A couple of weeks ago, I asked you to write the best worst opening line you could think of. Well now I am asking you to write the best WORST ending you can come up with. Once again, there will be a winner and runner up and if we get some funny entries I may just pick a comedic winner too!

What do I mean by worst? 1. Write it badly, break rules, make sentences long and arduous use adverbs… whatever you like, but do your worst, it needs to be so bad, its stinks. 2. Make the story ending stink too, what’s the worst ending to a story you can think of? Write that! Heres mine: I sat at the table in the kitchen and ate the cereal my brother had given me for dinner with the red spoon I liked. I was glad mum wouldn’t shout at me or ground me or take my pocket money away now that I had found the toy I lost the other week when I was in the park, yes, I was glad everything was sorted now.  THE END. Terrible wasn’t it?! Your turn! Now to last weeks writespiration. Just one entry last week, from Hugh, with a seriously chilling tale about crossroads: “Just do as the dam Sat Nav tells you Colin, and turn right. How many time I have got to tell you, just do as it says.” Colin looked at the crossroads ahead of him. Sheila had done nothing but nag him for the last 44 years. Yes, they were lost but he was sure the right turn was the correct one to take. “Are you sure dear? I’m pretty sure if we turn left–” “JUST TAKE THE RIGHT TURN COLIN!” Colin took the right turn as both the Sat Nav and Sheila told him. They found Sheila’s body, and what remained of the car, at the bottom of the cliffs the following morning. Colin’s body was never found.

***

The post Writespiration #45 appeared first on Sacha Black.

Life’s a funny old thing, so often we go through difficult times and have to make hard choices. Sometimes we lose friends, loved ones, gain new ones, have children. We travel and feel moved to change our entire lives. We give up careers and start again. I’ve seen my fair share of cross roads probably the most significant was being told if I waited to have kids, it might be too late.

My choice?

Turn left – be young free and have money, travel.

or

Turn right – fork out thousands for fertility treatment and suffer losses and emotional torment.

I turned right. It was the right decision, but when you’re faced with a cross roads the decision isn’t always obvious.

This week, the writespiration is all about Cross Roads. Maybe your character is physically at a cross road, maybe they have a choice to make. If you fancy joining in, jot a few words or a short story and I will publish it with next weeks post.

Here’s mine:

He was trembling.

“You’re pathetic,” I growled.

His incessant twitching was irritating. The tap, tap, tap, of the tightly wound knot rattled against the chair I’d tied him to. It was giving me a headache.

I put the cold barrel of the magnum against my temple hoping the cool metal would ease the ache and pulled another dining room chair out. I sat down in front of him. 

“You got a choice, Marty.”

Sweat dripped off his face and crawled across his shirt. I pointed the gun at his chest, rubbing the barrel into the sweat.

“Get a grip of your self…” I dug the gun into his chest a few times. Each time, he wince harder. 

“Baby… honey… You don’t have t..”

I slid my finger over the hammer and pulled it down till it clicked. 

“Did I say you could talk?”

He pulled his lips tight and shook his head.

“You had twenty years of marriage to talk, Marty. Now it’s my turn.”

“I’m sorry baby, I didn’t… She didn’t… I won’t do it again, I swear.”

I raised my hand and fired the gun at the wall. The crack thundered across the dining room. The bullet ripped into the glass cabinet. Glass splintered and showered the dining room table I had laid night after night for twenty years. My favourite china set plummeted to the wooden floor  shattering and camouflaged itself in amongst the glass.

“Look what you made me do, Marty,” I said waving the gun at the remains of my dinner set, “that was my best fucking china.”

I stood up. My chest felt tight. Blood rang in my ears. I scanned the dining room with its matching curtains and furniture.

“You took the best years of my life, for what?” I peered at the collection of photo frames filled with nephews and nieces instead of my own children.

“A bunch of whores and prostitutes?”

I shook my head and swallowed the lump in my throat.

“I was going to give you a choice. But you know what I realised, Marty?”

His lips flopped open.

“Don’t fucking answer that… I’ll tell you what I realised. You don’t deserve a choice. This is my cross roads.”

I leant into his face, my nose millimetres from his.

“You stink like shit, Marty,” I said wrinkling my nose and trying not to breathe in his sweat.

“I want a divorce… and this…” I said pushing the muzzle of the gun deep into his crotch. He flinched, lip quivering. A wet patch spread across his trousers. I pushed my finger onto his lip, “shh,” the corners of my mouth curled into a toothy grin and I cocked the hammer.

“This is for the for the two decades of tears I shed each and every time you fucked another woman. This is so no one else will ever have to cry for you again.”

I fired.

***

So to last week. I loved last weeks writespiration, so I will endeavour to post it again albeit it with a different word, I think it produced some fascinating entries with wonderful insights into all your minds!

First in with a response to last weeks Writespiration was:

Rachel with this fab entry

There was an eerie silence lingering in the air. Everyone eyeballed each other wondering who was going to be the next to stand up and say something. They were all thinking. No one wanted to be the bearer of bad news and played “nose-goes” inside their heads willing someone else to say something.

***

Next Helen with a super eerie entry

Silence. It was all around him. Weighing heavy on his ears, on his time. Time that he scratched out, one by one on the damp bricks, the only indication that it passed the slivers of light through the barred window high above. No one came to see him. No one cared, it seemed, that he still lived.

***

The wonderful Michelle joins us this week and gave an emotional entry

Silence. A beautiful voice, his laughter are forever gone. Lost in silence are the sweet words. “hey, Mum, love you.” The silence is unfathomable. The silence tears at the heart.

