You know it’s lovely down in the woods but sometimes it can get a little creepy. That’s what happened with the March Furious Fiction writing challenge of ‘person, place, object’. Simple right? Our <500 word stories had to include a character in disguise and a mirror, and take place in a park.
National park, dog park, business park, car park, amusement park – there were plenty of options, and stories are all about choices. Sometimes good, sometimes bad.
You can follow that link to read this month’s winning and shortlisted stories, and you can join in the fun this coming Friday (3 April) when the AWC will issue a new challenge at 5pm for a weekend of furious writing.
Meanwhile, I hope you enjoy my tale of an ultimately delicious walk in the park:
The Dead Zone
You slip through the hole in the fence half an hour after sunset.
I’m waiting by the gate, hidden by the twilight and the camouflaging shadows of signs that shout ‘keep out’ in seven languages. The weeds are waist-high and my shirt is the same colour as the rusted links of the padlocked chain. I watch your face as you take in the ivy-draped guard hut, the cracked bitumen where trees have reclaimed the road, the blistered husk of an old telephone booth.
Your eyes shine with the illicit thrill of doing the forbidden.
“Hallo, kleiner Leuchtkäfer,” I say.
You startle like a deer, but you don’t lose your smile when you see me. I like that.
“What did you say?” Your accent is as broad as the wide country you call home.
“I welcomed you in, little firefly.” I thread through the weeds towards you. You weigh my size, gender, clothes and age with a glance, and I see the moment when you decide I’m not a threat but an opportunity. Your smile grows brighter.
“Are there fireflies?” you ask. “I read online there’s all kinds of animals.”
I wave my hand at the devouring wilderness, as if I have conjured it.
“All kinds,” I agree. “The fireflies are best near the pond.”
You tap your phone to bring up an aerial photograph of the site. I move closer, pretending to peer at it, but I want to breathe in your scent.
“There’s supposed to be a tower,” you say. “I want to camp there and watch for wolves.”
You name the predators with reverence and I allow myself a smile.
“There is a watchtower.” I start to walk as if I will take you there and you pace beside me, gesturing with the hand not snapping images of saplings growing through ruined cars, faded graffiti on crumbling concrete, squirrels chastising us from the illusory safety of their trees.
“I knew it’d be good,” you say, “but this is amazing. Are there still landmines?”
“Oh, yes,” I say and you move closer. “It is one reason they warn people to keep out.”
“But they don’t. Tourists. Locals.” You flick a glance at me as I lead us into a narrow lane between derelict cottages. “They call them stalkers at Chernobyl.”
“I am not a stalker,” I say, “and there is no poison here, only the demilitarised zone.”
“It’s still an exclusion zone, a dead zone,” you say and I almost laugh.
“An involuntary park,” I murmur. “It had no choice.”
You do laugh at that.
The fireflies I promised are mirrored in the dark water of the pond. You tap and tap, capturing their beauty. Then you hold your phone at arm’s length and sling your other arm around my shoulders, drawing me close for a selfie.
“Smile,” you say and I bare my teeth although, of course, you are alone on the screen of your phone.