Miranda Kate's Blog, page 57
February 28, 2018
Mid-Week Flash Challenge - Week 44
This weeks photo was taken by Mark Pillsbury, of the famous Serendipity Inn in Rodanthe, North Carolina. It was used in the film Nights at Rodanthe, with Richard Gere & Diane Lane. And you can learn more about how it ended up abandoned here. This photo was taken back in 2008 but in 2009/2010 it was rescued and moved and can now be rented out!
I ummed and arhhed over an original idea for this story, and then a voice arrived and a point of view, and I let him tell his tale.
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.
Fake News
I was having none of it. They were talking rubbish. The sea wasn’t about to rise and take over the land, what nonsense! It was a ploy to get my house. They all wanted it; it was in a fabulous location, right along the sea front, fantastic views. And land round here was at a premium.
I wasn’t stupid; I’d snatched this up the second it came on the market. I’d had the money back then, made it big in some start up companies that had rocked the world. They’ve fallen since, as many have in that industry, but I managed to sell up and get out while the going was good. But this place has always been desirable, even been used in a movie. It has a real charm about it: traditional wooden beach house, several floors. They don’t make them like this anymore.
Anyway, people started saying that being by the sea wasn’t a good thing. Claimed something called climate change, that it was all going to get cold soon or something. I mean, people really believed it too: houses along the strip started going up for sale. Me? I wasn’t that foolish. Colder my arse, it was getting hotter, summers better than we’d ever known them. Sweltering. Even more reason to have a beach house. You always have a breeze, no matter what. And the balcony was perfect, shade all afternoon. I’d sit out there for hours.
I listened to the radio, heard the debate. Couldn’t decide whose opinion was real and whose wasn’t. People always want to go round saying the sky is falling in, that knee jerk fear reaction, I’ve seen it all over. Mostly it was to back a profit – keep the people in fear, keeps them buying, but with climate change I wasn’t sure of the motive, the whole thing sounded hokey. No one seemed to be able to prove diddly squat either side, seemed like a lot of speculation on both sides. I’m not one to back a pessimist – oh no. I’ll believe it when I see it. That’s what I said. And that’s what I did – I saw it.
It was subtle, tide lines got higher. Then there was talk of it being caused by a change at a beach further along, where they’d built some breakers. I was confident it would settle. It was only a couple of feet. But then the hurricane hit. It was a mother of a storm. I really did wonder if the house might get washed away that night, but she didn’t; she remained solid as ever.
But then another came, and another, and I began to read about how many of them politicians saying there was no such thing as climate change were backed by those profiting from it – Big Oil in particular. It was getting hard to tell which way was up, unless you looked out at the water, and I could see it with my own eyes.
And by that time I knew I wouldn’t find a buyer. I thought I was done for. And then Burton, my old friend from the billiard club, came up with an idea: “You got to winch her up, Jared, you’ve got to tie her up tight so that if she does work loose, she can’t slip out to sea.”
I thought he was crazy. What the hell would I winch it to? But he had a plan in mind, a stone building owned by a mutual friend across the highway, and it worked out pretty good. It felt safer at least, until the night her moorings came away.
It was a doozey of a squall, whipped up all of a sudden as they sometimes do, and I heard them break, lying in my bed, felt like the house was going to start flapping in the wind like a loose board, flick-flack back and forth. Thank heavens for Burton’s winch.
The next day we wasted no time in reeling her in. It took most of the day, but we pulled her right up, almost to the highway. But she couldn’t stay there. No planning permission. So then I had to find somewhere to resettle her. Never seen anything funnier than a house being transported on a flatbed; we had to close a few roads to get her through, but now she is safe and dry up on the hill, sporting seaviews. The only way you’re getting me out of here now is in a coffin.
I ummed and arhhed over an original idea for this story, and then a voice arrived and a point of view, and I let him tell his tale.
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.
Fake News
I was having none of it. They were talking rubbish. The sea wasn’t about to rise and take over the land, what nonsense! It was a ploy to get my house. They all wanted it; it was in a fabulous location, right along the sea front, fantastic views. And land round here was at a premium.
I wasn’t stupid; I’d snatched this up the second it came on the market. I’d had the money back then, made it big in some start up companies that had rocked the world. They’ve fallen since, as many have in that industry, but I managed to sell up and get out while the going was good. But this place has always been desirable, even been used in a movie. It has a real charm about it: traditional wooden beach house, several floors. They don’t make them like this anymore.
Anyway, people started saying that being by the sea wasn’t a good thing. Claimed something called climate change, that it was all going to get cold soon or something. I mean, people really believed it too: houses along the strip started going up for sale. Me? I wasn’t that foolish. Colder my arse, it was getting hotter, summers better than we’d ever known them. Sweltering. Even more reason to have a beach house. You always have a breeze, no matter what. And the balcony was perfect, shade all afternoon. I’d sit out there for hours.
I listened to the radio, heard the debate. Couldn’t decide whose opinion was real and whose wasn’t. People always want to go round saying the sky is falling in, that knee jerk fear reaction, I’ve seen it all over. Mostly it was to back a profit – keep the people in fear, keeps them buying, but with climate change I wasn’t sure of the motive, the whole thing sounded hokey. No one seemed to be able to prove diddly squat either side, seemed like a lot of speculation on both sides. I’m not one to back a pessimist – oh no. I’ll believe it when I see it. That’s what I said. And that’s what I did – I saw it.
It was subtle, tide lines got higher. Then there was talk of it being caused by a change at a beach further along, where they’d built some breakers. I was confident it would settle. It was only a couple of feet. But then the hurricane hit. It was a mother of a storm. I really did wonder if the house might get washed away that night, but she didn’t; she remained solid as ever.
But then another came, and another, and I began to read about how many of them politicians saying there was no such thing as climate change were backed by those profiting from it – Big Oil in particular. It was getting hard to tell which way was up, unless you looked out at the water, and I could see it with my own eyes.
