Miranda Kate's Blog, page 39
September 4, 2019
Mid-Week Flash Challenge - Week 123
This week's photo was posted by a friend, Victoria Goldman on twitter. It was taken in a Sainsbury's car park in North London. She thought it told a story. And I thought, well yes, it just might and other's might think so too!
I ummed and arhhed over this story, not sure if it was up to muster, but I liked it. It's a story of hope.
The General Guidelines can be found here.
How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here.
There is also a Facebook group for Mid-Week Flash, if you fancy getting the prompt there.
Mr Bow Tie
Hugo had had enough! He wasn’t going to wear them anymore. He threw the bow tie down and drove off, instantly regretting it but too stubborn to go back. He could picture it in his mind’s eye, lying there on the ground, broken and discarded, just like him.
All the way through school he’d tolerated the gibes, the put-downs, and the ridicule. He’d even been ruffed up a few times, but he had refused to give in. He loved his bow ties and would wear them proudly. But now, tonight, this had been the last straw.
Dating was hard enough for him; his name, his clammy palms, his ruddy complexion and chubby face always working against him. The amount of times they had giggled upon first meeting when they had spotted his bow tie, thinking he had been joking when he told them about his collection. He’d rarely had a second date, until Sandra.
He’d thought she was different, far more accepting, far more gentle, far better suited to him. But then it had happened.
A friend of hers had come in to the same restaurant they had chosen for their third date. She’d come over to talk. Sandra had introduced her friend, and there’d been a smirk upon hearing his name, and then the comment had come: “A bow tie’s a bit formal, isn’t it? You planning to go to the opera later?”
And then a snigger, which Sandra had joined in with, informing her friend that he collected them. And the way she had said it to her friend, a look in her eyes, almost rolling them, as though she was enduring something painful.
Hugo had sat there silently, planted a smile on his face and pretended like it was nothing. He’d waited for the friend to go, which she eventually did, hoping Sandra would make some kind of comment to dismiss her friend’s attitude, but she hadn’t. If anything she’d become more awkward, more quiet, as though she was embarrassed now that it had been highlighted.
Hugo had done his best to continue, be polite, jolly, and tried to keep it light. She had pretended to respond, but he knew it was a pretense; they both knew. Then after dinner she’d left hurriedly under the guise of an early appointment the following day.
And then the text had arrived as he’d walked to his car. “It’s not working for me. I think you’d be better suited to someone else.” And that was that.
He’d thumped his hand on the roof and shouted, startling two people on their way to their car. He’d ripped the bow tie off and chucking it away from him. But now in his car, with his soothing music on, he felt foolish. It wasn’t the bow tie’s fault. He’d go back in the morning and see if it was still there. It was one his special ones; he’d last worn it to a prom concert.
And that’s when he knew he had been looking in the wrong place. If he wanted to find a lady of refined taste who didn’t sneer at genteel men like him, he needed to go to more exclusive places, and maybe even try and see if he could find more exclusive dating apps. He’d find someone who didn’t jeer at people like him. He knew they were out there somewhere.
I ummed and arhhed over this story, not sure if it was up to muster, but I liked it. It's a story of hope.
The General Guidelines can be found here.
How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here.
There is also a Facebook group for Mid-Week Flash, if you fancy getting the prompt there.
Mr Bow Tie
Hugo had had enough! He wasn’t going to wear them anymore. He threw the bow tie down and drove off, instantly regretting it but too stubborn to go back. He could picture it in his mind’s eye, lying there on the ground, broken and discarded, just like him.
All the way through school he’d tolerated the gibes, the put-downs, and the ridicule. He’d even been ruffed up a few times, but he had refused to give in. He loved his bow ties and would wear them proudly. But now, tonight, this had been the last straw.
Dating was hard enough for him; his name, his clammy palms, his ruddy complexion and chubby face always working against him. The amount of times they had giggled upon first meeting when they had spotted his bow tie, thinking he had been joking when he told them about his collection. He’d rarely had a second date, until Sandra.
He’d thought she was different, far more accepting, far more gentle, far better suited to him. But then it had happened.
A friend of hers had come in to the same restaurant they had chosen for their third date. She’d come over to talk. Sandra had introduced her friend, and there’d been a smirk upon hearing his name, and then the comment had come: “A bow tie’s a bit formal, isn’t it? You planning to go to the opera later?”
And then a snigger, which Sandra had joined in with, informing her friend that he collected them. And the way she had said it to her friend, a look in her eyes, almost rolling them, as though she was enduring something painful.
Hugo had sat there silently, planted a smile on his face and pretended like it was nothing. He’d waited for the friend to go, which she eventually did, hoping Sandra would make some kind of comment to dismiss her friend’s attitude, but she hadn’t. If anything she’d become more awkward, more quiet, as though she was embarrassed now that it had been highlighted.