***

Geoff gives his best TanGental entry this week :p

Silence is a long way from home, which is a hollow noduled bucket in Minneapolis and rather twee in a woebegone sort of way. Carriage bags have a habit of breaking silcne wit a rustle and a grimace. Shoping with silence is a chore and

***

Hugh follows Geoff with some equally tangential thinking – I just love where these are taking

If silence is golden then why am I not rich and living in outer space where it is silent. I love being silent like in the silent films which I don’t understand because they have no talking in them and are often in black and white and all fuzzy to watch. I wonder if they served popcorn in those days?

***

Jane gives this beautiful entry

Silence. The word sounds so loud when I think about it. Like when you put your head underwater. The sound of water. And the night air when everything else is quiet. Except the silence.

***

Sarah‘s written a cracking entry

Silence. Beeping, hacking, coughing, talking, yelling, beeping. Fleeting moments. Time is gone. Walls close in. Hoping. Waiting. For silence.

***

Foy joined in this week with a wonderful dialogue entry

“Would you shut up already?! I told you we’re not going to the zoo to harass the lions today.
That’s next week.”

***

The post Writespiration #44 appeared first on Sacha Black.

Now, to the winner of the worst possible sentence from last weeks writespiration, and boy did we have some cracking entries. And by cracking, I mean awful!

The winner of the most terrible opening line is………

Jane congratulations Jane, you wrote the most terrible opener, giving everything away and breaking all sorts of rules in the process! Fabulous entry:

‘It was terrible knowing that they were all going to die in a house fire, except for Jill who runs off to South America with the postman who apears in chapter sixteen, that Simon would fail his Oxford first year exams and end up working as a petrol pump attendant until he throws himself off a bridge in chapter twenty one, and that her operation would be a disaster and leave her housebound so when she drops her lighted cigarette onto the sheet she can’t even raise the alarm, but you have to live through the next four hundred pages, don’t you?’

Runner up goes to Keith for the most depressing adverb rich opener I’ve ever seen! Fantastic effort Keith

John wasn’t sure where he was going; walking solemnly and forlornly through the pea-souper fog, straining his weary eyes to make out the slightest detail murkily presenting itself to his age-worn visage; the laughter lines for which he was, until recently, famed giving way to worry-lines as he plodded relentlessly through the misty, dewy, heavy, moisture-laden air under a leaden sky that was constantly threatening to unload its heavy cargo, its payload, its bounty onto an unsuspecting world below, a world where hope had given way to despair, where happiness had been supplanted by depression, where gaiety had fallen prey to solemnity, a world whose very atmosphere, the elemental structure that is designed, intended, purposed to support and nurture life, is slowly, but surely, inexorably and remorselessly threatening to stifle it, to extinguish it, to render it extinct.

***

Helen Jones new to writespiration, gave a stonking effort with this terrible opener. If my wife had been choosing the winner, Helen would have won – it made Mrs. Black laugh out loud.

‘He had always liked penguins, and those shoes with the velcro fastening.’

***

Geoff was far too good but he does get an honourable mention for the two most disgustingly vile sentences:

‘And it’s confirmed: Nigel Farage will be the next Prime Minister.’

‘The only interesting about Tarquin was his toe-clipping collection which he had spent years cataloging: this is his story (with illustrations).’

***

 To this weeks Writespiration, remember, don’t look at the word till you are ready. Set your timer for 60 seconds don’t edit just write fast. Scroll down to see the word:

SILENCE

Here’s mine:

Why is silence so deafening? It ached in my ears, the pounding silence swallowed up any thoughts I had. It hurt. Hurt like the loss of my parents. No more voices to call me in at the end of the day. No mother to shout upstairs “dinners ready.” Just endless silence.

The post Writespiration #43 appeared first on Sacha Black.

We constantly worry about how to write better. But actually, there’s a benefit to being able to recognise when you have written badly. And sometimes it’s fun to just reel off a load of codswallop.

This week, your challenge is to write the WORST opening line you can. Give it your best, and produce your worst!

Because this is an actual competition, The Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest and I am secretly amused by all the nonsense that is to come, I am going to pick a winner… The winner will be announced in next weeks writespiration, the deadline is Sunday 31st May.

If you fancy it, why not submit to the real competition? – their deadlines the June 30th.

here’s mine, and it’s definitely bad!:

It stunk like rotten putrid gone off eggs but dear old mumsy with her tatty dirty apron thought the round pancakes were a success – I really really didn’t want to eat them – But decided not to offend her and held my bulbous nose and puckered up my reluctant lips, bottoms up, I thought.

***

Now to last weeks writespiration. First the lovely Jane who wrote a stunning poem that was originally published in the Ogham Stone Literary Journal. You can find the post on her website here.

Often at the turning of the year,

When the grass is bright and damp with autumn rain,

And last buds open with the failing sun,

I listen to the windsong in the trees.

When white-winged gulls blow in from stormy seas,

And the tang of salt hangs heavy in the air,

I hear the waves break on a lonely strand,

And taste the smoke and ash in long-dead hearths.

When only starlight guides the homing geese,

Their booming voices singing sailors’ songs,

I hear the echo from the vaulted sky,

And feel the northlands in their beating wings.

But when the blackbird sings his end of summer song,

And the white gull skims the restless ocean foam,

The whispering comes from deep in blood and bone,

The wind, the stars, the heart’s pulse call me home.

***

Ali submitted an emotional entry. It really makes you feel her longing for a sense of belonging:

Their eyes hook into my back like claws as I pass by. They keep their thoughts locked and silent in their heads, but their faces smoulder with resentment, distrust. They bite back the words but their message burns into my skin just the same, “You don’t belong here.”

And they’re right. I don’t. But I won’t go back, I can never go back, though my heart yearns for home. Those like me, well, we’re not welcome anywhere.

