Worthing Flash

by Margaret I Holmes The sky flames above me orange, red, black. Angry colours reflected in the darkening sea. The heavens blaze, burn. But I feel cold, shudderingly, numbingly cold. Isolated in a bubble of ice, I dig my toes into the ridges in the sand just to feel – something, anything. The ridges replicate ripples of the tide that has left them behind, just as I have been left behind. Cold and alone I stand on the abandoned shore. Abandoned      I stare out to sea wondering how it would feel to walk out into that grey, rolling mass of water and have it close above my head blocking out the pain and grief that now engulfs me. Ending the desolation that threatens to overwhelm me? My muscles tense ready but I cannot take the first step towards the oblivion that I crave. Is this cowardice, scruples or acknowledging the responsibilities that I must confront?                 Dimly I become a...

by Margaret I Holmes We moved into this house just a few weeks ago. It is miles from where we used to live. I miss my friends and family but, “houses are so much cheaper here,” said Ben. It was what they call a ‘dooer uppa’. We were renovating it a room at a time. Now it was the turn of our bedroom. Stripping off layers of wallpaper had revealed a door to a large cupboard filled with junk. Leaving me to empty the cupboard Ben went off to buy more paint. He had refused to change his dirty T-shirt saying laughing, “it will be even worse before long.” At the back of the cupboard, I came across an old, ornate mirror. I carried it carefully over to the window. Fetching glass spray and cloths I commenced cleaning the dirt and cobwebs from it. Looking into it I saw an upraised arm. A disembodied arm. Definitely a man’s arm. A hand at the top of the arm was revealed slowly as I cleaned. It was wielding a knife. A knife poised ready to strike. I rubbed harder but the arm was s...