I’m still reminiscing about the Bash, so I thought I would make this week’s writespiration all about the bash.

For me, one of the most amazing moments was when I saw two bloggers, realise who each other were. They leapt into each others arms. Flung themselves at each other like catapults and gripped hold like the world would end if they let go.

It was magical, emotional, and in that exact moment, I knew why I’d spent so long organising the event.

It’s a beautiful thing to watch…A moment of pure bliss.

So this week, your challenge is to write a story or poem in less than 200 words, all about a hug. A hug you’ve been waiting a long, long time for. Entries due by 10th July. To join in, either post your story in the comments or link with a ping back.

Please note, I read and moderate every entry, there are quite a lot of entires so expect a delay before your story appears in the comments and before I respond to you.

Now to last time, which feels like a life time ago now. Burnt edges…

First in, Ritu

Gingerly she picked up the remnants of the fire. Mostly it was just ash left behind but there was one piece of paper that had stubbornly not burned fully.

Typical.

It was a photo, and her favourite one ironically.  They looked so happy in it, smiling into each other’s eyes.

What had happened? Wasn’t she good enough? Could she change anything?

Her friends had said that this fire would be cathartic, she would feel fantastic after purging him from her life with the aid of these ‘ceremonial’ flames.

They had offered to be with her, to sit there and throw insult after insult at the bastard, as she dropped all these memories in to burn, but she thought it would be better, just her and a bottle of wine for company. Then she could cry as well as let her true feelings out.

Looking at the photo, she felt it was a sign. She would keep this picture,  and every time she felt herself weaken, she would look at the burnt edges of the photo, and remind herself why she had to walk away…

Next up, my lovely writing friend from the next village, Lesley Mace,

Gretel’s Story

Day after day flour fattens in the tins.
I knead the dough as yeast unlocks the bread.
My brother swings above me in a cage,
I dare not think about what it is made of.
Its lock whispers, ‘Flee! Go home little girl.’

As gingerbread men shout of yeasty death,
as bread screams – burning – Hansel also fattens.

Blind crone trusts in the bone I have her feel.
My brother has not meat enough, she thinks.
But soon she grows impatient and won’t wait,
today’s the day she’s chosen for sweet feeding.

I light the oven, check the catch is strong,
I beckon to her, smell her rank approach,
And – as she bends to test the heat –
I push with all my strength and bolt the door.

We burst the cage of bones and run away,
our hands over our ears to block her shrieking.

Next up the lovely D. Wallace Peach

The call woke us in the middle of the night, a neighbor screaming that our summer place was engulfed in flames. We drove up there on the weekend to find a pile of char dusted with ash. Everything was gone in the place where I, my father, and my grandfather had spent our childhoods.

The contents had been old and worn but tenderly loved: the tattered books, the pillows my mother had sewn, the logbook with hundreds of messages from visitors who’d joined us there over the decades. All swept up in the smoke, some memories impossible to reclaim.

We rebuilt. I stitched new pillows and scoured flea markets for old tables and chairs, for tattered books and well-played games. We started a new logbook though it didn’t feel quite the same. What we couldn’t replace were the huge cedars that had crowded the lakeside for centuries. The fire consumed dozens of them and left many scarred. We planted saplings, but will always see the burned edges of what was lost.

Geoffle next with a hilarious tale

Bernd Hedges hated his silly name. Everyone misheard him and giggled. ‘Burnt Edges? That’s a daft name.’ Why had his German mother married and Englishman and chosen his grandfather’s name for him? It was bloody thoughtless. But for Bernd the worst was still ahead. It was a Monday. He was late for the team meeting and Roger hadn’t noticed him sneaking in when he said, ‘Has anyone heard from the Singed Fringe?’

Allie up next with a really heart warming story

A curved scar split my grandmother’s chin and continued down her neck. It was the only thing that spoke of the flames that once licked her face as a child. Grandma herself never spoke of that awful day or of those who weren’t as lucky as she to only be scarred. The fact that Grandma lived with that mark to almost ninety was proof I was descended from those of strong stock, determined grit, and quiet resolve. Survivors.

As the years passed, I noticed how her scar faded while other lines on her face grew more pronounced, until the average person seeing her on the street might not even recognize it for what it was. Certainly at the end, no one would do a double take, but by then Grandma wouldn’t have cared if they did. As far as she was concerned, the only double take that mattered had been over sixty years ago when at a local dance, a young man saw the woman, and not the scar. And when that same man shyly asked her if she’d like to dance, that same woman said yes.

It is not enough just to survive. You must love too.

Next in Marje (Kyrosmagica) with an emotive piece

Suicide Burns

We all have burnt edges in our lives but mine exist as a form of evidence, a folded piece of paper scarred by a torched flame of memories. The suicide note had intentional burnt edges around the colourless paper creating a waving motion, a final goodbye. She’d wanted me to remember those precious smoke filled memories spent together, before her debilitating cruel illness burnt joy to dust. The note cast a warming glow each time I opened it. I smelt the aroma of logs, her sweet perfume rekindling long lost memories of our passionate love making, the embers of the open fire caressing our naked, youthful bodies.

After her suicide, I placed the folded note next to my heart. For days it remained untouched until I unfolded it’s sad, weary edges. How I longed to hear her thoughts, to say one last farewell, but her silent note told of the pills that I’d stockpiled. The note was no longer in my breast pocket. It was evidence of my confession: loving her too much. Her ghost danced alone, a pain free sparkle of brilliant illuminating light. The prison door claimed my guilt, a small price to pay, my sweet dearest love.

Mcclellanelias in next with a short power punch

Memories of love sear with passion bright and hot. Memories of false love burn with the stabbing pain of an ice shard through the heart. Time is no balm for that wound.

Jane in Next with a hugely powerful descriptive piece from her book (which I am reading now) Abomination

The man with the single, raging red eye and half his face burned away pointed, and the ramshackle barrier of upturned sofas and bed frames burst into flame. Maria Dolores screamed and covered her face, as tribesmen leapt into action, whooping with the pent up excitement of years of captivity, imprisoned by the biting cold and the devastation beyond the fragile walls of the mall.

Knives and bludgeons flailed, cutting down anyone stupid or slow enough to be hanging around in their path—stray children, the last of the old folks. Maria Dolores ripped the holy medal from around her neck and flung it with a stream of high-pitched invective into the flames. There was no hope now. Humanity had fled and He had come to take its place.

Derrick W. Miller up next with this tale with a sting

“Your phone doesn’t seem to be taking my calls,” I text. I just turned it on for her this Friday. She was paroled last night.

“it’s ok. I’m going to my sponsor today,” was all she text back.

“Good to hear.” I replied. “I’ll be home soon.”

No reply.

“Lacy, where are you?” I punched into my phone messages for the umpteenth time.

“Are you still there at your sponsors?” .

“Let me know you’re ok.”

Still no answer.

“Sarah, this is Doc. I’m sorry to bother you, but Lacy posted she was with you Friday.”

“You’re doc? The older guy she’s living with? She got a ride to your house Friday night.”

“She never came back. I was hoping that she spent the weekend with you.”

“That’s bad news, Doc. I’m sorry but she won’t answer my calls. I’m done with her.”

“Your girlfriend is seeing other people,” stated the restricted phone line.

“She hasn’t been here for over 2 weeks, she is not my girlfriend,” came my well rehearsed line.

Gordon up next with this excellent and educational little tale based on a real life discovery

Molly looked at the mess on the hearthstone and muttered under her breath. It wasn’t that her employer was a cruel man, he wasn’t, he was very kind and considerate, but Mr Walker was a chemist, and that meant mess.

He had told her that he was trying to make an, ‘inflammable liquid’, to make lighting fires easier. Why, she couldn’t understand, wasn’t a tinderbox simple enough? All he seemed to be making were horrible smells and mess like this on the hearth, she knelt down, and, taking an old knife, began to scrape it off.

Her scream echoed through the house, Mr Walker was the first in the room to find her sitting, shocked on the floor. Sulphurous fumes filled the room and flames were flickering over the hearthstone.

“I just scraped, and the stone caught fire.” She muttered, still shocked.

His eyes gleamed,

“Wonderful!” she looked at him bemused. He turned to his housekeeper.

“Take her and give a strong cup of tea, it’s alright, in fact it’s wonderful.”

As she rose he pressed a sovereign in her hand, ‘For your cap, the edges are all burnt.”

“Mad”, she thought as she left the room, “Quite mad.”

Judy from Edwina Episodes in next with this fab poem and a reminder to be kind

A throw-away comment

Stays with you, you know

Ok, it might fade a bit

But it never really goes.

Have you ever bought a new outfit

Then showed it to your mum?

Twirling around to show it off

Whilst sucking in your tum!

She looks you up and down a bit

Her face a furrowed frown

“It would look better on your sister”

Now you feel hurt and put- down.

Or the jealous ex-husband

Who wants to keep you in your place

Telling you that you look a mess

With that makeup on your face!

What about the best friend

That you tell your secrets to?

Who has betrayed your confidence

And made you look a fool

Sometimes we think it’s funny

To make a snide remark

Without a single worry

That our words have left their mark!

D.G Kaye up next with a heart wrenching tale inspired by her memoirs

Ode to my Mother

I have feared you for most of my life,
How hard I’ve tried to end the strife.

You’d never own up to your mistakes,
The decades had passed, yet your heart won’t awake.

I shudder and wince when I think of you alone,
But you left me no choice, emotional abuse I could no longer condone.

I wish you peace Mama in the time you have left,
I just can’t come back, my heart is bereft.

Lee Juana in next with another emotional story

As I stuff the last stack of sweaters into the contractor sized trash bag, I think, “I was a minimalist way before minimalism was cool.”

I glance back at my five year old self overhearing my sweet, angelic voiced grandmother telling my aunt how I was “the stingy one, but her sister is free-hearted.” Some words burden the heart and hold one’s foot to the ground a beat longer. Not these, with laser sharp precision, my grandmother burned “stingy” on the surface of my heart.

I am not stingy. I am free-hearted! Only to sit here in an empty closet and realize that my grandmother was right. I’ll give you everything, except me.

Jade Wong with a rather haunting science fiction piece, what if it were true?

The world was on fire, and I didn’t lift a finger to stop it.

Because I was the one who lit the match.

“I don’t feel like we’re doing the right thing anymore,” my companion said, as he watched billions of screaming people desperately trying to run from the flames. Like cattle with no shepherd. Or cattle with their heads chopped off.

“We’re long overdue for a cleansing,” I replied, from my cross-legged perch, looking down at what I’d done. Flames licked the ocean surfaces as if they were slathered with oil. Entire countries were engulfed by infernos, becoming nothing more than wisps of ash. The edges of the world had disintegrated into smoky embers.

“But…the people. It doesn’t seem right.”

I fixed my companion with a resolute gaze. “When the smoke clears, we’ll build anew. New people, new beginning, new world. And this time, hopefully, will be the last time.”

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The post Writespiration #91 The Hug You've Always Wanted appeared first on Sacha Black.

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.

Bitch.

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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The post Writespiration #90 Burnt Edges appeared first on Sacha Black.

Get a timer, set it for 120 seconds and when and ONLY when you are ready to do the challenge, scroll to the very end of the post to see the one word prompt. Write hard and fast until your time is up. 

If you want to join in, post your flash in the comments or in a post and link back here. Mine is at the bottom under the word.

Please note I am extremely slow at responding to comments at the moment. I moderate everything. I do read everything, but expect a delay.

Now to last times responders.

