artist, iron, perfume
Usual rules: 100 words
maximum (excluding title) of flash fiction or poetry using all three words 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.
Thresholds new [25]
ReplyDelete‘”Owe”? I wasn’t aware I owed anyone!’
‘He claimed you responsible. Named you as his due.’
‘He named me Eynd – ‘
Raven, twitched, suspicious, ‘Ironed?’
I spelt it. ‘E Y N D. Rhymes with hind. East Anglian word for water-smoke.’
Saying it perfumed me with conflict. Pricked my skin, my eyes; tore at my throat. Recollection flared. Flayed. ‘He, he was Egesa, which meant terror. An artist who painted with blood and fire and screaming. For what did he claim I owe him?’
Older cousin, face serious, ‘The life of his favourite wife.’
Wow what an information packed 100 words, Sandra. Brilliant use of the prompt words too.
DeleteSandra, what a powerful combination of words in the paragraph beginning with ' Saying it perfumed...'
ReplyDeleteThe Circus of Poetic Justice
ReplyDeleteA travelling troupe came to town and set up their tent on the heath. Bring your drunkards and wife beaters, they proclaimed. They were brought, hands tied behind their backs, pleading innocence. Jenni watched as her abusive father was engineered into a gory work of art. The fearsomely beautiful artist used iron for her implements of torture. Perfume was sprayed in the tent when her father's guts were finally spilled in swirling patterns on the sawdust.
From that day on Jenni mimicked the art on spiders and mice, dreaming of the day she'd run away to join the Big Top.
Cleverly written imagery, David. As always you have created something horrifically entertaining. Brilliant.
DeletePoetic justice indeed! Women can be brutal, but justifiably so in this episode.
DeleteI love this stuff! So well done, David.
ReplyDeleteDINNER TIME
ReplyDeleteAn iron-colored sky mercilessly flooded the land with a fierce torrential rain, and the wind, a howling banshee armed with invisible daggers, brutally gauged great rents in the earth and turned the landscape into a hideous rendering created by some deranged artist.
But that wasn’t the worst of it.
From these rents in the earth emerged worms. Freed by Nature’s wrath from centuries of imprisonment deep in the soil, millions of them, drawn by the perfume of fear, were slowly crawling up the small hill that was our final refuge.
All hope had abandoned us; we would become worms’ meat.
A grim tale well told i particularly liked the image of the 'iron-clad sky' and the the' howling banshee' wind.
DeleteThe Secret Armadillo Soldier (SAS) Diaries - entry 274
ReplyDeleteWith Aggie pointing out things, Sarg provided the artistry to minimise the perfume of death-rot wafting through the levels, then she moved, covered, and re-sealed what they didn’t want on view.
They were dusting themselves down and taking a second look at the hole they’d widened when their companion returned with two, identical ‘Dillos.
‘Dang,’ groaned Aggie, ‘Billy an’ Wally Snoutbottom, I guessed it’d be them.’
‘What? Poor digging skills, can’t take orders, tell me Aggie.'
‘Nah, nothing like that Sarg. They’re Iron-Paw’s kinfolk, really good earthmovers and stonemasters, it’s just they’re twins. I kin never tell the buggers apart.’
Such great dialog, Terrie, and I had a good chuckle upon reading "Wally Snoutbottom." What a terrific name!
ReplyDelete