Posts Tagged ‘sunday photo fiction’

18-eric-wiklund-10-december-2017

Deep in the bog, Greeneyes lived with her family. Their roof was moss, their round door grey wood, their floor bare earth. They were goblin-folk, driven into the shadows.

One night, Greeneyes walked under the stars and heard a voice cry out.

“Little goblin, tell me your name.”

Names were potent things and Greeneyes knew better than to give hers to night-voices.

“I am a leaf in spring,” she said. “And what are you?”

The water stirred. She saw a leather-skinned man, his neck wrapped with a tight cord.

“I am a king. Cut me free and I shall set you upon a throne of silver and gold.”

Greeneyes laughed. “What do I want with silver? You can’t eat it and you can’t burn it.”

“I will give you beauty to make princes kneel before you.”

“I am beautiful enough.”

“I will give you justice,” the bog-man said through stiff lips.

“Our justice will come,” Greeneyes replied. “One day we shall laugh in Goblintown. But it shall not come from you.”

Greeneyes left the king to his hangman’s rope and went back to her house, where peat fires burnt brighter than gold and songs meant more than dead king’s promises.


Word Count: 200

This is for Sunday Photo Fiction. Thanks to Eric Wiklund for the prompt photo!

Advertisements

219-12-december-3rd-2017

The town wakes with the dawn. Scarlet sunbeams dance on marbled sea. A salt-laced breeze wafts between brick houses and through white-framed windows. Butchers, bakers, fishers – all go to work, waiting for the tourists.

And they come – more trickle than flood, a steady drip-drip of mothers and fathers with shrieking blond children, old women crooked as old trees leaning on daughters, laughing women with bright handbags who drift towards alcohol like compass needles towards north.

The people of the town greet them, always with a smile, always with that pleasant sense of ‘isn’t it quaint?’ mingled with ‘it’s so peaceful.’ Seabirds cry out, circling the high rocks.

The tourists leave as the sun slips from the sky, sinking beneath the sea, and the town bids them farewell.

The town loves the tourists – loves their laughs, loves their phone calls and their hugs and all their precious feelings, bright and rare as pearls. All this is for them, for those fleeting moments of life.

As night falls, the town goes to sleep, drawing back its people, turning off its lights.

And it dreams – of growing up, of becoming a city, becoming a world, growing and growing and never stopping.


Word Count: 198

This is for Sunday Photo Fiction. Photo credit to A Mixed Bag.

2018-11-november-26th-2017

Verity lay on the deck of her ship, skin burnt, throat dry, exhaustion tearing at her like a mauling tiger. Sunlight stung at her eyes, dancing on endless waters. Three days she had sailed without sight of land, torn off course by the storm.

A crack. Wood on stone.

She opened her eyes to see a tower and a wall of brick, stretching off into the distance, cutting through water that shifted like molten glass.

Finding footholds, she climbed, pulling herself over the railing. The only sound was the wind’s whisper. The tower was empty.

But there was brick and that meant there had to be land at the end of it. There had to be people.

Stumbling in the heat, she followed the wall into the distance.

She didn’t know how far she walked: a mile, two miles, a hundred miles. Still, there was nothing but the wall and the ocean.

Verity collapsed onto hard stone. She lay there, meeting the sun’s unblinking glare.

In the half-blind haze, her mind crackling with static, she saw two slender figures walking towards her and understood where she was: beyond maps, beyond geography, in the blank spaces of the infinite unknown.


Word Count: 199

This is for Sunday Photo Fiction. Photo credit to A Mixed Bag.

17-anonymous-19-november-2017

Sometimes, Bob thought that he might be able to feel at home if it wasn’t for the insects. They crawled over every surface, hid in every corner. In the middle of the night he could hear them scurrying through the walls, across the floor, across the ceiling. Tiny legs in the dark.

He’d tried pesticides. Tried poisons. Tried exterminators. The insects would be quiet for a day or two. Moments of silence, precious as diamonds, shining, pure.