First in Allie, with this brilliantly horrible twist

Jenny pulled on a pair of rubber boots. The paperwork in the van had announced that the house’s late owner had been a hoarder. She’d seen a few places like that and had learned the hard way to dress with some extra protection before making her inspection. Somedays she didn’t know why they bothered with the process. In almost all cases the building wound up being condemned.

The door squealed like a cat in heat as Jenny made her way inside. The scent of sulfur and old urine assaulted her nostrils. “How do people live like this,” she muttered.

“According to the niece’s statement, her aunt claimed that unless she continued to collect dolls as ‘vessels,’ the house’s demons would start taking people instead.”

Jenny shook her head at her partner’s words, but there was no denying the mountain of dolls that met them in the center of the room. However she was surprised to see a clear path around the dolls. Most hoards filled every available space, but this collection was an island. She took a step closer. The dolls’ eyes opened. Her partner screamed and Jenny knew no more.

Judy in next with this equally hideous and brilliant poem

I drifted towards the island

Thankful to have arrived

Waves gently coaxed me onwards

From the shipwreck, I’d survived

As I took in my surroundings

And admired the scenic view

I noticed that everything was miniature,

The trees, and houses too!

The silence was oppressive

Like the world had held its breath

But the foetid smell of rotting flesh

Was an ominous portent of death.

“MAMA” drilled right through me

What the hell was that?

A head rolled downwards towards my feet

Vomited then spat!

Oh, God, that looks like a dolly

Wow, this place is weird

A puking, talking little doll

Whose body has disappeared!

I look around unsettled

As shivers go up my spine

Then the baby dolls head

Starts to scream and whine

A sharp pain in my temple

By a rock that has been thrown

By a severed doll’s arm

That picked up a stone.

Disjointed limbs and torsos

Appear from all around

Silent in their combat

Unable to make a sound.

I found myself surrounded

Then legs kicked me to the floor

The arms tore mine out of its socket

I was a mess of blood and gore.

You humans treat us dollies

Like you just don’t care

Yanking our arms and legs off

And cutting all our hair

This is now our payback

Any humans come our way

We’ll see just how you like it

When the dolls come out to play!

Next in Ritu with a cracking twist

It was meant to be my dream holiday. I had been saving for so long, and finally, I got off the plane.

Mattel Island. It was a little-known island in the cluster of Hawaiian islands.  Perfect, I thought. An unspoiled place for me to truly relax.

I hailed a cab outside the airport and one soon stopped. The driver was a handsome young man, with a fixed smile on his face. “Where to, Miss?”

I gave him the name of the hotel and we drove off.

Looking out of the window I saw some of the locals going about their business.

There sure were some attractive folk out there, on this island!

Reaching the hotel, I paid the driver, who I had named Ken, after the infamous doll.

The reception was quiet, and I strolled over to the desk. As the receptionist looked up, brushing her blonde hair from her face, I was struck by how perfect she looked, almost like Barbie.

Then it hit me.  Pretty much everyone I had seen seemed to have that plastic perfection look about them…

It was like landing on an Island of dolls!

Then she remembered the name of the island.

Mattel Island…

Next in Geoffle with an equally twisted ending

She remembered two things from her first day as a minister – all political careers end in failure and nothing’s forgotten more quickly than a reshuffled minister. And here she was being reshuffled to let ‘Big Beast’ Bertrand Collins back in now he had won a by election.

Elise felt cheated. The PM’s oily sincerity while his people analysed her, checking for signs of rebellion. He hadn’t stayed in power for so long without such checks. And Elise couldn’t – didn’t want to – hide her disappointment. ‘Take a break,’ he said. ‘Use our island. Be pampered.’

Here she was, in tropical splendour. All sorts of fun and now this. They were to take a cast of her, like at Tussauds. She’d noticed the figurines already, lifelike if a little chilling. Maybe they seemed out of place here. 

They wrapped her, while she sipped a cocktail and dozed.

Her brain felt fried. How could she be still wrapped up and why were they carrying her downstairs?

As the men tilted her upright she realised the awful truth and what it was about the eyes of the figurines that has so disturbed her.

Jade M. Wong up next, with a tail the kids shouldn’t read!

“Peek-a-boo, hide-and-seek,
Past the cypress tree, down the creek,
Chrysanthemums will mark the gate,
Would you like to join our playdate?”

“A playdate? Sounds fun! Will there be cookies?”

“No cookies for breakfast, Emmi. Go wash up, now.”

“Okay, mummy,” Emmi giggled, taking the stairs two at a time, her auburn curls escaping from her ponytail with every skip.

“We’ll have cookies, we’ll have cakes,
We’ll swim all day in the pretty lake,
We’re starting soon, so don’t be late,
Would you like to join our playdate?”

“Yes, but there’s no lake here, silly,” Emmi replied, as she peeked outside the bathroom window. “Oh!”

There, like a mirage under the sweltering city sun, stood a wooden gate entwined with colorful chrysanthemums. Beyond, Emmi could see a thin, sparkling creek, disappearing into the distance. And waving to her, with skin as flawless as porcelain, were doll-like girls, singing a song only Emmi could hear.

“Mummy, I’m going on a playdate with the dolls!”

“The what? Emmi!” Her mother exclaimed, dropping plates with a clatter as she tried to catch her daughter. She tore open the backdoor just in time to see the ends of Emmi’s red curls vanishing into thin air.

Lori Carlson in next with a beautifully emotive piece

“I see you’ve found another one.”

I nod at the old woman sitting on her porch smoking a pipe. I don’t linger to chat. I have to get on with my job. It’s an important one, but most people say it’s creepy. I don’t care though.

I trudge on through the mud. Reach the small island in the center of the swamp. A solitary tree stands to one side. I tie the limp figure on a low branch. Light a candle. Say a prayer.

The Government keeps promising us a vaccine, but it’s been ten years now since the plight. Keep trying, they say. Maybe the virus will work its way out of the gene pool. Forget about what’s lost. I refuse to forget.

I walk down the alley back toward my home. A window opens. An object falls to the ground. I bend down and pick it up. A discarded doll. Another child has died.

Next in Bré, with this creepy little piece

He only takes the normal girls. The plain ones, ugly you could say. He makes us pretty though.

He takes us in the dark of night, or in a quiet park perhaps. That’s when our journey starts. The island is beautiful, remote. One way on or off; his boat. We go to his workshop.

He examines us, our flaws, our potential. He chooses our new clothes. Pretty cotton and lace dresses with bright colours. He styles our hair. Pigtails, maybe curls. Then the exciting part. His eyes light up as he begins. Drawing on freckles, rouge on our cheeks. A little lippy, but never too much.

Then we meet the others. All so pretty. Drinking tea, playing in the garden, cooking. We were brought from all over. Missouri, Oklahoma, Missisipi and even Louisiana. A new one comes every week.

In fact here he comes with a new doll to play with now.

Last but by no means least, Jane with this chilling piece.

The agent cut the motor and helped her out of the dinghy. John jumped out behind her, and the agent tied up the little boat. There were no other boats on the jetty. She gazed at the woodland ahead, the placid brilliance of the lake behind her, and sighed deeply.

“Gorgeous, isn’t it?” The estate agent smiled with all his teeth.

“I can hardly believe we’re really doing this,” she said, her voice drifting on the breeze, and her fingers reached out for John’s hand.

“A dream come true,” he echoed.

“Let me show you the property,” the estate agent said, setting off along the ride lined with beech trees. The alley ended in a meadow that looked as though it had once been a tended lawn. Here and there, flowering shrubs cascaded wildly from the confines of what had once been strict beds. The agent put down his briefcase carefully in the grass and waved one arm from horizon to horizon.

“The property stretches from the wall over there to the right, and as far as the wall you can just see through the trees to the left. This is where the architect has planned the house. The garden will run down to the beech wood and the driveway, and from the first floor you’ll have an unobstructed view of the lake.”

“Wouldn’t it be more logical to put the house up there, at the highest point?” John pointed to the top of the rising ground. “We could see the lake from the ground floor too then, have a terrace looking right down on it.”

A faint look of unease flitted across the estate agent’s face before it was replaced by a smile. He shook his head. “Land’s not been cleared there yet. You’d have to wait until the…investigations were over to start building. Could be a while, and in any case, that section of the property hasn’t been checked for seismic activity, subsidence, flooding—”

“Flooding?” John raised an eyebrow.

The agent grinned. “I admit, it’s not an obvious problem, but you know, the regulations.”

“Can we look?” she asked, already moving up the hill.

“Certainly,” the agent hurried to catch her up. “But there’s nothing to see.”

There wasn’t much left of the building, just the foundations, cellars, some of the retaining walls and a lot of charred timber. John whistled.

“Must have been quite a fire.”

“Terrible,” the agent agreed. “The architect has prepared plans for this section too. Gardens and a summer house.”

“What happened?”

The estate agent smiled evasively and shrugged. “Nobody knows. And nobody…survived to give any clues.”

“That’s why the investigation is still going on?”

“I expect it’s just a formality now.” The estate agent opened his briefcase. “I have the plans here, if you’d like to have a look?”

She wandered off again, not wanting to stand still, just staring. Something in the air that she found oppressive made her fidgety. There was a low stone building, an outhouse of sorts, looked to be still intact. Poppies and cornflowers and various climbing plants grew up to the walls as if they’d been sown there. A little garden. Like the kind she had had when…She unlatched the door and it swung open. The room was bare stone walls and stone flagged floor. It was full of boxes. The sense of oppression increased, the air, heavy, full of vibrations. She listened. It was almost like voices. She took a step backwards. Looking over her shoulder, she saw John and the estate agent making their way towards her. It was their voices she had heard obviously. She stepped into the dark room and peered into the nearest of the boxes. She gave a gasp. John’s hand on her shoulder steadied her. The estate agent appeared at her side, his face white in the gloom.

“It’s probably not a good idea to—”

She interrupted him. “What’s all…this?” She swept a hand around the room and bent to open the box fully. “These?”

Dozens of dolls, some dressed, some not, all sizes, hair colours, all with fluttering eyelids and big glass eyes, gazed at her.

“The house, it was an orphanage. Didn’t you know?”

As the estate agent shepherded them out into the sunlight, she thought she heard the pattering of feet on stone flags, and a breath of laughter followed her down to the beech ride.

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Blowtorch 

Here’s mine:

Even as I stood there, blowtorch in hand, door leering at me, I knew I was slipping down a bad road. I gritted my teeth and braced myself. We all had choices, this was mine. I flicked the switch on the blowtorch making flames erupt out of the end. Flames touched the door handle and I grinned as I watched it melt the lock. Then I set light to the door frame, stood back and watched the house burn.

The post Flash in a Flash – #Writespiration 89 appeared first on Sacha Black.

Diana wrote this post, and popped an image in I found a little spooky. Then Allie, told me about Doll Island. The myth goes that a guy found a drowned girl in the river, then her doll drifted up after her. He hung the doll up in respect for her lost soul. Then kept hanging dolls for 50 years after claiming he was haunted by the spirit of her and a bunch of other kids. Mysteriously he was found dead, drowned in exactly the same spot as her… *shudder*

The challenge:

Write a story about Doll Island, maybe its doll island in Mexico, or perhaps another kind of dystopian doll island, maybe they are all robots. Is it scary or a little girls heaven? Whatever you do include an island of dolls in your story. Less than 200 words please.

If you want to join in, leave your story in the comments below, or in a blog post using a ping back so I know you have participated. I am on a bit of a blog hiatus at the moment and because I read every entry it does take me up to a week to respond to your entry, I also moderate all comments so if you don’t see your story right away, it is there, I just haven’t got to it yet.

