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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
A short poem for Visdare.
One little elephant
Ran while his clan
Instinct sought safety,
And family ties.
Rare human kindness.
Years without fear.
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.
Another Visdare prompt. Part one is here and part two is here.
It was difficult. After years of being besieged Elendra had finally locked the voices out after months of training in the tower. Now she had to focus on a single one.
Pick someone you know.
Eric. Elendra felt the nod.
He will be different.
Look to understand.
Eric. ~ Dim lights. Laughter. Chatter. Music. Figure hunched over bar staring into empty glass. ~ The scene faded. Mari, is That Eric?
He’s middle-aged? I been here months.
Time flows differently here.
Eric ~ Clinical room? Dr. Feldmann. Test results? Liver Disease? Too much drinking… ~ Is this my fault?
? Your action caused trauma. A moment in a life of moments.
Some moments carry more weight than others. I should see him.
…There’s only one moment where you should. The moment of death. It is not wise too interact otherwise.
Elandra was already make her own plans.
That was the last time I ever heard from her.
“Leap of Faith” makes use of two writing prompts. The first is the above quote borrowed from ‘A Writer’s Path‘. The second photographic prompt is from ‘Picture It and Write‘. This is Part 1 of a series of 3 chapters, 2 yet to come.
“That was the last time I ever heard from her,” Eric mumbled into his drink. He drained the pint, signalling for another. Maybe the memory would fade with another. Years later images forced their way into his thoughts. Preventing invasions into his dreams took more alcohol than his liver could handle. All inebriation achieved was causal detachment from evocative memories.
“They called it suicide, you know?” In chaos surrounding him, no one listened. Eric chugged his beer. Another drunk drowning sorrows. “But it wasn’t. She looked so exuberant as she leapt over the falls; as if she would take flight.” Eric drained the glass. “’This is my faith,’; those were Elandra’s last words to me. And there I was, cut and bleeding from scrambling to stop her. All I could do was watch as she drifted away.” Eric stared at his empty glass; searching.
This one’s for Friday Fictioneers. Olivia featured earlier in ‘Typo‘.
Olivia ignored the beaten stray trailing along behind her. Some scraps, and she was forever loyal. Olivia had other concerns. Ever since ‘the incident’ local kids had taken to vandalising her property. She came to an abrupt halt as her precious home came into view. Fists trembled as nails bit into palms. Little Bastards! There they were… Egging her door! The stray sprang past, chasing the vandals off with ferocious snarls. Shrieks satisfied her ears. The stray sat down on her door-step with a sense of entitlement. “All right, Willa, you can stay.”
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.