COMPETITION WIN!

So I am finally a published author! My short story 'I Can't Look' that I entered into the City of Stories competition was the winning entry for the borough of Barking and Dagenham. I still can't believe it 😊😊😊. Spread The Word (who organised the competition) has put together an anthology of the boroughs winning entries and I feature on page 66. It is an amazing feeling seeing your own work in print......the first of many I hope.

The Retrieval

The Retrieval

by 

Vicki Taylor

Paul looked at his watch, nearly time, so he got out of his car and pulled the peak of his cap low over his eyes. In this unfamiliar environment, he wasn’t sure where the CCTV cameras were, urgency had prevented his usual pre-surveillance techniques.

It wasn’t his choice of meeting place, too exposed, but he had no choice, he needed the information. He had been brought to the affluent part of the city. Tall, three storey town houses formed a square around a central fenced garden; years ago, these areas wouldn’t have been open to the likes of him.

Paul walked through the gate and a man got up from a bench and walked towards him, as he got near Paul automatically put his hand on the knife that he kept in his waistband. He tensed as the man reached out his hand but he was just offering Paul a piece of paper.

Paul took it and they parted; no eye contact or a word spoken. He opened the paper and read an address. It meant nothing, this city was alien to him. No doubt why Barry had chosen here to hide, but he had underestimated him; what Barry had stolen, Paul would travel anywhere to retrieve.

Back in his car and Paul entered the address into his SATNAV and was soon driving down a road with high-end boutiques, well-dressed women and expensive cars.

He drove across a railway track and the scenery soon changed. Paint was peeling from run down houses, cheap shops and cafes. Children were running wild and youths were huddled in groups with their heads down and hoods up.

As Paul reached the address he pulled up a few houses down so that he could watch without being seen. He resisted the urge to run across the street and barge in, but no, he needed to be smart, so he did what he was good at. He sat, he watched, he waited.

Slowly, day turned into night and the city fell asleep. Paul was wide awake; the time had come to retrieve what had been stolen.

He was surprised at the ease of entering Barry’s house, not a single guard! Perhaps he doesn’t know the worth of what he had! A quick quiet search downstairs proved fruitless so Paul headed upstairs. Knife in hand, he turned the handle to Barry’s bedroom and straightaway saw the key on a chain around his neck. 

Paul had been undecided about whether to kill Barry, by putting the chain around his neck, Barry had sealed his own fate. Paul loomed over him and with one single, hard and deliberate motion he pushed his knife into Barry’s chest, straight into his heart.

With a sigh of relief at having his hands once again on his key, Paul headed out. His family was safe again; no one could ever be allowed to get access to the safety deposit box containing details of where he had hidden them. 

Mr. Linden's Library

This piece is one of my favourite's that I have written. It was inspired by an image in a book by Harris Burdick. (due to copyright issues I can't post the picture.)

Mr. Linden's Library

He had warned her about the book. Now it was too late. She looked peaceful enough and for that he was thankful, for some of his books did not make the ending pleasant.
Mr. Linden took a step closer to her lifeless body fearful of the magic in the book, knowing it had not yet run its course. He knew he couldn’t wait too long to close its heavy pages because the life from within was already escaping.
Another step forward and he noticed the leaves growing out from within the pages were looking, feeling, testing, finding its way, silently creeping. One stem touched the arm of Mary and for a second he thought he saw the plant flinch and retreat a little. Impossible though, he thought as the books fear nothing. His long, horrid, traumatic life with them had taught him that.
This time the movement from the growing stem was obvious. It touched Mary’s arm and flinched. Then the unimaginable happened, Mary moved her arm! Now Mr. Linden was very scared, not just from the still open book but from Mary too. What manner of a being survived opening a book from his library?

I Remember.....

by Vicki Taylor

I remember you with fondness

   As I think of all we shared,

   The good times and the bad ones,

   You always showed you cared.

I remember you with gratitude

   For all you did for me,

   You made me look to my future

   So that I had the courage to be.

I remember you with pain

   As I have a heart that’s broke in two,

   And a pain that twists inside me

   Every time I think of you.

I remember you with joy

   As you were one of the best,

   You always put us children first

   Even when we were being a pest.

I remember you with pride

   For all that you went through,

   We shared lots of tears together

   But we had lots of good laughs too.

I remember you with anger

   As even without you life goes on,

   And I never wanted to have to

   Live life with you being gone.

I remember you with hope

   Because I know you watch us still,

   You cry and laugh along with us

   And I know that you always will.

