As Antonia so rightly says, each of us brings here, every week, well-worded stories to meet whatever triple-worded prompt I throw at you (this week courtesy of a Seamus Heaney poem). More often than not there are two or three which have a marginally greater impact than some of the others. Often others' comments open my mind to other interpretations, And sometimes, as I have said, it's nigh on impossible to separate them and is a source of some embarrassment that in choosing one, it might appear the rest are rejected. (Even though I know we're all grown(-ish) up enough not to be too hurt.)
This week the choice is exceptionally difficult. All are outstandingly, magically written. Jim's, without doubt, is the most horrifying; the final line of John's 'A hunting we will go' would've propelled it to top spot, but in the end (and I've re-written this three times) I'm picking Perry's 'Port in a storm'.
New words for the coming week are: pilgrim plait roadblock
Entries by midnight Thursday 4th February, new words posted Friday 5th
Usual rules: 100 words maximum (excluding title) of flash fiction or
poetry using all three words above in the genres of horror, fantasy, science
fiction or noir. Serialised fiction is, as always, welcome. All variants and
uses of the words and stems are fine. Feel free to post links to your stories
on Twitter or Facebook or whichever.
Congrats, Perry! And well-deserved mention, John. :)
ReplyDeleteWay to go, Perry. An intriguing and well written entry.
Deletebrilliant writing, Perry. and John too, it was difficult choosing my own favourites so I symnpathise with Sandra making a choice.
ReplyDeleteWell deserved top o' the podium win, Perry. I do hope last week was just the first installment of an intriguing continuation.
DeleteThank you both and Sandra for the pick ... and everyone for providing such excellent writing that it forces me to work harder and harder each challenge. I don't always measure up, but I love the trying.
ReplyDeleteLooks like the "Delete" button has made a reappearance.
ReplyDeleteOne born every minute
ReplyDeleteThe drifter wore his hair in a plait halfway down his back. That, along with an ill-fitting plaid vest added to his mystique. Not so the faded Pilgrim’s hat. The hat exuded sternness and offered roadblocks to those who might elsewise socialize.
At a pub on the outskirts of Boston, a patron spoke. “What’s with the hat, dude?”
“This hat has been traced to the maiden voyage of the Mayflower in 1621. I won it in a poker game many years ago.”
“Cool, I’ll give you fifty bucks for it.”
At his Ferrari, the drifter donned another hat and set off.
this is sharply observed and very tightly written, John, clever stuff.
DeleteThis is disturbingly believable these days. Very astutely written with humour and camouflage.
DeleteOh, the gullibility of folk!! Perfectly-titled, John.
DeleteSounds like a very clever man. Love the idea of a Ferrari full of interesting hats.
DeleteI guess the hats of con men come in all shapes and sizes. Sounds like this one has a particularly lucrative scheme. Nifty and entertaining little tale, John...as always.
DeleteCripplegate Junction/Part 255 - O Brother, Where Art Thou? (Redux)
ReplyDeleteLike an unyielding roadblock, George stood his ground on the tracks as the train chugged closer. Miss Constance, resigned to the fact that her brother was probably not going to move, recalled memories of their childhood together.
He had tugged on her plaits like the reins of a horse, hid her cherished copy of The Pilgrim's Progress and always scarfed down the buttered teacakes, leaving only a plateful of crumbs. In short, he was a horrible little boy...but, her baby brother and she loved him.
Constance blinked away a threatening tear and when she looked again, George was gone.
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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.
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Thank goodness Cripplegate is back. I've missed it. Your prompt use in this one was superb. It's almost as if you bribed Sandra for good words... a really top notch entry.
Deleteoh I like this instalment,Cripplegate lives on... and leaves a mystery for the next instalment. George is not a bad chap, is he> Or is he...
Delete[Thanks, Patricia, anytime ;-)]
DeleteAnd with a sister as disapproving as Constance, who can blame him? But I trust we'll now have to go in search.
Oooh nothing made me angrier than when my brother would pull on my hair from the backseat of our van. :) Love the compelling first line.