And by that time I knew I wouldn’t find a buyer. I thought I was done for. And then Burton, my old friend from the billiard club, came up with an idea: “You got to winch her up, Jared, you’ve got to tie her up tight so that if she does work loose, she can’t slip out to sea.”
I thought he was crazy. What the hell would I winch it to? But he had a plan in mind, a stone building owned by a mutual friend across the highway, and it worked out pretty good. It felt safer at least, until the night her moorings came away.
It was a doozey of a squall, whipped up all of a sudden as they sometimes do, and I heard them break, lying in my bed, felt like the house was going to start flapping in the wind like a loose board, flick-flack back and forth. Thank heavens for Burton’s winch.
The next day we wasted no time in reeling her in. It took most of the day, but we pulled her right up, almost to the highway. But she couldn’t stay there. No planning permission. So then I had to find somewhere to resettle her. Never seen anything funnier than a house being transported on a flatbed; we had to close a few roads to get her through, but now she is safe and dry up on the hill, sporting seaviews. The only way you’re getting me out of here now is in a coffin.
February 21, 2018
Mid-Week Flash Challenge - Week 43
This weeks photo prompt is of the Kosmaj Monument in Serbia, photo taken by John DePalatis.
John says on his blog: "The monument itself, designed by Vojin Stojić and unveiled in 1971, consists of five free-standing concrete wings surrounding a central dias. When lit, the monument can be seen from Belgrade on a clear night."
I tried to veer away from conventional sci-fi, and hadn't been sure of the ending until it arrived. No happy ending here.
The monument celebrates a group of partisan fighters in World War II who battled against the German occupation in the south of Belgrade. During the fighting the battalions lost over 5,000 soldiers but their “guns of freedom kept shooting. The misty day in which he took it certainly makes it look interesting.
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.
Annihilation
When they arrived everybody had panicked; it was like the movie Independence Day – well the first part, because there was no matching spacecraft found in the 50s that would overthrow them, there was only annihilation or assimilation. Riley had been one of the few to escape the first wave. She’d been prepared, although for a completely different apocalypse: climate change, not alien invasion.
She’d bought some land and built a sustainable, self-sufficient home out in the middle of a remote forest. It had all come at a bargain price too, because no one had been interested in living off grid in the middle of Europe. Everyone had wanted to stay connected and online, and be where the money was. But that connectivity had come at a high price, especially as it was disputed that it had been the internet that had been attracted the aliens to Earth in the first place – that and the car.
Some guy had thought it would be cool to send a car into outer space, apparently to prove they could send up such a weight, although there was conjecture it had been a marketing stunt. The aliens had liked the car, especially the dummy sitting in it, which represented the life form on our planet. Humans had the right shape and dexterity the aliens needed for cleaning out some kind of cells inside their purpose built planets. At least that’s what Riley understood on the cloaked radio transmissions she listened to in her little cabin. Thank goodness she’d installed a satellite dish. She could also listen in on alien transmissions, but they made no sense to her; their strange, garbled language was hard to listen to, sounding like someone eating with their mouth open.
Riley had hoped to remain hidden and ride out the invasion – that was until one of their craft arrived in the forest. Up until that point they hadn’t come near the forest. There was some kind of energy here that stopped them. They weren’t biologically set up like humans: they were tall, cumbersome giants with metal based skin. They were affected by magnetic forces, which Earth’s government tried to exploit, but the scientists hadn’t been fast enough in understanding or developing anything before the bulk of the population had been defeated. Riley knew they were on the brink of extermination, but had hoped she might be a last bastion – until she had stumbled upon the craft.
She was familiar with their strange spiky appearance, having seen the images on TV before all transmissions had been taken over. They looked like some kind of spiny sea urchin. The evening mist cloaked it, giving it an eerie edge as she skirted the trees around it. The forest had gone silent at its arrival which explained why the animal she had been tracking had gone to ground. She hid behind a tall spruce watching keenly, wondering what they had come for.
She heard a metal on concrete sound and saw a gap open in one of the legs. She waited for the giants to appear but instead there was a rustling and a dog-like creature came out. It made a strange rasping sound, which was hard on the ears. Its head turned in her direction and she froze. Was this a new tracking device? Was she about to be hunted?
Riley didn’t wait to find out. She moved swiftly backwards from the tree, crouching into the underbrush, keeping her eyes fixed on it. It didn’t move. The further back she went the less sure she was that it was looking at her, but as she turned to run it let out that rasping noise again followed by the sound of it running down the spike to the ground.
Riley fled, plunging herself full speed into forest, weaving a zigzag back and forth, her mind flying through the possibilities of escape, climbing might help, but would she reach the only climbable tree she could think of, before she was caught? It was gaining on her; she could hear its paws hitting the ground, just above her gasping breaths.
The sensation of panic was the last thing she felt as it grabbed her ankle and tossed her high overhead, slamming her into a tree. And the last thing she heard was the garble of alien voices as they came to collect their prize, dragging her numb body onto their craft. Her last thought was that the annihilation of the human race would soon be complete.
John says on his blog: "The monument itself, designed by Vojin Stojić and unveiled in 1971, consists of five free-standing concrete wings surrounding a central dias. When lit, the monument can be seen from Belgrade on a clear night."
I tried to veer away from conventional sci-fi, and hadn't been sure of the ending until it arrived. No happy ending here.
The monument celebrates a group of partisan fighters in World War II who battled against the German occupation in the south of Belgrade. During the fighting the battalions lost over 5,000 soldiers but their “guns of freedom kept shooting. The misty day in which he took it certainly makes it look interesting.
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.
Annihilation
When they arrived everybody had panicked; it was like the movie Independence Day – well the first part, because there was no matching spacecraft found in the 50s that would overthrow them, there was only annihilation or assimilation. Riley had been one of the few to escape the first wave. She’d been prepared, although for a completely different apocalypse: climate change, not alien invasion.
She’d bought some land and built a sustainable, self-sufficient home out in the middle of a remote forest. It had all come at a bargain price too, because no one had been interested in living off grid in the middle of Europe. Everyone had wanted to stay connected and online, and be where the money was. But that connectivity had come at a high price, especially as it was disputed that it had been the internet that had been attracted the aliens to Earth in the first place – that and the car.
