Phil W. Bayles

A Short Story About A Scrapbook.

The newsprint of the Tadfield Echo blurred in Betty Flint’s eyes as she cut around the article with trembling hands.

She put down her scissors and reached for the sellotape. A tear spattered the page, smearing the ink. She tutted, wiped her eyes, and looked closely to make sure she hadn’t spoiled the text. Satisfied, she laid the clipping carefully in the scrapbook. Only after she had smoothed it out did Betty allow herself to look at the article properly. Mark beamed up at her, the spark in his eyes clearly visible even in the grainy photograph.

Her boy had looked ever so handsome in his dress uniform. That’s why she had chosen to bury him in it.

LOCAL HERO DIES IN WAREHOUSE BLAZE, the headline read.

Betty nodded to herself. The Echo printed all sorts of nonsense, but for once they’d got their facts right. She read on.

A Tadfield firefighter lost his life tackling a serious fire at an abandoned warehouse in nearby Newton Colby.

Mark Flint (33) died of smoke inhalation when he ran into the burning building after he reported hearing cries for help from inside.

“I ordered Flint to wait so that we could assess the situation,” said Tadfield Station Manager Jeremy Warren. “But he was determined to help in any way he could. He was an exceptional firefighter and a pillar of the community. Our thoughts are with his family at this difficult time.”

The cause of the fire remains unknown. Police have yet to rule out foul play.

Betty let out a shuddering breath. Why did he have to run off like that? He’d probably just heard a fox or a stray cat: nobody would ever willingly squat in that old warehouse. Even she knew that.

Betty flipped back through the scrapbook, letting other memories wash over her. Photos of Mark at the local school, teaching the children about firework safety; standing in front of the station, next to a smiling Jeremy Warren; in his dress uniform again, this time as a fresh-faced recruit. And in between these photos, other stories. The fire that took the steeple off the church roof last summer; the smoke damage in the library; the smouldering husk of the old bandstand.

Looking at the scrapbook used to give Betty a warm glow of pride deep in the pit of her stomach. Now she only felt cold.

Mark had always joked that nothing ever happened in a tiny village like Tadfield. But he’d always wanted to help people, ever since he was a little boy. So she’d helped him, like any good mother would.

Betty rose from the kitchen table. She carried the scrapbook to the cupboard under the stairs, carefully put it back on the high shelf next to the lighter fluid and the disposable gloves, and went back to the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea.

This was my entry for the second round of the NYC Midnight 500-Word Fiction challenge. Sadly I didn’t make it to the final, but I’m still proud of this piece.

This time around, my prompts were: Drama / Disobeying / Newspaper clippings. I’m pleased with how this one turned out, but I think that 500 words wasn’t quite enough to do it justice. Maybe I’ll come back to it in the future and try to expand on it a little bit.