For me, home is not bricks and mortar. It’s not tied up in four walls, anchored in place by geography, or a slot in the vastness of time. The home I long for is family, acceptance, love. Home is not where I came from, but perhaps where I’m travelling to.

***

Geoff entered this last minute flash, and what a piece it is, he created such a disturbed character crazed by his loss in so few words.

Home Cruel Home

It’s the feeling of the bricks, sort of not quite slimy to the touch. That’s what I remember. Derby smooth stone, someone told me and they’re right. It does have that same slippery texture. But it isn’t the same, feeling an abstract. There isn’t the connection to the place and time. When I leant my face against its soothing surface after the burning; the hardness when I pressed my hands against the bricks, trying to push through the wall as Jimmy held me back; the way my tears made the slippery surface glisten. I wanted to stick to that wall, melt into it, be part of it. I’m still not sure whose screams I remember from that day but I’m sure some of mine were trapped in those bricks. Jimmy told me they demolished the cottage – ‘unsafe’ he said. I think it’s because of the ghosts. There had to be, after that fire, after those deaths. For a long time I wanted one of those bricks; it was all I asked for, for Christmas, birthdays, certain it held some part, some essence. Jimmy says it was me asking for bricks that made dad lose patience, had me committed here. I’ve plenty of time to lean again the bricks in this place, plenty of time to remember, to hear the screams. When I get out, I’ll go back, get a brick and hold it to my cheek. Then I’ll be home again.

***

The post Writespiration #42 appeared first on Sacha Black.

A day late this week because of #1000speak, but nevertheless here we go:

This is less about the house in the photo and more about the word and meaning… If you fancy it write a few words, a poem or a story and I will post it along with my next Writespiration. I wrote one this week, but liked it so much I decided to submit it to a competition, so apologies, mine is missing – I will try and write another and post it with all this weeks entrants.

Now to last weeks absolute stonkingly brilliant entries, and four newbies.

Last week’s Writespiration was to write a story in Six Words, there was a phenomenal response.

First in was Ali with three brilliant entries:

1. Birds sing. Darkness into light. Dawn.
2. Last breath. Darkness into light. Reborn.
3. Study hard. Darkness into light. Illumination.

Ali also submitted a wonderful story for the week before – an insect story with the most vivid imagery and touching ending:

I am Etain. Once I was Sidhe, and a Queen, adored and admired. Now, I spread my wings, and they are beautiful, vibrant, shimmering. The wind catches them, takes me up into its arms, and I am airborne. Invisible lips blow me here, there, and I delight in my freedom, my weightlessness.

When I tire, I alight on a blossom. The petals are no match for me; they pale in my shadow, for I am a purple jewel carved from living flesh by an alien hand. The sun warms my body; I glitter in its light. I flutter my wings, and radiate bright ripples of colour and fierce joy.

But I am distracted. The flower hides a secret. Its scent draws me in, more powerful, more intoxicating than I ever experienced in my past incarnation. My wings fold as I feed on nectar sweeter than honey, more precious than the Gods’ ambrosia.

Giddy with sweetness, greedy for more, I leap from bloom to bloom, heedless of the darkening sky, and the wind which whips the trees into clumsy dance. Raindrops fall, hard and heavy, brushing the colour from my wings like dust. Bruised and battered, I realise the wind is no longer my friend, and I am buffeted before it without mercy.

Until kind Óengus takes me in. He builds me a crystal bower, where I rest and recover. He feeds me pollen and sugar, and I need do nothing more in return but shimmy my wings now and then for his pleasure. It feels good to be adored again.

But a wild creature needs its freedom. I exchange my crystal prison for air and sunlight, and journey where life takes me. Then one day, I hear a sound I have long missed, and I am lured by my longing.

A man is playing a harp, its light liquid notes falling through the air more silver than birdsong. Men and women gather to listen; they talk and laugh softly, and I am struck with the sharp pain of sudden loneliness. I perch on the rim of a goblet, but there is so much beauty around them, I am unnoticed.

When she lifts the vessel to her lips, I tumble into the swirling red depths. I desperately beat my wings, but they are immersed, trapped in the fluid as if it was glue. Unknowing, she swallows more than wine. I flutter my wings, and she feels those faint stirrings, for she places a hand softly over her belly.

I am Etain. Once I was Sidhe, then I was dealan-dhe. Now, from the dark, warm recesses of woman, I will be born mortal.

***

Rachel entered next and I particularly love the last one:

1. Teacher of preschoolers; learner of preschoolers.
2. I read, I write, I create.

***

Geoff came next with three true stories – the backstory to the second is hilarious, maybe Geoff will tell you all about it…

1. Cancer. How long? Not long enough.
2. Third choice. Will you? Yes. Finally….
3. He’s deformed! No, he’s a girl.

***

The lovely Hugh decided to enter for the first time and submitted three amazing (and funny) entries, the last is my fave.

1. She left. Never came back. Never!
2.Come here. No! That’s it then.
3. Affair? Me to, with his husband.

***

Next the fantastically funny Lockie (who’s name I love too) and first time entrant, with a six word story that has an entire novel behind it:

“You’ll lose the leg.”
“Do it.”

***

Next we have two submissions on other social media platforms, first my friend Donna another newbie, who posted this touching entry on Facebook:

No note was found… Just tears.

***

Then Pat another newbie to writespiration posted on G+ with these six words that tells a thousand more words:

We were meant to be here….

***

Jane, with three stunning entries:

1. Night-driving drowsiness
explosive impact
two orphans.

2. Dead star
black waters
eternal night.

3. Bright horizon
a sail
your boat.

***

Last but by no means least, Sarah another newbie to Writespiration. With a hilarious entry. I can just picture the guilt written all over their face!

I’m holding it for a friend.

