Flash! Friday: Looking for Life…

Photo Source: shenandoahvalleywriters Flash! Friday

They were looking for life…but in all the wrong places. No atmosphere, no ocean, no luscious land, like I said, looking in the wrong place.
While they scoured the dry surface their bounding steps resonated through underground caverns, hidden valleys of green, crystalline ceilings and overlooked the most abundant prospect…life.

(50 Words)
@LastKrystallos

Written for Flash! Friday Week 6 with Rebekah Postupak and Shenandoah Valley Writers You can follow Rebekah on Twitter at @postupak.
Write a story for the prompt in only 50 words.

Thank You for Believing in Me

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Many bloggers are contemplative during January, looking back and looking forward…I want to use this post to say THANK YOU.
Thank you to everyone who has supported my writing and my blog, and to all who’ve taken time to comment on my pages, or review my book!

This time last year I began getting to know some amazing writers and readers online: Blogs, Twitter and Facebook…and I’d like to share a post I wrote a year ago (before I knew many of you!). Thank you for believing in me!

The Future belongs to Those who Believe in the Beauty of their Dreams.

Eleanor Roosevelt had it exactly right…the future really does belong to those who believe in their dreams…

How many of us started out with huge dreams…the kind that stretched far, far beyond what we can see? How many of us played in the woods building forts and defending them from intruders and dragons, or by the ocean building sand castles and trenches? Were you so lost in books that you felt the Famous Five were your best friends? Did you skirt the local park with dark glasses searching for villains and opportunities to spy or use your magic super powers? Did you build Lego towns and fill them with adventure? Did you play ‘Pooh Sticks’ or race paper boats down the river? Did you draw fantastical pictures and wait at night for them to come alive? Were your stories so magical you slipped into them when you dreamed at night? Did you make mud pies and feed a family of dolls and teddy bears? Did you dream? Did you have dreams so strong you were sure you would achieve them?

I did…I knew exactly what I wanted as a child… I wanted to own horses, to spend my days galloping across mountains and valleys… I wanted to live by the ocean and swim in the sea every day… I wanted to write and see my stories published… I wanted to draw and paint and illustrate… Yes, I had dreams…

To be truthful, some were just childhood imaginings, fun, playtime. I was never going to live in the forest and defend my homestead from dragons…
I had ambition, as a child I wanted to write and draw, and I did, making books from A5 paper…I devoured Cicely Mary Barker’s ‘Flower Fairies’ and made up my own, stapling pages together and inventing rhymes to go with them. I bought tiny A6 notepads and wrote stories, lost in a world of my own. I drew, sitting on my bed with a sketch pad, my tongue protruding as I concentrated on my art, sketching for hours.

Images by Lisa Shambrook (Please do not use)

My dreams grew with aspirations and ideas as I got older, just as my art did. From the crude pencil drawings of a ten-year-old, to more sophistication at thirteen and more mature at nineteen. My dreams grew up…but not always in a good way. I became cynical and reserved in my dreams, trying to think of things that could actually happen, things that weren’t too lofty for me to achieve…and perhaps that’s just where I began to lose them…

I began to doubt myself, my ability and question the reality of the things I once wanted. Was I good enough to illustrate, or to write something that people, real people, would actually want to read? That doubt, along with the realities of life, leaving school, getting a job, getting married and having children, stopped me from pursuing those things I’d dreamed of all my childhood.

I don’t blame anyone, I just let life take over and my dreams faded like an old masterpiece hung on a wall that no one does more than glance at, left to saturate in the glare of every day sun.
I could have been more than the sum of what I am right now…that does make me sad…there is so much more I could have achieved. It was when I was thirty that I decided I could become more, that those old buried dreams deserved a second look. And I began to write.

Self-belief has taken a lot longer…however, slowly over the years those shattered dreams have come alive, my writing has fed my aspirations and words that I thought would never interest anyone have become the tool for rebuilding those dreams.

