Veronica wore a beautifully draped pastel blouse made of pure silk. The lace detailing on the shoulder made it look exquisite. She paired it up with a knee length poplin ruffle pencil skirt which was off white in colour. James preferred to be splashy when it came to dressing up. Liam and Christopher were unlike their father when it came to matters such as these, they favoured Veronica’s choice of colours. They liked dolphins more than sharks. They looked a lot like their mother.
That’s one of the finest lines you have written Jack. Keep writing.
Mrs Grunty patted Jack on the back and walked forward, flipping and tossing the writing journals of students.
The Bereaved Mother
A sudden tension grew in the atmosphere- chaotic, hustled and obscured.
Alice’s flared skirt swayed in the breezy air rhythmically. When the sun kissed her locks, they turned chestnut red. She paced up and down tiptoeing and caressing the journal. A sharp metallic rod hit her collar bone. A thin stream of blood traced its way from her neck to the back, along the spinal cord. She experienced a sturdy pull- a clinging force. She cried aloud, but not loud enough. She fell on the ground dropping the journal. The man picked up the journal and walked past her frozen body. As he reached his gypsy, he noticed the blood flowing from his inner thigh; the metal piece had pierced his body so deep that he got a permanent limp, a souvenir of her futile bout.
The Estranged Stranger
I was delighted to smell the air filled with the moist petrichor of post rain.
The asymmetrical lines made their evident presence in the misty sky and the looming mystery around them tormented me in my sleep, the inconspicuous rhythmic waves of the sea reminded me of the blistering August afternoons and the convoluted branches looked alluring in a raffish manner. I didn’t know what to write. I couldn’t concentrate on my work anymore. The limp was tiring. When I look back, I have no guilt. That boy and his mother had to die because they knew the truth behind V’s death. I loved her more than sharks love blood. But I couldn’t understand her love. She loved me good enough but she loved other men too. I couldn’t accept that part, and that’s when I decided to suck her blood into my veins. Poor Jack, he didn’t have to witness that sacred ritual. It was not one that required audience. But he saw me, and he wrote about it. His poor mother Alice would soon learn the cause of her son’s untimely death. I had to stop her. I did the right thing.
The children have started liking my colours. They like sharks more than dolphins now. They look a lot more like me now.