Some guy had thought it would be cool to send a car into outer space, apparently to prove they could send up such a weight, although there was conjecture it had been a marketing stunt. The aliens had liked the car, especially the dummy sitting in it, which represented the life form on our planet. Humans had the right shape and dexterity the aliens needed for cleaning out some kind of cells inside their purpose built planets. At least that’s what Riley understood on the cloaked radio transmissions she listened to in her little cabin. Thank goodness she’d installed a satellite dish. She could also listen in on alien transmissions, but they made no sense to her; their strange, garbled language was hard to listen to, sounding like someone eating with their mouth open.
Riley had hoped to remain hidden and ride out the invasion – that was until one of their craft arrived in the forest. Up until that point they hadn’t come near the forest. There was some kind of energy here that stopped them. They weren’t biologically set up like humans: they were tall, cumbersome giants with metal based skin. They were affected by magnetic forces, which Earth’s government tried to exploit, but the scientists hadn’t been fast enough in understanding or developing anything before the bulk of the population had been defeated. Riley knew they were on the brink of extermination, but had hoped she might be a last bastion – until she had stumbled upon the craft.
She was familiar with their strange spiky appearance, having seen the images on TV before all transmissions had been taken over. They looked like some kind of spiny sea urchin. The evening mist cloaked it, giving it an eerie edge as she skirted the trees around it. The forest had gone silent at its arrival which explained why the animal she had been tracking had gone to ground. She hid behind a tall spruce watching keenly, wondering what they had come for.
She heard a metal on concrete sound and saw a gap open in one of the legs. She waited for the giants to appear but instead there was a rustling and a dog-like creature came out. It made a strange rasping sound, which was hard on the ears. Its head turned in her direction and she froze. Was this a new tracking device? Was she about to be hunted?
Riley didn’t wait to find out. She moved swiftly backwards from the tree, crouching into the underbrush, keeping her eyes fixed on it. It didn’t move. The further back she went the less sure she was that it was looking at her, but as she turned to run it let out that rasping noise again followed by the sound of it running down the spike to the ground.
Riley fled, plunging herself full speed into forest, weaving a zigzag back and forth, her mind flying through the possibilities of escape, climbing might help, but would she reach the only climbable tree she could think of, before she was caught? It was gaining on her; she could hear its paws hitting the ground, just above her gasping breaths.
The sensation of panic was the last thing she felt as it grabbed her ankle and tossed her high overhead, slamming her into a tree. And the last thing she heard was the garble of alien voices as they came to collect their prize, dragging her numb body onto their craft. Her last thought was that the annihilation of the human race would soon be complete.
February 14, 2018
Mid-Week Flash Challenge - Week 42
This weeks photo has proved untraceable: It is all over the internet, and trying to source the creator is impossible, which is such a shame as it's a great image - and a perfect image for Valentine's Day/Week!
I wanted to steer away from the standard Valentine story, which is what happened, but it turned out shorter and briefer than I expected, but I do like it. What does this picture show you?
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.
Take Heart
No one wants me. I am here to give everything, open and waiting, but nothing.
I’ve been broken and discarded time after time; I’ve been ignored and dismissed as not being of any value, of having nothing valuable to offer. But yet I am the one that keeps it all together, even though I’m told I can’t be trusted.
So I have built a wall around me to protect me, but although it keeps out the pain, it has stopped the light from getting in. Now I am growing heavier and heavier, and sadder and sadder, there will be a point soon where I can no longer move.
But when I reached that point a realisation born is, and it is as though I have been plucked out of a wayward river that was washing me away. I am being held again and cherished. Bit by bit my wall is being chipped away and the light is returning, bringing with it such warmth as I have never felt before. And when there were doubts I am now consulted and my feelings valued. I have become happier than I could have ever imagine and able to express and revel in it.
I wanted to steer away from the standard Valentine story, which is what happened, but it turned out shorter and briefer than I expected, but I do like it. What does this picture show you?
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.
Take Heart
No one wants me. I am here to give everything, open and waiting, but nothing.
I’ve been broken and discarded time after time; I’ve been ignored and dismissed as not being of any value, of having nothing valuable to offer. But yet I am the one that keeps it all together, even though I’m told I can’t be trusted.
So I have built a wall around me to protect me, but although it keeps out the pain, it has stopped the light from getting in. Now I am growing heavier and heavier, and sadder and sadder, there will be a point soon where I can no longer move.
But when I reached that point a realisation born is, and it is as though I have been plucked out of a wayward river that was washing me away. I am being held again and cherished. Bit by bit my wall is being chipped away and the light is returning, bringing with it such warmth as I have never felt before. And when there were doubts I am now consulted and my feelings valued. I have become happier than I could have ever imagine and able to express and revel in it.
February 7, 2018
Mid-Week Flash Challenge - Week 41
This picture was created by Ana Prazeres or Aegils, a Portugese artist. You can find her work on Deviant Art and also on 500px. She has some incredible creations. She calls this one 'The Craft' - which offers a story in itself.
I looked at this picture and saw chaos. And for me the biggest type of chaos is that of the mind. So that is what I focused on. This one poured out easily, but I need to provide a TRIGGER WARNING for suicide/suicidal thinking.
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.
