I’m not one for resolutions (and doubt any such would
have prevented the last few week’s disruption) but it might be worth suggesting
any thanks for my consistency of administration be kept within your own minds!!
Fingers crossed, this time to encourage a retreating virus, I am finally on the
mend. I hope the rest of you had a week or so of joy and contentment.
This week’s winner – in large part because of the
subtlety of its under-writing which is a skill I am trying hard to develop
myself – is Zaiure for her ‘Frozen’
Each time I read it I come up with a different interpretation, and were it a
novel, would not yet have put it down.
Words for next week: clot feather third
Entries by
midnight Thursday 11th January winners and
words posted Friday 12th
Usual rules: 100 words maximum (excluding title) of flash
fiction or poetry using all of the three words above in the genres of horror,
fantasy, science fiction or noir. Serialised fiction is, as always, welcome.
All variants and use of the words and stems are fine. Feel free to post links
to your stories on Twitter or Facebook or whichever social media you prefer.
Congrats Zaiure. I too liked your story. Will you divulge the identity of the two men for us or are we to interpret that on our own?
ReplyDeleteThank you! I'm actually not sure yet, as I'm debating whether it's a piece I'll continue. :)
DeleteThank you! I love how we each take something different from the stories we read. Always a fascinating thing, as a writer. :)
ReplyDeleteWell deserved congratulations Zaire!
Deletehad to be that entry, Zaiure, congratulations!
Deletecongratulations Zaiure. I didn't get a chance to comment last week (work is Yuuge at the moment). A piece that was 3D, off the page and in my mind. Loved it.
DeletePerfect beginning to the New Year with one magnificent story taking top honours. So very nicely done, Zaiure. For some reason, unlike John, I pictured one of the major characters as female. Like you said, so interesting how each one of us takes something different from every tale.
ReplyDeleteThanks! I did originally write one as female, but love that the character can be either.
DeleteBirds Of...
ReplyDeleteIt's amazing how quickly blood clots. Transforming itself in death from a free-flowing rivulet to a thick mass of coagulated stickiness. Today's attack has been the third, but we often participate in far more. It's by the feathers that we identify potential victims. Too pale is unacceptable. Overtly vibrant even more so.
Onyx is the desired colour -- inklike and melanoid. We seek out all who do not or cannot conform. There is no room for pity or compassion.
We are not called a murder of crows for nothing.
Oh, this is great. I picture rival crow gangs perched on wires, ready to take flight when the wrong color feathers are detected.
DeleteAn imaginative and vivid piece. I love the description of color. I'm definitely seeing crows in a new way.
Delete"we often participate" so matter-of-fact chilling. Quietly, insidiously terrifying this.
DeleteRyde is plagued with herring gulls, pigeons and crows. It's crows mostly that send my Burmese chattering madly because he can't go get them. Dark brooding birds seem to go well in this type of story, their very darkness adds to their inscrutable look if you dare walk past them. I won't do that in future, having read this...
DeleteI like this. Totally unexpected ending. Really pulled me in to the story.
DeleteThird
ReplyDeleteBlood clots at the corners of her eyes, the viscous, purple-black liquid sizzling slightly as it’s touched by the air. I stare at her. Heat and ice ripples across my back, and I reach out and stroke a finger across the feathers below her throat.
Osmaern will be frenzied when he finds her gone. I remember the sound of his trilling moan, how it hums across my skin. Do I tell him what I saw? Do I risk it? Her death means I’m no longer Third, no longer banned from the sky.
I watch as light fades from her eyes.
You create such a vivid scene with your words. I can feel your MC's fear and exhilaration as a result of the death. Very well done.
DeleteVivid and visceral, and I'm not entirely certain who was responsible for the death ...
DeleteThis has a wonderful mythological "feel" to it. Such a vivid use of descriptive words, especially in that first paragraph. I didn't recognize the "Osmaern" reference but felt sure it must have some significance and so, did a little research but found nothing that applied. What am I missing? (Not that it inferred in any respect to my enjoyment of this magnificent tale!)
