Flash Fiction

Síofra

This would be a good time to wake up, I think, realising that Síofra’s blue Fiesta has vanished from where she had parked it less than two hours before. But I’m sure I saw it less than five minutes ago when I carried the harpist instrument to her van. I’d felt obliged to help after she’d woven a sublime backdrop to the reading which had brought us to Dublin in the first place.

Thanks to Síofra, the poet had addressed our writers’ group a few weeks before and had then invited us to the Dublin launch of her new collection. We are a motley collection, mostly female, ranging from two girls in their twenties to a pair of spritely eighty-something-year-old sisters. I am one of only three males in the group, but the other two are rarely seen and, even then, only as a couple. Our present incarnation has been running for about eighteen months, but some of our members had been writing long before Síofra’s arrival in our midst.

I’m not the only one who fancies Síofra. She is our anchor and hasn’t only brought vibrancy to our little group but is already fine tuning our first collaborative of poetry and prose. After the poet’s invitation, the excitement in the pub was infectious. Everybody was going to Dublin and, had the launch been on the following evening, we would have booked and paid for a coach right there and then. As days went by, however, the numbers began to dwindle, until only Síofra and I remained. All thoughts of a coach forgotten, Síofra offered to drive to the city and, as my wife was away visiting with her parents, suggested that we stay for the post-launch drinks party and then overnight at her sister’s city centre apartment.

A figure hovers in the mouth of the alley, furtively glancing right and left, its hands apparently hidden in the pouch of a dark hoodie. At a distance of some fifty metres, it’s impossible to tell whether the person is male or female, young or old, friend or foe. I feel the hairs stiffen at the back of my neck. I’m not familiar with this part of the city. If I were to turn and walk in the opposite direction, would I emerge into a well-lit thoroughfare and find safety in the anonymity of strangers, or end up trapped in a totally blind alley? Waving her thanks, the harpist had driven back in the direction from which we had come, over the exact spot where the figure now loiters. The sound of barking dogs comes from somewhere behind me: large dogs. Is this my reward for assisting the harpist, or my punishment for harbouring hopes of sharing Síofra’s bed in her absent sister’s apartment?

The shadowy figure approaches; a street light reflects evilly from something clutched in the slender hand. I know it’s not a gun; neither do I think that it’s a knife. Could it be an ice pick? I’ve only ever seen ice picks in American movies, but whatever it is; it’s getting nearer – and fast. I glimpse a flash of face beneath the hood. It’s a young face, fresh – a teenager? My confidence surges.

I move forward, my laptop bag held like a shield before me. Why is the bag so light; what has become of my laptop? I can see the weapon more clearly now. It looks like a wire coat hanger, wound around the wrist; a six inch spike clasped between thumb and forefinger. I feint with my bag, and then feel the weight of the power pack in the pocket. I rip the Velcro open, pull out the apparatus and swing the heavy adaptor towards the head of my nemesis. I miss, but the evasive action causes the hood to slip back, baring the aggressor’s head. Watching her golden curls flow free of their restraint, I gasp Síofra’s name. Landing with a thump on my bedroom floor, I decide it might be for the best if Síofra were to attend the Dublin launch on her own.


From Listowel, Ireland, Neil Brosnan’s first publication was in 2004. Since then, almost 100 of his stories have appeared in print and digital anthologies and magazines in Ireland, Britain, Europe, Australia, India, USA, South America, and Canada. A Pushcart nominee, he is a winner of The Bryan MacMahon, The Maurice Walsh, (five times) and The Ireland’s Own, (twice) short story awards. He has published two short story collections: ‘Fresh Water & other stories’ (Original Writing, 2010) and ‘Neap Tide & other stories’ (New Binary Press, 2013).