The ice age happened so quickly we didn’t get the chance to flee.
Category Archives: Flash fiction
One-Liner Wednesday – Duck!
Filed under Alternative history, Flash fiction, nature inspired, Self compositions, Whimsical
Sue Vincent’s Thursday photo prompt: Tranquil #writephoto
It was just after dawn. I was up beside the pond. It was one of those mornings when you can be at peace with the world. The sun through the clouds gave an indigo tint which was most noticeable on the branches that formed the dam. The calm waters set me to thinking of another time when I had visited this spot. A darker time.
My mother had called me to tell me that my stepfather Joe had gone out again. I feel that I should explain about Joe. Both he and my mother believed he was getting a bit absent minded. Neither would face the truth. A visit to the doctor was out of the question. I couldn’t convince them he should go, if only for a check up.
I knew where he might be so I set off for the brook. I met Steve in his garden and trying to appear casual asked if he’d seen Joe. He knew the story but confirmed that Joe hadn’t passed within the last half hour. He offered to take a walk round the village to see if he could find him. I thanked him and hurried on, sure that I was most likely to find him.
I walked out from the trees that bordered the river and there he was. I shouted out so as not to startle him, he was standing on the bank without coat or hat. He turned and his eyes were red. Suddenly his face lit up and putting a finger to his lips motioned me to be quiet and come and sit down. Not speaking, he pointed to the far side of the lake. I followed his gaze knowing that I would not see what he imagined he could see. We had been through this before as he looked for lost memories.
This time though was different. I heard a splash and to my amazement saw what appeared to be the snout of a very large rat. It was moving rapidly , leaving a vee-shaped trail of bubbles. Then I understood his tears, not sadness but joy. For the first time beavers had re-colonised the river and they were the builders of the log dam that had formed this pond. I too cried. We sat quietly watching these settlers until I finally put my arm around Joe’s shoulders to guide and help him home.
Filed under As you read it, Flash fiction, nature inspired, Self compositions
Crimson’s Creative Challenge #17
Donovan had committed the unthinkable. Whilst being groomed ready for the North of England livestock fair he had suddenly gone berserk. With a furious snort he turned and kicked Old Bill, the farmhand and groomer. While he lay winded Donovan had stamped upon his heaving chest then thrust his horns directly into Bill’s stomach. By the time they had controlled the bull, poor Bill was dead through shock and loss of blood. These countrymen were superstitious, Donovan could not go unpunished. Custom decreed that Donovan must die and the punishment had to be hanging. There was one problem, gallows had not been used for many years and the wooden beams would never hold his weight. At once the solution became clear. The old railway bridge. The central girder was strong enough. That evening honour was satisfied. Later in the evening the unexpected ox roast went well.
MLMM’s First Line Friday: March 1st, 2019
This day was summer when the sun shone, and biting winter when clouds overtook the sky, a tumultuous mix of seasons in the span of an afternoon. An apt description of Exmoor, an unforgiving place. In one day you can walk through a whole year of weather, warm, wet, cold the whole shebang. It is all part of it’s magic and sometimes mystery.
A young family were staying in Porlock weir, the husband a warehouseman, his wife a part-time classroom assistant. She had returned to work after a two and a half year break after the birth of their first child, Millie. It was Easter half term and they had managed to rent a small cottage.
With Millie tiring of rock-pooling and net-dipping every day they decided to visit Culbone church, reputed to be the smallest church in England. Although a long walk, the path was suitable to take a buggy through the woods along the gently sloping cliff edge.
It was a glorious Spring morning when they set off, Millie well wrapped up but her parents dressed as if for a Summer stroll. A cloudless sky when they set out but while in the church it began to darken. On the way back the rain started to fall. At first just a few large drops but gradually increasing to a downpour. They had just passed what appeared to be a cave entrance. He took Millie by the hand and ran back to the cave while his wife dragged the buggy. A leaflet in the church had stated that charcoal burners used to live in the woods during medieval times, part of a leper colony so they assumed that this had once been a dwelling. In fact it was the entrance to an ancient, disused lead-mine. This was an industry that was not mentioned as it could be bad publicity for the countryside.
