The Photograph - Flash Fiction Challenge

At writer's group last month, we were offered old photographs that had been part of an estate donated to a charity shop and asked to write a story about it. This is my story:

The Photograph

Sarah hummed softly to herself, a song from her childhood that evoked memories of her father, aproned and covered in flour, baking in their kitchen on a Sunday morning, memories that made her smile.

She tapped short but perfectly manicured nails on the table-top before her as she waited, eager to spend time with one of her favourite people. It had been a decade since they’d seen each other. An old photograph of that person, Sarah’s great aunt, sat on the thick, buff folder just to the right of her tapping fingertips. Though she knew the subject of the photograph well and had seen hundreds of photographs of her famous great aunt over the years, it was only three months ago that she’d first seen this specific photograph for the first time. It had been sent to her anonymously along with a note.

Sarah stood and smiled as a woman was wheeled into the room and pushed up to the table. For the first time in her memory, Sarah didn’t kiss the old woman in greeting though she couldn’t pinpoint the emotions that caused the change in her behaviour and, for her great aunt’s part, it went unnoticed anyway. The woman was glamorous, always had been. Her decades before the movie cameras had crafted her every move and even at 96 the woman didn’t have a single hair out of place, her make up was perfect, her face dewy, even if heavily lined in her advanced age.

Sarah and the old woman exchanged pleasantries and Sarah felt herself smile as she asked after the health and welfare of the old woman before her, their affinity for one another undeniable, cultivated over decades of familiarity.

Finally, as the conversation reached a gentle, natural lull, the old woman mentioned the photograph on the table. ‘Where did you get that?’ she all but whispered. ‘I must have been – what – 21, I think.’

Sarah shifted uncomfortably in her seat, hoping the other woman would continue. Trying to meet her gaze, her heart felt heavy as she saw the look on the old woman’s face, saw the wetness in her eyes. The moment of silence between them stretched for uncountable heartbeats before Sarah could bear it no longer.

Sarah looked down at the photograph one final time before asking, ‘Why did you kill that boy, Margaret?’

Long Way Home

My back aching with the strain of the extra weight, I pulled the child along in the sled as we traversed the field. It had been days since we had seen any signs of human life and I was grateful that the child slept now.

She never really complained – I expected tears, screams of terror for what she must have been through, for what she must have seen – but all she did was stare at my eyes when I spoke to her. Approximately 7 or 8 years old, I knew she had to understand me and sometimes she would acknowledge what I had said or asked with a quick, singular nod or shake of her head, her filthy hair flying about her face, sending dirt and dead leaves falling to her tatted t-shirt.

Her stare haunted me, her silence scared me even more. It had been some considerable time since I had had any human companionship and when I had finally encountered another person, a person who understood where they were, that person was essentially mute. Just my luck.

As we approached an abandoned house along our path, I gently shook the sled as I walked, never taking my eyes off of the house. I felt the sled move slightly behind me and the child let go a small grunt to indicate that she was awake and saw the house. As we neared the house, she jumped from the sled while it was still moving and ran to scoot under one of the back windows, hidden, while I headed to the front door.

The house was empty, thankfully, and there were a few treats left in the cupboards as well as some not-long-expired sun screen that it certainly wouldn’t hurt to carry. It was a small mercy that what happened was so sudden that there wasn’t really a chance for society to melt-down, no riots, minimal looting… A small grace, really.

As I came back outside, I handed the girl a protein bar and she waited until we had repacked the sled with our new loot before hungrily peeling back the wrapping with dirty fingers.

Now that I knew the house was empty, I spoke to the child. “No water, I’m afraid. The people who lived there clearly hadn’t any time to prepare. I did get some boxed juice, though, and some more matches.”

I handed her the juice and she kept her eyes on me as she drank slowly, carefully, and handed me back the carton. I nodded as I placed the lid back on the carton and set it thoughtfully among the contents of the pack in the sled.

We had been travelling with each other since I had come across her in a similarly-abandoned house just three days before. I had tried everything I could think of to get her to communicate verbally with me but she simply wouldn’t. It was a little frustrating to not know her name but walking with someone for the first time in months was a sort of relief…. At least I wouldn’t be talking to just myself anymore.

Once the pack was settled and we had each availed ourselves of the outhouse on the property, we set off once more.

Along the way, as before, I quietly told the child stories about my life before we had met and what I had hoped to find when I finally made it home. I told her stories of my own childhood, things I remembered from when I was her age – it wasn’t difficult, it had only been five or six years but I felt I had grown so much in that time – I suppose I had.

