Up.

Today’s poetry 201 challenge has helpfully allowed my writer’s brain to head home, in creating some prose poetry. The subject is ‘fingers’ and the challenge was to include some assonance in the piece…

Up.

Up

 

Her blood boiled upwards as my ears rang with her rage. The words abandoned their sensical path, instead bulging the brain as indecipherable mush. I couldn’t hope to untangle it. It would reside, for evermore, swelling, sneering at my sanity and tormenting it into submission.

As her back faced forwards I took the wrath and exhausted it in the only way my schoolgirl mind could conceive. A hidden gesture paraded with such force that it would spend my frustration.

Forearm clenched, bicep tensed, I paraded a pugnacious middle finger at the back of her straight black bob.

She would think she had won.

 

 

I think this photo fits this week’s photo challenge rather nicely too…

Crack.

Thank goodness for that little moment on a Friday afternoon when you realise there are two days of bliss ahead. Here’s a few seconds of literary escapism in celebration…

The Hemingway Day. Crack.

IMG_2972

The cracks echoed, fracturing. He froze.

 

Thank you to The Daily Post for the photo prompt

He’s Alive.

It’s a very merry Christmas from me and my festive happy house guest, and the last of this year’s The Hemingway Day flash fiction…

He’s alive.

 

IMG_1826

 

Their bodies recoiled, their eyes bulging.

 

Thanks to the Daily Post for the photo prompt “yellow”, which in my view, is just gold with less regal dripping.

Suffocate.

feathers

 

Its feathered tentacles invaded his lungs.

 

Pig.

IMG_9852

 

Today I was given the task of rewriting a set story from the perspective of a 12 year old sat across the street. So again I am curtailing my lengthy words and sentences for something simpler….

Pig.

I thought it was strange that she wasn’t crying. Those pigs turned up at her door with their blue flashing lights and their noisy sirens, almost bursting my eardrum. It’s my dad that calls them pigs. He might’ve even oinked at them once when they knocked on our door. He doesn’t get into trouble anymore, he just doesn’t much like them.

Her door didn’t take much of a kicking. It’d been off its hinges for weeks. She hadn’t left the house so she probably didn’t even notice. I used to catch her sometimes when I was hiding in the bush in our front garden. She’d be looking out the window and holding onto something tight on her chest. I’d been sat here a lot lately on account of the shouting inside, it is all too deafening for me.

One of Mrs Pauley’s sons had brought me orange squash when he was last here. We sat and talked about my shouting parents, about his dead Dad. He loosened his tie and took off his black jacket and rolled up his sleeves, then he started making daisy chains in the mud. I thought he was a bit old to be making daisy chains, but I remembered playing Nintendo with him when he lived with his Mum so I helped him. Maybe he was going to give it to her to cheer her up, on account of her husband being dead. They usually make tea when things like that happen around here.

I recognised the man standing behind the pigs. He turned up at our door one summer when Dad was locked up. His face was twisted and snarling, he shouted for hours and hours about money. He stayed the night, luckily he didn’t seem so angry over Rice Krispies in the morning.

They were putting her in their car, hands behind her back. The man standing behind was shaking his head at her. I tried to wave when they drove away, she was in the back seat but she didn’t even look up. She must not have seen me. She was still carrying that jumper, her face was buried in it. I think I recognised it now from when Mr Pauley was alive.

Time.

Popshot

There is something about calling yourself a writer… The first time the description ever passed my lips it sounded like a fanciful pipe dream, especially when my scribbled words had yet to sit somewhere that could validate my claiming of such a job title.

But through my letterbox today appeared a sublime magazine that I fell for just months ago, when I dared to daydream of the time my words might appear on its exceptional pages. Today that daydream was hurled into reality, and Popshot Magazine will now forever be supreme in my trek to literary illustriousness, as the first place my writing was ever published.

