No, you didn’t miss it. Last week’s writing prompt was preempted by Valentines. I did post on a prompt on social media, but even I didn’t like it. Instead I wrote up what I think is a killer Valentines poem (could have been on a Hallmark Card!). Too bad, you’ll never get to see it though as it is securely in the hands of my dearest 😉
This week however, the Random Word Generator gives us something good to work with. Here are three images that work horrifyingly well together. Have at it and remember to post your work, or a link to it, in the comments below!
Some of you may have read this before,but I want to announce the publishing of the followup to my short story, ‘The Death of Marcus Wells’ on my own blog. This piece of flash fiction is both the epilogue to my published short story and an excerpt of the novel I am working on titled ‘Jagerund’. Please enjoy!
It was late when Emily tiptoed into the room. Unlike most of the other rooms in the abandoned monastery, this one was well-lit. Several oil lamps surrounded the table on which the corpse laid and pushed back the darkness that seeped from the stone walls.
Marcus’ back was to her, his shaggy light coloured hair hung over his eyes as he bowed his head toward the table. So engrossed in his work was he that didn’t notice her enter. His forceps moved methodically, gently separating the human flesh from the parasite that had infiltrated the now deceased body.
She cleared her throat gently. Read more->
The authors at Xchyler Publishing were challenged to come up with a flash fiction based on this picture. Here’s what I whipped up:
‘Estelle picked her way through the piles of debris. She had walked this room a thousand times, but never through destruction such as this. What had happened here? There was no storm, no earthquake, yet the furniture lay strewn and destroyed all around her. The once ornate walls bled crumbled plaster.
Her heart skipped as she realized that the destruction was not total, but centered around the table she worked at last night. The table at which where she left the book—the book that could not be opened. As she approached she saw the tome laying quiet and still among the debris. In the pale morning light an eerie silence coated the room. What secrets were bound so securely, that the book could not be opened even by her strongest spells?
With its covers now splayed wide, the pages of the mysterious book fluttered gently in the breeze that slipped through the shattered windows. Estelle’s pulse quickened as she lifted the book.
The pages were blank. She trembled as the realization struck. The ancient secrets had been stolen, or worse yet escaped . . .’