Category Flash Fiction

Stop All the Clocks – Alastair’s Photo Fiction

freyathewriter 5 Comments

Here is my offering for Alastair’s Photo Fiction this week, inspired by the photo below.  Why not take part? And why not visit his photography and writing blog to take a look at his other photos…?

Copyright - A Mixed Bag

Copyright – A Mixed Bag

– Stop All the Clocks –

Eric wondered whether the clock’s stopping had taken place in broad daylight, or whether the hands had ceased their relentless turning in the London night, unremarked by human eyes.

His day swallowed him whole, the passing thoughts faded into the background. Two weeks later, on his first day back to work from his annual summer holiday, the ever-still hands locked at just before twenty to three caught his eye straight away. He reached his office, shut the door and picked up the phone.

“Yes, hello. Your clock doesn’t seem to be working. Did you know about it?”

Eric liked order, above all things. On putting the receiver back in its cradle, he felt satisfied at having alerted the management to the problem.

On his way home, he opened the Evening Standard, settling down to read. At the bottom of page 7, a news item caught his eye and his satisfaction disappeared, replaced by a strange empty feeling.

“Hotel clock winder dies on duty”

Still, at least he had helped them find the poor old man.

Cuts Like a Knife – Līgo Haibun Challenge

freyathewriter 14 Comments

I have decided to dip another toe in the world of the haibun – a piece of prose followed by a haiku poem. The Līgo Haibun Challenge is hosted by Penny, Ye Pirate and Nightlake – why not take a trip to their blogs to find out more?

This week’s two alternative prompts are:

The butterfly counts not months but moments, and has time enough – Rabindranath Tagore

or
The world is mud-luscious and puddle-wonderful  – E.E. Cummings

I have chosen Rabindranath Tagore as my inspiration – I hope you enjoy it.

Please do go and check out the other entries by visiting any of the co-hosts’ blogs and finding the InLinkz linky thing! There are some very talented writers out there…

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– Cuts Like a Knife* –

She sometimes forgets. Wrapped up in the treadmill of her days – the getting up, the showering, the dressing, the rushing out of the house; she is distracted.

Half a mind on this, the other on that.

But then, late at night, as she steps into her bedroom, switches on the lamp and bathes herself in its pool of yellow light, she catches a glimpse. She is peeling off the day; removing her jacket, her blouse, skirt and stockings. Her mirror records the moment, that millisecond when half-turned, she sees the inky etchings on her rose-blushed skin. It was a choice she made not so long ago, to record a time in her life that changed the path that she thought had been set.  A reminder that for her, life’s opportunities must not be taken for granted and yet sometimes, she also just needs to breathe.

the butterfly kiss
whisper-soft, yet knife sharp
in its impermanence

*Yes, I have Tagore’s quote etched on my skin, in a huge spiral across my back, starting at the base of my spine. Yes, this is autobiographical. No, you don’t get to see pictures!

ligo-challenge_logo

The Boy – Five Sentence Fiction

freyathewriter 6 Comments

It’s time for my latest offering to Lillie McFerrin’s Five Sentence Fiction, a weekly prompt where there is no word limit, just a limit on the number of sentences. Plus, although she provides a word prompt, it is just for direction only – you don’t have to include the word itself in your contribution.

This week, the prompt is  – MAGNETIC.

Do let me know what you think of my offering below – and whilst you’re at it, why not take a look at everyone else’s offerings (I’m sure they’ll be fabulous), and even give it a go yourself…

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– The Boy –

The boy stared, the tingling that had started in his fingertips crawling up his arms like an army of ants; they had all told him not to open the door.

It wasn’t anything special, just plain wood that could do with a lick of paint – in its prime it must have been scarlet, now it was dulled with age and several flakes lay on the floor, crispy like autumn leaves; they crunched under his shoes.

He sidled closer, reaching out to touch the handle, pulling his fingers back sharply as they made contact with the cold metal.

The boy muttered to himself “Do it!”

Closer, yet closer, hand hovering over the handle; still he couldn’t steel himself to grasp, and push…

Lillie McFerrin Writes