Showing posts with label Words - under 400. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Words - under 400. Show all posts

Wednesday, April 4, 2018

To Cheat or Not to Cheat.

This is a first draft using a Writers Toolbox 3 sentence prompt stick and was written at tonights writers group session.

In the space for 3 sets of 3 mins, three prompt sentences were read out. Participants needed to write the sentence down and continue writing until the time was up and the next prompt read out. In this space of time, they needed to ensure each sentence flowed and made sense within what they had just written.

My three sentences were


The only way John could pass the exam was by cheating.
They were all the same I decided.
The time he smashed a six.

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The only way John could pass the exam was by cheating. Sweat beaded on his sparsely populated dome. He lifted watery eyes to snatch a glance at Patrices’ stockinged legs, languidly crossed on the overstuffed couch in front of him.

“Are you sure this is the only way I can pass?”  John could hardly blurt the words out. Bile rose in his throat as a delicious mixture of terror, intrigue and guilt flooded his system.

“Quite sure.”

“But my wife.”

“Will thank you when your salary doubles because of this new qualification.” 

She drew in a long breath before forming perfect smoke rings to dance and taunt him.

“Look” John stuttered, “These extra subjects to get credit. They were all the same. I decided to do the easiest and quickest to finish my degree. I didn’t realise advanced domination skills would be this.”

He gestated wildly at the array of metal and leather goods on the coffee table in front of him.  “I imagined HR as being a little less hands on?”

“Suit yourself.” Patrice stubbed her cigarette out and fluidly stood. A shroud of perfume swirled around her. 

Intoxicated with her aroma, John gripped the low table, trembling.

“Are you sure my wife will never find out?”

“This is your only time slot to complete this exam.” Patrice adjusted her corset idly.

“It’s just, my wife and I. We have never. I have never. Don’t even know what this stuff is! ” John furtively searched the items on the table. “ I need to pass this subject.”

“You’ve already wasted 10 mins. Think of the disappointment on your wife face if you tell you her have been passed over again for a promotion. Now think of that big celebration part at the board room when your boss announces the newest member in HR.”

John exhaled slowly. The time he smashed a six in a pee wee cricket was the last time anyone had very congratulated him on anything.

“Alright, Lets get on with it.”

Patrice handed him a soft leather mask.

“You’ll need this to start with.

Friday, April 27, 2012

Weaving Lost Notes



Words: 348
Theme : Unexpected Fairy Tales

This competition is part of the wonderful (Inter) National Flash Fiction Day


My entry into the  OUAT Flash Fiction Contest  was chosen to be published - and therefore I have removed it from my site!  How exciting!  It is part of the Anthology, Once upon a time, and can be purchased from Amazon. Click on the image below!

Sunday, April 8, 2012

Elevator of Despair FGC (2012) #9

Solid green metal doors screeched their way open, displaying war wounds with stoic pride. Its insides dank and uninviting; promised delivery to a destination reachable exclusively through this minion of misery. Scraped by rushing, scratched with hate, pawed with despair, bruised in depression.

 Dirty metal bleed into non committal corridors. Musty, antiseptic boiled cabbage smells snake their way through the cracks. My nose wrinkles, brow knitting as I realise that it hadn’t been on the menu for over 20 years.

 The metal box clunks and clatters in its unsteady fashion on its laboured journey upward. Shimmering and shaking, it porpoises to a stop. Its purpose achieved.

 Those oppressive doors wearily slide open to reveal a lone nurse, heavily muscled, eyes alert gesturing to the sign in register. A frayed string holds a blunt pencil. Pens would be too dangerous , too sharp, too easily pilfered and hidden for an opportune time to strike.

 Carpets sticky, worn and depressed fight the mismatched furniture bolted to the floor. Plastic chairs stacked high as a castle in the middle of the room threaten to topple; locked in a battle with gravity. The television blaring, barely covering the canned laughter echoed by uncertain participants in their desperate attempt to connect to any form of reality. Eyes staring seeing nothing. My sister doesn’t know me today.

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This was written in response to Write Anything's Form and Genre Challenge ,  Vignette

This was submitted for #9 of FGC. 

Word Count - 220


This  was also submitted to Friday Flash.

Saturday, June 18, 2011

Sick with Sadness

This story has been removed to be polished for submissions.


wish me luck
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This is a first draft.
PROMPT:   Use this sentiment or theme for your story “Sick with Sadness”
This story inspired by the [Fiction Friday] prompt at Write Anything  and submitted to JM Strother’s #FridayFlash via Twitter.  

Its also recorded as a Spoken Sunday on Audioboo

Friday, May 27, 2011

Rapture in the 22nd century

The prompt  over at Write Anything  this week looks at what the end of the world. (Given it was slated in for last Saturday evening.)

As always, this is in first draft format.  I have picked up a blog serial I used to play with surrounding Turion ( see below for more info about it)

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Turion wound an extra layer of think cloth round the stubs of his fingers and palm, allowing the ends of his digits dextrous freedom. The deserts’ chilled air had begun to creep into the cockpit and quietly numbed his extremities.
His constant companion, the tiny sound system only played three ballads and sat beside his head as he worked. He hummed to his mothers favourite philosophers fish bowl song. The words to Mr Floyd's song had never made much sense to him; but he adored his mother and the way she sang it. The light was beginning to fade and he knew he needed to work quickly to secure the spare parts the Village needed. A tiny screw fell onto the rusting flooring of the shuttle. Turions shoulder protested as he twisted to retrieve it, secreting it in his cargo pants.Although he thought the elders mightn’t be worried about his keeping it; Turion wasn’t going to take any chances. he had plenty of little projects which he could use extra parts like the screw in.
The next philosophers work thumped out its tune proclaiming joy for the end of the world. Turion grinned. For learned people, Mr Floyd and Mr Rem and had a grim grasp on their future; his past. Turion looked about the cockpit and wondered what other secrets from the 21st century lay hidden inside the wreckage. He squinted at the wiring above his head. “It will have to wait till tomorrow.” He twisted his tool delicately.  “There you are my beauty.” Turions face lit up as he carefully wriggled the circuit board free from its cradle. 
He tucked it into his backpack and picked his way through the field littered with battle-scared and defunct robots and pieces of transporters. Apart from Chrishmash; May the 24th or Rapture Night was his favourite festival. He hoped to boost the sound from his system so that the entire Village square could share the three ballads from the 21st Century. Perhaps this year, the storyteller would share more about life in the citadel, or about the perfect life humans led in the 20th century. Turion rubbed his malformed legs. Perhaps this year, his mother would speak about the endless water inside the citadel. He squeezed himself and grinned. Turion didn’t mind who told a story. Rapture Night was perfect.







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This is a first draft.

PROMPT: 




The end of the world has been penciled in by a number of religions and groups. How is your character preparing for it?


Authors Note: some background history which has come to me about Turion - in no particular order here are some of the other short stories about Turions world.

Story inspired by the [Fiction Friday] prompt at Write Anything  and submitted to JM Strother’s #FridayFlash via Twitter. 

I do plan for this story to be recorded and posted up for Spoken Sunday via Audio Boo at a later stage.... whether it happens or not is a different matter.