DeleteFeral
ReplyDelete“She can’t have survived this long on her own.”
Child eyes darted back and forth between the speakers.
“She eats like a rat,” Caolin opined.
“Them’s fightin’ words, pilgrim,” Dooney parroted an old movie.
Sally watched her gnaw at the plaited bread. “I had to pour the water into my hands so she could lap it up. What’s with the roadblocks?”
The child hissed at Dooney’s caress before settling down to sleep.
“See?” Jenny accused.
“She stays,” Mary decreed.
The fire crackled and spat, throwing up a shower of sparks which reflected in the one open eye.
“That’s just freaky.”
I love a good feral child story. You made it come alive. Nicely done.
Deletethat's a beautifully understated feral story, which cries out to be ccntinued.
DeleteLike John and Antonia, I find this enormously appealing.
DeleteSounds like I'd sleep with one eye open too.
DeleteWhat a perfect title is "Feral" for this story. Well-crafted and not a single word out of place.
DeleteTo Be A Pilgrim
ReplyDeleteFor decades, Millie had scrimped and sacrificed to participate in The Pilgrimage. She'd worked at the government factory until her fingertips bled, plaiting wire-thin filaments by hand into cable-thick braids for underground utilities. All worth it now.
The journey was rife with roadblocks. Once thriving towns razed during hostilities over two millennia before had to be navigated. Often, guides were obliged to plot alternative routes.
But eventually, Millie knelt before the Shrine of the Prophet. She gazed upon the incomprehensible word etched into one of the stones comprising the circular mosaic and sensed the promise of the legendary statement:
"IMAGINE"
WOW!!!
DeleteEven if I wasn't a John Lennon fan, I'd love this concise tale full of mystique and reverence.
DeleteLove the job description.
DeleteThere you go, making me think again. I thought it might be Lennon's shrine, but I looked it up to be sure. Very entertaining, P.
DeleteA striking and memorable piece. I also enjoyed the job description, though I imagine that'd be quite terrible.
DeleteChange of focus [411]
ReplyDeleteFaced with triple-faced misunderstanding – the punk-haired journalist pretending pious as a pilgrim, Aleks' forehead plaited with uncertainty; surprised at her apparent thievery, and John's conflicted, conscience-led disapproval masking pleasure in his son's mangling of language, (and, no doubt, remembered pleasure from having Stepfuckingcart share his bed) the hopes Sally Vicksen had carefully harboured – that he'd come to view her as partner for life – hit the roadblock of reality.
With dignity, she gently set the second egg back in the dish. 'I hope you'll find someone better equipped than her to teach your son right from wrong, because he deserves it.'
Oh love this - for the imagination, humour, and crafty insight ... and for the name Stepfunkingcart.
DeleteA dearth of punctuation in this - apologies!
DeleteWow, what an opening sentence. I too liked the little addition to Stepcart's name.
Deletethere may be a dearth of punctuation but - it works and that's all that matters. The imp[act of that sentence is amazing.
DeleteLovely phrasing in this with 'the punk-haired journalist pretending pious as a pilgrim' and 'Aleks' forehead plaited with uncertainty.'
DeleteWhen all else fails, there is hopefully always dignity to fall back on. Sally Vicksen pulled this one off to perfection.
DeleteDisillusion [Threshold 334]
ReplyDeleteMendit's acolytes dismounted, painfully-rehearsed synchronicity all too evident. Their black pilgrim-hooded garments sent my mind to picture Raven similarly garbed – he'd disappear within such shadowed folds! (And were the plaited leather belts, slung below bulging beer-guts, untied there'd be room for me to hide within; clamped against his more slender loins; room to manoeuvre).
With unconvincing, wide-gait swagger, copied from a thousand episodes of 'Roadblock', they passed. either side of Mendit. Confidence leaked as they perceived Raven not as far away as they'd assumed.
Mendit himself remain silent. Unmoving.
Raven, eyes narrowing, stepped between them.
