tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13749530535690126322024-03-13T04:15:36.588-07:00Fall Into FictionC Connollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02474566026426357023noreply@blogger.comBlogger216125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1374953053569012632.post-29768549256893966882015-12-31T07:17:00.000-08:002015-12-31T07:17:17.581-08:00Backwards and Forwards (With Links!)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It struck me recently that, things having become busy towards the back end of the year, I haven't mentioned a couple of recent publications here to date.<br />
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First off, I was extremely pleased to have a couple of short poems published as a result of my participation in <a href="http://www.threelinethursday.com/">Three Line Thursday</a> this year- first off, twice over in <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Light-Lines-Three-Thursday-Anthology/dp/1517318831/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1451572192&sr=8-1&keywords=light+lines">Light Lines</a>, an anthology full of superb, compact three line poems stemming from photo prompts posted throughout the year due to an unexpected win at the competition website one week and, secondly, in <a href="http://flashfictionmagazine.com/blog/2015/11/19/three-lines-by-catherine-connolly/">Flash Fiction Magazine</a> due to a "Special Challenge" win for the week.<br />
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I was also lucky enough to secure a <a href="https://theangryhourglass.wordpress.com/2015/12/09/humpday-quickie-86/">second win</a> over at <a href="https://theangryhourglass.wordpress.com/">Angry Hourglass</a> for the year, which I hadn't<br />
really expected.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-T166gk0h6So/VoU-pdZ1OlI/AAAAAAAAAf0/uTZv9M3hQHo/s1600/hourglass.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-T166gk0h6So/VoU-pdZ1OlI/AAAAAAAAAf0/uTZv9M3hQHo/s320/hourglass.jpg" width="274" /></a></div>
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Even more surprisingly, I managed to secure a <a href="https://flashfriday.wordpress.com/2015/12/07/flash-friday-vol-3-52-winners/">win</a> over at <a href="https://flashfriday.wordpress.com/">Flash! Friday</a> during the final week's contest - a competition I had always genuinely thought placing for would prove a feat impossible, having seen the superb standard of entries for week after week. <br />
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It was also lovely to be blind placed as winner by Dragon Team 8, with one half of the judging team (unknowing prior to having e-mailed the results in) being <a href="http://www.zevonesque.com/">a fellow Poised Pen member</a> !<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-H1fIUT1htVU/VoVBo_jnk_I/AAAAAAAAAgA/ktUdCTxS590/s1600/Flash%2BFriday.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-H1fIUT1htVU/VoVBo_jnk_I/AAAAAAAAAgA/ktUdCTxS590/s1600/Flash%2BFriday.jpg" /></a></div>
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Given my win was the last for the competition prior to Flashversary and, sadly, the competition's closure, Rebekah was kind enough to waive the word restriction for first time winners and allow me to expand on the interview questions posed. If you so wish, you can read the final interview <a href="https://flashfriday.wordpress.com/2015/12/10/sixty-seconds-with-catherine-connolly/">here</a> .<br />
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I'm really proud to have my <a href="https://flashfriday.wordpress.com/winners/catherine-connolly/">Winner's Page</a> on the website alongside such talented writers!<br />
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Finally, I have also been working on three flash fiction stories which will be published as part of <a href="http://theflashdogs.com/">the Flashdogs</a> ' third anthology (Volume Three), in due course.<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-V1ZVXMkK4AU/VoVEw8w6mzI/AAAAAAAAAgM/Ao0P0Uc-e08/s1600/Flash%2BDogs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="226" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-V1ZVXMkK4AU/VoVEw8w6mzI/AAAAAAAAAgM/Ao0P0Uc-e08/s320/Flash%2BDogs.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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(Image Credit goes to the very talented <a href="http://www.thedustlounge.com/">Tam Rogers</a> ).C Connollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02474566026426357023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1374953053569012632.post-82089753604500555272015-10-11T08:38:00.001-07:002015-10-11T08:38:34.640-07:00Possibilities Multiply (3LineThursday)<div class="MsoNormal">
Possibilities multiply; chaotic refractions of infinite
volume;<o:p></o:p></div>
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A bubble universe - distinct - beyond life’s experience.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Myriad reflections of what might be, glimpsed, before
evaporating.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
C Connollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02474566026426357023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1374953053569012632.post-82210535347216482222015-08-16T03:36:00.003-07:002015-08-16T03:43:45.045-07:00Raven Girl (Luminous Creatures Summer of Super Short Stories)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-sb2-hPdSxgw/VdBmjJK6m7I/AAAAAAAAAfA/cceWZ_qswSY/s1600/birdgirl-217x300.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-sb2-hPdSxgw/VdBmjJK6m7I/AAAAAAAAAfA/cceWZ_qswSY/s1600/birdgirl-217x300.jpg" /></a></div>
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Image Credit: <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/_claireelizabeth/4902472279/">Nereid</a> by <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/_claireelizabeth/">Claire Elizabeth</a> Flickr <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/">CC 2.0</a> (via <a href="https://luminouscreaturespress.com/">Luminous Creatures</a>)<br />
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<u><span style="color: #444444; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Raven Girl<o:p></o:p></span></u></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Death comes to everything, eventually. The whispers tickle Branwen’s
ears, burgeoning within; butterfly bodies beating within her stomach, as they
tell her so. “Shut up,” she says. “Give over now.” The teenager clasps a hand
to her stomach, rubbing it, over and over. “Not yet,” she says. “Not now.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">The raven haired girl scans the sky for a small silhouette as the light
fades. “Come, Corvie,” Bran bids, swallowing saliva. Her eyes dart upwards,
shifting, here and there. “Quickly,” she adds, word clipped.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">A dot on the horizon plummets towards the slim figure, who stretches out
a hand. “Four score, seven times seven,” Bran whispers, voice trembling. A tear
forms at the corner of her eye. Her fingers curl into a trembling fist,
knuckles whitening. The girl’s brow is sweaty as the black bird descends. She
watches it; avid.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Moments later, Branwen opens her lips wide – hasty – all pink tongue and
black backed throat; the image of the parted beak from which an indistinct grey
blur drops from above. Within moments the girl has swallowed it whole, throat
working quickly to pass it through her oesophagus and onwards into her system.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">“Hallie,” Bran says. “Hello and welcome.” She sighs once, eyes closing,
fingers caressing a slightly distended abdomen. “We travel a little together –
until you disembark.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">“I’ll take another, tonight,” Bran commands quickly, addressing her jet
winged companion, whose feet grasp her right shoulder. Beady eyes shine before
feathers fly skywards, up and away.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">“Perhaps still another,” the girl murmurs, frowning. “I hunger – today.”