The rain was incessant and after a while where it had been seeping from above their heads it became a constant stream. They were amused when without prompting, Millie made a cup of her hands and started to drink the water and splashing it on her face. After about fifteen minutes the rain stopped and once more the sun came out. They hurried back to their holiday cottage as fast as possible ready to change and relax before the journey back to their home the next day.
In the car Millie started to complain of stomach ache and seemed in so much pain that they called into accident and emergency at their local hospital. After many anxious hours they were told how lucky they had been. Millie was suffering from arsenic poisoning from the water that had seeped through the mine roof. She had been very close to death. They would be prepared for any weather without sheltering next time.
Sunday Photo Fiction – March 3, 2019 #Journey
Julie frowned and looked at her watch. Then once more she checked the illuminated board above her head. There was no notification of any delayed trains. She moved back and took a seat on the empty, cold, plastic bench. She started to examine her fingernails then opened her bag and took out a glossy red lipstick. With shaking hands she pulled out and unfolded a small mirror. She looked to see if anyone was watching and then started to apply a thin coating to her moist lips. She checked in the mirror and seeming satisfied, replaced the items in her bag. She glanced up at the departures board. Nothing had changed, her chosen train was still due. She checked her watch again. To her right she noticed a stirring in the people at the far end of the platform. The announcer called the arrival of the train. Julie stiffened as the sleek, silver nose of the engine appeared round the bend. She looked for a clear space, grabbed her bag and moved forward to the platform edge. She looked over to see the engine driver sitting high up in the dark cab and without a word, jumped.
Filed under As you read it, Flash fiction, Self compositions
Sue Vincent’s Thursday #Photoprompt #Writephoto #Invitation
It was late June when I was told I would be working in London for a couple of days. I was booked in to “The Charnel House”, in the Clapham area, a pub that had a few rooms to let above. After a two hour drive I rolled up at the front of the pub which was on the corner of Downs View Road and a cul-de-sac called Church Way because directly opposite stood the parish church of St. John the Baptist. A quite imposing building. It had a large black, wooden gate and a gravel path led up to the church door. Although the graveyard looked unkempt and unattended there was a board with a list of services so it was still a functioning church. I noticed there was a young black guy looking intently through the gate towards the church porch.
I went up to my room, dropped my case and went out to work. I noticed the guy still standing in the same position as before. He had a large parka draped over his arm on a warm, sunny morning. He looked about fourteen or fifteen, not moving, just standing, staring intently up the path.
After what felt like a long afternoon, dusk was closing in so I decided to take a leisurely walk back to my room. Turning the corner to the entrance I saw a figure outlined in the street-lights by the church gate. It was the same youth who had been there when I had left mid-morning. I turned the key and went in through reception. I watched the TV for a while then decided to retire.
Next morning I made do with just a cup of strong coffee for breakfast before setting off to work. It was eight thirty and imagine my surprise as, when I walked out onto the street, the same guy was in exactly the same place. Had he been there all night? Was he okay? It was time to get off to work.
I made my way back to the guest-house at about eight. Of course the guy was still by the church gate. On the third day, my last, as I left the reception there was a row of blue and white bollards closing the road off. A board was placed saying that there was to be a funeral at eleven o’ clock.
They were closing the street off now before any cars came in to park. The youth was no longer there, perhaps keeping out of the way of the funeral. I pulled into the motorway services on my way home. There was a large-screen TV. at the far end of the coffee house and the news was on. A youth of fifteen who had been involved in the Tottenham riots was to be buried that morning. The service was to be held in the church on the same road where I had stayed. The youth had been injured during the riots. and there was a strong belief that the police had been heavy-handed in their treatment of him. He had been struck a blow to the head and collapsed. He was taken to a hospital , Accident and Emergency department but he had remained in a coma without regaining consciousness until a week ago, when he had finally expired. Because of the potential risk of violence, there would be a police presence at the funeral as it could become the catalyst for further riots. I gave a start when they showed a photo of the young man. He was wearing a parka and a hat and looked just like the guy at the gate. I could only think that perhaps his lonely wait was over and he was finally invited to enter?