Have a scroll of the pictures just for inspiration!

Now on to last weeks challenge entries

Philip in first with his 2 minute Armour

is the name of a meat that we used to eat as a kid it was called SPAM and I loved it we fried it in a pan and made sandwiches with eggs but now that I’m an adult I eat it and it’s the worst meat I can possibly imagine even though in Austin we have a festival every year (or used to), and its called SPAMarama based on Monty Python but a better festival is Eyorie’s Birthday because in Austin we do everything weird but there’s no point in weird SPAM because it’s junk meat.

Next in Barb with a snippet from a mystery she is outlining.

There were always rituals to perform before battle. If I skipped even one, results could be deadly.

I bathed, carefully cleaning and shaving. My hair was washed, dried, and tightly plaited. Stepping to the mirror, I outlined my eyes. Some said they were my greatest weapon. I smiled and the woman in the mirror reflected the smile that didn’t reach cold gray eyes.

Turning to my room, I picked up the black dress and matching shoes.

“Honey?” My husband’s voice was nervous. “My mom’s here. Are you ready?”

I held up the diamond pendant that so infuriated her, watching it glitter as I fastened it around my neck.

Armor-up!

Next up Tric playing for the first time.

Armour
We are all clothed in it. There are days, as if it were Summer, when i wear only a light covering. Those are the days I spend around those I am comfortable with, where i don’t have to venture out.
In Winter weather, you will not hear my armour clink, nor will you notice my hesitant walk or guarded body language, but if you look closely at the smile I wear, you will note it stops just short of my eyes.

Next up Ritu with a deep and meaningful

Warpaint

Slowly she applied it, layer after layer.

The concealer and foundation, then the eyes.

Eyebrows painted on.

Cheekbones highlit and honed to perfection, and a pout to match.

Looking in the mirror, she admired her warpaint, an armour of sorts.

Enough to shield her from the battles she used to face, when people stared at her in horror…

Jane up next with not one but two entries

Armour
what I strap around
the soft tender places
to stop the barbs of pain
and a cage for my heart
to stop me reaching out
with misplaced forgiveness.

Jane then expanded this into something utterly beautiful:

Armour—

what I strap around

the soft, tender places

to stop the barbs of pain,

and a cage for my heart

to stop me reaching out

with misplaced forgiveness.

I knew you’d call, and part of me, the tender, wounded, cut-to-shreds part that still bleeds tears of bright memories, longed for it. Another part, the sensible part said: stop your ears to the siren call, and shout your anger and your pain, drown out the mellifluous effusions of sorrow and regret because they are lies, bare-faced and hollow.

The phone rings.

I pick up.

Your voice, deep, warm and hesitant.

The day, the bird singing, the warm light falling in dapples on my hand, all dissolve in a soft muddled haze.

Is there any armour proof against the hope of love?

Next up Simon, who has a really cool space oriented challenge if you want to pop over here and join in

He ducked to avoid his enemy’s viscious swings. He had to fight for his very life as he had no aroumour. His wits and the sword in his hand were all he had. The heavily clad warrior lifted his sword for another swing, he brought him arm to block him. The two swords met with fearsome force, sparks flying off the edges easily visible in the low light if the dim corridor.

Next in Allie, with this very reminiscent piece.

This was the day. The first day of life as the new me. I zipped open my gym bag and grabbed my brand new uniform – a bright yellow free breathing shirt, some contrasting, yet still perfectly coordinated stretchy pants, and an awesome new under armour sports bra. Then I tried to pull everything on. Hmmm. I know I am supposed to sweat as I work out, but I rather thought that was supposed to happen after I exited the locker room…

Okay. Tomorrow. Tomorrow sounds like a great first day for the new me.

Last but by no means least, Ali, with this beautiful piece

The date is November 3rd 1324. Drizzle falls like tears from a swollen sky, but it is not so grim without as within. I sit with Petronella through her last moments, in a cell dank with mould and ripe with the ghosts of its past inhabitants.

Her body is gaunt and bloody, her skin a mass of puckered welts and scabs, broken open and oozing, the souvenirs of her private torture and public floggings. She holds her head high, hands folded together and resting still like pale butterfly wings in her lap.

“Your pyre is built high,” I say. “They want everyone to see it.”

“I am the first,” she replies, “but I will not be the last.”

“But you did nothing wrong.”

“The truth is not relevant, only what people believe.”

“Why did you confess?”

She looks at me for the first time. “To make it stop.”

I bite back my impatience. “And now you will burn for it.”

“So how could I win?” She smiles, a broad glowing smile, as footsteps echo distantly on stone. She gets to her feet, raising a hand to smooth the tangles from her hair.

“How can you smile?”

The key turns in the lock with a rasping, metallic protest, and the door begins to swing open.

She pauses. “Armour, isn’t it?” And then she is gone.

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The post Writespiration #88 It's a Dolls Life appeared first on Sacha Black.

Get a timer, set it for 120 seconds and when and ONLY when you are ready to do the challenge, scroll to the very end of the post to see the one word prompt. Write hard and fast until your time is up. 

If you want to join in, post your flash in the comments or in a post and link back here. Mine is at the bottom under the word.

You have until 1st May to respond.

Please note, I do read every entry, but as I am taking a breather of sorts from the blog, in order to finish my book, it will take me a few days to read and reply to all your entries.

Two weeks ago I set a challenge to use a fellow writers story title to inspire a story of your own. Here are the fab entries, and the word for this post and my entry for that are right at the bottom.

Barb’s in first using the title: The Case of the Prejudiced Ghost, below is an excerpt from her latest WIP

I always knew my office was haunted. I just never knew I was the ghost.

I’m twenty-four and not even a little bit dead (not counting a persistent headache and a distinct death wish some Wednesday mornings—which might or might not have something to do with the number of beers I refuse to remember drinking if my cousin Carey dragged me to Beer Tuesday the night before). So I don’t usually think of myself as ghostly material, especially when the haunt in question is my office. Or, to be more precise, the Metro station housing my travel-cum-tour guide agency.

It was little things I noticed first. A glimpse here and there of my reflection in places I hadn’t been standing. A few times total strangers came in for tours they said I’d booked. Occasionally, they even thanked me—and paid—for tours I’d never given. Once my roommate Mara told me she’d had a great lunch with me, but I knew I was in class that whole afternoon. We told each other to get more sleep.

Then came the day I agreed to travel outside the City. As Anchor, I almost never leave Null City, especially since it’s been under threat. Looking back, I wonder what might have been different if I’d made it to that meeting.

Jason in next using the title: Buster and Moo

Clank. Clank. Clank.

Moo’s footsteps echoed through the deserted corridors. The building had remained empty since the invasion.

Buster, head down, studied the map that Orla had given him.

“I don’t get it, why would they hide it here?” said Buster.

Moo’s head rotated. He looked at Buster.

“I’m afraid that information was never given to me.”

Moo was uneasy.

“My sensors are detecting life forms heading our way. It will most likely be Nether.”

Buster folded the map away and pointed to the starwell.

“That way, c’mon.”

Moo followed, and together they navigated the debris-strewn stairs. They reached the next floor. A chilly draft greeted them. Buster looked up. Where he would expect to see ceiling, there was only blue sky.

They entered the floor. It was the 78th.

They made their way to the edge. New York was laid out before them like some forgotten cemetery. Iconic landmarks either destroyed or left in ruins.

“They are getting closer,” said Moo.

“I have to find it,” said Buster.

“Master,” started Moo. “Your safety is my primary concern. We must go.”

“Go. Go where, Moo?”

Buster heard rustling from below.

“Crap.”

“Master, hold on tight.”

Moo grabbed Buster. “You must survive.”

Moo stepped over.

Jane next who was spoilt for choice and used 5 titles: under stone, haunted tide, oath breakers, drawn toward the sun and return to echoing sun.

They are oathbreakers, she murmured, restless in her bed under stone and root. They were given the care of the earth and they have abused my trust.

There was nothing more to be done, though she wept clouds and oceans of tears. It was time to end the work of aeons and begin again in another world. Perhaps. Gathering up her beautiful scattered dreams of green, blue, rainbow-coloured, soft-furred, perfectly scaled, leafed, feathered, the cold- and the warm-blooded, vegetal, animal, and mineral creations, she said the final words. She called down the stars, summoned back the moon into her dark cradle and let her child Earth change path, drawn towards the sun by the wrong, haunted tide, to return to the echoing waters of oblivion.

Diana has used the title: drawn toward the sun and written a beautiful flash just for this.

I was afraid to open the door, afraid the light would burn my eyes after so many months in the burrow, attuned to its shadowy corners. The others crowded behind me, their eagerness pressing on my back. “Close your eyes,” I warned them and thumbed the latch.

My vision reduced to slits, I cracked the door. The sunlight burned, a white-hot flame searing my retinas. We gasped in unison and paused, breath locked in our chests. I eased the door open, slowly, wider, the heat tumbling down from above with a miasma of foreign smells.

The world had changed. Despite our intelligence and will, despite the technology wielded at our fingertips, mankind hadn’t been able to halt its advance. It rolled over us, unstoppable, transforming the landscape into something ancient and new. I’d expected it, but I was startled, nonetheless.

I shielded my half-lidded eyes. “I’ll go first.” I took a tentative step and then climbed the stairs, my hand tracking the wall for support. The heat baked through my clothes. Creatures stirred in the crooked branches and thorny brambles, and I inhaled the fecund scent of the land. The sun flared and I smiled. Spring had arrived.

Ladylee uses the title: Venus on Earth and writes a memoir

I’ve known Venus since she was born. She’s so beautiful and the youngest in their family and they used to live two doors away from us. We used to call her Nono when we were kids, you know how each one has some sort of nicknames. Anyway, Venus is my cousin, her father was my father’s brother (in spirit, because they grew up together). Venus and her siblings (4 of them) and us (also, 4 of us) were really, really close, as in best mates in everything. We played together, went on holidays together, did all the usual teen-ager fun, parties, secrets, messing around, experiments, and on and on. We shared a lot of experience and memories. Now we are all in different parts of the world with our own families, but we still keep contact with each other and through social media, have seen each other’s photos and have known each other’s news. Last year, Venus and her husband went to Europe for their holidays and my brother and mother saw them in the UK. And every time I fly back to the Philippines, I see them. So she’s our gorgeous Venus on earth.

Next up Judy, with the title All Aboard and a hilarious poem

Whenever I travel by car

I hope that it’s not very far

It gets on my wick

That I always feel sick

It really is very bizarre!

You’ll never get me on a plane

I flew once, but never again!

Throughout the whole flight

I was cowering in fright

I’d much rather go on a train!

I am not much good on a boat

I worry about it staying afloat

The continuous motion

Of the waves in the ocean

Causes sick in the back of my throat!

Travelling by bus or by train

Can become rather a pain

People yelling and shouting

Can spoil the outing

And you’re put off going again!

Jade next using the title: The Case of the Prejudice Ghost

“Trey, tell me that’s not a skull.” The grey-haired detective stared at the half-buried cranium and proceeded to smack his partner upside the head. “Do you know what this means?”

“You’re no longer going to the Bahamas?” The young rookie replied, sure that a bruise was forming from all the times he’d been whacked.

“It means the next skull you’ll find is mine after I tell my wife we’re cancelling our vacation. Again.”

Beside the detectives, a transparent figure huffed in exasperation. “12 years, 4 months, and 27 days and my body’s found by two numbskull cops.”