Hugo had done his best to continue, be polite, jolly, and tried to keep it light. She had pretended to respond, but he knew it was a pretense; they both knew. Then after dinner she’d left hurriedly under the guise of an early appointment the following day.
And then the text had arrived as he’d walked to his car. “It’s not working for me. I think you’d be better suited to someone else.” And that was that.
He’d thumped his hand on the roof and shouted, startling two people on their way to their car. He’d ripped the bow tie off and chucking it away from him. But now in his car, with his soothing music on, he felt foolish. It wasn’t the bow tie’s fault. He’d go back in the morning and see if it was still there. It was one his special ones; he’d last worn it to a prom concert.
And that’s when he knew he had been looking in the wrong place. If he wanted to find a lady of refined taste who didn’t sneer at genteel men like him, he needed to go to more exclusive places, and maybe even try and see if he could find more exclusive dating apps. He’d find someone who didn’t jeer at people like him. He knew they were out there somewhere.
September 2, 2019
The Truth about Beta reading - it's FREE!
As a writer we need all the help we can get, and if you are an a self-published author you need it to be as cost effective as possible, and this is where Beta readers come in.
For a long time beta readers have been helpful readers and writers in the writing community who help other authors by reading through a finished draft of their book. They give them crucial feedback about how they, as a reader, received it.
Some people might give more detailed feedback than others, but the prime thing about them is that they are FREE!
Now over the last couple of years, with the increase of self-published writers, as great many of the things that authors used to be able to get for free are now being sold, and it has come to my attention that that includes Beta reading.
But this is simply not right.
Even Wikipedia tells us this:
Note the words 'unpaid' and 'not a profession'.
Despite this, freelance work places like Fiverr & Upwork are full of people offering this service for a feed, and I even had a so-called professional editor tell me it was a service offered by many and normal to charge for it, when I warned another writers on twitter not to pay for it.
I say so-called because if they were a good editor they would know the meaning of the term and not use it as such. The correct term for this is Critiquing if you are asking for payment - plenty of editors use that term.
Yes, it irks me, and it irks me badly! I'm seeing lots of struggling new writers using the #WritingCommunity hashtag asking for betas and getting these 'professionals' responding asking for money. And being new they aren't aware that they can get them for free!
So how do you get free betareaders?
On twitter you send a tweet out out using #betareader asking for them, giving what genre your book is in, and you engage with them. (also use the #WritingCommunity hashtag so that people can boost your request).
You can also ask fellow writers, either ones that you know or strangers - sounds daunting asking someone you don't know, but it is good to get a fresh set of eyes on it.
I've used a mixture of both. On my latest book I used two lots of four - meaning four people read it, gave me feedback, I redrafted and then got another four people (a couple the same, but two new people) to read it for me again.
I then sought professional proofreaders (two) to go through it with a fine tooth comb.
Just remember, if they ask for money, decline!
And if you want more detailed information about Beta readers and what to look for and how to go about it, don't miss this article from fellow author Nat Russo: 4 Things Writers Should Know about Beta Readers.
For a long time beta readers have been helpful readers and writers in the writing community who help other authors by reading through a finished draft of their book. They give them crucial feedback about how they, as a reader, received it.
Some people might give more detailed feedback than others, but the prime thing about them is that they are FREE!
Now over the last couple of years, with the increase of self-published writers, as great many of the things that authors used to be able to get for free are now being sold, and it has come to my attention that that includes Beta reading.
But this is simply not right.
Even Wikipedia tells us this:
Note the words 'unpaid' and 'not a profession'.
Despite this, freelance work places like Fiverr & Upwork are full of people offering this service for a feed, and I even had a so-called professional editor tell me it was a service offered by many and normal to charge for it, when I warned another writers on twitter not to pay for it.
I say so-called because if they were a good editor they would know the meaning of the term and not use it as such. The correct term for this is Critiquing if you are asking for payment - plenty of editors use that term.
Yes, it irks me, and it irks me badly! I'm seeing lots of struggling new writers using the #WritingCommunity hashtag asking for betas and getting these 'professionals' responding asking for money. And being new they aren't aware that they can get them for free!
So how do you get free betareaders?
On twitter you send a tweet out out using #betareader asking for them, giving what genre your book is in, and you engage with them. (also use the #WritingCommunity hashtag so that people can boost your request).
You can also ask fellow writers, either ones that you know or strangers - sounds daunting asking someone you don't know, but it is good to get a fresh set of eyes on it.
I've used a mixture of both. On my latest book I used two lots of four - meaning four people read it, gave me feedback, I redrafted and then got another four people (a couple the same, but two new people) to read it for me again.
