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 ‘short story’



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 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.


Saturday Six

I have pulled out a second piece today. I really was not expecting to manage another short with my headache but I’ll take it as good occupational therapy today.  The prompt I have used for this one has be borrowed from Saturday Six run by Kristi Simpson. The prompt I used for this one was to write a description about a major character from another character POV.  As you will probably tell from the following the novel I am writing is a supernatural romance.  The protagonist is Susanne, and from her POV the plot makes a hell of a lot more sense.  If you are having trouble writing a scene or element I really do recommend a change of speaker.  Through using my lead male voice for this section I had realized aspect of their relationship that I was unaware of before – key points of which could trouble for my protagonist down the line. I actually feel sorry for her… Her love interest is idealizing her for doing her job.

Chris let out a sigh.  He was in a very awkward position. Susanne’s deep, rhythmic breathing was causing warm puffs of air to caress his neck as she relaxed into his shoulder.  Her palm was warm against his where their fingers were intertwined. It was a bad combination. He could feel his palms begin to sweat as his temperature shot up a 100 degrees.  His eyes traced over her neat, angular features, admiring the look of intense concentration she wore even in her sleep. There was an uncomfortable shifting from Mark, on her opposite side, who bore the look of the third wheel. Chris cast his friend an apologetic look, bringing himself back to reality.

Chris knew they had word to do, but he found himself in a complete state of disarray where Susanne was concern.  He was slipping dangerously close to idol worship but it was not something he stop.  It was through her that he had gained a life again. His talent had left him unable to interact normally. He had lived in a constant state of anxiety; he could so easily bring harm to others. He knew Mark felt the same; the two of them had lived a lifestyle on the run for fear that they may be discovered for the monsters they believed themselves to be. It was a great irony that in fulfilling this very fear Susanne had saved the pair.

Susanne, in discovering Chris and Mark, had opened a door for them they had not known existed. With a gentle acceptance she had washed away the shame and fear the pair had carried and enfolded them into community of fellow talents. For two isolated individuals as themselves, this sense of community was far move then they ever expected, but Susanne had taken it one step further and found them teachers to aid in the mastering of their individual powers. The control he had learned had opened up his life in ways he had long since given up on. However, mastering his ability had led him to a discovery he had not expected.  His power far outstripped that of the capable woman at his side. This realization had caused an up-welling of concern for Susanne, who’s job frequently put her in danger. It was as the sleep net Susanne wove pulled him into a state of unconsciousness that he realized equally important: his power was nothing. The ease in which Susanne had pulled him unknowingly into a sleep state made him painfully aware that power was nothing to her delicate skill. As she held out her had in the dreamscape she had created she soothed his helplessness with the words, “Ready to lend a hand?”

Kick her to curb

This flash fic was written for Jeremy’s daily challenge. I was attempting to get in as many references to the prompts as possible.  I feel 50/50 about this piece, I been having difficulty concentrating today and it’s affecting my feeling for prose.  However, that precisely when I should be practicing my work ethic towards writing. 🙂

Majestic. Not a word he used often. He had not seen snow before. A pure white blanket blazing in the sun; glittering from branches and creating shimmering halos on distant mountain tops. The man stood leaning into the car door, engine thrumming as it idled away. This was truly worth the long haul, he thought, trapped in his private reverie.

POP. He glared his companion. Chewing gum. A cow chewing cud made less noise. He felt a vein throbbing in his temple as he watched her play disinterestedly with her phone. He had lost count of the sights that had passed her by as she bitched about lack of sockets for her straightener or begged to be taken to nearest mall. The woman had shined like Aphrodite in the suburban streets; with her bleached hair, smart blazers and jewellery as colourful as peacock feathers. Weeks on the road had shattered that illusion. Out here, she is sewage in the snow, he thought with a terse step into the car. As he griped the steering with his fingerless driving gloves he decided that the question was not ‘why did I bring her along?’ but ‘where can I leave her?’

Random short piece

Stifled and sticky. Sun so bright ice cubes melted at the thought. Flo fanned herself idly with a discarded magazine, staring holes through the motionless clock. Flo flexed her grip on her practical handbag and withheld a sigh. She sat across a young man industriously rustling through a CV.  Too young. No experience. She thought, followed more cynically by the afterthought: he’ll probably get the job. Flo rose laboriously from her too-small seat and left the airless room.

Croc Bait

daintreeHere’s another episode of Jason and the Darwin Awards.