Gordon next with a little history thrown in for good measure. He’s using the title: Under Stone

“What happened to her?” the young man demanded angrily. “I’ve read the report, but do you think I believe that. There was no attempt to recover her body, and the next day the statue was found, did she find it, was that why you killed her.”

The archaeologist rose, “You need to see the statue, we call it Pandora.”

It stood on a low plinth, a crouching, naked woman, apparently opening something, an expression of absolute horror on her face.

“Look at her face,” the archaeologist ordered.

“It looks just like Maria.” The young man was puzzled.

“On the temple floor we found a stone inscribed ‘Beware of Stone under Stone’. Maria wanted to lift it immediately, I told her to wait. Next morning she went up there alone, when I got there the stone was up, and she was like this. In her glasses I saw a reflection of what was the hole.”

He placed a heavy metal box on a tall column, and slowly raised the lid, inside was a mirror.

“Don’t look inside, just look in the mirror.” He did, and involuntarily screamed.

“But what is it??” the young man shivered in terror.

“Medusa isn’t a legend.”

Geoffle in next using the title: haunted tide with an outrageous story!

The Haunted Tide

‘How many?’
‘Fifteen over two years.’
‘And this one, the one they rescued. Same profile as before?’
‘Yes. He’s 15. They’re all teenage boys between 14 and 17. Usually socially inadequate.’ She looked at the young man squeezing a zit. ‘I expect he’s the same.’
Inspector Collins scratched his head. ‘Makes no sense. Everyone knows you don’t mess with the riptide, yet back they go. What’s he saying?’
‘Still shaken but he’s saying it’s haunted. They tempted him.’
‘How?’
‘A voice calls.’
‘What voice? It’s rubbish.’
‘Not necessarily. Larry says youngsters hear things in a different spectrum to adults. He says we should try and record it.’
‘Waste of police time.’
‘Can we try?’
‘I suppose.’
***
‘Well?’
‘It’s seems there is a voice.’
‘Yes? And?’
‘We got a recording. Only youngsters hear it. Larry was right.’
‘Well bully for Larry. What’s the voice say?’
‘It’s a woman’s voice. Like an announcement.’
‘What’s it say though?’
There was a shuffling of feet. ‘It’s not great quality.’
‘Stop prevaricating.’
‘We may be wrong.’ The glare said more than words. ‘Miss Lawrence will blow you now.’
‘Lawrence?’
‘Jennifer. The actress. Every teenage boy’s fantasy.’
They exchanged glances. It was hopeless.

Ritu next, using the title: The Case of the Prejudice Ghost

“I’m sorry mother, but no, I refuse!”

Mrs Darcy sighed, as well as any paranormal apparition could sigh.

Edgar had become increasingly picky lately about his work, and when he would and wouldn’t go out on duty.

She fondly remembered the days of the past, when they would go off to work together, and any living soul sighted, human or animal, was cause for great excitement! He loved the reactions he got, when he was seen. This gory, ghostly apparition, walking towards them, with his head held in his hand, blood dripping from the severed skull as he approached them.

The screams, oh the screams! A sound of pure ecstasy for them!

Their job was done.

More and more ‘ghost hunters’ and thrill seekers started to visit their house, hoping to view the infamous Edgar Darcy, walking the corridors of the old mansion.

This was around the time it happened.

Edgar got big headed (as much as a headless ghost could!) and started to refuse to perform on demand.

He would peer out of the window and sometimes it took just one look at the people coming.

“Absolutely not mother! They’re wearing…Burberry Tracksuits!”

Next Kim, with a piece commended in Esther’s writing competition.

It was her first time on a steam train. She had listened to her grandfather’s stories and wondered what the fuss was about; they sounded noisy, dirty and slow. But she had a few hours to spare and the station was somewhere to keep dry that damp Thursday afternoon.

The platform was empty. She walked up and down, taking in the old-fashioned posters that advertised local seaside resorts. She tried out a seat in the cream and Bakerloo brown waiting room and even explored the manual signal box, both of which were also empty. A chilly gust of wind lifted her hair; she felt goose bumps on her arms when she retrieved a tissue from her sleeve to remove a speck of dust from her eye.

There it was. From around the bend a column of steam unfurled and the rhythmic puffing of the train announced its arrival. As it slowed to a halt, she craned her neck to see if passengers were ready to alight, but the windows stared back at her, black holes like the orbits in a skull.

As she climbed aboard, she looked around for a station master but there didn’t seem to be one. She hoped there would a ticket collector to stamp a hole in her green Edmondson ticket, which she planned to take home to Grandfather.

As the train pulled away, the station lights came on, throwing long shadows on the platform. She could have sworn they were the shadows of people.

Now for the prompt word for this weeks 120 second challenge. The word is:

Armour 

Here’s my entry…

I rubbed the liquid over my skin, starting with my arms and moving across my chest. Even though it was invisible, it made me feel like I was plated with steel. I stood higher, confident it would make me impervious to his charm. They’d know if I fell in love with him. And I couldn’t. Not if I had to marry my betrothed.  But even as he walked through the door, blond curls bouncing over the line of his jaw, I knew the invisible armour was cracking.

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The post Flash in a Flash – Writespiration #87 appeared first on Sacha Black.

This week, we’re playing another game.

In the post I’ve listed all the titles you gave me. Pick one (not your own) and write a story in less than 200 words, and tell me which title you picked.

If you want to join in, then post your story in the comments or in a post and link back here so I can find it.

Please note, I am pausing to write my novels and I read every entry which means I am a little slow at responding to comments. If your comment doesn’t appear straight away, it will, promise.

As a result of the blog pause, I am moving Writespirations to every other week, you have until Sunday 17th to get your entries in.

p.s all images from Amazon

Titles:

• Under Stone
• Venus on Earth
• The Case of the Prejudiced Ghost
• My Part in the EDSA Revolution 1986
• Drawn Towards The Sun
• All aboard!
• To Have and to Harm
• End of the Line
• The Haunted Tide
• Oath Breaker
• Buster and Moo
• The Life and Times of Scott Hughes
• Paulonious Punk and the Search for an Adventure
• The House That Wasn’t There
• Return to Echoing Waters
• Revelation
• The Years After Mojo’s
• Oathbreakers

I chose to use the title, End of the Line from Barb. In my novel Keepers, when you die, you are taken to ‘Lines End’ where your body is laid to rest and your soul can travel to the Other Side. This is a snippet from chapter 15, as Eden (the main character) prepares to send her parents to Lines End.

Even in the dim underground station below the Ancient forest, Trees still managed to grow. Although the underground walls were mostly coated with roots, trees still dipped and swooped over the platform lining the track like soldiers at attention.

I blinked rapidly, salty tears already streaking my cheeks. Titus stepped off the sleek Earth train carrying my parents bodies and walked towards us.

“I thought it was appropriate,” Nyx said, clutching my arm, “Lionel loved the humans, I thought it would be fitting if he went to Lines End in one of their trains.”

“It’s lovely, Nyx, really lovely.” I squeezed her hand, unsure of who I was really comforting.

“I still don’t know if I can go in there…” Fear was clamping my chest tight like a vice. “I don’t think I can see their bodies.”

“I’ll be right outside. But you have to send them off with essence memory. Be brave, honey. Don’t leave them unprotected.”

“I know. I know. It’s just…” I swallowed the lump pressing my throat closed, “Do they look normal? Do they look like they used to?”

Nyx nodded, her eyes bristling with tears, “just like they’re asleep, honey.”

Sacha Black © 2016 all rights reserved

First in this week, Helen, with a snippet from Title: Under Stone (Book 4 of The Ambeth Chronicles). Buy her first book over there in the photo HERE.

Title: Under Stone

‘So why are you dressed like that?’ said the girl next to him, sliding close, dark hair curling around her freckled face. She ran a hand across his leather breastplate. ‘Not that I don’t like it or anythin’.’ She giggled and he snapped his teeth at her, laughter rumbling in his chest.
‘It is what I wear when I hunt,’ he said, putting his arm around her as he took another swig from the bottle, enjoying the sweet taste.
‘And have you found what you were huntin’ for?’ she asked, reaching up to steal a kiss, mouth soft against his beard.
‘Easy, Carolyn, leave some for the rest of us,’ said the girl in the front seat, flashing her eyes at him as he lifted his head.
‘Oh, don’t worry,’ he said, meeting her glance with a scorching one of his own. ‘There’s plenty of me to go around.’

Ritu in next, with a snippet from either a collection of shorts or a stand alone short story

Title: Venus on Earth

All pretty usual for this place.

Then you get Venus House.

Intriguing name, isn’t it?

It’s one of the townhouses on my road, right opposite my own rented space. A beautifully kept house, and as far as I knew, it was owned by the lady who lived there. There had been no converting, but I think she rented rooms out to students.  Well, I had seen a number of young women who had stayed there for a while, before moving on, and a little time went by before another face became a familiar one.

Thing is, there were also quite a lot of visitors to this place.  They could be family or friends, I know, but it seemed strange that they only came most evenings…

Oh, I wondered plenty about this house. It was intriguing. And one day I got to find out a lot more about the tenants and owner…

Next up Juli Monroe with a snippet from a novella in her Warlock Case Files series. Title: The Case of the Prejudiced Ghost. Check out her first book in the series HERE.

Orange, green and a sickly purple dominated his aura, but that wasn’t what worried me. A surge of dark gray was forming in the center of his “body,” and I knew what that meant.

“Paul, incoming!”

That was all I had time to say, but I trusted it would be enough for my partner. I dropped to the floor and rolled for the nearest item of furniture, a low bench that looked like it belonged in a dining set. What was it doing in an entryway? I crawled under it as best I could, rolled myself into a ball and covered my head with my arms.

I was aware of Paul moving behind me, grabbing Gerome and crouching down to cover the man with his body.

Just in time.

Items started flying. Peeking out from behind my shielding arms, I saw a huge flat-screen TV–good to know Gerome’s priorities with his ill-gotten gains–followed by a… VCR? Really? So old school. A beat up couch was next, along with a new-looking recliner.

Next in Ladylee with Title: My Part in the EDSA Revolution 1986

Two nuns were kneeling down in front of a soldier. One nun was holding her rosary tightly, urging the soldier not to shoot them or just reciting her prayers loudly. The other nun was in a contemplative mood, one hand touching her chin, the other arm crossed under her chest. In front of them was a soldier brandishing a belt of bullets, his M-16 rifle held at slope arms. The contrasting image of the nuns and the cold, harsh rifle of the soldier was the focus of this photograph. A huge crowd was behind the nuns. They were ordinary street Filipinos, men and women, parents and children, students, employed or unemployed, rich, middle-class or poor. I was part of this crowd – more people coming and going, military tanks and cannons with their soldiers greeted with flowers and food, burning tyres, activist flags and streamers, vendors, vehicles, portable radios, foreign correspondents and religious altars everywhere.

Next up Bill, with Title: Drawn Towards The Sun You can find his first book HERE.

“On the day that his family got the devastating, yet not unexpected, news, Gordie Dumont’s grandfather, his father’s father, Clarence Elijah Dumont, took the boy hunting. The trip had been planned for some time and his grandfather would not be dissuaded, even with the arrival of the report that his mother had died in some ratty hotel in downtown Winnipeg. The city was always full of peril and the Dumont family had come to expect that the precarious habits of Estelle Dumont might someday take her away forever.

“We will be back in a week,” Clarence had quietly but authoritatively declared. “Maybe a week. It depends on the hunting. It will also depend on how well the boy walks in the forest. No matter what, the fishing will be good. The fishing is always good for me.”

