Runner-up of the Flash Fiction Competition 2018

2nd Prize

Rosy Edwards

Rosy Edwards began creative writing in 2012 when she joined an adult learning course.  With no idea what to expect, she discovered she was hooked from the first lesson.  Attending a variety of classes and workshops has expanded her horizons.   She enjoys the challenge of short story and flash fiction competitions - whenever she can extricate herself from the undergrowth of her garden design business.  She is an active member of the Chiltern Writers Group www.chilternwriters.org

 

Seek and Ye Shall Find

We spread out in a line, three metres apart. At least twenty volunteers, just in my group. Grim faced, nervous. Men, women, all ages. We’ve got long wooden poles and have been instructed how to use them. There’s twigs and branches everywhere after last night’s storm. Chilly morning air has made pseudo smokers of us all. Briefing over, feet shuffle. We wait. No chatting. My tongue’s dry, furred with that last rushed Americano. It hasn’t helped my heart rate either.

A shrill whistle and we’re off. Plodding slowly, our eyes glued to the ground. Boots crunch into a gravel of beech mast. Poles swish from side to side flicking up green, gold and russet leaves to reveal the deep brown forest floor. Wind lashes the tree canopy, bombarding us with grenades, conkers peeking from their split cases. Crashing through elders we’re splattered with sticky fruit and raindrops. I shudder. Something cold is worming its way down the back of my neck.

Uniforms follow a few metres behind, radios crackling intermittently. Us civilians must outnumber them four to one. We’re to shout if we spot anything. Anything at all. We’re not to delve – they’ll do that.

We clamber over tree trunks, wriggle through stands of ash saplings. A massive patch of brambles is looming into view, right in my path. Just my luck. Vicious barbs snag my jeans and snare my fingers as I try to wade through.

“Hang on! Just use your pole to look underneath as much as you can. Then go round.”

I peer into the dripping jungle and lift the undergrowth aside. A flash of white. A takeaway cup, quickly concealed as wizened blackberries ping back into position. I take a deep breath and try to slow my pulse then reclaim my place in the line.

We must be over a mile from the main car park now, dropping down the hill. The slope’s getting steeper and more treacherous. Nuggets of chalkstone sabotage our footing and hamper our descent. Looking around I get my bearings. We’re approaching the ditch: the ancient earthworks of an Iron-age hillfort on the western flank. It’s been painfully slow progress, but you can’t rush these things. That must be one of the main tracks below us: there’s a Sherwood green Forestry Commission truck and police vehicles, all dazzling white and Day-Glo.

The leaves get deeper as I step into the trench, the accumulation of many autumns. I prod through and meet some resistance. Not the ground. Not more leaves. I look back. The nearest uniform is engrossed with his radio. I poke again, further along. Definitely something there.

“OK folks, if you could make your way down here onto the track, we’ll take a comfort break.”

Immediately the guys each side of me slither down the bank and break into solemn conversation.

I flick the leaves back, just to make sure. A black bin bag glowers from the dank detritus. It’s well hidden. Just as I left it.