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 ‘Love’

Leap of Faith Part 4


This section is written in response to the photo prompt from Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers. Parts One, Two and Three. <—- Follow to find if you have not read yet.  This is my third segment on the same story today. It is unusual for me to write so many flash-fics in the same day, let alone on a larger plot.  I couldn’t seem to dislodge this one from my focus.  I’ve been sitting here manically typing away despite exhaustion and seizure warnings because I felt compelled to get it out.  Case of the story hijacking the Author.

Eric twirled the pill-jar, staring at half-drunk whiskey. He reached for it. No. Eric hesitated, then reached again. No. He felt restrained by another. Eric supposed it was wistful thinking. Eric hung his head into his hands. The image of the falls rose again. Unbidden; persistent. 25 of March. “Her anniversary. May as well spend it there.” His tone as bitter. Eric left home sober for the first time in years.

Even in winter the area was beautiful. Elendra stood, waiting. A realistic hallucination; the green robe edged in grey was a nice touch. Not something she had ever worn. The warmth of her hand in his grip; he had lost his mind. He felt well. “This time, you leap with me.”

“My turn to take a leap of faith.” Elandra smiled, free of anguish. Together they leapt, he would follow to oblivion. He felt electrified, then… Surprised. They stood on a path of autumnal beauty.


Leap of Faith Part 2


Sunday Photo Fiction entry.  Part One is here.

Helga boxed Elendra’s possessions; face a frozen mask. Despite summer drafts; Helga was entombed in winter drifts. Her hand fell on Elendra’s ‘hidden’ diary. Bewitched by it’s siren call, she flipped through the last entries.


Mary wants to teach me. She says the visions and the voices are gifts. I tried to go to Mary, but the Cops forced me home. The locks are back but you’re acting too ‘normal’. What are you planning…


Meals taste funny today. Eric came for dinner; said it tasted fine. His probably was. Mary’s been quiet today. I need to go, can’t sit still. Eric has been soothing. Offered to take me somewhere tomorrow.  You looked relieved…


Mum, I’m going to live with Mary. I’m sorry you’ve suffered. Please tell Eric not to blame himself. You can have that ‘normal’ life. I’ll be free to live.

Helga dropped the diary. Tears streamed as her frozen mask melted. As though snow melted, buds of emotion grew once more.

On court


This photo prompt borrowed from Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers.

We met again on court. Joe… Best friends once; we had been team-mates in junior high. Now we were strangers playing for different teams. The relic of my awkward teen years presented a unique challenge. Our ball volleyed back and forth; tossing my emotions with it.


Did he recognise me?


Our friendship was once a warm fire…


I drenched it.


Was he bitter?


Would he reject me as I rejected him?

Shit. The ball sailed into a blind spot. The Ref called it and the game was over. Each party approached the net and shook on a game fair played. “Your backhand’s still weak.” Joe gripped my hand. His eyes were warm; sins forgiven, if not forgotten. “Your grip’s still weak, Joseph.” That night we rekindled our fire.

Blood treaties.


Finally,  wrote my flash fic for Friday Fictioneers.

Hilda was the picture of a pampered royal. Her wine dripped down King Alfred’s face. “I refused to marry him!” Hilda stormed out of the room. Her father, Raymond, stammered an apology before looking beseechingly at his court advisor, Ilvay. Ilvay shrugged, and twirled his goatee. “Hilda’s impetuous nature can be remedied. Her ruby necklace, Alfred’s blood and a simple enchantment; your treaty will be affirmed by nightfall.” The Royals shared a look, then nodded in unison. “Very well, but… There will be Consequences beyond my knowledge.” Raymond drained his goblet; slamming it down.

“Damn the consequences!” Ilvay bowed; victorious grin hidden.

Love is… What?

shutterstock_126632321I have been Tagged by Millie Thom to take part in ‘What Love is in four words’.  The aim is straightforward – describe love in four words.  Seems easy enough but, then, you have to ask yourself ‘What is love?’ Thanks to Valentine’s Day, this is somewhat of a hot topic. However, I’m a social constructionist, so I’m very aware of how the emotion has been layered on by societal ideals of the notion of love.  Where does the fanciful notions stop and love begin? A question for the ages…

I have never celebrated Valentine’s Day.  I don’t see the point. Why make a special effort on one day of the year when you should make that effort everyday? As for flowers? You give me roses and I’m likely to  trim the stems, plant them in potatoes, and bury the potatoes in the garden so I can give them a new life as a rose bush.  I’m not that kind of romantic. 🙂

I’m supposed to tag 10 others but it’s past three in the morning and I’m supposed to get sleep at some point; so I say to readers – ‘Tag, you’re it!’ (Please drop  me a line if you do, I’d like to read.)

