AS WE SPEAK!!! a pack of #FlashDogs in the UK are assembling LIVE and IN PERSON, which is so very extremely cool, all I have to say is, Wish I were there too!!! and Y’all better be posting pics. And, I’ll admit it, thirdly, Did anyone warn the local authorities?
Thanks again to Holly Geely for taking the time this week to tell us all about her new book, The Dragon’s Toenail, and congratulations to Mary Decker, who won the free copy. (Also, PUPPY!!!!) As I said last week, coming up in the next few weeks look for #Spotlight interviews with a nonfiction writer/editor, a YA book blogger — and I’m thrilled to report that I’ve just added a screenwriter. Because, cool!
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This week gives us the other half of our dragon swap, meaning we’re in for the treat that’s Dragon Team Seven: IfeOluwa Nihinlola and Nancy Chenier. Besides how they both love Star Trek, they both look for stories that push back the boundaries of what’s ordinary or expected. “Ground me in concrete imagery and evoke real emotions,” says Nancy. IfeOluwa adds, “Let the prompt soar on dragon wings.” -I’m thinking, Wow! it’s like they’ve already read your work!!!
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Awards Ceremony: Results will post Monday. Noteworthy #SixtySeconds interviews with the previous week’s winner post Thursdays.
* Today’s required word count: 150 – 200 words (not counting title/byline).
* How to enter: Post your story here in the comments. Be sure to include your word count (min 150, max 200 words, excluding title/byline), the two story elements you based your story on, and Twitter handle if you’ve got one. If you’re new or forgetful, be sure to check the contest guidelines.
* Deadline: 11:59pm ET tonight (check the world clock if you need to; Flash! Friday is on Washington, DC time)
* Winners: will post Monday.
* Prize: The Flash! Friday e-dragon e-badge for your blog/wall, your own winner’s page here at FF, a 60-second interview next Thursday, and your name flame-written on the Dragon Wall of Fame for posterity.
AND HERE IS YOUR NOVEL PROMPT:
From last week’s wild fairy tale imaginings, we’re moving into a tougher screenshot of reality: Alan Paton’s profoundly moving exploration of pre-apartheid Johannesburg, Cry, the Beloved Country. Again, a reminder that you needn’t have read the novel to take inspiration from its world and characters (though if you haven’t read it, please add this one to your list!).
Story elements (base your story on any TWO of these elements; be sure to tell us which two you chose. Reminder: please remember the Flash! Friday guidelines with regard to content).
* Conflict: man v man (not gender specific)
* Character (choose at least one): old priest fighting to hold on to tradition, father searching for his son, young man accused of murder, a civil rights activist, a pregnant girl
* Theme (choose one): reconciliation, racism, injustice, repentance
* Setting (choose one): a decaying village, a wealthy city in moral decline
OPTIONAL PHOTO PROMPT (for inspiration only; it is NOT REQUIRED for your story):
The Ways of My Grandfather
My grandfather once told me that a hand extended in kindness is a vulnerable hand. I dismissed him as a crazy old Zulu warrior.
I should have remembered my grandfather’s advice when they came. Disheveled and dirty, they had come from a far distance. A long time ago we would have met them with a wall of shields. Painted warriors would dance and sing of victory. Our spears would taste blood.
But times have changed since then. The old ways died with the last of the warriors. Rituals that trained young men for war were forgotten. They were replaced with prayers and songs to a great lord. I should have learned how to use spear and shield, but I learned how to make meals instead.
The priest told me that a life of servitude and peace would please the lord. I made them soup.
The priest was the first to die. I hid as everyone was dragged off in chains or slaughtered without mercy. They deserved the tip of a spear, not a bowl of soup.
Stir the soup. Fill the bowl. Ask for forgiveness. It’s all I can do now.
If only there was someone left to forgive me.
200 words
Themes: conflict (man vs man), repentance
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very intense! Interesting how the world changes in times of peace.
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Wonderful words.
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WHERE WE USED TO LIVE
* * *
Brian S Creek
199 words
@BrianSCreek
#FlashDog
(my 100th Flash! Friday story!!!)
Character: a father searching for his son.
Theme: racism
* * *
The human race was something, once. Earth, the jewel in our Empire.
But greater riches have been discovered in the galaxy; new worlds, new civilisations. Earth is raw, and only the poor remain. Or the scared.
I haven’t been back in nineteen years. My family wouldn’t have survived in this world stripped bare. We fled into the stars and never looked back.
So why am I here, now?
Jason, my eldest, a boy who fell far from the tree. I fear for him. Earth is a vile, lawless world now, a place only the bottom of the human barrel would call home.
It should seem hopeless, but I have money and connections. Even an entire planet can’t hide someone if you know the right words. And can grease the right palms.
So I stand now, in something classed as a hotel room from the sign outside; a cupboard in any other place. He sleeps peacefully on the floor, and beside him lays the problem. A Scarvian girl, pregnant with his child. An abomination not fit for my legacy.
I pull out two syringes; one will help him sleep on the journey home.
The other will help her sleep forever.
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Bloody Scarvians, coming over here, stealing our legacies…
Nice work!
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Thank you, Tim. 🙂
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woah! Was not expecting that! Great job on your 100th story 🙂
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Thank you, Rasha. Can’t believe it’s 100 already.
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Congrats on hitting 100! Love the twist this one takes. Rather than a mission of recovery, we find a mission of racism.
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Thank you. I’m just glad I had time to work on a good one this week (as apposed to last week’s late night dash to come up with something).
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Goodness – 100 stories – well done Brian!!!
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Thank you. I love tracking milestones.
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Congrats on the 100th story! I love that you’ve kept track.
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Thank you. I have a thing about spreadsheets and list. I even have one for our pub quiz team names and winnings.
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Congrats on 100 stories, plus your fab entry this week is a great way to celebrate such a momentous occasion 🙂
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Many thanks. As always, that’s 100 stories on your head. 🙂
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Great story for your 100th anniversary. Did not expect the father to kill the girl after the build up of the love he expressed for his family.
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Thank you. It sounds weird, but even as I wrote it, the ending surprised me.
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Ancient Land
Ian Martyn (@IBMartyn)
199 words
Conflict and setting
James Bourdon’s house stood on a hill and on top of that house was a veranda with a three hundred and sixty degree view. And yet standing there he could not see the boundary of his land. For that he needed a helicopter. As he flew he scanned the ground beneath smiling in the knowledge that it was all his. But as he neared his destination the smile turned to a frown and the frown to a scowl. The abandoned village was still there and even from this distance he could see so was the old man. His father had sent men to rid him of this village and the old man, as had he. They all returned claiming they couldn’t find it, or that they had succeeded and demanding payment. Yet here they both were.
‘I have told you many times to leave my land, old man.’
‘And I have told you many times it is not your land. It was here before you, or any man, was born and it will be here when god decides to reclaim it.’
‘Leave. Now.’
The old man shrugged. ‘I cannot leave the land, James Bourdon. For I am the land.’
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well done! Nice take on the prompt.
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Nice take.
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ABANDONED AROUND THE COSMOS: LIVESTREAM
“The last solar flare melted the domes. Constructed from ineffectual materials, they were a last ditch rudimentary attempt at survival. What you are seeing here are the remains of a flare burned settlement.”
The drone-pod skims the surface, its livestream playing a trillion galaxies away.
“Yeah, they had many warnings, the climate worsened over centuries, they had basic technology. But, they missed things, fought amongst themselves. Ultimately, they did not have the capacity to endure.
The drone-pod zooms in on the burnt and rusted hulls of dwelling places.
“They tried to flee, to find a new planet.”
Space dust dunes fill the ruins. The drone-pod circles closer.
“Their nihilistic tendencies, low intelligence and war-like attitude were unwelcome in the rest of the cosmos.”
The drone zooms in on a human-baby doll, lying half buried in the debris. Head half melted; charred black. One eye, automaton like, sparkle winks in the wake of the drone as it passes overhead.
“They could not be allowed.”
168 words
Theme: racism
Setting: a decaying village
@feclarkart
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So gritty! Love the details that paint this piece, F.E.
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Thank you Foy 🙂
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Enjoyed a lot of the little touches here, especially the voice of the commentator.
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Thank you 🙂
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Grim message, racism on a cosmic scale.
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Name: @dazmb
Words: 167 words
Element: Man v Woman / Reconciliation / Picture
Title: Advice
Taking a boiled cassava root, she said out loud “fruit of the Earth”, before placing it in the the woduro.