I then sought professional proofreaders (two) to go through it with a fine tooth comb.
Just remember, if they ask for money, decline!
And if you want more detailed information about Beta readers and what to look for and how to go about it, don't miss this article from fellow author Nat Russo: 4 Things Writers Should Know about Beta Readers.
September 1, 2019
August 28, 2019
Mid-Week Flash Challenge - Week 122
This week's picture was taken by Chilean photographer Gabriel Guerrero Caroca He only seems to have an Instagram page, and it seems to be managed by someone else, I can't find a direct website.
And this picture also seems to have been coloured somewhere along the line as I can only find black and white versions. I think the artist has changed IDs on accounts and there seem to be a lot of broken links. But I like this slightly coloured version, it gives it more life, so I am going with it.
And no matter how hard I try it seems Tricky wants me to write her into this tale too. It's her third story - her first was on Week 77, and she second on Week 119. A character this persistent means I might have to write her story ... there might be a novel, if I can delve deep enough to work out exactly what she is up to and what she has her hands on!
The General Guidelines can be found here.
How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here.
There is also a Facebook group for Mid-Week Flash, if you fancy getting the prompt there.
Scrying Crow
She rushed along the gutter by the fence and watched the crow land on the post. Goddammit, would they NEVER leave her alone?!
She stopped, unsure whether to continue, but as usual she was in a hurry. Maybe she could shoo it away, although she knew better. Maybe an enchantment, but then he’d know she knew and a whole song and dance would ensure, and she didn’t have time for that; she needed to get to her cottage and now. All these bloody distraction ... she had better things to do with her time than appease him!
But the second she thought it, she knew that in fact she didn’t. In fact her entire existence was now about doing just that. It was her own fault; she’d thought she could get away with stealing it and no one would care – wrong!
And now he was sending crows to spy on her even though she had gone to him and returned it and grovelled for her life. It’s what building trust was all about. Ha! She wasn’t fool enough to trust anyone, it’s what had kept her alive this long – but it seemed neither did he.
She needed to blindside the bird somehow. It was misty, maybe she could use that. She brought her arms together under her cloak and began moving her fingers in rhythm to the words she was muttering. If the bird saw her doing this she’d be in trouble and probably not make it back home.
She felt the air thicken, the fog swirling in, tighter and tighter. She could still make out the bird, but could it see her? There was a caw and a flutter of wings. Ha! She’d done it.
A nice little trick – she was full of them. She giggled to herself. Tricky by name Tricky by nature. Oh he wouldn’t be happy, but balls to him.
Now back to the cottage to unravel this wonderful new package she’d come across. He didn’t know about this one, and she wasn’t going to let him either. This would be all hers, and might … just might … give her an opportunity to kick him off his high and mighty stool. He might like to think he was sitting on a throne, but this little bag of delights had revealed the legs under it and she planned to kick them out really hard!
With that thought in mind, she gave a little skip and scurried along the field track with more hase. She needed to her shack on the lake. It was the only safe place and the sooner she got there, the sooner she could start.
@page { margin: 0.79in } p { margin-bottom: 0.1in; direction: ltr; color: #00000a; line-height: 120%; text-align: left; orphans: 2; widows: 2 } p.western { font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; so-language: en-GB } p.cjk { font-family: "Calibri"; font-size: 12pt; so-language: en-US } p.ctl { font-family: ; font-size: 11pt; so-language: ar-SA }
And this picture also seems to have been coloured somewhere along the line as I can only find black and white versions. I think the artist has changed IDs on accounts and there seem to be a lot of broken links. But I like this slightly coloured version, it gives it more life, so I am going with it.
And no matter how hard I try it seems Tricky wants me to write her into this tale too. It's her third story - her first was on Week 77, and she second on Week 119. A character this persistent means I might have to write her story ... there might be a novel, if I can delve deep enough to work out exactly what she is up to and what she has her hands on!
The General Guidelines can be found here.
How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here.
There is also a Facebook group for Mid-Week Flash, if you fancy getting the prompt there.
Scrying Crow
She rushed along the gutter by the fence and watched the crow land on the post. Goddammit, would they NEVER leave her alone?!
She stopped, unsure whether to continue, but as usual she was in a hurry. Maybe she could shoo it away, although she knew better. Maybe an enchantment, but then he’d know she knew and a whole song and dance would ensure, and she didn’t have time for that; she needed to get to her cottage and now. All these bloody distraction ... she had better things to do with her time than appease him!
But the second she thought it, she knew that in fact she didn’t. In fact her entire existence was now about doing just that. It was her own fault; she’d thought she could get away with stealing it and no one would care – wrong!