The dingy idled along the daintree river, gliding past the mangroves. The teens’ supplies included tackle, rods, bait, and of course, an esky chock full of icy beer. The bitter icy notes of beer contrasted sharply with sharp vegetation-scented heat of the summer as cast their lines into the water. Jibes and stories alike shot back and forth as the pair consumed tinny after tinny. Suddenly one shot up, pointing at the leathery back of a croc lazily drifting towards the boat. “Hey, Jase, look!” Jason steadied himself against the rocking of the boat and grabbed the spare oar from under his feet. “Let’s see how quick it’s reflexes are,” Jason drawled, standing up oar in hand. John raised an eyebrow as sardonically as possible given his drunken state and replied, “Jase, mate, if old man croc doesn’t take off your hand the next round is on me.” Jason grinned and leant over the edge of the dingy, clutching the edge with one hand and oar outstretched with the other. With the delicacy of an injured bear he tapped the croc with the oar, snapping himself back to avoid… crocNothing. The shifted to eye the pair with glinting orange orbs. John broke out into guffaws. “Tch,” Jason elbowed John in ribs. The croc watched their behaviour with a patient anger, drawing imperceptibly closer. Jason leant out a second time and whacked at the croc more vigorously. Before he even had the chance to blink the croc lurched out the water, crushing the oar with a powerful snap of its jaws, dragging Jason straight overboard. John swore and helped Jason out of the river, just ahead of the croc’s second snap. Without a second to spare, the pair had the dingy motor running and shot off down the river, still cast lines trailing behind as they escaped the angry croc. Jason silently vowed, never to mock Steve Irwin again.

Predator: Sunday Photo Fiction


Now switching from horror fic for Pic it and write to this action thriller for Sunday Photo fiction.  The rather royal looking raven in the picture is Thor, one of the many ravens of the tower of London.

Emmett stroked the glossy feathers of the crow perched on his shoulder. He felt the sharp beak gently nip his ears. The pair watched the crowds of the theme park patiently, waiting for the moment to strike. Their tension was palatable as a laughing child shrieked her way towards the field separating the rides of the park. The raven croaked as the mother scooped the child up and pointed with annoyed tones towards a sign: ‘Please keep off the grass.’ “Hush,” Emmett murmured, soothing ruffled feathers, “Soon, Dearest.”

The pair waited, watchful and silent. The crowds shifted; the families of the daytime were replaced by inebriated youngsters. Soon a large group stumbled drunkenly across the grass. Disturbed by their footfalls, the earth erupted open, revealing the gigantic arachnid underneath. The raven sprung from Emmett’s side, morphing and shifting as he fell upon his prey. Emmett watched on, eyes following the black blur as it fought the spider; undeceived by the fluid shift from humanoid to avian. Then, as the creature launched a final, desperate attack, Emmett pierced it through the Cephalothorax with a well placed round. Deed done, the raven settled back on Emmett shoulder with an affectionate nip.



I’ve written this piece as part of Visdare 48.  Original photo source here.

The pair huddled together in the ruined remains of a once beautiful house. Evidence of the disaster that had rocked world was littered around them. The very foundations of the house had be rent by the turbulent upheavals; lives of privilege now reduced to refuse scavenging. The girl shuffled to draw the dirty duvet closer, pressing into her male companion. “Do you think they’ll find us?” She asked, trembling. In response he drew her closer, resting his chin in her greasy hair. She flinched at the icy chill of his dog tags. After awhile he said, “I know where to be. It’s classified, but state secrets are meaningless now.” Venturing a hand into the icy chill she reached up to stroke his cheek; sensing a need for comfort. Of course, he would never tell her they were never coming. Tomorrow he would simply take her to the launch site.

Too much Sangria.


This weeks Friday Fictioneers photo prompt!  Though truthfully, this one I already had written as part of a larger story; I just saw the prompt and remembered it.  As always, if you like what you read, have a browse around my works – I participate in many other writing challenges. ^_^  This one comes with an advisory of mature content.

It was the parched throat and the sickening taste of bile that awoke Kylie. Head throbbing, Kylie dragged herself upright, leaden from overindulgence. Blinking blearily into the room, she became aware of three things. This was not her room, she was not alone, and she was completely naked. Kylie peeked at the figure next to her with excited trepidation. Tall, slim, nice rear. Blonde hair with crushed gel spikes. And then a face that was most definitely not masculine. Clutched by foreboding, she lifted the covers to discover… Breasts… And that’s when she fell off the bed.

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