Flash Fiction Fun
I have been having rather a lot of fun with Pinterest. In particular, I am amassing an impressive collection of writing inspiration.
Anne, Mother of Three has informed me that her family may use my pins for a group writing activity, which sounds like an awful lot of fun.
So I says to myself, “Self, what say we do the same thing on the blog?” and I agreed that I was brilliant and of course we should do this thing.
Blog Participation
So!
Any blog readers out there want to pick a pin and write a little sumthin’ sumthin’, feel free to post your work (or a link to your work, if you’ve got your own blogspace and feel the need to do so) along with a link to the original pin.
That way, everyone can see what pins were chosen and what stories came from them!
Pins are here > http://pinterest.com/tavenmoore/writing-inspiration/
I’ll pick a pin and add my story to the comments as well.
Ready? Set? Write!
37 Comments
OOO FUN! *Goes to find a pin*
*ahem*
trouble finding a pin, Bre?
(I can’t wait to read something from you!)
*grin* She’s got a pin, just been busy on one or two other projects.
<.<
Not … ahem… not that I’ve poked her about it already. *grin*
I do hope she finishes and posts, though! Can’t wait to read it!
http://pinterest.com/pin/3377768440712936/
Old Gus used to sit on the pier, staring into the ocean waves while the gulls screamed and wheeled overhead. His clothes were the same worn gray of the wood, weathered by salt and wind. He might have been just any other homeless man, if it weren’t for the expensive guitar case at his side.
Gus had a hat set out in the sand and every summer, my dad would drop a few dollars in. Old Gus never even seemed to notice, as if the hat were just an afterthought and the only thing that really mattered was buried in the ocean waves somewhere.
I don’t remember how or why it started, but every year, he would answer one (and only one) question.
Didn’t matter how much I’d pester or pry, every year I only got one question. I found out that he used to be a fisherman and that his name was actually Gustav Peterson and that he had no family left and that he didn’t like my asking about his guitar.
Two years ago, I asked him why he carted around a guitar case if he never played it. He’d make more money busking than begging, I argued.
“It’s not that kind of guitar,” he said quietly, lifting a hand to caress the smooth leather case. He looked at me, then. For the first time I could remember, those gray eyes turned away from the ocean and fell upon my face.
I hope to God I never, ever see eyes like that again. If eyes are the windows to the soul, Gus’s soul was an ocean of grief, deeper and broken in ways I could not understand.
He looked back to the ocean and I walked back to where my parents and sisters were camped out on too-bright beach towels.
Last year, I spent more than an hour sitting next to him, staring out into the ocean, trying to see what he saw.
“What are you looking for?” I finally asked.
“Impossible forgiveness,” he said, and even though I deliberately faced away so that I wouldn’t have to see those eyes, I could still hear that bottomless grief in his voice.
All year, his response haunted me. I’d be in class or at football practice or eating dinner and I’d hear his harsh, gravelled voice say it over and over again.
Impossible forgiveness.
What did that even mean? Part of me didn’t want to know, but a larger part of me felt caught up in a strong current, like I had no choice.
I had to know.
This year, I spent the whole trip trying to think of another question to ask him. Or trying to decide if I wanted to ask him anything at all.
We hit the beach and I immediately turned to look at the pier … but Old Gus wasn’t there.
I stood for a moment in shock. Gus was always there. Had never not been there, not in all the years we’d been coming to this beach.
I felt … betrayed. Cheated, as if Gus had made some sort of promise to me. As if we’d had an unspoken deal, and he’s not kept up his end of the bargain.
Every day of vacation, I looked for Gus, and not once did he appear.
On the last day, I walked over to Gus’s spot and sat down where he used to sit and stared out into the ocean he used to stare at. I dug my hands into the sand … and felt something. Something hard and smooth and flat.
Somehow, I knew it was the guitar case, and that it meant Gus wasn’t ever coming back.
I dug it up, unearthing the black leather box as if it were a coffin. I brushed the final dusting of sand from the box and stared at it.
I shouldn’t open it.
I knew that I shouldn’t, and at the same time, I knew that I had to.
I held my breath as I flipped the shiny silver latches and carefully eased open the lid.
The instrument lay on a bed of black velvet. The body had been made from a dark wood, with the lush, graceful curves of a mermaid carved around the body, every scale etched in painstaking detail.
