Image: Photo by Skeeze at Pixabay.com
The crone left the meat out for the wolf knowing he would arrive soon.
It was a weekly ritual, her way of paying homage to a superior being.
The wolf watched over her, as she aged and slowed she potentially became vulnerable.
It was to both their advantage to care for each other.
Written for: https://katmyrman.com/2018/12/03/twittering-tales-113-4-december-2018/
It started out as an innocent dare. Who could resist the longest?
Fluff was determined to be the winner, Fluffy knew he could outlast Fluff, and Fluffier knew he was superior to the other two simply because he was better looking.
So there they stood, the ice-cream sitting in front of them and the whole time their minds were caught between wanting to eat the ice-cream and wanting to win the dare.
Each smacked their lips in anticipation of the soft, smooth cold confection going into their mouths.
Fluff was thinking the other two were going to yield to his strength of character, Fluffy was thinking, Fluff is weak, he’ll give in at any moment, and Fluffier was thinking his good looks would sustain him, after all, he had strength of character even as he found himself edging closer to the bowl.
By now the three were dealing with the aroma of the ice-cream wafting up into their respective nostrils. That fact was not helping, as the three noticed they had moved within a tongues distance of the bowl. Each thought they could stick out their tongues in lightning fashion and get in a taste before the others noticed.
The temptation was overwhelming, and soon Fluff found himself with his nose all but in the ice-cream, and his resistance was wilting.
“Let’s lick all together, then none of us will win, but we’ll taste this delicious treat,” suggested Fluffy thinking it was a clever idea.
“Ok, on three?” announced Fluffier thinking he’d hold back and be the winner.
“Three!” cried Fluff and all put their noses into the ice-cream.
They looked at each other, noses displaying their failure and agreed it was delicious and a dumb idea to think they could resist.
Written for: https://athling2001.wordpress.com/2018/12/03/jsw-prompt-12-3-2018/
Image: – Image found on WeHeartIt
It was afterwards she reflected on why it was she allowed herself to let it happen, time and again.
It wasn’t as if she was a weak woman, she knew she had backbone, she knew what she wanted in life, but around him, she was as impotent as she could imagine.
She found herself succumbing to his advances.
They were always so reasonable, and she did have a soft spot for him, after all, they had been married a long time.
He knew too that he could manipulate her, appeal to the guilt that rode along with her every moment of the day.
One mention of the past, of her relationship with Maisie and the guilt, flooded over her and she found herself without a leg to stand on.
So she’d fall into his arms, as if there she felt safe when deep down she knew it was more a way of placating him than herself.
She had grown to dislike conflict and found it easy to ‘sell her soul’ rather than put up a fight and stand up to him.
He promised her things would be different that he had reflected on his ways and saw he needed to be more considerate and understanding and for the first few days took her out for lunch or dinner, offered to do more around the house and showed an interest in the blog she wrote.
But that was always short lived.
He found fault in so much she did. When he asked about her interests, and she shared with him her blog writing, he became a ruthless critic, told her how he thought it might be done even when he knew nothing about what it was she was doing.
His criticisms destroyed her love of the one thing she thought she was good at. So it was easier to do her writing when he wasn’t around.
It wasn’t long before her life descended into the same old, same old, once again.
She would avoid him at every opportunity, feigned interest in sex, became a lump of flesh he used, her self -esteem plummeted, and she looked once again for a way out.
He was oblivious to the impact he was having on her, cared only that she was there to cater to his needs and didn’t question what he did in his own time.
Thinking his life was secure, his marriage a model for any who looked in on it, he was surprised when he found her note. He was more surprised when he found she had taken the savings, stopped the flow of money from her account to his and then suggested he leave and not come back.
His usual overtures fell on deaf ears. He was left with nothing. He abhorred the notion of having to work.
But there was no other option.
She, on the other hand, watched from afar, awaiting the day the bank would call and say he had to leave as they were foreclosing.
She waited for the bank manager’s call to say he had gone. A quick transfer of funds and the house was hers.
This time she told herself she would stand alone.
Written for: https://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2018/12/04/photo-challenge-241/
This week’s words: Cantankerous candle torpedo oily buffet badmash* (a hooligan) ruler lighthouse wild melancholy pertinent personal
It could never be said that Miss Marble, witch, of 46 Grimace Street was in any way a cantankerous or wild woman. Though you could be forgiven thinking her longevity may well have addled her mind in some way.
In actual fact, she was one of the most personable people you might ever hope to meet. Quite amazing really when you consider the number of fools she must have suffered during her lifetime.
One such was Barnaby Leadbetter, the lighthouse keeper. Barnaby had a reputation as a badmash back in the day when Miss Marble was setting out on her life journey in witchcraft.