Chaos & Paranoia
You know she doesn’t like you; that’s why she moved away. Not it wasn’t, it was to talk to the new girl at the other table. Sure that’s what you’d like to think, isn’t it? They think you talk too much. They’ve never really liked me. No they haven’t. Did you see that look she gave her friend, that roll of the eyes? I know, they don’t like anything you say. They don’t like you. They’re a clique. Yes, and you are sitting on the outside of it. I don’t want to be in it. Yes you do, otherwise you wouldn’t feel so sick. It doesn’t matter though because I won’t be here long. Ha, that’s what you told yourself ten years ago. I’m not going to be here for the rest of my life, no way. Sure, and what are you doing about that? A big fat nothing. There’s nothing I can do about it. I haven’t got the money. You could find it if you wanted to. It’s not that easy. You don’t really want to do anything about it; it’s too much effort. It’s all too much effort. I don’t want to see any of these people anymore. Then who are you going to see? No one. You wouldn’t survive being a recluse; it would kill you to be alone every single day. I’d be better off dead. Yes, you would, and no one would miss you. They all pretend they’re friends, but they aren’t really. It’s just fake. They were all relieved when I left. What do you think they’d say if they found out you’d topped yourself? Would it matter? I would be dead and wouldn’t be here anymore. Do you think they would feel guilty? Or would they think you were selfish? They already think I’m selfish. Did you hear her make that dig about how people are bad listeners; it was directed at you. I don’t want to be here anymore. How are you going to get out? Where am I going to get the money from to get out? You don’t have any skills. You don’t bring any value to anyone. And where would I go to? It’ll be the same everywhere you go. There is only one way out.
Larissa’s mind whorled as she left the drinks night, her mind buzzing with the chaotic noise of her inner voices, their conversation rushing through her head as though she’d pressed fast forward. By the time she’d reached her car, they were debating whether or not to go home.
They’ll be asleep. They won’t know you’ve gone. They wouldn’t notice until the morning. It would be over by then. They’d be too late. It would be simple, so simple. And painless, don’t forget that. It might take them a couple of days to find out. The police would eventually find the car parked up. Maybe dust and sand on it after the days it’d been sitting there with parking tickets piling up. The phone call to say they’d found it. The police at the door. It wouldn’t be fair, it just wouldn’t. Their little faces. They’d blame themselves. It would affect the rest of their lives. They need you.
Larissa held back tears as she turned the key in the lock, sparking the car into life. She had to stop this; she had to get the voices under control. She had to stop them escalating. She sighed. It took all her strength to keep her head above water, to keep holding on. She wanted to stay social, but it killed her. She didn’t trust any of them.
She wished a door would open; she wished she could step through into a bright new world where she could escape from the chaos of her mind and the emptiness of her life; where no one knew her or pre-judged her, where she was valued and needed and appreciated. Was it really so much to ask?
By the time she reached home she’d brought the noise down to a background babble. The house was dark, just the small lights left on for her to see by. She checked on the kids, smiling at their tiny snores, and climbed in next to the big snorer– her husband.
She knew she had to find a way out, but it had to be a way that worked for everyone, not just her. Larissa lulled herself to sleep with visions of what that might be.
I looked at this picture and saw chaos. And for me the biggest type of chaos is that of the mind. So that is what I focused on. This one poured out easily, but I need to provide a TRIGGER WARNING for suicide/suicidal thinking.
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.
Chaos & Paranoia
You know she doesn’t like you; that’s why she moved away. Not it wasn’t, it was to talk to the new girl at the other table. Sure that’s what you’d like to think, isn’t it? They think you talk too much. They’ve never really liked me. No they haven’t. Did you see that look she gave her friend, that roll of the eyes? I know, they don’t like anything you say. They don’t like you. They’re a clique. Yes, and you are sitting on the outside of it. I don’t want to be in it. Yes you do, otherwise you wouldn’t feel so sick. It doesn’t matter though because I won’t be here long. Ha, that’s what you told yourself ten years ago. I’m not going to be here for the rest of my life, no way. Sure, and what are you doing about that? A big fat nothing. There’s nothing I can do about it. I haven’t got the money. You could find it if you wanted to. It’s not that easy. You don’t really want to do anything about it; it’s too much effort. It’s all too much effort. I don’t want to see any of these people anymore. Then who are you going to see? No one. You wouldn’t survive being a recluse; it would kill you to be alone every single day. I’d be better off dead. Yes, you would, and no one would miss you. They all pretend they’re friends, but they aren’t really. It’s just fake. They were all relieved when I left. What do you think they’d say if they found out you’d topped yourself? Would it matter? I would be dead and wouldn’t be here anymore. Do you think they would feel guilty? Or would they think you were selfish? They already think I’m selfish. Did you hear her make that dig about how people are bad listeners; it was directed at you. I don’t want to be here anymore. How are you going to get out? Where am I going to get the money from to get out? You don’t have any skills. You don’t bring any value to anyone. And where would I go to? It’ll be the same everywhere you go. There is only one way out.
Larissa’s mind whorled as she left the drinks night, her mind buzzing with the chaotic noise of her inner voices, their conversation rushing through her head as though she’d pressed fast forward. By the time she’d reached her car, they were debating whether or not to go home.
They’ll be asleep. They won’t know you’ve gone. They wouldn’t notice until the morning. It would be over by then. They’d be too late. It would be simple, so simple. And painless, don’t forget that. It might take them a couple of days to find out. The police would eventually find the car parked up. Maybe dust and sand on it after the days it’d been sitting there with parking tickets piling up. The phone call to say they’d found it. The police at the door. It wouldn’t be fair, it just wouldn’t. Their little faces. They’d blame themselves. It would affect the rest of their lives. They need you.
Larissa held back tears as she turned the key in the lock, sparking the car into life. She had to stop this; she had to get the voices under control. She had to stop them escalating. She sighed. It took all her strength to keep her head above water, to keep holding on. She wanted to stay social, but it killed her. She didn’t trust any of them.
She wished a door would open; she wished she could step through into a bright new world where she could escape from the chaos of her mind and the emptiness of her life; where no one knew her or pre-judged her, where she was valued and needed and appreciated. Was it really so much to ask?
By the time she reached home she’d brought the noise down to a background babble. The house was dark, just the small lights left on for her to see by. She checked on the kids, smiling at their tiny snores, and climbed in next to the big snorer– her husband.
She knew she had to find a way out, but it had to be a way that worked for everyone, not just her. Larissa lulled herself to sleep with visions of what that might be.
January 31, 2018
Mid-Week Flash Challenge - Week 40
This week's photo was created by Emerald-Depths (Danielle Clifton) an American digital artist over on Deviant Art. Access to this picture has been restricted on this site to members only, probably due to the amount of use it has had online - it took me a long time to track it down. Danielle has called it The Road Home. And it certainly could be.
