Friday Fictioneer: 3rd April 2015 – Learning the hard way

Wow, this is almost becoming a habit, and we know habits are good, right? Thanks to Rochelle for running this weekly event.

Several possibilities were pondered for this strange doorway, but I’m reasonably pleased with what came up.

This week’s photo prompt by Lauren Moscato, submitted by Amy Rees

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’:

Friday Fictioneer: 3rd April 2015 – Learning the hard way

COMMENTARY: The Art World’s Self-Serving Lies

“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.”

THE REMODERN REVIEW

Dilbert%20DT070913

image by Scott Adams

BEING SMOTHERED IN THEIR OWN TANGLED WEBS: BBC News Roger Scruton’s “How Modern Art Became Trapped by its Urge to Shock”

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.

“In this way Duchamp’s famous urinal…

View original post 519 more words

COMMENTARY: The Art World’s Self-Serving Lies

Friday Fictioneer: When Ben Burned Down the Bandstand

A strangely psychotic piece this week – think it was partly prompted and crystalised by everyone’s shock, including my own, at the hideous air crash where the pilot apparently very calmly flew himself and 150 other people into a mountain – for no good reason (all will probably be revealed, I suppose). Still, fucking unbearable to think about. Shudder.

This act of senseless brutality freaked me out and filtered its way into my story, though it’s also still inspired by the band picture. Apologies to the band people btw 😉 At least this guy has a clear motive for his dreadful actions, however dreadfully weak.

**********************************

Friday Fictioneer
By Dave Stewart

Bandstand Burn

When Ben burned down the bandstand, he didn’t seem the chap. He’d always been a nice guy,  we’d never heard him snap. But his one true love was music, and he had longed to play. But talent at it he had none, and the band drove him away. We saw him sulking in the park, although he waved and smiled. A light had gone behind his eyes, his grin it scared my child. We don’t know where he found the fuel, but he waited til the fayre. Then one match, poof, and up it went, and discord burned the air.

****

Thanks for reading and feel free to review constructively. Follow the blue frog and you  can read all the other 100 word Friday Fictioneer stories 🙂

 

Friday Fictioneer: When Ben Burned Down the Bandstand

Sunday short story: 100 Words – Green

Started as a Friday Fictioneer, but as it’s now Sunday, I’ll just say it’s a piece of writing inspired by the photo from here:

The inspiration. All I saw at the first glimpse, was the green...
The inspiration. All I saw at the first glimpse, was the green…

Green

An alien ship died overhead, spraying bright juice from degraded bowels. Hungry fluid chewed all life it touched. Insatiable green turned the trees to bone sculptures, fuelling a fast-growing, acidic moss that spread faster than I could ever hope to evade. Clothes burned to nothing. Everything suffocated. Holding my breath, I dived in the fountain. Water thickened with alien weeds. Moss clambered around my spine, flowers bloomed atop my screaming lips. Planets burst behind my eyes. Emerald stars burned my lungs. I swallowed the universe. Green was warm. I wondered numbly, nerves dissolving, if there were worse ways to go.

Sunday short story: 100 Words – Green

Friday Fictioneer: 100 word story ‘Under The Stump’

Friday Fictioneers I haven’t attempted this in a while, though I have spent a lot of time doing the 750 words.com challenges, which I highly recommend. It is, though, very gratifying to carve out a few thoughts in the 100 word limit of Friday Fictioneers, with the bonus of some human feedback. This is a bit of an experiment. If you don’t run screaming, then thank you for reading:

Under the Stump

This week's inspiring image 'Frost on a Stump' by Sandra Cook
This week’s inspiring image ‘Frost on a Stump’ by Sandra Cook

Under the stump, the wee folk lived like kings. Under the stump, they supped blackberry wine and ate gooseberry jam and hot salted meat from puffs of wheat. Under the stump, there was a cold harsh heart asleep. Under the stump, a cockroach fought with a weevil. Under the stump, the wee folk made their bets. Under the stump, the wee folk taught ‘no regrets’. Under the stump, the sun was a myth. Under the stump, the spiders sought their juicy flesh. Under the stump, the wee folk were warm all winter long. Under the stump, they were safe from snow.

Feel I’m channelling a bit of the Arthur Machen, and Blackwood fairies here, if that’s what the ‘wee folk’ are.

V2

Under the stump, the wee folk lived like kings. Under the stump, they supped blackberry wine and ate gooseberry jam and hot salted meat from puffs of wheat. Under the stump, there was a cold harsh devil asleep. Under the stump, a cockroach fought a weevil. Under the stump, the wee folk bet on the weevil. Under the stump, the wee folk taught ‘no regrets’. Under the stump, sun was a myth. Under the stump, the spiders sought their juicy flesh. Under the stump, the wee folk were warm all winter long. Under the stump, they were safe from snow.

Friday Fictioneer: 100 word story ‘Under The Stump’

ARTICLE: Tracey Emin, 1984, and the Cult of Celebrity

Whilst I can see some interesting things about the YBA (not so young anymore…), this also makes some very valid points about the doublethink required to appreciate them…and whether it”s finally had its time, Very interesting article on the state of art today.

THE REMODERN REVIEW

View original post 91 more words

ARTICLE: Tracey Emin, 1984, and the Cult of Celebrity

Short Story: The Will

Jane had been down here a long time…

This is an original piece written by Joanna K Neilson:

dry-well

The Will

Worry gnawed at her bones. Her stomach was so empty it no longer hurt and she couldn’t remotely remember the softness of a bed. It was hard to sleep down here, in the cold darkness, with rats running over her feet and nibbling at her whenever she passed out from exhaustion and pain. No, there was nothing left inside her to shake off the misery, to fight for a way out. She was broken and beaten and wanted to die. He had destroyed her. What was left was a stringy, starving thing that could barely remember kindness or her life before these curving walls, kept in this dingy cellar space that stank of rodent droppings and her own filth. Her captor had grown bored of her, that’s the impression she had whenever he appeared recently. As if she were inconveniencing him, the fucker. If she had more energy she’d appreciate the irony. Instead it fuelled the one spark of energy she had left.

Jane’s hate surged up from her misery, became a single furious knot of will. Then a fat fucking rat ran across her matted hair. She grabbed it and bit down into its neck, sucking at the hot blood, trying not to gag on the furry, wriggling body. She sucked down all the insides of the rat and spat out its less palatable parts. That was better. Continue reading “Short Story: The Will”

Short Story: The Will