Friday Fictioneers: “Lady Macbeth”

 

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So, here’s a thing. I’m kind of losing my interest in this here blog. Given the huge disparity between “number of blog viewers” and “number of books bought,” I hardly think this is a useful self-promotion tool. I think this is just becoming more of a place for me to practice with various short stories that I may or may not do anything with. Like those Miniature Narrative Projects. And Lorequest is fun. Maybe I should just focus on doing that/those.

We’ll see, it’s almost a brand-new year, after all.

 

Have fun~

 


 

 

Image Copyright: Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Image Copyright: Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

 

Title: Lady Macbeth

Genre: Realistic Fiction

Word Count: 100

 

 

Beauty within, beauty without. That’s the old saying, right? The voices in her head were no longer holding their dread council. And so, like a room cleared of all its furniture, Violet’s mind was her own again.

But she thanked heaven and smiled into the mirror. The voices had told her beautiful, terrible things. Those “late work nights,” the “business trips.” How could she have been so blind to her husband’s clichés?

The red beneath Violet’s nails didn’t mar her new glow. She just applied more soap and gave a toothy once-loving smile for the mangled man in the tub.

 

 

 


 

 

It’s also possible my newfound disillusionment with writing comes from the fact that it’s Christmastime and I really should be spending my time doing something else.

 

 

 

Good luck, you brave writer folk!

 

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Miniature Narrative Project 2015: Part 2

 

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So, I think I may have lied when I said I was going to be doing this once every 2-3 days. But now that grad school applications are done, who knows, I might end up doing it after all.

 

Have fun~

 


 

 

PART 1

 

Title: One Look Rings an End

Prompt (from Daily Prompt): You walk into your home to find a couple you don’t know sitting in your living room, eating a slice of cake. Tell us what happens next.

 

 

 

The Duke, as a much younger and happier man, opened the door to his new home. The inside smelled immediately of well-washed wood. The rains had been heavy of late and the clean water must have soaked through the house all the way from the roof down to the wooden beams.

The town was still all abuzz from the Duke’s wedding. Such holy joinings were met with a reverence not seen anywhere else in the world. Furth used to be a town that had a lot more going for it. It made train parts, of all things. Strange for a town so small with barely a factory to call its own. Little workshops and busy, taut-with-muscle arms took the place of steam-driven machines. Sure, it took the workshops weeks to craft something that could be churned out in a handful of hours elsewhere but the products of Furth weren’t just pieces of machines, they were works of art.

So with every new matrimonial joining came the idea of a new rebirth for the town. It was a particularly good omen if the Furth native married outside of the town, as the Duke did. This, of course, meant that the town had to celebrate the whole affair for days on end. The drunk littered the town like strewn bodies even now, three days after the wedding.

The Duke shut his door behind him. Hopefully the wedding cake was still good. Maybe all of the damp air helped keep it moist. Actually, the cake was sitting out on the coffee table. It had a conspicuous chunk missing, cut like a wound, facing the two occupied chairs in the front room. A man and a woman sat in unseasonably thick clothing, fur collars and all. They ate the cake from golden china plates that the Duke never remembered having.

“It’s an awful big cake,” the man said. “Seems a lot for two people to eat.”

“Doesn’t seem to bother us,” the woman said with a little laugh. “I hope you don’t mind that we saw ourselves in.”

The Duke, against all logic and reasoning, sat himself down across from the pair. In a town as small and congenially conjoined as Furth, this wasn’t exactly the strangest collection of people found in someone’s house.

“You don’t know who we are, do you?” the man asked.

“If I did,” the Duke said, “I would’ve greeted you both properly.”

“And yet still he remains confident, unfazed,” the woman said, leaning over to the man as if she meant her coy speech to be a whisper.

“I’ve heard of much stranger people and things going on in people’s homes around these parts,” the Duke said. “Right after a wedding, ambling houseguests are as dependable as the spring rain.”

“Pastor Abelard’s trouble with the rancher and his cows certainly gives credence to that,” the man said, sitting back. “I’ve heard plenty of stories of wayward people but never so much as a head of livestock. Your wedding will go down in the town’s history for more than one reason.”

The Duke leaned forward onto his elbows. He pulled the curtain away from the window and squinted towards the man. His face was mostly hidden by a large three-cornered black hat which was lined with dark orange fur around the lining.

“You’re not a resident,” the Duke said. “I’ve lived here my whole life but I’ve never seen somebody like you. Unless you’re some traveler that Phil never showed the rest of us.” Philip was so very proud of his inn. Every guest he had, whether they were just staying for the night or for half of their lives, would be given the grand tour of the town by him alone. And nobody ever piped up in disappointment. Which may have been because Phil would never really shut up the whole tour.

