Royal Troubles

After much lazing, procrastination and lack of energy, I’m back to doing what I actually love best: writing. I am out of hibernation,and hopefully shall manage to keep awake 🙂

PHOTO PROMPT, Copyright – Claire Fuller

This is my 14th submission to the wonderful group Friday Fictioneers, hosted by our much loved Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. She gives us a picture every week and we commit to paper…er, electronically, our thoughts on it in approximately 100 words. Thank you, dear Claire, for this week’s picture 🙂

My 100 words:

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ROYAL TROUBLES

He had stood on the cliff for centuries, waiting to be freed…from his mould of stone, from the curse of immobility…and most of all from the damned pigeons! How he cursed his son. That infidel Theseus! If only he hadn’t betrayed that girl Ariadne. If only he hadn’t left her on that island. If only she hadn’t cursed the ship to sink!

Woe is me! Lamented the statue that was  King Aegeus.  Another bird!

Shoo! Scat! I am a king, you base creature! He thundered mentally.

Nevertheless, the pigeon left a noble present.

How the mighty had fallen….

 

Hope’s Revenge

Writing FF after so long, finally! My 13th post on FF, which is hosted by Rochelle, a forum full of lovely talented writers. Anyone who wants to join in the fun is very welcome!

 Copyright-Ted Strutz

My 99 words based on the photo prompt: 🙂

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HOPE’S REVENGE

The old leaky apartment was not what she was used to, but it was a lot better than her previous accommodations.

“Look to him, he stirs.” Hope urged her assistant. Pandora obliged, running her sharp blade through Zeus’s bound torso. His scream reverberated in the silence, but Hope wasn’t worried. The grilled windows and walls were soundproof.

Many millennia ago she was crammed into that jar with those abominations by the gods. They bruised and scarred her. Innocent Pandora lost her husband’s love- oh, the injustice!

But no more. Hope smiled. She would have her revenge now.

Fairytale Ending

The prompt at Velvet Verbosity this week is “Collection.”

FAIRYTALE ENDING

I’ve been hoarding them for years now. This morning I looked into my cabinet again to check on my collection.

 There are over fifty of them now, of every shape and size I could find. Every day I try each of the glass slippers on, but they never seem to fit! I always make sure to match the size of my foot with the victim’s immediately after she dies…it’s frustrating. But then it took Prince Charming more than a few tries to reach his Cinderella.

 So I persevere until I get the perfect fit.

 

Prince Charming, you’re mine.

Winston

This is my submission to the Speak Easy writing challenge #162

WINSTON

Until the day I die, I’ll never forget those glassy, unblinking eyes. I’ve tried time and again to weed out the memory from my mind, but to no avail. It’s been twelve years since then, and every time I think about it, I go back to the summer I was sixteen and my mother was scolding me for the umpteenth time about-

 

 

“Don’t you think it’s time to throw that thing away?”

“Mom! Don’t call him a ‘thing’.” I protested indignantly. “Winston is my baby!”

“He was, when you were a baby yourself.” She countered.

“No, he still is!” I insisted.

“Stacy.” My mother sighed impatiently. “Fourteen years you’ve fed that rocking horse, petted it, talked to it, even cuddled with it, for goodness sake! Isn’t that enough?”

“Of course it’s not! Winston’s my best friend. Please let me keep him, just a few days, please?” I begged.

My mother sighed again. “Fine, just for a while.”

 I patted Winston’s head lovingly. I had had him since I was two, and he still looked brand new. His stuffed coat shone a warm brown and his glass eyes were so realistic he almost looked alive. I knew I was being childish, keeping Winston like this, but I was strangely attached to him. I wouldn’t even let Matt, my younger brother, play with him when he was a child.

 I wasn’t throwing him away.

I could have sworn I heard a snort of satisfaction, but I just laughed at my imagination and forgot about it.

 

The next Friday, I came home from school and Winston was missing.

“Mom!” I shrieked. “Mom! What have you done with Winston?”

She spoke calmly.“ Oh, I sold it off to a nice man in the next block. He’s got a little boy at home and couldn’t afford a new rocking horse, you see.” She beamed at me as if it was the best thing in the world.

“I don’t believe this!” I wailed again. She winced. “Lower your voice, Stacy! Winston is gone, and that’s final.”

