I waited patiently, veiled in frosty shadow, as Mary’s man set out for the mines. My heart drummed, nervous hands perspired; the only sound, the faintest whisper of snowflakes falling onto the cobblestones. She glanced towards the shadows; the door left ajar.
These 42 words, answering the question, ‘What time is it?‘ form my entry into this week’s yeah write Microfiction challenge.
Where once blood dripped into the sands, and betwixt the very cracks of the arena wall, a silent shadow now witnesses naught but weeds and moss. Where once honourable men, and many less so, fought to a noble death, small birds flit innocently across the warm, drifting sands of dawn.
Underneath a climbing sun the shadow begins to fade – as once again the forgotten gladiator takes his leave of the stage. A stage where once he thrilled and pleasured the people; a stage where he too met his own bloody end at the sword of one more worthy, more honourable – a new champion.
These words form my entry into this week’s Friday Fictioneers photo prompt challenge. They also form a belated dedication to the memory of British actor Andy Whitfield, star of Spartacus, who lost his own final battle in 2011, after a fight worthy of any legendary gladiator.
Frank’s wife had passed only last summer, but he never felt alone in their rambling, brick house on the corner of Mill St – not with his bugs. Some folks whispered he was a bit strange, he didn’t mind, maybe he was.
Frank woke as the brass clock began to chime four; a still warm fire crackled in the hearth.
The walls of the library were covered in dusty, framed plates displaying spiders, moths and beetles of all size and colour. On the armchair opposite, plush red sleeves and fluffy white cuffs glowed in the firelight.
He’d need to hurry – the children would be waiting.
These words form my entry into this week’s Friday Fictioneers photo prompt challenge.
A sign hung loosely from the rusty gatepost.
‘Keep Out or Die!’ it screamed, each letter glistened a sticky red – likely written using her own blood.
The bushes on the other side of the bridge trembled; branches snapped and cracked under less-than-dainty footsteps. A set of sharp, blue eyes suddenly appeared, peering out through the foliage of thick, green undergrowth. She was watching; readying her defences.
Even though she was my sister, and nearly nine, there was three of us and the invasion was set for noon – a new King of the Island was soon to be crowned.
These words form my entry into this week’s Friday Fictioneers photo prompt challenge.
It was mid-July – it should’ve been 80 outside, instead it felt more like 50. Glistening Icicles hung from the twisted branches of Mr Ebdon’s Apple Blossom tree. Sun-beaten kids used to dusty, humid summers pelted each other with powdery, white snowballs.
The crackling transistor in the kitchen announced the main road to Franksville was now blocked: the whole midwest had been thrown back into winter.
As the day darkened the flakes continued to fall – heavier with each fresh, frozen flurry. Nobody seemed that worried, most just fooled around. But I was worried: this meant something, and I was sure it weren’t something good.
These words form my entry into this week’s Friday Fictioneers photo prompt challenge.
