Thursday, 9 January 2014

A short-short story from my Masters Degree in Writing





1.      Imagine I say the word ‘red’. Write down the first three words that come to mind.

Wine, hair, blood.

 Now incorporate the three words in a ‘short short-story’ (250 words) prompted by the cue:
You are sitting at your writing station with your back to an open window. You suddenly feel a chill.


I stared at what I had written.

It was equal parts a suicide note and a confession.  I had tried to wipe off as much of her blood as I could, but red stains covered the page I was writing on.  Perhaps it was poetic. She always did find a way to mess things up. I read through what I wrote again, before shoving it aside.

Standing up, I felt dizzy and tottered towards the kitchen.

We had been in the middle of dinner, when the argument started.  As per usual, it was about money.  I had brought home an expensive bottle of red wine because I was in the mood to celebrate, Irene had taken one look at the bottle and her expression darkened.  I knew trouble was going to be happen but I didn’t care.  Work had been especially brutal and it was Friday, I wanted to have fun, she on the other hand, wanted to fight.

I had tried to keep control, but when she started talking about my mother, I finally snapped. 

I grabbed a frying pan and my wife ended up on the kitchen floor.

Looking down at her, Irene’s red hair made it hard to see where the blood was seeping from.  

I was now a widower by my own hand.

Voices started, unbidden. 

Escape!

Get rid of the evidence!

Turn yourself in! 

But in the end, there was only one solution.

I turned towards the open window.

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