DeleteThank you everyone!
Delete@Patricia I actually just made up the name, so I'm relieved it didn't come from anywhere. :) I liked how the name felt, when I wrote it.
the made up name fits perfectly into this story as if part of our heritage of old old tales. This is a magical piece.
DeleteThe Lawless
ReplyDeleteThe coagulated tips of the raven feathers were soothing on the antichrist’s neck. Sometimes he would remove one from his collar and chew on the clotted end. He paid no mind to the admiration of the growing throngs but he wondered if he should have created a more ordinary facade.
Wide eyed, sinners parted as he walked and touched him when they could. The powerfully handsome figure turned north on Twenty Third Street, littered bodies in his wake and strode toward the heart of the city.
There were no more believers in this part of town.
The description of the main character is fascinating. I love the imagery it conjures in my head, and the sense that perhaps he's not quite sane. Powerful final line.
DeleteZaiure has it exactly - epic in every way.
DeleteHow chilling is the fact that there are "no more believers"? Definitely satanic in tone and telling. It don't get no better than this!
Deletepowerful MC here, scattering all before him as he goes.
DeleteI'm working from the end back up, so I read the continuation before this, it fits in very well.
Bed-And-Breakfast
ReplyDeleteThe frame of the feathered four-poster is reinforced with ebony cross-beams these days, all the better to support that once sylphidine body now the consistency and texture of thick clotted cream.
Dreaming of bygone romance, she sleeps away at least two-thirds of every day, roused solely by the aroma of rashers sizzling in the frying pan and freshly-baked bread wafting from the downstairs kitchen.
She invariably wakes up on the wrong side of the bed (although unable to roll out unaided) and everyone knows only too well the dire consequences of keeping Aurora waiting for her morning bacon butties.
This seems like some Sleeping Beauty story gone bad. Very entertaining and informative as I didn't know the word sylphidine until I looked it up. (the perfect word for this by the way)
DeleteStuff of nightmares, visually horrific. Well done.
Deleteit has a fairy tale feel but based firmly in a horror setting. Good one!
DeleteThe Before
ReplyDeleteJerry Gaither
For the third time, she stared at the cut on her arm, still waiting for the blood to clot. Like the bruises on her face, it was fresh. Fresh enough to make her wince when touched. In her other hand she held the single white feather. The feather of a forgotten past. Of a life before. Though it pained her, she missed, no, ached for her freedom. Before she met him. Before the hitting and the angry words. Before the fists. Before she gave up her life. When she still lived as a bird.
Oh, this is quite vivid. The impossibly complex life of the an abused person. Well done.
DeleteHow very intriguing! And the imagery, of white feather contrasting with red blood, so vivid.
DeleteThe imagination wanders in many directions here and each path as fascinating as the others. This is as speculative as it gets and I devoured every delicious word, including those which radiated sorrow.
Deletedelicate and vivid. Wonderful stuff, Jerry.
DeleteOnce again, I wrote the continuation to my first story without prompt words. Why would I do such a thing? I’m pretty sure it won’t happen again.
ReplyDeleteThe Worthy
A group of bedraggled believers huddled around a small fire as the sky rumbled. The young man looked skyward, thin arms outstretched. The ground began to shudder and he calmed his followers with a glance. Around them, trees toppled and screams were heard from the city.
Through a hazy plume a large handsome man strode toward them, a wild eyed throng following. A deafening roar and then a gaping crag sucked multitudes into the abyss. A giant tree fell and the antichrist disappeared within the leafy canopy.
The young man sent his disciples on their way and he prayed.
Inclusion of prompt words or not, this was an amazing continuation and I'm delighted it made it.
Deleteimagery so vivid I could almost see it.
DeleteThe Hulder Nymph
ReplyDelete“I won’t have it, ya dumb clot, sleeping with that young trollop, not in my house.”
