All posts tagged: freewrite

Heart Of The Dead #FlashFiction #SeptemberSpeculativeFictionPrompt

When the bodies washed ashore, the novices were there to pluck them from the mud. It wasn’t pleasant work. It was a short trip from the edge of the city to the bend in the river. The unfortunates who made it, came out of the silt choked waters heavy and stinking, muscles still locked up by rigour mortise. ‘Another one!’ The cry went up from lower down the bank, further along than the bodies usually travelled. Flexing her fingers to work some of the feeling back into them, Maradine followed the other novices to the cry and tried to avoid looking as if she was dawdling. She let herself breath when she saw the child, eyes huge and bug like, withered limbs half buried in the mud. It was small, small enough for two of the novices to manhandle inside the temple doors without need of her help. She didn’t try to work out how this one had found its way to them. The monks frowned on questions regarding the vessels. ‘Jamie, Galeth, you take …

One Last Hope

Grendal, Chief Clansman of the Ruling High Council For Witches, Warlocks, and the magical sorts, did not appreciate being woken before dawn. His bones complained about the cold and his knees refused to cooperate as he traversed the endless staircases and corridors that led from his rooms to the Grand Hall, where the rest of the council was supposedly waiting. ‘Where is everyone?’ Looking around the room he could see four others, only one of which had bothered to change from their night clothes. Looking at the swaying man Grendal reconsidered the assumption and decided that he’d not been to bed in the first place. ‘Well,’ Grendal demanded, ‘where are the rest of the sods?’ ‘Succumb?’ said one of the others. Elmer Throttle sat hunched in his seat, the folds of his dressing gown tightly roped around his midriff and a single fluffy slipper poking out beneath the hem. ‘He believed himself to be a Warawhump, whatever that is. He won’t come out of the cook’s wine cellar and appears to have crafted himself some form …

Broken Cups And Awkward Poets: #FWF Freewrite

It was less than a second, maybe half a second, but it changed everything. They both looked down at the shattered coffee cup and then back up and each other and then back down at the shards of white crockery. She felt her cheeks flame, aware that they were now turning a particular shade of red and there would be blotches on her cheekbones. The spoken word poet in the corner coughed into his microphone, shuffled his papers and started again, his lines shaky as he tried to read from his sheets instead of looking at the pair of them standing in the puddle. He wasn’t very good. Every other line rhymed with some awkward, clunky phrase and Sarah felt like he was trying to voice her own words while her mouth moved uselessly. Pink lipstick sticking with each open and close. ‘I- I- I,’ stammered the poet. He coughed again and started on the next line down. ‘You- You- You-‘ Sarah spluttered something half like an apology, dropping as she spoke, hands spilling outwards like the …

Star Ship N2P7649

Port three was busted again, but instead of looking into the problem Sanuth was examining the hairy wart perched rather precariously on the very tip of the nose of a very generic ambassador from yet another trade federation who thought their backwater solar system entitled them to some sort of reverence. ‘Umhum,’ Sanuth nodded, eyes still fixed on the wart. It twitched any time the ambassador said a word beginning with s. ‘I really don’t understand the problem here,’ grumbled the envoy. He was tall and thin, except for his stomach which splurged out suddenly at the waist. That was as much as Sanuth had noticed before the wart. The wart was green and blotchy with three yellow hairs which curled into exactly four loops each. It looked a little like Sanuth’s Aunt Barbara. ‘I mean really,’ said the envoy, ‘anyone would think that Hemrath wished to shun our offer to open trade routes with them? You did explain to them who we were did you not?’ There was a pause and Sanuth realised he …

Windows

‘When did you realise for you the first time that you weren’t immortal?’ The blonde’s face flashed into his mind and he thought about the way she’d spoken with a smile, showing off the bit of apple stuck in her teeth and the crooked incisor that he’d noticed her poking at with her tongue during their entire meal. ‘Pardon?’ he’d replied, staring at her over a forkful of salad. ‘What sort of question is that?’ She’d blushed and shrugged. ‘It’s just a first date sort of question,’ she’d said. ‘You know, a sort of tell me who you are type question.’ ‘Oh,’ he’d said before eating his forkful of salad and forgetting about it all together. Now, now he was thinking about it though. Or more accurately, about how he’d never assumed that he was immortal until the day he’d found out that he actually was and being immortal was nothing more than a massive ball ache for all those involved. ‘Here we go again,’ he sighed, gripping the window sill with both hands and …

Beyond The Window

His father always called the darkness outside their home Wasteland. When they fought, his father would drag him to an open window by the scruff of his collar and force his face into the emptiness. “Look! Look at what there is outside this house! Outside my house! Nothing!” Leaning into the darkness with his father’s hands pressing him forwards he would shiver and squint, forcing himself to try and see something other than nothingness. “Learn your place,” his father warned. “Nothing survives out there my son.” Curling his hands around the window frame he would nod, allowing the same hands that pushed to pull him back inside. “You stay you hear. You stay put and behave.” He would nod again. Simple, silent, agreeable. Later, his father would give him apples. The fruit curled in his hand he would return to the window to eat. He let the cores drop, listening for a thud or splash to tell him what lay outside his home beneath the darkness, but he heard no sounds. When his father grew …

The Story Of Eleanor Green

Grandma travelled the Sahara at eighteen, all she needed packed in two suitcases the one almost forgotten later on at an airport  in Ciaro when a young man asked her name. At twenty-five she saw India, found a husband on the roads took her father’s disapproval, wrote a book Love In India Then lost him to the army and swore against rings on fingers till her last breath. Paris was calmer in her words. Less heat more classical sheik in restaurants, and a cafe. Sipping champagne on the Siene but thinking still in India of a man and a smile, of spices and music. Beirut was exciting. Claimed she met Philby, under the cover of darkness in a little bar off a corner. Claimed she kissed him, took his stutter in her mouth thought him very proper. In England she tried to settle, never married but lived with a man her father favoured once. A friend who thought her beautiful, gave her children and ears to tell stories. At ninety she left with a will …