For June I want you guys to think about the folklore in your local area.
Growing up in the north of Shropshire, I heard my fair share of legends about ghosts, fairies, and giants. Madam Pigott who haunted the road past Chetwynd Church, the giants who squabbled over a shovel while building the Wrekin (one of two Wrekin myths involving giants), or the great black dogs that haunted the Shropshire Hills.
Take one or more of these stories, and either write you own version, or come up with a whole new local myth. Find me a ghost no one knows about, or an unusual collection of fairies that like drinking at the local pub. The odder the better in my books.
This month, I’m going to add in an extra option for responses. In the spirit of oral story-telling, and the history of folklore, why not record yourself telling your own version of a fairy-tale (be it in poetry, prose, or dramatization). You can post to whichever platform you see fit, and link back in the comments below.
The guidelines 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 prompt above 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)
A new prompt will be posted on the first of each month but feel free to go back and use previous months as you see fit.
Use pingbacks to link up to the prompt or leave a link in the comments section. Whichever you prefer.
Please include a note with your work to say if you are open to constructive feedback on the work.
Please try to check out the responses shared in the comments and pingbacks. If you comment, please take note of the writer’s preference regarding feedback. (A good reference guide for feedback is to start with a positive, then mention what you feel could do with work, and finish up on another point that you liked.
As always, re-tweets, re-blogs, and shares are all gratefully received. We are always open to new participants.
The outcrop was low and Emile had to crouch for it to work as a windbreaker. Crouching made her thighs burn, but so did walking, and crouching in a low crag meant she could almost feel her face again.
She unhooked the water-skin from her belt and weighted it in her hand. Tried to judge how much she would need to get her down the the mountain.
More than she had.
She put it back and swallowed her thirst. Ignored the wind stripped skeletons propped against the same crag, one holding onto the withered trunk of a sapling to stunted to reach beyond two foot. She closed her eyes to the wedding bands.
These memories were left here with the trees, broken, dead, or dying.
Emile stamped her feet and braced herself.
She was not going to join them.
She’d promised herself more.
I’ve been trying to turn my attention back to my novel Darkened Daughter, and in doing so I’ve been working on some new characters to incorporate to the redraft. Yesterday I played around with Hanson and Raven for the #WeekendWritingPrompt and tonight I’m trying to work out Emile’s story. I might not use any of them in the novel but I’ve found that flash fiction can be really helpful in sounding out characters that might otherwise get lost in a novel.
Isabelle watched the foam settle as the speedboat winked out of view, scurrying its way back to the city. The old man hadn’t been keen to take her, counting her money twice before letting her aboard and then lingering for longer than necessary when she leapt out into the shallows.
Her skirts were damp, but she’d kicked her shoes free before getting off the boat. Her feet had dried while she waited.
She checked her watch and scowled. The glass was cracked, had been since earlier that morning when a cyclist outside her apartment careened into her. It was her own fault. If she’d not spent so long on land, she might have noticed him before he had chance to get close. Instead she’d been thrown from her thoughts by the bite of handlebars into her ribs.
The wind picked up and threw the waves higher along the beach. Isabelle waded out, shivering as the water closed around her ankles.
‘Please,’ she cried. ‘I’m sorry. I have learnt my lesson!’
Above her a seagull cried out but that was it.
The sea did not answer.
Isabelle dropped to her knees and sobbed.
‘Please. I’m ready to come home.’
Photo Credit: Fandango
Make sure to check out Sunday Photo Prompt for more writing prompts and the rest of this week’s contributions for this photo.
If you’d like to read something a little longer I’m working on redrafting my Safe Haven series. In the meantime Solitary Creatures is also available and a fifth installment is on the way some time this month.