“Momma, please. She took me to the forest ‘round midnight, under the eyes of the moon we said our vows. We repeated ‘em three times, and after the third we danced and she said we were married!”
“Poppycock. Nothing but a half-naked seductress and not a day older than sixteen. You know better, boy. She’s not a hulder run-away, is she? Her daddy will tar ‘n feather ya if he catches her here.”
“No needing you fret. She’s gonna take care of him tonight.”
Oh this is (sort of) Thomas Hardy gone bad, and wonderful with it! (And only now do I check out 'hulder' and find I'm a little awry.) Thanks Dan, for the mind journey.
DeleteWhat a wonderfully unique submission this turned out to be. Totally believable dialogue is probably the highlight of this tale, although those descriptions are none too shabby.
Deleteevocative writing of a time and place and people who had simpler but just as trauma ridden lives. Great one.
DeleteCripplegate Junction/Part 127 - Testament In Transit
ReplyDelete"First, dear chap, we need a writing implement. Tail feather of that albatross hanging from your neck will do nicely. My little joke. I realize the bird is simply symbolic."
The Station Master smiled.
"Second, some form of writing fluid. Coagulated blood, perhaps? It will take a while to clot, of course, but we're in no rush."
He draped an arm around Clive Bailey's shoulders.
"And third, transcript of your final wishes...bequests and such. Just for the record, you understand. I doubt it will be required any time soon."
Another disconcerting smile.
"Then again, old boy, you never know."
--------------------------------------------------------
To read the earlier installments (a suggestion only) which led to this point in the tale please visit:
http://www.novareinna.com/cripplegate.html
A link to return to "The Prediction" can be found on the site. Thank you.
---------------------------------------------------------
Each episode od this, just lately, has descended further into the dark ...
DeleteIn an effort to bring this serialization to a believable and satisfactory conclusion, I fear it is indeed sliding further into the dark side. I do hope I'm able to get Marmalade out unscathed since I have many ideas for his own series (perhaps with Poppy as his companion if she can make it too) and would hate to lose that enigmatic feline anyway. He definitely counts among the most favourite characters I have ever created.
Deletedefinitely dark but definitely save Marmalade, he's one hell of a great character, all but leaps off the screen.
DeleteThis instalment is an object lesson in how to write dark and carry the reader ever onward with it.
Change of focus [264]
ReplyDeleteDespite that first reaction – shock and unnecessary at that, since her green eyes were so familiar – this third instance of incest didn’t faze John as much as it would most. At this precise moment he was more pained by the sharp spine protruding from his pillow.
Ignoring her stare – avidity clotted like double cream – he wriggled, extricated the offending feather then said ‘When, and where, were you born?’
‘Italy. I’m thirty-one.’
‘Your father?’
‘Petzincek.’
Same as his birthname. Dismissive, ‘There were several brothers, cousins. My father was dead by 1980 –’
She sat up on one elbow. ‘And his father?’
Oh you would choose to leave it there, wouldn't you? I love that at a most crucial moment, the focus was on an intrusive feather. We simply must be provided with more!
Deletethat's the problem with 100 word stories or instalments,they end too soon.
DeleteFavour refused [Threshold 192]
ReplyDeleteRaven feebly gesticulated, hand feathering the rumpled sheets. Hoarsely, exhausted from his ordeal. ‘Could you. Make sure. He goes.’
I went to the window, looked down, saw Lant emerge.
‘Do you want me to follow him?’
‘Would you. Kill him?’
I stared. ‘In cold blood?’
“Blood” recalled the striped and clotted state of Raven’s back; his saying Lant was not to blame, so why, exactly? ‘You want me to?’
‘No point in following, if not.’
I thought about for a third of a minute. ‘No. Whatever is between you; what he’s done to deserve death, is your problem. Not mine.’
Nicely done. Love that our (still) nameless protagonist doesn't always necessarily acquiesce to Raven. This seems to give her a whole new elevated dimension.
