Fog 2.0

I wasn't intending it to be this short, but here you go: 50 words in about 5 minutes. Haven't even finished my first cup of coffee...

The fog is claustrophobic.

An unsettling clash, a brawl of warm and cool.

Moisture in the air fills my lungs, displacing oxygen. A long, slow drowning death. Peaceful and heavy, like white sheets and plump down pillows. 

Suffocating.

Like his elbow on my chest, like his hand on my mouth.

Fog

Last Friday in January!

It's been crazy foggy lately, and since I do love fog, I thought it was time for another Flash Fiction Friday challenge.

Here's the line, you know the rules :)

The fog is claustrophobic.

Magnolia 2.0

Felt like a morning for a slightly darker flash fiction (150 words), and I went for an ambiguous ending rather than my usual twist. In some ways, it almost feels like a counterpart to the first FF I posted on this site... similar flavour perhaps? Must be these grey winter days :)

I waited until the magnolia blossoms fell. Brown and bruised, they layered the ground like wet feathers, refusing to separate even when I dug deep with the blade of my shovel.

The rain was a sprinkle rather than a downpour, comfortable enough to shrug off my jacket as I grew warm with effort.

Wet dirt has its own distinct sound, thick and sluggish rather than the eager staccato rain of dry earth. The ring of metal against small stones was muffled, clay offered a reluctant invitation, and each additional shovelful hit the pile with a tired slump.

I buried her in the wet spring ground, feet together, wings folded. Beads of light rain turned grains of dirt into brown tears on the white flight feathers I had patiently cut to keep her home-bound.

Her face was cold, but still soft as I stroked her pale cheek one last time.

Magnolia

I took Eva out for a very short walk yesterday and got caught in the November rain. It wasn't heavy, but with the wind, it was still... unpleasant. Time to (maybe) put on some socks and a jacket... definitely not the weather for tank-tops and barefoot runners anymore.

...and certainly the maple leaves on the ground are no longer crisp enough to crunch and kick when I wade through them :(

I waited until the magnolia blossoms fell.

By the sea

I know it's not Friday, but I woke up this morning with a new line in the forefront of my brain.

Once there was a castle by the sea which beat the shore with furious waves.

By the sea 2.0

Daylight Savings Time is kindof awesome because I woke at the regular time, but still had an hour to enjoy that sluggish, half-asleep dream state where (sometimes) my brain likes to tell me stories.

No editing happened on this at all... I wrote it all in less than 5 minutes while I drank coffee. I really do think writing flash fiction improves the overall quality of my first drafts...

I could write this story into a novel... well, rather, I think it could be one of the 'drawer inhabitants' stories from this.

Once there was a castle by the sea which beat the shore with furious waves. They built a platform out into the water, hauling stone from a far off quarry, and there they called girls to sing the sea calm. Day and night they stood until their voices gave out, then the waves dashed their bones to sand.

Once there was a rocky shore, rich with tidal pools, rich with life, until stones were throw in and walled up. Sorcerers were called to sing spells, a war cry to frighten the corals, the barnacles, every small creature that could not swim away, those who had been crushed by the first assault. And though the invaders were fierce, the wind and waves did not tire, and they beat back each sorcerer to protect their smallest, most defenceless wards.

Once there was a great core of stone that was dug up, piece by piece and shaped into magnificent statues and architecture. But instead of becoming grand and admirable, some was shaped in rough blocks and cast into the vile, salty water. Instead of  gleaming white in the sun and admired, it grew green and pitted, and the waves raged and tore, wearing each mighty block into sad, shrunken shadows.

And once there was a girl who was called to sing by the sea.

The guillotine 2.0

Well, it didn't turn out as interesting as I expected... more of a character/setting sketch. 360 words for you on this fine Friday morning, but I am feeling a little rusty... almost hit my 20 minute maximum time limit :)




The white stucco house on the corner of 12th and Birch has a guillotine in their front yard.

It’s not unusual to see statuary and ornaments in this neighbourhood. Cement and composite plastic figurines of all kind stand guard, from the fantastical fairies and trolls to the realistic dogs, kittens, and even children frozen in place.

The macabre temporarily pops up around Halloween. Tombstones, skeletons, and blow-up ghosts fight for position alongside witches, zombies, and severed heads. Reindeer and snowmen arrive as early as November 1st, and bunnies large enough to be characters in a horror movie smile when Easter comes around.

The guillotine is not a holiday decoration. It’s been there as long as I’ve walked this route. Three years on the job and I’ve never once lifted the latch on the small gate of their white picket fence. Every morning when I organize my deliveries, I hope there’ll be a letter, or even a piece of junk mail addressed to 873 Birch so I’ll finally have the excuse to get a closer look.

Most moulded forest creatures are tucked among flower beds or stand in neat rows beside the front door. The guillotine stands in the centre of a lawn groomed to compulsive perfection by what could only be a golf fanatic. Other than the guillotine, the property could be an advertisement or digitally constricted image. White house, white picket fence, perfect lawn, neat rows of bright seasonal flowers. It looks familiar and forgettable all at the same time.

I’ve never seen a person in the yard or the twitch of curtains to suggest occupancy, but then again, I’m on the job. I walk by between 9:11 and 9:32am every morning. A fifteen-second glance within a twenty-minute window, certainly not enough time or attention to formulate an understanding of who might live inside. Who might live in a picture-perfect suburban house. Who might keep an instrument of terror an death on their front lawn, and for what purpose. Humour? Pride? Memoriam? Aesthetic? Threat? Collectable? Deterrent?

It’s that last point, I think, that makes me wonder. The question of motivation.

Why a guillotine?