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 ‘stories’

Of Mortal Men

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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.

Sweet Brain Damage Chapter 1 Part 2

netball

Links to previous part can be found here: Sweet Brain Damage Contents page

Abigail kept her word. Kitted out in her netball uniform and stood in front of her open locker she discreetly made a few well placed comments to certain individuals who were guaranteed to have Tim’s name doused in mud within the hour. A shrill whistle indicated it was time to get out onto the court. Abigail shoved her mobile in her bag and jumped back just as the locker door almost slammed shut on her hand. Abigail did not have to look to know who had just attempted to injury her. She smelt peppermint shampoo. Abigail turned to her sister, Rose, with a placid expression. “Was my locker door in your way, Captain Rosie,” she said in deceptively sweet tones. Anyone listening would take ‘Rosie’ as a sibling pet name. It was, however, a pet name Rose despised with a passion. “You should be on court already, but if you have something more important to do we can always find someone else to play Wind Defence,” Rose replied with a daggered coolness. Abigail motioned to the locker room door, “After you, we can hardly practice without our Centre after all.” Abigail smiled, knowing her attitude was far more frustrating for her older sister then any payback.

True story tuesday

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Time for a real-life scenario designed to amuse you. 🙂

You’ve had the flat to yourself for nearly a month. You’re not the tidiest person and you share a small space with another adult. You discover that you have your Aunt’s return date wrong after discovering via facebook that she is on a plane back. The place is not a tip but noooo where near her standards of clean (or, let’s face it, you own for the matter but hey who bothers when it’s just themselves.) What do you do?

A. Smoke me a kipper, I’ll be back for breakfast (Arrive, cause chaos, leave before they catch on)

B. Have a mental breakdown. Be found hours later sitting facing a corner rocking backwards and forwards muttering ‘1 fish, 2 fish, red fish, blue fish.’

C. Sit on the couch like you own the place. When she walks in the door demand to know why the dishes aren’t clean.

D. Feign innocence. What mess.

E. Have a panic driven cleaning session in which you scrub the place form top to bottom.

Side note: Yes, I did go with E. Of course I went with E. 1 would require decent enough acting to get myself institutionalised and the other 3 would require a pre-dug grave.

Not Pinocchio: Friday Fictioneers

workshop

Another short story for Friday Fictioneers.  This one’s a little sad…

The workshop once had been busy. Now it was bereft of all but a sole individual, a weighted-down man with no care for his appearance. He carved, hands moving roboticly. He stopped only to drink from a stained cup or half-eaten tasteless noodles. The framed photo of a child stared at him from the desk; he slapped it face down into the newspaper clippings. Sombre silence accompanied the wooden creation taking form on his bench. In that silence the doll of a child was born. The man looked at the empty doll he created, and shed his first tears.

Stop. Drop. Roll.

bonfire

Jason’s back. Back again.  His original appearance in Down the Drain left me thinking  ‘hmmm, a character to torture.’  Jason and the Darwin awards episode list.

Jason and his crew never needed an excuse to party, so taking advantage of the hot summers night by having a bonfire piss-up seemed a matter of course. A quick trip through the bottlo drive-thru and raid of supermarket later they were on their way off the beaten track to hole up by a popular creek-side camping grounds. Now Jason, he had the slightest bit of a pyromania streak. By the time they had finished building the pile to his standards, it was so massive they could no longer see around it. It was going to be epic.

Jason gave the wood no choice but to burn – he clumsily sloshed an entire jerry can of petrol around the base; a mate repeating his actions on the opposite side. When someone suggested that this might indeed be overkill he simply replied ‘She’ll be right.’ Proudly overlooking his creation, he called out for his mate to light ‘er up. There was just one small detail Jason neglected. One small but important detail. He forgot to move away. Accelerated by the petrol, the dry wood was instantly engulfed by flames. Sparks spat from the force landing directly on his petrol stained jeans, instantly setting them alight. In blind panic Jason jerked about, trying to wave the flames out of existence. It wasn’t until the fire spread to his shirt that he remembered Stop. Drop. Roll. Thanks firey’s for your efforts to educate! It is thanks to you that Jason Stopped, Dropped, and Rolled his way free of a Darwin Award. But consequently, he spent the next few months consuming vast quantities of vegemite in order to put the hairs back on his chest.

Don’t listen!

A quick poemy poem.  Although I am not sure I can call this a poem since the center is very much free verse, but hey ho.  Basically I is bored and up too late with coffee again…

So a little side note about this one – it is based off a personal experience involving boredom and a pair of scissors.  So I issue a crazy-coffee-bean warning for this one.    Another, more important note regards the quote I have inserted into my ‘poem’.  This quote is directly drawn from an old, famous Autralian folk song ‘Click go the shears’, a shearers song whose rhythm actually was quite beneficial to the speed of shear blows when shearing sheep.

Staring in the mirror

Reflection staring back

Somethings wrong

Somethings just not right

Same nose

Same face

Same eyes

“I’m bored of this appearance.”

“I should be I’ve had this hairstyle forever?”

“What should I do?”

“Do you think I’d look good with bangs?”

“Only one way to find out.”

“Let’s get the scissors!”

“Click go the shears, boys! Click, Click, Click”

OOOO

Same nose

Same face

Same eyes

Unaltered

Unchanged

Now differently framed.

Lesson learned:

Don’t listen to the voices in your brain.

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