Everyone knew that the fishing wasn’t always good for Clarence. They had occasionally heard him confess that the fish just weren’t biting this or that time. It was something he said to remind one and all that most of life was a game of chance. He knew that fish, like people, had a sense of humour. Sometimes, fish, wittingly or otherwise, simply needed to remind mankind that humans weren’t in charge and keeping out of sight of anglers hammered home the point.”

Bré in next, with her WIP Title: All Aboad! and intriguing it most certainly is.

It was time to go on board the train. Mother grabbed her cases and disappeared ahead of us. I shifted Saffron one more time and lifted Poppy up to my other hip.
“Ok Finnick, I need you to hold on tight to my coat pocket. Do not let go no matter what.”
We got on board and finally found Mother sitting in the last carraige. She was talking to a Steward, her hand lightly pressing aganst his arm. A couple of minutes later he came back with some juice boxes and sandwhiches. Mother didn’t give him money.
“Is daddy going to come visit?” Finnick pipes up. He’s trying to open his juice box. “Oh yes. We will write to him and tell him our new address.” I take Finnick’s juice and pierce the straw through. I hate when she says things like that. Finnick hasn’t seen his daddy in almost two years. Since he got tired of Mother’s dramas. I haven’t seen my own father in almost ten years, for the same reason.

Next in Judy, with her current WIP Title: To Have and to Harm. You can see her first poetry anthology HERE.

Am I married now?  We did not even exchange rings or say any vows; this certainly takes the biscuit for unromantic weddings!  No flowers, confetti, presents, or even a bit of wedding cake!  Well, this is what I wanted, but it does feel a bit strange.

“Congratulations, to you both, Mr. and Mrs. Terzi.”  Gail felt that she ought to mark the occasion.

“Thanks, Gail.  Mrs. Terzi, finally, I must go and ring my mum.  She wanted to know when we had got married.”

As they walked out of the room, Jackie and Aslan were putting their wedding rings on their fingers themselves.

Jane sounded a little sad although was trying to put on a brave voice to mirror her daughter’s happiness.  Jackie too felt a little frisson of sorrow; it would have been so lovely to have some of her family there at the wedding, especially her mum and sisters.

Barb up next with her WIP Title: End of the Line from her Null City series. You can buy the first book HERE.

I was just going over the day’s tour schedule when I heard Zack suck in a breath. “Holy fudge truckers!” He paused and added for emphasis. “Mother fudge-truckers!” For a man who never swears, Zach can put a lot of emotion into perfectly clean phrases.

Mara looked up, and her knitting needles went into blur mode.

Crap. I knew, without even looking. “She’s back, isn’t she? Leigh Ann.”

They both nodded. Leigh Ann Shay, part-time succubus, and full-time pain in the butt.

“And I don’t have time to put the CLOSED sign on the door?”

They shook their heads.

“She’s right behind me, isn’t she?”

A sweet voice, which my cousin Carey once described as the last purr a bird hears before the cat pounces, answered. “Hey, you guys—I’m back! And guess what? I’m interning at Null City Travel! Laissez les bons temps rouler!”

In the silence that followed, we all heard Zach’s muttered, “Son of a mother fudge-trucking bench.”

I had to agree.

Next in Kim with a snippet from her YA novel Title: The Haunted Tide

‘Then I heard it. A high, keening chorus drifting in from the sea. A haunting sound that clawed at my heart. There was more than one voice; they blended together in a chilling hymn with no words. As the volume increased, it was hard to tell if the voices were on the beach or in my head. That’s when I noticed it. At first a cloud in the distance, it shifted shape, a thick mist skimming the waves, rolling onto the beach. It sneaked across the sand and surrounded me, its damp fingers brushing my face. My mouth dried up and a frosty rawness crept over my scalp. I couldn’t see through the swirls of vapour but I could just make out Jasper’s familiar yap, faint and muffled.
I peered through the muggy mist, torn with terror, unable to work out how close the sea was or how far it was to the dunes. Shuffling in the shifting sand, I focused on the muffled yapping. Where was he?’

Next up Shelley with a snippet from Title: Oath Breaker. You can buy her first book HERE.

The blue flashing lights pulsed through the fractured front window, illuminating the blood splatter on the walls. The click-click of the forensic team’s camera ate into the sterile silence as the officers combed through the living room.

The house resembled a scene from a macabre horror show.

I briefly lifted my eyes to look at the police officer who knelt before me, his face a mask of professionalism even though he must be wishing he was anywhere but here.

‘Did you see who killed your dad? Who tried to kill you? Who broke in and attacked you miss?’

I couldn’t answer. The words were stuck in my throat. How could I tell him that my dad was the one who had tried to kill me and that a wolf had jumped through the window and ripped out his throat? Who would believe me?

Geoff up next with a snippet from Title: Buster and Moo. You can find Geoffle’s first book HERE.

“This will be good, won’t it? Like a fresh start.”
“Fresh start?” Mervin frowned.
Landen added hurriedly, “We need a new name. Buster is ridiculous, don’t you think?”
Mervin seemed lost how to respond.
Unspoken words sat between them. Why that phrase? He’d used it a lot after her second miscarriage, when she’d said she wanted to try for a partnership. Absently she touched her stomach. Had he made the connection? Briefly she was back in that hot sunny consulting room, a lifetime before.
She jumped as he said, “He’s just a dog, Lanny, not some existential thinker. Does it really matter?”
“Something that fits his character.”
Mervin tilted his head. “Those spots make him look like a pig. What about Oink?”
“You aren’t serious?” She paused. “He’s more like a cow anyway.”
Mervin shrugged. “Ermintrude? Flossy? Daisy? Are they too girlie?”
“What about Moo?”

Next in Hugh, with Title: The Life and Times of Scott Hughes.

“Yes, I’m fine” replied Scott, “Its just the excitement of being in London and, of course, meeting you.”

“Same here,” said Nick, “I’ve been constantly thinking about this day ever since we arranged it. Now it’s finally arrived and here we are.”

“I’m just a bit nervous I suppose,” blushed Scott.

“No need to be,” replied Nick, as he smiled at Scott again. “So, this is your first time in London?”

“Yes. Have you been before?”

“A few times, but never to meet somebody as cute as you.”

Scott blushed.

“I’m being honest,” laughed Nick.

Scott smiled but didn’t say anything.  It made him feel a little uncomfortable as compliments often did.

“Sorry if I’ve embarrassed you. Do you always blush when somebody pays you a compliment?” Scott still couldn’t say anything and felt his face blush even more. Nick started to laugh again and then realised that perhaps he shouldn’t as Scott may think he was making fun of him.

“So, what do you want to do with your time this weekend?” asked Nick.

Next with a snippet is Elizabeth S. Tyree with Title: Paulonious Punk and the Search for an Adventure

“Dude, we rode our bikes a block to get a drink from the gas station,” Pauly didn’t sound like he agreed with John’s idea of an adventure.

“A block and a half,” John corrected, “We had to a road AND ride in a busy parking lot to get big drinks and candy bars at a BRAND NEW GAS STATION.” John’s face had the wide eyes and raised eyebrows that say ‘AHA TAKE THAT.’

“With our mom’s in the car behind us.” Pauly obviously wasn’t in the right kind of mood for this talk.

“Whatever P-man,” John tossed the spare apple to his friend, took a juicy bite from his own, and plopped down on his favorite ‘captain’s’ chair.

Paulonious made a face but didn’t say anything about John’s use of the nick-name. He didn’t mind being called “Pauly”, “Pauly P,” or even “Punk” but he absolutely HATED it when the big boys at school called him The P. kid, P.P., or the worst P.P. the Whiz Kid.

Next in Colin with a snippet from Title: The House That Wasn’t There. You can buy his first book, The Hounds of Hellerby Hall HERE.

The wagon pulls over in front of a drayman’s cart and reins to a halt at the top of Raeburn Place. The wizened old driver jumps down with a flourish that belies his years. “On ye go,” he says, cheerfully waving a hand towards his passengers. The pair clamber off the back, shaking jackets and trousers in a bid to rid themselves of the black dust.

“Wouldnae bother, pal.” The driver pats one of the sacks of coal. “Stuff gets intae yer skin.” As if to demonstrate this, he spits in his hand and wipes it across his sooty face. “See? I’d hae less o’ this muck on me if I’d hae gone doon the mine.” He laughs good-naturedly.

The young man shakes the older man by the hand. “Thanks for the ride.” He glances down at the boy at his side. “We’ll let ye get off, then.”

Next in Jan, with a snippet from Title: Return to Echoing Waters. You can buy her other book HERE.

The stuff of my life had been dumped without any thought into cardboard boxes stacked to the ceiling in one of those rent-by-the-month storage facilities on the south side of Vegas.  If I hadn’t come back from the dead who knows what would have happened to it.  Sold probably. The proceeds given to the state.

I turned to the manager and asked, “Are you sure all that crap is mine?”

“Your name is Dr. Fiona Butters, right?  And you lived at 3814 Juniper Drive?” he read from the rental agreement.  Poor sod was sweating profusely in the hot September sun.  His polyester SafeStorage shirt was a size too small, a couple of strategic buttons were missing but at least his fly was up.

Next Jane, with a snippet from Title: Revelation. You can buy her first book Abomination HERE.

Tully stopped humming and held his head on one side, listening. His eyes glittered with amazement.

“Can you hear?” he whispered.

Carla stood quite still and held her breath. The silence of the night sky was broken. Like ripples on a stream, faint music made by unearthly voices came to her over the waves of darkness. She looked at Tully, her eyes wide.

“It’s the stars,” he breathed, “the planets. They’re singing.”

“What does it mean?”

Tully beamed at her. “It means we’re in heaven.”

Carla grinned. “Seriously.”

“The possibilities here are endless. Nothing is beyond us if we try hard enough. You can see why Nisroc wants to protect his world.”

Carla frowned slightly as if a cloud had passed over the moon, and the music faded. “Yeah. I s’ppose.”

Tully took her hand and led her into a fiery nest of stardust. “You worry too much,” he said gently and pulled her down beside him. “Time for dreaming.”

Carla snuggled into his arms, loosening his shirt from his trousers, nuzzling into his neck, her senses filling with his unmistakeable Tully smell.

“I wonder if the Grigori dream too,” she murmured.

“Erelah said they all do.”

“Erelah?” Carla sat up sharply. “You mean we might bump into herup here?”

Tully pulled her back down to him. “What have you got against Erelah, anyway? She’s a good laugh, when you get to know her.”

“And you have?”

“Yeah, a bit.”

Carla fought to keep her ground in what felt like shifting sands. She held Tully tighter, finding the buckle on his belt. She bit his ear and whispered, “Like this?”

Tully kissed her hard on the mouth. “You ask the silliest questions.”

“Indulge me.”

Tully kissed her again. And again. “Of course not.”

His hands were on her skin beneath her shirt. His mouth was on hers. The stars were singing. Carla let the unpleasant thoughts slip into the gentle darkness between the planets and returned Tully’s kiss with the same passion as in the old days.

Last but by no means least, Diana, with a snippet from Title: Oathbreakers. You can find another of her books, the Bone Wall, HERE.

Darkest Night.

Contrary powers waged war in her skin. Her shield, the rose birthmark encircling her eye, the singular force that had mangled her youth, was the realm’s secret salvation. Or so her mentor dreamed. Catling’s reflection brushed fingertips along the petals’ imperfections, edges tattered, small holes where pink skin shone through.

Her shield severed the influence controlling a kingdom, broke the sway that moved the heart between love and fear, a body between pleasure and pain, life between healing and death. Vianne had sighed with relief to find the shield intact.