So, yes, it’s true I have never found myself dwelling in the woods defending my little wooden fort from all things evil, but those dragons I used to chase off in my imagination, now live on paper. I believe in them, I believe in me…and that’s where it all starts…the future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams…I intend to believe in mine.

Once again, thank you for believing in me!

55 Words #41: Punishment

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Source: www.publicdomainpictures.net feet in chains

Incoming tide reaches just about eight feet at its full height. I’m just over six foot and the chain’s slack is about two feet, give or take.
Survival is about numbers, strength and stamina.
They’ll all watch, but I’m fine with that.
Don’t feel bad, if you’d done what I did, this would be you.

(55 Words)

Written for Lisa McCourt Hollar’s 55 Word Challenge #41.

Five Sentence Fiction: Midnight

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Image by Bekah Shambrook (Please do not use without permission)

She shivered violently as fear chilled her to the bone, and her heart pummelled her rib cage as the reassuring murmur of the television downstairs ceased.

She pulled the covers over her head and breathed softly, her hot breath creating a claustrophobic atmosphere of suffocation beneath the duvet.

The landing light clicked off, pipes clanked as the central heating went to bed and she surfaced from her cocoon. Frigid midnight air chilled her face, lacing her mind with frost, and she stared with wide eyes into the blackness of her bedroom.

She gathered the duvet tight around her shoulders and waited, hiccupping with portentous tears and resignation, and when the demon arrived there was nothing left but silent despair.

Check out more amazing writers at Lillie McFerrin’s Five Sentence Fiction.

Twelfth Night Masquerade: Neglected Masque

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Photograph by Lisa Shambrook (Please link if used)

Source: www.flickr.com and pinterest.com

Neglected Masque

Blake didn’t mean to stare, but many years away out on the battle front meant he’d not seen any frivolity, let alone so many beautiful women in quite some time. Silken dresses, yards of them, coiled around his legs as he passed through the whirling dance, intoxicated by mystery and opportunity. Never had so many hands brushed his and masked faces caught his eye with tantalising promise.

He watched through his simple, leather bandit mask and scoured the low-lit ballroom; searching for only one face.

And when he saw her, clothed in olive-green velvet, he moved swiftly to her side.

Alicia was alone within the writhing mass, like a pale-rose amongst a meadow of gaudy blooms, and his fingers urgently sought hers. She turned, startled, and her plum-coloured lips opened in surprise. His mind reeled as his memory raced rewinding to the moment, years ago, when he first kissed her beneath the orchard blossom, those same lips now quivered as she interlaced her fingers with his.

“Where is he?” asked Blake and she shook her head. “Your husband…” bitterness bit deep, “the life and soul…”

Then he saw him, his brother, and his finger loosened his bronze cravat as scarlet rage rose. The buffoon held court amongst businessmen and loose women, and Blake watched as the man’s hand trailed across the breast of the woman in his arms. The lewd whisper in her ear, her wanton giggle, and the suggestive way his hand stroked down her spine and across her much-padded behind, was too much. Blake grabbed his brother’s wife and swirled her onto the dance floor. They danced until he could bear being so close to her no more, and he danced her out of the ballroom and across the lawns to the old willow.

“Come away with me,” he begged as his hand cupped her face and moved a spiralled strand of hair, away from her slender neck where it masked an angry flourish of purple.

Her eyes glistened behind her emerald mask and she shook her head. He tenderly kissed her temple and fingered the green heart tied at her neck with brown ribbons. He released the ribbons and growled as the honey-green jewel dropped. The choker hid pale bruising and his eyes smarted as he took her wrists in his hands. He concentrated on the Murano glass beads around her delicate wrist. “Does this bracelet hide bruises too?” he asked softly. A tear rolled from behind her mask and he released her as she pulled away. She drew out a chain, concealed behind her corset within her bosom, and pressed the locket into his hands. Blake’s trembling fingers opened the familiar treasure and stared at the old, browned, but cherished photographs. His and her teenage eyes stared back; he closed the locket and held her close. Time was running out.

* * *

Blake stood opposite his brother on the morning’s fresh, dewy grass and chose his pistol.