I spent the next few days in a blue funk until Mr.Hanover, Winston’s new owner, came to return him. He apologized and asked for a refund- a series of accidents had occurred with his family after he brought Winston home, and he felt that poor Winston might have been unlucky for them. Well, his loss! I was just happy to have Winston back. This time I thought I saw a glint in his eyes. Yeah, right. And I’m Wonder Woman. I thought dryly.

I was shaken awake at three in the morning by a hysterical Matt. “Stace.”He sobbed. “Mom’s dead…God…she’s dead.”

The police said that she had been hacked to death with repetitive blows to her face and chest. Investigations were fruitless. The incident faded out of the news and we were left alone to move on with our lives.

 

A few months passed. I was on my bed reading about a painting by Albrecht Dürer, when my brother barged in to borrow a pen. “What did I tell you about knocking?” I grouched. Ignoring my question totally, he pointed at Winston. “You still have this worthless thing? How can you even look at it without remembering Mom?”

“What!” I exclaimed.

“Maybe that Hanover guy was right.” He went on. “Maybe this thing is unlucky.” Matt kicked Winston aggressively and stormed out.

I shook my head. Winston was a toy horse, how could he kill anyone? Except…Winston’s head was the perfect weapon to bludgeon someone…..

But I didn’t question it seriously until the mystery killer claimed both my father and my brother at one go, while I was away for a sleepover. The bloodstains on the floor showed that Matt had been dragged back and forth until he was dead. There were teeth and hoof marks on both of them. Winston had been found standing over their bodies, bathed in their blood. The police figured it was some kind of sick joke.

But I had realized the horrific truth and I knew what to do. The night I was placed under police protection, I lit a match and flung it on my childhood friend Winston. It was over now. Winston would never hurt anyone again.

 

 

I’m jolted back to the present by happy squeals. My daughter Hailey comes running in.

“Mommy, look what Daddy got me!”

I smile and let her take me to see her new gift.

My heart stops.

“Mommy, it’s a horsie!”

It’s Winston.

Here are the rules:

• Your post must be dated May 18, 2013, or later.
• Submissions must be 750 words or fewer.
• Submissions must be fiction or poetry.
• You must include the following sentence as the FIRST line in your submission: “Until the day I die, I’ll never forget those glassy, unblinking eyes.”
• You must also include a reference to the media prompt.
• The speakeasy is for submissions written specifically for the grid. Please don’t submit an entry if you intend to showcase it to another blog link-up. Such posts are deleted without notice.
• Please don’t post long explanations before your post. We want your writing to be the star of the show. If you need to clarify anything, feel free to do so at the end.
• 

 

I know what you did last winter

It’s FF time again, yay! But I’m late as usual.Anyway without further ado, here’s my 12th time writing FF, a lovely weekly challenge run by our sweet hostess Rochelle 🙂

Thanks for the picture, Bjorn!

                                      Copyright – Björn Rudberg

Here are my 100 words:

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I KNOW WHAT YOU DID LAST WINTER

I watch the party from the shadows. Darkness is my only refuge.

Over the clink of champagne glasses, my ears catch the strumming of his guitar. There he is, my father. My brother, the perfect son, sits next to him, enjoying the festivities.

Why did you do it, Dad? Were you so ashamed of me? The tears fall fast on my scarred cheeks as I watch him  laugh.

The smell of gasoline and burning flesh are still fresh in my memory.

Last winter will repeat itself, but this time…. I’ll light the fire.

 

Playtime

Hi! Dear God, it’s been ages since I wrote FF, and I’m rather ashamed of myself for missing out and going off the grid like that, but when exams call, one has few options but to yield. Bleh! I think exams are mankind’s worst invention. To all those people who were sweet enough to leave me comments on my last two FF posts, I’m really sorry I couldn’t return the favour.

So anyhoo, here’s my 11th time writing FF a fun 100 word writing challenge hosted by our very own Rochelle, and the picture prompt this week was

Copyright – Douglas M. MacIlroy

Here are my 90 words 🙂

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PLAYTIME

“Daddy, play with me.” Robby wouldn’t stop pestering Dan.

But Dan hadn’t meant to push his stepson away, hadn’t meant for the child to fall on the whirring chainsaw and die.

