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 ‘slice of life’

Brain malfunction

simpThis one is a true story.  IT happened to me while I was in Brissy.  I was out with a friend shopping and she left me looking after her youngest while she went off to look at other shops as I said I felt a little tired. I’ve been busy dealing with forms, appointments and I made a possibly silly decision to apply for a Masters course in Social Work recently so all my ability to write has been drained away by those activities.   But I wanted to post something so I went with a memory.

The woman pushed the pram out of the clamor of Big W.  Though it was lightweight and contain a child not yet 2 it now felt much heavier then when she had started out. With gritted teeth a focused stare she searched out prospective sitting places.  Her head was buzzing. Brushing back a lock of her dark fringe to rub her temple in an attempt to stymie the headache and blooming energy she felt, her eyes settled on the closest seat: an uncomfortable metal number belonging to one of the numerous sushi cafes in the Westfield shopping centre that she still preferred to think Mt. Gravatt’s Garden City shopping plaza.  The need to sit down pushed all complaints about the centers re-branding out of mind as she parked the buggy by the closest seat.  A glance from a cashier warned her it was easier to pay for something, then sit there as an uninvited guest. The buzzing surge grew louder as she selected food and processed the transaction as quickly as she could, all the while fighting the urge to hurry the poor woman up. She began to rush to pick her purchases up as the buzzing grew stronger. She Needed to sit down before she was caught in a dangerous position.  As a bolt of sensation raced down her leg the woman knew with a sense of dread that she was too late.  A split-second later the strength went from her right side as her leg started to convulse. With a reflex act born of practice the woman threw her left arm over the counter top to cling to it for support.  Much too her own surprise her arm started to convulse as well; from a distance it looked as though she was waving at someone across the way.  Only those close, a customer and the woman who served her, paused to throw worried glances in her direction.  After a panicked moment of indecision, the woman hurried over to ask is she was alright.  With a hint of exasperation the result having a seizure while being expected to explain what was going on, She simply said “It’s a seizure.  If I lose consciousness support my head and call an ambulance; other wise I just have to ride it out.”


For anyone needing a giggle

Gary Stu, the GremlinTonight I happened across what could be a useful writing tool, if used correctly that is… 😉 Plot generator relies on key words submitted by the writer to create a working plot from which to work.  Instead I entered random suggestions.  This is what I ended up with:

A Fantasy Novel

In a cave there lived a warped, ruddy gremlin named Gary Stu. Not a giant sizzling, magical cave, filled with potions and a silver smell, nor yet a brunette, sweltering, charming cave with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a gremlin-cave, and that means comfort.

One day, after a troubling visit from the elf Mary Sue, Gary leaves his cave and sets out in search of three squat sausages. A quest undertaken in the company of robots, trolls and pointy teens.

In the search for the elf-guarded sausages, Gary Stu surprises even himself with his resourcefulness and skill as a computer programmer.

During his travels, Gary rescues a ruler, an heirloom belonging to Mary. But when Mary refuses to try laughing, their friendship is over.

However, Mary is wounded at the Battle of Hastings and the two reconcile just before Gary engages in some serious laughing.

Gary accepts one of the three squat sausages and returns home to his cave a very wealthy gremlin.



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.

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.

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.

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?’

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.

Of Mortal Men


This piece was written for Flash Friday, other submissions, posting guidelines and rules can be found here.

Desert survival depended on the gods. Elsme’s modest shrine was centrefold of a picturesque Oasis; as such she was blessed with routine worshippers. Over time devoted followers built a temple in her honour. Elsme was pleased. When a ragged boy appeared before her, she took him as her own and the people praised her virtues.

Her child grew, strong and devoted. Her people grew wealthy and proud. The blessings of Elsme became legendary and soon tribes began to covet the Her Oasis. Once such tribe descended as an oncoming horde; weathered and honed by the desert. Before long her precious child was called to war; assailing her fears with a promise to return. Disaster upon her, the goddess wept; cracking the heavens to flood the blood churned sands. Elsme sat on her throne, and waited. The hourglass filled the temple. The once beautiful Oasis dried up yet still she waited. One day he would return.

No Tall Tales Today

ImageThis blog started as a personal push to force myself to a) write regularly and b) improve my writing skills.  Thus far I think it has been successful in both aspects.  Today, however, I am forcing myself to take a break.  I’m just not feeling particularly creative at the moment.  I have been struggling with this for the past few days, and I’ve not necessarily been happy with what I’ve produced interim.  After some careless worrying I came to the conclusion that I was forcing myself to hard to be creative at a time when I’ve already been pushing my limits (not my creative limits, but my physical ones.)  So instead of a story I offer you all a virtual Anzac bikkie.  Yummo. ^_^


<Ignore whining here>  So half of Oxfordshire is under water and cold rain is still coming down.  I have a interview tomorrow in Didcot… Didcot!!!  So I have to drag my arse out to the middle of English nowhere via severely delayed public transport and Hope I get a job out of it.  I’ve been subjected to antibiotics and constant colds that make the winter some much more bearable.  <whiny rant over>  Misery guts moment over.   Sorry about that.

How to handle hoarders – Friday Ficioneers.


Friday fictioneers flash fiction photo prompt now. ^_^  Now warmed up for my actual writing projects.

Delilah’s mother was a hoarder. She could no longer deny it. “Where did you say you put the silverware?” She shouted down the corridor as she squeezed through the towering piles of newspaper, books and general bric-‘n-brac. Suddenly something moved under her feet and Delilah went skating. With a shriek Delilah reached out to a shelf cluttered with lamps to regain her balance. The shelf snapped, and Delilah went crashing down only to be smothered by papers and smacked on the head by a stray lamp. With a groan she crawled out and shouted, “That’s it, Mum! Get out! I’m burning the place down!!!”

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