She clears her throat; guttural. “So it begins, in the end.” The girl nods,
eyes clouded; unfocused. “I will take you – all – when I go. We are one with
another.” Silence surrounds her as her chin levels.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">“Though you must direct me,” the girl says, voice lifting as she
finishes speaking. “What is, is unavoidable. We are what we must be, in the
end,” she adds hastily.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Time lengthens. “Come, Corvie. Quick,” Bran says, voice thin.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Death comes to everything, eventually – but Bran must fill herself from
them before she numbers amongst them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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The phrase to include this week was "Death comes to everything".<br />
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<br />C Connollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02474566026426357023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1374953053569012632.post-53045776827259123342015-08-15T13:04:00.000-07:002015-08-18T12:22:14.571-07:00Sins of the Flesh (Flash! Friday)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mt-twshhY3I/Vc-aQC9rqMI/AAAAAAAAAew/i8T20ofqNqs/s1600/crawford-gilbert-1928.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-mt-twshhY3I/Vc-aQC9rqMI/AAAAAAAAAew/i8T20ofqNqs/s320/crawford-gilbert-1928.jpg" width="251" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 14.6666669845581px;">Joan Crawford & John Gilbert: publicity photo for the film "Four Walls", 1928</span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 13.5pt;"> <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/Category:1928_in_film#/media/File:Crawford-Gilbert-1928.JPG">Public Domain Image</a> </span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 14.6666669845581px;">in the US</span></div>
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<u><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">Sins of the Flesh</span></u><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">The coffin lies length-wise along the mahogany table,
glass to one side, bowl the other, lights dimmed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">“Take your leave,” I say. “Close your ears.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">The dark haired man leaves quickly, avoiding my eyes –
fumbling the mental into my hand.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">I drain the vessel in one draught, placing the grubby
coin in my pocket; tribute paid to the old ways.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">"Free yourself," I say. "Rest
easy." He won't hear. The hunger rises through my gut, riding
me roughshod. "Damn." My mouth descends; ravenous.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">I gag - stale ash and sweat on my tongue - swallowing
to keep it down, afterwards, before opening the door. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">"It's done," I say to the client, brow
creased. "He'll pass now." The man nods, without asking.
They never do, after dinner.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">The cough threatens premature regurgitation at the
entance. I'll reunite it with its owner later. Money is an
unfaithful mistress. Some sins have an altogether price.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14.6666669845581px;">Ed to Add:- This one received an Honourable Mention this week.</span></span></div>
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C Connollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02474566026426357023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1374953053569012632.post-18568608922851102092015-08-09T02:42:00.000-07:002015-08-15T12:37:56.081-07:00Lord and His Lady (Flash! Friday)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CmLKuAX7KUM/Vcce3qvH_qI/AAAAAAAAAeY/zRhXN3iNp_s/s1600/lyme-park-house.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="238" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-CmLKuAX7KUM/Vcce3qvH_qI/AAAAAAAAAeY/zRhXN3iNp_s/s320/lyme-park-house.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Lyme Part House & Estate <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/legalcode">CC2.0</a> photo by <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/purpleseadonkey/16682953203/in/photolist-rqduLc-7ZZwzz-ftaChd-5LmtSy-9TnTEY-fvPeqq-9rKhZn-8qR2tj-8qR2pj-8qQyR1-813EsN-8sPnB1-9AHHZD-8rJfrS-8rh7xS-8wDA1Z-fstiBo-5pEqbY-8qNka6-8qN7uV-8utsGC-8sreSV-8qP2tp-ftGSv8-ftXeJQ-frfsum-8qPaUK-fwiF5Y-ftXfhu-813ETG-fueQm8-8qMUJk-8qMsEF-8qQyFj-8qR23N-8qNkf2-8qP2dr-8qNjMv-8qMshe-8qMsHV-8qR27Y-8qN7kX-8qN7fx-8qNk4K-8qMUP6-8qNjXB-i75iib-8qSeuC-8qS9kh-8qP2EP">Purpura Mare Asinus </a><br />
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<u>Lord and His Lady</u></div>
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Lord lives – seventh of seven times seven before him
half-hearted. His Lady took his thumping
whole, instantaneous, while he held still willing. Now, the Eve the Year Dies is upon him, a
multitude of little deaths gone before; blood sucked from its protective layers
around his bones by his lady’s lips. He
holds no regret. The hollow it should
reside in has no beating inhabitant. </div>
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Lady was hearty, laughing whilst life sustained her, duly
bound, its beating within her fist. Lord
is her promise to herself, self-gifted – though their contract was written
between marrow margins long ago, had he but known it. Some things are as she wills it. She is tired now; tithe falling due. All things must end. Men though – mortal - live in the moment. Licking her mouth, Lady summons her Lord to his
final standing.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Lord’s skin was sold at birth, time ticking afterwards. He answers at All Hallows, son for father, as
did son from father before him. Half a
heart for a future functions well enough. Thus, Earl, eloquent, escaped his lover’s arms
without compunction, to answer to another’s call. Time, irresistible, reaped its tithe on
him. Lord still lingers.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Lady savours sucking Lord’s soul from its moorings; his life
having no need for it, once wholly consumed.
Lord ponders their partnership, deceased, eyes downcast. Head raising, he turns away from her. He gave love freely. Bad bargaining cannot catch hold, where its
central sacrifice is missing, though she has had his heart from him. Time take him, too, instead. All things must end. </div>
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This week's book prompt was Sherlock Holmes "Hound of the Baskervilles". I wrote about a lord under a family curse and themes of cunning/(lack of) guilt. The story had to be between 240 and 260 words.<br />
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Ed to add: This one received a Special Mention for the week as "Master of Language" - and a comparison to "Beowulf", no less! Really pleased to receive such wonderful feedback - especially given there were so many fantastic stories this week too.</div>
C Connollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02474566026426357023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1374953053569012632.post-89411004340697061862015-08-04T11:41:00.003-07:002015-08-04T11:41:50.119-07:00Barabashka (Flash! Friday)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-MqQQ9D5I-yY/VcEGB5cMe2I/AAAAAAAAAeE/h5cyYaVPKbc/s1600/Anna%2BKarenina.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="293" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-MqQQ9D5I-yY/VcEGB5cMe2I/AAAAAAAAAeE/h5cyYaVPKbc/s400/Anna%2BKarenina.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Scene from <a href="https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/Category:Anna_Karenina#/media/File:%D0%9A%D0%B0%D0%B4%D1%80_%D0%B8%D0%B7_%D1%84%D0%B8%D0%BB%D1%8C%D0%BC%D0%B0_%D0%90%D0%BD%D0%BD%D0%B0_%D0%9A%D0%B0%D1%80%D0%B5%D0%BD%D0%B8%D0%BD%D0%B0_(1914),_%D0%BF%D0%B5%D1%80%D0%B5%D1%88%D0%B5%D0%B4%D1%88%D0%B8%D0%B9_%D0%B2_%D0%BE%D0%B1%D1%89%D0%B5%D1%81%D1%82%D0%B2%D0%B5%D0%BD%D0%BD%D0%BE%D0%B5_%D0%B4%D0%BE%D1%81%D1%82%D0%BE%D1%8F%D0%BD%D0%B8%D0%B5.jpg">"Anna Karenina"</a> , 1914 Russian film by <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vladimir_Gardin">Vladimir Gardin</a> (via <a href="https://flashfriday.wordpress.com/">Flash! Friday</a>)<br />
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<br />
<u>Barabashka</u><br />
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Barabashka is wailing, from below, though I broke bread and
salt pieces last night after he pinched – sharp - to prompt them from me. I hold blankets tight over my ears, to no avail. His neglect grows louder, penetrating my
covered hollow. Bruises the length of my
arms, throbbing, I creep through his domain; rules drawn dusky in reminder on
the hearth. We guarded one another once;
before. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I spy traces of his finger marks as gusts extinguish the
candles, swift. The stove is unlit, tonight.
