Your prompt for #JusJoJan and Stream of Consciousness Saturday is: “the first 3 words of the first full sentence.” Okay, follow me here. This is what I want you to do: 1. Grab the closest book to you when you sit down to write your post. 2. Open it to a random page. 3. Locate the first complete sentence on that page. 4. Use the first three words of that sentence to start your post, then take it from there–write whatever comes to mind. That’s it! Have fun!
Page 130 – Moontide – “A gust of wind caught it as she got her sword clear and threw it over his head.”
A Gust of Wind
A gust of wind blew through Star’s hair. As always, her mind went blank even as her body reacted. She acted as she had been trained, dancing with effortless grace wielding a slender curved sword in one hand, dagger in the other.Continue reading “JusJoJan – SoCS — A Gust of Wind”→
“PROPER MILK!” Betty gasped when she read the sign.
Wanderer was not so enthusiastic. She was as sick of the replicator goo that passed for “food” as the full humans, but she was leery. How could this one little farm in the middle of nowhere have escaped the invasion that had left the entire area barren? At her command the entire group stealthily made their way to the opening in the trees where she saw the farmhouse in ruins, corpses still where they had fallen. Wanderer sighed, another burial detail, but perhaps there would be something left in the barn.
Sharah reverently touched the ancient wall. Old paint chipped and peeling made by methods long forgotten. “Caribbean Green” the elders called it. Colors were rare now, all structures sported the same dull gun metal grey finish. The wooden walls surrounded a strong and solid bunker, where the humans had made their final stand.
From here they had launched the Magnetized Pollution Concealotron, and thus burned the sky to ash. The invaders had been driven off, but the cost could never be forgotten. The nuclear winter that followed wiped out more of the earth’s population than the invaders ever had.
A piece of Prosery for Kim at dVerse Poets. Kim asks us “to write a very short piece of prose that tells a story, with a beginning, a middle and an end, in any genre of your choice.
As it’s flash fiction, we have a limit of 144 words; an additional challenge is to hit 144 exactly. The special thing about Prosery is that we give you a complete line from a poem, which must be included somewhere in your story, within the 144-word limit.”Continue reading “Light of the Pyres – a Prosery Tale”→
Can you see me? Am I ghost to your eyes? I gave so much but kept nothing for myself and now I’m lost like a grieving child, unloved, unspoken. My heart and soul tissue paper thin like tattered confetti fluttering in a breeze. Bit by bit, I feel myself fading away. Can you see me?
Lilacs covered the side of the house that spring, their perfume heady and sweet. I close my eyes and I can see the cottage, chipped walls in need of paint. I remember it all, water skis and Cranberry Lake, rich coffee at the market, Mt. Baker shining in the distance.
How was I to know it wouldn’t last? That like the winds across Deception Pass you would blow through my life leaving nothing but memories and emptiness, a hole that love once filled.
I put my face to the lilacs, breathing deep; it all comes back, sights, smells and tears.
“Penny for a posy, penny for a posy mum? Penny for a posy.” The little waif danced about the fountain square hawking her wares. A small tattered basket filled with flowers picked from the roadsides. They were gathered into tattered little bundles with equally tattered and dirty bits of string or rag. Star knew she should keep walking, she had to get back to the inn before she was missed. But the dark circles of the child’s eyes beckoned her, she placed a few coins in the girl’s hand and selected a flower from the basket.Continue reading “Stream of Consciousness Saturday a penny for a posy”→
Melantha ground the herbs in her mortar, gently circling the pestle round and round, softly chanting. She added the herbs to boiling rainwater and when the full moon rose, set the potion to strain.
Why? Melantha wondered as she carried her cauldron into the town square. Why was she doing this? The townspeople hated and feared her for the strain of dark magic within her. Why save them? Because she was the only one who could. “As one can, one must,” she repeated her mantra quietly. She left the cauldron in the square and spirited away on noiseless feet.
Watching from the shadows, Melantha smiled to herself and the town folk gathered around the cauldron. There’s not much pride left to a drowning man, nor to a dying town. A young woman was the first to scoop of the deep green liquid and take a cautious sip, feeling no harm, she spooned the potion into her children. Melantha returned to her shack as silently as she had come, the strain of her solitude eased a bit by her own act of compassion.