The painted ponies rode up and down, flashing red, gold and green. Wendy held on to the tin mane, the sunset flaring over the wet sand while the cracked music jangled. She didn’t want to see the mechanism, the poles beneath her steed or the butcher’s ponyburger.
The taxi driver said. ‘This place isn’t what you think. The murder rate is the highest in the South West.’ His pine scented tree made her sick.
‘It’s the hostels, you see, they put all the druggies here, ship ‘em in and our police force – Ha – can’t cope.’
She didn’t tip.
Showing posts with label Prompt 9. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Prompt 9. Show all posts
Monday, 17 June 2019
'The Darkness Between Us' by Marie Day
We came to the house in a mist of unease. Lawn statues loomed from the grey shroud, begged our retreat.
The house gifted solitude for your prose.
For me, it was never silent amongst Memory's echo. Footsteps never disturbed your art the way they scurried through my dreams.
The years grew empty rooms between us.
Voices beckoned at every corner. Whispered about the darkness. Their hands held mine through winter.
And as time bled colour from my soul, I became them. My empty stare etched in blurred reflections, a part of the forever in this house.
@mariedaywriting
The house gifted solitude for your prose.
For me, it was never silent amongst Memory's echo. Footsteps never disturbed your art the way they scurried through my dreams.
The years grew empty rooms between us.
Voices beckoned at every corner. Whispered about the darkness. Their hands held mine through winter.
And as time bled colour from my soul, I became them. My empty stare etched in blurred reflections, a part of the forever in this house.
@mariedaywriting
Sunday, 16 June 2019
Write-In 2019: 'The Water Test' by Amy Barnes
My father was a witch with no spells. He just begged the dry ground for water, his twisted forked stick reminiscent of a witch’s broom.
The stick quivered in my fingers after I snuck into the keeping cabinet.
We were outcasts in Broken Wheel, not white Klan and not not-white, crosses burning in our yard. Margaret Mitchell Elementary was our home. My father was tasked with finding water for the town. The water tower remained empty and city streets grew dustier.
They came for him at the witching hour, four minutes after midnight. Four minutes before the rains finally came.
The stick quivered in my fingers after I snuck into the keeping cabinet.
We were outcasts in Broken Wheel, not white Klan and not not-white, crosses burning in our yard. Margaret Mitchell Elementary was our home. My father was tasked with finding water for the town. The water tower remained empty and city streets grew dustier.
They came for him at the witching hour, four minutes after midnight. Four minutes before the rains finally came.
Write-In 2019: 'Herman Melville' by Paul Purnell
I
sailed aboard the Pequod searching for the White Whale. South and
West we sailed for months. Captain Ahab kept watch with Fedallah the
harpooner. We found it. Fedallah impaled the beast many times but it
pulled him under, lashed with his own line. Still, Ahab searched on.
Silent and crazed he spoke only to his cabin boy, while we cringed
with fear. Then the great leviathan struck the ship and with one
mighty leap crushed the hull and swallowed Ahab in its jaws. Thrown
clear of the boat I managed to stay afloat till rescued but the rest
perished.
Write-In 2019: 'Fill Your Boots' by Dettra Rose
Dear Broken Heart,
Drink vodka. Drop onto the sofa. Tear down the soft sound of hope. Play the song that speaks out your sorrow. Put it on repeat. Buy an anorak– a hooded home. Hear the songs of a homeless man. Hug his wiry dog. Walk in the park. Stoop. Pick it up. A proud silky feather.
Feel the wing it came from.
Take the feather home and Place it like a crown on your unmade bed. Open the windows and let the soupy air out. Drop into the sofa. Let the new day you glimpse fill up your boots.
---
This a very culled version of a flash first published on The Australian Writers website in February 2018.
Drink vodka. Drop onto the sofa. Tear down the soft sound of hope. Play the song that speaks out your sorrow. Put it on repeat. Buy an anorak– a hooded home. Hear the songs of a homeless man. Hug his wiry dog. Walk in the park. Stoop. Pick it up. A proud silky feather.
Feel the wing it came from.
Take the feather home and Place it like a crown on your unmade bed. Open the windows and let the soupy air out. Drop into the sofa. Let the new day you glimpse fill up your boots.
---
This a very culled version of a flash first published on The Australian Writers website in February 2018.
Write-In 2019: Short Shrift by Amanda Jones
“Want to go to Moscow. When can we go to Moscow? PLEASE can we go to Moscow?” “Maybe in August” said Masha. Olga sighed. “I have a confession to make. You know when I went to care for that sick woman on the estate? I didn’t. I went to Moscow. And it wasn’t all that.”
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