Flash Fiction 2
The latest 'Sudden Fiction@ from some of our members
This picture of someone sneaking in to a cloister carrying a RED BUCKET was the prompt for this months mini stories.
Big Red Bucket by Vicky Lloyd-West
He hadn’t really understood what4 a bucket list was. He’d begun by listing all the buckets he owned in order of size, then abandoned that idea and instead grouped them by colour alphabetically. He had an aversion to yellow so the final one was the big red bucket - he had only one of those and it was also the only bucket with a lock-tight lid.
Each bucket housed his various word collections and he kept them in different rooms in his house, apart from the big red one, which was in the passageway by the back door so that he could escape with it should the need arise.The threat from the poetry police was constant and he was always on high alert.
The red bucket contained rhyming pairs of words written on post-it notes (pink ones). He had been collecting them since the Great UnRhyming of 2046. The GU had followed a period of political unrest due to rising sea and river levels, when rhyming chants at mass protests had destabilised the government. Many renowned poets were overseas in exile and the publication or performance of song lyrics, sonnets, villanelles and various other verse forms were totally banned. Even chanting the once innocuous
‘Two, Four, Six, Eight
Who do we appreciate?’
could now carry the death sentence. Most people had given up on any form of conversation in public in case they inadvertently spoke a rhyming sentence.
The call came in the late afternoon. He grabbed the bucket and slipped out, working his way through the back streets of Bath towards the sanctuary of the Abbey, where the rest of his writing group awaited him. The bucket was conspicuous but he hoped that, if spotted, he would be taken for a charity collector returning home. He failed to notice the undercover police officer under the archway taking his photograph as he slipped hopefully through a high doorway and off the street …
The Little red Bucket by Grant White
Did you get the brain Igor ?
Yes Master … from, The top shelf master.
Who’s was it - a. Genius ?
Er… no master, not really ?
…Not really, Who’s then ?
Er…Um Abby something…Abby Norman er no.. Abby… Abby.. Abby Normal yes that was it Abby Normal ! Master.
…You got an abnormal brain ?
Er…yes master.
******** Crackling sounds over Walky talky.
…I’m at the old Mews – Yeah Yeah trailing ******* - a piece of cake – No, no I didn’t need a tracker, the idiot used a red bucket, ******* Yeah Bright Red !
******Laughter & crackling over the walky talky********.
Ha ! yeah, I know ! - Nah, no backup needed I’m going in now. – Over & Out !
….Were you followed Igor?
Yes master.
You were ?
Oh Yes ! - I used the red bucket as you instructed master.
Goood – Scrub up for surgery !
The Red Box by Jeff Phelps
He had a recurring dream in which he was walking down an arcade of doors and arches. Often, on waking he would forget the dream, then be reminded of it by an ache in his legs, as though he’d walked a long distance.
One morning he rose early. Half-asleep, he stepped out of bed and nearly tripped over something. It was an object he’d never seen before – a red box, slightly battered and well-travelled. Puzzled, he picked it up by the handle and put it on the bed.
That was when he remembered his dream again. But this time there’d been a man further down the arcade disappearing into one of the doorways, just his leg visible, a flash of colour from something he’d been carrying – a red box.
Red Bucket by David West
The college scout pushed open the oak door with his shoulder, a red bucket swinging from one hand, a mop in the other. He climbed the stairs. Morning light from the quad fell in dusty slabs across Staircase Three. He knocked on the door of Doctor Lund’s room. There was no answer. It was unusual for the young don to be out so early, so he knocked again. There was still no reply, so he put the mop down and took his keys from his pocket, then unlocked the door. He stepped inside. Books lay in obedient towers, papers arranged neatly, fountain pen on the ink blotter.
Lund sat slumped in his chair before the fire, chin on his chest, arms loose at his sides. Sleeping perhaps? No his eyes stared blankly at him. The scout put down the bucket.
‘Sir?’ He took two steps closer and tapped Lund on the shoulder. There was no response. He felt for a pulse in Lund’s neck. The flesh was still warm, but he could feel no pulse. He backed away, his own heart pounding. On the table were a teapot and two cups. One was full, the other empty. He felt the full cup. It was still warm, and there was lipstick on the rim. Then he heard footsteps on the staircase. They were not a man’s footsteps, but those of a woman in heels.
Red Bucket-Green Bucket By Cathy Roberts
“Fetch in the sealed red bucket,” Pierre’s father called, leaning out of a window of their flat, “it holds the safe mushrooms. Remember to add garlic to the pan this time. I must get ready for work.” His son looked up and waved, hesitating before he snatched one of the two buckets by its handle, and ran up the stairs.
His friend Marie looked out of her window, curious about the fuss, and saw the red bucket still on the grass, the surface glistening like blood in the morning sunlight. In a panic she flies down the stairs, through the passage between the houses, up the next set of stairs, and forces her way into the Pharmacist’s house.
“Monsieur Gilbert!” she cries, as Pierre empties the small green bucket of mushrooms into the sizzling frying pan.
“Mon Dieu! Pierre, are you colour blind? I confiscated those from foragers yesterday…” Monsieur Gilbert exclaims, stumbling through the kitchen door.