Dreamt Things

flowers-with-ice-janet-webb-2

All that gold, shimmering brightly!  The butterfly rushed to embrace it with all the arms he had.  Landing among the yellow petals, he basked in their glow.  Ah but the cold weather was drawing in and the butterfly feared for his tender, brilliant wings.

Looking down from the last flower in the garden, the butterfly saw a snail slide down the path.  So cosy she looked in that shell, never buffeted by the wind.  “You know,” the butterfly shouted down to her, “I could’ve accepted being a snail except… all your faces look the same!  Whereas every little swirl and dot of colour on my wings is unique.  Unique!”

The snail gazed up to see where the noise was coming from.  Noticing the butterfly clinging feebly to the dying petals, she twirled her left horn, thoughtfully, then her right.  “Hmm,” she murmured, to no one in particular, “poor creatures, those butterflies.  All that flitting must be exhausting.  And then the upkeep on those wings.”  She sighed.  “But I could live with all that, I suppose, if need be, except… they’re always dreaming that they’re philosophers!  Ah now that I couldn’t abide.”

###

This piece of flash fiction was written for Friday Fictioneers: a story in 100 words prompted by a picture that Rochelle Wisoff-Fields posts every Wednesday.  Here’s the link to the stories and this week’s picture is at the top of this post, copyright Janet Webb. I seem to be out of practice with the 100-word limit since this story strays a good deal beyond it. Sorry, Rochelle.

Advertisements

Apply Within

three_chairs

The pallid, smooth, clean-living contours of this new life of hers were perfect camouflage.  No one suspected.  The gullible and meek, the greedy and lame; they passed by each day, unknowing.

True, the blandness was upsetting; it hardly suited her needs.  But she had mastered biding her time.  While that old, demented energy still seethed in the dungeony depths of her being, yanking at the respectable chains…

Three little office workers had sat and sipped coffee.  Now three office vacancies opened up.

Hidden deep inside a nearby pillar, the satisfied gargoyle licked blood from her chiselled teeth.  “Another feast, another little stimulus to the local jobs market,” she belched.

###

This piece of flash fiction was written for Friday Fictioneers: a story in 100 words prompted by a picture that Rochelle Wisoff-Fields posts every Wednesday.  Here’s the link to the stories and this week’s picture is at the top of this post, copyright Melanie Greenwood.

Hype

water

When I walked across the water it was a mistake, it was hype.  And hype is like a virus, it eats up everything else.  But water is only molecules, like the ground is only molecules; the difference is irrelevant.

Life isn’t molecules, whatever the evidence says.  And the message wasn’t irrelevant, whatever the evidence says.

I wanted to talk about simple things, things that anyone can influence.  But people flinch at that.  They cling to hype because it seems unattainable, so then there’s no pressure to attain it.  I should’ve let myself drown that day.  The cross was hype, too.

###

This piece of flash fiction was written for Friday Fictioneers: a story in 100 words prompted by a picture that Rochelle Wisoff-Fields posts every Wednesday.  Here’s the link to the stories and this week’s picture is at the top of this post, copyright The Reclining Gentleman.

From Aquileana’s wonderful posts about Greek mythology, I’ve read a lot about hubris, lately – and so… a reboot of the saviour of mankind.  Meanwhile, to maintain the cosmic balance, here’s a quick word from Richard Hell.

Revenge Tragedy

still-life-with-doug

The shell rocked back and forth on the table.  If only it would tip over the edge and shatter, then the outcome would be decided, the revelation be at hand.  Tiny fists pummelled hard and the small shell teetered.  Then exhaustion set in.  A thousand cramped years weighed heavily, as did fifty thousand futile escape attempts.  Ridding himself of the lamp, after countless ages, he’d trapped himself inside a shell, and the genie’s fury burned harsher each day.  It grew immense, as though to compensate for his littleness.  It would erupt, engulf the world.  If only that shell would tip…

###

This piece of flash fiction was written for Friday Fictioneers: a story in 100 words prompted by a picture that Rochelle Wisoff-Fields posts every Wednesday.  Here’s the link to the stories and this week’s picture is at the top of this post, copyright copyright Douglas MacIlroy.

The Stoker Family’s Olde Sweet Shoppe

nosferatu-1

With trembling wrappers and chattering jars, huddled close under gloomy counters after the store is locked and bolted; after the fizzing lights dim and fade to black; all aquiver, as the midnight hour ticks round, the spellbound confectionery listens in awe to a frail, hushed voice that retells sinister legends that migrated from the old country when sweetmeats first set sail against a backdrop of dread and inexplicable massacres of entire communities  –  tales of a cowled, black-hearted, furry and fanged, Nosferatu lollipop, who swoops down at night on his jellied prey and sucks it dry as a husk.

 ###

This piece of flash fiction was written for Friday Fictioneers: a story in 100 words prompted by a picture that Rochelle Wisoff-Fields posts every Wednesday.  Here’s the link to the stories and this week’s picture is at the bottom of this post, copyright Kent Bonham; while the original Nosferatu peers down from the top of the post. Clearly, the resemblance between the two is… uncanny.

unidentifiable-on-a-stick