Having learned so much from her mother before she passed away, Miss Marble quickly earned herself a name throughout the village in which she lived and as such attracted the attention of many a fair-minded youth. She also attracted the attention a very impertinent Barnaby who considered himself God’s gift to women and put Miss Marble in his sights.
Barnaby had an oily personality, most women felt it immediately he came near them and would torpedo his affections, if that’s what they were.
Barnaby thought he had a plan to invite Miss Marble to the village fair, entertain her in the buffet tent and if all went well, he would emerge by night’s end the ruler of one Miss Marble, eligible spinster and witch. What a catch he thought to himself.
He set about to do all he could to impress her. Bought her scented candles and wowed her with sea-faring tales, most of which he made up, after all, there is only so much you can see from a lighthouse.
Miss Marble knew about Barnaby and decided to play along with him, after all, she was young, at the time and enjoyed his attentions. But prior to her leaving for the fair had provided herself with an anti-fool potion and just as Barnaby thought he had her in his web of charm Miss Marble became incredibly smelly, her mood changed, her cantankerousness multiplied, and she made some of the most impertinent remakes ever heard in mixed company.
Barnaby was shattered and returned home struck down by an overwhelming melancholy that kept him indoors for quite some time.
Miss Marble, on the other hand, went home, scented candles in hand and downed a restorative potion immediately returning her to her usual happy and contented self.
This week I’d like you to use this quote by Sylvia Plath: “I talk to God, but the sky is empty” as your point of inspiration
I chose these words from the image: caviar, optimistic yellow, blueblood.
She hadn’t said much the last week, and I knew there was something bothering her. She was a person who let her feelings be known, and her silence was worrying.
We’d retired to the garden, and she was digging, pulling weeds and turning the earth. The garden was a favourite place for her, and she loved the colours she was able to propagate, the bluebloods were particularly brilliant this year.
When she spoke, she took me by surprise. “ I talk to God, but the sky is empty.”
I took in her statement a second or two before replying, “ You mean he isn’t listening?”
“Yes,” she replied,” and I’ve tried everything. I mean I know he’s busy, there so much that must take up his time, and after all, I’m one old woman worrying over something I’m sure he must think is trivial. The other night I questioned you serving up the caviar, for some reason I thought it an unnecessary extravagance forgetting it was something you liked. I’ve started to question so much of what I do. I used to think I was an optimistic person, you know I thought I saw the positive side of so much, but now I wonder if I was totally naïve and God’s punishment is making me wallow in my own misery. I’ve stopped wearing my yellow when I garden, my optimistic yellow you used to call it when I undertook a project you thought was bigger than I could manage. Nowadays I wonder what the point is.”
“He is busy,” I replied, “ and you are right there’s a lot he has to contend with. I think he lets us go at life and lets us find our own way. He’s given us a sense of right and wrong, and we have that ingrained into ourselves, so from that point on its let’s see what happens.”
“We expect too much?” she asked.
“I think so, after all, look what happened the last time he got distracted, there were ice ages, and I’m sure he was planning something significant when he designed the platypus and by the time he realised it was too late and look what he gave us.”
“Yes, that makes a lot of sense.”
With that, she went back to her weeding, and I noticed a more nurturing manner in the way she moved the earth under her trowel.
Written for: https://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2018/12/02/sunday-writing-prompt-the-sky-and-god/
The Chapel
Far beyond the city, in the middle of nowhere, sat a tiny chapel. No one knew who built it, why it was in the middle of nowhere, or why any traveller in need would always find the light on – but I know these things. I am alive because of Father Chris and the little chapel in the middle of nowhere.
I just turned eighteen and was so sure of myself. I knew everything I ever needed to know – at least I thought I did. I was an adult and didn’t need anyone’s permission to leave. So I did. I left home the morning of my birthday with a few clothes and what little money I had stuffed in a backpack. Mom and Dad weren’t up yet, which made it a little easier not having to listen to Dad ask why or listen to my Mom cry and ask me to stay. No, it was better the way I did it. At least it seemed that way at the time.
I boarded the Number 3 bus heading out of Jasper and …(Morpethroad’s bit)
….. noticed the light on in the chapel. I was curious as it was a shade of green I had not seen before. In the vestibule was Father Chris. He was a tall man, taller when he stood up, and he was standing there looking at me as I passed.
I watched, as around him, the green light seemed to throb as if suspecting I was flying the coop of my hometown. He was dressed in his customary black, but his clerical collar radiated a blinding white light. I looked away with a sense of betrayal and guilt.
I looked back through the window of the bus and found myself just passing the chapel, green light and Father Chris. This disturbed me, as the bus appeared to be travelling at a rate of knots by now having cleared the town limits.
