'The Manuscript' by Cath Humphris

Imagine his hand, his bony fingers gripping the quill lightly, at the sloping desk in the stone room, where comfort is of secondary importance. Cold winter sunlight slants in from a biforate mullioned window, unfiltered. It sharpens the folds of his rough brown habit. 

The sleeve is pushed back to the elbow, exposing the lean brown arm that on other days wields a hoe, gathers in hay, empties the latrines. His wrist is angled carefully above the creamy surface of a freshly scraped parchment, lest he leave an unintentional stain. 

The other desks are cleared of all but the scars of sharpened quills and graffiti.  

Imagine the ink, in a stout pottery jar, and his tonsured head, bowed, gleaming, as he marks the curves  of a capital, snake-like. Now thick, then thin, neatly turning the tail with the last drop. He watches the glossy shape appearing and drying as he measures the distance for a smaller, downward line to follow. Knows without tracing how to place the three cross-marks. Parallel, perfectly balanced.

Thus, each letter, faithfully copied.  Blindly constructing not just a text, but a work of precise beauty in a language he cannot read, but knows by heart. For how many pages has he never touched the inks on the far side of the room, the blue, the red, the gold?

'An Adventure of the Senses' by Suzanna Lundale

 

If you, reader, were here with me now, well, for one thing, you’d be gaping like a codfish, but the main thing you’d notice would be the smell. I used to live in your neck of time. I know how clean and flat everything smells. People don’t smell like people. Streets smell like ghost towns. Here, come through, I’ll show you. Now that I’m used to this, I don’t think I could go back to that. But, as you’ve only just arrived, we’ll get you a pomander and a scarf to tie over your nose – probably best, anyway. Wandering around Southwark with that unmarked skin, mouth agape, you’d be begging for robbery, at best. Here, now, here’s a hat – what were you thinking walking around everywhen with your head uncovered? – pull it down a bit, like so. Perfect, not so conspicuous, as long as you keep quiet.

Now, I have a treat for you. You see this building? See the shape? Any guesses on where we might be? Good! You’re not completely hopeless, then. This is indeed the Globe Theatre. And I suspect you’re familiar with the play we’re about to see, King Lear. First performance is today. I don’t think we’ll be able to get seats, but standing among the groundlings is its own experience. Well, yes, it’s loud, but surely you don’t expect people to stand silently watching. Ah, perhaps you do. If you decide to stay, perhaps we shall come again, and sit up with the quality. It’s quieter up there. Oooh, let’s get some cockles to enjoy during the show. Oh. Oh dear. Have you died, or merely fainted?

'My Catherine' by Donna M Day

I loved her the moment I saw her. I miss my brother dearly, but I thank God that she is mine now.

Look at her. Such beauty.

We will have many wonderful children and our heirs will rule this land forever.

She is my love and from this day on she will be my wife. My Spanish princess. My Catherine. My Queen. 

'The Worst Day' by Melissa Flores Anderson

I hate when the big herds of herbivores pass through our valley during the hot days. Their feet churn up the earth so that we can’t take a breath without the air being laced with dust.

“Can’t I go to the river?” I ask Momma. The other juveniles dip into the water, feast on crocodile eggs that are nestled in the reeds along the shore’s edge, and chase away the baby plesiosaur.

“The water isn’t our domain,” she says, like she always does. “We rule the earth. Leave the water to lesser creatures.”

I stomp away and lean my dark green head against a tree where Momma can’t see me.

I don’t want to rule anything. I want to splash in the cool water, feel my claws dig into the mud, taste one of those crocodile eggs that everyone else eats on Saturday mornings.

Toby T-Rex finds me, his lips still slick with baby crocodile goo.

“Man, you should join us,” he says. “Today the water was perfect.”

My mom is the worst mom in the whole history of the world. Today is the worst day ever. The only thing that could make it worse would be some giant meteor plummeting from outer space to the earth, kicking up so much dust it blocks out the sun and then all the plants start to die and all the herbivores start to die and then, well, I guess that would be bad for me, too.

“I don’t even like to swim,” I say, and suddenly, I really just want a hug from Momma. I find her and wrap my tiny arms around her.

‘Marriage Vows’ by Joyce Bingham

He holds the axe my father made, examines the fine tool work, the leather thongs holding the blade to the antler handle. He grunts and slots the axe into his belt. Taking my chin in his hand he forces my lips apart with his dirty finger and inspects my teeth, his hands pull my tunic aside and he smirks. I am grateful the quickening in my belly is not noticeable. He grips my arm, bruising the skin and pulls me out of my home and onto the wide beach. Father watches from the entrance of our round house, his arms folded across his chest. I know mother will be weeping, remembering when she was taken by my father. She has prepared me well and I know my place, but I have my lover’s child with me, and he will be this man’s first born. I follow my husband to his boat and as we move away, I turn and give father a look of defiance.

NFFD 2023 Prompt #8: No Time Like The Present

 No Time Like The Present

Welcome to the first of this year's Write-In prompts!  This year, we're celebrating the 2023 National Flash Fiction Day Anthology theme of time.  Throughout National Flash Fiction Day, we'll be posting one time-related prompt on the hour every hour from now until midnight (BST), for a total of 25 prompts in all.  You have until midnight on Sunday (BST) to submit your responses for possible publication here at the Write-In.  We'll start posting responses on Sunday, 25 June 2023....

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Write a flash set at least 100 years in the past, but write it in the present tense, as if it the story is unfolding right now.   (Bonus points for each century back you dare to go!)

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If you’re submitting this to us, make sure to note that this is a response to Prompt 8: No Time Like The Present.

You can submit responses until 23:59 BST on Sunday, 25 June 2023 for a chance to be published here at The Write-In.

You can claim the badge for this prompt until 23:59 BST on Sunday, 2 July 2023 by going to the here (hosted by the NFFD website).