Selfless #Flash4Storms

 

Night is soft, quiet, speaking in layered moonlight.

Listen.

She whispers through trees, between branches.

Do not be afraid. You are not alone…

Beautiful darkness soothes us even though she knows it is her that we fear.

 

 

Written for the hurricane relief flash fiction challenge over at Lemon Shark. I’ve just raised the first $1. 🙂 See? That was easy. Hope you join in.

#Flash4Storms

#LemonSharkCharity

 

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Getting Busy on My First Date

 

His tie was blue. A nice enough color. The geometric design wasn’t all that unpleasant. A bit modern for my taste, but not obnoxious.

I suppose it could have been his shirt, with its burgundy basketweave pattern. But, if I’m honest, the whole thing blew up because of his pink paisley jacket.

I couldn’t tell if he was nice enough for me to look past his fashion faux pas.

When my sister asked how the date with her co-worker went, I shrugged, “I have no idea. His clothes were so loud, I couldn’t hear a word he said.”

 

 

Totally goofing this week with a ridiculous entry for:

Flash Fiction Challenge over at Carrot Ranch

September 7, 2017 prompt: BusyIn 99 words (no more, no less) write a story about a busy character.

 

 

Magic, Fey, a Year and a Day #WritePhoto

 

 

“No peeking!”

I sighed. “I know, Mirra, I wasn’t going to peek.” Although, that’s exactly what I had been trying to do.

She smirked, took a swig of her mead, and skipped away.

I watched them all, gathered to dance, drink, and watch me stick my hand through a hole in the standing stone. It made me absurdly happy and I wondered what the boy on the other side was feeling.

I would know soon enough, when the druids decided it was time for me to look through the Holed Stone.

They wouldn’t ask what I saw and I wasn’t sure if that was because they considered it private or because they already knew. I took a sip of my drink and relaxed at the sweet, honeyed flavor.

I didn’t notice Mirra was by my side until I felt her breath on my neck. She whispered, “It’s time.” The silence around me now was thick. I knew they were waiting, watching. My life was about to change.

Placing my forehead on the rough sandstone, I gazed through the hole.

“Well?” Mirra tucked a lock of hair behind my ear.

“Water,” I smiled. I had seen rain on this sunny, summer’s day. She nodded and kissed me on the cheek. “He did, as well.”

I slipped my hand through the hole and felt warm, calloused fingers find mine and grasp them.

 

 

My #writephoto, a weekly writing prompt for poetry/flash/short stories hosted by Sue Vincent

 

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Breakthrough #WritePhoto

 

 

“Check this out,” he crouched over some green stuff poking through the pavement.

“Okay,” I squinted. “I give up. What is it?”

“No clue.”

“Let’s go. I don’t like this. It’s not right.”

“Wait,” he reached out.

I grabbed his arm, “Don’t touch it! What the hell?”

“I’m just wondering…” He withdrew his hand but didn’t move.

“My mum says curiosity killed the cat.”

He looked up. “What’s a cat?”

“No idea,” I admitted. “Point is, you’re too curious. Could get you killed.”

“It won’t.”

“It could.”

“Hey! There’s something else with this green stuff. It’s like a…” He snapped his gloved fingers. “Damn. What are those things we learned about in The World Before class?”

I rolled my eyes. “Jerical…this stuff. It’s wrong. I’m serious. It’ll do something to you.”

He grinned. “You’re right. It will.” He lifted his mask.

 

 

 

 

My attempt at #writephoto, a weekly writing prompt for poetry/flash/short stories hosted by Sue Vincent

 

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Family Tree #WritePhoto

 

 

He built it, brick by brick.

Carved from boulders in the valley or stones found weathered by time… He stacked them. Each one a testament to his regrets.

He spent his life there, in those mountains, building walls to shut out the world he regretted not being a part of. The one he left when his wife was murdered.

He taught his son the art of isolation, sorrow, and disappointment. And, together, they worked on those walls.

When he died, his son continued the tradition, creating something so spectacular, it rivaled nearby castles.

He held fast to what he had been taught.

But, unlike his father, he planted a seed of hope which grew into a fine tree. Sturdy and beautiful. Clinging to sorrow, growing out of the pile of regrets. It survived where it should not have. Some say it was magic. Others, that it was simply hope.

 

“Do you want to know what I think?”