So here it is, the pudding proof for you to gorge yourself silly on…. My name is Laura Gabrielle Feasey and I am a writer.

Aurora.

day13

On day four of this course I penned a tale of loss, which was the first instalment in a series of posts. In today’s second part, I have scribbled a tale of something found…

 

Aurora.

The stinging winced across Laura’s ankle every time she made contact with the concrete. The sapphire velvet chafed incessantly against skin that was now blushed pink, as pin pricks of rose red began assembling at the surface, ready to spill. A paper thin layer of skin cells started to get up and leave their quarters on the inside arch, exasperated at being continually hassled, they escaped in mounds, leaving droplets of red behind.

After untold strides, Laura liberated her feet from their evening of incarceration. Inside, the rich velvety fibres were seeped in scarlet, a prophecy to every foot that ever dared venture inside again.

When the world tells you there is no way back at six years old you believe it.

Pane.

 

Remembering childhood again thanks to The Daily Post

day11

As I have been caught amidst a whirlwind of weddings and autumn colds I have decided to combine the last two assignments with this one vignette. The task was to describe a favourite meal from childhood, and a childhood home. So here is fruit pastilles and a house at the side of the forest…

 

Pane.

Blades of grass erupted from the ground beside the doorway and continued as linear soldiers across endless metres until the forest floor interrupted them with mud. At the bottom of this greenery a colossal mass of trees extended into the daunting never-end.

Her bedroom window offered a viewfinder into the mysterious world that loomed at the end of the garden. By moonlight the world whispered an infinite abyss of darkness in return. Her four foot frame would fit cosily within the nook of the windowsill. Her nose would turn pink pressed against the cool glass, puffing winged steam trails with every exhale. In her pockets she would find week old fruit pastilles bought by the father she missed. They granted sweet comfort as she held them on her tongue, sucking the sugar crystals, prolonging their life for as long as possible.

She would find flickers of movement. Watching her watching them. Until she would turn off the lights and let the darkness envelop.

Red.

day9

Today’s task is one of perspectives… “A man and a woman walk through the park together, holding hands. They pass an old woman sitting on a bench. The old woman is knitting a small, red sweater. The man begins to cry. Write this scene from three different points of view.”

I’ve answered this with three separate stories of flash fiction, which also sit together as a whole…

 

Red.

His hand shuddered upon her touch.

Seeing red was his daily hell.

For the last time, she knitted.

China.

day8

With my typically excessive descriptions, today’s task, to banish all adverbs from the piece, was to prove a bit of a challenge. Hopefully none have sneaked their way in…

 

China.

Whispers of steam pirouetted through the air and headed skywards. The cafe had the most eccentric taste in china. The bodybuilder had a thick black moustache and his prowess was shown in lifting a hefty dumbbell above his head whilst the rest of his body focused on a pose: hand on hip, muscles flexed, side parting lacquered. He wore burnt orange jogging bottoms and a muscle tee, quite the vintage pin up against a backdrop of purple roses that were teetering on the edge of bloom. The rim was lined with gold, a regal finish to this working man’s scene. Every day Gabriel would order coffee and it would be a different mug. Every day it was a different scene on a different mug. Yesterday’s beverage came sloshing within a brown pencil illustration of a bunny rabbit. Who knows what tomorrow would inflict.

Gabriel gazed out the window from his usual spot. The tawny vinyl chair perspired beneath the clammy bare legs of a 30 degree day. Each sip of coffee made the sweat ascend further to his pores. Gabriel felt a presence as he detected a shadow sliding across the table. He looked up to find two coffee coloured eyes scowling at him.

“What is your name?” The stranger asked.

“Why?” Gabriel responded. He wasn’t in the habit of presenting a stranger with his name.

The man had long blonde eyelashes and his pallid skin was showered with freckles. He was carrying a bright green holdall, it swung heavily as he stood. He bowed his neck and brought his face within inches and sang in a whispered tone “Gabriel.”