***

The post Writespiration #41 appeared first on Sacha Black.

One of my favourite writing procrastinations is the Six Word Memoir website. Doing exactly what it says on the tin, asking you to write a memoir or story in six words. So I challenge you to do the same, right here, right now, and I will post it with next weeks Writespiration. While your at it, why not post on their website too?

Here’s mine:

He said “Will you…?”

“I’m Gay!”

***

To last weeks entrants and a LOT of sex – quite how we got from insects to sex I’m not sure, but I will remember that for future prompts!

Geoff starts us off with a banging (see what I did there!) tale of sex, wings, dancing and a little more sex!

Just One Day

I knew it would be tough, getting out of the chrysalis – you know it will be a struggle, but you’re ready for it. Just before the skin cracks you don’t want it to happen but the air is on your eyes, the light – sharp, caustic – is like a magnet and you pull like you’ve never pulled.
This is your time. This is why you’ve been kept boxed tight for so long. The new wings, freed of their wrapping unfurl alone and you sit on the reed, exhausted, happy, dizzy as you dry.
Vaguely you become aware of others, spiralling about you, a dusty cloud of other May Flies – a dance of daring and death.
Seeing them draws from you a new strength, you let go and…
I’m flying, spinning and twisting. And I have one thing on my mind. The only thing that matters. The only reason I’m here. The only thing that I will have time for. No eating, no sleeping, no rocket science or choosing which socks to buy my dad for Christmas. My life is the envy of every living thing. It’s the reason I have two penises. Today is my day and my day will be full of
SEX
SEX
SEX
SEX
SEX
SEX
And then I’ll die. The French for orgasm is La Petite Mort. They know something, those Frenchies…

***

Nicholas C Rossis joined us for the first time this week, and gave a vivid tale of mating courtship and a humorous reminder that not all sex ends well!

“How about sex and dinner?” she asked, her throaty voice sending tingles to play on the fine hairs on his neck. She rubbed one fine, slender foot on her lengthy leg, to stress her point.
Her audacity caught his breath. They hardly knew each other, having met only a few minutes earlier. And yet here she was, her naked flesh provoking him into a frenzy. There was no mistaking the hunger in her eyes; the need for his body; her desire for his flesh.

He swallowed and tried to look away, to avoid her burning stare. She snickered at his discomfort as he lowered his eyes to examine his trembling fingers. Speak! Say something! His mouth obeyed the mental command and opened, but words failed him. His gaze caressed her nude body to linger once more on trim legs that seemed to go on forever. He bit his lip, his heart skipping a beat. She had him now; he would stop at nothing to slither between her mounds, to experience the ecstasy promised by her inviting, crooked smile; consequences be damned.

His determination slipped fast. With the last remnants of his strength, he made a final, desperate attempt to negotiate. To save himself. “Why not dinner first?” he croaked, a thick bead of sweat trickling down his forehead.

Her raspy laugh made his knees tremble. He leaned against a tree to stop himself from shaking. A delightful, mortified shiver travelled through his body and onto the wrinkled bark at her next words.

“Don’t be silly,” she said with a smirk. “Who’s ever heard of a praying mantis eating before sex?” She inched closer, her faceted, emerald eyes gazing softly at his smooth skin. He closed his eyes as her mouth brushed against his ear. Her hot breath tickled him, made his heart race. A long tongue slithered out of her lipless mouth to lick his slender neck. “That would ruin my appetite.”

***

The post Writespiration #40 appeared first on Sacha Black.

I always write from the same perspective – human, and in the first person. In my novel, I have shape shifters. One of the pieces of feedback I had was to explore further what being in another form would feel like to all the senses. Hence this weeks writespiration was born. I thought I would keep it narrow, hence the restriction to insects, but hey, there are millions of species…

Here’s mine:

“Those humans are idiots, Mike, I’m telling you,” I said, enjoying the stretch of ruffling my wings through the cold air.

“What makes you say that?”

Mike hopped off the wall and straight onto the plate below us. His sucker pummelling the juicy morsel on the plate. My own sucker tingled at the thought. My legs twinged and I flew after him.

“Because they want to ‘be’ us. They’re giants, have it all, long lives, plenty of food, yet they want to be us.”

“Be us? Are you sure your not high on sugar, Joe? This is a pretty intense crumb were on. Maybe you should get some juice,” he said, nodding to the glass a short flight away.

“Mike, seriously, haven’t you ever heard em’ say, ‘I’d love to be a fly on the wall?'”

He jutted his sucker out a few times, and sat back on his back legs.

“You’re right, they are idiots.”

***

Now to last weeks writespiration, we had some seriously scary entrants last week. I have to say, despite some minor protest about the difficult prompt, I think we have a bunch of secret horror writers in our midst, you guys are beyond terrifying!

 First – Ali who left me terrified of all my ex’s!:

“I did it for you,” he whispers, his eyes swirling pools of desolation in the shadows.

I sigh. “No you didn’t. You were thinking only of yourself, like you always do.”

Of course, his mouth is full of protestation. “But I love you.”

I close my eyes. I don’t want to see, be what we have become. “I just wanted to go to where all puppets go when their strings are finally cut.”

He shudders. “But he would have just chopped you up, made firewood of you, or recycled yo into someone else.”

“Better that than this.” I stare sadly into the mirror.

“But now we can always be together,” he whimpers, and I shake my head in despair.

Except that I can’t. It’s hard to move your head at all when it has been screwed onto the chest of your psycho puppet ex-lover.

