Three Line Thursday 12/09/2015
This has become a very popular weekly competition attracting quite a number of writers. Each week a picture is posted and we are invited to write 3 lines, no more than 10 words per line, 30 words max.
In addition to the usual 3 placings there is also a special category for thinking outside the box and you are asked NOT to use certain words - ie the first words that pop into your head!
My win in this category will be posted in Flash Fiction Magazine on 17/09/2015
Flash Frenzy! 15/09/2015
Managed a 2nd Runner up this week against some excellent stories; there is never a bad one amongst these writers - all different, all so good.
Prompt: photo of cathedral interior.
Nobody attends the altar. It has become a mere relic of past times, a place where sin could be absolved, where all would be forgiven. People don’t need that any more, they decide for themselves whether to turn the other cheek or not. They do not listen for voices they cannot hear. They ignore stories long dismissed by science. Religion has failed the burden of proof, become obsolete.
I sit at the back behind the rope that prevents closer access, try to imagine what it was like but am interrupted as the rest of my party catch up with me.
“And here, ladies and gentlemen, we have a fine example of the architecture of mistaken belief …”
I tune the guide’s voice out. I do not want to listen to her preaching yet another sermon; we get enough of those from the government.
The small congregation moves on as I remain seated. I ignore their disapproving stares. I paid my entry fee, the same as them and I have no desire to visit the ‘Jesus Experience’ with its crucifixion simulation even though it was proclaimed the Best Visitor Attraction of 2030.
There is a distant cheer. The ‘Jesus Experience’ has just greeted its millionth customer. The prize? The brochure in my hand informs me it’s a luxurious weekend for two in the papal suite of the Vatican Hotel plus unlimited play in the Holy Roman Casino. Money has reclaimed its place in the temple.
Then slowly, thankfully, the blanket of silence falls once more; a deep stillness that I have never experienced anywhere else. It is so peaceful.
They used to say if you sit still long enough, you will hear a voice, God’s voice. I wonder if that is why we are herded through like cattle. Are they afraid of what we will hear?
They needn’t have worried. I have never heard anything yet but after what I have witnessed in the world around me I feel that there must be more to life, more than this. So I come here each day and listen. But all I ever hear is silence.
Flash Frenzy! 08/09/2015
This was my second win at The Angry Hourglass with the prompt being the photograph you see below.
Jagged teeth were already chewing up and spitting out the once hallowed ground. Workmen had learned to ignore the shards of bone that seemed to randomly speckle the freshly-turned soil. The previous residents had been disinterred with all due respect, prayers had been said and the site blessed. At least that was what David Wilson had told his demolition crew.
Georgie watched the men as they finished for the night. He didn’t want to be left alone in the dark with only the silent metal dinosaurs for company. He still didn’t understand why he had been left behind.
“Hey, Georgie. Want to play?”
Behind him was the Man. He didn’t like him. He was another one left behind. But Georgie said nothing. He’d been taught not to talk to strangers. A promise he kept after that last time.
The Man laughed as Georgie ran across to the portacabin, slipped into the bright, warm office where Wilson was already knocking back a bottle of whisky. Georgie noticed he was drinking a lot more now than when he first started the job. That was the Man’s fault. He would do things to the machinery, make noises, frighten both Wilson and the security guard, frighten Georgie. Sometimes there were accidents and people got hurt. The Man said he was only playing.
Yet Georgie liked to sit in the snug little office, it was better than being out in the dark and the cold, better than being alone. And there was something about Wilson. He’d seen him before somewhere. Once.
“Georgie Porgie, pudding and pie,” called a voice from outside. “Want to play?”
Georgie put his hands over his ears but he was unable to shut out the Man. His eyes drifted towards Wilson’s desk; the bottom drawer was open and he caught sight of something red towards the back. Curious, he moved closer. Red shoes. He had had shoes like that once. The police had never found them. He looked again at Wilson. Started to remember.
“Oh Georgie,” said the Man, appearing next to him. “Now will you play?”
Georgie nodded. He wanted his shoes back
Cracked Flash Fiction
A nice little competition that needs a few more entrants.
Week 11 - Winner
She bolted down the hallway. Adrenaline fueling her long-shackled limbs onward, away from the room that had been her prison for an eternity. Occasionally Rowena stumbled as daylight shot its daggers through shrouded windows, skewering her eyes with a pain that she found strangely welcome. The windows, though, were mercifully few. She continued forward but found her progress slowing as she fought the weakness caused by her imprisonment.
A door slammed somewhere ahead.
Rowena paused and sank back into the shadows, old instincts allowing her to merge with the stillness and become part of the silence.
Footsteps. Slow and heavy on the stairs. Theo. He was getting old. Making mistakes like the one that had allowed her to escape.
He was closer now, she could make out his shape as her sight adjusted to the gloom. He had been a giant of a man but this … this version was a shrunken copy. How many years had it been since she had actually seen him? Unwashed and unkempt, he was not the man she remembered. The smell though. The smell was the same; a perfume that had infiltrated her uneasy sleep on so many nights, pulled her mind back to the surface of life.
The scent grew stronger, coppery notes playing a metallic symphony that roused her hunger.
Closer. Was she strong enough after so long in the dark?
The call of his beating heart, the siren song of skin-clad blood, hammered loudly in her ears.
Vanity had stayed his hand, kept her alive. She had been his prize exhibit, a creature of the darkness. Who else could boast such a trophy?
Hunter. Hunted. Hunter reborn.
A writer - I think that says it all.