Today he would reclaim his beloved family jewel.

(498 Words)

Written for Darcy to Dionysus Twelfth Night Masquerade contest.

There be more to read from other fantastic writers…go and enjoy them!

12 Days of Christmas: Moon

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It’s the final day of 12 Days of Christmas and this is my final offering, with a nod to the lovely @Rowanwolf66…and thanks for hosting this fun and inspirational Blog Hop.

Photograph by Lisa Shambrook (from my calendar!)

Moon

Some thought she was a witch, others thought she was gypsy, she didn’t care what anybody thought, as long as people stayed away.

The cabin was out in the back of the woods, and she had few visitors, if any, which was just how she liked it.

People could gossip and talk as much as they liked, providing they kept themselves out of her business, and they did, on both counts.

She kept herself to herself, coming into town just twice a week to collect supplies and trade. She grew vegetables that surpassed any grown in the region, and flowers, and made tinctures, tonics and sweet wine.

The old women watched her with wrinkled wisdom, the middle-aged women with envy and the young with curiosity. The old men, middle-aged and young men…just watched.

A young girl living alone was a danger, they’d say…and they should have been right.

Such was her beauty that some men made it through the forest in the deep of night, just for a sight of the maiden or for other unsavoury reasons, but rarely did any make it back without scratches and wounds and tales of a voracious hound, and some didn’t make it back at all.

She danced as dawn crept over the horizon, sang as she worked, and wandered through the woods in search of plants. As night fell and the moon rose high in the indigo sky she returned home, and nothing worried her.

They townsfolk were right she should have been vulnerable, but for the wolf that lay across her doorstep every night.

And every full moon she left her door wide open and the wolf crept up the stairs and into her bedroom, and under the silver rays her husband was hers, just for the night…

(296 Words)

A Jar of Fireflies 12 Days of Christmas

Day Twelve: December – Moon

The stories have been amazing…check them all out!

12 Days of Christmas: Feast

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Today I rebelled…12 Days of Christmas offers up to 300 words to tell our stories and today’s Feast needed eighty-three more in the telling! My OCD usually keeps me to word counts, but today I’m rebelling!

Photograph by Lisa Shambrook (Please do not use without permission)

Feast

Jamie hated supermarkets.

His weekly shop was monthly, once a month and his trolley contained ready-meals, Pot Noodles and a bag of apples.

Two things changed: his mum sent him a cook book, by his namesake, and Joanne started on the checkout. He knew her name because he studied her name tag every week when he went shopping.

The frozen meals became meat and, god forbid, actual vegetables.

Slowly, once a week became twice, and herbs found their way into his basket along with mushrooms and onions, and Joanne smiled at him as he put his groceries into bags, reusable bags.

Jamie’s cooking expertise did not come naturally and when Joanne commented how much she liked swede as it passed through the till, Jamie blanched, he had no idea what to actually do with the said vegetable, but he smiled and nodded like he did.

Joanne chatted away as he packed and Jamie grinned and nodded in all the right places, knowing that if he spoke, his words would run away with him and trip right over his tongue and he’d never be able to speak to her again!

“Lamb, my favourite!” she said.

Jamie smiled, tongue-tied.

“So what’re you making? Oh, silly question…lamb, obviously…”

He nodded.

“I’ve got a great lamb recipe I’ve never tried,” she said flushing under his gaze. “I got Jamie Oliver’s book for Christmas…”

“So did I!” he managed.

Her smile grew even brighter. “You did! It’s just…I’ve no one to cook for.”

He knew his grin was stuck and it wasn’t going to move.

“What about you?” she asked, “Anyone?”

He shook his head and squeezed out the words. “No one, just me.”

“I’m sorry, I’m holding onto these like an idiot!” She placed carrots into his bag. “Well, I hope the lamb tastes good!” Jamie paid and grabbed his bags, his stomach twisting.

Before he walked away Jamie’s mouth moved of its own accord. “Joanne…I really have no idea how to cook lamb, in fact I’ve got no idea what to do with most of these vegetables…”

“I can help…” she offered tentatively, “I’m finishing in ten minutes.”

