Tag Archives: weekly-writing-challenge

Bad Writer

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This spot, they said. You’ll find your muse, just go there and thoughts shall flow. You shall be able to write again, they said.

I can barely read what I’ve written.

Little toy boats all in a row. Blue and white are the predominant colours. You can’t see it but the table cloth at this café is blue and white as well. The plates, you guessed right, blue and white.’

Backspace.

The waitress hovers and I get the feeling that she’s reading over my shoulder. I minimize the screen, waiting for her to leave. She scuttles off to another table.

The row of little yachts, perfection. The skyline of the city, etched across the sky, just so. Hard to believe that chaos can exist in such perfection.’

Delete.

I slam the laptop shut and order lunch. The food’s worth the trip, I decide.

And oh, they; they were so wrong.

[150 words]

Written for What Pegman Saw, a weekly flash fiction prompt inspired by google maps. This week Pegman takes us to Melbourne, Australia. The photograph is of St. Kilda Pier, Melbourne, Australia.  © Paul Huang Google Maps

 

Up with the Lark!

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It’s over. I shall not sacrifice my Sunday morning sleep for you, any more. Don’t pretend you don’t understand. I pedaled, pushed, wheeled and cycled this morning, allowing you to hoodwink me into trying out ‘the fresh air of the early morn, the incessant chirps of birds and the gentle breeze that whispers in the ear’. NO! Shut up! Stop right there! Beautiful morn, indeed! Arrrrgh! Your infuriating enthusiasm! The birds had never been more annoying and as for the breeze, it howled in my ears. What was I doing out there, cycling like a fitness freak when I could’ve been as snug as a bug in my heavenly rug? All that maniacal activity made me quiver, tremble, spasm; not in a nice way, for your information, so wipe that disgusting smirk off your face. I can feel the presence of ghost muscles that shouldn’t have been conjured up in the first place. Don’t dare smile! What? No, I’m not smiling. That is a wince, as I try to reach for a sandwich. No, I don’t want to get fit. I am fit enough, you @#$%^$#! No hugs! Be gone, demon! Away! Now, allow me to stuff my face in peace.

[200 words]

Written for Sunday Photo Fiction hosted by Susan Spaulding. The photograph is by the wonderful C E Ayr. Thank you!

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Last Light

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Within a wall, is a maze of walls that mirrors other walls that collapse together into picture perfect houses. The swarm descends, blazing lights and honking, parking their little toy cars in the driveway. Facing their colossal television screens, tuned to the NEWS, they sit down to dinner at the dining table, a perfect walnut veneer, and shovel down forkful after forkful of salad, meat and potatoes and chew and chew till they can chew no more. They stare and stare till they can look no more; shuffle upstairs, toss and turn, till dreams overcome them in the yawning darkness.

[100 words]

Written for Friday Fictioneers prompt hosted by Rochelle. Thank you!

PHOTO PROMPT © Dale Rogerson

 

Behind doors

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I’m going to get out of here.

Some day.

I’m working on it.

Spurred by the voices in conflict next door, I look at the ads in the paper.

Not now.

Maybe, not ever.

I butter my stale bread while I look at the television screen that has random colourful lines dancing onscreen.

Green/Red/Blue/ and yellow.

Not necessarily in that order.

I can’t taste the butter, or the bread.

I long for the fish that’s frying next door.

How do I know?

Look at the photograph.

It’s all about diffusion. Molecular movement.

Where else can I put my education to good use?

The couple next door are certainly not on their honeymoon, the pots and pans being hurled into the sink with unnecessary force.

Maybe projecting necessary mass into acceleration, anything to prevent a breakdown.

I sit at my desk that wobbles, on a chair that creaks, balancing my cheque book, a miracle that I even have one, considering that a minimum balance is required.

Scouring my account cleaner than the brand new detergent that promises miracles, getting by is getting harder.

Keeping body and soul together, hiding from prying eyes, behind a locked door.

It’s going to happen.

Sometime.

[200 words]

Written for the Sunday Photo Fiction, hosted by Al Forbes. Thank you Al! The photo prompt is by J Hardy Carroll.

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Myself, caretaker.

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Who you?

Wait there woenly.

You who?

You wanting admission for your childrens?

Nice boys. Twins woenly, no? What your names?

Tom and Jerry? No?

Ajay and Vijay? Verry nice!

Commeere, don’t hide Mummy’s backside.

I have chocolate for you.

Here, take.

No? Very shy no, Medam?

Office? Sorry, office is close till next week Monday.

Myself? Rawbett. Security.

Thees flaarz? Mys. I looks after thees flaarz.

I waters them everyday morning and everyday evening.

working full time.

This play moan?

Very good Medam. First class! A-one!

Children getting out of out marks.

Means full marks woenly.

Rimes learning top class- Ajay Veejay- you tell- Baa Baa Black ship avooenyvulll?

Counting numbers – wontoootreefoe…

You likes? See Childrens laughing off, nicely.

Come see my flaarz.

You want picture Medam?

Wait I getting chair.

No problem Medam, small childrens chair

For big mans also fits.

I sitting.

Wokay  me ready.

What? say ‘cheese’ Wokay! Chisss!

Good bye Medam. Bye, Bye Ajay Veejay! Ok Tata! Bye!

Best of Good Luck!

Ave a nice day!

God Bless YOUUUU!

[174 Words]

Thank you PJ for hosting the wonderful FFfAW challenge. Thank you Shivamt25 for the photo prompt.

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Head above Water

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I’ve always wanted the best view from my window.

This. Cascading water. The bustle that I could ignore. The peace.

