Short Stories

One Night In Florence

I have arrived at Campo Di Marte, my eyes weighed down by two heavy sacks. I haven’t slept in days, but I made it to Florence as promised. When I planned this road trip three years ago, I did not account for falling in love, and with an Italian man no less. Rome had also been on my bucket list, but Florence, for some reason, I had not regarded. That all changed when I met Alfredo in London last year. He drew me into his world with his velvet brown eyes, and I haven’t been able to climb out since. My clothing is wet and stuck to my body, the heat is intense, and Maisie ‘my camper van’ does not have air conditioning. Luckily, Campo Di Marte has decent showers. The feeling of cool water unlocks sighs of bliss from within me. Then I feel the prickles of hair on my skin. I can not meet Alfredo’s parents with legs like Yetis. It dawns on me that I don’t have a razor. Why do you never plan ahead, Katie! Then I remember what is in my handbag. I rush back to Maisie with my towel wrapped around me and water droplets trailing behind. I dig deep into my bag to find my dad's straight razor. I have had it ever since he died, along with his gold ring hanging from my neck. I shuffle back to the shower and lather my legs with soap, carefully gliding the sharp edge against my skin, slicing down hairs like trees being chopped, until ouch! I feel a sting and look down, my scar is bleeding.

I am immediately transported back to being sixteen. Sitting on David’s handlebars, rolling down the hill. Just as he pulled the brakes, I flew, my legs grated like cheese against the rough ground. David panicked and carried me all the way home. I had twelve stitches. David was my best friend and first love, but he never knew. He was there for me when Dad died. He took me swimming in the lake every Wednesday to cheer me up. He taught me how to pitch a tent; he was the first person I went camping with. We’d laugh for hours, coming up with these funny voices that we had invented for the characters we’d seen around the camp sites. While he slept, I’d brush my fingers through his soft, sandy blonde hair; to me, that is what magic felt like. Just then, my phone buzzes. I suspect it’s Alfredo to see if I’m almost ready; he knows I have a track record for poor punctuality. My eyes widen to fully soak up the words on the screen. “Hi K, I saw your Insta story. I can’t believe you’re in Florence. I happen to be here too. What are the chances? Do you fancy a drink and catch up? It would be great to see you, D” it’s David! I stand silently in shock, the only sound heard is my breath above the running water. David is here and wants to meet me for a drink. What is happening? My phone buzzes again; this time it’s Alfredo. “Hi Katie, how are you doing for time? Let’s meet at the Piazza del Duomo in thirty minutes, ciao Bella.” My heart is pounding, and I can barely move. I finally turn off the shower and dry my hands. Prudently picking up my phone, panicking as I contemplate who to reply to first.

The Curious Case of Burley Village

“Well…do something then,” he spurts in that horrible voice. I can feel his saliva particles hitting the back of my neck as he speaks. Nick and his sister Kate have been bullying me since I was six. After mum died, it gave them the green light to brand me the school ‘weirdo’. That and my dark skin; dark skin is much less common in a place like Burley. It doesn't help that Gran threatens to fly into their rooms in the dead of night and suck their souls. She has read Roald Dahl's ‘Witches’ one too many times, although it was my favorite bedtime story. The threat of soul-sucking is her way of protecting me, but it just makes things worse. Now I'm eleven, standing staring at a cursed abstract painting. According to an ancient Aboriginal legend, there's a soul trapped inside. The painting hangs in the village art centre, which Nick kindly broke us into. “What if I say no?” I ask. Nick rests his chin on my shoulder and whispers, “Then I'll tell everyone that the witch bitch touched my dick and she loved it.” I feel my eyes filling up like two whirlpools. I can't let any tears go; I can't let them know they're winning. “Fine,” I yelp like a wounded pup, “but don't expect this shit to work.” I look into the red smears and brown smudges that hang before me. Looking deeper, I see something, a giant red mountain, before I have time to think, the word ‘Uluru’ escapes my lips. Almost simultaneously as the words are released, the ground starts to shake, “What did you do?” cries Kate. Nick grabs her arm, and they start running. I follow behind.“Open the cellar door,” screams Kate, “cellar?” I ask. They both climb in, as I put my foot on the step, Kate's hand grabs my ankle. “Not you, finish this mess. She pushes my ankle, I fall backwards, and the cellar doors slam shut. My hands cup over my face and I sob for everything, mums death, and for having no friends. I don't care what happens to me now. Suddenly, the shaking stops. I'm too scared to move, but then I feel soft, warm skin stroking the back of my hands.“Izzy, it's me.” I can't believe it, it's “Gran.” I leap into her arms. “It's ok, darling, I'll take it from here.” “I don't know how I did it,” I cry out. “Your ancestors were trapped in that painting, Izzy. I'll explain later, but for now, go home.” “What about Nick and Kate?” “I'll take care of them. Now go!” The next morning, I scan my phone desperately looking for news. The Burley Standard posted on Instagram saying two kids had broken into the art centre. The girl claims she saw an unidentifiable being sucking the soul from her brother. Gran glides in slowly. “Gran…what did you do?”

Something Found

He walked in, and the air immediately felt heavier. He wore a black jacket with silver strands of hair floating in front of his eyes like tree branches bathed in moonlight. As he walked, the squat team parted like a sea of water. He bent down and rubbed his huge hands across his bristly chin. It was so quiet that as his rough hands glided across his chin, what sounded like leaves being brushed gently, tentatively moved through the air. He pokes the stiff stone-cold corpse with his index finger, then fixates on the victim's neck. The team follows his gaze in the hope that a revelation will soon shatter the silence and release the pressure in the air. He grunts, “goodness,” shouts Emily, the vice detective. Everyone looks at her with daggers shooting from their eyes, urgently trying to force her into silence. But, not him, he doesn’t look, he doesn’t flinch. He continues to gently move his finger around the gray skin that lies limp. Suddenly, he stops, “here,” he murmurs in a voice that vibrates through the core of all that holds a pulse. “Murder,” he barks without a drop of doubt. Emily starts to ask in a breathy whisper, “How do you...” “It’s simple, three injection marks here on his wrist,” he states. One of the officers sheepishly steps forward, “But he was a junky, sir.” “Was he?” he bellows, “or is that what you’ve been led to believe. There are no other marks on his body indicating drug abuse; he has a few pills in the bathroom and injections that have not been used that were simply displayed as plants. He has a mark across his neck that indicates there was a struggle, strangulation.” his eyes shrink into slits of black sparkles. “He was injected after he was killed. What we have found today is a murdered victim.” He stands sharply, then exits the room like a gust of wind, sucking all the air from the room as he leaves. The team exhales, and Emily loses balance, resting her body against the wall. He is the best for a reason, and now he needs to find a murderer.