The frets were white — not metal at all, but something else, something different. I leaned closer and saw that the strings weren’t metal either.
They were golden in color, and shimmered like spun silk. Surely, they couldn’t possibly handle strumming; they’d snap at the lightest touch.
A gust of sea air tickled the strings and set them to singing. At first, the sound was just that: sound. After a moment, the strings began to pluck themselves and gooseflesh spilled across my arms and down my back as the mermaid began to sing along.
She sang of the ocean and freedom, of the sand and the waves and the crooning of whales. She sang of a net and of brightness and a fisherman. She sang of loneliness and pain and death.
As I stared down at the guitar, I understood.
The strings were hair, the frets were bone, and the fisherman? The fisherman had been Old Gus.
Old Gus, who had the saddest eyes I’d ever seen. Old Gus, who stared at the ocean for hours, seeking impossible forgiveness.
Old Gus, who’d killed a mermaid, and spent the rest of his life so haunted by it that he’d crafted her remains into a guitar that never let him forget the beauty he’d destroyed. So tormented by his past that he’d silenced the instrument and buried it in the sand when he could no longer stand its burden.
I lifted the guitar from its case and carried it to the water, cradled in my arms like a baby. Freed from its prison, the guitar sang louder, the golden strings playing out a lonely, mournful tune.
I knelt in the surf and dipped the wooden base into the ocean. Immediately, the song changed. Deepened. Thrummed through the water like whalesong.
A wave rushed in, splashing against the instrument, and when the water rolled back out, I let it take the guitar with it.
I stayed there, I don’t know how long, listening to the mermaid’s song fading off into the distance.
Once, I thought I saw the flash of a brilliantly-colored tail fin break the surface of the waves, but it might have been my imagination.
I never saw Old Gus again. Every year, I go back to that beach and stand in the surf, staring off into the ocean, listening for that song.
I don’t want to follow up on that act XD
Pshaw. Isn’t an act, is just fun! Fingerpainting! Play, play!
I didn’t double check this for editing purposes so likely some issues with it.
And for some reason, it came off as really hard to write…every paragraph felt like pulling teeth to get it out :P
http://pinterest.com/pin/3377768440960744/
In your world, you see a man in glasses, walking down the street.
In my world, I am one of the Faran Knights. Entrusted with a mission of utmost importance to the world, I have been sent to find the world’s last telarim blade. Tempered with fragments of Origin from the Soul of the World, the sword grants its wielder a power not seen in the world since the Darkling wars nearly seven hundred years ago.
In your world, you see a pigeon flying overhead.
In my world, I see carrion flyer. A creature borne of foul magics. Its presence here is evidence of the rise of the Darkling threat that my Order is devoted to wiping out. Carrion flyers do not venture this far north on their own though. Through the affinity link with their Darkling masters, they serve as spies and servants. I ready my magicks and prepare to take the creature down. It’s masters cannot be allowed to learn that the sword has been found.
In your world, you see policemen, called to deal with a man causing a public disturbance.
In my world, I see the clockwork enforcers that my half-brother hired as his personal guard. He murdered my father and usurped the throne of Terrenia. I put up as good a fight as I can but the fight was over almost before it began. I might have escaped if there had only been one or two but where there’s one of the clockwork contraptions, the rest of his squad is never far behind. Their technological sorcery proves too much for me, even with the fabled blade. Their long-ranged electric attacks put me down quickly and I am taken away in their clockwork vehicles.
In your world, you see a trial at court.
In my world, I see a kangaroo court. Not one with actual kangaroos, don’t be absurd. This isn’t some crazy fantasy world. But the trial itself is a farce. All orchestrated by my half-brother, Coren. He’s a human agent for the Darklings, working to bring them back into power in the world. By denouncing my mission and the Faran knights, he effectively removes us from a position of power, making it easier for him to bring back the Darklings unchallenged. The judge has been bought and so has the jury. This is Coren’s best chance to get me and the knights out of the way for the coming invasion and he won’t screw it up.
In your world, you see a psychiatric hospital.
