Amber’s Unseeable Eyes
One of the most remarkable things about Amber Scott is that her eyes are the colour of the deep yellow resin used to make jewellery and ornaments. Only minutes after a long and arduous labour her new-born eyes flickered open. Her mother gasped and said, ‘Her eyes are the exact colour of my grandmother’s pendant. We have no choice, we simply must call her Amber.’
‘Whatever you wish, my darling,’ her father said, planting a firm kiss on his wife’s sweaty brow.
But the amber eyes couldn’t see. Not like other eyes at least. Amber’s eyes didn’t see ordinary things like where the furniture in a room is, or the oncoming traffic on a road. Amber’s eyes saw unseeable things like approaching hurricanes, gales and storms at sea.
Of course no-one believed her, thinking that she was having the dreams and nightmares that children have. When she predicted the great storm of ’87, saying she’d seen fences being blown out of gardens, roof tiles being ripped from houses and small animals being tossed about as if they were toys, her mother book an appointment with a psychiatrist.
Car roofs of every colour formed a long queue in front of their ten year old orange Ford Escort. Her mother was furiously tapping her fingers on the steering wheel. ‘We’re going to be late for Dr. Lindhoff,’ she said and flicked on the radio.
‘We are interrupting this programme with an emergency weather report. Winds of up to a hundred miles per hour have been forecast and we urge everyone to go home immediately.’
Her mother turned to look at her daughter who was strapped into the back seat of the car. She looked at her pale skin and long fingers, her blond wavy hair and the outfit she’d picked for her that she thought would make a good impression on the renowned doctor.
‘See, Mummy. I told you.’
Her mother wiped a tear from her cheek. ‘Yes, darling. You did.’
‘Don’t cry, Mummy.’
She gripped her daughter’s hand. ‘No, darling. I won’t. Let’s go home, shall we?’
‘Yes, please. Otherwise we might die.’
‘Okay, sweetie. I believe you.’
May is National Short Story Month. I've joined A.M. Harte's Senseless Challenge:
We have five senses.
May has five Fridays.
Each Friday is dedicated to one of the senses.
The schedule is:
May 03: Sight
May 10: Sound
May 17: Smell
May 24: Taste
May 31: Touch
There are no rules. You can take part for one week or all five. You can write about not having that week’s sense or only having it. So...here goes!
Flash Fortnightly #13 is Pot of Gold. A rather dark tale with colours to cheer it up (a little). Click here for the link.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Flash Fiction is short enough to read whilst you're waiting for the kettle to boil. It's fairly quick to write too, but with it being so short, every word has to count.
On 4th May 2012 I decided to embark on a project: to write a piece of Flash Fiction every day. I'm hoping this will keep the creative juices flowing and ultimately help me hone my craft. Every Friday I'll be posting 'the best of the week' onto my blog for you to read. If you have anything to say (good or 'constructive'!), I'm open to comments.
Thanks, as always, for reading.