A piece of flash fiction called Break The Glass won the One Word Challenge for April. The word in question was Glass. As with all my stories, I try to think of the human element within them, and how perspectives really do count. With Break the Glass I wanted to create a sense of fear and emotion, but I also wanted to create a sense of time and urgency and I did this through the use of repetition of the title throughout the piece.
The theme is self explanatory - one of those events never forgotten.
Break the Glass
The heat snapped at his throat.
The building trembled; a low undulating hum that rippled beneath his feet and made his legs quiver.
Break the glass.
Screams echoed in his mind; scratchy, distant, desolate, but in reality they were all around him, near him, next to him.
The crackle of fire broke through his panic. A saffron hue, spoiled with attrition, stinking of evil; needy and greedy, crept ever closer, clouded him.
Break the glass.
Images of his wife and daughter spliced his thoughts; he feared he would never see them again. He was trapped by the fire. Whatever had hit the building twenty minutes earlier had ignited several floors.
Paper and debris spiralled down past the windows.
Thick smoke forced him near the windows. He pressed his face against the glass. A beautiful cloudless blue haze filled his vision. The sun looked like some angelic manifestation; it mesmerised him, calmed him.
Break the glass. That thought again, tapping at his conscience. He grabbed a chair, swung it at the windows. Cool air rushed in. Behind him, the flames crept across the walls and ceiling, growled.
He stepped onto the ledge, took out his phone. Dialled home.
Another winning piece...
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.
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.
Death and poetry
I wrote this poem last year, as part of the one word challenge on Writer's Talkback, which was inspired by real events, the kind that happen all too often when we mix alcohol and driving, and the ignorant way that we often think we can get away with the occasional misdemeanour. Death has no obligation to young or old; he takes without prejudice or compunction, but more often than not it's our own fault that he comes knocking.
Literature draws him as a dark caped interloper carrying a scythe to harvest souls. I decided to keep to tradition and let the Grim Reaper keep his scythe for the title of the poem.
Death and the Scythe
When the darkness came,
I felt utterly alone,
Except for the moon;
His quicksilver smile,
Guided me to the scene.
The dark scar,
In the meadow,
That’s how I knew,
A black tide was coming,
To smother me, too.
Wheat gently swayed,
Unsullied by fear,
The wrecked car
Was silent; the breeze,
I could hear.
A gentle hum,
Of life letting go,
A last sigh into the night;
I was too late to save you,
Too late to know.
You were still warm,
But I grew cold,
I held you for a time,
As shadows retreated,
And stars hung low.
The tide was out,
Never coming back,
The silence crowded,
Despite the moon glow,
My life turned black.
A drunken night out, son,
You had nowhere to hide,
You baited the darkness,
He came for you...
Death and the Scythe.
Literature draws him as a dark caped interloper carrying a scythe to harvest souls. I decided to keep to tradition and let the Grim Reaper keep his scythe for the title of the poem.
Death and the Scythe
When the darkness came,
I felt utterly alone,
Except for the moon;
His quicksilver smile,
Guided me to the scene.
The dark scar,
In the meadow,
That’s how I knew,
A black tide was coming,
To smother me, too.
Wheat gently swayed,
Unsullied by fear,
The wrecked car
Was silent; the breeze,
I could hear.
A gentle hum,
Of life letting go,
A last sigh into the night;
I was too late to save you,
Too late to know.
You were still warm,
But I grew cold,
I held you for a time,
As shadows retreated,
And stars hung low.
The tide was out,
Never coming back,
The silence crowded,
Despite the moon glow,
My life turned black.
A drunken night out, son,
You had nowhere to hide,
You baited the darkness,
He came for you...
Death and the Scythe.
Another winner...
For those who are regulars to Lily's Feardom, the weekly flash fiction Friday Prediction challenge provides the opportunity to stretch one's writing muscles by constructing a flash piece around three pre-chosen words. My piece 'The Road to Kigali' won, judged by fellow scribe R.S. Bohn.
The words leaped out at me and demanded I write this piece. The dark side of human nature fascinates me and this dark episode in human history still lingers. How unfortunate it is then that humanity can still act so atrociously. We never learn.