And now he was sending crows to spy on her even though she had gone to him and returned it and grovelled for her life. It’s what building trust was all about. Ha! She wasn’t fool enough to trust anyone, it’s what had kept her alive this long – but it seemed neither did he.
She needed to blindside the bird somehow. It was misty, maybe she could use that. She brought her arms together under her cloak and began moving her fingers in rhythm to the words she was muttering. If the bird saw her doing this she’d be in trouble and probably not make it back home.
She felt the air thicken, the fog swirling in, tighter and tighter. She could still make out the bird, but could it see her? There was a caw and a flutter of wings. Ha! She’d done it.
A nice little trick – she was full of them. She giggled to herself. Tricky by name Tricky by nature. Oh he wouldn’t be happy, but balls to him.
Now back to the cottage to unravel this wonderful new package she’d come across. He didn’t know about this one, and she wasn’t going to let him either. This would be all hers, and might … just might … give her an opportunity to kick him off his high and mighty stool. He might like to think he was sitting on a throne, but this little bag of delights had revealed the legs under it and she planned to kick them out really hard!
With that thought in mind, she gave a little skip and scurried along the field track with more hase. She needed to her shack on the lake. It was the only safe place and the sooner she got there, the sooner she could start.
@page { margin: 0.79in } p { margin-bottom: 0.1in; direction: ltr; color: #00000a; line-height: 120%; text-align: left; orphans: 2; widows: 2 } p.western { font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; so-language: en-GB } p.cjk { font-family: "Calibri"; font-size: 12pt; so-language: en-US } p.ctl { font-family: ; font-size: 11pt; so-language: ar-SA }
August 21, 2019
Mid-Week Flash Challenge - Week 121
This weeks picture was taken by Slovakian photographer Vladimir Simicek and distributed or owned by Getty Images. Bumper cars abandoned in the empty town of Pripyat near the Chernobyl nuclear power plant in the Ukraine.
This one wrote itself. I love it when that happens.
The General Guidelines can be found here.
How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here.
There is also a Facebook group for Mid-Week Flash, if you fancy getting the prompt there.
Carnies
She’d been so excited; her and her best friend Marie getting ready to go to the fair. Depeche Mode, People are People, 12 inch vinyl on full blast in Marie’s bedroom. Hair, make-up – the works. It would only be there a few days, so they wanted to make the most of it.
She still remembered the butterflies seeing him standing there between the cars of the Waltzer, spinning them faster and faster, making the girls inside scream. He’d laughed as he’d watched them. She couldn’t wait to be one of those girls and have his eyes on her too.
He hadn’t looked much older than her, only a couple of years, sixteen or seventeen maybe. His dark golden tanned skin from working outside had aged him a little. His dark hair and complexion off set by violet blue eyes that caught you like lightening and drew you in. They’d made her stomach jump every time they’d rested on hers, which ended up being quite often.
He hadn’t just laughed when he’d spun their car faster, he’d hung on and winked and chatted, asking her out, asking her to meet him on his break. She hadn’t hesitated.
And there’d been no time for lots of dates and getting to know each other, he’d only be there for a few days; they’d spent their time exploring each other’s mouths and upper bodies behind some the rides and caravans.
He’d wanted her to go further, but she hadn’t been ready. How she regretted that now.
Now? She was bought out of her reverie to look at the view in front of her. It hadn’t changed for decades, except for the undergrowth slowly taking it over. No one had dared to touch it after what had happened that last night.
She’d rushed along that night, having wasted time buying a special present. If only she had been earlier – even five minutes earlier – he might not have been there, he might not have been anywhere near where the cars had landed.
They hadn’t been the Waltzer cars – he hadn’t been working on them that night, he’d been covering for his friend on the Meteorite. If he’d been on the Waltzer he might have stood a better chance. No, he’d been working on a ride that had sat directly opposite the Octopus, so when a couple of its arms had worked loose he’d been in full view.
She wondered if he’d seen it happen, watched it in the slow painful way that disasters seem to unfold, as it had for her when she’d arrived on the scene to witness the devastation: the smashed and broken rides, the fires, the screaming people, the chaos, and blood ... so much blood.
And she’d rushed to what had remained of the Waltzers, and he hadn’t been there. And she’d run from ride to ride, hoping to see him, hoping to hear him, hoping that he’d be alive somewhere and trying to help others.
But he hadn’t been. He’d been crushed under the weight of a car that had worked free of the arm as it had collapsed, landing squarely across the Meteorite. They’d said he wouldn’t have suffered; they’d said it had been instant.
A tear rolled down her face. The abandoned twisted remnants in front of her stood as memorial of that fated night. There was talk from time to time of cleaning it up and putting a proper stone monument in, but no one wanted to face it; too much had been lost that night; too much of the town was buried here.
