Still Life
by Bill Robertson
Genre: Horror/Supernatural
Swearwords: None.
Description: A trip back home revives memories of childhood horror.
_____________________________________________________________________
Colin had left his parents’ house after lunch. Amy was with him. They were looking through the mesh fence at an empty school playground.
‘I used to run about here like a mad thing,’ he told her. ‘On windy days I would jump off the top of that hill with my parka buttoned round my neck like a cape.’
Amy made a puzzled face. ‘Why’s that then?’
‘I was being Superman.’
‘Oh, you mean just pretending.’
‘Yes, just pretending. I was only seven or eight at the time. I had a very active imagination back then.’
He turned back to look at the playground again. ‘I spent seven years here you know,’ he sighed. ‘Seven years of British Bulldogs, dead legs and being picked last for football at break.’
‘What’s British Bulldogs?’ Amy asked.
‘Never mind – you’re not allowed to play it these days anyway. You see that big white house over the road?’
‘Uh-huh. What about it?’
‘I stole flowers from the garden once to give to the first girl I’d ever had a crush on.’
‘Did she like them?
‘Not really. She threw them on the ground, stamped on them, and shouted “Yuck! I hate flowers! I’m allergic to them!” while everyone in the playground looked at us.’
‘That wasn’t very nice.’
‘I was heartbroken at the time,’ Colin said smiling. ‘You women can be so cruel.’
‘I like flowers though.’
‘Good job or I’d have to take these ones back to the shop,’ he said, rustling the bunch of flowers he was carrying.
They carried on their walk; through the underpass where he’d had his first proper kiss (he kept that particular memory to himself). The path up ahead disappeared into the mouth of the woods.
He was running through the trees. School was out and his mind was alive with the abundant possibilities of the summer that lay ahead. He had already found a set of old pram wheels and some scrap wood he was planning on transforming into a go-kart as soon as he could persuade his dad to let him borrow his tools.
The scent of fresh sap filled his nostrils. Beneath his scuffed and dirty trainers, pine needles lay like a soft carpet of burnished copper that gave his every step a peculiar little bounce.
He jumped over dead logs and ducked under low branches. In his hands, he carried a gnarled stick; his mind had transformed it into a gleaming machine gun that spat endless streams of invisible bullets at enemies hiding among the trees. He could hear some of the other boys a short distance away, screened by the thick foliage. They were yelling at each other in between making machine gun noises with their mouths.
‘I got you. You’re dead!’
‘No I’m not! I’m just wounded.’
His foot caught on something. He flew in a sprawling arc through the air and landed with a dull thud on the forest floor. As his face hit the ground, his teeth clicked shut, narrowly missing the tip of his tongue. The fall knocked all the breath from his lungs and left him wheezing and spitting pine needles. He lay there dazed and shaken until the world started to swim back into focus. He sat up and looked around to make sure none of his friends had seen his ignominious tumble. He was also able to see what he had tripped over for the first time.
It was a leg.
It jutted out of the shallow ditch concealing it from view.
As his head cleared, more detail became apparent. A black patent leather shoe reflected the rays of the sun pouring through the canopy overhead. His eyes travelled further – past the rumpled and dirty little sock clinging limply to the ankle. She was lying partially naked. Her arms were outstretched, thrown up over her head, a swimmer caught in mid-backstroke by the sudden freezing glare of a photographer’s flashbulb.
‘Hey,’ Colin said. ‘Are you ok?’
There was no reply. He noticed the dark ring of bruises around her neck.
He moved closer. Her eyes stared up at him. One of them sat askew in its socket. Her mouth hung open.
He could see more yellowing bruises staining her skin. A trickle of blood had spilled from her mouth leaving a thin trail of maroon on her chin where it had dried. He noticed there were chunks of skin missing from her torso and realised that some animals had been attempting to feed on her.
He reached out and touched her.