I shuffle, slowly; sound a guide
as I shiver onward. Pitch prevails as I
grope into the unknown. He has not
abandoned post – this I know. There is
yet a way to tell what follows. I feel
for his form, as Mama told me – to feel his hand in mine. Ice answers me, fur freezing. Eyes watering, I hug myself hard; inevitable
cold comfort.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<u>Comment</u></div>
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The challenge this week - based, unsurprisingly, around "Anna Karenina" was to take two of the elements from the text and produce a piece of flash fiction. I chose conflict and tradition. The piece needed to be 100-150 words.</div>
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This received an Honourable Mention this week, which I was extremely pleased to find out!</div>
C Connollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02474566026426357023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1374953053569012632.post-19527677440459489732015-08-02T08:44:00.001-07:002015-08-02T08:44:51.373-07:00The Isle of Roots (Luminous Creatures Summer of Super Short Stories)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-AMCWXEBK77Q/Vb45fH16yyI/AAAAAAAAAdw/goB-bAcoMCU/s1600/Anthropomorphic-Roots-300x200.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-AMCWXEBK77Q/Vb45fH16yyI/AAAAAAAAAdw/goB-bAcoMCU/s400/Anthropomorphic-Roots-300x200.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Image Credit: <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/mydailycommute/19354158/in/photostream/">Anthropomorphic Roots</a> by <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/mydailycommute/">Mike DelGaudio</a> Flickr <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.0/">CC 2.0</a> (via <a href="https://luminouscreaturespress.com/">Luminous Creatures</a>)<a href="https://www.blogger.com/"></a><br />
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<u>The Isle of Roots</u></div>
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Few walk the Isle of Roots; its twisted, misted shores. Little lives amidst this creeping fear, the
writhing souls wailing underfoot. A
calcified collection, preserved in partial dessication, of self-sought deaths
from whom answers may be sought by those brave enough to ask - though they
speak only when they choose, to guide the way.
Wandering spirits return seldom when they cross the island’s bounds. Truth takes chances in the speaking. It has ever been the case.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The tree itself lies amidst a heart of knotted roots for
those who swim tear salt tides to it, casting themselves towards the child-like
keening reaching from the boughs into the ocean. Those who reach its sanctuary place their offering
before it, adding to the pile heaped about the thick trunk. There they wait, a body of bark surrounding
them, bones beginning to dry, animation engineered by their questions. They do not know and cannot guess which items
warranted success. They do not ask. They will not waste their singular
opportunity, should it be offered. </div>
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Once whittled to a skeletal sylph, the ghost takes residence
in the brittle embrace of the prone and prostrate, lying within reach of their
goal. Pilgrim, now, she is. Poor, those dismissed as unworthy to proffer
themselves properly. Still, they hold
her close in their clutches whilst they may; scant communion with opportunity. They number many. There are others to be added.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Time turns before the undulations begin underfoot and she
stirs, stretching arms wide. Such is the
island’s speech. Branches hold fast to
her ankles and grip at her wrists as her fingers touch the ground, hesitant, to
raise her from it. Silent amidst the now
still limbs, surrounded by the entombed, she nods; an affirmation. The answers are many, though the question was
but one. She caresses the uneven
surface, which releases its hold on her hands, freeing her feet to stand.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Within an indeterminate period, a once wandering spirit
returns to the island’s bounds, laying herself in offering on its twisted,
misted shores, bones breaking into bark with the touch of the tear salt tides.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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C Connollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02474566026426357023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1374953053569012632.post-26185456040766841192015-08-02T08:32:00.000-07:002015-08-02T08:35:39.495-07:00Never Not (3LineThursday)<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0cm;">
<span style="background: white; color: #4d4d4d; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Never –
not – you say, negating</span><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0.0001pt;">
<span style="background: white; color: #4d4d4d; font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The letters lying between us.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #4d4d4d; font-family: Calibri, sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">Never not I see, instead, spelt out across the
sheets.</span></div>
C Connollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02474566026426357023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1374953053569012632.post-30491817313569249112015-07-11T07:27:00.002-07:002015-07-11T07:27:57.468-07:00Getting There (Microbookends)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-kSBx_QWoDxE/VaEm_jQ1byI/AAAAAAAAAdY/96iQ4TWvT8k/s1600/Telephones.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="263" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-kSBx_QWoDxE/VaEm_jQ1byI/AAAAAAAAAdY/96iQ4TWvT8k/s400/Telephones.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Photo Credit: <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/tekniskamuseet/7975488513/in/photolist-d9LsSD-5jU2eo-5jU2b7-7REEaQ-5sr3P6-bRfDiP-9sEcBu-5Zn9qZ-8mPX9K-6iD7Gj-aBhnNR-pTYkfi-6RneLj-kSMQuZ-bPLHRB-oZnKTx-bCkW3w-4jd4Tu-5Ccd4g-egXYY-5Zn9sK-aWzAHg-qtmxwd-qQLPRZ-65oYGb-8z4RTH-5sr3NV-4LdpSR-dTNwKQ-65oYVo-p9S65F-948wih-bnLuwk-mV6mvz-2AxWBa-7VF3XT-qHYPx6-5xQSB8-7eoLxB-b3Kbup-bG86uT-5CgvXu-5Cccs6-5CchAH-5CgypU-9SYqDh-8bhgQi-dY4cvk-ukmi2C-b99wAV">Tekniska Museet</a> via <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/">CC</a> (via <a href="http://www.microbookends.com/">Microbookends</a>)<br />
<br />
<br />
<u>Getting There</u><br />
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Six pondered, brow puckered above dark eyebrows. “Seven’s down now,” he said eventually, looking
up, eyes focusing, a hand in his unkempt hair.
“Don’t want to be meeting my One.
Guess it’ll be another Other, odds are.
Two to One, I’ll bet? Sums it up,
doesn’t it?” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Six looked around the predominantly empty room, gaze
shifting quickly. “Took me a bit to add
it all up,” he said, “but I’ve figured it now.
Totally.” Six paused. “We talked before he went, you know,” he
said, smiling momentarily; eyes solemn. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Six hugged his bony frame, pacing. “Subtract us, one from the other – or we’ll
multiply.” Six was getting there by
degrees.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
C Connollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02474566026426357023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1374953053569012632.post-54839319635848270462015-07-09T12:06:00.000-07:002015-07-09T12:06:03.947-07:00For Now Or Forever (Angry Hourglass)<div class="MsoNormal">
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4UVhEM1Nw5w/VZ7E2JM7KiI/AAAAAAAAAc4/URguFmT7L6o/s1600/Canal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-4UVhEM1Nw5w/VZ7E2JM7KiI/AAAAAAAAAc4/URguFmT7L6o/s320/Canal.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Photo courtesy of <a href="https://theangryhourglass.wordpress.com/contributors/ashwin-rao/">Ashwin Rao</a> (via <a href="https://theangryhourglass.wordpress.com/">The Angry Hourglass</a>)</div>
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<u>For Now Or Forever</u><o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
The boat is already waiting, close to the bank, with the
water lapping, as Cara approaches the edge.
As she puts a foot on board it sways slightly as her weight disturbs its
easy equilibrium. The rope tethering the
vessel swings in accompaniment. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“Fare, please,” a thin voice demands. Cara looks down, seeing the tiny hand
outstretched towards her. She frowns
slightly, squinting.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“What are you?” she murmurs, looking into the bleached face
with its dark pupil-less eyes beneath wispy strands of white hair; looking
through the skin itself, where objects behind it display themselves.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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The girl shrugs her shoulders. “Ferrymaid, for now. Fare taker forever, perhaps, if day due
Danakes remain unpaid - with lesser lads ‘n wenches.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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“I..” Cara says.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Pay up or hop off,” the girl interjects. “Others ‘ll be waiting. ‘Tis not my matter when women wish to
wander. Though we’d call it wasteful
when we’re all wanting ‘n wishing for farther in..”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“We?” Cara asks. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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The young girl shakes her head quickly. “What may be – as well as what was once,
though but half-formed; what should be, should circumstance allow.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“Large thoughts for one so little,” Cara says, brow
creased. “Do you know what they mean?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Do you?” the girl retorts.
