Voicemail

I let her phone ring out for the fourth time in the past hour, hearing the familiar automated voice of a woman letting me know that I was connecting to her voicemail. Just as her sing-song voice begins to twirl its way through the receiver, my room mate comes back and I hang up guiltily. He doesn't say anything. Why do you bother paying for her phone when she never bloody answers it? That's what my mum used to say. She probably still thinks that, too, but she won't voice it aloud anymore. But I don't care. I will always pay it for her. It's not a big deal. I take the phone into my bedroom and perch on the bed, dialling again. It goes through to voicemail and I tense up a little, as I do every time, just before the bittersweet melody of her voice invades my ears. It's been this way for eight months now. Most people would give up after eight months of unanswered calls. But truthfully, eight months ago she left. She didn't just leave me, but left us all. I've paid her phone bill ever since she passed away, just so I would always have her voicemail to listen to.

Haiku

Kiss your friends because
You love them more than you could
Ever love that man

Six Word Story

What would happen if you knew?

Fog

Black fog swirls around me lazily, caressing me with each languid tendril. I'm trying to avoid the cracks - in the floor, in the walls, in the ceiling but I can't see anything. Everything is grey and black and more grey. The fog envelops me like an old friend, but it's something sinister. It curls around my arms and my legs, rising to cup my shoulders, asking me to join it. I don't want to, but it compresses itself around me and suddenly everything feels heavy. There's a weight against my chest and there is pressure in my skull. Black spots block my vision, like a rogue eyelash floating around on your eyeball - you can see it but you can never quite get close enough to look right at it. The cracks in the ground start to judder and creak. I begin to fall, dragging my nails down the walls with a sickening screech, trying to find something to grasp onto.

Sleep Talking

"It's okay, it's okay," I soothe, awkwardly wrapping my arms around his head. His eyes don't open but I know he senses me there. There is a cold sweat adding a sheen to his forehead and his breathing is irregular. I don't know what to do, so I just sit there, with his head tucked under my arm until I feel his laboured breaths slow. I make the odd shushing sound but mainly sit in silence. He softens beneath me and I know he is asleep again. I feel strange sitting by his pillow whilst he sleeps, but for some reason I am reluctant to leave. His terrified screams made me nervous. I didn't want him to dream like that again. So I stay and lean my back against the headboard, counting the cracks in the ceiling. I can't stop my eyes from flickering down to his face every now and then, making sure he's okay and making sure he's still there. He huffs as he rolls onto his side and faces me, a small, sleepy frown creasing the part between his eyebrows. He's still asleep, but he's mumbling incoherently and it almost makes me smile. He breathes my name, but it's soft as a whisper and I think I imagine it. I hear it again and start - he must know I am there. I gently swing my legs off the edge of the bed, ready to leave, when I feel his fist lamely grab my knee. I stop and he relaxes, even in sleep. "I love you," he mutters. "I love you." I swallow the lump in my throat and kiss the top of his head gingerly. "I love you," he sighs again and I sigh too, but for a different reason.