In my world, I see the Terrenian jail. It’s a squat building, with more floors underground than on top. It used to be filled with criminals and vagrants but from what I see as I’m marched to the lower levels, the wards are filled with political prisoners more than anything else. I see two Aranis ambassadors locked in a cell together, as well as some Oveils a couple rooms down. I recognize them from their enclaves in the city. It is clear that Coren is locking up the races that signed the Accords and united against the Darkling threat centuries ago. He’s gutting the resistance before the invasion even starts.
In your world, you see a session with a psychologist.
In my world, I see a session with Coren’s interrogator. They can’t inflict any physical injuries just yet. Though the trial was just for show, it was too public. The denounciation of the Faran knights and their subsequent disbanding is on everyone’s lips in the city. Too many people, oblivious to the threat have witnessed the trial and will find it suspicious if I’m visibly abused so soon after being convicted. Coren and his Darkling allies aren’t quite ready to make their move yet so they need to keep things quiet and keep the people unaware. For now, I’m safe but in a few more days, once the public has forgotten about my trial and moved on with their lives, all bets are off.
In your world, you see a man pacing in a padded cell, muttering to himself.
In my world, I am coordinating an escape with my allies. Temrin, one of the Aranis, had set up an affinity channel to me before the start of our quest for the telarim blade. The ability to communicate with each other no matter the distance between us has been an invaluable tool. The rescue will happen tomorrow. A second team will hit the palace as a diversionary strike using the knights that made it into hiding before the sweep while my friends, the ones I’ve made on the quest for the sword, will hit the prison. Once we’ve escaped, Silas will use his Arc to lay false trails while the rest of us head to Tor, the sentient fortress of the Faran. From there, we will plan the counterattack against Coren to retake Terrenia and the telarim blade. After that will come the preparations to defend the world against the resurgence of the Darkling.
In your world, you see only the every day and the mundane.
In my world, the fantastic hides behind every corner. The Crystal Falls of Rydai is a scintillating growth of liquid crystal that grows off the edge of a cliff. The sunrise seen through the soul mists of Trakesia is said to have brought poets to their knees. The Oveils of Sylvain sing the tash’vaar every morning, using magic to bend the light into colors humans don’t have a name for. There exists the darkness to act as a balance, but it is a darkness that lets us appreciate the light. It is only when we are truly tested that we can see what heights the human spirit can aspire to.
Knowing this, can you still tell me that your world-’real’ though it may be-is truly better?
Niiiice! I really love the structure of the your world/my world thing, and I think you did a great job “zooming in” on the narrator over time.
Also? I LOVE that pin, and you did a great job giving it a voice! <3!
How can I follow up on both of those?!?
Here’s my effort, I hope you enjoy it. It turned much darker than I imagined, kind of gave me chills as I wrote it. Also not edited or proofed very well…
http://pinterest.com/pin/3377768441413424/
Only now, as I lay dying, do I truly understand.
The tiny creature flits into view from behind a small tree deep in this unnamed jungle. It hovers nearby, its gossamer wings moving lazily. Every detail of the creature is ornate and beautiful, certainly not truly functional. Logic simply demands it is too frilly and fragile to fly.
Of course, logic did not lead me on this ill-fated quest in the first place. No, my decisions up to this point were diametrically opposed to logic.
The creature makes delicate little dips from side to side as it travels in a tentative circle around me, drawing ever closer. The elaborate path of its flight is traced by a soft glowing trail that hangs in the air. It draws an ephemeral web around me as I lean against the rock that broke my back.
I was my sister’s fault of course. She sent me on this ridiculous journey in the first place. Of course, I couldn’t actually discuss it with her, and she never really told me to go. But she came up with the idea, and she knew I would have no choice but to follow through.
She knew that her stories of the magical land would drive me crazy, and that’s why she created it, I’m sure. She understood my logical, rational mind, and my desire to see every notion tested scientifically. She teased me with fantastic stories of fanciful creatures possessing magical powers that could solve all of our problems. She anticipated my desire to be correct, and the lengths I would go to prove it. She manipulated me into this predicament, though I doubt she intended this end.
The creature moves away quickly, glancing around in apparent alarm. Hope surges in me as I think there may be help on the way, despite the logic that tells me it is impossible. After a few minutes, both of us listening quietly, my hope fades as I hear no sounds at all. She called the creature a pixi-agon, which is a child’s made-up name that sets my teeth on edge to repeat.