Reaching for a plantain, “…and fruit of the sky”, then placing it in the woduro too.
Setting to work with the woma, pounding the mixture in silence, her jaw set in concentration.
The sun was high. Sweat began to run freely off her brow.
But her focus remained undiminished, raising and dropping the woma, up and down, up and down, until, gradually, it coalesced, and from the mixing of sky and earth, a fine, almost elastic dough began to form.
With tender care, continuing to work the dough, until, at last the fufu was finished.
Flexing the cramp from her arms, she looked at her daughter.
“The Sun has barely risen on your marriage, my child. Do you understand?”
Her daughter nodded.
“Good,” then smiling, “Do you think it was any different for your father and I? They are both good men. Now go and be reconciled.”
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You capture the indigenous feel well. The symbolism of Earth and Sky eventually forming “an elastic dough” is perfect. Here’s to growth in marriages.
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Thanks for the comments. Second your comments re marriage! 🙂
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Hi Daz – I found this very atmospheric and beautiful.
It also sent me to look up unfamiliar words 🙂
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Thanks – took me a while to look them up too!
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I love the moral of the story, but also the vivid introduction to another culture.
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Thanks!
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I loved how you wove in traditional language and methods into this story, it really gave it an authentic quality
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Thank you very much.
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Thank you.
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Very beautiful.
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Thanks a lot!
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Lovely writing, great sense of place.
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Thanks Steph!
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Tamara Shoemaker
@TamaraShoemaker
Word Count: 177
Story Elements: Character (pregnant girl)/Theme (racism)
Expectations
The morning of the shower, you tug the sock onto your thumb where it rests with little room to spare. The bonnet strings are silky, soft as goose-down on a breeze, and the tiny dresses lay like a rainbow tiara across the bed.
Your refreshments decorate the table, every chair placed just so for your guests. You sink into the rocker to wait and trace your finger over the smooth oak of the crib. A flutter, a tiny hiccup, twists the side of your stomach, and you reach your hand to calm it.
A smile curves your lips as a foot meets your hand, pushing toward your touch. Another weight lodges in your ribcage, and you shift to accommodate it.
“Settle down, sweetling,” you murmur, and rise to greet your guests. The hour has arrived, and you open your door to an empty porch.
The smile of expectation dies on your face. For the first time and not for the last, tears of pain wet your skin, skin of a different color than the life inside.
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beautifully sad
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Thank you, Carolyn!
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</3 😦
Beautifully written and emotive.
(Does it make me twisted that I thought this was going to be a "my baby died but I'm too ashamed to tell people so I'm having a shower, anyway story"?)
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No, it doesn’t make you twisted, but it does have a bit of a Miss Havisham/Great Expectations vibe to it… 😉
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Such a heartbreaking story. One I can’t help but hope will become only fiction sooner rather than later.
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Yes, exactly. Thanks, Casey!
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Beautiful. And second person. Always fun.
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Thanks, Michael! Yeah, second person is a challenge, but I like to try it. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. 🙂
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Beautifully sad (I too thought this was building towards a loss initially).
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Thanks, Steph! I admit I like to steer it toward where it’s least expected. 🙂 But it might have made a better story the other way. 🙂
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Pregnant girl
Conflict
186
@Viking_Ma
Harvest Time
My belly took its time growing big. Quickly I knew somethin’ was up, when I felt all spacey and super tired. That old nine months is everlasting eternity, at the same time as being over in a flash.
I dreamed of it. In there, all safe and hugged by my body. A bean growin’ at the speed of light, until it was wedged into me, leavin’ me all breathless and full to the brim.
Ma said to cherish the feelin’s as I weren’t never gonna have the baby to hold. A deal was struck with a Priest, of all folk. He was in the next town over, and his wife was just about dyin’ to have a baby of her very own. September was gonna be my harvest time.
A Priest gotta be a good man. You’d better believe it. No man of God is going to be mean to a little baby. That’s what Ma tells me over and over, and slaps my face if I keep up the caterwaulin’.
She don’t know it was a Priest did for me. I ain’t tellin’ her, neither.
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You’re a bit good at this, aren’t you?
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**hopes Tim means writing** 😉
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**hopes it was obvious**
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Love the voice. Colloquial and sympathy-inducing.
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thank you.
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That’s weird. We’re replying to it on the thread! I’ll re-post (with my italics, so you don’t have to worry!)
Hope the story is worth the bother! Ha ha
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OY Kimber!!! Spraff on your own story you hooligan 😀
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Sorry! I’ve been replying to a ghost post. Like a doofus.
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This is exquisite. The use of harvest is so eerie.
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thanks, that’s a lovely comment
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Really liked the voice in this story, it conveyed such a great sense of atmosphere and gave the story a lot of depth. Great ending too 🙂
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This is a fantastic story. Truly excellent.
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Waiting for the End
Bibi Nafeeza Yusuf
@bibi_n_yusuf
200 Words
Character: pregnant girl
Setting: a decaying village
***********************************
Haunted eyes stare into the past, searching for the smidgen of happiness that once was – happiness that was supposed to last a lifetime.
The days have become colder and harder. The village that once bustled with life, songs and folklore is gone. And in its place was a graveyard of the past – thatched houses and unrecognizable people.
In a few days or perhaps months, it will become a place forgotten by time and world. Mother Nature will reclaim her lost children, covering them in the blanket of her love and security.
At that time, Granny Baobab had said, they will be reunited with the ones lost and stolen. And they will sing songs and play their drums, shaking the High Halls of Heaven while their bones turn to dust. From dust they came and to dust they return.
They had all accepted their fate. Even the pregnant girl lost in her memories of pretense, slowly dying from starvation and yearning for the man who filled her head with tales of cities paved in gold and false promises as he plundered her treasures before he betrayed her.
It was a story only tears could tell; the cowardice and decay of man.
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Poetic and so tangible at the same time. Beautiful. x
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Thanks~~^^
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Hello Nafeeza 🙂
I love the imagery in this piece, and can imagine it being read aloud and it resonating far.
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Thanks~~^^
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Poignant story. Lovely.
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Thank you~~^^
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@betsystreeter
193 words
pregnant girl/village in ruins
ALONE/NOT ALONE
The last hut sat quiet, its lone occupant too weak to stand. There was no one to hear anyway.
The girl had been born here herself, in this same space, a decade and a half before. She had emerged at the center of a circle of chattering women, lifted and sung to and taken to the river to bathe.
Like a bird migrating home, she returned to this spot when her time came.
She sat on crossed knees, rocking, sweat and tears shining on her face. Her mother had warned her: do not cry out, bite down on something instead. And so she did, mashing the hem of her sky-blue t-shirt between her teeth.
With each contraction, the outline of her baby’s tiny foot would raise on her stomach. She rested a reassuring hand there, and sang a song her mother taught her. She only remembered the first two lines, so she repeated them over and over:
“Come with me, my tiny child,
I’ll bathe you in the river…”
The sunlight moved across the yellow dirt floor as she rocked, back and forth, and pictured her baby’s face.
Smoke rose on the horizon.
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This reminds me of the birthing scene in Apocalypto. So painful!
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Thanks ma’am!!
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Reminds me of Gathering Blue by Lois Lowry
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That’s cool! Thanks!
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Sad story beautifully told.
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Our Country
Theme: Injustice
Character: Man against women/pregnant girl
199 words
@sarahcain78
Noonday sun turns tin hovels into ovens and bakes the earth into a choking dust that clouds behind the Jeeps. He glances at the unfriendly eyes watching him with from dark, impassive faces. No matter. He’s come for what is his.
His driver halts before a shack, and he can hear the rhythmic chant of women’s voices inside. He motions his men to wait. No need for a scene yet. He strides through the doorway where the women dressed in shades of red are gathered around a low pallet on the floor.
He says, “Where is she?”
The keening continues.
He grabs the bony shoulder of an old woman in a dress faded almost to pink. “Where is she?”
The woman shrugs and moves aside to reveal her still form. A woman in soft crimson, with a scar puckering her right cheek, bathes her.
“What the hell is this? What did you do to her?” he shouts.
The scarred woman looks up. Expressionless. “What did you do to her?”
He pulls out his pistol. He hates her knowing eyes.
She says, “You can kill me, but in the end, you’ll lose. This is our country.”
He pulls the trigger.
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Powerful and sad.
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Thanks so much!
