Posted in flash fiction

The Day Maude Died

The day Maude died she expected it. The white daisies rambling across the mustard colored wallpaper had already begun mourning. Large drops of water appeared over them and rolled to the floor.

“Good.” She mumbled. “This living business is for the birds.”

Maude glowered from her 5th story window. 

At 11:59 she felt the air being sucked from the room as it began to spin. Her exhilaration dissipated when Gary appeared. 

“What are you doing here?” Gary shrugged and motioned to the room as if to ask why he wouldn’t be.

“This wallpaper is a crime to interior design. Christ Maude, is this where you’ve been hiding?”

“I’ve never known you to be a connoisseur of design.”

“Down to business; I’m a busy demon. You’re not dying today Maude.”

Rage rushed from her toes to the very tips of her hair.

“What?! Do you know how long I’ve been here?! 1,517 years Gary!”

“I know, but they like the work you’re doing down here.”

“No! No! No!” The smirk dancing across Gary’s lips was enough to send her into overdrive. “Go get the kerosene. We’re going to the council.”

Gary’s smirk turned to a deep frown.

Source: http://mrg.bz/n22FGA

Word Count: 198
For
Sunday Photo Fiction

Posted in stream of consciousness

In The Garden

Verdant – RDP word of the day
Music – Dirty Three – Self titled

Luscious.
Fertile.
Sasha’s garden was everything Mari could never inspire in her own. Her belly too, round with verdant life in a way Mari would never know.

Obsession.
Jealousy.
Rage in Mari’s veins blossomed as she feigned excitement for Sasha’s burgeoning life. Sasha’s roses brought home awards. Her daffodils sailed into a spotlight all their own. The baby kicked while she laughed on.

Inspired.
Alone.
Mari took to a rusted axe in order to get the job done.

I forgot to time myself but I intended to aim for 5 minutes to start. This probably took about that long.

Posted in flash fiction

Life Is But The Moments

Life is but the moments we make in it.

At least that’s what Edna thought she remembered him saying now. Sixty years on she supposed exact verbiage no longer really mattered.

The plane rattled down the runway. Edna watched the early morning horizon slip by. These moments always reminded her of her mother’s silk scarf floating away on the wind. The way it twisted, trying to escape the inevitable hand of fate it was dealt, and the way her mother ran after it, crimson nails just barely missing the straggling threads.

Had she known then how some people were capable of so much more … had she understood the intricacies of human emotions, fits of rage and the abilities of people to do things outside the realm of “normal” … Like kill others or freeze moments …

Edna settled back into her seat. It took so much out of her now, she figured she only had a few more times in her.

A few more things to see, to record.

A few more moments to live, to love.

Instinctively she reached into the old leather messenger bag, relishing in the old smell of cigars and aftershave, and patted the worn inner pocket. Her notebook, a verifiable tome of time, was secure inside.


I know this doesn’t really make sense in it’s brief form but it was something that struck me and I wanted to share here. 

Posted in flash fiction

Friday Fictioneers – Counting Lighters

This here’s a true story.

The moment I realized what rock bottom looked like as I barreled from above.

And tried to hit the brakes but just wasn’t strong enough.

I wasted drunken moments counting lighters scattered around, at least ten collected in my dead flower jar.

Then the music stopped and that moment of eerie silence …

Right before girls screaming and wild stampeding.

“There’s a boy on the bedroom floor. There’s a boy dying through that door.”

In my apartment.

High on my drugs.

Drunk on my liquor.

I wasted moments counting lighters … I spent seconds wishing on stars.

coffee-table-prior
PHOTO PROMPT © Yvette Prior

Word Count: 100

Many thanks as always to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.

I honestly do not know if this will work in 100 words, I like it but I also know it seems kind of abstract. 

Posted in flash fiction

Pint Sized Brain Eater

When you first log into WordPress and go to your reader there are usually a couple of suggestions of things you can search for. Today I logged on and the suggestions were “zombies, toddlers, philosophy” and I thought to myself … That’s fucking gold. 

Here’s my toddler sized contribution to WordPress’s suggested searches today.

Tiny feet pitter-pattered down the hallway … That’s what they want you to believe anyway. Instead tiny feet were storming and dragging through the hall bringing the low groans and high pitched shrieks full circle. Any parent on the outside may suppose this is a normal toddler sized tantrum but no … What now railed against the locked door was no toddler.

“A pint sized brain eating machine.” Turns out everyone was right, there is no philosophy degree that will prepare you for life. Unless of course you want to one day end up on the right side of a domesticated door while the small daycare you thought would be “fun” and “educational” turns on you.

Don’t adults always catch what kids have? Why did we ever think the zombie apocalypse would start any other way?

Posted in stream of consciousness

Here We Are

Stream of thought writing, I guess this is going to be a weekly thing now –

Prompt – Inkling

Music – Steve Reich – Works 1965-1995

Inkling.

It starts with a drop, a spot of ink infecting, spreading in the water.

It was all so clear

Until

You loosed the ink composed of your fear.

Now it’s here, spreading, floating, clouding

A situation we thought was through.

Tied up and tossed aside

Like a neatly composed pile of trash.

But here we are

Lost in each others eyes.

At least I am.

I have a feeling

You are too but we can’t, can we?

Inklings aren’t enough

They don’t spread through the veins,

Becoming all we are.

Do they?

Be still, they say, let it be.

Let it disperse, the way ink should

Eventually the floods will carry it away.

Except I’ve been waiting

And it’s still here

Floating and spreading

Infecting all we’re becoming.

But of course

They say

There was never another way.

The inkling was always there

Just hidden away by fear.

You’re not scared

And I’m no longer afraid …

So what is this inkling that remains?

Time inches by

Sand through the hole we’ll never hold again.

Spread by the wind like the ink in water.

How many seconds has it been?

How long until this dam breaks

And our infested waters overflow

Carrying away everything we know,

Our fears?

Our belief?

Time’s up.


Check out The Perfectly Imperfect Bunch

Posted in stream of consciousness

Smudged Charcoal Memories

Stream of Consciousness Writing Attempt – Wordpress Daily Prompt – Candid

Music: Alberto Giurioli – once again I’ve found myself just shuffling on Spotify, no specific  songs or albums

Candid.

I have photos in my mind, candid pictures, frozen in time.

Of you, me, the world as it wishes it could be … the way it is and the way it could.

Like rough charcoal sketches, outlining your jaw

Tracing your lips and infecting everything we’ve become.

Conversations are easy, expressions in stars and beauty …

Total comfort we take for granted.

And yet here we are, with candid pictures but nothing solid.

Smudged charcoal memories

Scenes were there, we know, but we’re always just missing the point.

Always just grasping the cusp of the greater things

Only to find ….

We were never meant for the better side

So we cling to something more, hoping, praying, waiting …

We hide beneath silence and sideways glances

While we dangle from the precipice

Fuzzy charcoal portraits and blurry night walking pictures

With broken smiles and tear stained eyes

Are all we left behind but not all that’s left to find?

How long can you hold on? Hold out?

Close your eyes

10 minutes up.