Dan fled his workshop to escape the sight of Robbie’s head rolling in a pool of blood.

He needed to think clearly. He needed to-

The playroom door creaked open. A small boy stood there, the moonlight illuminating the splatters of gore on his body.

Dan’s scream was drowned out by the moving chainsaw.

“Daddy, play with me.”

No Rest For The Holy

This is my submission to the SpeakEasy  writing challenge #157

NO REST FOR THE HOLY

Winter seemed reluctant to release its hold. Snowflakes drifted down, waving merrily at God as he glared balefully out of the window. He sighed and turned away. How all his devotees would laugh if they saw him now- Creator of the universe, sitting bundled up in blankets and shivering! Those foolish younglings of the Weather Department! When would they learn to do their jobs? Today, he decided, he’d go over to the office himself and pay the boys a visit.

 

Much of God’s irritation had waned by the time he reached the gold and silver doors of the Weather Department, but it came back with a vengeance when he stepped inside and found the place in complete disarray. Pizza boxes and crumpled coffee cups littered the switchboards. Ethan and Nicholas were ogling at the sexy secretary Lilith’s rear as she picked up bits of paper from the floor. Meanwhile Patrick, the regulator, was snoring away to glory with his nose pressed against the Snow dial. No wonder it was so cold!

“What the hell is going on here?” God burst out angrily. Lilith turned and smiled seductively at him. “Oh, don’t mention my home so frequently, Father.” She purred. “You know how I miss it.”

“Wicked wench!”God exclaimed. “You miss your home so much, don’t you? Be gone then, you’re fired!”

“You senile old man!” Lilith hissed and slunk away.

“As for you two!” Ethan and Nicholas shrunk into their chairs at God’s fury. “Iniquity is NOT permitted in the holy abode of the Lord!” The ground shook slightly. Ah, how he loved that effect! The acoustics of this office were better than the old one- he’d have to thank Michael for that. However, he certainly did not thank anyone for what happened next. The vibrations from his voice woke up Patrick, who in his startled half-conscious condition flailed his fat arms about, pushing random levers and knobs. Outside, thunder rumbled in the face of scorching sunlight, and hailstones mingled with rain.

 

Clearly unused to doing anything other than leering at Lilith, the other two employees lost their heads. “What do we do? What do we do?’ They cried helplessly.

If no one can handle this situation I must! God thought, and charged forward, only to slip on a puddle of stale coffee and hit his head hard against the control panel.

 

Many hassles and hellfires later, God sat in his chambers holding an icepack to his head.

“See, Father that is why I tell you to leave all the administration to me.” Michael, his eldest son, was admonishing him.

“I have left it all to you, and that’s why the quality of staff is declining day by day.” God grumbled.

Michael snorted impatiently. “How often must I explain, Father? The budgetary demands of this fiscal year require cost cutting, and since Lucifer won’t give up his fondness for video games, Gabriel won’t control his sweet tooth, and you must have new robes to wear every week, I saw no other way but to hire cheap labour so we may all survive in peace.”

God opened his mouth to make a comment, but nothing came out. Instead, he said, “I want to see Lucifer immediately.”

“Hold on, I’ll Whatsapp him.” Michael tapped busily away at his iPhone. “He’s on his way.”

 

God’s favourite son Lucifer shuffled in after a while. His eyes were glued to the game he was playing, shoulders jerking left and right as he operated the controls. God eyed Lucifer’s jeans with displeasure, they were hanging off his hips and God despised that. Teenage had ruined Lightborn.

“Lucifer.”

The shaggy haired teenager paid no attention.

“Lucifer!” God threw his icepack at his son.

“Damn!” Lucifer cursed. “Look what you did, Dad! I just got injured fatally!”

“Who has injured you?” cried God, alarmed. “I will maim them!”

Lucifer rolled his eyes. “In the game, Dad. Anyway, you wanted to see me?”

“Yes.” God turned and switched on the plasma TV. Headlines and news reports filled the screen. “Lucifer, can you tell me why the human babies are being born with horns and tails, and in some cases, wearing…” God tried to come up with a word suitable to describe the stiff pink skirts he had seen on the infants.

“Tutus.” Lucifer supplied sheepishly, and shrugged. “I just thought it’d be funny.”