I remember you with love

   And I tell you that each day,

   As well as all the things you miss

   Because you went away.

I remember you with hurt

   As I lost both mum and friend,

   And life goes on day by day

   But this broken heart won’t mend.

My Eye's See

My Eye's See

My eye’s see you suffering

    Sometimes it’s hard to look,

My eye’s see you fading

   Like the ink in an old book,

My eye’s see you smiling

   As the grandchildren stop by,

My eye’s see you dying

   It’s hard to see you cry,

But most of all my eyes see the amazing mum you are,

For all the love you gave to us makes you the best by far. 

The Man In The Mirror

PROMPT: picture of a mirror

The Man In The Mirror 

I can hear him in my head, constantly whispering, coaxing me to do bad things. No! I’m a good girl I tell myself and to prove it I bake my bedridden mother a cake to have with her afternoon tea.

When I walk past my bedroom the whispers become a shout and I cast a nervous glance at the mirror wanting to make sure it was still covered. Damn! The cat must have been on the dresser again as the cover has been knocked off.

He catches my eye and I am lost, powerless to not obey, I walk to the dresser and sit down and I’m held captured by his gaze.

Instead of my reflection in the mirror, it’s him. A man very similar in looks to me, except his eyes. There is no life in his. I don’t quite know what he whispers: eye’s locked I enter a trance.

The next time I become aware I am standing over my sleeping mother with a pillow in hands, just about to smother her! I hear his cursing in my head as yet again he fails.

I am a good girl.

The Old Man

PROMPT: A character, a lift and a boat

THE OLD MAN

By

Vicki Taylor

            Hilary hated this lift! An old lift in an old building, and not just any old building either but her bosses house. He scared the life out of her, and the noises of the creaking, shuddering lift just increased her fears.

It was her own fault she had ended up here so she shouldn’t complain. The old man had been looking for someone to pass his books onto and she had made sure that her name was top of the list. She had to get her hands on those books- her greed for what they contained made her fears worth bearing.

Stories of the old man were whispered around his library, which was set in the basement of his mansion. How he had gone exploring to some distant place with some friends. They were missing for years until one day he was found drifting at sea, in a boat, alone, just clutching a pile of books. Claiming no knowledge of where he had been, where his friends were, or where the books had come from.

But I know. I caught a glimpse once of the pages of those books. The images of his friends with a look of terror on their faces, arms outstretched, reaching to escape the pages.

Six books and six missing friends.

He's Coming

PROMPT: first line starter

HE’S COMING

By

Vicki Taylor

            It was Christmas Eve and everyone was in bed. His black boots dripping from the snow outside left a tell-tale sign behind him and he placed each step with care so that he didn’t disturb the sleeping family. He heard a noise behind one of the doors so he pulled his knife out from his bag and was momentarily distracted as the moon streaming in from the hall window hit the long, sharp blade.

The noise again reminded him he should be paying attention so he quickly and silently passed the door and proceeded on. No time to dally, he needed to find his target.

He was going on instinct when he headed to the smallest of the bedrooms, sure that’s where the child would be sleeping. Slowly he turned the bedroom door handle, holding his breath, hoping it would not wake anyone.

Sure enough there she was, fast asleep. Most four-year-olds would be excited it being Christmas Eve, but this little girl was curled in a tight ball, looking frail and helpless. It was then he noticed the rope tied around her ankle keeping her in place on the bed.

He raised up his knife and with a wave of anger going through him he struck. The little girl opened her eyes in fear as the knife came down again. With that, the rope holding her fell apart.

“Daddy, I knew you find me,” she whispered.

And the large hard man melted with relief as he took his daughter in his arms and quietly left the house. “Always baby. I will always find you,” he replied.

IMPRISONED

I remember the days of not being held

When I was free to do as I pleased

Not stuck here inside, alone in the dark

Feeling like I’m being held and squeezed.

But the bars that hold me imprisoned

Are bars that no one can see

The bars that hold me imprisoned

Are in fact my body, it’s me!

Some days it’s the body that stops me

Won’t let me go far at all

Pain in the joints, wobbly legs, weak limbs

I fear I will topple and fall.

 Other days it’s the mind that haunts me

My words just stumble and fail

I lose my way in brain fog

Every thought is a whisper, so frail.

So I retreat inside to my writing

I retreat inside to my book

My character, she is restless

She asks you to come and look.

At how she confronts villains

And overcomes many fears

She is asking me to hurry

And please not to cry many tears!

So yes, real life is painful

And yes, my mind is a bog

But my family and book, they help me

So I WILL make it through the fog.