Love is…

…Passion; raw, turbulent, unhinged.

…not blind; accepting, forgiving.

…fighting to understand.

…yearning to be understood.

…Pure, fragile; easily stained.

…mysterious, capricious and inconclusive.

…twinned with hate.

…north; south is indifference.

…kind yet cruel.

…gentle yet callous.

…the fabric of existence.

Playing hard to get


Quick edit: This is my 100 post apparently! Woo!

Today photo and prompt has been borrowed from Adrian Lilly.  By chance I had been re-reading an older short story (Bring me a souvenir) of mine with plans to rewrite it, as a result I had a vivid image of my female lead’s reaction.  I just had to write it.  It had to be done.

Your main character is asked to go skiing by a new love interest. S/he doesn’t want to admit s/he’s never been skiing. What does s/he do?

Playing hard to get.

I realized my mistake as soon as the words left my mouth. Of all people to tell why on earth did I tell Cameron. It was my first week off since my return from England and, like a fool, I let him know. The biggest miscalculation? Giving him two weeks notice. If I were going to let my tongue slip, it should have been one my first day off. Then I wouldn’t be in this pickle now.

Most men would ask their girlfriends if they wanted to go on a ski trip first. Not Cameron, no. He just rolls up, drags me into the car and springs a surprise ski holiday on me. Not only did I not have time to pack, I had to beg Mum, as Cameron careened down the highway, to care for my animals for a week on short notice, and cancel reservations I made at a spa. Now I’m up to my ears in nagging about irresponsible travel – like I didn’t get an earful of That when I returned from my short pilgrimage. And to think she actually likes Cameron. As for Uncle Tom, he was totally going to get his ears boxed later. He was supposed to be keeping Cameron nicely contained way, way down in Sydney. What the hell is he up too, letting one of his managers fly the coop for week at the drop of a hat? Cameron, of course, was too absorbed in enjoying flying down highways to notice my grumbling and three hours in I gave up resisting and took a turn at the wheel.

I hadn’t been to the Blue Mountains before, so I can’t say I hated the idea. I also never actually got to see snow while I was in England so that was worth putting up with Cameron’s self-absorbed demands for a bit. When I finally saw the ski lodge, I was reminded that Cameron actually had reasonable taste. The facilities were modern, warm and comfortable. The scenery had been worth the 14 hours of driving and, well, Cameron’s hilarious reaction to the caravan park more then made up for my abduction. He was still not good at living the poor life. I vowed to take him camping one day; but first I had to perfect my filming technique so I could immortalize the chaos. However, I had to get through this ski trip first.

Cameron has always been surprisingly detailed orientated. I was mildly annoyed that he had brought clothes for me; they were to his taste not mine. However, I still don’t whether to be impressed or irritated that he had managed to outfit me with a complete compliment of cold weather clothing and ski gear with out checking my sizes. Afterwards I suspected Mum of helping him out; yet another reason to be irritated over her lecture on the drive over. But if that were the case, then Uncle Tom was in on it too. I did not want to touch that thought with a 10 foot pole. By the time Cameron had finished unpacking we had everything we need for the week, and them some. It was almost a shame, really, that he had missed one important detail: I’d never skied before in my life. He never asked, and I didn’t tell him.

This bring me to my current predicament, freezing my rear off at the top of a ski run. The idiot that I am, I still hadn’t told him. Cameron had actually been trying really hard to make this a romantic trip; if I so much as saw wine again I would puke. Cameron’s conceptions of a ‘normal’ holiday activity was also hopelessly skewed. I had tried to broach the subject the night before, but all that earnt me was 101 tales of his various schoolmates’ escapes and sinking feeling that I could never fit into his circle. A second attempt brought the realisation that to Cameron the notion of someone not learning to ski was alien, so I gave up. Now, here I am, stood on top of a steep looking ski run that Cameron joked was meant for beginners. There was a ski instructor behind us giving pointers so it may not have been the sarcasm I took his words for. I stared down the slope, the very idea of sweeping down that slide made icicles form in my underwear. And there Cameron was asking me what was wrong? Seriously? Isn’t obvious from the look of pure terror on my face?? This is where I snapped. Cameron received the full brunt of my shoulder as I pushed him down the slope, shouting after him “I can’t ski, you bastard.” He, however, was clearly an expert as he managed to right himself from the dangerous spin downwards into a graceful curve around the run. I gritted my teeth in annoyance, spun around and stomped with great difficulty to the instructor; who had been watching the whole incident with a raised eyebrow. I didn’t even have to explain, he simply started with the basics and by the time a forlorn-looking Cameron made his way back up via the ski lifts, I was shooting down on my own.

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