We travelled this way for six more days – I told stories to a child who wouldn’t opine, a form of therapy, I suppose – and we found places of shelter, scarce foodstuffs, a couple of farmsteads that had pump wells from which we could fill our water bags. A few of the homes we were able to find shelter in for short times during the day but I was eager to get home and the places were unsecured from attack, so we moved on quite quickly. We never stayed the night in any of the homes, it was too risky.

And still we had not encountered any further human life.

By the time the seventh day with the girl came, I was desperate for her to talk. I had been asking questions all week in the hopes of drawing out a response but the child remained resolutely quiet. I was grateful, however, that she had at least deemed I posed no threat. That night we still slept as lightly as before, but we slept snuggled beside each other. The warmth between us was welcome and, I felt, added an extra measure of security as, when one of us stirred in the night, the other woke instantly ready for any danger.

We were about fifteen miles from home and I had been singing the girl a low, sweet song I remembered from when I was younger. I was startled when she grunted, just loudly enough that she grabbed my attention but not so loudly as to alert others. I looked to her, not slowing my stride, and turned to look where she was pointing.

We suddenly both stopped. Ahead, was a house, but that wasn’t what worried the girl. As soon as I saw exactly why she’d wanted my attention, we began moving silently, slightly sideways to the house, keeping it in sight but hiding ourselves from being seen.

Peering into the windows of the house was a human. As cautious as I had been when I first encountered the girl, we watched the human from a safe distance. I don’t know what the girl was thinking but I was hoping against hope. I’m not ashamed to say that I fought back tears when the human walked three times around the house, peering into the windows and sniffing the air before moving on. It didn’t try to enter the house. It didn’t remember how – it was no longer a part of this world.

That night I dreamt fitful dreams, several times waking to the sound of my own whimpering, the girl hovering over me, the look of concern and fear evident on her face. Each time, I apologised and tried to soothe her. Each time, I promised I’d be quieter. Each time, I woke with my heart pounding harder than the last.

For the remainder of the journey, I was too afraid to sing, too afraid to hope and too tired to try to keep up appearances for the girl. As we neared my home, my eyes weeping with relief, I turned back to look at the child who was suddenly no longer there.

Two distinct writing styles... Which do you use?

In my, so far very short, time as a writer, I have come across two distinct styles of writing.

(I'm sure there are others, but if they don't fall into these two categories, I don't know of them.)

One of the styles largely makes use of the writer's immediate imagination. There's little, if any, forethought, and the writer simply writes as the story appears in their mind.

I started writing my first story this way. It came to me suddenly, unbidden, ready and willing to be transcribed. I write that story as it is told to me by my protagonist and this seems to work for us. In between storytelling sessions, I take the time to investigate and understand the rules of his world and the nuances of the locations, the people, the climate, making careful notes throughout. And then it's back to chronicling his story.

The issue I find with this style of writing is that things are not always revealed in good time. I sometimes learn something new and have to go back and re-work what I have already transcribed as it changes context or wording ever so slightly.

Most significantly, there was a semi-major re-write of the second setting of the story when it occurred to me that it was too similar to the setting in a rather famous set of stories involving a young wizard. Thankfully, my protagonist seems to concur that the events could have happened in this other location!

Because of these issues, the 'simple chaos' of how I receive the story, I am facing many roadblocks when it comes to developing how it is told. I have approximately 40K words transcribed (and copious notes) but I've revised them a couple of times and I haven't finished the re-write of that setting issue yet so the story itself is sort of stagnating. It's a little sad, but I'm not entirely worried as it's a beautiful story (of course, in my own humble opinion!) and it will be told. Eventually.

But this 'struggle' does make me wonder... What would it be like to write with a plan. What would it be like to write knowing, not the details of the story, but the journey those details will need to take, ahead of time. What if I plotted it all out. What if I had a plan?

This is the second style of writing. Writing with a plan. Writing with an outline in mind (or on paper). Knowing the timeline of the story before the details are known... Is a very different style to the one mentioned above.

I think the second story I am writing will follow this. I hope, anyway. It's a much simpler story, in that I'm not creating any new worlds in which my protagonist exists. The rules are known, there are the same rules I follow in my life, and for that, I think that elements of writing this second story will be easier. I just don't know if this style will suit me. I don't know if it will suit the way I tend to hear stories.

Perhaps, the issue I am facing with my first story lies in that the world itself is what complicates matters, not my style of writing, so I may not find it any easier or better when writing my second story as the world is much easier to get to know. Only time will tell.

I think I will attempt to get some understanding of where the second story unfolds, though, before delving into the details, just to see if it helps or works differently for me.... Or, in fact, if it's even a style of writing that I can use!

So, how do you write? Are you a by-the-seat-of-your-pants-er or do you take a more structured approach?