***

Next up Jane – NEVER get in a fight with Jane…

“Isn’t there anything else to watch?” she said and snatched up the remote. “What is it with people and their obsession about clowns being creepy?”
He shrugged. “It’s because they smile all the time when you know they don’t really mean it.”
“Like your mother, you mean?”
“Mine? You think I don’t know what yours says about me, the two-faced cow?”
They glared at one another, she holding the remote as if it was a detonator, he with a plate he’d been drying, balancing in his hands.
“If that’s a taste of the conversation I can expect this evening, I’d rather find a stray cat to talk to. Don’t wait up.”
“Ah, go to hell!” he hurled after her along with the plate.
She grabbed her jacket from the stand in the hallway and flung open the front door.
“Oh.”
A boy was standing on the step, a mask in one hand, a hatchet in the other. He had taken off his smiling face and turned the real one to her, the one with empty eyes. They were beyond sadness, beyond caring.
“He’s through there,” she said and held the door open.
The boy nodded and walked in. She slammed the door closed behind him. A cat watched her from the top of the wall, but slunk away into the shadows when she caught its eye.

***

Now to Geoff, who… I don’t even know where to go with this – it’s proper scary, will definitely leave you wanting more, and probably a bit less sane!

The Box by Geoff Le Pard

Gran said ‘don’t touch’ in that way she had. Like with kitchen knives and the matches. Like she wanted it to sound not so important when it really was. Jordi wasn’t tempted. ‘She said NO.’ I’d not seen him so upset and I admit there was something about it, not exactly a smell, more a sense of a smell. Like when you think you’ve smelt something bad and get down to sniff and it’s not there.
We’d only gone in the attic because the builder left the ladder down. Usually we couldn’t get there. It was full of Grandpa’s stuff from his days running the circus. Mum told us about it once, after this programme on the telly; she was sort of dreamy but after she told us she said not to mention it to Gran. ‘It’ll just upset her, you know?’ Everything about Grandpa upset her.
Jordi wanted to wear his ringmaster’s hat but I went straight to that box, even though it was tucked in the corner. It looked really old. I suppose Jordi didn’t see it; he’d only just got his glasses, see and he wasn’t used to them.
We thought, after what Mum had said, about not mentioning the circus, Gran would be cross but she wasn’t. Dreamy really. Like Mum. She told us about the travelling while she made tea – macaroni cheese – and the animals. She said about the fun. But as we had our ice cream for afters, she seemed to lose track. That’s when Jordi asked ‘Why did he stop?’
Gran picked up the one picture of him and traced his face. ‘It was the fire. People said… people blamed him. He lost so much. His beloved…’ Her tears splashed the glass in the frame and she wiped it away. ‘Losing his circus killed him, see. He couldn’t see a future.’
Jordi stopped asking questions but I couldn’t. I wanted more but she just shook her head. So when Jordi broke a tooth – I pushed him over but he knew better than to say – and Gran had to take him to the dentist, I was alone. I went into the attic to find that box. It was still there.
When I tried to pick it up it was too heavy. On the side there was a label. My name. For a moment I was stunned until I remembered I’d been named after Grandpa’s youngest son who’d died before I was born. This must have been his toy box.
Eagerly I opened it; it wasn’t locked. As the lid came off I sat back horrified. A burnt boy with no eyes stared blindly at me before jumping out. We fought but he was too strong. He ripped and ripped at my face, prising first one and then the other of my eyes from the sockets. Even though I was screaming and could feel the blood on my cheeks, I could hear his cackling, his scurrying steps on the ladder, the door to the attic being closed. And then I tried to stand and felt the box lid pressing the air on my face. I was shut in and at that moment I knew, just knew that no one would think to come and look for me in that box.

***

The post Writespiration #39 appeared first on Sacha Black.

When I saw this image on pinterest I didn’t even have to think twice. I pinned it immediately. Why? Because I thought it was terrifying. I have a bit of a morbid fascination with anything that makes me feel uncomfortable or scared or awkward. This photo sent ripples of chills down my back. I scrunched up my face and peered closer even though I was a bit scared the puppet might jump out of my phone at me! It also happened to get a lot of repins, I figured if it was popular on pinterest, it might also be a worthy inspiration. I hope you like it… or if not, I hope it terrifies you! :p

Here’s mine:

Puppet Face by Sacha Black

Even though it was dim, I could still see his bony finger extend out towards me, as sharp and accusing as the icy air around us.

“You’re fault. You’re fault,” he sang in childlike tones. He danced around my chair on his disembodied strings, making jerky twists and convulsions.

“How is this possible?” I mumbled through the wadding stuffed into my mouth, “He’s inanimate. This can’t be real.” 

 He stopped dancing and faced me, his strings suspended above him, drifting lazily.

I shifted in my seat, desperate to loosen the ropes that were restraining my wrists. I yanked my shoulder round, but instead of releasing it tightened the rope and pressed my arm into the chair’s frame. 

“What do you want from me?” I mumbled, desperately shaking my head and tonguing at the wadding trying to push it out of my mouth.

Sweat began to drip down my back and forearms. I strained again. The wadding pushed loose. I caught a finger under the rope’s knot. If I pulled hard enough I could loosen it enough to get free.

The puppet cocked his head from behind the eerie white mask. He let out a shrill cackled and  pulled the mask down.

I screamed.

Hollow eye sockets stared back at me. Empty of sight, yet he still peered at me knowingly.

“You should have made me eyes.” 

He scuttled out of sight. I slammed my body against the chairs back and it edged a little way towards the door. I did it again. Each time harder. Pain splintered across my shoulders, but I ignored it. I tried to jump my way across the floor instead. One hop. Two. I paused, panting. My heart hammered against my rib cage, each beat a thunderous storm racing to get out of this room. 

Something glinted. Long. Thin. It was metal. My eyes widened. Another cackle. The lights went out.