Took me a while to get an opening line in my head for this one as so many tales were vying for my attention - but many felt like repeats of other stories I had written. Finally one came and grew in the first paragraph. It's the best type of writing when that happens, when it all starts to fall into place. Some could say this is a beginning to a novel- many of my flash pieces are - and maybe one day. So many ideas, so little time to write them all.
Took me a while to get an opening line in my head for this one as so many tales were vying for my attention - but many felt like repeats of other stories I had written. Finally one came and grew in the first paragraph. It's the best type of writing when that happens, when it all starts to fall into place. Some could say this is a beginning to a novel- many of my flash pieces are - and maybe one day. So many ideas, so little time to write them all.
January 24, 2018
Mid-Week Flash Challenge - Week 39
This week's photo prompt was taken by Piroshki-Photography, a Serbian photographer. You can find more of their photos on their page at Deviant Art. They call this one 'Curved Reality'. It was taken in Santa Margherita Ligure, in Genoa, Italy.
I could see the opening of this tale immediately, but the story took longer to appear, although not in depth. It was tricky only hinting at it without really knowing what it was about but pretending I did!
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.
The Establishment
Dorian staggered into the square, holding onto the wall of the alleyway he was coming through. He sensed people looking at him, but all he could see were the buildings in the plaza swaying and wobbling. Was this actually happening? He couldn’t be sure but he was mesmerized by them.
The architecture took on new meaning as it reshaped before his eyes. He had a growing desire to go up and touch them. He moved forward, the ground rolled under his feet. He staggered again, this time falling to his knees. He looked around him. The people he thought were there weren’t; the cafe terraces were empty, not a sole in the streets.
The buildings were still moving. Dorian crawled to the edge of one to put his hand against it. He could feel it vibrate through his palm. He rubbed the brickwork. It felt real.
Then he heard a voice.
“Mr. Bradshaw, tell us how you got here?”
Dorian looked around him again; there was still no one in the plaza. Who was speaking?
“Who are you? Where are you? Show yourself!” He didn’t like the swaying anymore; it was making him feel sick.
“You know who we are, Mr. Bradshaw, and you know why we are not showing ourselves.”
Dorian felt something nag at the back of his mind, something before he stumbled into the plaza. Where was he before he was here? He fought to gain a hold on his memory. How did he get here? He remembered the alleyway between two buildings. What two buildings? He remembered a plane journey; he remembered a city, sweet scent of trees baked in the sun. He was in Italy! Yes, Genoa. But why? He was tracking something, or was it someone? Why couldn’t he remember?
“If you know me, you know why I am here. Stop messing with my head and talk to me!” Dorian could barely raise his head now. He understood that what was happening was not real; it was a magnetic field that worked on his mind; an illusion to disorientate him, to put him off the scent. “I’m not leaving until you do, and remember I am being tracked.”
Those last words brought everything back into sharp focus: He knew why he was here and what his plan had been. Their tricks couldn’t work anymore.
The plaza faded. The blank wall it had been projected onto took its place. The wall was grey concrete. It had been real. He had managed to get inside.
Dorian heard footsteps and slumped back into a sitting position on the floor, resting his back against the wall. The men that appeared didn’t look happy.
“How did you get in here? How did you find us?”
Dorian smiled. “You should be concerning yourself with what my arrival means, and how long you have got.”
The two men glanced at each other clearly unnerved by Dorian’s words. Then another set of footsteps could be heard, these ones slower and heavier, as though trying to be threatening.
Dorian wasn’t surprised to see the man that made them. He had suspected all along that Johnson Hayward had been the head of this particular establishment. In fact he was pleased to have it finally confirmed. The smile he gave wasn’t welcomed.
“You think you have achieved something by gaining access to this location, but you seem to forget how we operate.”
“Why don’t you enlighten me, Mr Hayward?”
He gave Dorian a smirk. “You would like that, wouldn’t you? But not this time, this time we are one step ahead.”
Johnson Hayward clapped his hands and the lights went out, literally and metaphorically as a hard hit to the head rendered Dorian unconscious.
When he came to he was lying in the middle of a plaza – the same plaza that had been wobbling in front of him earlier. This time it was real and full of life, the sounds of people and cars and movement all around him. Someone came over and spoke to him in Italian, offering a hand. He took it and stood up, taking a few seconds to steady himself before thanking them and walking away.
He searched for the alleyway but he couldn’t find it. Eventually he gave up and returned to his hotel. Damn, he’d lost them, though this was the closest he had come in five years. It wasn’t over yet.
I could see the opening of this tale immediately, but the story took longer to appear, although not in depth. It was tricky only hinting at it without really knowing what it was about but pretending I did!
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.
The Establishment
Dorian staggered into the square, holding onto the wall of the alleyway he was coming through. He sensed people looking at him, but all he could see were the buildings in the plaza swaying and wobbling. Was this actually happening? He couldn’t be sure but he was mesmerized by them.
The architecture took on new meaning as it reshaped before his eyes. He had a growing desire to go up and touch them. He moved forward, the ground rolled under his feet. He staggered again, this time falling to his knees. He looked around him. The people he thought were there weren’t; the cafe terraces were empty, not a sole in the streets.
The buildings were still moving. Dorian crawled to the edge of one to put his hand against it. He could feel it vibrate through his palm. He rubbed the brickwork. It felt real.
Then he heard a voice.
“Mr. Bradshaw, tell us how you got here?”
Dorian looked around him again; there was still no one in the plaza. Who was speaking?
“Who are you? Where are you? Show yourself!” He didn’t like the swaying anymore; it was making him feel sick.
“You know who we are, Mr. Bradshaw, and you know why we are not showing ourselves.”
Dorian felt something nag at the back of his mind, something before he stumbled into the plaza. Where was he before he was here? He fought to gain a hold on his memory. How did he get here? He remembered the alleyway between two buildings. What two buildings? He remembered a plane journey; he remembered a city, sweet scent of trees baked in the sun. He was in Italy! Yes, Genoa. But why? He was tracking something, or was it someone? Why couldn’t he remember?