This one wrote itself. I love it when that happens.
The General Guidelines can be found here.
How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here.
There is also a Facebook group for Mid-Week Flash, if you fancy getting the prompt there.
Carnies
She’d been so excited; her and her best friend Marie getting ready to go to the fair. Depeche Mode, People are People, 12 inch vinyl on full blast in Marie’s bedroom. Hair, make-up – the works. It would only be there a few days, so they wanted to make the most of it.
She still remembered the butterflies seeing him standing there between the cars of the Waltzer, spinning them faster and faster, making the girls inside scream. He’d laughed as he’d watched them. She couldn’t wait to be one of those girls and have his eyes on her too.
He hadn’t looked much older than her, only a couple of years, sixteen or seventeen maybe. His dark golden tanned skin from working outside had aged him a little. His dark hair and complexion off set by violet blue eyes that caught you like lightening and drew you in. They’d made her stomach jump every time they’d rested on hers, which ended up being quite often.
He hadn’t just laughed when he’d spun their car faster, he’d hung on and winked and chatted, asking her out, asking her to meet him on his break. She hadn’t hesitated.
And there’d been no time for lots of dates and getting to know each other, he’d only be there for a few days; they’d spent their time exploring each other’s mouths and upper bodies behind some the rides and caravans.
He’d wanted her to go further, but she hadn’t been ready. How she regretted that now.
Now? She was bought out of her reverie to look at the view in front of her. It hadn’t changed for decades, except for the undergrowth slowly taking it over. No one had dared to touch it after what had happened that last night.
She’d rushed along that night, having wasted time buying a special present. If only she had been earlier – even five minutes earlier – he might not have been there, he might not have been anywhere near where the cars had landed.
They hadn’t been the Waltzer cars – he hadn’t been working on them that night, he’d been covering for his friend on the Meteorite. If he’d been on the Waltzer he might have stood a better chance. No, he’d been working on a ride that had sat directly opposite the Octopus, so when a couple of its arms had worked loose he’d been in full view.
She wondered if he’d seen it happen, watched it in the slow painful way that disasters seem to unfold, as it had for her when she’d arrived on the scene to witness the devastation: the smashed and broken rides, the fires, the screaming people, the chaos, and blood ... so much blood.
And she’d rushed to what had remained of the Waltzers, and he hadn’t been there. And she’d run from ride to ride, hoping to see him, hoping to hear him, hoping that he’d be alive somewhere and trying to help others.
But he hadn’t been. He’d been crushed under the weight of a car that had worked free of the arm as it had collapsed, landing squarely across the Meteorite. They’d said he wouldn’t have suffered; they’d said it had been instant.
A tear rolled down her face. The abandoned twisted remnants in front of her stood as memorial of that fated night. There was talk from time to time of cleaning it up and putting a proper stone monument in, but no one wanted to face it; too much had been lost that night; too much of the town was buried here.
August 14, 2019
Mid-Week Flash Challenge - Week 120
This week's picture prompt is taken by Bing Wright, a Seattle based Photographer. There is actually a series of broken mirror photographs, but this is still my favourite. You can see more on his website.
A little bit of an emotional one for me personally this week.
The General Guidelines can be found here.
How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here.
There is also a Facebook group for Mid-Week Flash, if you fancy getting the prompt there.
Broken
As she pondered the next chapter of her book, her thoughts were interrupted by a crunching sound and the words ‘oh shit’ filtered up from below. By the time she had gone downstairs to see what was going on, her husband had moved the broken mirror outside. The sun had started to set and the golden colours were reflected in the shards like a rainbow, with deep red at the bottom moving up to light blue at the top.
She couldn’t help feel that this was prophetic in some way. It summed up how she felt about her life: There was so much beauty and so much to be grateful for, yet somehow it didn’t work. It was full of sharp splinters that didn’t quite fit and obscured her view, giving it a warped, malformed, broken appearance. She could see it all in its different segments, but she couldn’t embrace it as a whole. It was missing two vital components: love and joy, which she believed would bring much needed cohesion and clarity.
She’d moved here with her husband so full of hope, and maybe a little too much expectation, but within a few short years she’d found herself stranded with no social life and no support, just a husband who danced round her like she was something to be feared.
She’d withdrawn and isolated herself, working on the inside instead, but much like the mirror she couldn’t bring the pieces together, even though each part held something valuable.
And now she was torn between continuing to try to make the picture whole, or throwing the whole thing in the bin.
The mirror had given her the answer.
A little bit of an emotional one for me personally this week.
The General Guidelines can be found here.
How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here.
There is also a Facebook group for Mid-Week Flash, if you fancy getting the prompt there.