***

Now to last week’s wonderful Writespiration entrants who were writing scenes where characters get criticised:

First up Rachel with this emotional 100-worder:

“We’re going to a wedding, not a funeral! Look happy.” she told me as she put on mascara, her face inches away from the mirror.

I sat on her bed watching her waiting for my turn in front of the mirror. I was happy. But did she remember the way she spoke to me minutes ago?

“Don’t wear your hair like that. Those shoes don’t look well with that dress. You’re going to put on make-up, right?”

Sure, I was happy to go to the wedding. It was just hard to be happy sitting in the same room as her.

***

Next Geoff, with a hilarious, (and true) story from his school days:

Mr Gilbert

Charlie Gilbert taught us French in the first form (year 7 these days). He was as old as the planet, had whiskers that picked up radio waves for fun and hated, as in became demented, if you spoke while he was talking.
Whoever timetabled French lessons for the first period after lunch in a warm September was barking. The only ways to keep awake while Mr Gilbert devoted his time to explaining the beauties of avoir were (a) to jab your thigh with a compass (b) try and go cross-eyed or (c) talk to your neighbour.
Mr Gilbert heard the whispering. His voice could have been used in place of CPR to bring people back from the dead. ‘WHO SPOKE?’
Necessarily no one confessed.
If you can see the Great Wall of China from space then, despite the vacuum I’m certain you could hear Mr Gilbert’s next question. ‘CONFESS OR DIE!’
Still no one spoke.
Mr Gilbert was small, barely higher than desk height and despite his age he was sprightly. ‘RIGHT.’ He turned and dragging his desk to the blackboard, an old fashioned thing that was on a loop inside a large frame. We watched as our mad French master climbed onto the ledge at the top.
Someone sniggered, then three boys and eventually we were all laughing. Despite the fact his moustache hid his mouth the twitching told us he too was amused. He began to tell us about his time in Normandy during world war two. He always did that when he relaxed.
‘Where is your…? Oh, there you are Mr Gilbert. Dusting perhaps?’
The headmaster, passing our classroom and noting (a) the absence of a teacher and (b) hilarity amongst the pupils had entered to be confronted by the unexpected sight of Mr Gilbert practicing his Buddha impersonation.
‘Yes. Sorry, head. I was, er… The thing is…’
‘Your chalk sir. It got stuck.’
‘Chalk?’
The Head turned from the class to the Master and back, bemused. Mr Gilbert shrugged, sheepishly. The head mirrored him and left.
Slowly Gilbert walked towards my desk. The speaker had been the boy, Colin Budd, who sat next to me. ‘Which of you two miserable wastes of air spoke?’
My neighbour pointed at me so I pointed at him. Mr Gilbert sighed, studying me carefully. ‘Le Pard you are a weasel but no rule breaker. Budd you break more rules than the rest of this class breaks wind. You are no doubt the guilty party. But I cannot prove that. You will BOTH go to the head and explain why you decided to try and make him believe I’m bonkers.’
Colin Budd strode out, happy, no doubt to be avoiding more French. I trailed behind, thinking hard about my behind and the likely outcome of a visit to the head’s study. We waited outside for a lifetime. When called in Budd explained, implicating both of us. The head nodded. Then he asked, ‘Does Mr Gilbert often sit on the blackboard?’
‘Yes sir,’ we both chorused because in truth he did.
‘Poor man. Still suffering from the war I suppose. Always the urge to reach higher ground.’
He sent us on our way.

***

Keith with a prequel, to a sequel which you can find on Esther’s weekly writing challenge!

The Prequel

“Dave; you’re good, but you’re not that good.” I was in a one-on-one meeting with John, Head of Programming. It was our preliminary meeting about the proposed wildlife documentary.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” I replied, getting to my feet to press home the point.

“Sit down, Dave. Your proposal for this documentary is just not on. It’s not going to happen. Not the way you’re asking, anyway. Five camera crews? Five? Really? And how many sound men do you expect?”

“Ten, John. Two for each crew.”

“You can forget that for a start. Listen, Dave. We don’t have an unlimited budget. We all have to work within constraints. Your crew for this job will be two cameramen, two sound men, director, research lead and four support.”

“Ten?” I asked.

“Ten,” he replied.

“I can’t do this justice with only ten crew. You, of all people, should know that.”

“Then I’ll find someone who can.”

Incensed, I leaned forward towards him. “You know there’s no-one can give you the result I can, and no name is as well-known as mine. My name on the credits is enough to push the ratings up by 20%. You said that yourself, when you renewed my contract.”

John stood up and walked away from his desk. Having worked for him for eight years, I had come to expect this, his trademark move. I knew now, that he would wander around the room, hands clasped behind his back, while he delivered a lecture.

“Dave, Dave, Dave. You must be the most naïve man on the planet. I said what I had to for you to sign the contract. Yes, this job is important. Yes, it’s a story that has to be told and yes, you will tell it well. However, if you think that your name and the audience draw that you imagine you have is going to convince the Board to increase the budget for this job by two hundred percent, just to satisfy your ego, you’d better think again. Now bugger off and redraft your proposal with a crew of ten. I want names, jobs and full details of what you need in terms of location accommodation and support equipment, too.”

“Yes, boss,” I said as I got up and left John’s office. I was elated. I got exactly what I wanted. Even after all this time, he hadn’t recognised that by asking him for a great deal more than I need, I had given him loads of room to make his cuts. He was, no doubt, feeling very self-satisfied, having beaten me down yet again.

***

Finally, the lovely Ali, with this heart wrenching tale of new mummy emotions, something a lot of us can relate too:

“This has been going on long enough,” she says, pressing her lips together into a thin hard line of disapproval. “This won’t do at all. You look a mess.” Her eyes rake me over, leaving scars no one can see, but which I continue to feel long after she has gone.

