I made an off-handed comment a couple of weeks ago that maybe one of my goals for the year should be to get to accepted writing prompt #50, which meant I had to write 14 new pieces before year’s end. Since I don’t have anything else on my plate at the moment, here we go!
Maybe this will get me back “in the mood” because it’s been a barren landscape for too long again now.
I’ve taken to writing flash fiction – free writes, done in half an hour or less with little forethought or editing and under 200 words, if possible.
Rebel
Three hundred years after its release, and nearly two hundred years of darkness, and they still wanted to call them lightsabers or tools of the Jedi and the Sith. Star Wars not only became a story passed down from the last generation of the sun, but also a cautionary tale which many of the Elders had adopted as part of the rules of our new society. An unintended side effect the creator could never have accounted for. It had been widely believed that we would eventually move to the stars in an age of flying cars and interstellar travel, but humanity never got that chance. Unexpectedly the sky went dark and the science fiction world of a galaxy far far away became just that, fiction, instead of a hope for the future. Our lightsabers, too, offer us protection by harnessing the light as we make our way toward a new rebellion, for no matter the age nor the environment, there will always be those who wish to create a new empire and those that oppose them.
The Lock
We had made it through a series of trials meant to deter us, meant to challenge us or destroy us. Judging by the size of the lock, whatever might lie beyond it must, in all likelihood, be the final step, the grand prize, victory at last. Treasures beyond imagining, fortunes untold, riches and wonders…how could it not? The mehanism presented a particular challenge as it was submerged, in its entirety, under twenty feet of water. We came prepared for every eventuality, but as some of the tests had proven fatal, we had come to the end shorthanded. Hunreds, if not a thousand years underwater should surely offer us some goodwill, one would hope, and one would risk everything to discover.
The Saint
When they erected statues of his likeness across the land, telling stories of his heroics in an effort to honor his “good deeds” they failed to mention how many people had been falsely accused and murdered for their supposed crimes. Women were the first to be cast a sideways glance, they always were. Men and their small minds, a deficiency they did their best to overcompensate for with violence, this “saint” among them. A woman in power, a community of women, a woman who still practised the old ways, a woman who could read, a woman with a house cat, a woman with a birth mark, there was no end to the list of potential reasons for her to be found guilty, dragged from her home, questioned without any hope of being found innocent, tortured…they threatened those with inferior intelligence, and their pride would never allow such a slight.
Stairway to Nowhere
It was a marvel. A place of mystery. A place the hopeless traveled to endlessly in anticipation of the blessings it was believed to bestow upon the faithful. It was a deception. A lie.
The stark contrast of the structure against the blue sky was always awe inspiring. It was the first hint, the blur, like a mirage in the distance that caused the heart to swell. They had finally made it. Their prayers would be answered. Their afflictions healed. If only they believed. If only they were worthy. If only they were willing to continue on just a few steps more.
In their delusion, they would walk on, blind to the danger that awaited them at the top. With so few who had endured, if the stories were to be believed, if they were even true, there was no part of the tale that told of the sacrifice required. The reason the pillars ran red.
Faceless
Seeing faces in everyday objects was commonplace. There was a term for it and everything. What they didn’t talk about was what it meant when you could only see faces in inanimate objects while the faces of loved ones started to disappear. Visual sensory overload was becoming just as commonplace in a world that so heavily relied upon that as a means of communication. Words started to dissolve into shortened versions of themselves, acronyms, and emojis. Whatever might be easiest. Emotion, tone, connection…things of the past. So it was no wonder that eventually those who might be recognizable would start to blur into the background and become faceless. You know what? There’s an emoji for that.
I just found the line I wrote when I first saw this image: I was one of those people, the ones who always see faces on inanimate objects, so you can imagine my surprise, perhaps horror is a better word to describe the feeling of when I stopped seeing faces on people.
And finally, I found this among my notes. I had the stirrings of an idea a while back, but clearly got interrupted – I didn’t even finish the sentence.
Troubled Water
The legend of the Lady of the Lake is a well known tale. The Arthurian legend is among the most notable which is why so many people, for generations, have sought, and failed, to discover Avalon’s true location. We would not be counted among them. We had been meticulous in our research. We were confident in our findings.
Had only luck been on our side. Had only our confidence been enough to carry us.
Upon traveling to the mystical land, strange things started to happen, accidents, or so they could have been construed. Deep down, I think we all knew…
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I hope you’ll join me in the Writing Prompt Challenges! I look forward to seeing your creations! Happy Writing!
I’ve been wondering for the past few days if I wanted to talk about the election and the ramifications. As you all know, I’ve tried to make this blog a positive place where I hope you’ll find inspiration and, when I actually sit down to write, tips you’ll find useful. This blog also serves as my diary, in part. I try to limit the scope to the writing sphere, and although it may not appear so, at least not in the beginning, I’ll get to that bit by the end.
We have our voices. Let’s use them!
I hate, that as screenwriters, we are often told that our first screenplay is rubbish. No one ever says that about a first time novelist. (Although, obviously, there are exceptions to that rule in either case.) It’s an infuriating statement. I’ve been writing something since I was eight, of course, that was all rubbish and I had no idea what I was doing, but when I wrote my first screenplay in college, I was in love. That’s when everything changed.
A Writer's Discrepant Memoirs and Other Tales 