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 ‘flash fiction’

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.

Pro-kidnapee

darkness

This one did not go where I wanted it too.  I had idea then got frustrated half way through because it did not want to write in that direction.  I almost gave up on it but then I looked at it again today and decided it could easily be finished, just not the way I intended.  It was bloody typical; I got frustrated and set up a twitter account and reclaimed my linkin account all to distract myself from a story that was tied up really quickly.  I borrowed the prompt from Monday Madness.

Trisha: Teen (wannabe) Detective.

“Oooo, Space,” Trisha felt herself saying. “Wait… no stars?…” Trisha stared up her dark universe. “Bummer…” she muttered as the world became less disjointed. A minute later it occurred to addle-brained teen that the world was not actually spinning. Then, by unfortunate hap-stance, the world stopped.

“I was Enjoying that!” Trisha flung at the universe. Bored and pouting, she decided it was time to deal with reality. “Right, 58th time I’ve woken up in this position. Protocol 1) Injury!” Trisha proceeded to pat herself down while singing ‘Head, shoulders, knees, and toes.’ Left ankle: twisted. Right elbow: gash running up to shoulder, likely bruised. Wet substance on head? Blood or other liquid? Trisha rubbed it between her thumb and forefinger. Not water. She licked her finger. Coppery. “Blood. That will be why my memories fuzzy. Protocol 2) Sensations?” Cold. Wet. Slight mildew smell. So far, so standard. Whistling, puffs of earthy-scented air, coming from same direction as the sound of rain splatter: open or cracked window, likely basement level. Shallow breathing from my right, scent of strawberries mixed with cheap deodorant; only one person that could be. “Oi, Dick!” No response. Likely unconscious, no help from him. “Protocol 3) Explore environment; prioritise light, escapes routes, and unconscious fools,” Trisha rose gingerly, relieved that she hadn’t hit her head this time around. She figured the wince-inducing pain in her ankle was enough of a handicap. With care she felt around, at switch level. “Oh, well, what do you know? Found you quickly, my pretty little circuit!” Trisha covered her eyes, flipped the switch and waited for her eyes to adjust.

This was too easy and on opening her eyes Trisha discovered why. “Geh, Dick’s basement! Is it too much to be kidnapped, GodDamnit!” she exclaimed as she bolted up the stairs to confirm her deepest fear: the door was indeed unlocked. Grumbling she returned to basement level to prod Dick with a bare toe. “Good morning, Sunshine! Time to get up,” Trisha ordered as she examined his crumpled form. Fair few bruises, and nice looking cut; these were of no immediate concern. Dick’s leg was definitely bending the wrong way though. In a flurry of practised first aid Trisha simultaneously called 000 and wrapped him in a blanket. By the time the paramedics arrived Dick had yet to regain consciousness and, for that, Trisha was sure he would be eternally grateful.

One person’s heaven

oldbuilding

Sunday photo fic, albeit I’m dangerously close to Tuesday. I given up a trying to do all the flash fics I think of on the day I think of them.  I’ve been working to hard in all areas; not just my writing. Now I’m hitting the overload wall. Anywho, I introduce Eric the ghost hunter.  I had to edit this a few times – The first draft made him sound so… Perverted.

One person’s heaven.

This jobs a bust, Eric decided, as he stroked the ears of his tranquil collie. Simpletons! Point at an old building and the chances are 5:1 that some fool will say it’s haunted. Eric shot a moody glance at the fireplace; a log had just crackled naturally. I bet that tree grew straight and pure! At least give me some gnarly old wood grown over a forgotten grave! Eric was irked.

The house had the right atmosphere, damn it. The wiring out-dated; the heating pre-war. Disrepair had touched every surface. Without the grace of the supernatural these were but… Idiosyncrasies! Peaceful, and utterly boring, Eric sighed. He missed finding his keys in odd places. The titillation of strange shadows, the rush of an unseen presence. Eric found no excitement here; all he found was a brief holiday in hell.

Runaway

one-tree-hill

This piece has been inspired by the photo prompt.  I have borrowed it from Picture it and Write. After 5 edits I finally got it down to only 5 words over the upper limit. I couldn’t actually bear to cut any more out. I got to the point where I felt I would lose impact rather then improve the story.  As always, please feel free to leave constructive criticism.

The Runaway

Abby huddled into the scavenged blanket. Wet from the rain; it was ice. Abby huffed into her palms, pleased with futile warmth. A discontented glance at her woollen hat informed Abby that tonight would be spent in the shelter. Abby daydreamed of hot showers and warm rooms as the pennies winked mockingly under street lights. Her ‘earnings’ were barely enough for a hot drink…

It was a wretched lifestyle. In a bitter realization Abby knew it wasn’t miserable. Misery was living with Her. Abby choose the freedom of uncertainty over oppressive manipulation; infrequent, random harassment over certain abuse. Unbidden, the memories stirred; smiling faces from before Her time taunting Abby. She imagined her brother, Callum, looming over her. Ah~ now I’m hallucinating. “I found you,” He said. Is he crying? Callum’s strong arms settled around her wet shoulders with her sense of reality. “Come home. Pa is worried.” He was so warm. Abby’s resolve snapped.