“If you know me, you know why I am here. Stop messing with my head and talk to me!” Dorian could barely raise his head now. He understood that what was happening was not real; it was a magnetic field that worked on his mind; an illusion to disorientate him, to put him off the scent. “I’m not leaving until you do, and remember I am being tracked.”
Those last words brought everything back into sharp focus: He knew why he was here and what his plan had been. Their tricks couldn’t work anymore.
The plaza faded. The blank wall it had been projected onto took its place. The wall was grey concrete. It had been real. He had managed to get inside.
Dorian heard footsteps and slumped back into a sitting position on the floor, resting his back against the wall. The men that appeared didn’t look happy.
“How did you get in here? How did you find us?”
Dorian smiled. “You should be concerning yourself with what my arrival means, and how long you have got.”
The two men glanced at each other clearly unnerved by Dorian’s words. Then another set of footsteps could be heard, these ones slower and heavier, as though trying to be threatening.
Dorian wasn’t surprised to see the man that made them. He had suspected all along that Johnson Hayward had been the head of this particular establishment. In fact he was pleased to have it finally confirmed. The smile he gave wasn’t welcomed.
“You think you have achieved something by gaining access to this location, but you seem to forget how we operate.”
“Why don’t you enlighten me, Mr Hayward?”
He gave Dorian a smirk. “You would like that, wouldn’t you? But not this time, this time we are one step ahead.”
Johnson Hayward clapped his hands and the lights went out, literally and metaphorically as a hard hit to the head rendered Dorian unconscious.
When he came to he was lying in the middle of a plaza – the same plaza that had been wobbling in front of him earlier. This time it was real and full of life, the sounds of people and cars and movement all around him. Someone came over and spoke to him in Italian, offering a hand. He took it and stood up, taking a few seconds to steady himself before thanking them and walking away.
He searched for the alleyway but he couldn’t find it. Eventually he gave up and returned to his hotel. Damn, he’d lost them, though this was the closest he had come in five years. It wasn’t over yet.
January 17, 2018
Mid-Week Flash Challenge - Week 38
This week's photo prompt is from a young American photographer, Alex Currie, who is just 20 years old. She has some incredible work. Go and have a look at her website. She was 16 when she took this photo, and you can read an article about it here.
I wrote half of this with one story in mind, but when I came back to it the following day I couldn't pick it up and so changed it to another story. A nice bit of Sci-Fi for a change.
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.
Message in a Bottle
Christopher sat up, his heart pounding, forehead pricking with sweat. He could still see the chair surrounded by ocean as far as the eye could see, and him twisting and turning on it, somehow stuck to it as the tide came in.
What did it mean? Did it mean anything? He wasn’t sure. Sometimes his dreams happened in real life, things he dreamt – no matter how random, would suddenly fall into place and unfold before his eyes.
Water was a metaphor for emotions in dreams. Did he feel overwhelmed? Some days. It was tough at school. Yeah, he liked wearing bow ties, so what? It was better than the chumps who copied the latest YouTuber’s hair do.
Christopher had always known he didn’t fit in and he was good with that. He didn’t need to fit in. He had his own friends and they didn’t fit in either. They hadn’t when they were at school and they didn’t now as they pursued their cutting edge careers.
Christopher checked the time; he didn’t want to be late for Professor Hardingsworth. He got dressed, choosing a red bow tie. It was Saturday; he was going to the university, not high school.
Once he’d locked his bike outside the science building, Christopher rushed through empty corridors to the studio in the basement, the professor’s favourite place. It was meant for photography, but the professor had commandeered it. He was testing more complex things than how light fell on a chair. Although there was a chair. Christopher hesitated; it looked like the one in his dream.
“Morning Professor. What are you planning today?”
The professor’s head popped up from a row of laptops he had on his desk. “Christopher. Excellent. Be a good lad and sit on that chair for me, will you?”
Christopher smiled. There was never any chit-chat with the professor; he always got right down to business. He took a seat.
“What is this experiment for, Professor?”
“Co-existing realities, Christopher. Are there any?”
“What, here Professor?”
“Here, there, anywhere. Can we locate one? That’s the question for today.”
“And the chair?”
“Somewhere to put the test subject?”
“Test subject? You mean me?”
“Yes.” He chuckled. “Hope that’s alright.”
“Of course, sir. But how does me sitting here do anything?”
“Do? It’s less about doing, it’s more about sensing. Hang on.” The professor tapped vigorously on various keyboards.
Christopher heard a seagull cry. He assumed it was outside. Then it sounded like several were circulating the room. He was sure he could hear waves crashing too.
The professor glanced at him. “You hearing something?”
“Yes, I think so.”
The professor grabbed a bottle off his desk and thrust it into Christopher’s hands. Christopher looked at it. It had a piece of paper rolled up inside: Message in a bottle.
“Throw it, Christopher, as hard as you can.”
He felt the bottle in his hands: glass. It would shatter hard against the wall, but who was he to argue. He flung it out to his left and braced for impact, anticipating it smashing, but there was nothing. The bottle was gone.
He looked wide-eyed at the Professor who laughed his funny donkey laugh.
“Quick Christopher, let’s go.” The professor grabbed his coat and rushed out the door. Christopher followed. They jumped into the professor’s car, and drove out of the car park.
“Where are we off to, Professor?”
“Why the beach, of course.”
“For the bottle?”
“That’s right.”
“But how do you know where?”
The professor laughed. “When will you learn to trust me?”
Christopher smiled. He loved Professor Hardingsworth’s enthusiasm and passion. And he was right, the professor was rarely wrong in his calculations.
They pulled up at the deserted autumn beach. The professor hopped out of the car and strode down to the edge of the surf. He hesitated and then let out an ‘Ah!’ He walked to the right, wading into shallow water without a care for his shoes, and grabbed a bottle floating there.
He came out shaking water off the bottle and unscrewed the lid. He pulled out the paper and smiled ... then froze.
“What is it, Professor? Is it the right one?”