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Hello Sarah – I keep re-reading this piece – so beautifully written – harrowing.
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Thank you. That’s so very kind.
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Love the opening. Gripping, atmospheric story.
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Thanks very much!
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So much sadness this week beautifully told.
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Homecoming
It crawled from the mire, dragging an umbilicus swollen with sluggish blood and ditchwater.
Ahead, where the big house slumbered like a bloated leech, the dogs began to howl.
The child raised its misshapen head and howled back.
The hounds vomited and slumped into their own warm mess, eyes rolled back in their skulls.
The child dragged itself onward, naked feet scrabbling at the rough rocks, fingers grasping at the dry grass like fat, questing grubs. It climbed the porch steps slowly, bringing each foot to rest on the same splintered board before it attempted the next.
It took the stairs the same way.
Grandfather grunted once in his sleep, then died. The child gave a small mew of pleasure from the doorway and moved on towards the nursery.
Pushing the door open, it paused, watching the girl moving fitfully in her sleep. In the wan moonlight, she looked like a silver fish, roiling in the depths of the bedclothes. The child looked at its own, far darker skin and almost understood why it had been delivered to the mire.
Then it set the idea aside, pulled itself into the bed and settled into the warmth of its mother’s arms.
200 words
@Karl_A_Russell
Racism / A Pregnant Girl
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Horrifically Excellent.
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Gripping and macabre details – love it! Like the stories of changelings reimagined.
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Stunning language and imagery.
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Brutal images and fearless writing—great story!
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Wonderfully grotesque imagery. Terrific story.
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read this tale several times…. amazing imagery, powerful description … well done Karl!
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Unworthy
@hollygeely
Elements: character (old priest fighting to hold on to tradition), conflict (man vs. man)
198 words
“I am the Keeper of the Gate,” said the aging monk.
Maximore checked his watch. “It’s three hundred o’clock, old man. Let me pass. I’ve got to empty this place out before they level it. Do you want to get caught in the explosion?”
“None shall pass who are not worthy.”
“Yeah, I read that book in school, too. It’s ancient crap, from back when humans were crowded together on this stupid rock with your pollution and twenty-four hour days. I don’t care about your gate. Nobody does. Let me pass.”
The monk shuffled down the path toward the gate surrounding the ancient monastery. Maximore could not understand his attachment to the ancient building.
“Open it so I can move on, you old fart.”
The monk kissed the massive padlock. “Earth Mother, is this one worthy?”
The ground trembled. Maximore was a spacer and unused to earthquakes, but he’d heard of them. It was no miracle.
The roundhouse kick and subsequent beating laid on him by the monk was a surprise, though.
“Suffer the wrath of Earth Mother, unworthy one! Feel Her wrath!”
Maximore could only cry for his own mommy, who was certainly not of the Earth.
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That “Feel” before “Her wrath” should have been italic…boo
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haha! Recalls the Fifth Element temple scene. Thanks for the laugh! 🙂
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You’re very welcome 🙂
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Love those closing lines!
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The mighty brought low, great ending.
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The City View
(197 words)
@elaine173marie
wealthy city/ moral decline/ father’s search for son.
He sat alongside the pigeons on the ledge of the redudant court building. They didn’t seem to mind sharing their vantage point over the city’s sins.
From there, he witnessed Main Streets scrubbed clean of midnight grime; well heeled shoes strutting shiny pavements; briefcases bulging with corruption. But a glance right or left afforded him another view, smeared with half-lived lives; corroded souls, on tarnished streets, left to scour through rich men’s residue.
He’d turned every stone on every street, before he’d perched on skyline where he trained his eyes on those below. He searched for crumbs of familiarity: splay feet, freckled features- things four years might not have changed. Ready to swoop down if his baby bird, that seemed somehow swallowed by some pavement crack or alleyway, re-emerged.
Twelve he would have been, still not a man, and buried in the greedy city’s innards.
At first, he’d sought to rescue, but the clock had changed his point of view, and he could only seek to mend.
Heads bobbed when he explained to his sombre companions how he couldn’t mend what he couldn’t find, and at last his empty arms transformed to flightless wings.
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this is tragically poetic. Love how you describe the objects rather than the people themselves.
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Thanks so much. Really appreciated.
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Such a tragic story, terrific last line.
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Thank you, Steph.
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Topsy-turvy
Conflict: man vs. man
Theme: injustice
Setting: a decaying town
WC: 165
berrymichael07@gmail.com
Not to far, ever so close
Is the village of Wither-rose
Once so great, it ruled the world
Fickle is fate, Wither-rose unfurled
As it’s power waned,
Fear it did gain
Never more the home of the brave
Victims now, like the people they saved
Victims of an ever-growing fright
That no longer needs to lurk in the night
Bad tidings it brings
For un-righted wrongs it sings
Wrongs like that of a school suspension
For gun-like pop tart possession
“Follow the rules young man,
Weapon-like toys we cannot stand.”
Wither-rose’s power further did dwindle
New things did rise and kindle
Like foolishness and inconsistency
The town did become topsy-turvy
Praised for intellect (isn’t this a shock?)
Is the kid who took his bomb-like clock
To his school, which somehow overreacted
Had to have it’s statement’s redacted.
To the house of white he was invited
While the other kid was slighted
This is the town of Wither-rose,
This is the tale of how it goes
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(I have to confess, I don’t know the ‘pop tart’ story.) Very topical and clever incorporating the boy with the clock and how fear can diminish us so greatly. Well done on the rhyme, too.
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I did think anything of the story till I saw the clock compared to an actual IEB (there’s very little difference) and was reminded of the pop tart incident.
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Topical verse.
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Gah! Forgot to add the italics… Would you mind adding italics to the following words? Sorry!
“lilies” in “You see: lilies” (2nd para)
“mean” in “I mean: the lilies” (5th para)
“need” in “we don’t need God to grow” (7th para) and finally
“Science” in “Please! Listen! Science” (9th para)
Sorry, always forget. And I like the way it focuses dialogue. Thanks!
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I’m compiling the stories for the judges and adding edits when I see them – but I don’t see your story, did WordPress eat it? or am I just missing it?
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Title: Just
Words: 165
Themes: man vs. man, a young man accused of murder, injustice
@Rtayaket
“You can’t charge a baby with murder!”
“It killed my wife.”
“Benny, you aren’t thinking clearly. Lots of women die in childbirth. We certainly don’t punish the innocent babes for the natural process a woman has to go through.”
“But it killed my wife. She needs justice.”
“Hold the babe to your chest, you are his father. Don’t hold him out in front of you like you like you would one of your garden rakes.”
“I just…”
“That’s it, Benny. Hold him to your chest. Mary would have wanted you to love your son, not accuse him of murder. That’s it… support his head… now look into his eyes.”
“I see… Mary!”
“NO! Ben, how could you drop him? The baby is innocent! How could you? He’s bleeding. Call for the doctor!”
“It killed my wife.”
“I can’t feel his pulse.”
“Mary deserves justice.”
“Benny… I… ahem… Mr. Benedict Reynolds – you are under the arrest for murder in the first degree. How do you plead?”
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Wow. What an interesting and incredibly sad situation. This will stay with me for a long while.
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thank you, really appreciate it!
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Original take on murder, responsibility and justice.
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Character: young man accused of murder
Theme: injustice
200 bitter fruits
The Fever Tree
There was something fluttering in the wind; a whistle of warning, a rustle of dust swirling into his eyes.
He dipped down into an arroyo and waited. Exhausted, hungry, he huddled against the dying slope,
desperate to know what might be moving above.
“How did I come to this?” he asked the God he believed in no longer.
His next thought accelerated his pulse. His beating heart pummeled him.
I cannot continue on this well-worn path, he thinks. Others have fled into the veldt before me.
What has been their fate? Did they ever return?
Reason says, “No one hears the voices of cowards who run away. The guilty always flee.”
But reason has a twisted tongue.
Reason also says, “You have seen the innocent hanging from the Fever Tree, mosquitoes sucking their spoiled blood as they swing in the putrid breeze.”
His fear quickens.
I cannot chance it, he decides. They must not see me. I’ll bush-bash my way through the undergrowth.
His legs, rubber-runted, kick-start his crawl through the dry creek. The dirt and sweat splash the poison of bitterness into his heart.
Guilt and Innocence rut in the night.
They are one.
Death is their fevered progeny.
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add, if you will, @billmelaterplea
It’s amazing what you will forget when fleeing for your life.
