meghan threw her head back and sighed as she realised the state of her jersey.
“Fuck. Could it get any worse.” She said loudly.
What was that crash? Where was that pug? She ignored both worrying sentiments to attend to her and Billy’s imminent hygiene needs.

“Billy-boo, if you squirm around it’s just going to take longer.” Said Meghan, her fingers straining to press the Velcro tag into place while holding the other flapping side of the new nappy, her arms pinning down the chest and flailing limbs of the toddler.

This had all become second nature, but doing it with a hangover in tow was brand new territory. A half a bag of wet wipes later, she was able to strip off her brown smudged jersey, grab Billy and head for the new source of necessary damage control.

At the kitchen door, Meghan gasped. The pug, covered in Neapolitan source, which she had thrown in the dustbin last night, was gorging itself on chicken bones and nappy entrails. Bits of litter and left over food and serviettes were strewn all over the floor, dotted with vegetable skins and crusts of soggy bread. A discarded bottle of juice had come open on its way down from the top of the counter with the dustbin and settled itself in between the rest of the detritus.

A draw had been left open, which the demon pug had clambered up and found a way to the dustbin. In it’s desperation in turning over the dustbin, it had knocked over the kettle, adding a liter of water to the concoction covering the floor. Another casualty of the incident was the minced meat sitting on the counter, defrosting for supper.

Meghan stood defeated. Shoulders drooped and head back, she groaned.

“Fuck.” Said little Billy.
She whipped her head around to look at him, innocence incarnate on her hip.

“Fuck.” He repeated with a big, wide grin, eyes wide with excited pride, searching for approval.

Meghan collapsed on the couch and pulled her cell phone out of her pocket.


“Hi. Matthew? Honey, help. Please can you pick up some supper on your way home? Your wife is currently out of order. Oh, and Billy said his first word!”