“Yes, yes it is, Christopher, but someone has answered it.”
“Huh?”
He handed the note to Christopher who read the “Hello is anyone out there?” message in the professor’s handwriting, and then scanned the scrawled reply at the bottom: “Yes, we’re here. Please help us.”
I wrote half of this with one story in mind, but when I came back to it the following day I couldn't pick it up and so changed it to another story. A nice bit of Sci-Fi for a change.
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.
Message in a Bottle
Christopher sat up, his heart pounding, forehead pricking with sweat. He could still see the chair surrounded by ocean as far as the eye could see, and him twisting and turning on it, somehow stuck to it as the tide came in.
What did it mean? Did it mean anything? He wasn’t sure. Sometimes his dreams happened in real life, things he dreamt – no matter how random, would suddenly fall into place and unfold before his eyes.
Water was a metaphor for emotions in dreams. Did he feel overwhelmed? Some days. It was tough at school. Yeah, he liked wearing bow ties, so what? It was better than the chumps who copied the latest YouTuber’s hair do.
Christopher had always known he didn’t fit in and he was good with that. He didn’t need to fit in. He had his own friends and they didn’t fit in either. They hadn’t when they were at school and they didn’t now as they pursued their cutting edge careers.
Christopher checked the time; he didn’t want to be late for Professor Hardingsworth. He got dressed, choosing a red bow tie. It was Saturday; he was going to the university, not high school.
Once he’d locked his bike outside the science building, Christopher rushed through empty corridors to the studio in the basement, the professor’s favourite place. It was meant for photography, but the professor had commandeered it. He was testing more complex things than how light fell on a chair. Although there was a chair. Christopher hesitated; it looked like the one in his dream.
“Morning Professor. What are you planning today?”
The professor’s head popped up from a row of laptops he had on his desk. “Christopher. Excellent. Be a good lad and sit on that chair for me, will you?”
Christopher smiled. There was never any chit-chat with the professor; he always got right down to business. He took a seat.
“What is this experiment for, Professor?”
“Co-existing realities, Christopher. Are there any?”
“What, here Professor?”
“Here, there, anywhere. Can we locate one? That’s the question for today.”
“And the chair?”
“Somewhere to put the test subject?”
“Test subject? You mean me?”
“Yes.” He chuckled. “Hope that’s alright.”
“Of course, sir. But how does me sitting here do anything?”
“Do? It’s less about doing, it’s more about sensing. Hang on.” The professor tapped vigorously on various keyboards.
Christopher heard a seagull cry. He assumed it was outside. Then it sounded like several were circulating the room. He was sure he could hear waves crashing too.
The professor glanced at him. “You hearing something?”
“Yes, I think so.”
The professor grabbed a bottle off his desk and thrust it into Christopher’s hands. Christopher looked at it. It had a piece of paper rolled up inside: Message in a bottle.
“Throw it, Christopher, as hard as you can.”
He felt the bottle in his hands: glass. It would shatter hard against the wall, but who was he to argue. He flung it out to his left and braced for impact, anticipating it smashing, but there was nothing. The bottle was gone.
He looked wide-eyed at the Professor who laughed his funny donkey laugh.
“Quick Christopher, let’s go.” The professor grabbed his coat and rushed out the door. Christopher followed. They jumped into the professor’s car, and drove out of the car park.
“Where are we off to, Professor?”
“Why the beach, of course.”
“For the bottle?”
“That’s right.”
“But how do you know where?”
The professor laughed. “When will you learn to trust me?”
Christopher smiled. He loved Professor Hardingsworth’s enthusiasm and passion. And he was right, the professor was rarely wrong in his calculations.
They pulled up at the deserted autumn beach. The professor hopped out of the car and strode down to the edge of the surf. He hesitated and then let out an ‘Ah!’ He walked to the right, wading into shallow water without a care for his shoes, and grabbed a bottle floating there.
He came out shaking water off the bottle and unscrewed the lid. He pulled out the paper and smiled ... then froze.
“What is it, Professor? Is it the right one?”
“Yes, yes it is, Christopher, but someone has answered it.”
“Huh?”
He handed the note to Christopher who read the “Hello is anyone out there?” message in the professor’s handwriting, and then scanned the scrawled reply at the bottom: “Yes, we’re here. Please help us.”
January 10, 2018
Mid-Week Flash Challenge - Week 37
This week's photo prompt was taken by Kari Liimatainen, a photographer from Finland. She has some amazing seasonal photos. You should take a look at her gallery over on Deviant Art.
I could hear these voices as soon as I saw this picture. The question was, what was going to happen. I rather liked how it turned out.
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.
Festival Offering
“You’re sure they’re going to come through here?” “Yes Master, they come through here every week.” “Okay, good.”
Rhodri looked through the eyepiece of the crossbow resting on his shoulder at the snow covered clearing ahead. If Hadrin was right, then they could land themselves a serious feed tonight.
He adjusted his footing in the little stream to keep himself hidden behind the overhanging trees, the snow giving them weight and creating a thick screen. He also moved to give himself more stability. The water wasn’t deep, but the rocks were slippery. They had to stay in the water to keep their scent off the land - plus footprints: they didn’t want to be hunted too.
“When did you last see them, Hadrin?” “They were rounding the spinney near the rocky mount, Master, so they shouldn’t be long now.” “Good work.”
Rhodri was grateful for the little elf’s speed. He was an asset to their team and had helped them keep their bellies full since his capture two moons ago. Rhodri could hear movement: a rattling that indicated a wagon, and ... was that singing?
“Are they stupid?” he whispered to Hadrin. “Or smart, Master.” “Eh?”
He felt something hit him in the head hard and the sound of a splash as he fell into the stream.
When he came to, Rhodri could feel his body being jostled from side to side. He was moving, but how? He opened his eyes and saw a wooden ceiling. He was in a wagon, and from the singing, it was the wagon he had planned on capturing.
He moved to sit up but found himself pinned to the floor, even his head had been strapped back.
