Catch.

Journal

Writing my thoughts down.

In my bid for both literary greatness and a satisfying night of shut-eye, I have decided my erratically leaking thoughts are in need of some daily catching.

Hemingway kept a diary, Stanley Kubrick and Guillermo Del Toro have manoeuvred their way through some of my most cherished films via notebooks of scribbles, and Sylvia Plath waged war on many a mental monster through the pages of her journal. So I’ve decided it’s time to start scribbling down a daily thought or two.

My first main issue was which notebook to choose, because, let’s face it, we all know I’m partial to a little overt affection when it comes to stationery, so much so that my office could suffice as the local stationery shop. But in honour of National Stationery Week, I am willing myself to make a choice.

I opted for this pride and joy firstly because it says ‘journal’ on the spine, and I’m not so much a rebel that I’m keen to ignore what this book was intended for, but also because its title takes the pressure off.

From henceforth everything I write in my journal shall be entitled ‘fucking brilliant’. Even if it’s not.

Thank you to the Daily prompt for spurring my churning brain.

Run.

Not quite The Hemingway Day today, simply because I have too many words and not enough brain power left to edit them. I think I’ll go and plug myself into the mains and get a recharge. If only.

Run.

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Her footsteps blended into the pounding of each rain drop. As each one plummeted down his cheeks, she managed to get further away.

This post was inspired by the weekly photo challenge, and the photo is a still from a short film I made whilst at university, which all seems like a very long time ago now (because I am almost thirty, and very very tired.)

Choke.

A four day week is an affair of proportions so glorious that it means Friday has come without my usual straggling spirit and dwindling dynamism. And so it is with my seldom felt Friday fizz that I bring you The Hemingway Day, and six words that together make a very jolly piece of flash fiction. What a difference a day makes.

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 Choke.

His veins strained as she squirmed.

Thanks to The Daily Post for the prompt, ‘Afloat’, which prompted me, for some reason, to think about suffocation, and the floating of blood amidst veins. Don’t judge me, I’m really a rather happy soul.

Stranger.

Today’s The Hemingway Day, telling tales of deceptive appearances…

Stranger.

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The pupils peering back weren’t hers.

Thanks to the Daily Post for the photo prompt.

The End of the Line.

The Hemingway Day… Aiming to deliver a few seconds of literary escapism as work begins to take its toll for yet another year.

The End of the Line.

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He was ready. Just three steps.

Thanks 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.

 

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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.

Alone.

The Hemingway Day with five seconds of Friday fiction…

Alone.

Amidst unfamiliar pandemonium, she remembered loneliness.

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Thanks to the Daily Post for the photo prompt, ‘Twinkle‘.

The Hemingway Day. Soul.

After my latest barrage of photos and words I decided it was necessary to give your inboxes a break, but I am back today with my old Flash Fiction Friday feature wrapped up in some brand new packaging… 

It was F Scott Fitzgerald that dared to tell the great Hemingway that he couldn’t write a story in six words. Hemingway delivered a literary KO with “For sale, baby shoes: Never worn.”. 

The Hemingway Day: Inspired by Ernest.

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Soul.

Her shadow still stood there, lingering.

http://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_photo_challenge/gone-but-not-forgotten/