An address that read- 24/7, Head above Water Retreat, Off the Road…

It was either this or the meds. Did I really have a choice?

I was asked where I would feel good.

It was either the mountains or water.

I loved the suspended animation the mountains could give me. But the gurgle of water soothed me.

Lofty mountains and all the chance of elevated escape, or drowning in the depths of inviting water?

I could not choose.

This little retreat that bridged the canal, perched rather precariously over the river, came into view just around the corner of the leafy lane.

To Let.

I figured out a way to get there.

Now the river sighs and gurgles under me and I am perched at a height, away from it all.

Blessed peace.

The water gushes under my haven and, with renewed energy, I marvel at the magnificent torrent that surges ahead.

The ducks paddle their placid way, pleasantly surprised by the bread I toss at them, accepting this manna from heaven.

Well, I am in Heaven.

[196 Words]

Thank you, Al, for hosting the Sunday Photo Fiction. Such a lovely platform to share stories on. Thank you, A Mixed bag for the intriguing photograph.

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Potent Potions

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Believe me, you don’t really want to know me before I’ve downed these three cups in the morning. It takes three different concoctions to make me this fabulously effervescent, fascinating and gorgeous creature from the grumpy, sullen and dour monster that I really am.

I fumble around the kitchen, in the ungodly hour before dawn, put the kettle on, and have my first cup, warm water with a twist of freshly cut lemon. No, nothing stimulating is added to that, it is after all dawn, not dusk. So that goes down with a shudder and grimace and then the kettle is back on, the water boiling merrily, while yoga challenges every muscle in my being, new degrees of soreness enhanced with every painful stretch.

Where’s my tea?

Finally!

None of that fragrant lavender, chamomile, exotic versions please. I want my chai, thank you very much.

An agonizing hour later, while I’m glowing with newfound health and vigour, I reach for coffee. I like it strong, do you mind? Yes, caffeinated. Yes, I know. Blah! Blah! And Blah! Take a flying leap, it’s my blood pressure, my life and eventually my doom.

Sip, guzzle, and gulp.

I’m ready for the day.

[200 Words]

Thank you Dawn Miller for the very intriguing photograph, would love to know what the original context was.

A million thanks, Al, for hosting the Sunday Photo Fiction challenge. A joy to participate in, as always.spf

Amma’s Congee

Pot story

An iron fence separated the park from the lakeside where a few villagers set up their makeshift tents. Living by the lake assured them a new life, the luxuries of, cooking, cleaning and maybe even bathing, when the guard looked the other way.

Amma, eighty years old, ever-present, self-appointed mother of the lot worked around houses, ingratiating herself to the security folk of the imposing mansions. When the maids swung haughtily down the road to dump trash from the kitchen, Amma would scavenge, marvelling at the waste of good food. Chopped stubs of onions, juicy flesh intact, baked potato still clinging to peel, good enough to eat. Green chilies and curry leaves thrown away untouched were salvaged by Amma who returned home with her loot, that eventually found salvation in the boiling pots.

After excruciatingly hard labour, returning home in the evening, tired and hungry eyes lit up at this welcome sight, aromas wafting to their pinched nostrils.The flavour of the congee was so comforting.

Amma grinned as she gathered the empty pots to scour.

[175 words]

Thank you, yarnspinner for the evocative photograph, I enjoyed writing a piece centred around it.

Thank you PJ for hosting the FFFAW challenge!

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Common Ground

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A cramped space this. I need to stretch, feel the earth under my feet. A little less talk and a little more quiet.

Thriving in closed spaces, you’ve mastered the art of contorting yourself, being stashed away.

The air is mine own. My mind lifts off- a sailboat in flight, the air my water, the water grounding me and the earth a vast expanse of ocean I float on.

You and I see the same road.

You are intent; and I never really look.

When did I begin to speak a different language?

Your eyes unseeing, uncomprehending, a thousand miles away.

Your every word, every drawn breath, every expelled curse- so easy to understand, mired in the world.

I surged ahead, wanting nothing.

And yet, here we are.

You lead, your eyes on the road.

I follow. My eyes also on the road.

The darkness is complete till dawn breaks.

The sky bursts. Clouds scud across the palette. Tints shifting settling into a golden hue.

Let us stop here and confront each other in enforced silence.

After breakfast at this lovely place, things will seem a little less intense, our bellies warm with pancakes, omelettes, buttered toast and hot coffee.

[200 words]

Priceless Joy Thank you for hosting this challenge. I’ve missed your challenges, missed writing and it feels great to be back and alive once again. Footy and Foodie, thank you for the photograph.

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Celluloid Eyrie

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Murthy’s shadow loomed on the white sheet that stretched pole to pole at the little ‘hall’ with tin sheets for a roof.

A little better than an oven when the weather was pleasant and a lot worse than a sieve on rainy days, its only claim to grandeur was a statue of a rather pompous looking bird that had seen better days.

A fire caused an uneasy calm.

It was painstakingly restored when the demand for movies became greater especially when times changed from bad to worse.

The booming from the inside, invited the passers-by in once again. Anything to escape the direct scorching heat of the midday sun. Anything to escape.

It was like an oven inside, though fans whirred sleepily when the power was there. Power cuts saw the generator operate just the projector, improving the air immensely with Kerosene fumes.

Months morphed into years. Murthy’s routine never faltered.

A sloshed brother made a half-hearted attempt to follow the enigmatic Murthy one evening and passed out effortlessly.

Nobody knew what he looked like, where he came from and where he went.

Nobody cared.

Only the haughty eagle knew, but wouldn’t say a word.

Splat!

Damn! A passing crow.

[200 words]

Thank you Al, for hosting Sunday Photo Fiction

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