A story of up to 2000 words in length, to be submitted by March 30th please, by mid-night, as a post on your own page, with a link to the comments here–
and to include the following words
penknife
string
milk shake.
If you wish use the prompts to get your story, but you don’t have to!
No entries so far….
And now for Something Completely Different!!
Below there is a list of questions for you to answer.
On a scrap of paper jot down a few ideas that spring from the questions and try not to look ahead to the next question until you have written your response to the previous one. Give yourself a couple of minutes at least for each question, if you can .
(I will insert picture spacers to help stop your eye jumping to the next Q)
Use the ideas that come from the questions to help you start a story… you can of course remould your answers as your story dictates.
Here goes:
QUESTION 1
Think of a person you know by sight but haven’t met properly. Describe that person – What he or she looks like, maybe their character traits, a favourite colour etc…
“Androgynous- philosophical. Androgynous- philosophical. Androgynous- philosophical”
The elongated click of the railway sleepers ran a rhythm in Karl Marx’s head as the Edinburgh train heading towards Dundee, slowly approached the Tay Bridge. Continue reading “Tay Bridge 1878”
The Journey’s Start
Even as we waited at the coach station I had misgivings. We had been planning this for months – but now Laura had a boyfriend, and that boyfriend, Sam, had come along to see her off on our trip. They stood under the bus shelter engrossed in one another, as if I wasn’t even there. He was tall and blond: slightly androgynous in my view. I suppose I could see what she saw in him, though was so completely not my type, he was very much hers. She fitted neatly under his arm when they walked along side by side, wrapped in each other, her thumb in his belt loop or fingers in his back jeans pocket. His height emphasised her petite frame and her delicate prettiness. He had to tilt his face down to her upturned one to kiss her. They said nothing much and I realised, when I looked up again from checking the tickets that she was crying. Continue reading “Short Story for Low Wattage”
It was a grey morning in November when my brother decided that enough was enough. Of course this wasn’t an instant decision; it had been creeping up on him for some years. Slowly, of course, but nevertheless it had been on his mind.
My journey of exploration through his life on reading the journals he kept, though painful, revealed such a miasma of tragic occurrences that I could not believe how the Church had kept a lid on all this.
On the whole, he had not been outwardly unhappy; one could almost have described him as contented. Good old Philip with the worthy job, the perfect wife and a couple of well-behaved children. The two girls had inherited their mother’s looks according to my brother, whose relationship with his daughters seemed tolerant but slightly distant.
Looking back, his parishioners did begin to see the changes, although being abroad at the time, I only discovered this at the funeral. He grew his hair, appeared unkempt and frequently relied on his Rector to conduct services at short notice. He grew more unreliable at time went on, and this inevitably was brought to the attention of the Dean.
Continue reading “The Journal: February Short Story Competition”
Sorry to hog the page, but some things get my goat.
Does anybody here think we or anybody else knows what really happened when Meredith Kercher died? No. Nor me. So why on earth does any civilised judicial system allow Amanda Knox to make megabucks on a ‘very thoughtful, reflective and serious book’ deal with a respectable publisher?
Some things are worth raving about.
I’m off! Not a flounce, but I’m off to visit the UK or what may still remain of her on February 22nd. It’s my sister’s seventieth birthday in early March and I promised to take her out to dinner. How she has arrived at such a great age is beyond understanding as I am still a young fella. So judging this one may be a bit complicated, but I will have sufficient electronic hardware with me to manage a smallish space mission so I expect it will be achieved.
Theme? Yes, in keeping with the activity the title is “The Journey” the required words are “androgynous” and “philosophical”.
Fond as I am of the novel form I am restricting this one to a minimum of one thousand and maximum of two thousand words (sorry Ferret).
Closing? Let’s make it midnight (GMT) on the very special day, February 29th 2012 .
Many thanks for the entries. What a horrendously difficult task this has proved to be! Continue reading “Results of January Creative Writing Competition”
“There was really nothing he could do but be patient. Freedom could come in the next hour, or the next century, or never.”
Hugo registered this thought and decided it was intensely irritating to deal with a creature who regarded any division of time smaller than a decade of no particular importance. Continue reading “January Short Story Competition: What then is time?”
Those deck chairs were a waste of time. There we were sitting out all night to be first in the queue for signed copies of Jeremy Clarkson’s new book, eating our packed lunches, chasing away scavenging foxes and arguing with late-night revellers as they mocked us on the way past.
“Where are your sunglasses?”
“The Germans are up early as usual”.
Now it was two in the afternoon and we were still the only two people to have turned up at W.H.Smith’s so far. We were standing at the back of the shop in front of an empty desk set up for the promotion; we had folded the deck chairs and placed them in front of Louise Doughty’s books; I don’t know anyone that would ever read that heap of compost. At least in an hour’s time the great man was scheduled to appear. Continue reading “Waiting for Clarkson (Jan C/W)”
Boadicea's Chariot 
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