He scrambled backwards as he saw a maggot spill from her mouth. For the first time he noticed the smell. It was sickly sweet like spoiled meat. He doubled over and groped around on his hands and knees, grabbing handfuls of pine needles and squeezing them as he retched. A thin stream of bile spilled out of his mouth adding its own sour aroma to the gassy smell of decay.
‘They never found out who did it, did they?’
‘No,’ Amy said. ‘He was a stranger. Mum always said I should never talk to them but he was so nice at first. It was when he took me here that he changed.’
Colin felt his blood run a little colder at the thought, remembering the bruises he’d seen. ‘Stranger danger,’ he said, repeating the mantra his mum had drilled into him all those years ago. ‘I’m sorry it happened to you. I was only a little bit older myself but I never forgot.’ He knelt down and placed the bunch of flowers on the ground.
‘Will you stay for a little while? I get so lonely here.’
He could feel Amy’s hand on his shoulder. He had the sudden feeling that if he turned around her face would look the way it had that day.
‘Just for a little while,’ he said.
Swearwords: None.
Description: A trip back home revives memories of childhood horror.
_____________________________________________________________________
Colin had left his parents’ house after lunch. Amy was with him. They were looking through the mesh fence at an empty school playground.
‘I used to run about here like a mad thing,’ he told her. ‘On windy days I would jump off the top of that hill with my parka buttoned round my neck like a cape.’
Amy made a puzzled face. ‘Why’s that then?’
‘I was being Superman.’
‘Oh, you mean just pretending.’
‘Yes, just pretending. I was only seven or eight at the time. I had a very active imagination back then.’
He turned back to look at the playground again. ‘I spent seven years here you know,’ he sighed. ‘Seven years of British Bulldogs, dead legs and being picked last for football at break.’
‘What’s British Bulldogs?’ Amy asked.
‘Never mind – you’re not allowed to play it these days anyway. You see that big white house over the road?’
‘Uh-huh. What about it?’
‘I stole flowers from the garden once to give to the first girl I’d ever had a crush on.’
‘Did she like them?
‘Not really. She threw them on the ground, stamped on them, and shouted “Yuck! I hate flowers! I’m allergic to them!” while everyone in the playground looked at us.’
‘That wasn’t very nice.’
‘I was heartbroken at the time,’ Colin said smiling. ‘You women can be so cruel.’
‘I like flowers though.’
‘Good job or I’d have to take these ones back to the shop,’ he said, rustling the bunch of flowers he was carrying.
They carried on their walk; through the underpass where he’d had his first proper kiss (he kept that particular memory to himself). The path up ahead disappeared into the mouth of the woods.
He was running through the trees. School was out and his mind was alive with the abundant possibilities of the summer that lay ahead. He had already found a set of old pram wheels and some scrap wood he was planning on transforming into a go-kart as soon as he could persuade his dad to let him borrow his tools.
The scent of fresh sap filled his nostrils. Beneath his scuffed and dirty trainers, pine needles lay like a soft carpet of burnished copper that gave his every step a peculiar little bounce.
He jumped over dead logs and ducked under low branches. In his hands, he carried a gnarled stick; his mind had transformed it into a gleaming machine gun that spat endless streams of invisible bullets at enemies hiding among the trees. He could hear some of the other boys a short distance away, screened by the thick foliage. They were yelling at each other in between making machine gun noises with their mouths.
‘I got you. You’re dead!’
‘No I’m not! I’m just wounded.’
His foot caught on something. He flew in a sprawling arc through the air and landed with a dull thud on the forest floor. As his face hit the ground, his teeth clicked shut, narrowly missing the tip of his tongue. The fall knocked all the breath from his lungs and left him wheezing and spitting pine needles. He lay there dazed and shaken until the world started to swim back into focus. He sat up and looked around to make sure none of his friends had seen his ignominious tumble. He was also able to see what he had tripped over for the first time.
It was a leg.
It jutted out of the shallow ditch concealing it from view.