“I’d like that…” Jamie’s stomach flipped, like a burger on a grill, as Joanne’s smile lit up his life. “I think it’s time I opened that recipe book!”

(383 Words)

A Jar of Fireflies 12 Days of Christmas

Day Eleven: November – Feast

Follow the other writers and stories!

12 Days of Christmas: Spirit

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A tale of possession awaits Day Ten of 12 Days of Christmas:

Photograph by Lisa Shambrook on Flickr

Spirit

She didn’t know what thrust her towards the cemetery, an unusual shortcut home, but she saw him kneeling at the grave, unaware, as she hurried through the church gates. Unwilling to disturb him, she walked quickly down the York flagstone path. As she passed the grave she shivered and her face tingled in the cold chill of winter’s evening. At home, she barely glanced in the mirror before settling for the night with a hot chocolate and book, so her green eyes turned blue, was a surprise the next morning.

It was a perverse desire to see the grieving man again that took her through the graveyard another night, but he was gone and the chill that surged through her was one of guilty disappointment.

Two more nights, and the shortcut became an obsession, but he was never there.

Cold nights played havoc with her hair, curls loosened and her locks darkened almost as black as the raven watching on a nearby tomb.

The cemetery became familiar and the grieving man a memory until two weeks later when she bumped into him, dropping her bag, as he wandered down the cobbled path. He raised his head, stepped aside and paused as their eyes met. His eyes lit up his tearstained face as he stared at her, and his hand reached out to touch her arm and shivers twisted down her spine.

His apology coffee became a meal and two weeks later she crossed his threshold. She shivered and glanced in the mirror by the door; she’d lost weight and grown taller. Then she noticed the portrait, ebony hair and blue eyes, and she suddenly knew why he adored her. He watched as the silent raven landed on her shoulder, shivered possessively and vanished…and his love was finally home.

(298 Words)

A Jar of Fireflies 12 Days of Christmas

Day Ten: October – Spirit

Take time to read all the other stories…

55 Words #40: Never Forget

12 Days of Christmas: Stories

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Day Nine of 12 Days of Christmas …and it’s: Stories, we all love stories!

Photograph by Lisa Shambrook (please do not use without permission)

Stories

“Could you stay behind please Cara.” Cara sat back down at her desk and spent the next few minutes pulling fluff bobbles from her school jumper.

“I wish you’d foster that kind of attention on your school work, rather than your uniform Miss Langston.” Cara jumped as Mr Lewis approached. “It’s been noted you’re withdrawn, that maybe, you’re not happy…that maybe…”

There was a knock at the door and his face relaxed. Mrs Taylor walked in. “Sorry I’m late, bit of a rush!”

They both regarded Cara with such seriousness she wanted to laugh.

Mrs Taylor spoke softly. “Cara, we’ve had some concerns and just wanted to be sure you’re okay?” Cara’s shoulders relaxed, maybe they were about to address the bullying. Mrs Taylor continued. “It’s obvious you haven’t been happy this term…”

Only this term, thought Cara, they haven’t watched me that closely then!

“If we can help…” Mr Lewis flicked through her English exercise book.

“Is this because of my story?” Cara stared straight at her English tutor. Mr Lewis cast a sideways glance at Mrs Taylor.

“It is isn’t it? It’s fiction you know! All made up!”

“Of course it is!” Mrs Taylor smiled, “Just that if it wasn’t…”

“It is.” Cara rubbed her forehead, “I have an overactive imagination.”

“It’s very lifelike, very real…”

“But it’s not,” insisted Cara.

“But you understand why we’re concerned?”

Cara flushed. “They’re just stories, things I make up and write down…”

“Is there anything you’d like to tell us? We’ll always be here.”

Cara shook her head and after a moment Mr Lewis dismissed her.

The school was so intuitive…fiction had raised alarms, whilst her reclusive state at the hands of bullies was missed. Cara didn’t trust the school to put a plaster on her finger, even less a psychiatric overhaul!

(301 Words)