This week’s photo prompt is provided by Uday, with the blog, Udayology.
The paint was scuffed and the place deserted but the entrance remained as I remembered, with its keyhole-shaped door and bold white letters above. It was years since I’d been there – a relic to my teens. I tried the door; it was locked, but I peered through anyway. A big disco ball was hanging from the ceiling and chairs were stacked up along the side of the room. Little had changed, from what I recalled.
We always wondered why they called it the ‘Photo Centre,’ a strange name for a disco, yet it was memorable. I remembered the day it closed down for good. It had been threatened with closure for a while – underage drinking, then drugs were to blame. I secretly liked the notoriety, but soon even my hippy parents said enough was enough. Just after that came the rape; my best friend, Rosa. She never spoke about it and later moved away, but it entered my list of bad 80s memories, one of those things I would rather forget.
This post was written for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers
The opening sentence for the March 25th Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner: This week’s’ challenge is an apology for the difficulty of last week’s challenge… Please include the words “a blinding light” somewhere in your flash.
I’d only been there for three days when I first attempted the ‘jump.’ They say in Calais that you never forget your first one, but I firmly believed my first would be my last. I figured that the others had just been unlucky, and those who were still there after a few months, very unlucky! I was different though; things had always gone well for me.
So as we set off towards the motorway on that chilly November evening, I felt strangely optimistic. When we began to smell the sea and hear the rumble of traffic after a couple of hours, I laughed and picked up the pace a little, but my friend, Zidane, merely raised his head slightly and said, ‘you won’t make it tonight, you know that don’t you?’
I opened my mouth to reply but decided against it. The poor chap had been there three months already – he was bound to feel defeatist.
A few minutes later the motorway appeared like a blinding light out of the darkness. I felt a rush of excitement as I half walked, half ran towards it.
That was six months ago. They say you never forget your first attempt.
Written for Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner: Week #13 – 2016