DeleteThat namelessness - it's nowt to do with me; she just hasn't told me yet.
Deleteintrigue abounds as the character develops step by step, the best way.
DeleteChubby the Vampire Slayer
ReplyDeleteMy mother bulked me on sugar, carbs and saturated fats.
She had a theory. Reckoned the worst thing vampire could run into would be a fat dude with a cholesterol laden blood clot oozing slowly down treacle thick molasses of his jugular.
Choke risk apparently.
Her first son died of a heart attack. Her second went into diabetic coma. I’m third time lucky. I’m obese. I waddle when I walk. I ate all the bleedin’ pies.
But I’m a goddamn vampire slayer!
Or I would be if one of them would just hurry up and bite me.
What a delightfully cheeky and humorous piece. Heart attacks...diabetic comas...and now, obesity. Wonder what that mother devoured while pregnant to bring forth such unhealthy issue. Will we get to know of further adventures once this protagonist finally gets bitten? I do hope so.
DeleteUnlike Patricia, this made me squirm, most uncomfortably. All credit to you.
DeleteI received a story from David for my Blood anthology. I am not joking, I was all but lying on my desk laughing so hard I could hardly see straight. It was the kind of humour you see here, utterly brilliantly funny. BTW the story's called Only Vials and Hearses...
Deleteso I loved this too.
Kursaal (Episode One Hundred Two) - "Twittering The Temerarious"
ReplyDeleteFeatherbrained since resuming official duties, Chief Constable Twittering was now relegated to lodging minor infractions...and that only under guidance.
On the third Sunday of every month, however, he returned to the Kursaal to continue investigations into missing persons (and other inexplicable happenings), the confusing details of which continued to clot his thoughts.
Ludmilla Bartók (of whom Twittering was exceedingly fond) escorted him during these junkets, treating him to high tea and counsel before sending him on his way.
Her supervision was merely a stopgap measure until a more satisfactory cessation to the addlepated but intrepid policeman's inquires could be achieved.
---------------------------------------------------------
To read the earlier installments (a suggestion only) which led to this point in the tale, please visit:
http://www.novareinna.com/kursaal.html
A link to return to "The Prediction" can be found on the site. Thank you.
---------------------------------------------------------
NOTE: Chief Constable Twittering and Ludmilla Bartók have both featured in previous episodes.
Lovely richness of word choice in this piece - and subtly-placed prompts.
Deleteone way of keeping his nose out of the affairs, clever one, this!
DeleteESCAPE J.E. Deegan
ReplyDeleteThe Clot attacked last night, the third time this week. I fought them off, but I can’t survive another assault by these slithering aliens that want to annihilate Thearians. And the Clot don’t just kill. They first mangle and mutilate their victims.
I’m the last. I’ve had no communication with Thear’s other colonies.
Night again. The Clot are just yards away. I, however, have an escape. I’m in the mouth of my cave, bathed by a floodlight. The Clot rise up as I raise my left arm and begin the Therian suicide procedure by tickling my armpit with a feather.
I was "Oh my!" and then "What now?" and then holding my breath...and then, came that final reveal. What a jokester you are! Delightful lighthearted submission. Just loved it!
DeleteExcellent build-up of creepy tension.
DeleteI am fortunate enough to have long beautiful poems from Jim Deegan, written for his wife and very personal but so welcome. I am pleased to see you here, and with such a funny piece, too. Good one!
DeleteApologies, Jim - in my hurry to fit in comments I omitted to bid you welcome, which, as one from Antonia's 'stable' you inevitably are.
DeleteSo you are a "newbie?" Well, to this forum anyway if not to the creative art. I would not have guessed from your submission. It seems to fit so seamlessly into what goes on here that I thought you were simply a returnee (is that a word?). Anyway...welcome, welcome. New talent is always such a treat.
DeleteI tried to preview this, but the button was uncooperative. Anyway, here is my effort this week.