God save me! Thought God, and then remembered. Oh wait, that’s me!

God sighed tiredly. There was no rest for the holy…

 

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• Your post must be dated April 13, 2013, or later.
• Submissions must be 750 words or fewer.
• Submissions must be fiction or poetry.
• You must include the following sentence as the FIRST line in your submission: “Winter seemed reluctant to release its hold.”
• You must also include a reference to the media prompt.
• The speakeasy is for submissions written specifically for the grid. Please don’t submit an entry if you intend to showcase it to another blog link-up. Such posts are deleted without notice.
• Please don’t post long explanations before your post. We want your writing to be the star of the show. If you need to clarify anything, feel free to do so at the end.

The real Aaron

This is my submission to the Speakeasy #155 writing challenge.

THE REAL AARON

Without a word, she dropped to the ground.

“So? Did you find him?” Detective Inspector Richmond asked for the thousandth time that afternoon.

“We’ve got him surrounded on the western boundary.” Agent Sarah Madison answered. She had been scouting the forest from atop the tall oak tree for hours. Richmond had wanted to launch helicopters, but Sarah was sure she could do better, and she had.

“Good job, Sarah!”Richmond smiled as they entered  FBI headquarters. “Consider yourself promoted!”

 

Sarah smiled back. She had been working hard for seven years to move up in the ranks, and now she would, thanks to this case. The Alison Kimberly murder had sent shockwaves throughout the university she had been a student of. Alison had been popular and beautiful, president of her sorority, and girlfriend to computer and science genius Aaron Hudson. She’d had rivals, but no one who hated her enough to poison her soda with cyanide.

The case had been about to close when Sarah, still suspicious, stepped in and asked to re-investigate. “I’m giving you this case because I trust you. If this is all for nothing or you mess up, you will lose your job.” Richmond had warned her.

Months of lurking around in the university, thorough questioning and a lot of puzzling, Sarah found all evidence pointing towards Aaron, Alison’s boyfriend. Still, it had been circumstantial, and Aaron would have been safe, had he not tried to flee when the FBI knocked at his door.

 

Sarah took a deep breath. If she could crack the suspect, she would win the case and her promotion.

 “Why did you do it, Aaron?”

He smiled insolently. “We both know why, Agent, so quit wasting your time.”

“You will not speak to me like that!” Sarah snapped.

“ I’d rather not, Agent. My proposal for the coffee date still stands though.”

“Just answer the damn question!” Sarah was beginning to lose her cool now.

“Oh, feisty, aren’t you, Agent? Okay, I’ll tell you why I murdered Alison. Betrayal.” Aaron’s gaze locked with hers.  His eyes were the colour of a thunderstorm, with full lashes. Attractive eyes, almost feminine, just like the rest of him.

Sarah was startled out of her errant thoughts as Aaron continued. “I liked Alison. I really did. I had been nominated for the international computer Olympiad, to be held in Greece. Everything was fine until I found that Alison had called in a lot of favours to replace my name with hers all because she really wanted to visit Greece. She pretended that she didn’t have any idea how she, with her zero knowledge about computers, was chosen as state representative!”

“So you killed her?” Sarah exclaimed. “For such a little thing?”

“Oh it wasn’t a little thing, Agent. Betrayal kills. I think you know what I mean.” He smirked.

“What rubbish!” Sarah sputtered. “I would never kill anyone!”

“Oh but you did,” said Aaron smoothly. “Agent Bradford’s death was no accident. He took the entire credit for a case you had solved alone, and stole your promotion, so you killed him.”

“He was my fiancée!” Sarah shouted.

“You didn’t want to marry him, accepting his proposal was a mistake. You like women.”

Sarah felt defeated. “How do you know all this?”

“Intelligence, and professional hacking, Agent. The Bureau’s files should be guarded better.”

Sarah managed to say,”I’ll be back tomorrow.”

 

Despite everything Aaron had said about her, Sarah slept peacefully that night.

 

She was woken up in the early morning by her phone ringing insistently.

Groggily, she answered. “Hello?”

“The suspect’s escaped.”

Six months later, Aaron Hudson had still not been found. Every database  denied the existence of any such identity.

“I’m sorry, Sarah.” Detective Inspector Richmond said sadly. “You’re fired.”

