Flash Fiction: The Woods

My new day job has messed up my writing schedule, meaning this month’s flash fiction is technically cheating.

I’ve reworked one of my first pieces of flash fiction, written four years ago when I barely had any subscribers. So for most of you, this will be new.

###

Rufus dropped his soggy tennis ball at my feet and sat. His tail wagged, and his tongue lolled from his gaping mouth while he waited for my next throw.

Leaning forward, I scooped up the threadbare sphere with my long, curved ball launcher.

His tail picked up its pace and his eyes glinted with excitement.

I sent the ball careering into the nearby shrubs and Rufus darted off, hurling himself through the piles of crisp, brown leaves and into the bushes.

Leaves crunched beneath my wellies. Despite my thick socks, cold seeped through the rubber and wool. With a shudder, I tucked the ball launcher under my arm and shoved my gloved hands into my pockets.

A strange fog lingered, hovering just above the hard brown earth between the tall trees, whose bare branches reached towards the grey abyss above.

Rufus barked repeatedly.

I turned towards his call and frowned.

“What’s wrong, boy? Come here!” I shouted.

The dog’s urgent cries continued.

With a frustrated sigh, I headed towards the bushes. “You’d better not be stuck in a hole. I could do without digging you out today,” I mumbled.

My feet slipped as I clambered up the uneven ground and pushed through the dense bushes. I kept my head down and tried not to catch my face on the sharp branches.

“What’s wrong, Rufus?” I asked as I made it through the thicket and jerked my head up.

My breath caught in my throat. A pair of feet dangled before me.

“Oh, shit!”

Rufus whimpered.

My gaze travelled from the mud-splattered brogues, over the grey pinstripe trousers and matching tailored jacket. A silver paisley-print tie dangled from the collar of a pale blue shirt.

The frigid air stung my lungs, and my heart rang in my ears. My lashes lowered. I couldn’t look higher. I couldn’t.

You must. I inhaled and my stomach turned when the rancid scent of bodily fluids assaulted my nostrils.

Forcing my eyes open, I gasped at the bloated, blue face. Mr Morton, a neighbour from up the street, hung from a knotted bed sheet.

Do something!

With trembling hands, I reached into my back pocket and pulled out my phone. “Please have a signal, please have a signal,” I croaked.

Forcing my thumbs to work, I dialled and was greeted with, “What’s your emergency?”

“I need an ambulance and the police now!” I blurted. “Mr Morton has hung himself in the woods and I don’t know what to do!”

“Ok, we’ll get someone out to you as soon as possible. Can you tell me where you are?”

How are they so calm?

I blew out a breath. Right, where the hell am I again?