Friday, March 28, 2014

Emergency lights 2.0

Well, 5 ribs are now back in place, I'm pretty sore, but a heating pad really helps.

Now, here's my fast attempt at writing in a genre I'm not familiar with... so be kind.

150 words, and Alcar, this was kind of inspired by one of your recent comments...

On the other side of my eyelids buzzed the yellow glow of emergency lights, but it was not yet time to wake up. 

I’d know if it was.

Maybe it was from the buzz, maybe the lights, or maybe neither, but something clicked on in my head, and I woke.

Grey cement ceiling.

I sat up.

Grey cement walls.

I turned.

Rows of beds. Not beds, slabs. Not slabs… but they held bodies. Like mine, but asleep. As they should be. Not asleep, but not moving, some with wires, tubes, other things opened up while in stasis. Boxes everywhere. I didn’t know this place.

“Argh, not again!”

I rotated towards the voice. 

An obese man in a blue overalls tapped a plate by the door and spoke into it. “Get tech support to the return centre. Another idiot customer forgot to pull the battery before mailing in their faulty droid.” 

Emergency lights

Happy Friday to you all.

It's been a typical west-coast spring this week. Blazing sunshine abruptly covered by grey cloud, occasionally broken by light drizzles or torrential downpours.

But all the forsythia is in bloom, the lilac trees have inch-long green leaves, and the early ornamental plum trees are on the verge of blossoming.

So, I thought I'd take you far away from the spring weather with today's prompt. Enjoy!

On the other side of my eyelids buzzed the yellow glow of emergency lights, but it was not yet time to wake up.

Friday, March 21, 2014

Stories 2.0

Okay, this was a 3 minute story, 120 words. No editing, not even removing/adding words 'cause it came out 120 exactly:

There’s one story I only tell when I’m drunk.

After the guys have had a few rounds and everyone’s in that headspace where you’re shooting the shit and solving the great philosophical questions of the age.

Y’know, when everything someone suggests is fucking brilliant, even if all it is is, “Man, let’s get some pizza!” or “We should all quit our jobs and start our own micro-brewery!”

It’s the point past where you’re just bragging, when you start talking about what you lost, or what you wish you’d done. Things it’s safe to say ‘cause no one will even remember it the next day.

Being abducted and probed by aliens is not a story you want to tell sober.


Well, it's probably going to be afternoon or evening by the time I'm able to get my flash fiction up today since my car needs an oil change, and I'm probably going to drive my grandma around afterwards.

Coming off of St. Paddy's Day, here's a wee line for ye today:

There’s one story I only tell when I’m drunk.

Friday, March 14, 2014

Reflection 2.0

Well, the promised rain hasn't shown up yet, it's pretty nice so far, overcast with sunny breaks.

15 minutes to write 200 words, including a quick Google search ;) to rest my arm and get some heat on it.

I toyed with two different directions to go with this... hope I chose right?

It’s unnerving the first time you look into a mirror and don’t see your reflection. 

You tell yourself, ‘everything has changed’, you tell yourself, ‘the old you is dead’, but you’re still surprised. You still start when the familiar brush of dark stubble isn’t there, the angular jaw, the prematurely thinning hair. 

Most of all is the unhappy eyes. You’ve looked at them so long, they no longer belong to you, rather, they’re like a partner you’ve woken up beside for ten, maybe fifteen years. 

God, has it been that long?

Did you really wait that many years, dulling the despair with alcohol and daily prescribed serotonin boosters?

How did you manage, every morning, to talk yourself out of the relief a steady hand and a blade would bring, when you knew that, every night, you would desire it more than the whiskey, more than the dwindling bottle of Prozac? You would ache for it all to be cut away, everything wrong, everything painful, everything ‘you’.

You smile, and the reflection is unfamiliar. It’s beautiful. It’s happy.

It wasn’t you, but it is now. Along with the long chestnut hair, and the swell of breasts nestled in the pink negligee. 


Happy Friday! The weather has been gorgeous here in Vancouver: sunny, warm, and the cherry trees are going to be in blossom soon.

Tangent: it weird that I like non-leap-year Februaries because then March's calendar is identical to February's?

Here's the prompt for today:

It’s unnerving the first time you look into a mirror and don’t see your reflection.

Friday, March 7, 2014

Only water 2.0

Weird... maybe I'm getting too used to writing flash fiction 'cause I wrote almost exactly 500 words before stopping...

There was only water, and then, a small raft. 

Essa hadn’t realized that the end of the world was so calm. Like the pause of heartbeat and lung at the end of an exhalation, there was that same kind of dead-air, of waiting, of uncertainty whether another breath could be drawn.

Far different from the rocky coastline, the capricious currents, and the storms that shook and spun until her bearings were more tangled than a rogue fishing net dredged-up from the reef.

The water was still. A moment between moments, with only the ripple from her paddle and the bow of what had once been a boat, before the waves, before the dark, before the wind that scooped her like a gull scoops an oyster and dashes it to splinters.

But instead of relief, of sanctuary and rest, this was an uneasy quiet.

For only gods and monsters lived at the end of the world, and Essa had come to beg and barter. To sacrifice, if necessary, if that was the price asked. Out here, or in the Wilds, there was no guarantee who would answer first: one who could be persuaded to help, or one who would devour with the swift ruthlessness of a winter gale.

With one last smooth stroke, she lay the paddle down and drew a whale-bone knife from her seal-bladder pack. The trick was where to cut, where it would bleed deep enough to summon, yet where it could easily be bound and would not hinder movement. Hands were definitely out. It would be impossible to make the long trek back.

If there was a long trek back.

Choosing where to cut, that was a small, manageable decision. Thinking about what would happen after...

Essa lurched back from the edge, the paddle knocked wide with a splash. It was the reflection of her own eyes that had spooked her. Too wide, too scared, too young-looking for a warrior, for the one chosen and blessed by her village.

Blood thrummed in her ears, pulled and pushed by the gravitational force of her fear.

This too was small. This too was manageable.

It was important to master what was in her reach, because so much was not. Not the ocean, not the sky, not the run of fish spawning in the rivers, and certainly not the gods and monsters at the end of the world.

Retrieving the paddle, yes, that was within her means. The seal-intestine towline was strong, supple, and still tied tightly to her ankle. Essa pulled it in, span after span, the paddle slicing a low wake until she dipped her hand and fished it to safety. Snug at her side, she rolled the towline and tucked it into the open mouthed pouch strapped below her knee.

She crept forward and stared past her reflection, past the surface, past what she could see and control, into the far-off deep.

And above her temple, along the hairline, she cut, and she bled.

Only water

Happy March!

Okay, I could seriously write a novel with this line, so I'm going to run full-steam with it and post whenever I hit about 500 words. I know I don't really need this much punctuation, but it's there for the rhythm I wanted. Feel free to change/leave the comma's out if you prefer, as well, you know you can change the sentence/tense/whatever.

There was only water, and then, a small raft.