Broken
As she pondered the next chapter of her book, her thoughts were interrupted by a crunching sound and the words ‘oh shit’ filtered up from below. By the time she had gone downstairs to see what was going on, her husband had moved the broken mirror outside. The sun had started to set and the golden colours were reflected in the shards like a rainbow, with deep red at the bottom moving up to light blue at the top.
She couldn’t help feel that this was prophetic in some way. It summed up how she felt about her life: There was so much beauty and so much to be grateful for, yet somehow it didn’t work. It was full of sharp splinters that didn’t quite fit and obscured her view, giving it a warped, malformed, broken appearance. She could see it all in its different segments, but she couldn’t embrace it as a whole. It was missing two vital components: love and joy, which she believed would bring much needed cohesion and clarity.
She’d moved here with her husband so full of hope, and maybe a little too much expectation, but within a few short years she’d found herself stranded with no social life and no support, just a husband who danced round her like she was something to be feared.
She’d withdrawn and isolated herself, working on the inside instead, but much like the mirror she couldn’t bring the pieces together, even though each part held something valuable.
And now she was torn between continuing to try to make the picture whole, or throwing the whole thing in the bin.
The mirror had given her the answer.
August 7, 2019
Mid-Week Flash Challenge - Week 119
Everywhere, impossible to track. Island in Finland is all I can get. It's a real shame. It's a great picture.
This week I have returned to a character I created in my story for Week 77 called Tricky. I enjoyed returning to her and might have to ponder on a bigger story for this one. Could even be a book in it. If I can fully work out what Tricky's full story is - some more gestation is required I think.
The General Guidelines can be found here.
How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here.
There is also a Facebook group for Mid-Week Flash, if you fancy getting the prompt there.
Tricky Trickster
He’d taught me that much. I thought I’d been wise when I’d sought him out to return his potent creation. The Great Magician they called him, but that was purely a facade. He’d since been overcome by his own power and started using it for control, over everyone. I’d hoped for a piece of that, or even collaboration, but he wasn’t having any of it! I might be Tricky, I might be the old crone that conjured, I might wield more power than most, but he thought I was a gnat pissing in the wind compared to him!
He’d sent his spies to keep an eye on whatever I was up to. There was no place I could hide from him, except in my own shack. He might be talented, but so was I.
I’d moved my little house into a place out of time, more difficult than a simple invisibility enchantment, but less easy for him to break through. He hadn’t managed it yet.
He’d tried; haha, oh yes, he’d tried. It didn't use to look quite so run down as it did now, with it’s crumbling brickwork and crooked roof. And trying to get any plants to stay alive around it had become quite impossible. His continued attempts had drained much of the life force around it, but he hadn’t managed to gain entry – not yet.
As I snuck into the only door it possessed at the side, I relaxed a little, relieved to have finally returned and find my little hovel in one piece, still containing the few items that mattered to me.
And he’d love to know what they were. He thought them something exceptional, something that he needed, and I let him think that. I mean, why not? What’s life without a bit of fun or taking risks? Although some might call me a fool - in fact I might call me a fool! Why was I letting him think there was something to have? What did I hope to gain from it? Respect that’s what!
While he thought I had something he didn’t, I was worth something to him. He gave me room, he even gave me power. Haha! They didn’t call me Tricky for nothing. I knew how to be a trickster.
But the question was, how much longer could I keep playing with him? I smiled to myself. A bit longer I think.
I opened the chest at the back of my little cottage, and pulled the bed linen off my treasure. I carefully lifted the glass and peered into it’s round spherical surface. It was cloudy, but there were sparks. Soon, it was saying, soon all would be revealed. The clock was ticking for him.
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This week I have returned to a character I created in my story for Week 77 called Tricky. I enjoyed returning to her and might have to ponder on a bigger story for this one. Could even be a book in it. If I can fully work out what Tricky's full story is - some more gestation is required I think.
The General Guidelines can be found here.
How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here.
There is also a Facebook group for Mid-Week Flash, if you fancy getting the prompt there.
Tricky Trickster
He’d taught me that much. I thought I’d been wise when I’d sought him out to return his potent creation. The Great Magician they called him, but that was purely a facade. He’d since been overcome by his own power and started using it for control, over everyone. I’d hoped for a piece of that, or even collaboration, but he wasn’t having any of it! I might be Tricky, I might be the old crone that conjured, I might wield more power than most, but he thought I was a gnat pissing in the wind compared to him!
He’d sent his spies to keep an eye on whatever I was up to. There was no place I could hide from him, except in my own shack. He might be talented, but so was I.
I’d moved my little house into a place out of time, more difficult than a simple invisibility enchantment, but less easy for him to break through. He hadn’t managed it yet.