Looked, laughed, exclaimed, 'He's plastic!'
Well, that explains Mendit's lack of movement. Now, just the acolytes must be dealt with.
Deleteoh that clever last sentence, saving half a page of description!
DeleteLoved the phrasing 'Confidence leaked' and I'm very intrigued about the why/how/what now? following Raven's discovery. :)
DeleteThese installments always come complete with some element of surprise and this one is no exception.
DeleteWhat a marvelous opening paragraph, Sandra! The description presented is expertly constructed. A good read!
DeleteA Witch of the West
ReplyDeleteThe Pilgrim rode a palomino, golden coat and white mane. Beneath the brim of her Stetson her long blond hair hung down her back in an intricate three stranded plait.
Her six guns were imbued with dark magic, pentagrams carved on their ivory handles, bullets of potent alchemy. When she reached the roadblock of covered wagons she raised them high. “Let me pass and avoid a massacre,” she hollered at the sheriff.
Two dozen rifle barrels poked out from the canvass of the wagons. The sun baked the sands, shimmering her in its haze. Vultures circled in expectation.
And cue Ennio Moroconi ...
DeleteI don't think I'd mess with this lady Pilgrim. Her dark magic seems much to powerful for mere rifles. Nicely done, David.
DeleteI wonder who came up with calling them six guns? A really great term. Loved the vultures at the end, though they think they are circling forthe pilgrim, I'm pretty sure the vultures are mistaken.
DeleteDefinitely cue lonely, desolate, shiver inducing music to go with the lonely, desolate and shiver inducing storyline.
DeleteBeautiful imagery! Loved the description of the pilgrim's guns and the sun baking the sands.
DeleteThis was descriptive perfection. What a magnificent choice of words to paint such a vivid picture.
DeleteFROG HUNT
ReplyDeleteThe toddler sat on the floor waiting for Mammy to be distracted.
She eyed the pretty round tin. If she had been 30 years older she’d have recognized the man with the rake from Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress on the lid, but fate hadn’t hit her with that roadblock to the joys of reading quite yet.
She’d failed to open the tin previously … but today she had a good feeling.
Making a loose plaint of his chubby index and middle fingers, she wrenched the lid off with a mighty effort, spilling an adventure of buttons all over the floor.
“PAULA!!”
Oh yes! "roadblock to the joys of reading", and the button tin: you've tapped into my childhood here, Perry.
DeleteI certainly would have been intrigued by a button tin. Very entertaining, Perry.
Deletethe joys of a button tin.. we have a round one in the shop ... lovely memory inducing piece.
DeleteLoved the phrase 'spilling an adventure of buttons all over the floor.' Also this reminds me of my children SO MUCH. :)
DeleteI hope mommy doesn't spoil the adventure awaiting Paula. A very enjoyable read, Perry.
DeleteThis was an enchanting glimpse into the world of a child, where everything is shiny and bright as a new button.
DeleteThrough the Pilgrim's Gate [5]
ReplyDeleteWe’re ushered through the Pilgrim’s Gate by armed figures in plaited veils. Sweat dampens my dress, and despite Nuarthan’s warning, I look at the fires as we pass. I stumble, bile rising in my throat, but he moves beside me, taking my hand.
“Save your sympathy, Princess. They’re the monsters you should worry about, not Mireya’s kin.”
“The roadblock—?”
“Serves to keep them back. They’re drawn to the magic here.”
My stomach churns. “But they’re people.”
“Not anymore. Haven’t you seen one of the Bloodforged before?”
“The what?”
“Gods above, Princess,” Nuarthan growls. “How’d you expect to survive out here?”
It appears that the princess has a lot to learn. She's best stay close to Nuarthan. Much suspense in this, Holly.
DeleteSo much depends on Nuarthan's tolerance.
DeleteHolly, this is wonderful. What a great opening sentence.
Deletehow to introduce a strange world without pages of description... a writing lesson on its own!
DeleteThis reminds me somewhat of the relationship between Daenerys Targaryren and Ser Jorah Mormont in "Game of Thrones." Love the word "Bloodforged" to describe a certain set of people.