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Wonderful language used throughout: ‘reason has a twisted tongue’, ‘Guilt and innocence rut in the night’ …
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thank you
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The Unprecedented Feast
Harvest Moon Feast was around the corner. Pandit Shivkumar was drowning in worry. The drought had depleted his grain tower. And there was no virgin to serve food to the priests this year. He cursed Uma, his wife. Well, perhaps she didn’t cause the drought, but she was clearly responsible for the other thing.
Radha sat in the corner stringing the marigold flowers. She awkwardly covered her bulging belly with an old sari, but the shame she had brought to her family and the village was laid bare. She had not dared to look at her father in last eight months.
“No one will marry a girl from our village now.” Her friends had bitterly complained and abandoned her.
Her rhythmic hands kept weaving the flowers. She wondered if the gods cared whether she, a fallen woman, had woven the garland.
The baby girl arrived with full lungs and the cheeky face. Shivkumar felt the shame dripping from the roof of his house. He pondered for days.
The day before the feast, he instructed his wife to prepare the feast. He would serve the food holding the little granddaughter in his arms, he said proudly.
195 words
Story elements: character(s), conflict, theme.
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So glad he found a loving solution (if I read this right!)
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Yes, that’s right. Thank you for reading, Steph.
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Passing Down The Mantle
She was the first in many years to grow round like a sweet ripe melon.
Eyes followed her everywhere. Hopeful eyes, hungry eyes.
The village had grown quiet, the squeals and laughter of young voices had aged away, and with no new children to take their place, there was a palpable absence. Even the faces of houses had sagged and become grey as though to express their pain as well.
Nights around the fire had once been filled with stories. Grandparents telling their grandchildren about their own grandparents. Brave adventures, romances that had shaken the earth. The very fabric of their history weaving around the children who would wear it like cloaks and pass them on to their own children.
Now in the evenings she sat at the head of the fire and groups came in steady stream to sit at her feet and talk to her round stomach as though the child would absorb their history.
“You should have seen the way his fingers flew over the loom…”
“She always had a gift with bees…”
“My grandfather saved that entire flock…”
“Remember us” their stories said.
“I’m a part of you,” her blood pulsed back.
“Hope,” whispered the village.
@CaseyRoseFrank
200 words
Pregnant Girl and Decaying Village
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Love this story! Beautiful writing.
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Watched Children of Men a couple of nights ago and this reminded me a little of that (settings apart). Lovely story.
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The Pact
Word count 150
Theme: racism
Setting: A decaying village.
No Twitter Handle
Privilege is invisible to those that have it. It is skin and bone, part of their being. To the supplicants around them, the same privilege is a cold knife touching their throats, waiting for slip of the tongue or a wrong gesture.
He took upon himself the right to love one of those that his privilege oppressed. Was it true love, desire for the forbidden, or an awakening of empathy?
Did she truly love him, or was he an escape from the prison of their culture and its daily insults?
Neither knew their real motives. They only knew that her true background could not continue. A new persona was needed — a foreigner from outside the laws governing the fixed spheres of their universe.
So they made a pact to erase her background and introduce her to the world anew.
And as they made mindless love, an ancient village burned.
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Great metaphor for privilege in the first paragraph. Nice story.
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200 words
Character: old priest fighting to hold on to tradition
Setting: a wealthy city in “moral decline”
Faith in Humanity
The mag-lev train glides by behind the overpass pillars, a hundred blurred faces rushing away from Charlie’s sermon. Stood upon a stolen McDonald’s chair in the courtyard of the mall, Charlie laments his inattentive audience.
“Consider the lilies!” he cries. To his delight, a veiled woman takes notice. “You see: lilies don’t care about jobs, do they? Or marriage, or beauty. Right?”
“What’s he tubing?” asks a passing black fellow, his skullcap hovering over wiry hair.
“Something about flower unemployment, or something,” replies the woman.
“I mean: the lilies just get on with it, don’t they?”
A child pulls her parent from the throng of shoppers and says: “God put the lilies there to look pretty.”
“No! That’s precisely my point!” He stammers as the girl begins recording him on her iGlasses. “God didn’t put them there… They grew! Just like us – we don’t need God to grow, or work, or love…”
Angry rebukes buried his pleas. Who could oppose the omnipresent ignorance of United Monotheism?
“Please! Listen! Science is the true faith! It made your holo-screens, trains; it made the planet…”
“No it didn’t!” – “Weirdo!”
“Throw off your shackles,” Charlie begs. “Put your faith in science – free yourselves!”
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gutsy! This is brilliant.
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Gutsy… I like that. Thank you!
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A priest of the Richard Dawkins variety, nice take.
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Indeed. The man is increasingly difficult to defend.
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@fs_iver
Conflict: Man v. Man & Setting: Decaying Village (Planet?)
WC: 200
The Children Shall Inherit the Earth
“Today’s Horacio’s deathday. Or it would be if he didn’t have astro-food for brains. Only his kind–inherently nonviolent–are allowed to live past sixteen winters.”
The boy wheezes against pneumonia cultivating in wet lungs.
“He prolly won’t live much longer, anyhow.”
I move within the hologram.
“That one?” It nods toward the female.
“Decca,” I say and stand feet wide, arms crossing my chest. Hopefully, my pectorals look less pubescent and more predator.
“Next frost she’ll be twenty but I doubt they’ll give her the full grace period. She’s showing signs of aggression already.”
Decca snarls at two of the Pipe Rats begging for her ear of corn. She looks like death’s prostitute, her hair and face one bleak monotone. But she’s my world.
“And you? You’re still alive.”
The hologram goes dark. It’s just me and it, now.
“I’m a survivor.”
My insides are soggy bread but I keep my chin out.
It’s silent, considering.
“What’s left of Earth for three human rejects…”
“And the ship, with enough fuel to get us to QX-37.”
“You ask too much.”
“For a planet run by children. And its resources. I disagree.”
Its spider eyes glint and I know I’ve won.
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” Hopefully, my pectorals look less pubescent and more predator. ”
Best line ever.
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Very intriguing world. Sharp dialogue and an excellent conclusion. Very much enjoyed.
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Thanks!
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Great world-building, loved the ‘death’s prostitute’ comparison although I doubt any woman would like to be described in that vein!
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On the Interstate
@voimaoy
195 words
character–man searching for his son
conflict–man v. man
theme–reconciliation?
Fires in the West, floods in the East, the land was out of balance. In the middle, running through the heart of the country, was the interstate highway. On the interstate, there were lines of people, heading east and west. There was nowhere for them to go.
In Iowa, they passed by empty cornfields, signs at the exits to towns with names like Lone Tree. National guardsmen waited at the exits. People on bicycles cut in line, to the jeers of the people on foot, carrying their babies in bright-colored blankets. The resourceful had dog carts, horses and mules.
He had nothing, not even papers. Now that phones didn’t work anymore, he played the message over and over in his mind. “I’ll meet you at the river, dad.”
The guard was a young blonde woman, smiling in spite of the pressing crowd and growing desperation. “ID, please.”
“I lost my wallet, ” he said. ” You can find me in your database, surely?”
“The computers are down, sir. Please come this way.”
He joined another line of older people and some college students. In the crowd, he saw a young man who could have been his son.
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I like the non-resolution.
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Thanks for reading, Michael.
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I love the atmosphere you create in this story and I too like how there is no definite resolution- it fits a story dealing with something of this scale.
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Thank you, Marie. Much appreciated.
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Tragic situation with just a touch of hope at the end. Reminds me a lot of the images currently being shown over here on the news with the border situation across Europe.
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Yes. I was thinking of news and weather–how it could happen here…maybe too big a story to do in 200 words…
Thanks for reading,Steph. Much appreciated!
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Generations
@io_trooly
192 Words
Character: old priest fighting to hold on to tradition / Theme: repentance
# # #
His son’s life ends tonight. Whose fault is it? Whose doing? No one’s.
At the same time, a child is born. Down in the village, in his hut, entrusted to his care. The girl is surrounded by women, chattering and laughing, rhythmic chants praising and praying. All men are banned from his home until the deed is done.
Even he had to go, although his son – the father – is dying tonight.
The hangman is only doing his job. So is the midwife. Do they care? They’re just tools. Tools of fate. Tools of Him, perhaps.
One child in exchange for another. The other father is there, a silent presence. They’re all fathers, they were all sons once, they all know death. What is the value of a life? The whole is always more than just the sum of its parts. One life on its own is nothing.