It’s not entirely her fault of course. After all, I encouraged her to imagine and dream since it was the only way to keep her from bothering me all the time. She told me annoying stories of castles and knights, kings and queens, but I tried not to listen. She described beautiful landscapes and happy places, none of which fit into my reality.
My world consisted of our little hovel and eking out survival with what I could beg and steal. She never helped with any of that! Although she nursed my bruises, cuts, and scrapes with surprising skill.
She made the most of our life, and always seemed happy. I took care of worrying for both of us, and stayed grim and serious to balance her frivolity. I was always angry with her, I wanted her to comprehend the gravity of our situation. She would only laugh, skip away, and leave me to seethe. I wanted to abandon her, just for while, to force her to understand everything I did for her, to make her pay! But of course I couldn’t. I shouldered this responsibility and tried to ignore her.
The pixi-agon starts a new dance, apparently I am not paying enough attention to its antics. Now it hops through the air, bouncing from one edge of the small clearing to the other, leaving glowing arcs over me like little rainbows. It seems to know that I cannot move, and does not fear that I will finally capture it. Only now, when I desperately need it, but cannot claim it, will it come close enough for me to touch. If only my arms and legs still worked. I can move my eyes to follow it as it flies around me, but to move my head is excruciating, and my body, impossible.
I never should have climbed that tree! But I was lost, with no sense of direction, and I thought it would give me a vantage point. The branches were still wet and slippery, and my hands cold and tired.
Stupid. And I was the one always repeating: Stupid leads to dead.
I thought I was so wise for my seventeen years. But if I was wise, would I have come on this quest? I thought it was my only hope. Of course she is the one who told me that. She told me I needed the healing powers of the pixi-agon, and I bit my tongue not to chastise her for her fantasy.
As I held her. On the day she died.
The beautiful creature settles on my chest, its wings delicately folded along its back. It looks at me with wet eyes that swirl with blues, greens, purples, and reds forming intricate and ever-changing patterns. One of my last breaths rattles out of my chest as I look at the tiny face in front of me. It seems to have a smile on its small mouth, which reminds me of my sister. Tears form in my eyes, not in sadness for me, but in regret for how I failed her.
I failed!
I failed in so many different ways. I failed to be right. I failed to prove this impossible creature to be a child’s dream, and I failed to capture it when it might have helped. I failed to make my sister’s life better. I kept her alive, but I failed to let her live! Our time was destined to be short even in the best of circumstances, and I failed to make the best of it while we were together.
I look deep into the swirling eyes of the pixi-agon as darkness closes in on me from all sides, and I smile.
Wow, great story! And I have to say, freaking bravO on the description of the dragon and its movements. Just perfect, I had a fantastic mental image through all of it. Well done!
The main story is so sad, though! The relationship and character feel very real, though. That resentment makes me want to hug them both. =[
this story made me struggle with the protagonist… second last paragraph just moved me. favourite paragraph right there. brought it all together
I totally agree — that paragraph is the key. <3
my story doesnt have a fantastical twist to it… nor is it very good! completely rusty. if it weren’t for my dear Snow, I would not be doing this!
http://pinterest.com/pin/3377768440960886/
My secret wish has always been to be a mother.
When I married my high school sweetheart soon after we graduated university, I felt myself one step closer to that goal.
After 3 long years of trying, we finally went to the doctor and learned that I could not conceive.
3 years later, we were blessed to bring our Mary-Beth home.
Strictly speaking, I am not her birth mother and she is not my biological daughter. But she is the daughter of my heart, the daughter of my soul, and the fulfillment of my dream. In the first few days, weeks really, I was intoxicated with her. The smell of her skin, the feel of her baby soft hair, the adorable gleam of her blue eyes. Which is why I failed to realize that all was not well. She was perfect to me.
My husband was the first to point out, to acknowledge and to bring me to terms with the fact that our Beth did not seem to react to visual cues. She could not focus her eyes, she did not see things moving towards her.. She knew our presence, acknowledged us with her precious smiles, but her eyes, oh her eyes, did not take in our faces.
We loved her despite that. She was my heart’s greatest wish and I was determined to be the best mother and provide her with as much as I could to help her achieve whatever her dreams would be.