DeleteA CONTINUATION
ReplyDeleteI reached for my face… felt nothing. And when one hand couldn’t find the other, I realized I had not hands, nor face, nor any body part.
Yet, time must exist here. I count, and if time doesn’t occupy the space between my silent numbers, what does?
But of what matter is time here?
A threefold enigma has plaited itself into my inanimate existence and has created roadblocks I fear are insurmountable: Where am I; why am I here; what I have become?
Am I nothing but consciousness… an amorphous pilgrim adrift in an inanimate darkness?
And… am I alone?
Applause for sustaining this, Jim, and that final question continues to reverberate in my mind - I can't decide on the least scary option.
DeleteWell, Jim, this is certainly well done. Be careful, or we're going to figure out what a great writer you are.
Deletethe questions are scarily in-depth and would occupy many hours of serious contemplation and will haunt me for some time. Fantastic clarity of writing here, Perry.Thank you.
DeleteDefinitely a haunting and fascinating piece. I'm also uncertain if it'd be better to be alone or not in this place.
DeleteWhat a nightmare!!! And what a gorgeous definition is "amorphous pilgrim." Like Holly, I found this both haunting and fascinating.
DeleteTis only tuesday and already the stoties here are so good. It's so nice not to be Sandra sometimes...
ReplyDeleteThe Joys of Mediumship no 40
ReplyDeleteThe work sessions have been intense this week, with names coming like pilgrims to a grail, a book where they will be immortalised. I have to unravel the plait of their life and achievements, and to avoid the road blocks where the words dry up. The one time they did was when I was writing what verged on the cynical and realised what Mr Disraeli was doing, baiting Mr Gladstone the way they did in Parliament, very elegantly and very precise and very much not what I wanted, but who am I to argue? He came, he spoke, he left…
Loved the phrase 'with names coming like pilgrims to a grail, a book where they will be immortalised.'
Delete'unravel the plait of their life and achievements' is just one of many catchy phrases, Antonia.
DeleteYou gotta love a guy who says what he needs to and leaves. I'm sure many hang around a little too long.
DeleteI have always found Mr. Disraeli to be a most fascinating character. I can only imagine how his baiting of Mr. Gladstone must have gone down.
DeleteStop The Week; I Want To Get Off 135
ReplyDeleteIt’s taken the best part of a week to get a battery, every roadblock imaginable was raised against us, including a ‘favour; where 1 hour became 4… but journeys through friendships are pilgrimages at the best of times. The battery is installed… I have to unplait the tangle of cables and get the printer to the computer clogs now I have a car to take me there… and still the rain and the cold and the sad shops remain. A few changes, flooring becoming a tattoo parlour, fish and chips into a Greek restaurant : first hints of change.
Another excellent phrase with 'journeys through friendships are pilgrimages at the best of times.' Always fascinating to see how places change over time.
DeleteAs ever, it is your skill at smoothly weaving prompts into delightfully-expressed details of the ups and downs of your everyday I most admire.
DeleteThe new tatoo parlor should come in handy if you decide to get inked up.
DeleteOh no....what sacrilege, turning a chippy into a Greek restaurant. I have many happy childhood memories of enjoying well-vinegared and well-salted fish and chips from newspaper, not to mention a healthy sprinkling of crackling.
DeleteThe Mad Italian (189)
ReplyDeleteThis day we learn that the military pilgrim who became a beacon, an inspiration to thousands, has met his road block and has passed on in spirit terms rather than human ones. His determination encouraged other fund raisers to plait their vague thoughts into a solid whole and get out and do, rather than sit back and ignore. And so money has been raised and you have a new, unexpected and perfectly self-effacing normal has entered the annals of history. I would wish for many more. These are people you need at this dark time. RIP Captain Tom.
I wasn't aware that Captain Tom had passed. I'm sure they've set up a special garden for him in the hereafter so he can continue his fund-raising laps. His spirit will be sorely missed.
ReplyDelete