Flying Without Wings

Friday Fictioneers time again. A weekly 100 word photo prompt hosted by the delightful Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. I have to admit my inspirations flagging a bit this week, so am looking forward to the other masterful creations to spur my creative juices back into shape. Get yourself over, follow the link and have a go.

lengai_summit_from_crater-danny-bowman

They walked along the path, their hands almost touching. A sense of anticipation caught in the air, like a thousand tiny light bulbs flickering in the wind,

Are you sure?

I think so,

Don’t think,

I have to,

No you don’t, just do it,

Then what?

What do you mean, then what?

When we’ve done it,

You’re going to do it?

Huh huh,

Oh…I don’t know, I didn’t think that far ahead,

You never do,

That’s not fair,

I know, I’m sorry,

It’s ok to be scared you know,

Is it?

Sure, it is.

Are you?

Nah, I’m no virgin, I’ve been hang-gliding for years.

Watching

Here is this weeks attempt at the Haibun Thinking Challenge. Haibun is a Japanese literary form that combines one or more paragraphs of your written narrative (prose) with a concentrated (short) poem – the haiku. Hai stands for haiku, bun stands for prose. It’s a great way of getting your creative juices flowing, why don’t you follow the link and have a go.

There are 2 pictures to use as your prompt, I’ve used the one below –

02-michelangelo-cherubs

A plump wrist reached out, hesitated and then withdrew. Gabrielle thought if he could just touch the notes, catch the music on his fingertips, he would be able to feel it, touch it and keep it forever. He didn’t speak, didn’t make a sound. He didn’t want anything to make the music stop. It reminded him of summertime and sunshine, of hayrides and lemonade. A time before the blackness came, before everything changed.

Micheal was bored. He was cold and tired and he was so hungry his head hurt. He opened his mouth but Gabrielle glared at him and he snapped it shut again. This music was rubbish. He looked back over the balcony at the shapes below, squinting his eyes to focus on the delicate swathes of grey and black that criss-crossed and danced. He flicked his eyes, open – shut – open –shut, fascinated by the kaleidoscope darting back and forth. It made his head hurt more.

At the back of the crowded room the first flicker of flames leapt from the candle to the curtain. Gabrielle and Michael saw the shimmer of red gold snap forward, retreat, and then snap back again; each stroke gaining just a bit more ground. Within seconds the curtain was engulfed, a few seconds more and the flames raged higher. Gabrielle smiled as the music played on. Michael watched entranced.

From out of the flames a cloaked figure rose from the shadows. Black as night and just a encompassing.  Gabrielle and Michael heard the muted cries of the crowd below, their prayers rising higher as the heat grew stronger. The cloaked figure stood majestically in the chaos and fear, slowly raising out its arms.  Gabrielle and Michael were ready. Sucking in a lung full of air they both looked towards the closed doorway and blew. Like the breath of God the swirling mist of air thundered through the flames knocking the oak door cleanly off its hinges, allowing the crowd to escape. The hooded figure turned, dropped to its knees and disappeared.  Death would not feed today.

*

From innocent eyes,

Comes redemption and escape,

Angels watch and wait.

Afternoon Tea

Well, here we are at Sunday again. Time for Alistair’s Sunday Photo Fiction. A 100 – 200 word weekly flash fiction prompt based on the photo provided. Follow the link and have a go and read the others who have been drawn into his web of addiction…

The Mangle

By mid-afternoon there was already a steady stream. Business was brisk. The four little tables set by the window were all taken. Each laden with china cups and saucers and silver stands overflowing with delicate fancies and tiny crustless sandwiches, cut finger thin.

Jane watched from the back.  An old lady sat in the corner, a beautiful diamond and ruby set brooch pinned to her cashmere shawl. Expensive tastes, Jane thought. She watched the old dear as she lifted up a sandwich, salivating at the smoothly layered pâté spread between the slices of bread. The tip of her tongue snaked a trail of liquid anticipation across a pair of thin lips and Jane couldn’t stop herself from smirking.

Ten minutes later, the diners were so busy devouring the savoury perfection that nobody noticed the old lady’s chair swiftly slide behind the screen then return, empty, with nothing out of place. Whilst in the basement Jane got to work quickly.  The heavy hammer and saw making swift work of her newest carcass. An hour later the pâté mixture was ready for the mangle. The key was in the smoothness of the mixture. Popping the diamond and ruby brooch in her apron pocket, Jane smiled. Grandma’s secret recipe was working its magic again.