Catling turned in the mirror, her underdress unbuttoned and draped around her waist. A garden of luminescence carved her back, colors climbing her neck and capping her shaved head. Vines curled, wending through flowers, dragonflies, and a crimson bird, its wings flared.

Red feathers, the distilled hue of death.

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The post It's All In The Title – #Writespiration 86 appeared first on Sacha Black.

The weekly writespiration is a platform of inspiration for writers but also an opportunity for writers to share their work. So. This week, I want two things from you:

1 – The title of your current WIP – if you’re working on more than one, just choose the one you like the title of best. Or if you like, make a title up.

2 – A 150 word snippet from your current WIP. If it is part of a series, feel free to post links to amazon for the first book (only) in the series and I will add it for people to have a look.

Please note – I will be using your titles in next weeks challenge, so if you are not happy for them to be published as part of a challenge, please do not enter them, and perhaps choose another title you are happy to share.

If you want to join in, either post your entry at the bottom, or in a blog post with a ping back so I can find it.

Here’s Mine:

My Book has a working title of Keepers, which is part of the Fallon trilogy. Whether it will stay as Keepers I have no idea. But here is the first 156 words of my novel:

Mother’s shoe rapped against our train’s wooden floor. Once, twice, three times. I stole a glance at her. Arms folded, eyes narrowed to slits. I’d pushed too far. Nibbling the inside of my lip I glared at my friend Bo, hoping for support; she shrugged and looked at the floor. Helpful. Well, I wasn’t giving in. This was my Keepers Ceremony, and I wanted to feel like myself when I walked in.

“Bo?” I said, trying not to let the fire raging in my chest burn her name.

“I’m staying out of this.”

Mother’s foot stopped tapping. I closed my eyes, preparing for the onslaught.

“You listen to me, Eden East. You’re not attending your Keepers ceremony wearing those disgusting boots and filthy combats. I forbid it.”

I cringed as Mother spit my full name and wiggled a finger in my face.

“But…”

“NO, Eden. This isn’t just any ceremony and you’re not just any Keeper.”

Sacha Black © 2016 all rights reserved

Last week I asked you to grab the nearest book and choose words according to a set of numbers.

First in to last week’s entries is Ellen with the words: Grafaganana, San, the and Florentine.

The Dragons love song

He woke Garfaganana
To sing him a song.
A dreamy one of love
That he knew all along.

A melodic tune named simply “san”
It was crooned in Florentine hills.
By lovers sunning themselves
on padded window sills.

Romanced, he swooped her
Through a portal to his lair
Where he crooned his love
While brushing her hair.

Next up Bill, with a beautiful and emotive poem using the words: Decades, Tiny, My and Disappointed

Moments

I look ahead and MY world
seems destined to dissolve
into tiny fragments,
shards of unexamined lives,
comfortable experiences
I will not enjoy,
lips, untouched,
skin, sweet skin,
wine left wanting.

I look back,
nostalgic, of course,
and vaguely disappointed
at myself,
at the hurried loss
of the decades,
my times,
which I let aimlessly let slip by
like grains of sand,
why,
always,
grains of sand?
Why?

I am stilled
by an inertia,
of moments
yet to be,
never to be
for me.

Moments!

Next up Lori Carlson with the words: War, Give, to and compelling

Battle Cry

“If they want war, we’ll give them war!” the leader says as he stands on a stage before the crowd.

We all jump to our feet and cheer, “Give ’em hell!”

The leader, now red-faced, continues, “We’ll squash them like bugs!”

We all chant, “Termites, termites!”

By now we are a frenzied mess. Shouts, screams, and chants echo through the auditorium. The leader has given another compelling speech. We pile out of the meeting hall pumped and ready to fight. We each return to our rooms, turn on our computers, and log in to the game – Exterminator Warriors!

Next in Jane, with this hilarious entry, love the phrasing towards the end!

“I’m sorry Mr Tibbs, but your proposal is really just too disadvantageous for us.”

“You wha’?”

“Unfavourable.”

“You mean like the odds is too short?”

The man in the suit got to his feet, his right hand stretched out in a gesture of dismissal. “If you like. I’m sorry, but…our image… You understand?”

Vic shook the hand as if he was being offered a bouquet of live wires. “I’ll take ’em back then.”

The suit held the door open. “If you would be so kind. The young lady at reception will show you where they are being…held.”

Vic stuffed his hands in his pockets and stomped back down the corridor. Pompous prick! He’d rather pay some flash business with fancy machinery. Well, stuff him. The girl at the desk looked at him as though he had a cowpat plastered over his head.

“If you’d like to follow me, please.”

She picked her way along a tarmac strip out the back of the main building to what looked like a large garage and produced a key. While she unlocked the doors, Vic gazed at the vast expanse of green that surrounded the commercial unit and sighed. The five of them could keep that trim, the bushes too, no problem. The girl pulled open the doors and stepped back.

Vic clicked his tongue. “Come on, girls, Pedro, home time.”

The receptionist moved quickly out of the way, but not quickly enough.

“Erk!” she shrieked. “It spat at me!”

“Sign of affection,’ Vic said and yanked on Pedro’s halter. “If ever your boss changes his mind, decides to go green—”

“He won’t.”

Vic shrugged. “Well, fuck me sideways, what a surprise. His loss. C’mon you lot.”

He headed off towards the road, the five llamas trotting after him.

Next up Ladylee and you have to go check out the bonkers photo that accompanies her story

Kelly kept tossing and turning in her sleep. The place was still vivid in her mind and she was thinking of some ways to help them. Her Mum took her to one of the trailer parks in the neighbourhood and she would not believe what she was seeing or smelling. The dirt, the stench all over and unused appliances just on the streets. There was even a toilet bowl there. Ah! she thought of a brilliant idea. So the next day she went back to the place and planted some flowers around. It was triumphantly accepted by the community.

Next in, Bré with this brilliant and slightly horrifying entry using a PC ad from a newspaper! Her words: free, laptop, company & contribution.

My boyfriend Roger got me a job in the company where he works. Don’t worry we won’t be working together, he actually just got a promotion. He’s on the road a lot while I’m in the office. It’s a pretty sweet deal I get a free laptop and phone, they just take a small contribution out of my wages each month.

I was looking through my new laptop and came across some photos. Someone must have had it before me. I couldn’t help but browse. Some were work photos, holiday snaps, dark ones I couldn’t make out. And. Is that a body? I flicked to the next one and gasped. I slammed it shut.

I asked Rachel in IT do they recycle laptops. “Yeah, when someone leaves the company or upgrades” I was debating showing the photos to the police but wanted to have a name. I asked who owned the laptop before me. “Ha what a coincidence. Roger did.”

Next up, Pat, my lovely Rough Writer from Carrot Ranch. Pat gets bonus points for using the words in the same order! His words were: ought, silly, But, understanding

Leave to Dance

I ought to know better. When I had the silly whim to join in the line dance at my son’s senior prom, I knew there would be fallout. Chaperones were not supposed to dance, just stay near the doors in case of uninvited guests, or at the punch bowl to prevent any… amendments.

But that song is my favorite, and Max knows it. He saw my foot start tapping, and the aborted movement toward the line that was building.

He shook his head, then gave me leave to dance when I saw no scowl in his expression, but understanding.

Next in is Geoffle, with this umm…. delightful little Easter piece! His words were: Forensics, Which, As, White

‘How long before it reaches the surface?’

‘I’d say we have twenty minutes.’

‘Do we know what it is? Have forensics been contacted?’

‘They’ll not touch it until it’s surfaced. All we can do is wait and see. Whichever way it turns out, they’ll be someone disappointed.’

‘So should we just sit here? Or come back?’

‘Let’s sit. It’s not as if we have anything else to do, and personally I’m as keen as anyone to find out of the Easter Bunny lays white or milk chocolate eggs.’

Ritu joined in this week using these words: Anastasia, year, on gives

Anastasia sat there looking at the TV, listening to the inane ramblings of the latest politician to give his opinion on how he would run the country.

Every election year there was the door to door canvassing for votes, debates on the telly, the promises, yet no matter who got voted in, she was never any better off.

Seriously. Who gives a toss about her?

Helen in next with this gorgeous piece that left me wanting more. Her words were: Human, on, whispering, have

His mask glittered, curving papier mache making him appear more than human. She knew she looked the same, laughing as they wandered hand in hand, heels clicking on the cobbles, past whispering lamplit canals and down narrow passageways, crumbling plaster puffing into dust as they passed.

‘We have to go back.’ He checked his watch, anachronistic under the satin cuff.

She stopped, laughter leaving her. ‘Time won’t wait, will it?’

‘It never does. We have only so long before it catches up with us again.’

He twisted the dial and she felt time stretching elastic, the world turning to grey.

Sarah up next with two entries, and a wicked cool source for her words – the periodic table no less!

First from a children’s book of the Periodic Table of Elements. (5-7-5 haiku) Words:
And, Pewter, Form and classification.

Classification:
Unknown. New life form. Composed
of gold and pewter

***

Second from Sophie’s World by Jostein Gaarder. Words: Guards, To, Sleep, Disappeared

Fears plagued me throughout the night, clawing their way into my subconscious.

I often woke screaming.

He bought me a dreamcatcher, feathers dangling from a woven web meant to trap the nightmares.

Sweet dreams, he claimed, would be filtered from the bad and drip down to me.

The dreamcatcher was broken.

Or I was.

I still screamed. Until May. That’s when they arrived. The Guards. They didn’t speak but I knew they would protect me. Allow me to sleep.

It was November by the time I could make it through a night. It was November when the Guards disappeared.

Kim in next with this wicked little rhyming poem. Her words were: had, some, saw, disappointed.

Disappointed

With the shadows

And the ghosts that didn’t come

Disappointed

With the nightmares

You know I wanted some

Disappointed

In boring dreams

Mirrors of unimaginative reality

No horror to wake me

Make me

Feel alive

If I had

You might be

Reading

This poem

Last but by no means least,  Judy, and apologies as I missed her entry last week. So first her Black out entry:

As I sit there watching the big screen

All settled in for the night

Everything’s suddenly gone quiet

And someone has turned off the light.

The pitch black makes me feel nervous

I don’t like being here on my own

I can’t haven’t got any candles

And the where in the hell is my phone?

It feels like the set of a movie

Where the killer is hiding upstairs

Waiting until the right moment

To capture his prey, unawares

My heart is starting to race now

My throat is all parched and dry

I need to go to the toilet

And I’m just about ready to cry!

When, suddenly a massive explosion

Of light and sound dims my fears

I can relax and calm down now

As the opening credits appear.

***

Now to her second entry for this week, her words were: voice, the, years, representative

I have found that over the years

That voice that I had disappears

Sometimes it is sweet

and each note it will meet

And others, well, just cover your ears!

A representative came calling one day

And set out his wares for display

But the stuff he was selling

Was not that compelling

So I told him to go on his way!

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The post Writespiration #85 Snippets of You appeared first on Sacha Black.

Wherever you’re sat, whatever you’re doing. Scan the vicinity for the nearest document/book/magazine etc you haven’t written. Pick it up.

If it’s a book turn to page 77,

If it’s a magazine or news paper turn to a page containing the number 3 (3, 13, 23 etc)

If it’s anything else turn to page 4.

Take the tenth, thirty-third and the last word, then pick the longest word you can find on the rest of the page.

Write a story or poem in less than 100 words containing all the words. AND I want to know what the words are when you post your story.

If you want to join in, leave your story in the comments or write your own post and use a ping back so I can find it. 

