Found this an incredibly interesting article with a deep amount of information about horses and horse behaviour, down to texture and their eyesight. Sharing here and keeping it saved as it will undoubtedly be useful for future stories.
The bells chimed 3pm as I, Seb, Sally and Manny chased down the back street, laughing. The figure at the far end made us stop dead. Taller than any man, slender form cloaked by material that absorbed sunlight, it had a face none of us could later recall, although it extended a skinny index finger to unsmiling lips. The sun went in, we glanced up, and then the figure was gone. Cautiously we approached, found only a black cat sunning its belly.
Seb returned there the next day, a car hit him, and he died promptly on the 3pm chimes.
Well, I took the image below as inspiration, but the image I’ve added underneath quite nicely sums it up! Thanks to Rochelle for hosting these 100 word challenges, as always.
Auntie waited by the window all winter. Her drool left frozen dark brown streaks as she scratched at thick frosted glass, her yellowed teeth gnashing. Weeks passed. Auntie watched. As I reluctantly chewed up my last shred of beef jerky, and penultimate multivitamin, birds began to squawk and chirp outside. The pane had turned from grey to deep blue. Curiously, I squinted beyond. The snow was dotted with green shoots, and Auntie had become a pile of meat-flecked bones under the window. Excited, I finally prised my way out of the cabin, to explore what was left of the world.
Thank you for reading, comments are welcome!
For more Friday Fiction by other writers, please click on the little blue frog below.
It could transform into a balloon, a small dog, a tree, a copy of the Mona Lisa, or, this time, a small stone hovel in the Scottish wilderness. It seemed so innocent, and might have stayed there for centuries, posing for cute photos in a picturesque setting, eating hikers and foxes out in the wild, but it got unlucky. A lady reported it chewing up her husband and her best friend while she’d peed, luckily out of its sight. Of course we had to fight and destroy it, the battle ended by flamethrowers. We emptied the bones from its belly.
Thank you for reading. Constructive comments welcome.
For other 100 word Friday Fiction stories, please click on the Blue Frog below!
Warning: This went a little dark, I reckon – I saw that huge glossy shadow in the lower section and was totally drawn into it….
Keep your eyes peeled, girl.
They move between dark places when the shadows shift. Between buildings. Inside homes.
My neighbour was left with a cave for a face.
They spread in shadows, their domain increasing as storms get fiercer, knocking out power, soaking firewood. They caused that too, of course. Moment they landed here the bastards were blotting out our sun.
So never blink. Be vigilant and you’ll catch a lifesaving glimpse. A spidery leg here, a scuttle at the corner of your eye. Shoot the bastards.
Keep ‘em peeled, girl. Here’s a razorblade. I can help, if you’d like?
Almost alone on a semi-deserted junk world, Kaylee badly missed her beloved Benji-dog.
But she’d finally found a new friend within the scrap heap.
The dusty robot gratefully consumed all the batteries she’d scrounged. He sucked thoughtfully on each one, his red headlamp eyes growing brighter, and his spiny fingers twitched and rusty claws flexed.
“KB is ready,” KB finally announced in a scratchy, staccato voice.
“So we can play?” she said.
“Yes, Kaylee.” said KB. “What shall we play?”
Razor sharp teeth chomped the last cell.
“I have a great game,” she grinned, “Huntin’ the varmints who murdered Benji!”
As always thanks to Rochelle for hosting this 100 word inspiration on her blog. Also please follow the blue frog at the bottom of the page if you’d like to read other 100 word stories by fellow Fictioneers.
The Broken Trainset
Shattered, I broke the little engine laughing at me beneath his ripped track. I stomped and stomped the tiny chimney, crushing Thomas and tubby Controller, smashed them brutally underfoot. I snapped and crushed, scattering miniature railway onlookers, terrorising all with my giant’s tread. The rest was a red mist until I dropped my beer can, slumped in sofa.
Blood dripped through my sock. The sitting room wrecked. It had been a long night. I hurt all over. Now I couldn’t even flog the fucking trainset on ebay. I was gonna get my legs broke. Twisted Thomas grinned at me – I.O.U.
Because I can’t believe I’ve only just heard about Leonora’s work over the last couple of months, and this is a fabulous article contrasting her approach (which feels contemporary with Frida Kahlo meets Chagall) compared with the more ‘macho’ surrealists.
Several possibilities were pondered for this strange doorway, but I’m reasonably pleased with what came up.
Learning the Hard Way
Serena and her daughter, Ruby, were arguing. Bernard watched with interest from his porch. “I can’t do it!” Ruby clutched her schoolbag, shaking her head. The mother, clearly at her wits end, shoved her right out the door. The little girl plummeted toward the pavement several metres below. Bernard’s heart nearly burst in horror. Ruby’s terrified scream split the morning air. Then came the reassuring swoosh of furious wings. Ruby crowed above him. “I did it!” and swooped gleefully above him, laughing, her mother close behind.
Bernard, wishing his mother had done that, waved enviously from his street level porch.
Thank you for reading, any and all constructive criticism welcome 🙂
Also, follow the blue froggie below for fantastic 100 word stories written by other ‘Friday Fictioneers’:
“William Blake, one of the greatest artists of all time, understood the connection. “The foundation of empire is art and science remove them or degrade them and the empire is no more — empire follows art and not vice versa as Englishmen suppose.” Empire in this sense doesn’t refer to a specific form of government but more so a culture, the authority of a way of thought, a sense of shared values. Our post modern friends would refer to this as a hegemony.”
Key quote from the article, a summary of how the contemporary art world conspires to inflate inferior productions and specious reputations:
“Originality requires learning, hard work, the mastery of a medium and – most of all – the refined sensibility and openness to experience that have suffering and solitude as their normal cost.
“To gain the status of an original artist is therefore not easy. But in a society where art is revered as the highest cultural achievement, the rewards are enormous. Hence there is a motive to fake it. Artists and critics get together in order to take themselves in, the artists posing as the originators of astonishing breakthroughs, the critics posing as the penetrating judges of the true avant-garde.