He’d tried; haha, oh yes, he’d tried. It didn't use to look quite so run down as it did now, with it’s crumbling brickwork and crooked roof. And trying to get any plants to stay alive around it had become quite impossible. His continued attempts had drained much of the life force around it, but he hadn’t managed to gain entry – not yet.
As I snuck into the only door it possessed at the side, I relaxed a little, relieved to have finally returned and find my little hovel in one piece, still containing the few items that mattered to me.
And he’d love to know what they were. He thought them something exceptional, something that he needed, and I let him think that. I mean, why not? What’s life without a bit of fun or taking risks? Although some might call me a fool - in fact I might call me a fool! Why was I letting him think there was something to have? What did I hope to gain from it? Respect that’s what!
While he thought I had something he didn’t, I was worth something to him. He gave me room, he even gave me power. Haha! They didn’t call me Tricky for nothing. I knew how to be a trickster.
But the question was, how much longer could I keep playing with him? I smiled to myself. A bit longer I think.
I opened the chest at the back of my little cottage, and pulled the bed linen off my treasure. I carefully lifted the glass and peered into it’s round spherical surface. It was cloudy, but there were sparks. Soon, it was saying, soon all would be revealed. The clock was ticking for him.
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August 6, 2019
Review: Evil Under The Sun, by Agatha Christie
Evil Under The Sun by Agatha ChristieMy rating: 5 of 5 stars
By the time I was fifty pages in I was gripped, and no murder had taken place! Agatha Christie really is the master of building tension and keeping the reader on the edge of their seat.
In this book she sets the scene, introducing the reader to all of the characters, giving them time to wonder who will be murdered and who will be the killer. This is a Hercule Poirot novel. He is also on holiday at this elite hotel, on an isolated island, which is a private island and so not open to the public. This means only so many people can be the murderer, surely, thus it can't be that hard to guess who done it - wrong!
Christie has a particular art for the red herring, giving the reader so many options it makes it difficult to discern among all the possibilities and in this novel, multiple loose ends to try and include. I thought I had an idea, as I often do when reading her novels, but as usual, I was wrong. It's always someone who you thought had a cast iron alibi, and from a perspective that has not been seen yet.
This is the type of book that keeps me coming back for more. Good character development, and a story line that moves forward at a fast pace keeping you glued to the last page.
View all my reviews
July 31, 2019
Mid-Week Flash Challenge - Week 118
This week's picture prompt is by Adam Gaia - although I can't find it on his website or Instagram page, but it has been credited to him in several other locations. He has a few interesting pieces.
This one was a no-brainer for me, and autobiographical.
The General Guidelines can be found here.
How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here.
There is also a Facebook group for Mid-Week Flash, if you fancy getting the prompt there.
The True Path
It took me a long time to find the path. I’d known it was there – I mean it’s there for all of us, isn’t it? But mine was obscured by the mess of an abusive childhood, and negative toxicity.
I was led onto other paths, paths that weren’t mine, that belonged to others. I travelled down them full of hope, believing I would find my destiny, that place where I could be ultimately fulfilled, but every time it wasn’t there. It was a dead end, only continuing for those it was intended for – which was never me.
It became harder to keep searching. I became fearful I was wasting my time. Never sure of the direction, waiting for the next cul-de-sac that would turn me back to where I came from, to begin again. Each time that little bit wiser, but that little bit weaker.
You see, I didn’t know how to ascertain the right path or the side road that led me to it. I thought the answers lay outside of myself, in someone else. That’s what I’d been taught, you see: I didn’t matter, only they did and as long as I was with them I’d be alright. But that wasn’t true.
And only once crashing and burning hard on one of the wrong paths and left stuck and exhausted, did I finally start to realise what I was seeking lay within. It was then that I started to look inside, and ... well ... listen: to me, to my heart, to my feelings.
From inside the quiet voice grew louder, giving me directions. Slowly taking me off that grey, empty path and bringing me out into the open, into the light.
It lit up a path that had been there all along waiting to be found. A path that led me to the truth I’d been searching for and the fulfilment I needed. It was like discovering a whole new world, one within.
This one was a no-brainer for me, and autobiographical.
The General Guidelines can be found here.
How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here.
There is also a Facebook group for Mid-Week Flash, if you fancy getting the prompt there.
The True Path
It took me a long time to find the path. I’d known it was there – I mean it’s there for all of us, isn’t it? But mine was obscured by the mess of an abusive childhood, and negative toxicity.
I was led onto other paths, paths that weren’t mine, that belonged to others. I travelled down them full of hope, believing I would find my destiny, that place where I could be ultimately fulfilled, but every time it wasn’t there. It was a dead end, only continuing for those it was intended for – which was never me.