Sarah trudged away to her office to clear it. She had lost her job and her reputation and all she had left was the memory of the most beautiful eyes she had ever seen. She sighed and opened a drawer. Placed in it was a piece of paper. She gasped.

Agent Madison,

 If you ever stop denying the chemistry between us, I leave with you an address where you can find me. Report this to the feds and you’ll never hear from me again.

Yours from the moment I saw you,

Aaria

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718 words 🙂

 

The picture prompt:

 

 

 

Trapped

Hi! FF came early this time, but I loved the picture prompt so much, I wrote my story as quickly as I could…

To anyone who wants to join FF, this weekly challenge is hosted by the super-awesome Rochelle, who gives us a photo prompt on which we are to write a piece of 100 word flash fiction. Come on and play, its fun! This week’s picture is by John Nixon 🙂

                                 Copyright- John Nixon

Here are my 97 words:

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TRAPPED

Elle crouched in the woods, waiting.

“The roots are coming for you..” Uncle Rob had driven her insane, whispering it over and over until she saw eyes in the branches, heard the leaves moaning, and the roots..calling her, always calling her to join them in the darkness.

 

When she told her parents, they had her locked up in that grey hospital, assuming she was dead when it burned down in a freak accident.

 

Gales of laughter and familiar voices alerted Elle and she stood up to greet her family.

Tonight the roots were coming for them.

 

Don’t mess with the Sirens

This is my submission to the Write On Edge Week 11 writing challenge. The idea is to write a piece of fiction in 500 words, based on the picture prompt, the given quote, or both f you’re so inclined. This week the quote was:

I would have written of me on my stone: I had a lover’s quarrel with the world.

~Robert Frost

The picture prompt:

Image courtesy of Unsplash.

I have taken inspiration from the picture. Here are my 490 words 🙂

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DON’T MESS WITH THE SIRENS

 

She had watched him from afar, noon and night, ever since he had pitched his tent on the island. Often he had caught her eye with a knowing smile, and every time she had lowered her adoring gaze until he turned away. Parthenope, the sea siren, was infatuated with Ulysses, and he knew it. The handsome hero loved all the attention, but never would he fall prey to her charm. The great Ulysses and a low down creature of the sea! Impossible. That was exactly what he would tell Parthenope if she came to him, demanding his love. He was well aware that rejecting a siren’s advances was dangerous, and all his well-wishers would advise him to flee , lest he be killed. But from the siren’s unusual shyness, it seemed unlikely she would approach him, and so he remained complacent.

 

But she did come to him one afternoon. She rose out of the tide, pearly-eyed and dark haired, her beauty putting the loveliest goddesses to shame. But all this was wasted on the stone-hearted Ulysses who bestowed her with no more than a cursory glance.

Still she tried to woo him. Again and again he spurned her, taunting her and her sisters for being wicked deformities of nature and boasting about how he was too great a hero to ever stoop so low as to love a siren. “Begone!” He spat. “You are not worthy of being the ground I walk upon.”

Gathering up her wounded self-respect, Parthenope responded with cold dignity. “Do not underestimate our worth. My sisters and I are powerful. Men have killed and have themselves died often at our bidding. Many in this world have sought our affections, none have been fortunate enough to glimpse it. Be wise, Ulysses, this is not a gift to be thrown away. Choose well, while you have time.”

But the hero merely laughed and threatened to obliterate Parthenope and her sisters until the siren left him alone.

On their home island, Parthenope and her sisters discussed Ulysses.

“Perhaps he’s faithful to his wife.” Suggested Ligeia.

“Hardly!” scoffed Aglaope. “There is not a land in the known world where he has not bedded a woman.”

“He must be dealt with.” They agreed.

The day before Ulysses was supposed to return home to Ithaca, he mysteriously disappeared. His men, whom he had ordered to camp on the other side of the island so he might not be disturbed; found nothing but his tent despite searching thoroughly. Large, skilled search parties were launched, but the hero could not be found. In Ithaca, Penelope, his wife, grieved his assumed death.

 

“Slave!  Fetch me a goblet of wine!”

“Have you not mopped the floors yet, slave? Really, you are the slowest!”

Ulysses wiped his brow and continued his unaccustomed labour. By Gods, he should have fled while there was time. Now he was stuck as the sirens’ slave forever…