ReplyDeleteProsperity
His first two rides before the grand opening of Manhattan’s new subway had been gentile affairs. Proper ladies in feather festooned hats drinking tea and eating delicate biscuits in one car, while gentlemen in tails smoked fat cigars in another. Henry was sure the future belonged to steel. Steel would bring prosperity to those with vision and a better life for all.
That was six months ago. Today, on his third ride with paying customers, Henry decided that if being crammed in with this sweltering clot of humanity was prosperity, he was not interested. Then someone stole his wallet.
There's something very appealing about this tale, even though I cannot precisely identify what.
DeleteOh, I just loved this. Had a wonderful historical flavour and then that conclusion which references events pertinent to just about every human era. Nicely done. Who needs a preview when the final piece is simply this perfect?
Deleteyes, there is a lovely sense of time and place about this, in a most genteel way. Loved it.
DeleteThe sweltering clot of humanity certainly describes many subway rides I’ve taken...
DeleteSandra Davies - Thank you. I usually have no clue about what I want to write until I start throwing words around. This one I decided would be historical in nature.
DeletePatricia Purvis - Thank you. But I would hardly say "perfect", as Antonia points out so well.
Antonia Woodville - Maybe it was a Freudian slip of the pen. But then you and anyone who read it knows it wasn't. I take small pride in usually getting the spelling right. Just when I think I am Daniel Webster himself, I blow an easy one and well, back to Earth Mike. Thanks for the good word and the right one also.
Bill Owens - Back in the day of no car, it was buses for me.
37. The Mad Italian -
ReplyDeleteMy understanding is a clot is something which blocks arteries and so I say those who are blocking the arteries of free government and the will of the people are clots. Featherbrained and often in the third world, the one outside the normal world and the dream world in which they reside, the third world is where nonsense is enacted and called common sense.
On which topic, it has been mentioned I have not commented on a certain US politician. So I will. He is both a clot and a featherbrain. I think that is all I need to say.
I am so "with" this madly insightful Italian that we are obviously on the same plane. Beautiful contrast of the differing meanings of "clot." I think you did the same last week with "rime" and "rhyme," if memory serves. I do hope his visits continue and that you grace us with his wise (and often caustic) comments.
DeleteThanks, Patricia! I feel Leonardo will be around for some time, he drops in and out of my publisher/friend's life, commenting as he goes. He's a politician to his very spiritual bones, methinks! There's no question that it's him when he arrives, not one of my other spirit friends. They are currently driving me mad. Work is done, an anthology completed, others still building, the time is mine but will they tell me which book to work on next???????????? so perhaps I'm not supposed to work on any of them, perhaps it's someone new. (that's a sudden thought.)
DeleteScars
ReplyDelete“Third time this week, Tony.”
I grimaced, more from her rebuke than the pain. She dropped the bullet into a pretty china bowl, the one she always used. It made a dull thud, cushioned by the clotted gore.
Another slug of gin while she sewed me up. I wasn’t numb enough to miss the feathery feeling of her hair on my neck as she leaned in to check her handiwork.
She spoke to fill the silence. “One of these days, somebody’s going to hit something important, ya know.”
I grunted an acknowledgement. Somebody already had.
Yes, it’s late, but Rosie insisted that I sit down and write something anyway...
DeleteWell done Rosie! And late or not, Bill, it's always a joy to read your contributions here.
DeleteAnd I'm later still!
ReplyDeleteThe Adventures of Rosebud, Pirate Princess #111
Trouble on Cloud Mountain
A minute ago Henry flew in, dropped a scrap of silk and wheeled away with his feathers still forwards. The silk said only ‘third parry’ in Georgiana’s script. Natasha read it over my shoulder and took off with our laundry flapping everywhere. Georgiana doesn’t like watching blood clot. She’s an excellent assassin. Time to find the keys to the armoury.
And just as welcome Rosie! Especially with this multi-layered, multi=talented piece.
Delete