The last thing he saw was the tree speeding towards him. He had misjudged the icy road completely. What he doesn’t remember is climbing out of his vehicle, finding his way to this little girl’s house where he now sat at her tiny table, watching her pour air into tiny teacups.
“You don’t believe me.” she said.
“There’s no way I’m your imaginary friend!”
She took him by the hand and led him outside. Together they walked in thick snow. She stopped, pirouetted and pointed to the ground, “Look.”
One set of girl-sized footprints were stamped in the snow.
Written for Friday Fictioneers hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. Write a story in 100 words or less. I hope this doesn’t go over too many heads!
Click the frog to submit your own story and join us!
Rina wasn’t sure what had happened. One minute she was configuring the new algorithms on the black hole transporter. The next there was a strange whirring sound and now she found herself here. A courtyard guarded by hedges that was definitely not her laboratory.
Springing up to her feet, she stumbled over the hem of her ballgown. Blood rushed to her head. A figure approached her from one of the many courtyard doors. Rina drew back in shock as her vision cleared and in front of her loomed a hairy beast in a dress coat.
“Belle, are you okay?”
This week’s flash fiction was inpsired by the famous black hole image led by Katherine Bouman and her team. The first black hole picture. Don’t ask me what a black hole is, I can’t tell you. The hazy effect of the prompt image made me think of time travel and disney princesses, Belle from Beauty and the beast in particular. So there it is…
I’m just about getting this in before the link closes!
Written for dVerse Poets Pub open link night. I missed the chance to post on Amaya’s Cascade challenge earlier this week so getting a two in one. It’s not in the exact form, but learned a lot in the process!
Images from hideawayreport.com (1) and wildfoottravel.com (2)
He came to escape. Refresh. Clear his mind. Where better than a lodge out in the Botswana bush? Archer checked his phone for the fiftieth time. Only her screen-lock picture smiled back at him.
Outside, a masked weaver bird worked diligently on his nest. A female fluttered by and slipped inside the hanging nest. Archer knew if she liked it she would stay. Within seconds she popped out and flew off. Just like that. No warning. No goodbye. Leaving the weaver bird staring after her wondering what he did wrong.
“Chin up, buddy. The right one will stay.”
The prompt reminded me of the bright yellow weaver birds that are prominent in Botswana. There’s one that tears the leaves off of my palm tree into thin strips to weave his nest. They are such clever little things.
Honestly, I’m not sure if the females inspect the nest to their liking. Some bird species in the world build elaborate nests, complete with fancy bottle caps or shiny pieces of litter, and the female arrives to inspect it all. If she approves she simply settles right in. If not, she continues on her way.
of my army, working the oars through the black water
towards a destination far beyond
what we could see.
Inspired by the very real historical Viking Warrior, who was first assumed to be male upon excavation in 1878. (And also inspired by a song with the same refrain). Due to the remains being buried with an arsenal of weapons and a game set, used in strategic thinking, it was clear that it was a warrior’s tomb.
It took more than a hundred years later for someone to examine the bones and confirm that the lack of Y-chromosomes indicates the remains were female. This caused much controversy. But the evidence speaks for itself, and the myth of the female Viking warrior became fact.
The artifacts in the tomb indicated she was a high ranking warrior. My poem tries to capture life through the eyes of this dead warrior, in the Viking village of Birka.
Geography plays a major role in the activities and organisation of a community. In this case, Birka (located in Sweden) was a major trading post between Northern Europe and the rest of the world.
Anthropological and historical studies show that much of what the modern world perceives as uniquely masculine or feminine gets debunked by findings such as these. Where medieval and sometimes ancient customs do not have the same roles and customs assigned to specific genders as we do today.
When your caged heart was free and lived with gusto.
With the Pen in your grasp
Switch genres, change the title and unclasp
the yoke around your neck.
Write one word, then never look back.
In my google search, it turns out a quadrille is also a dance.
I was not familiar with the use of the verb ‘spike’ as in rejecting something. Usually used in publishing where a manuscript is considered and then rejected and put on the spike. So I thought I’d use it in my attempt at a quadrille.
This was nothing short of a mental crossfit workout… Hope you enjoy it.