The loss weighs heavy nonetheless. Once piece goes missing, and everything becomes brittle. At one time he has gone wrong, pushed or pulled into the wrong direction.
When the cry of a newborn rises through the night, he prays for a second chance.
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The laws of checks and balances. Sad story.
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Words: 197
Chosen: Character (priest) & Setting (wealthy city)
@CarinMarais
The Song of the Sun
The priest stared at the horizon. The sun would rise soon. Beneath the tower where he stood a city with golden roofs were spread out as far as the eye could see. He waited while below him residents were turning on lights one by one as they got ready to go to work.
He clenched his hands at his sides at the blasphemy. Lights were forbidden between the deepest hour of the night and the sunrise! At least in his day when someone dared to light a candle they would hide it. Not flaunt the shining glass baubles; trinkets emitting dead light. No one waited for the living sun anymore to start the day. He had to bite his tongue not to curse them. No one but him kept to tradition anymore.
And they laughed when he warned them that the sun would one day not rise again. That it would tire of their disobedience.
Not for the first time did he feel the stirrings of treacherous doubt deep within him. But he would still sing the song as the sun rises.
The priest stared at the eastern horizon.
And stared.
And stared.
But no sun rose.
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Powerful little story.
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Words: 198
Chosen:
Character: Young man accused of murder
Theme: Reconciliation, injustice
@CarinMarais
Mourning Clothes
“You have five minutes.”
The young woman picked her way down the dank steps to the cell. There a man not older than twenty sat with his head in his hands. Chains linked his hands and feet. His smile was uncertain when he noticed her and stood up. She was dressed in the dark mourning clothes of a widow.
“I have to pretend I care,” she said softly, motioning to the clothes. “Now suddenly everyone acts as if he was a good man.”
“And they think the worst of me.”
She said nothing, but stared at his hands on the bars.
“I regret nothing, you know,” he said
“I wanted to tell them that I pulled the trigger,” she sobbed softly. “But the children -”
“I wish I had pulled the trigger. I was a coward, nothing more.”
“I have doomed you as well. They won’t even bury you in the cemetery.”
He shrugged and the chains rattled.
“I should have -”
“I forgive you,” he said and took her hand in his. “I’ve always loved you, you know.”
“I know.” She started crying. “I’m wearing these for you.”
“Time for the hanging,” the guard called out gleefully from above.
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Great story of love.
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Thanks!
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I love how you use the mourning clothes. Very sad. Clever dialogue.
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Thanks you! Yeah, I always seem to write such happy stories 😉
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My stuff’s never a barrel of laughs!
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I love how you create such vivid scene and characters–wonderful writing. Beautiful story.
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Thank you! 🙂
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Tragic love story.
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A Better Century?
WC 199
@carolrosalind
Setting: City in moral decline
Character: Old Priest / Pregnant Girl
Dusk begins its descent with a promise of the night to come, forcing the dying sunlight to slide away across glass monoliths of modernity.
The atmosphere changes as the day time city steps back to be replaced by previously unseen buildings, where light spills out invitingly across streets, through window cracks and open doorways. Bursts of laughter escape from overlapping conversations and merge with the city’s background hum.
The River divides the city as easily as the city divides its people, rich on one side poor on the other.
Tucked away beneath the modern, the ancient stone buildings withhold their secrets. Here in such a place is a church, now dwarfed by the demands of a new century. Inside a priest prepares the soup kitchen for the evening rush.
With a sigh he opens the door to queue outside. They say things are improving but his clientele increases daily. Tonight on arrival he met a pregnant teenager, too scared to return home but after making a few calls he manages to secure her a bed for the night… but tomorrow who knows.
Glancing upwards, searching through all the light pollution, he catches a shooting star and makes a wish.
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I”ve just noticed that I’ve missed ‘the’ from the line ‘With a sigh he opens the door to…
Please, if possible, could you add it and amend the WC to 200
Many thanks
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‘Bursts of laughter escape from overlapping conversations and merge with the city’s background hum.’- I love that line. Lovely descriptions throughout the whole piece.
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Thank you.
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Love the description in the first paragraph that transitions day into night.
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Thank you, it’s my favourite time of day.
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Between Life and Dreams
@geofflepard 192 words a pregnant girl; injustice
Wire diamonds framed Carlos’ vision of the world. Close up he could pretend the horizon was his to explore but dreaming had no place on the fried red earth. For days he’d dragged Jalla south and west, hunting for a weakness and only finding it in his diminishing hopes.
‘It is soon, Carlos.’
He knew, without reminders, without looking. He’d counted the weeks.
They bypassed villages, fearful of police, or worse, help that would tempt them to stay.
When Jalla’s groans echoed the pounding in his ears Carlos stopped. A boy, pebble-eyed, watched from freedom as they nested, craving shade.
Jalla called out once, as life replaced life, the earth a deepening red. Carlos cradled Jalla, willing his spirt to join her’s on its final journey. The boy poked a stick at the babe, dripping water onto its lips.
Both dug in the dirt: Carlos as saviour of a soul; the boy, a soul seeking to be a saviour. They dug to their end: Carlos, nearing his wish, watched the boy hold their hope to his narrow chest as he headed for the horizon, towards a dream Carlos had never dared dream.
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Sad but love the hopeful ending with the boy taking the child to freedom.
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Battlegrounds
@MadilynQuinn
196 words: conflict & character
A brick sails through the window, raining glass down on the old priest. He brushes the glittering shards off his robe and grimaces at the flare of torches arching up through the stained glass.
Around him, pews are empty.
Something bangs against the barred front doors. He tenses as the crack of wood echoes through the cavernous church.
The priest turns to the table of prayer candles. They tear at the wood of the front doors like rabid animals. He ignores it, taking a bunt and lighting the end with a match. As candles flare to life in front of him, he mutters a prayer for each invader.
Behind him, the last restraints on the doors fling open. Torch light glares against the cross; Jesus averts his gaze to the sky.
The priest lights one last candle – a prayer for himself – and turns to greet the mob: “The grace of the lord and the love of God be with you all.”
The mob floods in.
With flourish, he pulls a sword from the inside of his robe and dispatches the nearest invader.
“Let us begin,” his voice rings out over the mass as his sword sings.
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Defender of the faith in a literal sense, nice touch to have him move from a priest at prayer to warrior defending his church.
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Between Two Worlds
194 words
pregnant girl
priest
decaying village
In the hot confessional booth, Juana fights off nausea. The church walls of thick old adobe aren’t enough to fight the blistering July sun. But she has to get through this.
“Forgive me father, for I have sinned,” she whispers. “It’s been two months since my last confession.”
“ Why so long, my daughter?”
Juana swallows misery down, one acid bite.
“There was a boy.”
“Not from San Isidro?”
“No. From . . .from a ranch. A rich boy from another world, father.”
“How did you meet ?”
“In the county library.”
“Ah. Juana. The job I recommended you for.Your way out this village.”
“I shouldn’t have agreed to meet him. I shouldn’t have. . . .”
“Do your parents know?”
“I will have to tell them soon. Tell him.”
She fights the nausea, but the sounds of the struggle are unmistakable. Father Matthew knows as well as midwives..
“You’re pregnant.”
“Yes, father.”
“You are blessed.”
“Blessed? Travis won’t marry me. A Hispanic girl from San Isidro.”
“But there will be a child of two worlds.”
“What can a child do?”
“Anything. Maybe even, build a bridge.”
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Great story. I can feel her anxiety.
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What a worldly-wise priest, fantastic last line.
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Posh Preggers
199 words
pregnant girl
wealthy city in moral decay
The being inside me gives a gentle kick, tickling my insides. I had been chosen. Young mothers were big business now in LA. Millions of girls all over the city were getting pregnant for the chance to appear on Posh Preggers, a reality show on Gossip TV that made huge celebrities of its previous stars. And they’d picked me.
My “boyfriend” was a dull-as-plain-oatmeal actor, the real father, a gorgeous simpleton used as a pawn, paid off generously. A few months after it’s born, my “boyfriend” and I will leak the story of our break up to the press, I’ll dump the being on my parents, and start my real life as a celebrity. Endless opportunities ahead.
Today’s scene. Learning the being’s gender with my “boyfriend” and parents (the real ones, also compensated handsomely). In the living room of the beach house leased by Gossip TV, I hand the envelope sealed by my OB-BYN to my mom. She opens it and clutches her hand to her chest.