“Since my fare’s still owing?
Will we journey - or will you bide by the Styx? Your choice; where others have little hope of
it.” After a pause, “You must be dead,
you know. By definition. I’d be
dead too by now, if I could.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“Would you?” Cara asks, shortly followed by, “Sorry? What?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“You’ll understand, in a while. ‘Tis not for me to say.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Isn’t it, though?” Cara asks. “Is there no choice in anything for the Never
Weres? Or is that Never Ares? Do you yourselves distinguish between the
two? If not – shouldn’t you?” She lets out a quick breath.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“Remembering now, a little?” the girl queries. “Though your Isle awaits. You’ll be better there,” she adds. “Forget about this; me. You’ll mean to remember. You’ll even try to – but won’t.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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“Will so!” Cara exclaims.
“God - you’ve got me regressing!”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Not possible; not now,” the girl says. “Time’s passed and ebbing.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
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<o:p>Comment</o:p></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Somewhat to my surprise this week, this story won! I received some nice praise from the week's judge (see <a href="https://theangryhourglass.wordpress.com/2015/07/07/round-68-winners/">here</a> - along with comments concerning a strong round of stories generally) That makes me this week's Flash Master!</div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ihyftrjukIw/VZ7F4_Sj4VI/AAAAAAAAAdE/CBoXTNfOASI/s1600/Flash%2BMaster.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ihyftrjukIw/VZ7F4_Sj4VI/AAAAAAAAAdE/CBoXTNfOASI/s1600/Flash%2BMaster.jpg" /></a></div>
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C Connollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02474566026426357023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1374953053569012632.post-7662777543271224012015-07-05T12:46:00.000-07:002015-07-05T12:46:27.019-07:00Where There Is Willing (Summer of Super Short Stories - Luminous Creatures)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gsIA0IulXxU/VZmHELF53NI/AAAAAAAAAcc/JLDH-8oTbt0/s1600/my-forest-dream-300x200.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gsIA0IulXxU/VZmHELF53NI/AAAAAAAAAcc/JLDH-8oTbt0/s1600/my-forest-dream-300x200.jpg" /></a></div>
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<br />
Image credit "My Forest Dream Is Still A Dream" by <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/vinothchandar/">Vinoth Chandar</a> from <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/">Flickr (CC 2.0)</a> (via <a href="https://luminouscreaturespress.com/summer-of-super-short-stories-2-week-one/">Luminous Creatures</a>)<br />
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<section class="comment-content comment" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Open Sans', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 14px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><div style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.714285714; margin-bottom: 1.714285714rem; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
<u>Where There Is Willing</u></div>
<div style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.714285714; margin-bottom: 1.714285714rem; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
Galina crosses the circle of stakes, topped by bleached skulls. A single post is devoid of a hollow eyed resident. The dark haired girl brushes her curls from her forehead; surveys them without expression, stepping forwards. Forest Grandmother’s door is before her, amidst tall trees, shifting, as the small hut jumps and rotates, atop kicking chicken legs.</div>
<div style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.714285714; margin-bottom: 1.714285714rem; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
“Turn your back to the forest, your front to me,” the girl whispers, looking up at the residence. It swings – circling to a halt, legs bowing to crouch. Now, the entrance is before her, angled towards the ground. Galina hesitates. She raps three times; sharp. The door swings open to admit her.</div>
<div style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.714285714; margin-bottom: 1.714285714rem; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
“Alone?” a voice demands. “Come close, to see.” Galina walks further into the dark room, framed solely by firelight, as bidden. A bony figure stoops before the flames, face shadowed.</div>
<div style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.714285714; margin-bottom: 1.714285714rem; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
“You lose your way, perhaps?” the woman questions. Galina remains silent but tiptoes forwards. “No matter,” the voice croaks. “Space for more, I have. You see, I think? You saw my many?”</div>
<div style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.714285714; margin-bottom: 1.714285714rem; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
Galina nods slowly, as the crone turns to face her, displaying a singularly long nose. “Forest Grandmother,” she greets her, politely.</div>
<div style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.714285714; margin-bottom: 1.714285714rem; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
“A name!” the old woman says. “Many, I have. You know of some, I think? My hut, it likes you. You speak together a little?” she continues, eyes meeting Galina’s, direct and beady.</div>
<div style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.714285714; margin-bottom: 1.714285714rem; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
Galina nods. “Some words were passed,” she concedes.</div>
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“Truth,” the crone says, having stuck her tongue beyond her lips, displaying previous few blackened teeth. “My fence admits you,” she murmurs, looking away, head turning. “As is, as must be.” Raising a finger to point, “So, you tell me! A tale!” the crone demands. “Tomorrow, again, I eat. Today, I hunger for words. So few they come, now,” she adds, a plaintive note entering her voice.</div>
<div style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.714285714; margin-bottom: 1.714285714rem; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
“My story is known,” Galina says, watching the older woman.</div>
<div style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.714285714; margin-bottom: 1.714285714rem; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
“Marinka lazes,” she responds, catching Galina’s eye and gesturing towards a figure curled unresponsive in an unlit corner. “More help, I need. Where there is willing.”</div>
<div style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.714285714; margin-bottom: 1.714285714rem; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
Galina nods.</div>
<div style="border: 0px; line-height: 1.714285714; margin-bottom: 1.714285714rem; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
“You call again, daughter mine; dark heart,” Yaga says. “When need arises.”</div>
</section><div class="reply" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #444444; font-family: 'Open Sans', Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 14px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">
<u>Comment</u></div>
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<a href="https://luminouscreaturespress.com/summer-of-super-short-stories-2-week-one/#comments">Luminous Creatures</a> recently announced their <a href="https://luminouscreaturespress.com/contest-rules/">Summer of Short Stories</a> flash fiction competition. The challenge involved incorporating the photo prompt and the phrase "tell me a tale".</div>
C Connollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02474566026426357023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1374953053569012632.post-1791796296133733992015-07-05T08:00:00.000-07:002015-07-05T08:00:05.431-07:00Weekly Solutions (Angry Hourglass)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-KvlUF5DN7PU/VZlFbae8IcI/AAAAAAAAAcA/Inrkp_2yzGQ/s1600/pie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-KvlUF5DN7PU/VZlFbae8IcI/AAAAAAAAAcA/Inrkp_2yzGQ/s1600/pie.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
Photo courtesy of <a href="https://theangryhourglass.wordpress.com/contributors/ashwin-rao/">Ashwin Rao</a> (via <a href="https://theangryhourglass.wordpress.com/">The Angry Hourglass</a>)<br />
<br />
<br />
<u>Weekly Solutions</u><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Lemon inspected the solution on the bench. “Needs a hint of sour. Can’t do a Monday without.” She eyeballed the light haired girl to her
left, brows raised.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Plus some bitters,” added Olive, to their right.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You’d know,” Honey said, shrugging.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Save the sweet for last thing Friday,” Lemon added. “It’ll need putting in first though. Remember.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The blonde girl turned towards the darker head, eyes
wide. “Just who d’you think you are,
again?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The other girl frowned before responding. “Lemon.