“What do you think, grandpa?”

“I think that this magic and hope people talk about when they see my tree…I think they are the same thing.”

 

 

 

 

My attempt at #writephoto, a weekly writing prompt for poetry/flash/short stories hosted by Sue Vincent

 

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Dessert for One

 

“There’s nothing like an argument over dessert,” I flung a spoonful of whipped cream onto his cherry pie.

He stabbed a piece, shoved it in his mouth, and pointed the fork at me. “You started it.”

“Lovely. Now we’re twelve?”

He leaned back, arms crossed. “Go to hell.”

“Maybe,” I shrugged. “Maybe I’ll even see you there. But, for me, not today.”

“What’s that supposed to…” he grabbed his throat, glaring at me.

“Don’t worry, love,” I took a bite of my chocolate cake. “The choking won’t last long. Your heart will give out before it becomes too uncomfortable.”

 

 

 

Flash Fiction Challenge over at Carrot Ranch

July 20, 2017 prompt: Pie In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story that features a pie.

 

Sarah Brentyn Reef 99 Words - sig

 

Between #WritePhoto

 

 

He flies halfway between day and night.

His wings reach out, touch the rooftop of my home.

The silence outside me, the noise inside me…

I hear him.

Tomorrow, he tells me, will be softer. More forgiving. Wait.  

I believe him.

His message quiets my raging mind.

Delivered tenderly, I feel the force behind his words not to go gentle into this good night.

 

Feathered fingertips brush blue sky down into the pinks and purples of evening.

I will live to see him, this paintbrush of the Gods, bring the periwinkle light of sunrise up into sapphire skies.

 

 

 

My #writephoto, a weekly writing prompt for poetry/flash/short stories hosted by Sue Vincent

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I offer this as a beacon of hope for the 99-word challenge at Carrot Ranch this week.

In 99 words (no more, no less) write about a beacon. It can be from a lighthouse or other source. Use the word literally or figuratively and go where the prompt leads you.

 

 

Armo’s Love #WritePhoto

 

 

Usually, men carrying axes were unwelcome in the woods.

But Armo was a different sort of man. He respected nature, cherished it even, and the trees knew him.

The day she died, he was there, ax in hand.

He arrived shortly after dawn, telling them he couldn’t bear the thought of her body decaying and asking permission to alter the natural order of things.

They looked into his heart.

They nodded.

They watched as he worked throughout the day, well into the night, until the next morning, not stopping for food or drink.

They marveled at the care he took.

Nothing drew his attention from her form, first cutting her down, then carving her into a smooth, wooden bed.

The Dryads admired their sister’s final resting place.

Tuulikki was gone. She would not be crumbling and returning to the woods but remaining there in a mix of man’s and nature’s peaceful slumber.

 

 

 

My #writephoto, a weekly writing prompt for poetry/flash/short stories hosted by Sue Vincent

(Note: This week’s photo shows a bed with a pillow, all carved from a single tree trunk and left in a wood.)

 

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Worn

 

My teacher slaps my desk. I jump.

Students keep their heads down. I’m glad for this.

He asks me a question. Tells me it’s the second time he’s asked. That I’m not paying attention.

He’s right. I’m not. At least not to this lesson. I’ve been staring at his robe.

The edges are frayed.

Teachers are respected in The Society. They wear the robes of the higher classes. Dark blue. Tailored. Immaculate.

He sees me eyeing his sleeve and yanks his hand away. Something is wrong. I make a mental note to look at the other teachers after lessons.

 

 

 

Flash Fiction Challenge over at Carrot Ranch

June 29, 2017 prompt: Frayed In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story about something frayed. It could be fabric, like a flag or garment. It could also be nerves or temper.

 

Sarah Brentyn Reef 99 Words - sig

 

As the Crow Flies #WritePhoto

 

 

The crows land on a tiled roof.

Stones of the old church are unwelcoming.

Ancient and powerful, the birds call to us. We are ignorant of their language. We quicken our pace.

Clouds disperse into the arms of sunset.

 

Their magic is misunderstood. Met with judgement and fear.

The Goddess sighs, asking them away. They take flight, shattering the remaining blue of a fading day.

She folds her wings, settling in the nook of a stained glass window.

 

 

My #writephoto, a weekly writing prompt for poetry/flash/short stories hosted by Sue Vincent

 

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