This week I’ve been thinking about the past and how things have affected my life. I often joke about having a cold lump of coal for a heart, or about the fact I am dead inside. It’s a joke. Sort of. I like the humour of it.
But actually there’s some truth to it. We go through life, and the tiniest of things affect us. A moment, a fleeting comment, ill chosen words or a look of love you’ll never see again.
Sometimes these moments hurt us, others they heal us. Whether positive or negative, all of them deeply affect us. They leave us with burnt edges. Tiny scars that paint our souls with memories.
That’s what I want you to write about this week. Burnt edges. Maybe it’s the edges of paper, or burnt memories. Whatever you choose, include burnt edges somewhere in your piece. Write no more than 200 words.
If you want to join in, post your flash in the comments or in a post on your blog and link back here. You have until 12th June. Please note I am extremely slow at responding to comments at the moment. I moderate everything and I do read everything, but expect a delay.
Here’s mine. An excerpt from chapter 8 of my novel, Keepers:
I was alone. The gulf of tears pressing against my eyelids flooded my cheeks. Huge sobs mechanically rocked my shoulders and the gaping void in my chest filled with a darkness that seared like the heat of the sun. I stood up and launched angry balls of fire into the air. I screamed at the thick black clouds until my voice was hoarse and my nose was full of acrid smoke. When my scream finally ran dry I shot as many bolts of lightening into the air as I could. The edges of the clouds burnt black. I fired dozens more into the air, hoping one would tear the sky in two and make my pain rain down on the city.
Something fluffy rubbed against my legs. I glanced down. Cat-Nye was hopping between my shins. The sight of her drained the fight out of me and I collapsed on the rooftop sofa.
“How could they, Nyx? How could they just die?”
Now to last time and the Blowtorch flash in a flash.
DAON in first:
Edith clapped her hands in delight.
Blowtorch, her favourite part of cake decorating. It was cold outside and the snow had set into an icy wonderland. She went outside, naked, with no shoes.
Carefully she activated the blowtorch and wrote her name in the snow. Edith was here once, but when the snow melts, we will not know this fact.
Debby up next with this:
“Several tedious months went by. She had left her manuscript for so long, she no longer had the energy to go back to completing her book. While gazing over the many pages of scribbled words and trying to make sense of them, she decided it was easier to grab the blowtorch and pretend she’d never attempted to write anything.”
FloridaBorne with a rather gory ending :p
“I have one life to live,” I told Dr. Johnly.
“Not really,” She said, looking at her nails as if she were bored with it all.
“Why would you say that?”
“I can tell you for a fact that once you’re here, you’re stuck here until you make right what you did wrong.”
“But I believe in heaven and hell.”
“I left 2 husbands, giving both 2 children each that were raised in private boarding schools. I used my 4 children to take as much from my husbands as possible and lived in the house of my dreams. I believed that once I died, that was it.”
A nurse ran into my room, wide eyed, standing next to the doctor.
“Dr. Johnly was…it was so horrible,” She said, her hands trembling. “One of her ex’s just dispatched her with a blowtorch! Mr Gonzalez…Mr. Gonzalez. Code blue…”
Ritu in next with a hilarious twist
Pulling the ramekins out of the oven, I was really pleased with the results.
Dave loved Crème Brulee and I was determined to make this meal the best thing he had ever eaten. Never having made this before, I was following the instructions to the letter.
Now, what was next? Sprinkle sugar, ok.
Then using your blowtorch, caramelise the sugar.
Blowtorch?! No one told me I needed a blowtorch?!
“Mum! Dad! Have you got a blowtorch?”
“Yes love,” Dad answered, “it’s in the shed, I’ll just go get it.”
Moments later, Dad arrived with his protective mask and an industrial blowtorch. “Right love, what needs welding?”
Allie next with a romantic piece
I pulled the visor down and the world grew a little darker as I fired up the torch. Brilliant white light sparked as the iron before me melted into form. I pulled away, satisfied. Cold bars which had once kept loved once apart were now tightly entwined into a heart that would be later positioned in the center of the park; a place where love meets eternal.
Lee Juana Wilson in next
When I think about Joe, all I remember is everyone saying, “he’s the master of the blowtorch.” I was impressed the first time I heard it. Oh, he’s mastered a skill. That is awesome. I don’t know many people that have “mastered” a skill. The next couple of times I heard it, I realized that I don’t even know what he uses blowtorch a for. The more and more I heard it, I learned Joe had not mastered or even become an apprentice at anything else.
Next in Jane all about mens stuff…
It looks a bit like an oil can. Not that I’ve ever taken much notice of what George knackles away at in his shed. Men’s stuff. He’d have put a lock on the door if he’d ever dreamed I’d come in here and disturb him. Well, first time for everything. He’s left bits of metal lying everywhere—on his workbench, on the floor. You can’t see to tell the truth in here for the filth over the window. A bit of a tidy up won’t go amiss either. I pick up the battered can thing. It’s warm as if he’s just been using it. Wonder what it does? I turn it to look down the spout thing and press on the—
Next up Nortina joins in with this piece
My neighbor sets his trash pile ablaze with a blowtorch.
Because it’s Friday.
And he missed the garbage truck this morning.
“He’s mad!” my mother shouts. She yanks the curtains closed. Rushes to the kitchen to prepare dinner. “That’s how forest fires start.” She slices peppers and onions on the cutting board and rakes them into the sizzling pan on the stove.
I peek out the window one last time, watch the wind blow the debris in his yard east — toward our house.
Last but by no means least, Helen with a last line to die for
Like a shrieking, nasty, blowtorch, she was. Hot breath, foul scented, spraying in my face. I longed to turn my head away, but I couldn’t. Instead I had to just take it.
The fire of her obvious hate burned me, flecks of it hitting my face as she screamed out her rage, taking out her jealousy.
Like I didn’t have a say. Like I was somehow to blame.
I closed my eyes, and she slapped me. I struggled against the bindings, wanting to scratch, to hit, to fight her. To take back what was mine.
To get away from her flames.
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