Three times this happened, and I started to feel stuck in some sort of ground hog day. I then pulled the stop cord above me and alighted.
As the bus moved away I saw across the road the chapel, now dark, lights gone and Father Chris standing in the doorway in his radiant collar.
I found myself crossing the road and coming up to Father Chris who….
I pass the baton to Crispina at https://crimsonprose.wordpress.com/
Written for: https://thehauntedwordsmith.wordpress.com/2018/12/01/finish-the-story-dec-1/
Miranda was a city girl and as such grew up in a concrete jungle, as her mother explained to her. Outside there was the odd tree and green areas, but Miranda didn’t have a concept of wide open spaces even though she saw plenty on the TV in her room.
To her, the world was one of grey with the occasional splashes of green.
Her parents blamed themselves for bringing up their daughter in such an environmentally challenged way. It didn’t bother Miranda as she was fine living as she did on the twenty-third storey above the city, where the lights at night kept her entranced, especially so at Christmas when they presented themselves in more colours than she imagined existed.
One day her school announced there was to be an excursion into the country. Miranda was excited, as she’d never been to the country. Her parents, like her, were city folk and going to the country was not an idea they entertained.
But they agreed to Miranda’s request to be allowed to go and on the appointed day packed her a lunch and gave her strict instructions as to what to do if she felt overwhelmed.
The excursion was for Miranda a voyage of discovery. There was so much green, she couldn’t believe her eyes. There were animals, huge grass-eating beasts and woolly smaller creatures in vast flocks she found it hard to take her eyes away from.
Miranda had not realised there was such a wonderful world away from the city. The colours alone were enough to give her a love of a world beyond her current experience.
She returned that evening laden with as many brochures as she could carry from the places they visited wanting to tell her parents about everything she had seen.
‘Goodness,’ thought her parents after listening to her for several hours, ‘what little monster have we unearthed?’
Written for: https://reinventionsreena.wordpress.com/2018/11/29/reenas-exploration-challenge-65/
November 29, 2018, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story using the phrase “into the dark.” What must a character face? Write about an encounter, journey, relationship, or quest. Follow the ship’s lights on gloomy seas. Go where the prompt leads you.
The old man struggled with every breath. In the past week, the darkness he sensed was coming closer. He’d been a man in charge of his destiny throughout his life, and now he was approaching what for him was uncertainty.
He realised he was no longer in control, “I don’t think I can get out of this,” he told his son as he gripped his hand tighter. Dependence was foreign to them both, but together they resolved to be together until the end.
Eventually, the old man’s breathing slowed and the son gave his father up to the dark.
Written for: https://carrotranch.com/2018/11/29/november-29-flash-fiction-challenge/
There was the expected calm and tranquillity of the morning after the snowfall.
The roads were covered, the furrowed tracks filled with iciness and the locals all a bit puzzled by the cold and the white landscape.
The silence permeated the atmosphere, and it was as if nature was awaiting the wake-up call to get the day started.
There was movement around the base of the first fence post, enough to shake a little snow from the top and shower down on the perpetrator of the movement.
A small echidna was burrowing its way into the wet timber of the post looking for breakfast, a bug or two to satisfy its appetite. The cold bothered it, as it wasn’t used to such things happening. Though it did recall a similar event a week or so ago and it wasn’t happy then either.
It peered above the snow line and saw the road was blanketed and marvelled at the smooth finished surface. It gave way to a whole new perspective on the space, and the small spikey marsupial resolved to stay well clear as it knew any moment now there would be noise and noise if it wasn’t careful could lead to injury and as it was cold it didn’t want to have to deal with that as hunger was the only concern it wanted right now.
So it stuck its nose to the ground, thought, there has to be something here, and ignoring the cold pushed deeper into the snow its tiny sticky tongue doing what it did best, sticking food.
Written for: https://scvincent.com/2018/11/29/thursday-photo-prompt-untrodden-writephoto/
When Aunt Ella died the wooden bust from the old church pew fell to the floor with enough of a thud to arouse our curiosity.
It seemed coincidence at the time, but Aunt Ella and the church pew had been inseparable over the years.
The pew had belonged to her family, so she said, and by rights, it was hers so when she moved the pew came with her and looked out of place but regal in the nursing home.
The fact the bust fell the day she died was significant as it was never refitted to the pew. There were many attempts, but none worked. The bust and glue were never compatible.
So we decided the bust would be placed in her coffin and cremated with her. Afterwards many noticed the pew would shudder when you sat on it, but others said it was just out of balance.
Written for: https://crimsonprose.wordpress.com/2018/11/28/crimsons-creative-challenge-3/
Morpethroad 