Another week of nigh-on inseparable, but, for me, Terrie’s ‘Stirrings’, detailing Bailey’s activities pipped Jim and Antonia at the post. Nevertheless I thank you all for continuing to contribute to what has become a slim-line offering of predictions. No blame intended – I am too often finding it hard to find time + impetus, and am acutely aware of a general slump in most writing sites. To the extent that I’ve told myself the time might’ve come to put the site to rest. Which seems a shame, but if there’s anyone willing to take over, better to do so while there’s still some activity.
Words for the coming week: poet scoop twinge
Entries by midnight Thursday October 27th new words hopefully posted Friday 28th
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.
Yours was the right choice, Terrie. Congrats!
ReplyDeleteThankyou
Deletecongrats, Terrie!
DeleteBrava Terrie!
ReplyDeleteThe poet stopped, quill held just above the parchment. The words, which had been flowing like water, were now unable to form, and thus, unable to find the pen. Long minutes passed, without any movement at all. Finally he laid the now dry quill to the side, and felt the twinge in the offended shoulder. Perhaps a visit to his muse would help. He gathered his sharpened scoop and knife, and started towards the celler door. He could almost hear the screams, and hoped that they would refresh his words once more. Everyone should should have a such a muse.
ReplyDelete
DeleteDave, I like that!!!
Successfully leaving the reader to imagine much worse! Well done, Dave
DeleteThank you, Sandra and Antonia. Having talents like you enjoy my little stories makes my day.
DeleteCleverly done Dave. Starts out quietly but as soon as you read ' he gathered his sharpened scoop ' you just know it's going to end with a dark twist.
DeleteSuch a quiet, gentle read that turns into horror. Nicely done, Dave!
DeleteSandra, this is an ongoing problem. The poor old blog has been here and there and everywhere and still persists in existing, so I feel there are still more surprises to come. I would hate to see it go but I'm not capable of taking it on, just not up to it in this technological world, I come from the shadows...where all sorts live, not all from the depths of my imagination... (LOL)
ReplyDeleteAnd I'm uncomfortably aware my imagination is very much NOT from the shadows this site requires! (Am struggling enough with creating sufficient tension from the murders in my novels.) I too would be sorry to see Prediction end, but feel it's only fair to give others a chance to take over.
Delete[Threshold 410]
ReplyDeleteDespite more than a twinge of fear – off-set by the thrill of delight at Raven’s statement of ownership – my wayward mind scooped up a long-ago, pre-Raven memory. I saw our predicament as theatrical; operatic. The audience to our sexual coition now become background chorus silhouetted against a fiery sky, adding poetry to our impassioned cries; the crescendo of ever-mounting, brass-blown noise echoing mutual orgasm.
Then Raven’s muttered curse; the clenching of his muscles in preparation for action, cleared my mind.
Front stage we were shrunk and inconsequential as a road accident. Rags and bones, going nowhere; only fit for scrap.
One heck of an opening paragraph in a very entertaining entry, Sandra.
Deletevery nicely done! Your pieces are worth reading, whether they are crime or horror!
DeleteChange of focus [488]
ReplyDeleteEventually, London having scooped the last remnants of biriani from the aluminium cartons, Pettinger dismissed the final twinge of guilt at attacking a man – a lad! – when he was down (though kindness, food and beer should’ve more than balanced that out!) and, with more insistence than hitherto, demanded, ‘Where is my son? Where’s Aleks?’
Were he a poet or a painter, he’d know many more words to delineate and describe the depth and variety of shades of pink which passed across the face opposite him. He was police enough to recognise scared defiance. To know ‘Don’t know’ was a lie.
The intricate layers to your characters Sandra make them so believable i swing between opposing emotions about them with each new episode. Keeps me hooked. Brilliant.
DeleteSoul-Sworn
ReplyDelete‘Some call me fool, or poet, but I am Bard, The Chronicler: Word-Threader to Thorgrim, Ruler of Under-Earth, Lord of the Sky and Sovereign of the quick and departed.
Be ye living, or dead, hear my words.
Recall your oath sworn on the Chalice of Souls. Your King demands your attendance and will brook no twinge of regret in your allegiance to him, no wavering of fealty.
Remember that in this life, or the one that follows, I can twist your words, scoop up your thoughts, cast enchantment about you, or doom your soul if his majesty commands it.’
"Word-threader" a fascinating concept.
DeleteFool, poet or Bard, this fellow in nobody to mess with. As always, so nicely done, Terrie.
Deletethis is well in mid and mode, like it a lot.
DeleteA DETOUR – PART III
ReplyDeleteArthur Irwin stared into the clearing, enthralled by the daintily twirling girls. Watching them, words of poet J.E. Deegan invaded his mind:
Pretty girls in pretty dresses,
Doing what no-one confesses.
Brushing twinges of foreboding aside, Arthur approached the dancers, who formed two circles, one within the other. Each girl in the outer circle held a red rose.
He paused to admire the girls, spinning and pivoting with flawless grace and finesse. One dropped her flower as she twirled by; Arthur quickly scooped it up and returned it to her.
She smiled and his jaw dropped. Her teeth were blood-red.
I slightly fear Arthur too unworldly to escape enchantment. Much like the 'twinges of foreboding.'
DeleteLove how you inserted yourself so cleverly into this weeks offering. Poor Arthur does seem headed for a sticky (or should i say bloody) end. .. Me ... at the first sign of girls dancing in a spooky forest ... I would have been running very, very, quickly in the opposite direction.
Deletedefinitely got carried away but here goes...
ReplyDeletenext instalment + a bit...
ReplyDeleteI look alive, I feel dead.
Here’s no such thing as a truly neutral rat, we aren’t built that way. We’ve grown and grown into the screaming mass of creatures running around this planet. There’s them as can see we’ll eat ourselves out of existence… hey, who cut the broadband?
Rat Two made his careful way through the battered shattered laboratories, He knew he was trespassing, knew he had to be quick to get the hell out before someone came with axes to cut and hammers to bang and SCREAMS to tell the world what the world don’t wanna know – it’s too late for humanoids. The giant breed of rats has arrived.
He also knew it was time to scoop up every scrap of sustainable food, or at least sustaining him if nothing and no one else. The mere thought of there not being anybody else sent twinges he could hardly dismiss clear down his sharply protruding spine. He needed to eat. The poet could come later.
What poet? Well, someone had to immortalise the folding of the world as we knew it and finding out, which I came to tell you, they will tolerate – out of fear – the existence of the rats. He could not begin to understand how the fine dressed female rats had taken over all the leading roles in ‘life’ while the males of the race allowed females to be slaughtered. Until he saw anything different, that’s the way he would continue to see the world. The rest is in the great God’s hands, if He exists. Does He?
Definitely inspired this piece Antonia!!
DeleteYour being "carried away" was very entertaining, Antonia.
ReplyDelete