Bethanie Clark
Bio
Hi I'm Beth from Derbyshire in the UK, all I've ever wanted to do is write, now I just need to trade my soul for some motivation to do it! I'm also painfully aware of the irony that I can't think of much to write here...
Stories (7/0)
Mother's Bane
The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window. Emily shifted at the sight, she had always hated the forgotten little shack between the trees and yet the sudden warm glow emanating from it felt like an oddly fitting tribute. The car trundled on down the road and around the bend until the cabin was out of sight and only the lingering unpleasantness of it’s presence remained, like another’s shadow clinging to you. Not harming you but never quite leaving you. Neither of them spoke of the unusual sighting though Emily was sure her Father had seen it too, the uncomfortable silence between them felt somehow more unnatural and his knuckles whitened around the steering wheel. Emily took a moment to get one last look at him while he was distracted by his thoughts, he had dressed smartly for the occasion, there was no denying that and yet his total lack of heartache shone through his clothes as though he were wearing high-vis. Perhaps wearing black to funerals was outdated. An onlooker would think he had stepped from the office for a pleasant stroll and had the misfortune to wander into the midst of a funeral procession, but being the stand up man that he appears had simply been too polite to excuse himself during the ceremony. Or maybe they might think he was one of those strange fellows that gets his kicks from sitting in on a stranger’s funeral, that would at least make him a little more interesting.
By Bethanie Clark2 years ago in Fiction
The Cure
‘The elusive Holmford Bay Great White has finally been located 3 weeks after it’s initial discovery. The shark has been giving our hunters a swim for their money, for the majority of June they have tailed it all along the East Coast. On the 15th we were heartbroken to announce that the trail had gone cold after 3 days with no sightings. Thankfully, Mary Gaul of Turnasea, was swimming with her children this morning when they spotted the large fin cutting through the water towards them.’
By Bethanie Clark3 years ago in Fiction
The Sentinel
“Jo?” “Mm?” Josie replied dreamily, savouring the soft breeze against her skin. “Parcel.” Marnie placed a weighty parcel in Josie’s lap and gently closed the window beside her. Josie tested the box in her hands, heavy, for its relatively small size.
By Bethanie Clark3 years ago in Fiction
Apocalypse 2020
The year is 2020, it started as every year does, with trepidation, hope, promise and in January. January lasted for precisely 73 days, followed by the shortest February on record, lasting just over 10 minutes and 24 seconds. Then along marched March and March laughed in the face of January and February, March laughed at us all. For it was March that said ‘Cancel your plans people, I have another idea!’ We all said ‘No March, how could you?!’ In horrified unison, but March didn’t care. It was the start of the quarantine, a word we only knew from history books and sci-fi films, but soon came to know very well indeed. Quarantine meant queuing outside of the shop, far away from your fellow quarantiners, but close enough to wonder what good the mask was doing around their chin while they had a smoke, or the gloves they were wearing whilst picking their teeth, often muttering ‘I prefer it like this, it would be better if they had this queue system permanently’.
By Bethanie Clark3 years ago in Humans
The Neighbour
Roger had always had a morbid fascination with obituaries. He found reading the trials and tribulations of lives lived and ceased enthralling. Adventures that could be enjoyed vicariously through the inky pages while slouching in an armchair with a cup of tea. It was during one typical morning and a flit through the day’s deaths that Roger discovered his neighbour had passed away. There, beneath the grainy photo, was the name Harold Smeld, a name Roger had never known until now. He tested the name on his tongue and a pang of regret swirled around his navel for a fleeting moment. ‘SMELD, Harold, aged 72, passed away on Tuesday 27th May. Widower, Father, may he rest in peace.’ An odd sensation of unease crawled down Roger’s neck, he lowered the paper and moved to the kitchen, thumbing the kettle into action. He rested his elbows on the counter and plopped his chin into his hands, gazing out at the house next door. It bore all the signs of a house that wasn’t a home. The walls were marred with paint-less patches, the colour having long been carried away on the edge of a breeze and the windowsills drooped, forlorn, away from the windows towards the overgrown garden. Perhaps a new person would move in and restore life to the old property, Roger mused, pouring milk into his mug and watching it billow in the brown liquid. He returned to his chair and slumped back down. Maybe a family with noisy young children would move in, the thought provoked a grimace and a shudder. He took a sip from his mug, eyes narrowed. They would probably have a yappy little dog too. He pushed the thought away with a definitive shake of the head, that house was too much work for a young family. It was probably haunted too, Harold seemed the type to haunt.
By Bethanie Clark3 years ago in Fiction
The Shifting Tides of Class
The day the currency crashed, the lives of the rich fell to the whims of the poor. The first person to notice the money had gone was Marjorie Johanssen of Miami, she had been attempting a transfer at the exact moment the balances hit zero. Within seconds a chorus of confused mutterings were uttered across the nation, as the seconds ticked into minutes, confusion boiled over into panic. Wall Street erupted, people spilled from their cubicles seeking answers only to return laden with more questions. The New York police department had been sceptical in the beginning, the first phone call was labelled a scam and the second- moments later- the same. Their irritation grew as the third and fourth calls came in quick succession echoing the claim, 'somebody has stolen all of my money.' Between 12.02pm and 12.05pm they received such an unfathomable influx of calls that the chief made the executive decision to pull the cords from the walls in order to try and gain some quiet and clarity. Exactly 11 minutes and 27 seconds after the crash, the President was pointing fingers and promising retaliation. The news rippled across the country within the hour, people sighed and cooed their condolences before realising they too had been hit.
By Bethanie Clark3 years ago in Fiction
Beyond the Wall
The bald crow cried thrice to signal the Sun’s altering hue. Prin gazed at the now pale green orb and sighed. Pulling her scarf tighter around her face, she slid from the bar and vaulted over the crumbling wall into the street. The Traveller’s sign creaked a final farewell to her as she trudged towards home. The growing breeze carried forgotten waste down the road, swirling and dancing along the pavement, an imitation of life that had long since ceased. Due to it’s immediate proximity to the wall, the small village had been one of the first to be stripped bare and had thus been rather peaceful of late. Prin stuck to the path and turned right from Main Street along Chestnut Grove, the only chestnut in sight a small, worn etching on the side of dustbin. She gazed with longing at the dark alleyway which connected Chestnut to Rose Way but continued without altering her course. Without rules, we are no better than them. Rick’s voice, carved into her memory. She walked all the way to the end of Chestnut, took a left and weaved through the mess of houses, sticking to the cover of shadows as she moved. Passed Boundary Gardens, passed Cherry Tree Lane, passed Acacia Avenue and finally passed Rose Way, where she quickened her pace. Beyond Rose Way, a barren wasteland, the white wall looming in the distance. Her feet knew the way, they followed the path that they themselves had grooved into the sandy earth.
By Bethanie Clark3 years ago in Fiction
