Literary Lion. Clock watching.

Greetings my little lions and lionesses. This week I pulled from the pot a pretty piece of penmanship in pink, and it echoes the theme of a story I told last winter, which was published in Popshot Magazine.

The word is ‘time’, and you can read an excerpt of my original tale below, or you can find an online preview of the magazine here.

As always you have seven days to create a flash fiction story in 400 words or less. Include the tag ‘Literary Lion’, pingback to this post, shout at me on twitter and Instagram so I can share your literary prowess, and have a browse of each other’s tales in the WordPress reader.

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Waiting for No Man.

Mr Dufour looked at the line of people; several days worth easily, perhaps even weeks. They snaked between the weighty columns of the room and bent out of the door. He couldn’t see the end of the queue outside, but he knew it was forever growing.

When he first started taking requests from his visitors, his heart said yes to almost every appeal. Dying parents that needed more time, lost children that required longer to be found, even the young at heart that weren’t ready to grow old. But with every yes he gave, a hundred more of the same would journey to his door, and with every granted wish, his creation would be forced into overdrive.

When he discovered the bottling of time he made a promise that he would never take it for himself. But hundreds of thousands of requests later and he was weak and he felt old. The skin on his hands was thinning, his spine was beginning to curve, and his once coarse black hair was now an unkempt tuft of grey clinging to a line between his ears at the back of his head.

Initially he thought he had changed the world for the better. Over time he came to realise that he had just made it more arduous. The further he prolonged life the longer everyone needed to live, the more time he gave those who were failing, the more they needed to succeed. The days he granted to the dying meant the diseases became more aggressive, the hours he presented to the needy made them less able to survive next time. It was this very morning that he noticed more of his hair scattered across his pillow, and he knew a dark cloud was lurking in the distance.

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The Monday Muse. 27 hours.

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This afternoon I realised that it takes me four minutes and 29 seconds to peel a satsuma. That’s over 31 minutes a week, which is around 1,631 minutes a year… otherwise known as 27 hours.

It has come as quite a shock to me that such a block of my time is dedicated to one of my five a day, and it has had me wondering how much time I waste on other humdrum tasks.

Five minutes more wasted and I have come up with this little list.

  1. Trying to get rid of pins and needles – 260 minutes
  2. Hiccuping – 312 minutes
  3. Stifling a yawn – 60 minutes
  4. Proofreading my text messages – 1,820 minutes
  5. Figuring out the meaning of an emoji – 60 minutes
  6. Trying to decide if I want sugar in my tea – 260 minutes

I hope you can understand why I am keeping this post short. I’m off to invent some time-saving, multi-tasking techniques.

NB If you think my satsuma peeling time is excessive, it’s because I have a fear of the straggly white bits.

 

 

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Word.

Day20Triumph

 

The final day of photography101… ‘Triumph’.

Word.

“She stood up, and picked up the nearest cylinder and held it between her hands. It hypnotised her just as it did many years ago, the clear glass filled with spiralling tendrils of time, almost whispering from within.”

 

https://lauragabriellefeasey.wordpress.com/2014/10/03/time/

 

 

Inferno.

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Day 13 of photography101… “Moment”.

Inferno.

He was shrouded by the inky hues of the dead of night, until he emanated from the shadows, a chilling inferno to anyone who dared to consider his presence.

 

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.

Flash Fiction Friday. Seconds.

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For now, his time was borrowed.