Each evening I begin unwinding myself, searching out the teasing thread that will lead to the knots wrangled tighter each day. As if I am a set of headphones snaring pocket lint in my tangled nets until I’ve frayed too far, and simply snap.
The guidelines for those of you who are new are as follows:
Speculative Fiction: a genre of fiction that encompasses works in which the setting is other than the real world, involving supernatural, futuristic, or other imagined elements. [Oxford Dictionary]
Use the image below to write a story, poem, perhaps even a script. There are no rules about form or style. If you would like to create a piece of art in response that is also welcome. This prompt is about being artistic and creative in whatever way suits you best.
Please keep entries PG as this is open to all. (i.e no erotica)
The prompt is open from the first of the month to the end of the month.
Use pingbacks to link up to the prompt or leave a link in the comments section. Whichever you prefer.
I try to at least read every entry in the prompt and I’d love to encourage anyone taking part to try and check some of the other entries if they can.
As always, re-tweets, re-blogs, and shares are gratefully received. We are always open to new participants.
The tavern was so quiet that Elias could hear the wind whispering through the gaps in the walls. When the serving girl brought him his drink he paid her with a whole silver, saw her eyes widen, and patted his coat pocket.
‘Keep ’em coming.’
She nodded and darted away.
Apart from one table near the door, every seat was taken. Elias counted the mercenaries, almost all of them Roderick’s, their necks marked with his brand. The King had called the practice draconian, but that didn’t stop him hiring Roderick’s men when revolts broke out.
‘Take a ticket,’ said the man behind the scratched perspex glass.
‘It’s empty,’ said James, glancing at the busted plastic dispenser.
‘Huh?’ The man looked up. ‘Oh, so it is. Well, take a seat to wait and we’ll be right with you.’
‘We?’ asked James. The man didn’t answer.
Turning, James shuddered and stumbled as the room stretched like elastic.
A set of hands steadied him.
‘The voodoo throws you at first. It’s how they fit us all in.’
‘Us all?’ James asked.
‘Yeah, all the demons,’ said the voice. ‘Sorry mate, looks like you got busted.’
With all the poetry I’ve been writing for ‘It’s All In The Blood’ I’m in need of a bit of fiction in my life tonight. It’s amazing how much focus it gives you to have a set word limit on a piece of writing. It makes you go back and think about each individual word. A very useful skill that transfers well into poetry.