Friday, April 25, 2014


Okay, I honestly have no idea where I'll be today, and when I'll have a chance to write this flash fiction piece (I'm actually pre-posting this sentence on Thursday since I have a free moment right now).

I have... oh my goodness, so much in my brain right now... I got heavily scolded by my massage therapist & physiotherapist on Tuesday for the state of my rotatory cuff/shrink-wrapped fascia in my arm/etc, and am crazy stressed from a multitude of things that I'm not going to get into.

Well, here's the sentence prompt for today, and as I promised last week, I swear I won't do an animal thing/twist this time around :)


“It’s almost over,” he said, which didn’t quite sound like a promise.


  1. Today is nuts so might get around to it this evening, or perhaps tomorrow

  2. Actually got a break for lunch at work today, so used the time to poke at idea-stuff in my head.

    “It’s almost over,” he said, which didn’t quite sound like a promise.

    Boy screamed, tried to. His throat ached, pain somehow-way worse than the electricity firing through muscle to turn his bones into white-hot fire under his skin and

    the man wore white. Dead white, clinical white, with eyes like dead stones. A smile that never went away. Hands – hands without callouses, that – that – that –. (Words broke. Even in the dream.) Memories fell beyond screaming, out of sync with heart, voice, thought. The eyes were worse than the hands. That came to Boy as he woke, body covered in cold sweat, breath stabbing pants. His chest ached almost as much as his throat and he made soft, distressed sounds in the motel room bed.

    No tears came. The Wasting had taken that from him, but not – not those memories. Boy didn’t want those memories, but they remained, tore free in his sleep to drag him awake. Something bad. Bad things had happened to him. He wrapped his arms about himself and sat up in the bed. There was a trick he’d never lost, learned early. Accept the pain, deny its ability to affect you. Fall into it. Out of it.

    He breathed. Breathed until he stopped hurting. His arms were numb bu the time he forced himself to unwrap them from his torso, studied his wrists. In the dream they’d been covered in welts and scar tissue from pressing against straps. There were no scars. The Wasting had taken away all signs of what had been done to him, but not what had been done.

    He sat in the bed in the dark. He didn’t want to turn on the light. Didn’t want to face daylight. He just sat alone and waited for Reynard Fox to wake up, staring into the darkness and half-hoping to be devoured by it before he had to sleep again.

    1. Oh my goodess... a return to 'Boy & Fox'?


      ...words cannot describe my delight!

      This must be nearer the end of the story as Boy has 'grown' so much.

      Tauntingly teasing... you know I want more ;)

    2. I am slowly plotting stuff out that won't leave my head at all. Also did another short story (for a different prompt); feeling my way back into it in various way(s). Setting it in the real world is going to change some things -- Boy won't be as quite a blank I think -- but I'm still mostly trying to get ideas together in my head.

    3. I'm very eager to read the new version :D

  3. True Story

    “It’s almost over,” he said, which didn’t quite sound like a promise. Well he couldn’t guarantee anything could he? Bernie wasn’t in control.

    We were on holiday in Cuba. On a tour of the eastern portion of the country, on our way to Barracoa.. The group included three other couples, the tour guide, Gino, and the bus driver. He was the one in control. Ernesto was his name and he spoke not one word of English.

    And we were on the roller coaster ride from Hell. The road the bus traveled didn’t have pot holes, it seemed more like canyons; I wondered if Ernesto was participating in a slalom event judging by the twists and turns which tossed me from one side of the seat to the other. We started after lunch, maybe 2 p.m. Now it was dark. I had to pee and my stomach growled. The trip wasn’t supposed to take six hours. I think everyone, and perhaps even Gino, white knuckled it the whole time. At least it wasn’t raining.

    We finally arrived at the hotel. The storm started the next afternoon.

    1. Oh. nice! I really like the 'wasn't in control flat-out denying the prompt-line moments later.

    2. thank you - I wonder where monkey is?

    3. Haha, I remember you telling me about that storm!

      the monkey died... well, I kinda want to be hit on the head with a rubber mallet and wake up in June when the convention is done (with raging success, of course).

      ...honestly, I feel sick to my stomach thinking of everything I have to cram into the next few weeks, and I'm already cringing at the though of what state my arm/rotary cuff is going to be in... thankfully, physio/etc tomorrow.