Lily's weekly Friday Flash, over at the Feardom, provides a melting pot of inspiration by way of three chosen words used in a piece of flash fiction no more than 100 words in length. Last week's words of Observe, Pit and Structure produced some imaginative pieces, and mine, The Unwatered Well, was chosen as winner.
The words instantly gave rise to something dark and disturbing. For those who like their fiction horrifically dark and twisted, do give the Feardom a visit.
The Unwatered Well
The writhing awoke him.
Wind coiled around the circular structure; whistled between the cracks. The light above speckled his blood-smeared vision.
The stench ripped at his senses. Deep moans and squelches filled the cramped darkness. He tried to move, but couldn’t find anything solid to lean against; his hands sank into the soft, malleable flesh of those beneath him; sticky, slippery; skin against skin.
He lifted a hand, observed the way it glistened with dead men’s entrails.
He stared up from the pit. Warm lumps splattered against his face; blood, flesh and shit.
They were filling up the unwatered well.
Writing about nice things in life...
I recently entered this poem for a competition, and although it never got anywhere - some you win, some you lose - it was on a subject that I rarely write about - love. I primarily write dark material, psychological and social horror, and thrillers, so I found this a challenge to write about the nice things in life.
Colour of Desire was written last year for another competition, so I took the original material and shaped a new poem from it, looking at love as though through the medium of colour; if we could see emotions shaped by shades.
Colour of Desire
If desire were a colour, what would it be?
Purple or red, or black maybe?
If need could be defined in shades of grey,
How then would I ask you, what would you say?
I dream of you nightly, in deep rustic hue,
Flooded by pastels; blessed yellow and blue,
I’ve pictured you replete, in ribbons of white,
You fill me with colour and brighten my life,
A soliloquy unburdened by refrain or doubt,
Smoothed by the fingers of love, we flout,
Golden rings that revel in light,
Softly reflecting from hands clasped tight,
You are the saffron haze that tickles the light,
I am silver patterns on cold ceramic white.
Do you see me in colour, as I see you?
Maybe you paint me in your dreams, too.
The colour of desire is a deep honey glow,
Somehow, I think, you may never know,
Or understand beauty in colours or shades,
How quickly the simplicity of black and white fades.
If longing could disperse like ink on a pad,
Then my yearning for you wouldn’t be so bad,
But my love is a colour unto itself, the
Soft, metallic sheen; like a tin on the shelf.
If desire were a colour, what would it be?
The colour of love, when you married me.
Colour of Desire was written last year for another competition, so I took the original material and shaped a new poem from it, looking at love as though through the medium of colour; if we could see emotions shaped by shades.
Colour of Desire
If desire were a colour, what would it be?
Purple or red, or black maybe?
If need could be defined in shades of grey,
How then would I ask you, what would you say?
I dream of you nightly, in deep rustic hue,
Flooded by pastels; blessed yellow and blue,
I’ve pictured you replete, in ribbons of white,
You fill me with colour and brighten my life,
A soliloquy unburdened by refrain or doubt,
Smoothed by the fingers of love, we flout,
Golden rings that revel in light,
Softly reflecting from hands clasped tight,
You are the saffron haze that tickles the light,
I am silver patterns on cold ceramic white.
Do you see me in colour, as I see you?
Maybe you paint me in your dreams, too.
The colour of desire is a deep honey glow,
Somehow, I think, you may never know,
Or understand beauty in colours or shades,
How quickly the simplicity of black and white fades.
If longing could disperse like ink on a pad,
Then my yearning for you wouldn’t be so bad,
But my love is a colour unto itself, the
Soft, metallic sheen; like a tin on the shelf.
If desire were a colour, what would it be?
The colour of love, when you married me.
Simplicity of words
Flash fiction is an art form. Just like any other writing. Writing flash makes you think about every single word, every sentence, every paragraph, in a way you normally wouldn't do. Writing effective flash really is a gift. If you can say so much in so few words, then flash fiction is a must.
Mending the Broken is a flash entry written for the Friday Predictions over at Lily Child's Feardom. The three component words - mistake, revolution and stitch - make up what is a simple story. The trick with flash fiction is not to make it complicated. Sometimes simplicity counts. But even in 100 words, it is still possible to stop a reader in their tracks, to unsettle them, shock them, scare them.
Mending the Broken is simple, but effective.
Mending the Broken
One revolution.
They came to rest at the side of the deserted road.
One revolution, through one mistake, that’s all it took.
6-year-old Emily mooched through her mother’s handbag, found the little travel sewing pack that her mother always took with her wherever she went.
Her tongue glistened in the fading sunlight; folds of concentration darkened her brow as she attempted to thread the needle.
Her mother’s expression remained impassive. It had been hours since the accident. No one came.
No matter. Emily stood on the shattered car seat and began to stitch her mother’s head back on its shoulders.
Mending the Broken is a flash entry written for the Friday Predictions over at Lily Child's Feardom. The three component words - mistake, revolution and stitch - make up what is a simple story. The trick with flash fiction is not to make it complicated. Sometimes simplicity counts. But even in 100 words, it is still possible to stop a reader in their tracks, to unsettle them, shock them, scare them.
Mending the Broken is simple, but effective.
Mending the Broken
One revolution.
They came to rest at the side of the deserted road.
One revolution, through one mistake, that’s all it took.
6-year-old Emily mooched through her mother’s handbag, found the little travel sewing pack that her mother always took with her wherever she went.
Her tongue glistened in the fading sunlight; folds of concentration darkened her brow as she attempted to thread the needle.
Her mother’s expression remained impassive. It had been hours since the accident. No one came.
No matter. Emily stood on the shattered car seat and began to stitch her mother’s head back on its shoulders.
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