This week. Sorry. Always takes me a while to adjust after switches. Although you’re pretty snippy for Honey at
the minute, you know! Comes of being
Lemon last week.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Fair point,” Olive commented, to no one in particular.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It’s all right for you!” Honey said. “You’re pretty much always Olive!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Only ‘cos no one else wants to be.” The girl’s voice took on a sharp note.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yes, we know, Olive.
You’re really hard done by. Especially
compared to everyone you inflict yourself on,” Honey said, tone dry.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Including us,” Lemon added quietly. Honey smirked sideways at her sister in
response.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No need to get personal,” Olive grumped.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Lighten up,” Honey said, before adding hastily, “yes, yes,
I know you can’t – genuinely – but you get what I’m saying. We know we couldn’t do it without you,
okay? Just give over whinging about it,
hey?” She pressed fingers either side of
the other girl’s mouth, forcing them upwards into a smile. “How about sorting your section of Tuesday
and Wednesday out? You’ll feel better
once you’ve got some of it out of your system.
You always do. Remember?” Honey sighed.
“God, between the two of you, it’ll be a wonder if we get the week
sorted on time!” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It’ll get done,” Lemon said. “Always does.
Somehow.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Touch too much optimism for Lemon,” Honey cautioned. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Working on it,” Lemon said, wincing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“This Monday’s pretty dark,” Olive commented, dipping a finger
into the mixture. “Figures.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“A very Monday Monday,” Honey said, observing the murk. “Saturday’ll make up for it.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Spoils the fun,” Olive complained. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Jesus, Olive!” Lemon exclaimed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Look – I’ll be Olive next week,” Honey said hastily.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Great idea!” the other two chorused.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
C Connollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02474566026426357023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1374953053569012632.post-56401939028835284282015-07-04T04:43:00.000-07:002015-07-04T04:43:20.971-07:00The City Of Innocent Deaths (Angry Hourglass)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6nBzJBu-ViQ/VZfEyFsACfI/AAAAAAAAAbs/gBXjItley0U/s1600/Chinese.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6nBzJBu-ViQ/VZfEyFsACfI/AAAAAAAAAbs/gBXjItley0U/s320/Chinese.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Image courtesy of <a href="https://theangryhourglass.wordpress.com/contributors/ashwin-rao/">Ashwin Rao</a> (via <a href="https://theangryhourglass.wordpress.com/">The Angry Hourglass</a>)<br />
<br />
<br />
<u>The City Of Innocent Deaths</u><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Remember is scrawled onto the palm of your right hand –
uneven beneath flaking carmine crusts – the skin pale beneath the stains. You try to, obedient to the instruction – and
think you do. You recall dimly in the
dark the cauldron oil, the Pool of Blood, drowning deep; its copper taste as
you floundered, fingers grasping for purchase, before finally you swam. The moment they made you climb the Mountain
of Knives amongst the labyrinthine levels of the Courts, blades cutting quick
to the bone. There is no pain now. You cannot die once resurrection calls
you. Cold-eyed; frostbitten to the core,
you rise again. Again, once more. Brought back; you are – a Frozen Thing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Five flavours. The
words etched across your left hand – revealed when you open your fist. Now you remember the bowl, filled to the brim
with liquid, spilling as it got nearer.
You drank when bid to by Lady Dream, mouth opening to grasp the sharp
rim. You had no choice. Not really.
There was no regret. You wanted
well rid of the – fall – fist – splintered bones driven deep into your
body. Your possible – probable – life –
lives. You know – knew – what they
held. You think you do. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Water’s oblivion. The
murky bitterness of pond and herb lingers at your lips as you run your tongue
across them. Something hides
beneath. Somewhere, someone lurks.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You lift your right sleeve as far as your elbow,
frowning. The intricate lines on your
skin form a maze of marks, right, left; twists and turns leading upwards. Your brow furrows more deeply before the
lines fade.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The left sleeve. Your
fingers close around it, as the right slides back into place. You pull it up, course fabric beneath
calloused fingertips. One word. A name.
Your choice. You know the why
now. You can trace its raised scars. You do, circling the ridges. You had worried they would heal before you
knew. Before you were – again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Two arms. One
choice. Your choice. You know well now where the blade came from
which mapped your course. Confusion no
longer lingers. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Remember. You
do. You know where you must go; what to
do. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u>Comment</u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u><br /></u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This story stems from a Chinese legend about the Lady of Forgetfulness - couldn't resist writing about that!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
C Connollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02474566026426357023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1374953053569012632.post-26520406439731931512015-06-29T12:50:00.001-07:002015-06-29T12:50:43.317-07:00Of The Moment (Angry Hourglass)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-r6am3x5CBaY/VZGgtGcfYHI/AAAAAAAAAbY/TerMGtqPHhg/s1600/Gig.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-r6am3x5CBaY/VZGgtGcfYHI/AAAAAAAAAbY/TerMGtqPHhg/s1600/Gig.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u>Of The Moment</u><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The sun is high and Hel can feel it on her skin as the beat
reverberates from the sound stage. She
sways a little with the rhythm, bottle in hand, feeling the moment up against
her skin.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hey,” a male voice says.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Not interested,” she replies, without looking. “Try the beer tent. You’ll score there, for sure.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Cheers,” the voice replies more warmly. “Literally, I guess.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Figuratively, too,” Hel responds, turning towards the man. “I guess.”
She shrugs, before the corners of her mouth quirk, surveying the
dishevelled dark hair and lighter eyes as she looks upward. “Hard core tat,” she appraises. “Corruption, though? Really?”
She shakes her head, letting out a breath. “Classy.”
Her eyes roll, as her shoulder shifts away.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Where exactly did you think a guy like me would hang out?”
he asks, raising an eyebrow. “Kind of
perfect, if you think about it. Pretty
great rate of success, courtesy of lowered inhibitions..”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m sure,” Hel says, laughing openly now. “Like I said – beer tent’s where you want to
be. Best of British - though you won’t
need it, several ales in.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Spoken like a true observer,” the dark haired male
says. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Hel shrugs. “Doesn’t
take much.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You haven’t asked me what I’m doing here.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Besides hitting on the wrong women?” Hel asks, tone
sharp. “I <i>have</i> already told you.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Besides that,” he agrees, voice remaining level. “For what it’s worth.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Is it?” Hel asks. “’Cos
you can’t take a hint, can you? It’s not
like I haven’t been clear. I mean –
really – is it?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well, I <i>am</i> Corruption, as we’ve already established,” the
man says, an apologetic note entering his voice. “Seeing as you were enjoying the moment, so
to speak, I couldn’t resist stopping to chat..”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“We’re done now,” Hel says, blunt. “You’re leaving.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hedonism,” he replies.
“Took me a minute or so to put a name to the face. Got it now though. New one on me. Takes a careful eye – though once you know
what you’re looking for…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Jesus!” Hel curses, looking around hastily.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Long gone,” Corruption responds. “New Guard all the way, sweetheart. Get with the programme.” He smiles.
