David sat and stared at his tablet. The inspiration for a good Flash Fiction story just wouldn’t come.
He turned off lights, lit some candles and er, took some snuff. Nothing.
He stared for a bit, shut his eyes for a bit more. Nothing.
The cork on his prized bottle of Glen Moray made a satisfying ‘pop’ as he poured himself a glass of liquid motivator. Nothing came.
Then in a fit of exasperation, David put on his magic slippers.
‘Got it!’. He exclaimed in a Eureka moment. ‘I’ll write a story about a man who lacked inspiration!’.
Throughout his life Jake had been ridiculed. Children jeered at him, passers by pointed and smirked. Even passing dogs mocked him.
‘Ha ha, there goes hop along!’ They’d shout and point. The dogs just barked or growled. He hated it.
You see, Jake’s right leg was considerably shorter than his left leg.
Now though, Jake had found a place to hide. He loved photography – it was his escape from a world of prejudice. It made him forget his ailment and gave him hope.
Best of all, when he published his photos, no one could tell he had a wonky leg.
Many thanks to Jen Pendergast for this week’s photo. It’s not often I comment on the picture but thought it worth mentioning that I’ve rotated Jen’s work of art a little to illustrate my story. Thanks Jen, it’s a nice photo!
Maurice knew he was having a massage but couldn’t quite work out why he appeared to be watching himself have it.
He quickly ran through some recent thoughts as the masseuse released all his tensions.
Ah… The doctor’s earlier that day. ‘You haven’t much time.’ The Doctor had said.
The feeling of weightlessness increased. He smiled to himself. Comfortable, happy.
Maurice felt a bony hand take a firm grip of his. ‘READY?’ Asked the rhetorical voice in his head.
A light somewhere ahead flared slightly and they were through whatever it was they had gone through.
The light faded.
Spring had arrived.
David sat on the fence. Most of his friends sat with him. Nigel was far out in the field to the right almost out of sight shouting obscenities at some fruit pickers. Ed was somewhere off to the left talking to himself.
David’s friend Nick was standing by the fence, tugging at David’s trouser leg and pointing things out.
What none of them had noticed up until now though was that all the people were having a bloody good party without them somewhere in the middle, apart from Nigel’s mates, mostly because they thought he was a.
––– ––– –––
I don’t often write an accompanying note but wanted to today. Having been absent from my thoughts for a little while I wanted to explain. It’s european election time here tomorrow, some people in suits will argue that they are the best choice whilst some people in slightly different suits will claim exactly the same. This picture of Erin’s made me think of our politics. Maybe I’ll start writing a bit more now. Maybe I won’t. Maybe you’ll hate my writing, or love it, or not care. Opinion, funny isn’t it. Maybe.
Montgomery Struthers, Shakespearean actor, toyed idly with a knot. Below him on stage the young upstart who’d taken the best role pranced about hamming through Macbeth in a most terrible manner.
‘I can’t believe that boy got the job, look at him, useless!’ Cursed Struthers.
The boy drew breath for his next line.
‘If it were done when ’tis done, then ’twere well it were done quickly: if the assassination…’
The lighting rig fell. The boy was crushed. Dead.
A deadly hush fell over the audience, high up in the rafters came a screaming voice.
‘I do the Scottish Play!’.
Thanks go to dear old Mr Shakespeare for the inspiration and of course the line in the middle. Also to Blackadder for the dark and dastardly deed idea. Pah! Actors.
The battle had raged. Splintered shards of men and earth scattered the land, gruesome evidence of war.
But that was long ago.
The summer holidays arrived. Young friends picnicked near the old wood, daring each other to go in.
The oldest girl ventured in first, stopped, screamed.
The long dead soldier’s bones, coloured black with age lay intertwined with the twisted trees. The wood had fed on blood and long since reclaimed the bruised earth, enveloping the horrid, brutal evidence, caressing the souls until Death came to claim his own.
The innocent ran. It was no place for a child.
The story above comes from the Friday Fictioneers photo prompt as supplied by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Each week she publishes a photo and I dutifully write a story inspired by it. Well, me and over a hundred others.
The Archimedes, a Steampunk Edition Distance Freighter (Space), thundered on, 2 million tonnes of alien eggs and three thousand crew.
Dave contemplated his job as on-board security. It bored him.
‘Containment breach – Sector S4’ Blurted from his wi-fi connected gun, the personnel lift right next to him started up, lift S4.
‘Bugger, those Annihilator Lizards must have spawned again’. He could hear one grinding its teeth as the lift got nearer.
The doors slid open. A furious reptile looked out.
Dave aimed, pulled the trigger and ‘Windows Update in Progress – Weapon offline’.