#WriteCBC
Jane unwraps the phallic-shaped gift amid watchful eyes, heart beating wildly.
Mark lifts a mischievous brow as he nonchalantly sips his sherry.
“Is it a pink cucumber, Mummy?”
“Er… yes, of course!”
A nervous tinkly laugh.
She was going to kill him.

The drawer jerked open and the old A5 hardback slid into view. Her eyes widened then misted with nostalgia. The years dissolved as she flicked to the page on autopilot - 9th April 1989. The top 10 scrawled in her uneven teenage hand; the No1 circled twice with a red biro heart. Their song. #WriteCBC

She gazes at the 1,000-year-old skeleton, not seeing, eyes welling. Kids swarm around, jabbing clipboards into her thigh. “Miss. Miss?” She nods vaguely. He’s here, somewhere. Not at work; here. Proof of betrayal. A flash of red on her periphery. His jacket. Nausea rises; he’s not alone. #WriteCBC

A dull thud made his skin prickle. A rasping groan slithered down the reverse of the old door. A sickening crunch. Silence. Releasing the catch, he blinked into the glare. The prone form was curled wretchedly on the step. Wild eyes locked onto his and fingers clawed at his soul. 'Please.’ #WriteCBC