Michael Moody tosses an unwrapped box of Quality Street, six months past its sell-by date, onto Emma’s lap. She gushes her thanks as though the chocolates were Belgian, and handmade. Michael Moody has made Emma’s life a misery since last September with his temper tantrums, his destructive behaviour and his bullying of classmates. Today, though, she loves him. It’s the last day of the summer term. From now on Michael Moody will be someone else’s problem.
Emma and her housemates celebrate the end of term with several bottles of cheap sparkling wine as they cram sarongs, bikinis, and very little else into their suitcases. They drink a toast to Michael Moody and make their annual drunken pact. What happens on holiday stays on holiday.
Emma’s not looking for a holiday romance. She’s not even looking for what her best mate Bridget calls ‘a wee fling’. All she wants is a couple of weeks of not being Miss Spencer, Key Stage One Teacher. On holiday, Emma makes a point of saying yes to all the things Miss Spencer would say no to. So when an elaborately tattooed, ridiculously good looking bloke with a mischievous grin offers to buy her a drink on the first night, of course she accepts. It’s just a drink after all. A drink that leads to another, then another. They dance, late into the night and early into the next morning, with her arms raised in the air, and his hands all over her. That’s as far as it goes, though. For now, anyway.
He appears again, the next day, when she’s sunbathing on the beach. She lies on her front and lets him unfasten her bikini top and rub factor 50 into her back. He has strong, experienced hands. She purrs with satisfaction. He laughs, and she feels his breath on her neck. The sand crunches near her head, and she senses the presence of someone new.
‘Hiya, Miss,’ says the unmistakeable voice of Michael Moody. She scrambles to her knees, covering her front a second too late with her sand encrusted towel. Moody males large and small regard her with amusement. The smaller Moody sucks Coca Cola noisily through a straw as the father he sees for two weeks every summer leers at the bits of Emma that have been left uncovered. The resemblance between them is so strong that she wonders why she has failed to recognise it until now. She gathers her belongings and flees, leaving behind a flip flop, like some low rent Cinderella.
FlashFlood is brought to you by National Flash-Fiction Day UK, happening this year on 27th June 2015.
In the build up to the day we have now launched our Micro-Fiction Competition (stories up to 100 words) and also our annual Anthology (stories up to 500 words). So if you have enjoyed FlashFlood, why not send us your stories?More information about these and the Day itself available at nationalflashfictionday.co.uk.
Brilliant! I just love it. The first line of the last paragraph made me chuckle. The last line is superb. Very well done, Alison!ReplyDelete