Forgive me not having joined in the last few weeks. I am drowning. I will play next week.

Now to last weeks writespiration and your black outs.

First in, Helen, with another tantalising excerpt from Silver and Black

Fear. It thrums through me, cold as Kyle’s kisses, hot as his touch. I can’t see a thing, but I can hear everything. No matter how I curl myself into a ball, hair hanging forward over my ears, it can’t block out the sounds.

I don’t need super hearing to know what they are doing. I can hear Jessie’s moans becoming more rhythmic, rustles and creaking from the bed. I squeeze my eyes shut, hot tears under my scrunched eyelids.

Asshole. Assholes.

Then I hear a sort of snapping sound, and Jessie gasps, high pitched. Is he…? Would he actually dare, while I’m right f*cking here? The pain in me twists and I gasp too, as though the breath has been punched from me.

He is turning her.

I can hear lapping noises, her moans muffled as she sucks from him, the choked groans he makes. I start to cry, then. Remembering.

This betrayal feels the worst of all. I cry for my mother, that I’ll never see her again. For my father, even his distant love. For the disappointment that I am, weak, easily led, endangering them all. For the fact that I’m going to die here, alone.

Next in Jane, with this reallllly terrifying little snippet from a short story of hers.

The boulevard was gridlocked. Panic turned his guts to water. Without a car they’d never get out of the city. If he stayed in the car, he’d never get home. Swearing violently, he eased himself out the door and into the sea of stationary vehicles and deafening klaxons. He ran, as fast as it was possible to run when a million other people were trying to do the same. It wasn’t late, but black clouds that boiled up from the ocean had already blotted out the light. He couldn’t call the baby-sitter to find out whether she’d picked the kids up from school, or just lit out when she heard the news. No signal.

Heart pounding, he ran, pushing and shoving through the faceless crowd. Home. The bridge was chaos. Refusing to stop he ran over the trapped cars, leaping from roof to bonnet to roof, refused to look at the waves rising like Atlantic breakers, beating the parapet, washing over. He ran. Half way across, a roar louder than Niagara shattered the sky, bringing down a torrent of hail. The lights went out, and the screaming began. The last, long night had fallen.

Geoff in next with a twisted ending I did not see coming.

Bert Hammond knew his job important. Without him Jerry would bring a fiery hell on his corner of East London. Everyone else thought Bert a pain and regretted leaving him to obtain the job as air raid warning. The nicest that was said about Bert was that he was officious. Bert was mostly oblivious to these mutterings. To anyone who asked he pointed to the regulations. Blackouts had to be rigorously enforced.
However a section of the community refused to comply with his encouragement to seal their curtains. Nightly Bert had to identify these egregious non compliances and then report them to the constabulary. The self same local constabulary felt about Bert what most citizens felt about tax collectors – necessary evils. Reluctantly they waited on Bert’s inevitable nightly calls and each time dispatched a Constable.
The citizens complained. A spate of burglaries irritated them more that the slight risk that a sliver of light might attract the Luftwaffe. But Bert occupied the moral high ground and every time someone complained about the lack of police support Bert cited the war effort.
People accepted they couldn’t win. Unlike Bert whose family burglary business was morally darker than even the thickest curtain.

Allie up next with a feel good story

The zip line stretched out across the field. The kids from down the street watched from the safety of the earth as I grasped the handle in my sweaty palms. No turning back now, I told myself. I had been just a little kid when I volunteered to take a turn. Climbing back down would be admitting the truth in the names they’d called me when they thought I couldn’t hear. I bit my lip as I jumped from the platform.

The rollers on the line whirled as trees on the other side of the field rapidly filled my vision. Then my hand slipped from the grip and I was falling. The ground met my back first, slapping the air out of my body as my vision went black. When the light returned the faces of the other kids surrounded me. One of the eldest extended her hand. “I can’t believe you did that. I chickened out three times before you guys got here. Are you okay?”

I took a deep breath enjoying the sensation of my lungs returning to normal function. “That was awesome! Again!”

This time instead of falling, I flew, and while I might still be the little kid from down the street, I knew those other names would never again catch me.

Ritu up next, with some tales of her personal black outs

I have a habit of blacking out. ..
Something to do with low blood sugar…
It is scary but can be kinda humorous too, in a strange way!
Take this one time. .. dancing in a club. I was hot so went for a drink… I opened my eyes and I was lying on a pile of our jackets that had been helpfully left in a fire exit! Huh?! Thing is, none of my friends had realised.
Another time, in the great US of A. A group of us from my university course were in Washington on an exchange visit. We had been invited to a drama production, and in the interval standing in the foyer, I felt a familiar cold sweat and the next thing I know I was on the floor, in a rather snug halterneck dress might I add, my tutor had my head in her lap, calling to me “Tindi, get up, Tindi!” My first name, Ratinder … lovingly shortened! Then there was this almighty shriek from a worried US native “Oh My God!  Call 911! Call 911!”  No, 911 weren’t called, not necessary!
We visited The White House and I posed for a pretend faint picture outside there too, for posterity!
Another time, in a bar, this time, I knew what was coming… I said to my best friend that I felt a bit funny… she turned around to see if I was ok. I wasn’t there. I was on the floor again… it was the height of summer but for some unknown reason another friend of mine family  had a great big bomber jacket with her. I awoke to that as my pillow and a rather dippy lad checking my pulse… on the wrong side of my wrist!!! Such a medical whizz! My best mate has a brother who is a top cardiologist and works in the NHS herself…she rolled her eyes and told this guy to disappear, just as my Hubby Dearest arrived to whisk me home, like my knight in shining armour!

So see, I’m no stranger to the odd blackout… I just make sure I always have something sweet in my bag… just in case!

Next in Hugh with yet again a story with another cracking twist:

Ethan Evans was dead.

There was nothing in front of him but blackness and silence. Ethan Evans had come to the end of his life. No sounds, no movement, nothing but stillness and a thick treacle of black now faced him.

It must be like being in the deepest regions of space, but how could that be? At least, in space, although there were no sounds you did, at least, have the stars. Those shards of light were life. Those shards of light were hope that life somewhere was still very much in evidence.

Ethan Evans searched for those shards of light but found none. Ethan Evans was dead. But, what was that? Was that a sound?

“Hello.”

Ethan Evans felt movement. At first, tiny particles of light appeared before his eyes. Then, without any warning, a large bright light appeared behind the face of an angel.

“Am I in heaven?” asked Ethan.

“Heaven, darling? No, you’re at the Ideal Home Exhibition in London. I told you I’d get the electric potato peeler off the shelf for you. Are you Okay? That bump on your head looks nasty.”

Ethan Evans was alive.

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The post Writespiration #84 Just For Shits and Giggles appeared first on Sacha Black.

Oh and my math might be bad, but I haven’t spontaneously jumped into decimal numbers for no reason. I’m cheating. I’d already scheduled 83 this week and changed my mind because tomorrow is my birthday and I wanted to play a fun game instead.

So what is this riotous affair I speak of? I’ve done worst opening lines, and worst closing lines before. But this time, I want both.

Your challenge is to write the WORST opening line to a story you can, and then write the WORST closing line to the same story.

The badder it is, the better, if I see even a hint of  good quality writing I’ll disqualify you faster than I can eat a family sized bar of chocolate, and don’t be fooled, that’s fast. Post both lines in the comments, or on your own blog with a ping back here so I know you’ve entered.

First in Marina, who hasn’t participated before, with this beautiful tale, and if you click her name you can read the full story behind it, so heart wrenching,

When you are thirteen, your cousin’s best friend is the knight from fairy tales: tall, dark, handsome, blue-eyed. How could he walk, talk, breathe amongst us mere mortals? And yet he looked at you, kissed you,  so you wrote to each other for two years. You lived for your brief meetings. No cross word ever passed between you.

You parted as good friends, moved on to other lives, other people, marriage, children, divorce, remarriage. You studied and worked in different countries, met again on LinkedIn. Grey hair, little paunch, wrinkles – and that’s just the flattering pictures. Older yet not much wiser, you knew he had been The One, but you were both too young to understand or to need each other all those years ago. No going back, no proof of discontent with your present life, but you wanted to let him know how you felt about him back then.

You let him in through a gap in your armour. You held out the shivering pulp of raw heart. You try to be fair, not see disgust or hasty retreat where none was intended. But the silence was thunderous.

Next in Jane, with a piece of full of loss and bitter sweet memories it is sure to choke you up. Stunning piece that reminded me of my own impassable bend. Oh and by the way, (she didn’t ask me to do this, but I figured I would anyway) Jane has just published her new book through Finch Books. I am reading it now, and you really ought to check it out… here.

***

You have both gone now, both buried in a corner of a churchyard that had never been yours. Beneath a tree, because trees don’t mind if you were Catholic or Protestant. Or foreign. Or if your living heart had always ached for a place not so far away, but unattainable. Trees understand and bow and bend and whisper in sympathy. You had both put down roots here, children, a scattering of friends, too much to let you pack up and leave when you retired. Too much, too late. The furthest you moved was to a small house down in the town to be close to the shops and the buses, pretending it was only temporary. But you stayed and you sighed, and eventually you died, and the setting sun carried all your longings away into the west.

We dry our tears, we children left behind, and walk up the steep hill out of the town, the road that curves and uncoils as it rises up to the moor. The house of our childhood is beyond the bend after the bridge over the disused railway, that peaceful, tree-filled gulf that has been silent since before we were born. We walk, remembering the way we poked our fingers in the holes of the millstone grit walls, remembering long-dead dogs that ran barking behind garden fences. We cross the bridge and remark how tall and dense the birch and hazels have grown, obscuring the valley bottom and the stream that runs there instead of railway tracks.

We fall silent when the road curves again. Beyond the last sharp rise we will be able to see the tiny hamlet and the house where our childhood ghosts still play. I hear the foxes playing on the lawn, see the dewy morning rabbits, the banks of opium poppies and broom, roses and laburnum, stone flags and apple trees. I hear the songs of bees and swallows and see white clouds scudding overhead in the summer breeze.

Soon, in a moment, the gentle barrier of time will fall, and harsh, brash reality will jackboot its way across tender memories. I will see what the new owners have done to the house in the ten years since you both moved out. I know, without ever having seen it, that there will be a garage now and a fitted kitchen, and your Victorian scavengings from junk shops, Dad, will have been replaced by furniture from Ikea. There will be a sterile lawn and a trampoline and begonias instead of the savage mass of vegetation you loved so much, Mum. I will feel the imprint of these unconscious Philistines like a physical violation.

I stop, we all stop, we grown-up tiny children. I shake my head and my siblings too hang back. I turn back down the hill, the last bend in the road impassable, like the entrance to a lost domain, my precious dreams, your dreams, clutched tight against my heart, safe from the shredding claws of disillusion.

Next up Geoffle, with a post and pictures that speak a thousand words. I really think you ought to have a look, instead of cutting all the paragraphs and piecing them together, I have copy just one paragraph of the moving post:

“Parents lie; but however consummate their lying they can’t hide their own hurt. It might be in the timbre of their voice, in the shape of their shoulders, in the stiff way they stir something as mundane as porridge.”

Go. Read.

Next up Judy, with a really amazing, but emotionally charged poem, prepare to be choked up

I thought my life was over

The day I walked away

Ten years down the drain

Nothing left to say

I gave you everything I had

My heart, my love, my soul

But, you had never loved me

Just wanted to be in control

The day that we got married

You said that I was fat

Just two guests at our wedding

It was over in 10 minutes flat!

