The number of entries this slightly shortened week, but nevertheless all welcome for variety and entertainment. Perhaps simultaneously daunted by undoubted winner Holly's 'Thirsty' [8], as I was, or Jim's 'The Worm [III], but also good to see Antonia inspired to fiction again.
Words for the coming week: scrawny soil stuff
Entries by midnight Thursday 23rd March new words posted 24th
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
Well done Holly, Jim and Antonia masterful writing as always.
ReplyDeleteThank you so much! And well done to Jim and Antonia. :)
Deletethanks and congrats!
DeleteThe Secret Armadillo Soldier (SAS) Diaries - entry 184
ReplyDelete‘I am the one who speaks against those who oppress us,’ Moses said softly,
‘Tortured in the stuffy stink-holes of the rat army and tossed aside for dead still I did not lose hope.’
One of the gerbils stamped its hind feet.
A murmur rippled among the listeners, and a scrawny gerbil squeaked loudly, ‘Its him it’s the one they call Moishee, the truth-speaker.’
More feet stamped.
Moses lifted himself best as he was able, ‘Yes I am Moses and I entreat you join these warriors as free rodents.’
Fine dust rose as every gerbil stamped the soil rhythmically.
I love how there's a hushed feeling to this, a solemn weight as the gerbils listen and then lend their support.
DeleteMoses is quite the motivator. I agree with Holly on the solemn weight of the piece.
DeleteIt's the speaking softly that adds to the power of this.
DeleteLike John, I pictured Moses as quite the persuasive speaker. Looks like the gerbils have a good leader. Well done, Terrie.
DeleteExtract from the Encyclopedia of Unusual Substances
ReplyDeleteS – Scrawny Soil Stuff
Scrawny soil stuff
Rusted rigid and rough
Torn twisted and tough
Easily elastic enough
Perforated punctured and puffed
Bedraggled in beautiful bluff
Hissing a howling huff
So scantily scratchy and scuffed
Shucked suppuration of sluff
Supernatural subliminal scruff
Scary when solidified stuff
Soiled and scrawny and stuffed
Such a creative approach, David! Well done!
DeleteI love the rhythm and sound of this piece. Very clever. :)
DeleteCreative and clever.
DeleteI can sense the joy with which you composed this, David - thank you!
DeleteThe Hopeless
ReplyDeleteThe scrawny cypress fought the strong wind, its thin branches nearly brushing the ground.
“The beauty of meager soil,” Grandfather said, “is the roots grow deep, in search of nutrients and water.”
Junior stuffed his hands in his pockets and kicked at the dust with his tiny boots. Tears streaked his hollow cheeks. “But I don’t want to go.”
“Neither did I, at your age.” Grandfather stood on trembling legs - his eyesight nearly gone. He swiped at his own tears. “But there just isn’t enough food.”
Junior hoisted his small bundle and refused to say goodbye.
I'm wondering where Junior is off to... a place from which he can return, like Grandfather?
DeleteA sad goodbye! I wonder why Grandfather is the only one to see him off, and also hope that Junior will return.
DeleteHeartbreaking in its lack of choice.
DeleteTHE WORM V: THE KILLING
ReplyDeleteMemory returned Gork to the night of the killing.
He skirted the hole, laughing at Potter’s feeble attempt to create a trap. Dodging an awkwardly thrown rock, he grabbed Potter by the throat and beat him with his stone-stuffed sock until the Worm’s face collapsed into a bloody featureless pulp.
He kicked the body into the hole then filled it with loose soil and Potter’s pile of rocks. A few well-placed scrawny bushes fully returned the hill to its pre-Potter state.
Now, three years later, Gork again faced the hill, beckoned by an eerily menacing change in his annual dream.
Nothing like a collapsed face to get the senses tingling. This was a nicely written piece Jim. I'm sure Gork has nothing to worry about concerning the change in his annual dream... or maybe so.
DeleteI'm not surprised his dreams disturb him.
DeleteWeaponized Coffee [#9]
ReplyDeleteI’ve already hit the ground before Aries launches into the air. The dragons’ frenzied departure stirs the soil, eddies of red rising to surround us. As I draw my daggers, a horn stabs past my head — clearly, my unicorn’s unhappy about the blinding dust-storm.
There. A scrawny form rises from behind the rocks, blood-red spikes jutting from throat and knobbly head.
“Bloody demons.” I hear a rasp as Rach draws her sword.
Rustling sounds as Felicia digs through her stuff-filled bags. “Sun bombs? No. Percolator?”
“Percolator?” I whip my head in her direction. “Going to coffee them to death?”
Felicia probably should have went with the sun bombs. A clever, action filled piece.
DeleteStrong, tense writing here, Holly, that creates the perfect mood.
DeleteStrong sense of battling here.
DeleteThe signs were all the way down the road, following the line of new grass which radiated with brightness that hurt the eyes but declared a richness of joy for spring coming at last. The scrawny trees looked as if they would be stuffed with leaves ere long, drawing on the newly turned soil to enrich their roots. It took a little while for me to realise why the roads were empty and I was alone appreciating the sunshine and new growth.
ReplyDeleteThe signs said STOP GRAVEL EXTRACTION
Not STOP GRAVE EXTRACTION which no one took any notice of…
One little letter can make a huge difference. I liked your spring-like descriptions.
DeleteYour first paragraph flows SO smoothly along, Antonia, and is SO expressive.
DeleteThe Mad Italian
ReplyDeleteThe heartbreak, the loss of life, the dead children: when all this warring is done, will there be uncontaminated soil for food to be grown again? Will there be enough strength for the scrawny bodies to take what stuff they need to carry on?
We on our side of life can only stand back and wait for common sense to return to people’s hearts and minds, when there are enough in each army who are sick of the slaughter, who seek stuff to keep them walking and talking, it will end. Before then, we grieve with them
I fear common sense has forever been dismissed, Antonia. How the world can stand by while this travesty takes place baffles me.
DeleteHeartbreak abounds. And when it's over, the pain will remain. So sad.
Delete[Threshold 388]
ReplyDeleteA cage, its bars silver-coloured screw threads, dusted with the sand they'd drilled through had literally arisen around us. I could not fathom how: the section of rust-red soil we'd halted the quad bikes on chosen at random; they – whoever 'they' were – could hardly have anticipated our arrival –
'Unless the bikes emit signals, or some such stuff.'
Raven, reading my mind.
As I then read his, judging me scrawny enough to squeeze between them.
Immediately, 'No way! Not on my own!'
Then, realising neither of us had spoken out loud, we wondered who was now reading us? And how?
Mind reading seems to be in the air. That would suck.
DeleteI sense something sinister afoot, Sandra. Love that first paragraph.
ReplyDeleteChange of focus [464]
ReplyDeleteThe desk sergeant at the police station, faced with a green-eyed over-confident urchin, jeans bedecked with soil and other leafy stuff and claiming in some language not quite English to be the son of John Pettinger was joke enough, until someone recognised him, called him Aleks and took him to the canteen for a Coke. An hour later, a scrawny young woman, tiger-eyed and angry, arrived. 'I've come to collect Aleks.'
'Aleks is being looked after. He's John Pettinger's son. I can't let him go with you without authorisation.'
'Ask Aleks.'
Aleks, willingly complied. 'She's going to be my Mum.'
Well, my theory of Aleks being missing (in a sinister way) didn't pan out. But I'm glad he's okay.
ReplyDelete