“It’s a girl!”
We all hug and I feel a flutter inside that warms me. It’s a her. My knees give way and I sit, staring through the window at the ocean.
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Very much of our times! I liked the last paragraph that brings a touch of humanity to the girl as she senses the baby’s presence, in contrast to her calculating comments previously.
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Thank you, I was hoping to convey that!
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From Hell’s Heart, I Stab at Thee
Dave @ParkInkSpot
200 words.
old priest fighting to hold on to tradition, injustice, a decaying village, racism.
————-
“Once there was a time when I believed you all white devils,” explained the old sagomas. “Your people came and took all of the young men, and dragged them in chains to slave in your mines. Then came the years of sickness, entire generations of my people wiped out by the evil poxes you brought.”
The ancient man paced around the tiny marker at the base of the massive, dead Marula tree in the village center.
“Where once a village thrived is now just a destitute ruin, hopeless. Without our youth and their grandchildren, what future could there be?”
The sagomas peeled away the cloth turban covering his eyes with great care.
“Now I see that you aren’t devils at all, you are only the most evil of men. Men, who can be cursed, and made to pay for the injustice their sick culture has brought on this land.”
When the turban fell away, his single malevolent eye blazed forth, spearing each of the urbanized white corporate henchmen with baleful malice.
“You don’t believe in the Evil Eye. Your kind never has. So go back to your families, and take no care to guard against what comes for you now.”
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Learning new words left, right and centre this week. Nice use of the Evil Eye.
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@stellakateT
200 words
Conflict / Theme: Racism
The Palette of Life
“This town used to be booming till they arrived”
“If he says that one more time I’m going to deck him”
I looked up from pounding the dirt out of their clothes. Why did I have to do the washing? I know the answer I’m a girl. My brother and grandfather both do my head in, one looking in the past the other hurrying to the future.
Me, I live in the day. Serge has promised he’ll take me when they leave. He doesn’t consider me inferior. I might not be the best specimen but he says I’ll have a good life with him. Can’t be any worse than what I have now. He’ll beat the drum and I’ll dance to his tune. He’s promised I’ll see sights I’ve never dreamed of. I’ve seen sights I wouldn’t share with anyone. Horrible acts because their skin colour wasn’t the same shade as mine. They killed all, apart from us greens. Not sure why, maybe it’s because we merge in with their violet hues. Once I lived in a world of rainbow colours now there is only two. The world will soon be destroyed with a mix neither attractive nor creative, mud.
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Great closing sentence.
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I love how this unfolds. “they killed all, apart from us greens…” and the ending is great.
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Everything turns to mud – I like that you’ve moved racism away from the traditional white v black, especially as in truth it is much wider than that.
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The Confessional
@making_fiction
Character: Old priest fighting to hold on to tradition
Theme: Reconciliation
Words – 194
The confessional box was empty.
Father Joseph was accustomed to not seeing the sinner, just looking at a threadbare velvet curtain and hearing a muffled voice the other side.
But this was new.
The oak box always creaked with weight. The weight of exhausted bones, the gnarls of doubt, the gravity of responsibility. It rested only with the whispered sigh of forgiveness and reconciliation.
“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned,” the monotone voice mumbled. “This is my first confession.”
Incense; familiar, spicy, sweet – tingled his senses and evoked long-forgotten memories of a younger him, in simpler times. “Go ahead, my child.”
“I have had impure thoughts.”
“Yes, my child.”
“I desire what I cannot have.”
Silence. He let it hang there.
“I want only equality, freedom and respect, but I know that servitude and slavery are my place in life. If I accept this, my rewards will come later. This is true, isn’t it Father?”
“Is that all, my child?”
“Yes, Father.”
Father Joseph listened to the machine say her penance with more conviction that he had heard from any parishioner.
Who deserves forgiveness?
What is intelligence?
Who is he to judge?
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This is so thoughtful– subtle and profound–amazing work.
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AI and their ‘human factor’ has been on the news a lot this past week or two. You ask some very pertinent questions.
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Belief
Elements: theme – racism (and injustice), setting – city in moral decline plus character – young man (to be) accused of murder, conflict
183 words
@el_Stevie
#FlashDogs
“Who’d believe you?” Hard faces sneered at him.
Joe took another step back only to feel the cold certainty of dank stone behind him. A weary neon light flickered at the end of the alley. Occasionally he saw a flash of colour fading to black shadow as souls were sold under the dark cloak of night.
A blade danced in front of him, its sheen dulled by the blood already spilled.
Arman groaned at his feet, Joe doubted he had long left.
What they had thought was just yet another stop and search had turned into a savage beating. White fists had rained down on Arman as soon as he had protested. Joe had kept quiet.
The blade came closer; it seemed initially as though Arman’s fate would soon be his. An arm grabbed him roughly, held him whilst another pushed the knife’s handle into his hand, forced his fingers to curl around it.
One of the men pulled out a radio. Called it in.
More police arrived. Men the same colour as himself. He knew what they saw.
Who’d believe him now?
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A very gripping story.
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I agree. This is very gripping. Very tense throughout.
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“Judgment”
by Michael Seese @MSeeseTweets
Story Elements: Character (a pregnant girl), Theme (repentance)
Word count: 200
I think he saw it in my face. Real pain and real fear are hard to fake.
“Who did this to you, Charlotte?”
I cradled my belly, good practice, I figured, and wiped my eye. “It was my Daddy.”
“That son of a bitch,” he said, angry as a lawman and angry as a parent. “Tell me what happened. Without going into the… ugly details.”
“Since Momma died, he’s pretty much always drunk. And he’s a mean drunk. It started with yelling. Then the back of his hand. Then fists. And then…”
“Looks like I’ve got some work to do. You got anywhere else to go?
“No.”
“Then stay here.”
“Sheriff, he sleeps with his shotgun next him. Right in the bed. I thought you’d best know that.”
“Thanks, Charlotte. Andy, you’d better come with me. And wear your vest.”
I’d have to stop at the church later, and ‘fess up to telling a lie. It wasn’t all a lie. Just the part about who got me pregnant. But things happen for a reason. My Daddy is a real bastard. So now the Sheriff has an excuse. And me and Andy, and our baby, will have a place to live.
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Calculating little hussy. Great story.
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Little Minx…. loved the line ‘fess up to telling a lie’ ……bit of a whopper 🙂
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“The Shepherd”
by Michael Seese @MSeeseTweets
Story Elements: Character (old priest fighting to hold on to tradition), Theme (repentance)
Word count: 191
“Repent, evil sinners! Repent or face the wrath of the Almighty!” Froth flew as the Reverend delivered his vitriol. Shades ranging from crimson to magenta washed across his flushed face.
“I know you are full of sin. I know you are carrying lust in your heathen hearts. I know you fornicate!”
The assembled eyes averted, as his icy stare bore holes through their alibis. The Reverend could tell he was reaching them. Perhaps this would be the sermon that turns the tide. They really are sheep, he thought. Modern distractions – their Internet, their cell phones, their social media – have drawn them to the far and fearful corners of the meadow. And it is my mission to lead them back to the safety of the flock.
“You have strayed. You have sinned. But God loves you. And I love you as well.”
“Shut up, you psycho!” someone yelled, as he disconnected his call to 911.
Taken aback, the Reverend knelt down on the cold steel of a manhole cover. And the “congregation” went about their business, paying no attention whatsoever as the police escorted the Reverend away from his street corner pulpit.
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I feel sorry for him, much as I do when I pass preachers in our city centre. I don’t stop and listen – their faith is not for me – but nor do I mock and it upsets me when others do. I think it was probably right for him to go though when he started on the fornication, I dread to think of how that would have developed!
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loved the twist at the end …..was so sure I was in the middle of a sermon in a church! great writing Michael!
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character: pregnant girl Theme: racism
(200 words)
@zevonesque
White Noise
A.J. Walker
Her beloved quilt cover hung over Penelope a useless shield against the voices downstairs. She hadn’t heard her father this angry in years – and it was her fault.
There was never going to be a good time to tell them and she thought she’d timed it quite well. He’d just announced that he was getting a pay rise and the weekend was upon them. He’d been happy.
Until she threw in that hand grenade.
Bang!
Clearly it was his fault. Couldn’t be his daughter’s.
He’d thrown in his foul backward comments. She’d said she found them offensive and couldn’t stand to hear them. She’d stormed upstairs. Half an hour ago.