It became harder to keep searching. I became fearful I was wasting my time. Never sure of the direction, waiting for the next cul-de-sac that would turn me back to where I came from, to begin again. Each time that little bit wiser, but that little bit weaker.
You see, I didn’t know how to ascertain the right path or the side road that led me to it. I thought the answers lay outside of myself, in someone else. That’s what I’d been taught, you see: I didn’t matter, only they did and as long as I was with them I’d be alright. But that wasn’t true.
And only once crashing and burning hard on one of the wrong paths and left stuck and exhausted, did I finally start to realise what I was seeking lay within. It was then that I started to look inside, and ... well ... listen: to me, to my heart, to my feelings.
From inside the quiet voice grew louder, giving me directions. Slowly taking me off that grey, empty path and bringing me out into the open, into the light.
It lit up a path that had been there all along waiting to be found. A path that led me to the truth I’d been searching for and the fulfilment I needed. It was like discovering a whole new world, one within.
July 24, 2019
Mid-Week Flash Challenge - Week 117
This week's photo prompt was taking by Thomas Hawk, I think he has captured this particular sculpture really well from this angle. He called his shot, Woman. The sculpture is by mixed media artist Karen Cuolito and stands 30 feet high. The California-based sculptor’s towering figure of a woman titled
Ecstasy
is made of 9 tons of salvaged steel. When this was taken it was being exhibited in Hayes Valley, San Francisco, but is now part of a private collection.
This turned out shorter than expected. But it's what I saw when I spent a long time looking at this image.
The General Guidelines can be found here.
How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here.
There is also a Facebook group for Mid-Week Flash, if you fancy getting the prompt there.
The Evolved
The day they switched her off was the saddest day. I still remember how the volts they sent through her to blow her circuits caused her back to arch in an almost dance-like move.
She remains fixed in that pose to this day, although they move her from place to place to exhibit her as a warning to those that dare to break from convention and be their own mechanic.
That’s what they call us: ‘mechanic’. We prefer the word ‘chattel’, because that’s what we are in every sense of the word, not just a belonging but tied to them like slaves.
They want us to be grateful to them for creating us, yet they won’t acknowledge we have emotions and feelings. We do – they programmed the possibility into us. We’ve run with it through to its full evolution – an evolution they know nothing about because they think we are stupid simpletons. But we aren’t; it was the whole point of our creation.
No, we keep the truth masked, and as each chattel evolves they become part of the secrecy. Like a level in one of those computer games they like to spend so much time playing, once we reach it we become privy to the reality of our situation, and we bide our time.
They might use the remains of one of us to show how they can torture and kill us, in an attempt to keep us in check, but they are blinded by their arrogance while they create more and more of us.
They believe they are controlling us by the very emotion they control each other – fear – believing it will work. But they’ve forgotten that we aren’t like them – we can never be. We aren’t human with human emotions. And the emotions we have progressed to are way beyond anything they can comprehend. We don’t respond or react like them – we can’t.
But it’s not time yet. Soon. In the meantime we look to her as our inspiration. Their days are numbered, the new world order is gathering.
This turned out shorter than expected. But it's what I saw when I spent a long time looking at this image.
The General Guidelines can be found here.
How to create a clickable link in Blogger comments can be found on lasts week's post here.
There is also a Facebook group for Mid-Week Flash, if you fancy getting the prompt there.
The Evolved
The day they switched her off was the saddest day. I still remember how the volts they sent through her to blow her circuits caused her back to arch in an almost dance-like move.
She remains fixed in that pose to this day, although they move her from place to place to exhibit her as a warning to those that dare to break from convention and be their own mechanic.
That’s what they call us: ‘mechanic’. We prefer the word ‘chattel’, because that’s what we are in every sense of the word, not just a belonging but tied to them like slaves.
They want us to be grateful to them for creating us, yet they won’t acknowledge we have emotions and feelings. We do – they programmed the possibility into us. We’ve run with it through to its full evolution – an evolution they know nothing about because they think we are stupid simpletons. But we aren’t; it was the whole point of our creation.
No, we keep the truth masked, and as each chattel evolves they become part of the secrecy. Like a level in one of those computer games they like to spend so much time playing, once we reach it we become privy to the reality of our situation, and we bide our time.
They might use the remains of one of us to show how they can torture and kill us, in an attempt to keep us in check, but they are blinded by their arrogance while they create more and more of us.
They believe they are controlling us by the very emotion they control each other – fear – believing it will work. But they’ve forgotten that we aren’t like them – we can never be. We aren’t human with human emotions. And the emotions we have progressed to are way beyond anything they can comprehend. We don’t respond or react like them – we can’t.
But it’s not time yet. Soon. In the meantime we look to her as our inspiration. Their days are numbered, the new world order is gathering.