As his head cleared, more detail became apparent. A black patent leather shoe reflected the rays of the sun pouring through the canopy overhead. His eyes travelled further – past the rumpled and dirty little sock clinging limply to the ankle. She was lying partially naked. Her arms were outstretched, thrown up over her head, a swimmer caught in mid-backstroke by the sudden freezing glare of a photographer’s flashbulb.
‘Hey,’ Colin said. ‘Are you ok?’
There was no reply. He noticed the dark ring of bruises around her neck.
He moved closer. Her eyes stared up at him. One of them sat askew in its socket. Her mouth hung open.
He could see more yellowing bruises staining her skin. A trickle of blood had spilled from her mouth leaving a thin trail of maroon on her chin where it had dried. He noticed there were chunks of skin missing from her torso and realised that some animals had been attempting to feed on her.
He reached out and touched her.
He scrambled backwards as he saw a maggot spill from her mouth. For the first time he noticed the smell. It was sickly sweet like spoiled meat. He doubled over and groped around on his hands and knees, grabbing handfuls of pine needles and squeezing them as he retched. A thin stream of bile spilled out of his mouth adding its own sour aroma to the gassy smell of decay.
‘They never found out who did it, did they?’
‘No,’ Amy said. ‘He was a stranger. Mum always said I should never talk to them but he was so nice at first. It was when he took me here that he changed.’
Colin felt his blood run a little colder at the thought, remembering the bruises he’d seen. ‘Stranger danger,’ he said, repeating the mantra his mum had drilled into him all those years ago. ‘I’m sorry it happened to you. I was only a little bit older myself but I never forgot.’ He knelt down and placed the bunch of flowers on the ground.
‘Will you stay for a little while? I get so lonely here.’
He could feel Amy’s hand on his shoulder. He had the sudden feeling that if he turned around her face would look the way it had that day.
‘Just for a little while,’ he said.
About the Author
Born in Perth and now living just outside Aberdeen, Bill Robertson has created a large body of work showcasing a tendency towards the darker side of life and stories which leave an indelible impression on the reader long after the final word is read.
An active member of Aberdeen’s Lemon Tree Writer’s Group, Bill’s work has appeared in Journeys, an anthology of work from the group, and most recently in a chapbook, Himself by the Seaside. He has performed some of his stories as part of the Word and New Words festivals and other events around the north-east. He has also self published two e-books: Reindeer Dust, a short Christmas story, and When the Revolution Comes, a collection of linked short stories concerning an uprising in a fictional eastern European country. A number of his stories have featured on the website http://www.shortbreadstories.co.uk, where he has been chosen as the featured Friday story a number of times and has won a number of competitions with his short stories and flash fiction pieces.
If you would like to hear an interview with Bill and listen to him read some of his work, please go to this link to hear Bill’s appearance on Mearns FM's Smith on Sunday show. You can also keep up to date with Bill’s work by visiting http://www.billrobertson55.wordpress.com, where he often shares work in progress as well as finished stories.
An active member of Aberdeen’s Lemon Tree Writer’s Group, Bill’s work has appeared in Journeys, an anthology of work from the group, and most recently in a chapbook, Himself by the Seaside. He has performed some of his stories as part of the Word and New Words festivals and other events around the north-east. He has also self published two e-books: Reindeer Dust, a short Christmas story, and When the Revolution Comes, a collection of linked short stories concerning an uprising in a fictional eastern European country. A number of his stories have featured on the website http://www.shortbreadstories.co.uk, where he has been chosen as the featured Friday story a number of times and has won a number of competitions with his short stories and flash fiction pieces.
If you would like to hear an interview with Bill and listen to him read some of his work, please go to this link to hear Bill’s appearance on Mearns FM's Smith on Sunday show. You can also keep up to date with Bill’s work by visiting http://www.billrobertson55.wordpress.com, where he often shares work in progress as well as finished stories.