My husband, querying this week’s words displayed on the shelf above my monitor and told they were prompt words, immediately said ‘The yellow Venom weighed 200 kilogrammes.’ He was talking Velocettes, of course (though the one he has is black). Luckily, those who took the challenge more seriously were more skilled, and once again I was vacillating between entries trying to separate a winner. In the end I plumped for the murky originality of Jim’s ‘The bowel and bladder’ and thank you all for your participation.
Words for the coming week: graft ovoid soap
And, because I’ll be away for a few days over next weekend you have an extra week to ponder. Entries by midnight Thursday March 2nd new words Friday March 3rd
Unless Jim, as winner, would be so kind as to suggest three new words on the 24th February?
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.
Well done on your 'bowel and bladder ' entry , Jim.
ReplyDeleteI offer the following as this week's prompts: RAVINE SCURRY TERRIBLE
ReplyDeleteExcellent words, Jim, but for the 24th, when I'll be able to have a go at them too,
DeleteChange of focus [504]
ReplyDeleteVanessa could never be said to be beautiful, not even fifteen years ago; her attraction – impact! – wholly sanguineous, such that blood rose in temperature while simultaneously descending southwards, delivering at a speed which would glut any vampire grafted onto his victim’s throat. But nowadays, her face – still the ovoid Amadeo Modigliani was always drawn to depict; colour currently that of Imperial Leather soap, to Pettinger, comparing it to Philly – young, blonde and goldfinch eyes a-glitter, barely stirred a smile.
You did a masterful job of using the prompt words, Sandra.
DeleteBrilliant imagery here, Sandra . I'm looking forward to a scene where Vanessa and Philly meet .
Delete[Threshold 426]
ReplyDeleteRegrettably, the bike I’d selected for Indigo Eyes’ extra tuition was one of the slowest. Steady enough for an egg and spoon race but lacking the ccs even a moderately fit runner might outpace. In the hope of finding some graft-on gadget which might double its acceleration I scrabbled through the panniers. Found an unidentifiable ovoid lump, wired it on, turned the ignition and was pleased by the promising roar.
Much less so that, as I climbed on, it masked the approach of Indigo Eyes, who mounted pillion and pressed new-soaped fingers over my eyes. With predictable results.
ooh soap in the eyes .. however i have no doubt our heroine is resourceful enough to deal with Indigo Eyes
DeleteThe Secret Armadillo Soldier (SAS) Diaries - entry 214
ReplyDeleteWatching the wailing rat’s, ovoid, scrabbling paw movements, Nigel whispered, ‘what the feck‘s in that powder?’
Ground peyote, datura an’ me secret ingredient, ‘chuckled Cinereus. ‘Once he stops skitterin’ an’ caterwaulin’ ask wot you need to, an’ be quick. The snag with this powder is that it kills yuh. Oh an’ I’d move him out of the way somewhere, fairly smartish. The end aint pretty. Not even soap’ll shift what comes outta both ends then he’ll be so stiff you won’t be able t’ move him; ‘specially if his claws get grafted into the earth with all that rootling.’
It never ceases to amaze (and impress) me how three relatively innocent words can ratchet up such nastiness.
DeleteWho’s Gaslighting Who?
ReplyDelete“You know how you’ve been avoiding me since I slipped on that bar of soap you dropped on the bathroom floor?”
“That never happened.”
“It did. The gash on my head was so big I had to get a skin graft.”
“It never happened. You have to stop saying these things.”
“Why have you been avoiding me then?”
“Because you keep making up stuff about me.”
“How do you account for the skin graft then?”
“I don’t see a skin graft.”
“Right here. On my head.”
“That’s always been there.”
“No, it hasn’t. Not till the soap.”
I never cease to find this sort of confrontation deeply unsettling ... well done, David.
DeleteThis confrontation seems an eternal one.
DeleteCleverly constructed dialogue really captures the attention . Great use of the prompt words too.
DeleteThis comment has been removed by the author.
DeleteTHE WAY OF WAR
ReplyDeleteMoving through the ravine that conveniently served as a trench proved difficult due to the terrible condition of our cargo. Despite orders to be swift, scurrying with corpses swollen with Death was impossible. Instead, we struggled ahead on all fours like crippled crabs, groaning audibly from the weight carried on our backs.