I force a laugh, patting my hair self-consciously. “I’ve just had a baby. Nice clothes and make up aren’t that important to me right now,” I say.

She humphs self-righteously. “Well they should be. You don’t want Mikey’s eye to wander do you?”

I stare at her, aghast. My mouth drops open, but no words come. Fortunately, he wades in to my rescue. Or so I think.

“Come on now, mam. I’m nothing like dad, and you know it.”

She says nothing. She doesn’t have to. She just spears him with her ‘mother’s always right’ gaze and he backs down, just like he has always done, just like everyone has always done, and I realise that I can never win.

***

The post Writespiration #38 appeared first on Sacha Black.

If you find yourself inspired, jot a poem, a few words, a sentence or even story, in fact, anything that comes to you, and I will post it with next weeks Writespiration.

Heres Mine:

My legs kept betraying me. Every step closer to her office, they shook harder. I could feel my colleagues averted eyes desperate not to look at the dead man walking passed.

“Good luck,” I heard someone whisper. A last salute before I got crucified. 

The door towered in front of me, dark and ladened with the blood of victims before me. Each one brutally criticised, crushed and finally, sacked.

My hand reached for the door knob, a surge of adrenaline fired through my body. I stood straight, shoulders back. I could take her. I wasn’t going to let the bitch beat me without a fight.

“Yeah,” I said to myself, eyes wide, and poised on tip toes ready to pounce into the room.

“Yeah,” louder this time.

“COME IN.” 

With two shrill words, I was cut from my prime. I shrank back and trembled my way inside her office.

***

Ok, my bad – I know they should of actually been criticised, but you know what it’s like, you start writing, the words flow, you don’t know where you end up!

To last weeks Writespiration

Geoff le Pard turned the prompt on its head and wrote this touching tale:

Marcus was a little boy with big ambitions. To be an astronaut. His dad had said, ‘If you want it enough, you’ll get it’ and Marcus believed him. He believed him, too when his dad lost his hair and said it was to make his plane go faster so he was home quicker. He believed his mum when she told him his dad was still flying and would be waving from behind a cloud, like she said he did on the day they planted his special box. He understood not to ask his mum too many questions because she forgot her words a lot so he took himself to the end of the garden, him and the space rocket his dad had given him for his sixth birthday. In it he wrote his dad a message: ‘When I’m in my rocket I’ll come and bring you home’. He tried to pump the air into the rocket as his dad had showed him but he wasn’t strong enough. So instead he held the rocket tight in his fingers and he threw it up, up, up as far as he could. He knew, because his dad had told him, that it would always come back again but that, on the way up and down it would pass through the sky; and Marcus knew, without anyone having to tell him that it would pass the cloud behind which his father would be forever waving.

The post Writespiration #37 appeared first on Sacha Black.

Write a story, a few words, a sentence, a poem, anything you like, post below and I will post it with next weeks Writespiration.

Here’s mine:

It was meant to be my special day. You know,’THE’ day. The day I’d waited for since I was pretty in pink and playing with wedding Barbi. It definitely wasn’t meant to be the day I humiliated myself in front of everyone I knew. But I did. I really did. 

I cupped my arm around my fathers soft suit sleeve, and drew close to him. The church was freezing. I could never tell my father. I had to keep it secret till after the wedding.  My stomach furled itself into knots and slashed around at my insides. If it wasn’t for my friends expertly applied make up this morning I would look green.

I’d woken up feeling sick this morning. But it wasn’t nerves. I’d woken up feeling sick every morning for three weeks.

“Good luck honey, I’m so proud of you,” my father said plonking a kiss on my sweaty cheek. The stench of his perfume sliced up my nostrils like razor blades. A wave of nausea licked at my throat, daring me to reply to him. I smiled sweetly instead and kept my lips firmly pressed shut.

Michael raised an eyebrow at me.

“You ok?” he mouthed.

Sweat broke through the makeup and formed a line of beads across my forehead.

“Do you, Sarah, take Michael to be your lawful wedded husband?” The Vicar said.

Bleugh.

Why I thought it was a good idea to put my hand in front of my mouth I have no idea. The first two rows of guests, Michael and the Vicar were all covered.

My dress however, was spotless unlike my pride!

***

Now to last weeks Writespiration.

Christopher Farley was the first to respond with a stunning poem as his first ever Writespiration.

Paint peels, and bows down
to the red flag dream:
now haunted,
and taunted
as the dollar is vaunted.

Countdown,
meltdown.
An ill wind blows
and knows
no borders.

A poisoned and sterile land
now shorn of man’s hand,
the hand which bears
the hammer and sickle lie
while around me thousands die.

Denisovich:
once interned in the Gulag
now turns in his grave,
as the red flag flutters
on another May Day parade.

***

Next Ali Isaac, with her awe inspiring bravery and hugely emotive flash:

We gravitate through the darkness towards the door. The sounds beyond are far more terrifying than the black void which presses against us, its breath hissing in our ears. A thin scar of light slices beneath the door and stabs at our ankles. It normally keeps the scuttling scorpions of our imagination at bay, and we are glad of it, but tonight we fear what it will reveal.

We reach out and find each other, hands clutching together like a pair of mini vices. We share a room, my little sister and I, beds pushed against opposite walls, toys shared in a glad mess in the space between.

“What should we do?” I hear her say in a small voice, and I imagine her blue eyes round with fear. I squeeze her hand reassuringly, because I am the oldest, but it is she who is the brave one.

“They’ll stop in a minute,” I say, but they don’t stop. They just get louder, Dad’s deep boom, Mum’s shrill soprano, as the accusations and vitriol fly back and forth, hateful and ugly and indestructible as the big brown cockroaches which plague the summer months. 

