All posts tagged: imagination

NYC Flash Fiction Challenge 2018 – Stolen Silence

Last year I took part in the NYC Flash Fiction Challenge and came tenth (I think it was) in my group overall. Unfortunately this didn’t get me through to the second round, but for a first try I was pretty happy with that result and it was a valuable learning experience. Today I signed up for the 2019 challenge and though I have another look at the second of my flash fiction submissions from last year. If I remember correctly, my group was given the genre of drama, our object was salami, and our setting was possibly circus but I could be making that up. Since I was no longer focused on writing a piece of flash to fit with the prescribed prompts, I decided to focused solely on ensuring the piece stayed under 1,000 words without losing the original plot. Fair warning, it’s somewhat dark. Stolen Silence The circus crowds poured out in waves of warmth and laughter, ushered past the gates by stout men in dark jackets. Tucked inside the shadows beyond the …

Imagination

When I was little I turned cardboard boxes into playhouses, stacked them one atop another until I’d built the tallest tower in the world or the biggest castle ever seen.   The settees in the living room were princess beds or safe land when the carpet turned to lava. Stepping stone cushions were employed to cross treacherous territory without risking loosing toe or limb to the fiery pits.   In the corner of the room was a cupboard where the toys and games were kept. We’d ransack the two shelves leaving them bare and empty ready for conversion into bunk beds.   Our garden was besieged by monsters that only my sister and I could defeat. Defending the keep at all costs we fought battles across the grass and through the orchard onto the desert planes.   When the games reached their end we’d hit the reset button. Go back to the beginning before the victory replace the villains anew and start over in our efforts.   If I’m honest, we never really stopped playing. …

Rust

I have never liked the way rust feels against the skin. Shards of old paint curling and collapsing beneath the press of tiny, grubby fingers as the latch on the gate fights to remain shut, last weeks rain, too much for something so old to face without a little protest. The tiny flakes that stay behind, stuck into the sweat and the mud, too small and sharp to brush off all together no matter how many times hands are scrubbed against dirt stained jeans with patches at the knees or run across the grain of old fence posts that dot the garden paths and always lead back home.    

Mud Pie Anyone

I’ve just been discussing childhood games with another blogger Lysa Taylor Now those of you who follow the blog will have already seen snippets from my childhood in some of my previous posts.Grass Stalk Children is based on a trick that my dad taught my sister and I, and my family often crop up in odd little stories such as Bike Ride Foliage since everyone I’m related to seems to have a tendency towards strange, quite often funny accidents. Anyhow, in this conversation with Lysa Taylor she mentioned making salad from cut grass, and sitting in trees pretending to fly away to far off lands. I responded with “Mud pies with a leafy crust was always out culinary specialty.” So I fancied setting a prompt for anyone interested.   What is your most memorable imaginary childhood game?   In five hundred words give me your childhood imaginings back when being a princess, a pirate, a dragon, a talking green monster, were all viable lifestyle choices. Make sure to add a pingback to here and I’ll …

Scholar

Someone must have been the first to call him Scholar, but whoever it was they were forgotten; alongside first name, surname, Scholar’s real name. ‘Why though?’ Because— Because people forget the unimportant, sometimes the important and always the words that do not interest them. There are many uninteresting things, and Scholar’s real name was one of those, no one was interested. No one was interested in who Scholar was, his name had never meant anything to anyone, so why would you waste space in your head remembering it? ‘It seems cruel.’ Aye, it does, but that doesn’t make it any less true. I don’t think Scholar even remembers what he was called, before I mean, he remembers he’s Scholar and that’s it. At least I think he knows he’s Scholar, he reacts when he’s yelled, but that could mean anything… ‘You could ask him.’ Ask him what? If he remembers his name? Aye, I suppose, if he would answer. I don’t think he remembers, I don’t think it was an important thing, I think it …