With so few – but always strong – participants I have a sense that I am recycling “winners” for the sake of fairness, especially when, in truth, it is hard to decide which I deem “better” than the rest. I trust, however, that you understand this and forgive me if you feel you’ve been overlooked. This week I decided David’s ‘Tangled Roots of War’ intriguing enough to take the top spot, but additionally thank the rest of you for commenting – invaluable if this site is to thrive.
Words for the coming week: industry tall unreliable
Entries by midnight Thursday November 10th, new words posted Friday 11th
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.
I do wish I could return and add what I can to this amazing little corner of magnificent stories but whatever I post in the way of creativity continues to be rejected. Keep that plume of persistence waving, fellow Predictioners.
ReplyDeleteI wish it too, Patricia. Am desperately sorry I know of no way to cure the problem.
Delete[Threshold 412]
ReplyDeleteSimultaneously, we realised our audience had to’ve come from the far side of the still-widening stream. No taller than us an indication they’d some other means of crossing. Were they from a people industrious enough to build? Bridges? Boats?
Raven pointed to where we’d been heading, aiming to indicate. ‘Take us there.’ But sign language, as ever, unreliable. They stepped closer. By-passed us and crowded around the quad bikes, squatting to more closely examine. Beckoning Raven to demonstrate how they worked. Turning to me he murmured, ‘You show them. Better they think you possess more than the useful female attributes.’
ReplyDeleteDas Kapalists
The tall men appeared without warning. Top hats venting steam. The ease with which they seized the means of production made them barons of every industry. They were designed to be efficient. The economy was their monopoly. Governments fell. Cogs drove wheels, clamping us in the vicelike grip of mechanical tyranny. So long as their mechanisms were diligently wound each day we were danced to the ticking of their metronome. Surprising then that their mathematical intelligence failed to calculate the inherent risk that the unreliable Worshipful Society of Key Holders and Clock Winders presented.
Oh! So joyous! I see it as a black and white, slightly jerky film, with piano accompaniment.
DeleteThis reminds me of the 1920's b/w silent film about such a society. Nicely done, David!
DeleteChange of focus [490]
ReplyDeleteLurching up from the table Pettinger knew his legs unreliable as his temper. That Aleks was first through the door brought the sort of relief that expresses itself in anger; one he was able to immediately dispel in recognition of Aleks’ industry-size guilt as he hurtled along the hall to hug and be hugged. Never had ‘Dad!’ sounded so good.
Philly, more circumspect, followed. Tiptoed tall enough to kiss Pettinger’s cheek. Spotted her brother beyond his shoulder and said, ‘The police are on their way.’
Pettinger growled, ‘I am the police!’
‘You’re one of those they’re after.’
Ben’s bad news?
Great, and unexpected, finish to this, Sandra.
DeleteA DETOUR – PART V
ReplyDeleteArthur’s deepening dread momentarily weakened under the dazzling beauty of the dancing girls. But that image was born of his now unreliable senses. It quickly dissipated, and Arthur feared that upon escaping the clearing and circulating this experience, people would think it a tall tale conceived within an overactive imagination.
Dread swiftly returned. Arthur’s industrious mind found no sanctuary from it.
The inner circle of girls presented bloody smiles and raised their knives. They advanced on Arthur, who, trapped within a cocoon of swirling white dresses, helplessly shivered.
His screams tore through the forest but fell short of the town.
I'm wondering whether he'll escape from this.
DeleteSorry! we've been moving my office from here to there and - i#'s been rough, writing this through a circle if black and yellow warning signs... I hate migraines!!!!
ReplyDelete