With such resolution, it was devastating to yet acknowledge that Mary-Beth also appeared to be mute. The specialist we took her to hoped with us that it was just delayed development, but when Mary-Beth rolled from 3 years old to 4, my husband and I strengthened ourselves for Mary-Beth’s silent future.
It was as I was coming to terms with this news that caused our beautiful surprise. Being distracted by my emotional struggle, I failed to properly coordinate with my husband and our preferred babysitters. So on the night that I was to begin an introductory dance class with friends for a much rain checked ladies’ night, I had to bring Mary-Beth along. At this time, she was a little over 4, and was a playful, though silent and unseeing, child.
Now her hearing was fine and she could nod or shake her head profusely when she disagreed with whatever request we had. The rudiments of sign language were there too but she seemed to disdain their usage. Nonetheless, we would be able to communicate with her we knew. Mary-beth had her wits and could manage to get her desires across, albeit quietly. So I left her by the doorway leading into the greater studio area, sat her on the bench by the coats and outdoor shoes and asked Mary-Beth to be as patient as possible and to stay seated while mommy did some exercise.
As the music started playing, I got right into the mood of things. The stretches, the shaking of the hips, the beat of the drums, I allowed myself to let loose and giggle with my friends. I allowed myself to step away from ‘mommying’ my daughter and relax.
So it was only when the cool down began and our teacher took us from upbeat hip hop to a surprisingly classical piece that I looked over to check on Mary-Beth. The vision I saw caught my breath and brought a clenching to my heart. It was just that beautiful.
My little girl had chosen to disobey her mother and not stay seated. Rather, she was poised on one foot, her arms in the air, her sightless eyes closed, as she moved to the music. She moved with grace, with angelic artistry. It was in her movements that I felt all her unspoken words flow free. I would almost describe it as a gush of words but that does not describe the beauty and eloquence of what I heard in the music and movement. This was no rambling but a soliloquy. She spoke with the arch of her arms and the point of her toes. It was something that brought tears to my eyes as I stopped to watch her.
Why we had not been given a glimpse of this before, I can not say. Perhaps, I feared, that it was because I smothered her from such freedom. Perhaps she never felt the need. Or perhaps she was just discovering her own voice in this music. Whatever the reason may be, I knew that this would not be the last time I would ‘hear’ her speak to me.
wow – took my breath away and brought tears to my eyes!
Simply beautiful!
(THAT’s what you call rusty?)
I completely agree, that was beautiful!
“it’s awful. It’s horrible. I’ll never write again. Woe is me.”
Pffffft.
Fingerpainting! Fun! Play! Play!
*cackle* Wise advice!
i dont remember using the word ‘woe’… haha
thanks for the sweet comments everyone! we are always our own worst critics arent we?
I attended “Tami’s cheer leading 101, now with muffins, sprinkles and a rekindles passion for writing”
:D
Ha! <3
Great idea, Tami! This has been lots of fun!
(It also got me writing again – woo hoo! Getting ever so slowly closer to finishing my novel)
<3 Bre's the one that taught me how nice a little flash fic here and there can help grease the writing wheels.
Juliette,
That was beautiful! I read the story first and was thrilled when I realized that I knew which pinterest you had chosen. That was fun.
I still haven’t figured out which pinterest goes with willydd3′s story. I am going to re-read it before I actually go to the link.
This is fun! I am dismayed that our week is so crazy busy, but I am still hopeful that some of us could throw our hats into the fire. But there is a competition with the clothesline Bob is putting up. Clothesline. Oh, drat. He positioned the first pole waaaay too far back on the lot. Looks like we may have to just make it into a zipline, honey. And there is the focus for the family.
Oh, the mental image of you (which, you’ll recall, is always fully-ballgowned Belle from Disney’s Beauty and the Beast) ziplining through tomato plants and sheets and bloomers is priceless!
@Anne:
hahaha You won’t figure out which pin I used, since there is a tenuous connection at best.
My mind works in strange ways – like my apparent obsession with unlikable protagonists!
P.S. If you go ziplining through tomato plants and sheets and bloomers while dressed in a ball gown, I’d like to see pics!
Ha! You do indeed gravitate towards narrators that aren’t my personal cup’o tea.