“Whoa Master, I wouldn’t move if I were you, those restraints have a tendency of tightening under pressure.” “What’s happening, Hadrin, why am I tied down in a wagon?” “Dinner, Master, we mustn’t miss it. It’s a special one tonight.” “I don’t understand your meaning, Hadrin?” “Tonight it’s the festival of Yanis, and we need to supply the offering.” “You’re talking gibberish, Hadrin, what offering?” “You Master. It has been planned for some time. It was fortunate you took a shine to me, made it a bit easier.”
Hadrin smiled at Rhodri and he felt a shiver go up his spine.
“But you have been working with me against your people.” “That’s what you believed, yes Master.” “You hated them for leaving you for dead.” “Yes Master, that’s what I pretended.” Rhodri roared, “YOU DUPED ME HADRIN!” Hadrin giggled. “Yes Master.”
Rhodri tugged at his arms and legs and tried to lift his head. But Hadrin had been right; he lay back gasping as the strap round his neck choked him. Hadrin came to his aid to loosen it slightly.
“Why do you bother to keep me alive?” “Oh you mustn’t be dead, Master, we have to follow the ritual of the ancients. Once a troll has been entrapped he must be duly processed. The blood letting is done in stages, for maximum results.” “Results, Hadrin?” Rhodri could feel his blood drain from his face already. “Your soul must be cleansed to pass through the doors of Arroubin.” “Cleansed?” “Yes. A cut for each life you have taken.”
Rhodri stared at the ceiling thinking about the hundreds he had slaughtered.
“Don’t worry Master, you have plenty of flesh. I made sure of that.”
Rhodri realised Hadrin was referring to all the food he helped him catch. It had all been a set up. The elves had planned it all along. He closed his eyes. It was going to be a long night.
“Yes, that’s right master, save your strength. You will need it.” Rhodri could hear the smirk in Hadrin’s voice.
I could hear these voices as soon as I saw this picture. The question was, what was going to happen. I rather liked how it turned out.
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.
Festival Offering
“You’re sure they’re going to come through here?” “Yes Master, they come through here every week.” “Okay, good.”
Rhodri looked through the eyepiece of the crossbow resting on his shoulder at the snow covered clearing ahead. If Hadrin was right, then they could land themselves a serious feed tonight.
He adjusted his footing in the little stream to keep himself hidden behind the overhanging trees, the snow giving them weight and creating a thick screen. He also moved to give himself more stability. The water wasn’t deep, but the rocks were slippery. They had to stay in the water to keep their scent off the land - plus footprints: they didn’t want to be hunted too.
“When did you last see them, Hadrin?” “They were rounding the spinney near the rocky mount, Master, so they shouldn’t be long now.” “Good work.”
Rhodri was grateful for the little elf’s speed. He was an asset to their team and had helped them keep their bellies full since his capture two moons ago. Rhodri could hear movement: a rattling that indicated a wagon, and ... was that singing?
“Are they stupid?” he whispered to Hadrin. “Or smart, Master.” “Eh?”
He felt something hit him in the head hard and the sound of a splash as he fell into the stream.
When he came to, Rhodri could feel his body being jostled from side to side. He was moving, but how? He opened his eyes and saw a wooden ceiling. He was in a wagon, and from the singing, it was the wagon he had planned on capturing.
He moved to sit up but found himself pinned to the floor, even his head had been strapped back.
“Whoa Master, I wouldn’t move if I were you, those restraints have a tendency of tightening under pressure.” “What’s happening, Hadrin, why am I tied down in a wagon?” “Dinner, Master, we mustn’t miss it. It’s a special one tonight.” “I don’t understand your meaning, Hadrin?” “Tonight it’s the festival of Yanis, and we need to supply the offering.” “You’re talking gibberish, Hadrin, what offering?” “You Master. It has been planned for some time. It was fortunate you took a shine to me, made it a bit easier.”
Hadrin smiled at Rhodri and he felt a shiver go up his spine.
“But you have been working with me against your people.” “That’s what you believed, yes Master.” “You hated them for leaving you for dead.” “Yes Master, that’s what I pretended.” Rhodri roared, “YOU DUPED ME HADRIN!” Hadrin giggled. “Yes Master.”
Rhodri tugged at his arms and legs and tried to lift his head. But Hadrin had been right; he lay back gasping as the strap round his neck choked him. Hadrin came to his aid to loosen it slightly.
“Why do you bother to keep me alive?” “Oh you mustn’t be dead, Master, we have to follow the ritual of the ancients. Once a troll has been entrapped he must be duly processed. The blood letting is done in stages, for maximum results.” “Results, Hadrin?” Rhodri could feel his blood drain from his face already. “Your soul must be cleansed to pass through the doors of Arroubin.” “Cleansed?” “Yes. A cut for each life you have taken.”
Rhodri stared at the ceiling thinking about the hundreds he had slaughtered.
“Don’t worry Master, you have plenty of flesh. I made sure of that.”
Rhodri realised Hadrin was referring to all the food he helped him catch. It had all been a set up. The elves had planned it all along. He closed his eyes. It was going to be a long night.
“Yes, that’s right master, save your strength. You will need it.” Rhodri could hear the smirk in Hadrin’s voice.
January 9, 2018
Lost - 55 Word Challenge Week One Entry
Here is my entry to the 55 Word Challenge Week One.
I used all photo prompts.
Icy wind blew swirls of snow round my head as I stood looking down the steep incline to the lake. It was frozen again, but at the edges water leaked through revealing its fragile state, something we’d missed last year when our son had gone into it and been lost to us.
Icy wind blew swirls of snow round my head as I stood looking down the steep incline to the lake. It was frozen again, but at the edges water leaked through revealing its fragile state, something we’d missed last year when our son had gone into it and been lost to us.
January 8, 2018
55 Word Challenge is back!
I was excited to see in my emails today that Lisa Hollar is bringing back the 55 Word Challenge Flash Fiction contest - although it is less of a contest now and more of a weekly inspiration and writing challenge.Lisa ran this contest for years, and then had to stop due to demands of every day life. But after a three year hiatus it is back and I am excited.