Overhead, shells exploded and machine-gun fire chattered without pause.
My three comrades and I finally reached the pit at the end of the ravine and dumped the bodies upon scores of others. We then turned to make yet another run.
Such is the way of war in 1917.
I've just finished reading Philip Gray's excellent 'Two Storm Wood' - this is similarly evocative of the horror, especially the 'crippled crabs'.
DeleteI agree with Sandra, powerful words and brilliant use of the prompt words.
DeleteSorry, I got a week ahead of myself.
ReplyDeleteTHE EXPERIMENT
ReplyDeleteInmates Rudy Gonzalez, Randy Dobson and Richard Rigia were promised commuted death sentences if they participated in Dr. Nageed Semaj’s experiment. Each foolishly agreed. Unknown to them, the experiment required amputating a leg and arm from Dobson and Rigia then grafting them to Gonzalez’s limbless, ovoid torso.
Days later, Gonzalez awakened in the infirmary. Semaj, smelling of scrubbing soap, believed he was about to become a medical superstar.
Suddenly, Dobson’s and Regia’s limbs furiously attacked each other. Arms rose; hands grasped Gonzalez’s neck and violently squeezed.
Dr. Semaj turned away, swearing he’d never again use subjects who hated each other.
He should've thought more about the consequences, certainly.
DeleteWow I was totally immersed in this little snippet of horror then smiled realizing how cleverly you had insinuated yourself into it - Dr Nageed Semaj. that's Style !
DeleteChange of focus [505]
ReplyDeleteSomewhat ashamed of the admittedly uncharacteristic cruelty of his aversion towards a woman whose terrible ravine of a bed he’d willingly occupied on innumerable occasions (but unable to shake the memory of a scurried secret digging, of a grave in which to inter the body of Raptor, the man she’d killed, despite knowing he’d claimed to be his father, Pettinger nevertheless now urgently needed her gone. Before anyone started to ask awkward questions.
[Threshold 427]
ReplyDeleteAttempting to steer, one-handed, eyes blind and stinging terribly from the soap Indigo Eyes had forced into them, I sought to dislodge him, firstly by raising and thrusting my elbow back into the ravine of his throat, but in so doing my shirt fell open and his fingers instantly scurried to imprison my breasts.
There’s more than one way to deliver a Glasgow kiss: back of my head to the bridge of his nose did the trick, but his subsequent writhing and yells did nothing to ensure the safety of our forward progress.
The Secret Armadillo Soldier (SAS) Diaries - entry 215
ReplyDeleteSarg’s, voice echoed in the terrible starkness of space. What’s yer business?’
The rat salvaged some self-control, ‘To end you, and make this place our own.'
‘No chance, fraidy-rat!’
Behind the rat, somewhere beyond the bend in the tunnel came a scurry of sound and a familiar voice snaked out of the darkness. ‘You’re mistaken, Sarg, you’re truly in the dark and don’t know what’s coming.’
‘Moloch, I should ‘a guessed you’d show up,’ carefully skirting the small hidden ravine Sarg shimmied backward slightly, ‘you an’ your shitty gang are always out for all they can lay claws on.’
' the terrible starkness of space' truly sets the scene for this encounter; another superbly atmospheric episode, Terrie.
ReplyDeleteThe Secret Armadillo Soldier (SAS) Diaries - entry 216
ReplyDeleteThe shocked looks of many around him revealed the old koala’s peculiarities and talent had again been re-evaluated. Many of them backed away as he hobbled by. ‘I’d get on with yer interrogation,’ he said to no one in particular.
A terrible moment of stunned silence followed, then squeaks and scurrying rippled among the gerbils as Atlas and Nigel shoved the rat into nearby undergrowth where it rolled, whimpering and scrabbling, into a shallow ravine of storm-blown leaves.
Hunkered at the lip of the gully, with Atlas beside him, Nigel began his questioning. ‘Jagah’s plan of attack: Tell me.’
Reading this I couldn't help but think of the House of Commons, .
Delete