No Horizon

There was no horizon. No land or sea or sky.
There was only Jack.

There were no sounds to be heard. No vibrations or noise.
Jack listened for his heartbeat as he took a tentative step forward. Several shapes blurred into existence as his eyes grew accustomed to white darkness.

“Hello?” he called, leaning gently forward for a reply.

A far-away flame was lit. A beacon of sorts. A sign.
Miles were walked; for minutes, or hours, or days.

“Hello?” he called, as the heat of the flame licked his face.
A shadow grew tall.

“Oh,” he whispered, “it’s you.”


keck

What an interesting photo! For me it, well, you can see above what it said to me. Desolation and wonder. Very intriguing. It’s nice to be writing again after a month break from the blog, and I’m looking forward to reading everyone’s Friday Fiction as the week rolls on.

Prison of Hope Chapter 1

MrBinks:

Lovely stuff from a fellow Eurogamer.

Originally posted on Steve McHugh:

To gear up for the forthcoming release of Prison of Hope, I posted the Prologue a few weeks ago. If you haven’t read it yet, you can find it HERE.

I now present to you, Chapter 1 of Prison of Hope. Enjoy.

McHugh-PrisonOfHope-21030-Ft-Cvr

C H A P T E R 1

France. Now.

My mistake came in the form of saying “yes”—a simple, but powerful word that along with its brother, “no,” can do a lot of good or a lot of damage. Once that first word had left my lips, I was duty bound to follow through. I could have come up with an excuse to get out of it—hell, I could have shot myself and said someone was trying to kill me. Should have, would have, could have. Instead, I convinced myself it wouldn’t be bad, that it might even be fun. I was wrong. It was hell…

View original 3,037 more words

Mushrooms

Gaston was a terrible gardener and equally appalling cook. The latter of these annoyed him the most. With a name like Gaston he felt sure that his lot in life was becoming a head chef in a French bistro or some swanky London hotel.

He had all the tools. Expensive japanese knives, copper-bottomed pots and pans, specialist slicers for bananas, garlic, carrots and eggs. He even started his own allotment to encourage creativity and healthy eating. Alas, it was to no avail. After 5 full seasons all he had managed to grow was impatient, a ginger beard and five mushrooms.

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Catch up with the rest of the Friday Fiction stories over at Rochelle’s blog. 1 photo. 100 words. Endless possibilities.

erin-leary

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Walkies

I used to love it when he took me for walks. The longer the better.
We’d often end up off the beaten track; looking for exciting, unexplored areas behind the city. A quiet escape from the usual bustle of everyday life.

It was tiring. She was always quite demanding but the older she got the more those demands irked. Scratching at the door to be walked, or for food, or to see her friends. The incontinence was bad enough, but one day she turned and bit me.

Last Sunday, I strolled behind as I took her for one last walk.

c2a9dawn_landau

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Thanks to Rochelle for hosting Friday Fictioneers, and to all those that read and comment. I’m looking forward to seeing what you’ve come up with this week.

Friday Fictioneers. Your favourite Friday flash fiction… every Wednesday.

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50 Shades of Ken

Some more writing for FAWM15. Draft musings that I thought I’d publish.

50 Shades of Ken

He cuts a figure
the shape of “O”
All hulked and hunched up
He’s feeling low.

She will not touch him.
He knows not why.
Been reaching for her
but she’s out tonight.

Shrugs off the covers
picks up a pen
torn scraps of paper
become a gem.

She wants attention
it cannot be.
The words are flowing
and he’s out to sea.

His phone is buzzing
His eyes aglow
New friends and faces.
Starts saying “no.”

She sits in waiting
For him to call
All slight and smoking
Staring at the wall.

He carries himself now
there’s no more need
All proud and puffed up
Alone but freed.

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