This is what the end of the world sounds like, I think.

Then something changes, and Dad is shrieking like a banshee, but Mum is silent.

“He’s killing her,” my sister cries out, and before I can stop her, she pulls her hand from mine, wrenches the door open, and runs sobbing through it.

I am trembling. I am afraid. I don’t want him to kill me too, but I stumble forward, blinking, into the bright hallway. 

Dad has Mum pressed up against the wall; it looks like he is holding her up by the throat. Her face is red, eyes bulging as she flails at his fists with feeble hands.

My sister is squaring up to him, wanting to attack but cringing away like a dog expecting to be kicked. “Leave her alone,” she begs through tears.

He turns, snarling, and lunges towards us. I can smell the drink on him, a pungent layer as thick as his old arran sweater. Behind him, mum drops to her knees, gasping and shaking, her fair hair a ragged cloud of candy floss hiding her face. She crawls into her room, and I hear the key click in the lock. 

My sister is screaming. She doesn’t stop till I grab her, pull her back into our room. I slam the door shut. Unlike mum’s, our lock does not have a key.

We both dive for my bed, hiding beneath the duvet, as if it would keep us safe. We barely breathe, straining to hear above the yammer of our erratic hearts.

Dad stomps up and down the hall for a while, but does not come in. He thumps the walls and kicks the doors, alternately crying for forgiveness, then ranting with fury. And finally, the sweet reprieve of stillness. 

We lie curled up in the bed, but we don’t sleep. We cling to each other, because when the world ends, there is nothing else worth saving.

***

Next, Geoff Le Pard, with a witty piece of flash with brilliant description that ends in a rather sobering way.

Radioactive Tourism

‘Make sure you’re all zipped up. No breaks in the seals, please.’
Katya, our guide smiled through her plastic mask; her voice echoed in our ears. I could see Ron banging the side of his head like his ear ached. ‘Stop it’ I mouthed hoping he’d see me through my scratched visor. He had already complained at the inadequate suits, the rubbish Health and Safety procedures and now the crap communications, distorted by the poor radios.
‘We go into the truck. Please keep all arms inside. Not snags, yes?’
‘Too bloody right,’ came Ron’s reply for us all. Katya clearly knew it was him, shooting him a glance.
‘We are in no danger. These suits – they just precaution. Listen to Geiger counter.’ Indeed the snap, crackle and pop had been our background music for at least two hours since we arrived at the meet point for our tour of Chernobyl. It had also whited out – nearly but not quite.
This tour had been Ron’s idea, yet he was the one moaning. The information centre made grim reading but outside, slowly going through a landscape like a Hollywood movie set, it seemed harmless. I began to wonder when Katya said, ‘You may be surprised by the wildlife. It has thrived in our absence. Insects to start, then birds and now a few mammals.’
‘Will we see any?’ This was Susan, a blowsy, buxom American who seemed to bulge everywhere. I couldn’t make out if she was hopeful or worried.
‘Perhaps.’
Everyone lapsed into an uneasy silence as we ventured deeper into the abandoned town. Every Soviet style building had lost its doors and windows. Trees grew from unlucky crevasses. Even the sun shone like it was no different to every other part of Europe.
‘What’s that?’
Every head was turning to the left hand side. The Driver said something in Ukrainian to Katya; Ron, whose mother was from Donetsk said quickly, ‘A child?’
Katya shushed him but we were all staring now. Sure enough, on the front doorstep of the adjacent building a child, maybe ten sat and rocked, cradling his right arm.
Katya spoke slowly; I’d guess she felt she had to say something, given Ron had understood whatever the driver had said. ‘They come to take what they can. Like wild creatures. They sell it on black market – people don’t check if the copper is radioactive.’
‘But aren’t they worried about the dangers?’
Katya shrugged. She had stood to go and open the door. ‘They born out there,’ she pointed to the derelict tower blocks,’ and if they survive birth they live on what they can find.’
Susan again. ‘But why don’t the authorities do something?’
Katya didn’t answer. We could guess. The country was at war. The few tourists, like ourselves, visiting relatives, were hardly supporting the economy. Some feral children were not the government’s first concern.
We all watched as Katya approached the child. He had damaged his arm and was in a lot of pain. It looked likely that was why he hadn’t run away. Susan said, ‘Amazing he’s so normal. The radioactivity can’t be so bad. I…’
We jumped back as she vomited on the window. Two others did the same. Outside. Katya had pushed back the boy’s dirty hoodie. Underneath the dark material we could see the boy’s other problem. He had no eyes.

***

Jane Dougherty wrote an amazing piece of flash from a refreshing perspective.

When the men went, the trees came back. The trees and the animals the men had chased away. The trees came back to the fields where the livestock had been. All dead now. The vast sterile fields of grain are forests now that the men are no longer there to spray poisons over them. The tall ugly buildings are draped with creepers. Birds nest in their echoing emptiness. There had been dogs to begin with, but they ate the toxic rubbish the men had left. Only the cats thrived. As cats will.
The best, the wildest place is the park, where men kept tame trees and flowers. Jungle now, glorious and rich. I remember, my blood remembers, how we were chased from this place. The ancestors crept out at night and scavenged. They were thin and sickly but there was nowhere else for them to find food. Not in the fields of poison, not in the bare fields of cattle and sheep. But the men are gone now.
I leave my earth and sniff the night air, full of the wild scents of trees and hot blood. I listen, sifting the night noises, the rustlings and soft sighings as creatures settle. Movement behind me, stealthy, already alert to the night, its joys and its dangers. I leap for joy into the whirlpool of sensations, and they follow, their baby steps tumbling.
I, fox, reclaim my place, and watch my children play, safe in their night time.

The post Writespiration #36 appeared first on Sacha Black.