“Y’with me yet?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u>Comment</u></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A second story for the Hourglass photo prompt this week. This one came third.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<span style="font-family: "Calibri","sans-serif"; font-size: 11.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-GB; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> </span>C Connollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02474566026426357023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1374953053569012632.post-46810918036511475702015-06-28T12:30:00.000-07:002015-06-28T12:30:01.314-07:00A Time For Choosing (Angry Hourglass)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lN4oJ8wQ-NY/VZBKaUsqE6I/AAAAAAAAAbE/ujV-zsMhJ6E/s1600/Gig.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lN4oJ8wQ-NY/VZBKaUsqE6I/AAAAAAAAAbE/ujV-zsMhJ6E/s1600/Gig.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
Photo courtesy of <a href="https://theangryhourglass.wordpress.com/contributors/ashwin-rao/">Ashwin Rao</a> (via <a href="https://theangryhourglass.wordpress.com/">The Angry Hourglass</a>)<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u>A Time For Choosing</u><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You fetch up onshore, drenched, coughing the vestiges of the
river’s bitterness from your oesophagus onto the jagged rocks beneath your
knees. Their sharp edges are intimately
acquainted with your skin. Further into
the dark maw before you, you hear Hynos’ drowsy murmurings. “Not this time,” you say. Turning your left wrist, you see the raw
tally marks – a cluster of raised red five-bar gates across its breadth. You run a finger over the start of the next
underneath - the beginnings of a run along the length.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Here,” a voice says, thrusting a small token into your
outstretched hand. You look towards the
object gripped in your fist. Your benefactor
is nowhere to be seen when your head turns again. You gaze instead into the pitch of the cave,
from which audible rumbles echo intermittently.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Walking forward, you begin to pick your path over the prone
bodies, their oblivious snoring, towards the assembled Brothers and Sisters
lined waiting before the entrance’s black mouth. You nod to each in turn. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Choose,” Lethe says, proffering two vessels, one already
full to the brim. The other she bends to
fill from the waters running freely to her side. Drops spill over the sides as she raises it,
meeting your eyes; waiting. Your head turns,
seeing the soul to your right, who slurps greedily from an identical cup, head
thrust back to down its contents in swift gulps. A few seconds later he slumps and
swoons. The Androktasiai carry him
towards the other sleepers, all shoulders and ankles. “As ever,” one murmurs, with a sharp toothed
grin, eyes glinting.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You point at one of the cups.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You’re ready?” Atë asks.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You shrug. “I want to
remember.” You grasp the receptacle
firmly, draining its contents. The
splutters begin shortly after, though you keep the liquid down after gagging.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Remember,” Algea says, shaking her head. “You chose Mnemosyne; wanted everything.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Careless,” say the Makhai simultaneously, smirking.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“She’ll learn,” says Horkos.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“She’ll know,” adds Eris.
“Poor thing.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Your heart jumps as you feel the pressure building beneath
your skull. You feel your mouth open
without volition. Somewhere, a cry
sounds. Someone is screaming. Someone doesn’t stop. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
C Connollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02474566026426357023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1374953053569012632.post-38688928694909539482015-06-28T05:37:00.000-07:002015-06-28T05:37:12.237-07:00Cut To Fit (Angry Hourglass)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7ZlhO8gwKWw/VY_pDwDoawI/AAAAAAAAAao/C1P1z6fRHwk/s1600/Scissors.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7ZlhO8gwKWw/VY_pDwDoawI/AAAAAAAAAao/C1P1z6fRHwk/s1600/Scissors.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />
Photo courtesy of <a href="https://theangryhourglass.wordpress.com/contributors/ashwin-rao/">Ashwin Rao</a> (via <a href="https://theangryhourglass.wordpress.com/">The Angry Hourglass</a>)<br />
<br />
<br />
<u>Cut To Fit</u><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What d’you think to that one?” The voice, slightly nasal, carries from
beyond the racks to where Carey is standing near the till.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Colouring wouldn’t suit me,” another voice replies,
dismissive. “Plus, you know Bart wouldn’t
approve, considering the expense.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“He would the end result!
Don’t deny it!” the first voice says, tone loaded. “Sure I can’t persuade you this time ‘round? It’s nice sometimes to slip into something
different - try it on for size. Cut from
the finest! Great if you’re jaded.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“See, how much do you know about the cleaning processes,
Maddy? I’ve always wondered about that
side, not that I’ve looked into it,” the second voice jabbers.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“We maintain our standards rigorously,” Carey says, stepping
from behind the hanging rail, scissors in her belt. “The inspection accreditations are just over
there, if you’d like to take a look?” she adds.
Both heads, red and dark, swivel towards her quickly. “Ms Cain, my pleasure,” she greets the first woman
quickly, holding out a hand to take the lady’s with her own, smile wide. “Madam,” she nods towards the other. The redhead’s brow tilts towards him, cheeks
flushed with sudden pink. She gestures
towards the framed certificates, encased behind glass on the wall, one eyebrow
raised. The red haired woman shakes her
head slightly, cheeks burning red.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Shall we check your measurements?” Carter asks, looking at
the long haired brunette. “They’re on
file, of course,” she says, “and surely won’t have altered. Still, it’s standard for any new issue, as
you know. Particularly so with the
permaskins, though you don’t need to worry about that, seeing as this is an
overnight loan only.” A pause, then, “Your
made to measure’s wearing well,” Carey appraises, looking the woman up and down. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Thank you,” the lady, Madeleine, simpers. “I fancied blonde tonight. Dinner date.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Indeed, Ms Cain,” Carey says, face expressionless. “Everything tallies,” she adds, winding the
measuring tape about her wrist. “Here
you go.” She passes the bagged tempaskin
to the woman. “Return due pre noon
tomorrow.” Eyes rolling as the doorbell
tinkles she murmurs, “Hope she doesn’t stretch it. There’s a pre-order for that one next week
already.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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Comment</div>
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A completely different take on the same photo prompt. Always interesting to see where a photo prompt can take you!</div>
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<br />C Connollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02474566026426357023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1374953053569012632.post-68049373585861808512015-06-28T05:27:00.001-07:002015-06-28T05:27:53.467-07:00Allotted Apportionments (Angry Hourglass)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-K3UmbqB6UEA/VY_nd9IRenI/AAAAAAAAAac/_AYPdnHrDlY/s1600/Scissors.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-K3UmbqB6UEA/VY_nd9IRenI/AAAAAAAAAac/_AYPdnHrDlY/s1600/Scissors.jpg" /></a></div>
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Photo courtesy of <a href="https://theangryhourglass.wordpress.com/contributors/ashwin-rao/">Ashwin Rao</a> (via <a href="https://theangryhourglass.wordpress.com/">The Angry Hourglass</a>)<div>
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<u>Allotted Apportionments</u></div>
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Eyelids down, pitch; they sleep unknowing in their beds, as
a slim form glides into view, illuminated here and there by the streetlights’ pale
glare. Do you see her yet in your mind’s
eye? Does she call for you, tonight, the
dark daughter? <o:p></o:p></div>
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The woman’s steps are sure, as she walks, the minimal breeze
blowing her long skirts from her ankles, here and there. A pattern of knots is twined throughout,
interspersed at intervals. The scroll is
crumpled in her left hand. Aisa pays it
no heed. No need. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The Spinners crowd about her feet, either side, gambolling,
gossamer threads flying from their limbs as they jump – up down - at her
heels. Their eyes gleam; their lips
upturned – the knotted strands binding them together straining slightly as they
seek to part from their partnership. They
need no telling. They never raise the
unwary before their time. The
measurements are too precise for disruption.
So has it been written into the Weaving.
Such is the command.<o:p></o:p></div>
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With a nod, her arm stretches, fingers pointing. “There,” she says. Her crouched companions hop in front to the
nearby doorstep, fading briefly from view as they reach the burnished wooden
frame. She nods again and approaches it,
after them. She, too, passes beyond its
barrier.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Inside, alone, she pauses at a doorway. “My son,” she says. Looking towards the one alongside it, she
says, “My daughter. We will see one
another soon. So states fate’s
sight.” With that, she turns, continuing
along the corridor to the final room.