I wrote one with a protagonist I think you’ll like. The plot might be a little thin…
Happy the bunny held his long floppy ears out of the way as he opened the oven to remove the last batch of muffins. He deftly tipped them from the baking pan onto the cooling racks and stepped back to survey his work.
“Whew! That’s a whole lot of muffins! I sure hope the kids down at the orphanage enjoy eating them as much as I enjoyed making them!”
Feeling tired, but satisfied, Happy checked his intricate clockwork pocket watch and exclaimed, “Oh my, I’m late! I must get hop-hop-hopping along.”
Happy went outside and took a moment to admire the rainbows in the sky before putting on his top hat and hopping out to the barn. He placed a protective hand on the top of the basket he carried to ensure the contents did not bounce out.
“Good morning my dear friends, how are you all this day?” The unicorns trotted up to the fence to greet nuzzle him. “Would you like to go on a picnic?”
In response, the unicorns neighed happily and pranced around the yard excitedly. They followed Happy down the country road in a swirling cloud of sparkling horns and flowing manes. The unicorns bounced and flounced around him all the way to the Ol’ Meeting Tree in the middle of the field.
Others had already arrived and tables had been set out for all the food people carried in. Farmer Frog with his small herd of pegasi could be seen coming up the road from the other direction, and Happy told the unicorns to run and greet them. They all charged off with exuberance, and Happy laughed as they kicked up a cloud of dust.
A cheer went up and everyone gathered around as Happy revealed his basket full of rainbow cupcakes. Happy lowered his head in modesty and mumbled his thanks in embarrassment. He turned as Farmer Frog ambled up next to him, chewing on a long piece of grass. They embraced warmly and exchanged pleasantries.
Hours later, when the food was almost gone and the sun began to set, Happy could be heard to say “It’s good to be alive, and to spend my time with such a great group of friends. Shall we do it again tomorrow?”
D: D: D: Those poor orphans aren’t getting any cupcakes?
/wink
oops, he was supposed to drop them off on the way! I guess I should have outlined!
Okay, I love that pin with that story. That is fun.
I would love to go zipling through tomato plants in a ballgown. I think the best I could offer is sunflower plants in a sundress.
With great hesitation, and my daughter’s response of indifference, I offer the following.
http://pinterest.com/pin/3377768441229384/
He could hear the tone of her voice down the path and knew she was upset. He knew he needed to hurry, but every step was full of cautious dread.
His mother was full of fury by the time a creaked open the wooden door. She had that bitter mouth and twisted brow that conveyed her feelings well before she started speaking. Well, screeching was more truthful.
He stared at her with defiance as she began the triad. With every accusation, he silently responded.
The gooseberry vine in the farm was, despite what his mother said, not at all dangerous. The berries were delicious, it was cool and shaded there, and the farmer never saw him through the growth. There was no danger in lazing there and enjoying the berries. He did so almost every morning and was still alive, so clearly she was exaggerating the threat.
He knew that the older boys did not want him in their fort, but that was unfair. It was mean and selfish of them not to share it. Today they had dangled him over the edge to scare him, but he was sure that they were not going to drop him. He was not going to let them scare him. That fort was great fun and he loved playing pirate in it.
He knew cookies were only for dessert, but he had been so hungry this morning and he could not find anything else to eat. Surely, if his mother cared that much about what he was eating, she would have fed him a bigger meal this morning.
If she had ever cared to listen to him, she would know that there was no reason to be upset.
He had stopped listening quite a while ago, and was suddenly surprised to hear his mother sobbing.
“I just don’t know what to do. I just don’t know what to do anymore.”
Panic and fear filled him. He had not even realized that his mother was also so sad, so lost, so alone. It had been three months. Would there ever be a day where he and his mother no longer felt lonely and scared?
Oh wow, how sad! Another relationship torn apart by misunderstandings and pride. =[
=(
I looked at the picture first and thought it would be something cute >.<
(The story is a good deal cuter if you imagine it from the PoV of the little big-eyed alien dog thing than a human, though)
it is sad.. but i like it. i like that he came to understand his mother more at the very end. and i think you did a good job getting into a kid’s mind! but we should expect that from a mother of three ^-^
Well said, Juliette.
[...] really enjoyed reading the entries from the last pinterest writing prompt we did, so I’d love to host another. This time, I’ll narrow down the choices to three. [...]