Direction #WritePhoto

 

 

“No, no. That’s east. I’m sure of it.” Angela looked back at the three strangers she’d managed to pick up along her travels.

The tall, ginger-haired boy tilted his head. “I think that’s west.”

“North,” the little girl toddled up next to him. “South!”

Ginger-hair sidestepped the girl, giving Angela a look. “Why did we bring her?”

Skinny girl punched his arm, “Shit, she’s a baby. We couldn’t leave her. What’s wrong with you?”

Ginger-hair rubbed his arm then shrugged, “Kids are sticky and loud.”

“Okay,” Angela took a breath, blowing it out loudly. “Enough. We go that way. With the little girl.”

“Which way?” Skinny girl asked. “You’re flailing your arms around and expecting us to know what you mean. Also, let’s not forget we don’t know where the hell we’re going and no one agrees on…anything, actually. And can we give the girl a name at least?”

“Toward the sunrise,” Angela said.

“Sunset,” Ginger-hair corrected.

“Dammit!” Skinny girl flung her hand at the nearby house, “I’ll say it again. It’s right there. A house. Signs of life. Possible help. No-brainer. And, fine, I’ll give her a name. She’s…Pam.”

Now-Pam yelled, “Pam!” Skinny girl smirked. Ginger-hair did not. Angela opened her mouth to argue and Now-Pam lowered her voice, “no house.”

“It’s right there, squirt,” Skinny girl pointed. “See?”

“See?” Now-Pam poked her stubby finger to the branches seemingly growing out of the roof.

“Huh,” Ginger-hair said. “I don’t remember that tree being there.”

Angela backed away, “It wasn’t.”

“No tree,” Now-Pam said. “Bad house. Run.”

 

 

 

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

 

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Rubbing Salt in the Wound #WritePhoto

 

 

“There used to be water here,” he pointed to the cliff. “Up to the standing stones.”

She nudged some loose debris with her foot. “This is cool, isn’t it? And, no, there wasn’t. Water, I mean.”

“How do you know?” He asked.

“I don’t,” she shrugged. “I just figured if it was you saying it, it must not be true.”

“Well, there was water here,” he insisted. “And it had salt in it.”

She laughed, “Salt? Okay, yeah, whatever.”

“Stop kicking that stuff. It was part of the water. Still is.”

“What’s wrong with you that you’ve got to make stuff up all the time?” She glared at him. “Water that had salt inside of it? You’re crazy, you know that?”

“I don’t know why I bother. Let’s go.”

She crouched and studied the debris. “I want to stay here and check this out.”

He grabbed her arm. “Don’t. Touch. That.”

“Why? Will the little, dried-up, old dirt eat me for lunch?” She yanked her arm from his grip and reached out.

“With salt,” he mumbled. The seaweed shot up and snaked around her body, thin tentacles covering her mouth and dragging her under the ground.

 

 

Happy Halloween and Blessed Samhain, my friends. 🎃💀

 

My attempt at #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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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