Forging ahead with fictional endeavours: ~ Write a life on a page and hurry not to its grave; abhor not the coming age, for eternal is the next page. ~ Read what you will, I hope you will enjoy reading as much as I do writing.

Posts tagged ‘fiction.’

Trickster: Friday Fictioneers

Little bit of Flash Fiction inspired by photo promt provided by Rochelle for Friday Fictioneers. For other Friday Fictioneers fics please head over to her blog and click on the blue frog under photo prompt to see other links. I was going to try and embed the code here but I’m too tired to remember my account details without resetting them.

 

Time.

Chime. Chime. Chime.

Engines spark; sputters, rumbles, and roars.

Stately procession purrs along tarmac.

Dusty relics? Vintage? Classics?

Terms don’t matter to onlookers; admiring invention, progress and change.

Unwittingly worshipping time.

At the head of the procession – Chronos: slurping in belief.

Wily Bastard – Surviving the fall of the pantheons.

Should have known the Old Man had a trick up his sleeves.

Loki smirked. It had been soo very long since he had greeted another god. How could he not say ‘Hello?’

The Trickster dealt wild cards, the pranksters in the parade.

Loki skipped, chaos where he tread.

Hope

deccay

copyright to Dale Rogerson

I’ve kicked my Nanowrimo off rather slowly with this little piece based off last weeks prompt for Friday fictioneers.  I’m a little out of practice when it comes to writing a story in 100 words, but I consider this part of my story/character intro for my current work. Not sure yet as to whether future fic will be related; it tends to get confusing if small sections are added sequentially.

*edit – Chissick is my best estimation of metal being drawn over a wet stone for sharpening.  I would re-write to clarify this better but it ends up too long.  This is the only problem with the use of ‘sound effects’ in writing; the audience has to recognise them in the first place. Oops on my part.
Chisssick.
“Deliah…?”
Chisssisk. “Yes, Isolde?”
Chisssisk. “The river is barely a trickle… The woods contain nothing but the corpses of trees…” Chissisk. “…Our fields can’t sustain the cow; let alone crops…” Chissisk. “I understand father’s tools but why keep the hunting tools sharp?”
Deliah gently placed her tools away. “Hope,” she paused, stroking the oiled, leather tool-wrap, “The rains will purify the land.  The river will swell; life will bloom.  Our field will be flush with crops.” Deliah smiled ruefully at her sister.  “When that happens I wish to hunt again.”
Isolde shook her head, and stirred the bubbling gruel; wondering how it would feed their family.

Lucky stack

bike

I was very determined to do some fiction today, it seems.  Here’s a short fic which makes it obvious I’ve been working with RSPCA today.  If you’re familiar with Banjo Paterson’s ‘Mulgar Bill’ another influence will be quite clear.  If not I’ve added it as a quote for those non-australians who are interested. It’s not as well known as ‘Waltzing Matilda’ but still an interesting poem.  The photo is provided as part of Sunday Photo Fiction. *Edit Note on my usage of Stack/stacked: a more common aussie meaning means to stack is to crash. (Been back 4 months and I’ve gone native on you.) Okay, going to give up on coherency now.

Lucky Stack

Linda glowered at her Father. Their locked glares became an emotional battle which chipped away at her willpower. Then, with vision blurred by tears, Linda fled the room, grabbed her bike and sped off into the dusk with her Alsatian, Marco. The gentle whir of wheels counterpointed by panting of Marco as he raced joyfully alongside the bike could not calm her tonight. The wrong was too great, and her mind became a maze as she struggled to find a solution. Suburban terrain gave way to rougher bush track but the pair paid no heed; this was their realm, in it they were free. For the briefest of moments Linda forgot her worries. It was then, with a shriek and a yelp, that the pair came to grief on the twilight track. Bike crumpled, and lost in the dark, it was Marco whom found his way from where his mistress stacked. Though he nudged and licked, Linda did not stir. The worried dog let out a sing-song whine as he waited for her. As the temperature dropped he snuggled close to keep her warm, and kept the night life at bay. When Linda was rescued in the light of a new day, her Father uttered not a word of sending Marco away.

MULGA BILL’S BICYCLE by A.B. “Banjo” Paterson

'Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that caught the cycling craze;
He turned away the good old horse that served him many days;
He dressed himself in cycling clothes, resplendent to be seen;
He hurried off to town and bought a shining new machine;
And as he wheeled it through the door, with air of lordly pride,
The grinning shop assistant said, "Excuse me, can you ride?"

"See here, young man," said Mulga Bill, "from Walgett to the sea,
From Conroy's Gap to Castlereagh, there's none can ride like me.
I'm good all round at everything as everybody knows,
Although I'm not the one to talk - I hate a man that blows.
But riding is my special gift, my chiefest, sole delight;
Just ask a wild duck can it swim, a wildcat can it fight.
There's nothing clothed in hair or hide, or built of flesh or steel,
There's nothing walks or jumps, or runs, on axle, hoof, or wheel,
But what I'll sit, while hide will hold and girths and straps are tight:
I'll ride this here two-wheeled concern right straight away at sight."

'Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that sought his own abode,
That perched above Dead Man's Creek, beside the mountain road.
He turned the cycle down the hill and mounted for the fray,
But 'ere he'd gone a dozen yards it bolted clean away.
It left the track, and through the trees, just like a silver steak,
It whistled down the awful slope towards the Dead Man's Creek.

It shaved a stump by half an inch, it dodged a big white-box:
The very wallaroos in fright went scrambling up the rocks,
The wombats hiding in their caves dug deeper underground,
As Mulga Bill, as white as chalk, sat tight to every bound.
It struck a stone and gave a spring that cleared a fallen tree,
It raced beside a precipice as close as close could be;
And then as Mulga Bill let out one last despairing shriek
It made a leap of twenty feet into the Dean Man's Creek.

'Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that slowly swam ashore:
He said, "I've had some narrer shaves and lively rides before;
I've rode a wild bull round a yard to win a five-pound bet,
But this was the most awful ride that I've encountered yet.
I'll give that two-wheeled outlaw best; it's shaken all my nerve
To feel it whistle through the air and plunge and buck and swerve.
It's safe at rest in Dead Man's Creek, we'll leave it lying still;
A horse's back is good enough henceforth for Mulga Bill."

The Sydney Mail, 25 July 1896.

Three little kittens

attentive

Practice run at a new piece of flash fiction using last weeks VisDare, the buzz word of which was attentive. I really like these kitties. The cross looking one, in particular.

“Looks like scraps again,” Streak commented with a twitch of her nose, contentedly watching swallows in the birdbath.
“Not touching scraps,” Smudge growled, his claws unsheathing.
“Might be lucky; might get squidgy or crunchy stuff,” said Stripe, drooling slightly.
“Stuff they won’t eat? Foisted on us?!” Smudge scratched the window sill feriouciously.
“Not so bad,” Streak replied.
“Taste goes away with a bit of cleaning,” added Stripe.
Smudge leapt of the sill with a snarl. Within moments all birdlife in the vicinity was dead or flapping for it’s life.
Streak’s tail twitched with amusment.
“He really is easy,” Stripe commented as she licked a paw and washed her ears. The pair lazily stalked over to stake their claims.

A touch of grace

A touch of grace

Spiced with tales

Steered by time

Travails crooked trails

Wonder in discovery

Bind everyday

Driven, excited.

Playing in the fray.

Life’s shuffle brings

Pain and pleasure,

Crossroads and fog

To hide fairy treasure

Grace is fleeting

Days gather as dust

No time is wasted.

To higher powers we entrust.
Now free of burden

The adventure without measure

Beckons the explorer

To the true treasure.

Finally some writing to post. Bit of poetry but it involved thought! Lol The neurofatigue that comes with brain injury has been beaten back, this time anyway. This one is actually tied to recent events in my life; as can probably be seen. I have been thinking a lot about my cousin, whom we sadly lost last month. I think it needs work. :/

Pen. Shift. Now!

aussienothing I’m back to understanding the literal meaning of my writing handle! Recently I’ve made the mistake of attempting to write just before I go to bed. This plan resulted in absolute failure. The moment I remove my glasses and shut of the light the power of my brain seems to go with it.  I have been doing so much recently that I’m becoming very aware of my body will and won’t let me do.  Apparently I should not attempt to write before bed; amongst other things. -_-

In about a week I fly back to England.  This time I will be flying back to say goodbye to Britain. (Yes, Pommies! I called it Britain 😛 Whatcha going to do about it, huh?) I am migrating back permanently (for now, as I live in hope). This means a speedy Clean out session of my possessions, (Just picture my face contorted in horror)  I’m suddenly glad I’ve had a cleansing session before every move and had a clean out just over a month ago.  By early July I will be in Australia and thanking the sliver of luck I have had at migrating back during WINTER.

soakedkoalamagpiepatrick Stewart

Exhibit A: Soaked Koala – The very reason for the existence of the Drop Bear myth.  They may look cute and cuddly.  They may sleep up to 18 hours a day.  Don’t let that fool you; they are vicious.

Exhibit B: Magpie – The actual inspiration for the ‘Angry Birds’ franchise. Magpies may warble beautifully but take cover during hatching season.  These little buggers are out for blood.  A common Australian defense tactic is to paint eyes on an ice cream bucket and wear it like a helmet.  Fierce as they are, Magpies spook if you look directly at them.  Why not use a helmet? That would require sanity!

Exhibit C: Starfleets response to the WW2 Japanese invasion of Northern Australia. Some defense force they turned out to be.  All we got was some hogwash about the ‘Temporal Prime Directive’. We know how much effort they put into upholding that particular directive. >.>

aussiesheep

Despite all our deadlies this is a far more likely crew to run across.  They may look like they have stepped off a page of the long-running New Zealand comic ‘Footrot Flats’ but in outback farm country similar scenes are not unlikely.