Entering, she makes her way to the bedside, where the Spinners sit
grouped, waiting. Their heads turn en
masse, looking up towards their mistress.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Aisa leans, her shadow falling across the long length of the
body beneath her. A breath in, before
beginning.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Night night. Sleep
tight, child mine,” she says, smiling infinitesimally, eyes a solemn contrast, as
she wields the sharp shears. They snip –
a single cut of separation. One more, one
less, is in their bed. No outward sigh. “Come, little ones,” she says. “He’ll follow after. The twins are still waiting.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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How many remain in her wake?
How heavy her toll tonight?</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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A slightly left field response to the photo prompt for this particular entry. I enjoyed writing it though!</div>
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C Connollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02474566026426357023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1374953053569012632.post-86447177495294228472015-06-28T03:19:00.000-07:002015-06-28T03:19:22.479-07:00FlashDogs Volume Two "Solstice : Light" and "Dark"<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-RiXVY_Ta3Qk/VY_E0UQHubI/AAAAAAAAAaE/UvBUUg1dVGo/s1600/Flashdogs-light-names-300x212.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-RiXVY_Ta3Qk/VY_E0UQHubI/AAAAAAAAAaE/UvBUUg1dVGo/s1600/Flashdogs-light-names-300x212.jpg" /></a></div>
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<br />
I'm extremely pleased to confirm that the <a href="https://twitter.com/FlashDogs">Twitter</a> formed <a href="http://theflashdogs.com/">FlashDogs</a> have recently launched their second flash fiction anthology - released as two themed books "Solstice: Light" and "Solstice: Dark", with all royalities from sales donated to <a href="http://www.thebookbus.org/">The Book Bus</a>, who help aid literacy via reading schemes in Zambia, Malawi and Ecuador. <br />
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vFrgFFGmXxA/VY_FcKu22uI/AAAAAAAAAaQ/8CYWqNGIiHM/s1600/Flashdogs-dark-names-300x212%2B%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-vFrgFFGmXxA/VY_FcKu22uI/AAAAAAAAAaQ/8CYWqNGIiHM/s1600/Flashdogs-dark-names-300x212%2B%25281%2529.jpg" /></a></div>
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<br />
The superb artwork (seen above) stems from the multitalented <a href="http://www.thedustlounge.com/">Tam Rogers</a>.<br />
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Together, the anthologies consist of 143 stories created by 48 authors - three of whom stem from my local writing group, <a href="http://thepoisedpen.co.uk/">The Poised Pen</a>. I'm honoured to feature alongside the work there and to have four of my stories included. <br />
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Feel free to sample the varied stories (each up to 1000 words only) capable of being created courtesy of four separate photo prompts and explore alternate dimensions, alien threats, the land of fairy, magic and heartache in aid of a very worthy cause:-<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Flashdogs-Solstice-Light-II-2/dp/1514267667/ref=sr_1_6?ie=UTF8&qid=1434734433&sr=8-6&keywords=solstice+light">Solstice: Light Print</a> <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Flashdogs-Solstice-Light-II-FlashDogs-ebook/dp/B00ZYT1NZ8/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1434734644&sr=1-1">Solstice: Light Ebook</a> (UK)</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Flashdogs-Solstice-Dark-Chris-Beckett/dp/151426787X/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1434734723&sr=1-2&keywords=solstice+dark">Solstice: Dark Print</a> <a href="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Flashdogs-Solstice-Dark-II-ebook/dp/B00ZYTUMIM/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1434734794&sr=1-2">Solstice: Dark Ebook</a> (UK)</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Flashdogs-Solstice-Light-II-2/dp/1514267667/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1434733646&sr=8-2&keywords=flashdogs">Solstice: Light Print</a> <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Flashdogs-Solstice-Light-II-FlashDogs-ebook/dp/B00ZYT1NZ8/ref=sr_1_7?ie=UTF8&qid=1434733866&sr=8-7&keywords=solstice+light">Solstice: Light Ebook</a> (US)</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/Flashdogs-Solstice-Dark-II-FlashDogs/dp/151426787X/ref=sr_1_24?ie=UTF8&qid=1434734058&sr=8-24&keywords=solstice+dark">Solstice: Dark Print</a> <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Flashdogs-Solstice-Dark-II-FlashDogs/dp/151426787X/ref=sr_1_3?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1434734139&sr=1-3&keywords=solstice+dark">Solstice: Dark Ebook</a> (US)</div>
C Connollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02474566026426357023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1374953053569012632.post-5732583548813301752015-06-28T02:26:00.002-07:002015-06-28T02:26:47.197-07:00NFFD "Flash Flood" (Wifely Wisdom)Yesterday being National Flash Fiction Day's <a href="http://flashfloodjournal.blogspot.co.uk/">"flash flood"</a> in celebration of all things flash fiction related, my story "Wifely Wisdom" went live over at the <a href="http://flashfloodjournal.blogspot.co.uk/2015/06/wifely-wisdom-by-catherine-connolly.html">site</a>. Feel free to check both it - and the numerous other entries - out!C Connollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02474566026426357023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1374953053569012632.post-2990602629176663242015-06-25T13:06:00.001-07:002015-06-25T13:06:39.887-07:00Possibility's Greeting (3LineThursday)Possibility's greeting.<br />
Once again<br />
Familiar.C Connollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02474566026426357023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1374953053569012632.post-91657616370481286212015-06-25T12:20:00.001-07:002015-06-25T12:20:20.983-07:00Publication Announcement (Wifely Wisdom)I'm pleased to confirm that my flash fiction piece "Wifely Wisdom" will be featured as part of the forthcoming National Flash-Fiction <a href="http://flashfloodjournal.blogspot.co.uk/">"flash flood"</a> on 27th June. My story will be appearing between 9-10 pm BST. There will be a steady stream (couldn't resist!) appearing throughout the day, so feel free to check all of the entries there out!C Connollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02474566026426357023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1374953053569012632.post-82297019800288081022015-05-30T05:14:00.004-07:002015-05-30T05:14:46.043-07:00MetamanMetaman exists within a story which creates a narrative featuring a fiction.C Connollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02474566026426357023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1374953053569012632.post-51427176483906894442015-05-30T05:12:00.000-07:002015-05-30T05:12:07.110-07:00Clockwork WeedsClockwork weeds tumble with the breeze.C Connollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02474566026426357023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1374953053569012632.post-54092555350587848032015-05-30T05:03:00.000-07:002015-05-30T05:03:49.349-07:00Part Of The Sum (Flash! Friday)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5sml3Ui-UY0/VWmj3fNtFlI/AAAAAAAAAZo/A_zS2DIScys/s1600/construction-of-the-statue-of-libertys-pedestal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="313" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5sml3Ui-UY0/VWmj3fNtFlI/AAAAAAAAAZo/A_zS2DIScys/s400/construction-of-the-statue-of-libertys-pedestal.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
Construction of the Statue of Liberty's Pedestal <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/">CC2.0</a> photo by <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/statuelibrtynps/6276757947/in/photolist-ayE2sB-7Tt4au-nmQdYV-5VemCr-9qTqa9-2471rV-3s8BkN-4XMk6h-fGkfz-dSn57K-pwfpfm-kMPcaJ-3jP9wP-5x8zJN-asF7f6-qRdJmk-8Cv1jT-5hXacN-qEEmct-bPQdw-4mu7fJ-qru82N-cDkyh-nVifwy-nv6for-63KaFK-qhLKH8-387PiC-2D33H-4zaf9b-bX5xxH-4LGiT-6bdTke-3u2HzY-idewxJ-i9XQU2-5EHVa3-4qTcVz-WZ39-c4nb9-5PzNJx-pzhHH2-cAtxiU-p2qcQJ-6un744-n6YzYM-r4Zy9t-aKji-nMqa73-nKxwCG">National Parks Service</a>, <i>Statue of Liberty c.1875 </i>(via <a href="https://flashfriday.wordpress.com/">Flash! Friday</a>)<br />
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<u>Part Of The Sum</u><br />
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One set of skinned knees in shorts. Two long socked legs hop – jump – skip. Year Three of six, added to, equalling Eleven
Plus. Percentages determine geography’s
equation, history recorded. Divided, two
part - their sum presently unknown. One
minus one is one.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Two promise as one, united faithful before their countless
congregated. Twinned rings are exchanged,
separate inscriptions catching the light.