The Road to Kigali
Their semen glimmered like a garland of bloody pearls around her fleshy purse. Heart stilled by the fear they’d forced on her, she stared up at the sky, eyes locked, as though wresting the stars from the darkness.
Moments earlier, she’d sucked in her last breath.
Wide open wounds glistened as a dark shroud began to spread from a body that resembled a slaughtered pig.
Their saliva had already dried against her skin, leaving a sullied sheen.
The Hutus walked away into the evening; machete blades moist with coital residue, dragging the remains of the baby she would have had.
The words leaped out at me and demanded I write this piece. The dark side of human nature fascinates me and this dark episode in human history still lingers. How unfortunate it is then that humanity can still act so atrociously. We never learn.
The Road to Kigali
Their semen glimmered like a garland of bloody pearls around her fleshy purse. Heart stilled by the fear they’d forced on her, she stared up at the sky, eyes locked, as though wresting the stars from the darkness.
Moments earlier, she’d sucked in her last breath.
Wide open wounds glistened as a dark shroud began to spread from a body that resembled a slaughtered pig.
Their saliva had already dried against her skin, leaving a sullied sheen.
The Hutus walked away into the evening; machete blades moist with coital residue, dragging the remains of the baby she would have had.
Sticks and Stones...
Here's a 200 word piece called Passing Judgement. The old saying, 'sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me' may be a testament to resolve, but we all know that words cut deep, and when they do, they always hurt. Words have a unique power beyond any sharp instrument.
The theme of prejudice is running throughout my creative fiction at the moment. I'm looking at how destructive it really is, how powerful it can be and the consequences it can cause. Besides, we as writers speak from experience when we write from the heart. I was recently asked if the main character in this piece is me. Well, that's for the reader to decide. What I will say is that it was written with great emotion.
This is the original flash fiction piece, however a longer version is being written for the short story market.
Passing Judgement
The cloud that hovered close seemed oppressive, tight like a rope around the larynx, pressing against the skin.
Sticks and stones might break bones, but their words were always sharper, and their ability to find their target was matched only by the invisible pain they inflicted, the discomfort braying against her like open sores soaking in salt.
She had taken the pain they inflicted and had woven it into a rope.
Words hurt; they sliced through the dermis and wriggled like maggots beneath the skin, then picked away at the mind, thinning out the rationality from within. Spite and malice and misplaced thought; they had not listened or understood her, and now she was maligned, like a thick fibrous ball of cancer, an unbearable stench.
The anger remained fresh in her veins, seemingly unsullied by their prejudices, but the rope she had forged turned out to be her saviour. Vilified and shown up like a stain, she had beaten them to it, beaten them to the sticks and stones.
Wrong accusations fell like snowflakes on ignorant faces and evaporated into the stillness.
She dangled in silence from the oak tree on the hill. Just as her innocence finally became clear.
The theme of prejudice is running throughout my creative fiction at the moment. I'm looking at how destructive it really is, how powerful it can be and the consequences it can cause. Besides, we as writers speak from experience when we write from the heart. I was recently asked if the main character in this piece is me. Well, that's for the reader to decide. What I will say is that it was written with great emotion.
This is the original flash fiction piece, however a longer version is being written for the short story market.
Passing Judgement
The cloud that hovered close seemed oppressive, tight like a rope around the larynx, pressing against the skin.
Sticks and stones might break bones, but their words were always sharper, and their ability to find their target was matched only by the invisible pain they inflicted, the discomfort braying against her like open sores soaking in salt.
She had taken the pain they inflicted and had woven it into a rope.
Words hurt; they sliced through the dermis and wriggled like maggots beneath the skin, then picked away at the mind, thinning out the rationality from within. Spite and malice and misplaced thought; they had not listened or understood her, and now she was maligned, like a thick fibrous ball of cancer, an unbearable stench.
The anger remained fresh in her veins, seemingly unsullied by their prejudices, but the rope she had forged turned out to be her saviour. Vilified and shown up like a stain, she had beaten them to it, beaten them to the sticks and stones.
Wrong accusations fell like snowflakes on ignorant faces and evaporated into the stillness.
She dangled in silence from the oak tree on the hill. Just as her innocence finally became clear.
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