Annnd there you have it, my dose of semi-fiction for the day.  Nothing like a bit of satire to start the morning. 😀

Watching

cat

So much for a day off!  It somehow evolved into a week. Anyway, this one is for Visdare; I think it shows that a week only made me a little rusty.  I’m going to have to think about getting a posting schedule going – with post scheduled in advanced so I can take weeks off but keep this thing active.

“Is the cave safe?” The woman asked as she shushed her child; her spear aimed into the dark opening. Their leader nudged the pile of bones with his leather boot.

“Old scat and aged bones. Cave smells of dirt. Safe enough for the night.” The tribes-people nodded, and made camp; weary and starved from the winter trek south. Soon enough she perched by a small fire watching their meagre hunt roast while the others searched for more in the cold-stripped landscape. The nomads remained unaware of the ancient being watching from the dark. Only the mother felt the prickling of her neck, stealing suspicious glances into the cave. When she spotted the eyes reflecting firelight an unspoken agreement was forged: Safety for the child.

Vanish: Get’s out even pride.

tie

This one inspired by the photo prompt from Picture It and Write.  I was trying a completely different character from usual – self-absorbed, narcissist with a fixation on clothes I could never comprehend.  Not sure how well I’ve done. It’s weird what fundamentals you find are basic to your own character while writing others.

Conway liked clothes. The sensation of fabrics, the fit of perfectly tailored outfits; the enhancement of his image through careful selection. Conway had a look for every occasion and for each a selection of fashionable attire. Today he wore a suit that reflected the themes of his sister’s, Candice, nuptials. Conway straightened his tie examining a job well done; given the dull attire he was forced to work with. He fancied himself the perfect Venus fly trap; Candice’s wedding wouldn’t be too boring. Then his older sister, Constance, messaged him.

Constance: Ex bailed. Need u 2 watch kids 4 ceremony.

Conway: No. Get mum 2.

Constance: u r only 1 not in ceremony. B gud uncle 4 once!

Conway: Not gud with kids.

Constance: keep them aliv + out of trouble

Conway’s personal hell broke loose the moment he entered the church. Co-opted into childrearing, he was at a loss to deal with a devious three year old while a baby left drool and spit-up over everything in range. By the end of the evening he ended up covered in conspicuous and offensive stains that not even the most skill dry-cleaner could remove.

Ordinary ties

ordinary

A short poem for Visdare.

One little elephant

Ran while his clan

Died.

Instinct sought safety,

New home,

And family ties.

Rare human kindness.

Years without fear.

Occupational hazards

Microsoft Word - Supernatural Survival Skills

This one is based on the prompt from Mayhem Monday.

There was a time when Camilla thought the luminous, full moon was beautiful. It felt graceful and mysterious. Then she saw what lay on the dark side of the moon, and Now it made her twitchy. Camilla paced; fortieth security check of the night now complete and heading for her forty-first. If the neighbours chanced to look in her barred windows when the moon was full they would no longer wonder if she were crazy. They would know. If they saw how Camilla rocketed into her closet, bolted it shut at the mere clang of a garbage can hitting the pavement they would have her committed. She clutched at crosses and rummaged through her arsenal for every silver bullet she owned. There was only one neighbour she could trust at times like these. Justin Bateman.

Justin lived to her right. He was a staunch non-believer in the supernatural. At least until she set a starving succubus on him for hanging inverted crosses on her door. She had rescued him from his willing entanglement with the demon when he admitted there was a slim possibility the demon would, indeed, suck out his soul. From that point on he acted as an unwilling lackey rather then risk any other encounters with Camilla’s ire. Camilla slammed herself into a chair she had stored in the closet for occasions such as these, pulled a gun across her lap, and dialled his number. Wedging the phone between her shoulder and cheek, she methodically loaded her gun while she listed a string of names she wanted to call Justin as he took his sweet time to answer the phone.

“My God! What the hell do you want?!” Camilla was too focused on her task to care about the grating tone of his voice. “You need to check outside my house. Something knocked over the garbage cans.”

“Why would I do that? Surely you can manage something so simple on your own.” Camilla cocked her gun, imagining it was aimed at Justin’s head. “Tell me, Justin, what happened the last time I did an external perimeter check on a full moon?” Justin let out an exasperated sigh.

“You became a lunatic, filled a stray dog full of silver bullets, and set Mrs. Crabsky’s cat on fire. Why the hell did you do that, I’ve always wanted to know.”

“Never trust a black cat on a full moon. As for the dog? Full moon – shoot first, confirm later. Now, then, who would you rather face: a) a werewolf or b) an irate monster hunter with an itchy trigger-finger who lives next door?”

“…I’ll take my chances with the strays.” A few minutes of tense silence later, he was back on the line. “Camilla, are you sure you killed the old bat’s cat?” Fear had knocked the annoyance out of his voice. “Yes; ethanol and flames tend to be quite efficient.”

“Then why is it in your trash nibbling on rotting chicken?” Camilla dropped the crosses in surprise.

“…I’ll be out in a minute. Seems the old crone really is an Old Crone.”

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