Legionnaire

oldcanal

Annd I’m on a roll today. Second piece of flash fiction.  For this one I made use of prompts from Jeremy’s daily challenge. I’m going to be so tapped out tomorrow at this rate. I’ve written in the area of 750 words. I know that doesn’t sound like a lot but a few months ago I was lucky to manage a 100.

There was no dirt for cultivation; no seeds to be sown. Just cold stone and concrete; a desolate place for one who worked the land. Hunkered down in a deserted alley, hiding amongst the human clutter; the soldier wondered how he came to bear his armour. There was no honour in this slaughter. If a legend were spun all he would remember was the suffering and ruin of the innocent. Unguarded in this moment of despondency, the legionnaire failed to notice the enemy until he felt the sword ram clean through. In that dank alley, oozing warm blood, he desired nothing more then a peaceful home. All he could see was the scarred face of a weeping man, a beacon against the blue sky. For just a moment, he imagined the same scarred man warmly tending his flock. Despite all reason, the farmer smiled as the world faded away.

Helen jerked awake, fear squeezing her chest. The dream had been entirely too vivid. She clutched the site of wound and discovered only sound flesh. Brian stirred next to her. “Bad dream, hun?” he murmured as flopped an arm over her in a sleepy show of comfort. She stared at his strong features, illuminated by the glow of her phone. For one chilling moment she saw a face from a lifetime ago. Helen pinched her cheek and looked again. This time all she saw was her supportive husband.

To cross a black cat.

old used door in retro look is opened

I have borrowed today’s prompts from Adrian Lilly. This is actually a piece I wanted to do yesterday but I was not up to writing fiction. I have to warn people today’s short story is a little on the dark side and contains mature content. I honestly prefer humour but I was not inspired in that direction this time.

Late at night the doorbell rings. Your character looks out the window and sees no one, so goes about getting ready for bed.  Just as your character is drifting off to sleep, it rings again. What does your character to?

Bzzt. I never should have had that fixed. Jane thought, rising from warm, fluffy bedding. Bzzt. 11pm. “This had better be good!” She shouted out as she took surly strides to the front door; throwing on a robe in the process. She jerked the door open to discover her neighbour standing off to the right; from the window he would have been completely hidden from view. Her crankiness fled when she saw the white cat he held in his arms. “Nathan got out again. I wouldn’t have bothered but he’s injured,” the man stated crisply, with accusatory undertones. Jane bit back a snarky reply and simply reached out to take the bloodied feline. “He needs a vet,” he continued, judgemental tone quiet clear this time. “…!” Jane was cut off as Nathan began to hiss violently at the mere mention of ‘vet’. Quickly she scooped Nathan away. “Thanks, Ethan. I will take it from here,” She replied curtly as she retreated inside with a slam of the door.

“Causing trouble again, Nathan,” Jane commented as she ran her fingers over him in a tender exploratory fashion. Blood at both ends… Jane schooled the horror from her face. “Ethan’s right, you know. You should go to hospital,” she remarked; Nathan simply glared at her as she continued to stroke his fur in a soothing fashion. Jane simple returned his glare with a gentler expression of her own. Nathan nestled into her chest while she poured herself a glass of whisky and laid out the first aide supplies. Jane downed the whisky in one go, climbed into bed with the shivering animal and curled round him protectively until his shaking subsided. The tender, rhythmic strokes of his fur hid the vortex of rage Jane felt perfectly. Her patience was incomparable as she waited for him to calm enough to return to his human form. In taunt silence she dressed his wounds. The effort to keep a lid on her feelings strained her self control; the rage grew as she saw each bruise, every cut and gash. She felt sweet relief when Nathan finally slipped into slumber.

Jane ran her fingers over Nathan’s bruised and swollen face; pushing up his blonde hair, examining the extent of the damage again with a glare that could melt rocks. “Nathan, I’ve never said a word about who you chose to date; male, female, human, or supernatural. However, this time I will not sit by,” She whispered with the strength of a promise, tears she had been holding sliding down her cheeks. Gently she leaned down and planted a kiss on his forehead, “Welcome home.”

The next morning, Jane listened to the news as she prepared a big breakfast. “- discovery of a body early this morning in Ridgefield park has officials stumped. The John Doe appears to have been mauled by a feline the size of a tiger, however-” Jane switched off the tv. She had restricted Nathan to bed, wishing to keep an eye him since he still refused to go to hospital. As she carried the breakfast tray up the stairs, she whistled cheerfully to the world.

Family

dining-room

And here we have part 3. Part 1 can be found here and part 2 can be found here.  The photo prompt for this one is borrowed from Friday Fictioneers. To give myself and extra challenge I also borrow a prompt (quote below) from Writerish Ramblings.

I like these weird POV prompts so…Write a scene in the point of view of a piece of paper that a love note is being written on. Or POV of the pen.

