Fraughtfully turns Disturbing

Fraughtfully turns Disturbing this Spring with a Book drop at Café and Salvage in Hove, UK. The theme is Dystopia. Drop in and get yourself something chilling to read in the sunshine, courtesy of Fraughtfully. These cards will also be left in books around town. If you find one, let us know what you’re reading.

On the pripyat OnThePripyat_text

Ray of Dawn

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A sun beam sliced its way in between the slats of the Venetian blinds, through the gloom, and illuminated Ray’s big toe where it poked out from underneath the duvet. Ray lay in bed, resting his hand on the Dawn shaped dent in the mattress; a dent that mirrored the shape of the wound inside his soul.

Specs of dust danced a dance through the single sun beam. Ray had loved to dance with Dawn. And dust had made Dawn wheeze.

As the minutes passed, the beam of light jumped down from Ray’s toe and traced a path along the floor towards the window. Dawn had had a trace of the softest down along her hairline.

Ray got out of bed and shuffled towards the wardrobe. His dark suit hung next to Dawn’s sunny dress, like an eclipse. Ray put it on, flicked some dust off the lapels and sighed.

To earth from earth, to ashes from ashes, to dust from dust and send the bright Dawn down into the deepest darkest grave.

The Colour of Choice

From the far end of a narrow tunnel through blue, Stephen’s gaze travels and falls on his own wrists. The blue soaks back into his skin, radiates upwards, out through his mind, back down to his wrists and around again, endlessly. Like an electric circuit, only devoid of energy.

He sits slumped over on the green park bench. The yellow sun warms his body and a gentle breeze strokes his hair. A detached part of himself observes that it’s good ‒ it goes no further.

Stephen doesn’t often leave home, but he’s been told he needs to get out.  His doctor calls it ”depression”. To Stephen it’s a matter of one syllable versus three ‒ life is blue.

So here Stephen sits on the bench:

– a pigeon strolls by.

– a dog on a leash.

– a skateboard.

– the long sound of an aeroplane.

– and a pair of legs walk up…

”May I sit here?”

She’s wearing a red summer dress  ‒ a person from the other end of the spectrum. She unwraps a sandwich and starts eating.

”I haven’t seen you here before.”, she says

Stephen responds quietly:

”No, no. I don’t come here often.”

It’s a Skype call through the tunnel. He’s distant, somewhere blurred in space, with a time-lapse. She’s defined, here and now, exactly where she’s supposed to be.

She takes a smoothie out of her bag and drinks.

”My name’s Rosie”, she stretches out a hand, confident in her absolute right to existence. Stephen takes it.  Warm and soft.

She rests, her face towards the sun, then she turns and looks at him quizzically, smiling:

”You have a kind face.”, she says. ”Maybe I’ll see you here tomorrow?”

Rosie packs her things and waves goodbye. Stephen closes his eyes and turns his face to the sun. The blue inside him becomes tinged with yellow , blending into a bright shade of green crossing back into blue, and right at the center, at the edges of the opening of the blue tunnel, is a hint of purple.

He’ll be here tomorrow.

moyrascottfraughtfully