Hello everyone, guess how many people have stopped by to read the wonderful flash fiction entries so far? Well over 1000 people have been enjoying these diverse and wonderful stories. So make yourself a cuppa scald and sit down and have a much deserved break. And what better treat than to enjoy this afternoon’s offering from Sarah Jane Colleran, who has woven a dark tale which will stay with you long after the last word.
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http://carmelharrington.com/category/2013-imagine-write-inspire-flash-fiction-competition/
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Willful by Sarah Jane Colleran
Rosemary had always been difficult. At school she would collect Bic pens and press them down behind the red-hot radiators. As morning wore on the tang of melting plastic would fill the classroom. Willful, they called her. “What’s wrong with having a will?” She would say. “Would you prefer to be a sheep?” She never paid attention. Never did homework. It’s as if she had worked it out earlier than the rest of us – this does not matter. She learned that to be free you must not care- if you do not care, you are free. She claimed she had earned that freedom. I suppose she did.The school was a warren of empty classrooms and dark corridors. The basement was heavy with the weight of the convent above. The windows looked out into a stone light well. One nun would walk around it at lunch every day: The windows were so cracked and old that you could stand on one side and be invisible to the other.They could smell the smoke though- sniffed out like bloodhounds; the tendrils of cigarette smoke weeded out from teen sweat and melted plastic and damp clothes. We blew smoke into bottles then stoppered them; the coils of smoke would writhe inside- evidence of our crimes. Desks with inkwells and flip tops were pilled to the ceiling. Bare-arsed chairs were wedged into whatever space could be wrested from the pile. Graffiti covered one wall. Curses and spray paint and one note written in pencil: “I wish I was dead”. The timid pencil marks were worse than the rest. I examined the handwriting and sneaked peaks at copybooks and faces to try to find the author. She could have been any of us, I decided. All of us. “Who cares?” Rosemary had been distracted, looking at magazine pictures of coats we couldn’t afford. “Loser.” A path lead from the primary school to the secondary. Gravel lined and overgrown, hands of thorns were apt to reach out and stroke bloody rivulets down exposed skin. It was silent and cemetery-still. We were told never to go there. We were taught to use the busy paths and the main roads. We were to stay away from the silent and empty paths. Willful, we disobeyed. We earned that right.Rosemary found the syringe on the path on our way home from school. She plucked it off the ground and showed me, the remains of a cloudy liquid and the needle lying sharp and deadly against her palms. Her eyes were as huge and tight as her grin. My head swam in panic .Don’t move, run, don’t run…I realized I was afraid of her yet I still followed her knowing that at least, this time, I would not be the target of her manic energy. I would rather endure her dangerous friendship than sit alone at break.In my memory, her Father’s funeral had no sound. We students lined up in our greys as the coffin passed. Most were crying not because they knew him or because they cared; for most, this was their first death and first experience of mourning. And we were teenagers- we felt what we felt and reveled in it, wept in it, rolled in it then went home and slept soundly. Teenagers are fickle, schoolgirls more than most. Rosemary was wearing her new black coat. Her heels clicked hollowly on stone as she walked behind the coffin. She kept her head up; a solemn dignified mourning. Respectable. Appropriate. Completely false.She caught my eye as she walked past. The left corner of her mouth was pressed down -her eyes willful with triumph.
Sarah Jane Colleran is from Bray in Wickla’ and an art student and she blog’s at www.brightnessproject.com and www.socialwhatnots.com.
