Image by Jasmine Fassl.
Photo by Ирина Сороколетова: https://www.pexels.com/photo/girl-in-hat-sitting-on-pier-18447713/
Writing inspired by the following Sunday Writers’ Club prompt:
Honey Monster
Your character goes away for a long weekend and returns to find the full jar of honey they left in the kitchen now mysteriously empty. Who has eaten it all?
Honey Monster
by Jonathan Pickering
Walking back from the train station, I couldn’t wait to get back to my own apartment, my own space. Going away is always great, and I love the change in scenery, but there is something special about returning from an adventure.
The morning sun beat down as I carried my mud-splattered rucksack, the weight getting heavier with every step. I walked on with my head down, torn blue cotton cap shading my face. Focused. Home.
A train rumbled in the distance – or was it my empty stomach? Food was needed. And coffee. The shops were still closed, so I would have to make do with bread and honey – a thought that got The Kinks song ‘Dead End Street’ stuck in my head for whatever reason.
Finally I reached the door, and the click of the key made me sigh in satisfaction at the completion of another successful journey. I may have been over the hills and far away, but home is where the heart is. My apartment might be small and atrociously decorated but it was still home.
The stairwell was dark – the landlady still hadn’t repaired the light. It had only been about 7 months at this point, but the old crone did as little as possible, while taking all she could. Maybe I should make her a character in my next story and introduce her to the sharp end of a karmic cleaver.
Speaking of the old dingbat, there she was frowning at me over her ridiculously large spectacles. She looked like Dame Edna had a love child with Igor. She never says anything, just glares. I didn’t even get a hrrmpph when I greeted her. It may seem strange that I still go through the pleasantries with her when I get none in return, but the one time I didn’t, she told her coven at the crochet club how rude and disrespectful I was. Maybe she just needs an exorcist. Or a special friend.
After climbing the mountain of stairs, I finally got to my tiny studio apartment. The green door was flaking, and paint chips were being carried around by whatever those weird insects were that infested the building – one of the seven plagues, maybe?
I got inside and closed the door, putting the chain on behind me, shutting away the outside world. I never wanted the shock of coming naked out of the shower, to come face to face with the nosy old woman who felt she had the right to come in whenever she wanted, ever again.
As I discarded my bags by the closet, I felt a sudden sense of foreboding. Something was wrong in my usually ordered space. The hairs stood up on the back of my neck, there was a draft. I had left the window open in the bedroom. Shit.
Despite this nothing seemed out of place in the bedroom, so I made my way to the kitchen, thinking I had maybe gotten away with it. I hadn’t.
The lime green kitchen units were smeared with…honey! As were the beige tiles and tea coloured floor. Had the honey jar exploded?
My gaze switched to the table for one, that served as my dining table and work desk. The honey jar was on its side, open and mostly empty. Even with the amount now decorating the room, the jar was too empty. The lid was discarded on the floor, and was that a trail of muesli?
I followed the trail, of course, trying to work out what had eaten my honey. Was I becoming one of the three bears about to hunt down Goldilocks and slowly roast her over a fire for wrecking my ordered home? Or would I follow my English upbringing and offer the intruder a cup of tea? We were about to find out, my interloper and I.
The crumbs led to the sofa, and I approached the battered orange monstrosity from the rear. I still couldn’t see anyone. Maybe they had fallen asleep?
Then I came face to face with the perpetrator. We stared at each other, this invader and I, neither one making a sound, both frozen in shock? Bemusement? Disbelief?
Finally she broke the silence.
Bwaaak!
Excerpt inspired by and written during
‘The Writer In The World’ workshop with Eleanor Updegraff.
Untitled
by Catherine Hooker
The field with dandelion puffs looks like a Van Gogh painting with green and gray. Each fluffy ball representing a wish or a dream, if only someone would stop by and pluck it, and blow the seeds away with closed eyes. A yellow cast falls on the blades of grass as the sun sets. Night falls, a mouse wanders through and nibbles on some roots, before hurrying back to their burrow and falling asleep. Darkness, and green turns to blue. A roaring starts far away, the rolling molecules come and flatten the blades, knocking over the dandelion puffs, and blowing out 1,000 wishes, in one, single second. The next morning, the mouse shakily washes itself with some raindrops, left over from the night before. The lost wishes dot the ground, the mouse eats a seed, and another buries itself in the earth, preparing to sprout and grow into a new wish next year.