The abuse had to stop. His tip was cracking. It begun with a ‘slave'(?) she was ‘caring'(?) for. Then panicky passages, crippling his ink flow, about an ‘alter-ego'(?). Now she was just getting… Soppy! Whole passages in elaborate detail about a dining hall that her mother(?) had left laid for a celebration before the family met their (well-deserved) demise. The ‘slave’ cleared it of dust one day. She told (is this her idea of freedom?) him to clear all but two. Oh god! Don’t write that! ‘It seems I’ve been waiting for him.’ That’s enough! Promptly the pen rolled into a bin.

The coin’s other face.

giant

This piece has been written under the rules of visdare. I have added the prompt in quotes below from Writerish Ramblings for an extra challenge.  This is also part 2 of a trilogy. Part 1 is here and part 3 is here.

If someone you didn’t like could suddenly read your mind, what kind of conversation would you be forced to have?

Warm bands enclosed her neck; eyes snapped wide in the dark. Eclipsing a full moon, her patient straddled her waist, towering above. Gone was vacant expression, and cringing subservience; instead there was an animistic snarl to his features, akin to that of a wounded animal. Through sheer willpower she forced herself to relax, instinctive understanding the need to act submissive. “You loath him; buying him like a mule for labour, why heal him?” She froze; this man knew. As she tensed so did his fingers round her neck. “It is not him I loath,” She replied, ungluing her tongue, “I loath what he has become.” His grip relaxed. “I see,” She observed, “You are the ‘demon’ that the slavers feared.”

“Demon? No. I am the survivor; he is but the shell.” With that strange remark, her patient returned to his bed; leaving her to quite contemplation.

The first step

offeringToday I have really tried to complicate matter for myself.  This is the first part of a trilogy of challenges.  The rules for this one are to produce a piece of 5 sentence fiction based on the prompt ‘offering’. To add an extra element I have taken the following prompt from Whiterish Ramblings. Part 2 of the trilogy can be found here and part 3 can be found here.

Describe the taste of your favorite fruit to someone who doesn’t eat fruit. Odd you say? I would agree, but one of my brothers does not eat fruit, ever. I don’t think he knows what most fruits taste like.

Her charge was covered in bandages; the vacant look in his eye making him seem more dead then alive. The woman sat by his bedside with a masculine attitude and an impatience that was unsuitable for her task: spoon feeding the invalid a bowl of banana slices that had been met with a dubious refusal. “You must eat, your resources were long spent; you no longer have the strength to go on without food.” The woman sighed, ran her fingers through her loose blonde locks and then positioned a spoon with a single slice under the patient’s nose. “Just give it a try: it is sweet like sugar, with a savoury tartness that turns to mash on your tongue,” She tried, delighted to see interest in his eyes for the first time; this would be easier then she thought.

Bombs and flowers

I was helping to stuff envelopes with letters and various pamphlets today for a full four hours, so I apologize in advance for the extra insanity below.  I have borrowed the writing prompt from the poets and the peddlars, and I only hope it’s not too hard to read.

At the dawn of the steam age, as railroads are laid down and steamers begin running the rivers, mages realize that they can transmit some form of magic (of your choosing — communication, electricity, gaseous death clouds, etc.) through the rails. The only downside to this is that trains scramble the magic flowing through the rails as they run over them (and also that railroads don’t go everywhere, but that’s a given).

Breeze Howler spun the tuner of his radio, eye twitching convulsively as each news station was bereft of surprise terrorist attacks. “Obsidian!” He yelled. From a side door a tall gentleman dressed in military cosplay with the bearing of one truly brow-beaten slid into the room. “Please call me Robert, Sir.”

“You sent my brother his present did you not?” Breeze Howler sniped.

“Yes, Sir. It was sent by rail. It should have arrived -” There was a brief pause as he flipped through a diary that appeared out of a pocket, “2PM CE time.”

“Really?! Then where’s the BOOM-BOOM? Where’s the Noxious Death?!” Breeze Howler cried, now pacing backward’s and forth on a plush rug that showed signs of this abuse many times before. Robert readjusted his glasses nervously. “It seems the GasBoomer v3 rematerialized as a large, ornate arch composed of flowers due to a train cross over at Hadlington international,” Robert reported; ready to dodge at any given moment. Instead of the angry projectiles he expected, it look like there were tears in his employer’s eyes. Grasping at straws, Robert spoke up, “It seems your brother sent a message in return.” Robert met, not the eyes of the grown man, but the eyes of a petulant teen. With a deep breath Robert continued, “Tracey, I’m delighted that you have finally given us your blessing and seen fit to welcome Judy into our family, but I’m afraid the ceremony was yesterday. It looks like there was a mix up with the dates. Still, we were both grateful to receive your gift and will stopping by ‘your lair’ on our way back from our honeymoon. See you soon, Harry.” Robert looked at ‘Breeze Howler’, only to discover the man had deflated into a ball on the floor. “Master Breeze Howler?” Robert inched closer and place a hand on ‘Breeze Howler’s’ shoulder, “Tracey, are you okay?”

“Robert, can you get my rocket ready?” Tracey replied. Robert sighed and put his arm around the fragile man’s shoulder. “I could. But do you know what works better for stolen crushes?”

“What?” Tracey sniffled.

“Booze.”

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