Filed under As you read it, Flash fiction, Otherworldly, Self compositions
Crimson’s creative challenge #16 -Weekend trip
Joe and Julie were sitting in the hotel room they had booked to spice up their rather tired marriage. Before returning for their dinner they agreed to get dressed and take a slow walk along the promenade despite the drizzle that was falling.
Outside the hotel was a long flight of steps which led down to the seafront.
Julie asked him what he was wearing in the evening, and with a wink said that she would be trying her new high heels and stockings. “My brown hand-stitched brogues with the leather soles,” he replied. Meanwhile he opened their suitcase and started unpacking. He thought about the wet steps, her high heeled shoes and the chances of an accident. He smiled.
Julie, went into the shower, thinking about the steps, his shiny soled brogues, and how easy it would be for him to have a nasty accident. She smiled.
TEN WORD STORY: HOLDING ON
First time flying, like swimming, hold on to the side.
Filed under Flash fiction, Self compositions, Whimsical
Sue Vincent’s #Thursdayphotoprompt #Writephoto
Near the top they stopped. The sun was dropping rapidly in the Western sky. As if lost in their own thoughts there was no need for words. Each knew that the other was thinking of the days to come. It was deserted now but tomorrow this sacred place would be crowded with people; men, women, children, friends, relatives, all gathered for the last farewell. Nyruda had passed, her body was laid on the bier ready for the ceremonial transition.
At sunrise a procession would wend it’s way from the village to this rock, “The seat of the winds,” with their light load borne on the shoulders of six men, while the monks, women and children followed. There would be chanting, age-old mantras sung in a low drone, while the incense-burners twirled and their fragrance drifted over the plain at the whim of the breeze. It was not a lament but a celebration of one stage of her old life completed in preparation for the new.
A breeze was starting, exposing its presence with a twitch of Gana’s sleeve. In the distance he heard the lone cry of the lammergeier. He smiled, recognising the significance of the call, as if in reassurance that the wild eagles knew they were soon to be summoned and would be ready to help in the sacred task.
Tomorrow there would be many, wheeling and turning, carried high on the updrafts as they circled in readiness for their feast. The flesh would be stripped from the body leaving the white bones exposed. They would not be left long. The more experienced avian attendants would climb high in the sky their bills stuffed and ungainly with stiff, long, bristled moustaches. Like sharp but muffled drumbeats the sound of bones dropping on to the stones below would reassure the departing flock that the ceremony was being fulfilled. It would not be many days before the larger bones could be discreetly removed in accordance with their traditions ready for the final stage. Life would go on.
Diana’s #Februaryfiction prompt
Picture by Marianne Sopala
“Ho ho ho, my young friends, you do seem to have got yourselves in a bit of a pickle but I think I may be able to help you,” said Maisy the friendly elephant who wasn’t at all frightened of mice and didn’t believe that they could run up your trunk. Even if mice were so small and an elephant’s trunk so big.
“Oh yes, Maisy it would be really lovely if you could help us get our house back down on the ground where it belongs,” shrieked the frightened little mouse family, “But how do you think you will do it?”
“I’ll tell you after you tell me how your little house got up in the tree.”
“Well, last night it was so windy that after we had all gone to bed the wind picked us all up and blew us up here. We didn’t know till Mummy mouse looked out this morning and saw where we were. We’ve been so frightened, waiting for someone to come and help. We’re so glad you came by. Now, how can you help us?”
“Oh, it’s easy she trumpeted in reply, “I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your house down.”
Filed under Flash fiction, Inspired by fable, Self compositions, Whimsical
When the pen takes control. 