Then you became possessive

And wracked with jealousy

Stupidly I was pleased

Thought it meant you cared for me

I always wanted children

You said you wanted none

Yet an affair I found out later

Had produced your eldest son

I really tried to make it work

But I became so trodden down

The final straw was knowing

That your wife had come to town.

I left your life with nothing

But a few clothes that I packed

And the freedom to be me again

And to never, ever look back!

Next in Jade, with her first entry to writespiration, and what a beautifully emotional piece.

I know it’s only been three weeks, but I swear I can still feel you kicking inside me. The doctor said writing in a journal would help, but it doesn’t. It doesn’t help knowing that my own body rejected you. You were my precious baby girl, who was supposed to grow up with springy little curls, curious hazel eyes, and all the energy of a small tornado.

The doctor said it was a tragic accident, but there are no accidents. The doctor said time would make it easier, but that’s a lie too.

I miss you so much baby girl. Some nights, I swear I’m hugging you, only to wake up in the middle of the night and feel the emptiness flooding back. Some mornings, I swear I hear you running lightly behind me, giggling in that innocence that you would have, only to turn and hear the silence mocking me.

I wanted you so much, baby girl. So much. But I wasn’t strong enough. I wasn’t strong enough to take care of you and bring you into this world, and now…now I don’t know if I’m strong enough to keep missing you.

Next in Lori, with this emotional rollercoaster of a true story

I met my someone playing an internet vampire game called Vampires: A Dark Alleyway back in the mid-2000s. We met in a chat room set up on a proboard site for the game. For the longest time, probably a couple of years, we remained in character only. My character and her character became lovers in the game. After roll-playing them for those two years, our “humans” (a term used to described the creators behind the characters in the game) became good friends. A romance struck up between us. So you can imagine my excitement when she made plans to come down from Canada to visit me.

Shortly after our plans were made, but before she could come for her visit, she lost her residence. She was homeless and living out of her van. I talked it over with my then-husband and we agreed. She would still come down to visit and could stay as long as she wanted. The moment we met, I knew she was my perfect someone, the one I had longed for all of my life. She was beautiful, witty and uber intelligent.

She became my saving grace as things with the then-husband progressed to a horrid state. He became increasingly jealous of my friend, even though he knew I was bisexual from the get-go. He also knew that she was a lesbian and that there was no way she would have a relationship with him too, which ultimately was what all the fighting was over. He and I had talked it all over before she came down from Canada, but by the time she arrived, he got it all twisted up in his head (or his dick) and decided if we didn’t share with him, he would make our lives miserable and then proceeded to do just that. After one horrible physical altercation where he threw me into a heavy wooden bookcase and injured my back, my new friend and I moved out and into an apartment of our own.

I hadn’t had a real home since I left my childhood home at the age of 17. I’d always lived in shitty apartments with barely enough furniture and even the house I lived in with the then-husband was a wreck since he was such a pack-rat. This wonderful woman created such a space for me. Believe it or not, all of our nice furniture was a result of curb-side finds and dumpster dives except the bed and the kitchen table. She cooked for me and kept the house clean since I was the only one working at the time. We lived in bliss this way for six months. Then I had a mishap at my job, got fired and we lost it all.

We ended up living back with the then-husband, but things between she and I worsened. She didn’t like him and she didn’t like the way he treated me. She also knew that she couldn’t keep living on no income and couldn’t find a job in the US. On my birthday that year, she got on a bus and went back home to Canada. I was devastated and slipped into a deep depression, so deep that it would take the next three years to get me out of it.

We managed an internet and phone relationship for a couple more years. During that time, we both ended up with uterine cancer, both had surgery, and both underwent chemo. Near the end of the chemo treatments, she stopped contacting me. For seven months, I heard absolutely nothing from her. I kept emailing her, sending her messages on Facebook, and even tried calling a few times. No response. She’d made new friends in Canada, was living with her mother and working in her mother’s shop. She didn’t need me anymore. By the time she finally contacted me again on Christmas Eve in 2013, I had already worked her out of my system through therapy and writing. I was still in love with her, but done waiting. She claimed that she wasn’t over me though and wanted us to pick up where we left off, but I just couldn’t. I treasured my growing sanity too much. I broke off all contact with her. She was the one who got away and will always remain one of the truest loves of my life.

Ladylee has joined in for the first time with this heart wrenching poem that you can find here.

Her heart is hard enough as it is
Her voice softens and opens up
Threading a tremulous quaver
Through its tranquil melody
As she wanders through the city
With all its baroque architecture
Customs and traditions they adhere
She remembers the times in their lives
When they used to wander together
When they were happy and inseparable
But then that love didn’t hold them together
There was something missing she can’t identify
Perhaps forgotten reveries and visualisations
They were not destined to be together

If it’s goodbye
Then they should do it right
She has no regrets
Thanking him for being part of her life
He made her happy, he made her sad
He made her care, he made her cry
But let him listen, can he hear that?
It’s her heart, smashing into pieces
She knows it will take some time
For everything to be alright
But one day, it will be fine
For now, let them part as friends
And leave some beautiful memories
Perhaps one day they’ll meet again

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The post Writespiration #82.5 Opening and Closing Lines appeared first on Sacha Black.

They got away. Left. Broke you in a way no time or superglue can ever fix. They are the ones that changed you. Forever. And they’re never coming back. That’s why no matter how much time lapses, no matter how many wrinkles you gather, it will still hurt. It failed and tore everything you knew to pieces.

Maybe it wasn’t a lover, maybe it was a job you lost, or a friend that parted ways, perhaps a parent, or aunt or maybe your first home. Whatever it was, we all have that one thing.

But isn’t there a kind of sick satisfaction in thinking about it? Like picking a scab, it hurts a bit, but its satisfying when you take the head off.

So here’s this weeks challenge:

Write about a nostalgia that hurts in less than 200 words.

This is dedicated to my friend, who hurt, but is now I’m pleased to say, smashing life again.

If you liked these posts, why not subscribe here to get writing tips, tools and inspiration as well as information on the release of my books.

Now to last weeks entries and stories about judgement.

First in Geoff with a true story

First time I see her I’m standing at the till. She sails past on her bike – pink wheels, not that I notice then. It’s her blond hair. An absolute mass.
Next I’m loading the car with paint and the same blond mountain walks past me. A back view only but the micro skirt and elongated legs are unmissable. Heels too which seem unnecessary given her height.
After that she’s unmissable. Or is that ubiquitous? Getting off the train. By the bar in the Goose and Gumption, seen through the smoke-tinged glass.
I suppose I’ve noticed her at least half a dozen times – a dazzling, statospheric presence – before I see her face. Really see the chiselled features, beak of a nose, grizzled chin. Not even a parody of masculinity.
What surprises me most? The flamboyancy? The in-your-face-ness? The courage?
It takes me too long to make up my mind because I must be gawping. He. She. I’m not sure where on the gender spectrum to place the person approaching me. But the expression on that face is unmistakable. Contempt. At the biases and prejudices my face cannot, in that moment, hide.
‘Go fuck yourself.’

Quite right.

Jane in next with this awesome little story with a twist (even if she’s cheating on her WIP, naughty!)

The bus is late. Warily, I watch the lad in the hoodie leaning in a doorway at the other side of the road. He takes a drag of his cigarette then spits on the ground. A little old lady with a stick and a big dog has to push past him to get out of her front door. She struggles with stick, key and dog to lock up.

The lad in the hoodie tosses away his cigarette. His voice raps out sharp words. The old lady quavers something and yanks on the dog’s lead. The dog reacts slowly. It’s fat. She yanks again. The dog limps, dragging a lame leg. She shouts, shrill and imperious. The stick whips up and down, and the dog screams.

The lad leaps after her and grabs the stick. The old lady shrieks abuse and people start to drift over. The lad throws the stick into the road and storms over to my bus stop.

He is young, fragile, eyes full of hurt. He stuffs his trembling hands into his pockets and watches as the old woman, still vociferating, moves off down the street. The dog turns, his eyes, like the boy’s full of misery.

Next, Hugh with this lovely little twist – jump over to his post to see the photo that inspired his story.

Juliet had watched all day as each woman went through the door that only unlocked itself on Leap Day.

Some came back smiling while others would come back through the door crying.

Now it was her turn and waiting on the other side was Glenn.

“Yes” was the word she heard when she proposed, but Juliet never came back through the door.

People waited for her and four years later there was still no sign of her.

The two women married each other. Juliet had stayed so she could rest in peace with her beloved Glenn.

Next Judy, with this CRACKING and hilarious poem with a proper lesson in it.

Tonight he’s feeling lucky

As he chats to the blonde at the bar

She really is a stunner

The best looking girl by far

Her boobs are pert and rounded

Her teeth so pearly white

With hair so long and lustrous

And a bum so firm and tight.

They leave the bar together

And end up at her place

He knows what’s about to happen

And his heart begins to race

He starts to kiss her deeply

And his hands begin to roam

It was not what he expected

When he encounters silicone!

He moves on swiftly upwards

And runs his hands all through her hair

But it feels all hard and bumpy

With the extensions that are there!

His ardour is now waning

As he gropes her peachy bum

And encounters control knickers

That hide a wobbly tum!

This is not what he signed up for

There must be some mistake

This perfect looking woman

Was really just all fake!

Lori Carlson in next, you can find her here and she’s written a fab story with a scary kick to it.

An Unexpected Night by Lori Carlson

Marlow wasn’t used to walking home alone. And definitely not at night. Her secretary usually accompanied her, but she had an unexpected dinner date that night. Marlow envied her secretary. She remembered when her calendar was filled with dates, but these days, she was lucky to even get a drink with a handsome stranger.

She left the office and headed down 5th Street. The City was still bustling with people even though it was after seven. She turned the corner and headed up Butte Avenue. She only lived a few blocks away and hate to spend money on a taxi if she could help it. Her mind drifted to the day’s business accounts. They’d just acquired a new account and Marlow had spent half the day reviewing the records. This account, if handled correctly, could put her on the map.

She heard the footsteps. Leather on pavement. Clip clap. Clip clap. It wasn’t that unusual for someone to be headed in her direction. If she wasn’t alone, she’d probably never even paid attention. She kept walking.

The footsteps got louder. Closer. Clip clap. Clip clap. Marlow increased her steps. Her heart skipped a few beats. She laughed at herself for feeling frightened.

Faster and faster, the sound of footsteps even closer. Marlow turned the corner and quickened her steps. She thought about taking a short cut through the park and then decided against it. She would be completely isolated in there. What if whoever was following her entered the park too?

The steps behind her turned into a slow jog. She could hear the heavy pounding on the pavement. Apprehension turned into real fear. Dare she look back? The sound intensified. Whoever was behind her was now running. Marlow heart raced. Her mouth went dry. She could feel beads of sweat forming on her forehead. She sprinted across the street to head up her block to her apartment building.

Clip clap clip clap clip clap.

The person behind her was running across the street too. She could almost feel his breath on her neck. Had she taken one too many chances in a City this big? Don’t let me die this way, she prayed. She kept running. Just a half of a block more and she would be home.

“Angie! Angie!” a voice behind her screamed.

Marlow looked ahead of her and saw a blond standing at the end of the block. She stopped, turned around and was nearly knocked down by a man running behind her.

“Oh sorry!” he apologized. “My fiancée is just there,” he pointed at the blond.

Marlow laughed nervously as she smiled at the man. He went on about his business, but Marlow couldn’t help but still feel anxious. It hadn’t been what she thought at all, but she wouldn’t feel safe until she was inside her locked apartment.

The post Writespiration #82 Nostalgia That Hurts appeared first on Sacha Black.