Sunday, 11 May 2014
Wednesday, 7 May 2014
Flash fiction - Two's Company
Another writing treat of a day and another cool prompt over at Studio 30 Plus. This week it is precarious perch. It's funny how some words just have such a strong pull in a certain direction. Read below and then check out the other entries and you'll see what I mean. There's good company over at Studio 30 Plus, so click on the icon at the bottom to read more. Thanks for stopping by.
The curtains, drawn, shading the glare of the afternoon and dousing us both in pale yellow light, reveal nothing beyond these faded flowered walls, sideboards full of fine china, soft upright chairs which never get creased.
I try to listen beyond this silence to sounds that come from other birds in the green and open place I glimpsed a long time ago; or maybe I have only dreamt it. Now, I cannot remember.
Holding the furniture with all her might, holding onto anything for dear life, she shuffles to the window, maybe hoping today will be the day she looks out. But no, her chair welcomes her back just seconds later and the moment has passed. Her hands are back in her lap, rolling over each other’s emptiness and the pain of having no other hand to hold.
It is then I wish I was more than feathers and could offer a hand through the bars.
Two’s Company
While I sit here on my little wooden perch, strung between the bars at either end of my world, I watch her and wonder if it is not she who dangles, who forever tries to stay steady on her own precarious perch in her world which, if we’re honest, is hardly greater than mine.The curtains, drawn, shading the glare of the afternoon and dousing us both in pale yellow light, reveal nothing beyond these faded flowered walls, sideboards full of fine china, soft upright chairs which never get creased.
I try to listen beyond this silence to sounds that come from other birds in the green and open place I glimpsed a long time ago; or maybe I have only dreamt it. Now, I cannot remember.
Holding the furniture with all her might, holding onto anything for dear life, she shuffles to the window, maybe hoping today will be the day she looks out. But no, her chair welcomes her back just seconds later and the moment has passed. Her hands are back in her lap, rolling over each other’s emptiness and the pain of having no other hand to hold.
It is then I wish I was more than feathers and could offer a hand through the bars.
Sunday, 4 May 2014
Thursday, 1 May 2014
Flash fiction - Bank Holiday
The prompt over at Studio 30+ this week is, let's say, to the point! Back from two long weekends travelling and having visitors I now have a long weekend of my own at home to write, read, walk and potter. Nothing like a good potter. Anyway, without further ado, the prompt is quick and lethal and here is my offering. Thanks for reading!
The thought kept running through his mind. Like an unceasing throb, a dripping tap, a finger pressed lightly around the trigger; each minute pushing him towards a decision already decided in his core.
Subdued today in a purple shadow, the office murmured its silent approval. He grabbed the bottle at his side and let the bitter, golden liquid push his leftover fears away. Fingers hovered over the keyboard, trembling. His heart started a march of its own, lifting him, telling him it was the only way, the only way out.
Before another itch of doubt surfaced, he drained the bottle and starting typing, his hands moving expertly around the keyboard, his eyes focused on the numbers on the screen. A few zeroes here, a shift of a decimal there. Covering his tracks gave him bravado; hiding behind falsity gave him courage. He sat taller, breathed deeper, as he finished with a tap and click.
The answer was quick; the result was lethal. It was a long weekend and no one noticed until first light Tuesday, when his feet were already being warmed by the sea of a distant shore.
Find great writers and reads and join the community at Studio 30+ :
Bank Holiday
Subdued today in a purple shadow, the office murmured its silent approval. He grabbed the bottle at his side and let the bitter, golden liquid push his leftover fears away. Fingers hovered over the keyboard, trembling. His heart started a march of its own, lifting him, telling him it was the only way, the only way out.
Before another itch of doubt surfaced, he drained the bottle and starting typing, his hands moving expertly around the keyboard, his eyes focused on the numbers on the screen. A few zeroes here, a shift of a decimal there. Covering his tracks gave him bravado; hiding behind falsity gave him courage. He sat taller, breathed deeper, as he finished with a tap and click.
The answer was quick; the result was lethal. It was a long weekend and no one noticed until first light Tuesday, when his feet were already being warmed by the sea of a distant shore.
Find great writers and reads and join the community at Studio 30+ :
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