Confetti mingles afterwards amidst her dark hair. Three tiers of carefully constructed
confectionery stand tall mid table by evening.
Two added are one.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Three form from two - wails announcing his arrival. Paired smiles contrast with intermittent cries,
interspersed with sleepy silence.
Blankets swaddle tiny tufts sprouting from an as yet misshapen
head. He is held two armed, encircled by
four. Two multiplied is three.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Two stand as one, dark clad arms holding each other, apart
from a crowd. Four trickling lines of
moisture glisten across their faces, as they stand before a lone marble tablet
bearing two dates, mere digits apart.
Two minus one leaves two.<o:p></o:p></div>
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One faces one, the table separating them. He puts his pen to the paper, scrawling. “I’m can’t anymore,” he says. Brow furrowed, she shakes her head – pauses -
signs - without meeting his gaze.
Divided, two part. One minus one
is one.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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A 210 word piece for this week's <a href="https://flashfriday.wordpress.com/2015/05/29/flash-friday-vol-3-25/#comments">Flash! Friday</a>, which had to incorporate the above photo prompt and the theme of "defeat". This one proved quite tricky to write, given each paragraph had to be exactly 42 words long to allow for the deliberate increase and then decrease in number from paragraph one through to five to add to the sense of loss at the conclusion.</div>
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C Connollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02474566026426357023noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1374953053569012632.post-73880259634930512732015-05-30T04:46:00.000-07:002015-05-30T04:46:39.169-07:00Such Stuff As Dreams Were Made On? (Treading The Boards)<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Such Stuff As Dreams Were Made On? – Associate Director Nick
Bagnall’s vision of the Athenian Court versus woodland magic proves to be a
sinister and enchanting realisation in one of the latest offerings from the
Liverpool Everyman.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
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From the start of Bagnall’s contemporary, innovative
interpretation of “A Midsummer Night’s Dream”, it is clear the audience will
see a world of mischief and wonder appear before their eyes in a production
which places firm emphasis on the darker aspects of the text. </div>
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Cynthia Erivo’s trapeze artist Puck appears from above clad as
Master of Ceremonies to introduce us to proceedings and cast her sparkling wand-slim
cane to display a predominantly bare stage backed by a graffiti scrawled
blackboard. Soon enough, the stage widens
to transform from Athenian public school and grey uniforms to paperwork forest
– its floor littered with discarded leaves constructed from the abandoned
homework or note passing musings of the student lovers, played by Emma Curtis
and Charlotte Hope (making their stage debuts) and recent graduates Tom Varey
and Matt Whitchurch.</div>
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Cleverly, the woodland floor is backed by a circus-like hall
of mirrors, creating the illusion of an extended dream forest cast back into
the audience’ eye and literal reflection in a play rife with imagery concerning
appearance and reality. The trickery
continues as, later, the woodland fairies appear unannounced from beneath the
papers – once again playing with our perceptions.</div>
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Transformation, too, is key to the inspired use of the paper
littered stage, as the scrunched leaves become bedding and blankets surrounding
the characters as they slumber – the rustling, crunching noise as they shift
whilst being reassembled adding an auditory aspect to the suggestion of the natural
world we, as audience, inhabit.</div>
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The presentation of Hermia and Lysander and Helena and
Demetrius as gym slip lovers is an interesting one, given it provides an
alternative, more modern, explanation for the irrational infatuation induced by
the love potions and sense of emotion (at the hands of the darkly mischievous
Puck) wielding control over the teenagers, who are literally and figuratively
helpless whilst its spell remains cast over them. Careless crushes rule – proving fleeting and
easily discarded once the initial intense flood of hormones fades. Meanwhile, “Midsummer Madness” abounds –
complete with hissy hits and rivalry between the partner switching couples. Happily, the energy needed to convey the
jealous conflict amidst the mischievous misunderstandings proves easy to
conjure for the young actors. </div>
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Contrary to some interpretations of Robin Goodfellow, there
is little of the jester about Erivo’s dark and predominantly black-clad Puck,
who makes solemn sport of the task of tormenting the teenagers. Here, too, the pervading use of black and
white costuming (Puck in black, the beleaguered – and innocent - teenagers in
lighter whites and greys) adds to the overarching sense of the dream world into
which we have been conducted courtesy of Puck’s cane at the outset. Into this are added the sinister midnight
hooded woodland fairies – sprites without discernible faces, reminiscent both
of masked (and threatening) intruders and suggestive of the lack of visual
clarity and confusion capable of being created mid-sleep. Clearly, the couples are caught in the throws
of a nightmare from which they can be released only once it has run its course. Thus, the pervading sense of menace increases. </div>
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Whilst Dean Nolan makes the most of comic opportunity in his
booming Blessed Bottom, who proves energetic enough to perform an almost
perfect (and definitely impressive) on stage splits, his character, too, is
subject to nightmarish transformation, donning a spectral, equine skull visually
reminiscent of the legendary midwinter Grey Mare – a genuinely shocking sight
as he rises from the paper piles he has previously been hidden by.</div>
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By the time the characters spin in circles at the conclusion
of the play, their frenzied dancing parodying the off-kilter surfacing from
dream to reality, we, too, welcome the return to the world of the concrete from
that of dark dream and illusion.
However, even post conclusion, we are left with the overwhelming sense
that, though the couples may have escaped their woodland nightmares, there
cannot be a happy ending for all. Here,
Curtis’ sulky Helena’s refusal to walk with Demetrius infers that any illusions
she may have had concerning her now partner have been removed in her eyes,
leaving disenchantment in their wake.
Whilst a departure from general interpretations at the denouement, this
adds a suitably shadowy note to the concluding Act – suggesting that sometimes
what we want is not necessarily best long-term, if we but knew it. A suitably adult lesson learnt by the young
girl, perhaps. Thus, we leave slightly unsettled
in the wake of our interlude in the company of the cast – a final trick to
leave us wondering about reality and its permutations as we depart.</div>
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<o:p><u>Comment</u></o:p></div>
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<o:p>I was lucky enough to watch <a href="http://www.everymanplayhouse.com/">Liverpool Everyman's</a> "A Midsummer Night's Dream" a while back and, since it had been a while since a review article had featured here, I thought I would share the result.</o:p></div>
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C Connollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02474566026426357023noreply@blogger.com0