Still he was going. Not gonna happen in my family. Nothing personal. No black boy could do that to his daughter.
Love, what could she know of love? A child.
Not having a child.
Nineteen, Penelope thought. Hiding under a sheet. But grown up – and it is love.
Penelope heard her mother’s pleading voice. The voice of reason peppered with fear.
A slammed door. Car wheels spinning in the drive.
Penelope crept downstairs to find her mother softly sobbing; behind her the gun cabinet lay open in a scream.
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Strong story, powerful end.
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I was pulled right into this…. great writing Mr Walker! (impressive use of full stops 😉 )
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Silent screams
My back aches, the weight of my future hanging heavily in front of me. I stretch out, the clippers hanging limply by my side. It will be any day now. I wish I could protect him for longer, to keep him safe in his cocoon. Instead he’ll hang on my back, exposed to the harsh reality of this world.
There’s nothing for him out here. The ocean is as empty as our bellies, the giant ships dragged their nets until nothing was left. The forest is gone too, cleared for the palm oil plantation that earns billions in profits but pays me pennies a day for my labour. There’s no more water in the well, it was sucked dry by the irrigation. Children lay thirsty in their beds, throats as dry as the summer breeze, yet the trees are well nourished.
I feel no joy, just guilt. My baby will only know hunger, pain and suffering. I was not brave enough to end things before it was too late. Now he will pay the price for my cowardice.
I try to speak up, to right this injustice, but nobody listens. I have no voice, even when I scream.
198 words
http://www.todayschapter.com
Themes: Pregnant girl and decaying village
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Such a sad story of maternal guilt.
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REFLECTIONS
~~~~~~~~~~
A tribe was surrendered with antique light coming from an ancient sun. Everything carved by tradition with toil of hands processing nature into usable forms. Man and nature living with shared risk.
Now, the priest was surrounded with objects forged with unknown hands in unknown places. His fingers neatly laced on his lap in a London hospital; his son’s wife was giving birth. A new generation being pronounced by a secret genetic language whispered in each body. Crying could be heard from a room. Learning a new language wasn’t easy.
His grandson was taken to a metropolis for a better life. The better life seemed to incorporate reflections because everything was hard, smooth, and shined as if searching for its true self. What profit a man if he gain the world but loses his identity? There’s no risk. No soul. No advantage.
His grandson was brought out in a blanket. He looked like old weathered wood. A fire sparked in his eyes. He held the child wanting to bring him back to his village. Wanted to save him from reflecting on a life he had never lived.
A steel window fell like a guillotine on purple intrusion of erupting dawn.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(200 words)
Old priest fighting to hold on to tradition &
a wealthy city in moral decline
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REFLECTIONS
~~~~~~~~~~
A tribe was surrendered with antique light coming from an ancient sun. Everything carved by tradition with toil of hands processing nature into usable forms. Man and nature living with shared risk.
Now, the priest was surrounded with objects forged with unknown hands in unknown places. His fingers neatly laced on his lap in a London hospital; his son’s wife was giving birth. A new generation being pronounced by a secret genetic language whispered in each body. Crying could be heard from a room. Learning a new language wasn’t easy.
His grandson was taken to a metropolis for a better life. The better life seemed to incorporate reflections because everything was hard, smooth, and shined as if searching for its true self. What profit a man if he gain the world but loses his identity? There’s no risk. No soul. No advantage.
An infant was brought out in a blanket. He looked like old weathered wood. A fire sparked in his eyes. He held the child wanting to bring him back to his village. Wanted to save him from reflecting back on a life he had never lived.
Steel window fell like a guillotine on purple intrusion of erupting dawn.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(200 words)
Old priest fighting to hold on to tradition &
a wealthy city in moral decline
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Traditional environment vs man-made. Nice story.
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Holly, could you please delete the earlier one that is above. I went ahead and did revisions… there were a few. Thank you.
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No problem, I took the second one 🙂
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The Congregant’s Need
198 words
Story Elements: old priest fighting to hold on to tradition, young man accused of murder
_ _ _
“We have always been here,” the old priest chanted.
“We have always been here,” the congregation repeated.
“We are eternal.”
“We are eternal.”
[i]Are we?[/i] The thought entered unbidden into Zack’s mind. He tried to push it aside.
”We are the children of the true God.”
“We are the children of the true God.”
[i]Are we?[/i] Zack shifted from one leg to another. The movement caught Rev. Smithton’s attention and he scowled at the young man.
Zack closed his eyes to avoid meeting the priest’s disapproving stare.
* * *
“Tell me, Zachariah. What is it about our faith that you find so uninspiring?”
Zack paused before answering, not because he had to consider his answer, but because old Smithton considered quick words to be ill-thought. That is, unless the quick words were the ritual responses of the mass.
“Not ‘uninspiring;’ ‘unexplained.’”
“And what do you think you need explained?”
Zack knew the priest would phrase it that way. It’s never what he [i]needs[/i]. It’s what he “thinks” he needs. In that moment, Zack knew what he needed to do.
* * *
“And that’s when the defendant told his victim that, as a child of the devil, he needed to kill, your honor.”
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Nice contrast between past situations and the present courtroom situation.
(NB italics usually work for me when I use ’em’ and ‘/em’ in brackets.)
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Had shown the type of brackets I use but they didn’t appear will try ” and see what happens!
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Emily Clayton
@emilyiswriting
elements: character/setting
199 Words
Tumbleweed Believers
I met him on the steps of the old church, watching the sky for some sign, some hope for a better tomorrow that didn’t reek of stagnant sludge, didn’t shove grit down the lungs of the innocent.
He looked with bleary eyes, wiping the tears with the back of his grimy hand, flexing his weathered arms beneath his tattered grey sleeves. I could see the limp muscles fold in upon themselves. Hear them weeping from hunger, starved, used to the limit, like everything else in this place.
I was a stranger in these lands. I watched the old man’s resolve stiffen as he noticed it too.
“What do you want, young man?”
“I just—”
“Came to laugh at us? Take us away? We don’t need your help. God will provide.”
His strong words didn’t match the fear seeping through his milk chocolate eyes. Loud, hacking coughs knocked him down. Down to the ground as tumbleweeds bounced by, the nearby stones smoothed by erratic winds.
He declined my arm. Shook his head, his clothing, his reality. “My community is waiting.”
I watched him stride through the rotted doors, to the darkened interior where waited the rodents and the bats.
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I can almost feel the isolation and emptiness the priest is experiencing, perfectly expressed by the use of the ‘tumbleweed’ reference in both title and story.
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Thank you, Steph! 🙂
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Darkness Remembered
Randy Ball
184 Words
Conflict: Man v Man
Theme: Injustice
Zubani gave another stir to the brew in the wooden bucket at his feet. He looked up. Across the hard dirt an empty hut stood silent. Thatched from its rounded crown, down its circular sides, and all but the upper third of its darkened doorway covered by a skin, the hut looked like the one-eyed head of a giant buried to his shoulders.
In that place he had conducted tribal incantations before his conversion—before redemption, before the gospel liberated him for his eternal good, and its harsh messengers subjugated them all for the good of things made from rubber trees. But tribal trappings had been hidden away or burned for the joy of forgiveness.
The new lords had given them testaments then taken their dignity. He ran his finger down his neck chain and touched the black-bordered pass.
Huptu took back his dignity. Said no to the vice regent that morning. Zubani had been called upon to bear the news to Huptu’s wife. She stared.
He thrust his hand into the bucket and withdrew the dripping shaman’s mask then strode toward the hut.
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Great description of the tribal hut as the one-eyed head of a giant.
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Faithful Servant
@ceckybonway
193 words
Elements: Character (pregnant girl) and Theme (repentance)
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been 3 months since my last confession.
The child that I bear grows bigger every day and I am consumed with thoughts of abortion.
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been 4 months since my last confession.
My murderous thoughts have only increased. Father Abraham says that the child is a gift. That I was chosen by You to receive the release of his love in a time of weakness. I feel only revulsion and pain.
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been 2 months since my last confession.
The birth is near. I am consumed by grief and disgust. I cannot understand why you would use one of your servants to quicken my womb. I am only sixteen! Father Abraham continues to use me to save him in his times of weakness. How is my agony saving him? It is not my place to question You, but I, too, am weak.
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been 1 month since my last confession.
There is blood on my hands and I can no longer call myself ‘Mother.’