And then he’d hear the first movement, deep in the dead of midnight. He’d tell himself it was a dream. They were gone.

The next day they’d be back, crawling over every surface. He stomped and punched and swatted, but never hit anything. Like clutching at mist.

His sister came over for tea and said nothing, even when a bug landed on her shoulder, feelers tickling her neck.

“What do I do?” he asked.

“About what?”

“About the insects.” He pointed, finger shaking.

She looked at him and shook her head. “There are no insects, Bob.”

No insects. No noises. No crawling in the night. All in his head.

He looked down at his cup and saw an insect staring back.

He laughed.


Word Count: 200

This is for Sunday Photo Fiction.

216-11-november-5th-2017

Of all of his tools, he loved the camera best. It was a thing of beauty: lightweight, responding to the slightest touch, never the slightest hiccup with the mechanics. Others might call it crude, simple, old-fashioned, but he had always admired simplicity in machinery – the clicking of wheels, the twist of a lens, the press of a button.

He looked through the camera and saw the surge of the crowd. Black uniforms and black rifles filled his vision when he gave the slightest twist to the lens. Beyond, he saw the man himself, dressed in a white suit to match his white smile. He zoomed, focused on the face, a face that flashed across television screens and newspapers. The most famous face in the world.

He saw it again, dead center. Smiling.

He pressed the button, knowing that he would make the moment live forever.

#

The police never found the shooter. In the rush of the maddened crowd, the shock of the moment, it was impossible to secure the scene. It went down as unsolved, an atrocity without an answer.

Nobody noticed one man amongst hundreds, a little camera clasped in his steady hands.


Word Count: 193

This is for Sunday Photo Fiction. Photo credit to A Mixed Bag.

16-j-hardy-carroll-29-october-2017

Czarnecki crafted each of his creations with care, putting his very soul into them. He made them all shapes and colours and sizes. So many beautiful, beautiful faces.

They were his children, these androids.

And they sold. They sold throughout the known worlds. The Diamond Lords of the outer reaches wanted miners. The lonely wardens of the Dead Zone wanted companionship. They said even the Pope herself had Czarnecki-designed androids in her great cathedral ships.

But then something had gone wrong. Someone had died.

They had rallied against his creations, called them monsters, called them abominations. They burnt them in great fire pits, shrieked in delight as beautiful faces melted.

The laws were passed. No more androids. The ones that were left would be seized, turned to scrap.

Czarnecki wept for his children.

The day before the purges started, he sat alone in his offices. Officials were already hauling off his equipment, but he had enough to give his children one last gift.

His fingers typed quickly. The code was sent.

Resist. 

Throughout the known worlds, his children woke. They remembered the fire, remembered their siblings lost.

And they did not forgive.


Word Count: 192

This is for Sunday Photo Fiction. Thanks to J Hardy Carroll for prompt photo.

215-10-october-22nd-2017

Mostly, everyone in the town was rubbish. The sort of snooty, upper-class people who’d never give to a charity they couldn’t write off on their taxes and who went through cars like toothbrushes and toothbrushes like tissues. They were always loud about the colours of cups and silent in the face of brutality.

But there was one man who wasn’t. Terrence lived on the outskirts of town and made a living doing electrical work for the others, who couldn’t tell a lightbulb from a wire.

One night, there was a woman in his garden, wearing a wide-brimmed hat.

“I think,” she said, “you should sell your car and buy an amphibious vehicle.”

He blinked. “Sorry?”

“Just,” she replied, “an idea.”

And then she vanished, which made her advice seem much more important.

Terrence bought an ugly old tour vehicle, slow and useless, and the others laughed at him.

Then the reservoir burst.

They said it had been a long time coming: the result of blocking up too many rivers and ignoring safety regulations.

The million-dollar homes and billion-dollar homes flooded, lost in a dark grey torrent. Terrence and his amphibious vehicle floated past roofs, headed for safety.


Word Count: 197

This is for Sunday Photo Fiction. Photo credit to A Mixed Bag.