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chilling
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Dark story. Excellent. Loved the use of the confessional to tell the story and give it structure.
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It’s been a while, and it’s my first time trying this new format, so hopefully I did it correctly. Included a few options from the list, but I’ll say: repentance & a pregnant girl.
Speechless
Herman hooked his cane on the wooden pew then knelt, bowing his head before the Virgin Mother whose gaze he hadn’t met in years. The stone floor cushioned his knees, worn from his daily visits.
Fingers brushed his forehead, chest, and shoulders, and a sigh passed through his lips. Blankness filled his mind where prayer should have been. Would he ever find the words?
People cried in the streets, clinging to each other. A pale girl gasped, clutching her rounded stomach as rough hands knocked her down, disregarding the life within.
Every time he closed his eyes, echoes of the past tormented him.
Skeletal bodies marching to their doom, torn from their homes and stuffed into stripes. Hopeless expressions on faces of all ages, cordoned off by barbed wire.
He’d done as he was told. Now he yearned for the forgiveness he didn’t deserve.
Piles and piles of lifeless flesh.
And everywhere the yellow stars.
(155 words; @AriaGlazki)
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Grim reminder of past horrors. Nicely done.
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Thanks, Steph!
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Title: “Reconciled”
Word Count: 200
Prompts: Reconciliation; a pregnant girl
Twitter: @colin_d_smith
You know I’m not good at this, but I’ll try. I know I’ve made lots of crap decisions in spite of your advise. And I’ve not been good to you and I didn’t do what you want. I know my life hasn’t turned out like you hoped, and I know what you hoped cos you always told me. But you always told me you loved me. I didn’t want to believe it. Now I think I do and I want you to know that I love you too. And I’m sorry for all the hurt I’ve caused you. This is not your fault. None of it is. I just wanted better for us both, and I think this is it.
Love, Jo.
Darryl read the note. The lump he already had in his throat became harder to push down, the tears harder to control. He gave up and let them flow as he passed the note to Lucy, but she couldn’t take it. Lucy was kneeling next to Jo’s bed, her shoulders heaving with grief. She wrapped one of her hands around Jo’s fist as it clenched the empty pill bottle.
The other rested on Jo’s swollen but lifeless stomach.
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Truly sad.
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City of Guilt
(150 words)
Caitríona Murphy
Prompts; Young man accused of murder, injustice
I really hope you guys like this, it’s my first entry, please be gentle!!!
City of Guilt
They want it to be me. They want to point the finger of blame at me; gather momentum, have people spit at me, graffiti my door, darken my name.
I’ve heard the names the do-gooders whisper; I’m simple, soft. Now their hissing breath form words like“dangerous” and “lunatic”. They think the beatings from my father affected my brain. That the colour of my skin is indicative of a matching inner darkness. Keeping to oneself in this place, this gold plated town of the rich and moralistic, is tantamount to confession.
There is no evidence to link me to the girl who was murdered. The doctor’s son, with his sporty car and rough manner? His DNA sample was mysteriously lost. Notes changing hands. Changing minds.
A lifetime of threats and swift bruises have left me aching for gentleness.
All they see is my skin colour.
All they see is my guilt.
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Welcome Caitriona, this is a lovely piece, beautifully written, I particularly liked the phrase the ‘colour of my skin is indicative of a matching inner darkness’. I hope this is just the first of many more stories from you 🙂
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Thank you so much for the lovely, positive comment; you made my day! 🙂
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All Rise for the Popular Verdict
198 words, @pmcolt
character and setting
“Woe unto Babylon!” The man in black stood atop a fiberglass boulder, pointing an accusatory finger towards the painted horizon. “You have given yourselves to carnal pleasures and bloodlust!”
I ran past a thatch hut. With luck, this clueless preacher would distract the audience just long enough. “Twenty seconds,” the producer announced in my earpiece. Fleeing toward the fake jungle, I counted each footfall. “One… one… thou-sand… Two… one… thou-sand…”
“Revel not in immorality! Reject this Hollywood gaud and gore!” This was criminal reality TV: only one contestant survived each episode. As a murder suspect, I was surely the underdog. If I survived the first commercial break, I could plead innocence and play for audience sympathy. A million dollars could buy a decent attorney.
“Fifteen… one… thou-sand…” Then I crashed into another contestant cowering behind a plywood log prop. She was a woman, just a girl, but eight months pregnant.
Agonizing wails came from the village: the preacher, whatever his crime, had met his fate. Tears filled her eyes when she heard the man’s screams.
I sighed and raised my hands. “Oh, fine. I confess!” As the hidden dartguns targeted me for execution, I wished the woman luck.
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Really like your take on this. Excellent story!
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A criminal with a conscience and sense of honour, nice end (not sure what was in the dartguns but have assumed the worst making him the more heroic).
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@fs_iver
Conflict (man v. man) & character (pregnant girl) & theme (reconciliation)
WC: 198
Adrift on the Stars’ Ocean
“Waiting wouldn’t be bad if it weren’t so god-absent silent.”
Mina discarded the serotonin syringe, her forearm irritated.
Calypso watched, half-turned, protecting her elephantine belly. Forty-eight hours since they’d heard from Richardson and Guerrero. It was getting harder to maneuver in that tin box.
“It’s easy for you.” Mina’s words cut a chasm between them. “You have something depending on you.”
“Hector needs you,” Calypso said.
A scoff, black as the cold waiting to claim them.
“I need you. We have to work together, Mina, to be strong.”
The agency-provided hormone was working; Mina’s eyelids dripped.
“They’ll be back.” Calypso rocked from her flaming right foot to her painful left. For her sake, they kept the shuttle’s gravity on. Pregnant and weightless wasn’t as good as it sounded.
“They won’t.” Mina slumped over her harness. “It’s too far. They’re probably drifting right now.”
Calypso counted to eight, nine, ten.
“You know, I hated you.” Mina’s words carried little breath. “When you told us you were successful.”
Dread bubbled up from Calypso’s stomach.
“But you’re alright.”
In the empty, a smile.
“I hope they find us.” Mina tilted her forehead. “So you can meet him.”
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I marvel at your ability to say so much in so few words. Simply stunning.
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Aww thank you 🙂
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Real sense of claustrophobia and tension.
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Title: The Falcon- A Most Noble Bird
Theme: Injustice
Setting: A Wealthy City In Moral Decline
Word Count: 200
Link: https://marshalhopalop.wordpress.com/2015/09/19/flash-friday-the-falcon-a-most-noble-bird/
I am judge, jury, and executioner because all of those things have gone out of style in this city. I’m standing here, like a perched falcon, on the city’s second-tallest building. It’s the best spot to watch the absolute tallest building come crumbling down.
C4 and a dream brought down that tower. Now tanks and bombs and mighty armies would see me ‘brought to justice.
I call them ‘The Scales’, my brass-plated nunchucks. Because as I tilt them, justice finds its balance. One man attacks, low and slow. I tilt ‘The Scales’ and he falls with a guilty weight. Another comes, his knife small and impotent, and ‘The Scales’ do not tilt in his favour.
They’re getting sloppy, all of their money buys them arrogance and confidence but no true weapons or armour.
Now the sound of blades comes from below. I run over the corpses.
Red laser sights from encircling helicopters paint the ghost of a grim mural on the roof all around me. They must think they’re safe up there, out of the reach of my weapons. But justice levels all playing fields.
And yet, sometimes justice needs the help of a conveniently-stashed rocket-propelled-grenade to smite the wicked…
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Great last line.
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Presumed Guilty
169 Words
Character: Young man accused of murder
Theme: Injustice
Matias tensed as the townsfolk dragged him to the the gallows. People he had known all his life were now sneering at him with fear and contempt.
“I didn’t do anything please…”
“Where were you last night!?” the sheriff demanded.
“I was at my aunt’s home in Three Lakes,” he answered, dumbfounded. “She needed help with harvest since her husband died.”
“Mathias,” the sheriff said in a kindly tone. You were the only man in this village that was not at our harvest, and therefore, the only one who could have killed a merchant and his wife as the traveled the hills.”
Mathias shook his head, but even as he denied any wrongdoing they dragged him closer to his death.
Before anyone could reach the second step, it was struck by an arrow – the same type of arrow that had killed a merchant just the other day.
As they turned and pursued his defender, Mathias smiled knowing he was safe, as long as no one thought about the women.
@mishmhem
#FlashDogs
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Like the twist.
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