“Yes,” the man said.

“Yes to what?”

“To your question.”

The woman laughed, hiding her mouth behind her hand (though her gums were shockingly visible as her lips curled away. Just like how the Duke’s own wife laughs. Her face was also obscured by a huge dark hat, one that sat at an angle that spat in the face of gravity. A thin black veil protected her face like chainmail. “Don’t torture him, my dear.”

The man sat back, crossing his arms. The Duke uncrossed my arms and sat up straight. “I’m a traveler,” he said. “But Phil never had to show me around town when I lived here my whole life.”

In one smooth, outright regal, movement, the man removed his hat and tucked it under his arm.

The Duke fell back into the chair, his breath scrambling away with fear in its weak little heart. The man across from the Duke has his face, he wears his hair, and he smiles just as the Duke would.

The Duke’s brown hair was auburn on the smiling man and his skin is frightfully pale compared to the Duke’s well-worked tan. A long scar wound in a circle around the man’s eye— the golden one. The Duke’s own grass-green eyes shrink back into his skull. Now, this mysterious visitor’s only still-green eye looks sick, the colour of infected skin. The green eye winks at the Duke. The golden eye’s pupil disappears into a molten sea. One blink and its back.

And suddenly the Duke felt more at home than he ever had in his entire life.

The Duke’s wife comes in through the front door. She sees the guests and smiles, her gums showing frank and resplendent as her lips curl away. And the Duke smiles back at her for a reason that sounds like a song in his head but has a feeble scream at its center.

 

 

THE OTHER ENTRIES

 


 

 

Pingback:

<a href="https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/unexpected-guests/">Unexpected Guests</a>

 

I should compile these little mini-stories I make on this site (and boy there’s a loooot of them out there) into some kind of compilation. What are those called? Oh yeah. Books. That’s what they’re called.

 

 

Good luck, you brave writer folk!

 

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Flash! Friday: Final Double Feature

 

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That’s not the title of the actual entries. It’s just that this is the last time Flash! Friday is doing its flashy Friday thing. It’s been fun, if incredibly stressful.

Speaking of stressed…

 

Have fun~

 


 

 

Title: Time, Stampeding

Word Count: 100

On Friday everything changed.

I was a young man on Thursday. On Wednesday I was a fountain of imagination. On Tuesday the world was studded with diamonds. On Friday, as sudden as a startled breath, I felt ragged. Old friends are now a world away. New friends are mere theories.

All my joints ache and my thoughts come halting, like they’re all flying backwards to neater, better times. There’s no snow in the middle of winter and I feel a great unbalance in my world.

If I convince myself I still have the young man’s pulse, perhaps it’s actually true.

 

 

 

I was going to write something else here. But then I lost all of my energy and most of my will to live.

 

THE (LAST OF THE) OTHERS

 


 

 

Nope, still stressed. What a way to send it off, huh.

 

 

 

Good luck, you brave writer folk!

 

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Friday Fictioneers: “Growing Pains”

 

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Wow, I actually have inspiration to write something coherent this time? AND I have a new idea for Lorequest? Amazing.

 

Have fun~

 


 

 

Image Copyright: Luther Siler

Image Copyright: Luther Siler

 

Title: Growing Pains

Genre: Realistic Fiction

Word Count: 100

 

 

If mom says I’m having growing pains (or did she say I was the ‘growing pain’?), this duck is going to redefine the term. My little brother shouldn’t be playing with stuffed animals anymore anyway. An old remote-control robot of mine will wear this duck’s skin just as good.

I send my Frankenstein (which squeaks like a dog in pain) into Ronnie’s room, to scare the prissy girliness right out of him.

He squeals. I run to see, to laugh in his blubbering, snotty face.

But Ronnie’s hugging the stupid thing like it just gave him a kitten for Christmas.

 

 

 


 

 

Beeble dee bee, it’s off to bed with me!

Because I stayed up too late. Again. Too much to do on these stupid stupid Fridays.

 

 

 

Good luck, you brave writer folk!

 

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The Daily Post 11: “Climate Control”

 

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I’m actually doing one of these BEFORE midnight! Which means I might actually get it done and not fall asleep in a lump!

 

Have fun~

 


 

 

Title:

Prompt:

 

I definitely say that climate has some kind of effect on people’s moods. I mean, ba-dur. It doesn’t have to make any kind of consistent sense, though. Like how some people love hot summer days and I think that just outside of the window is the world slowly being baked to death beneath the unflinching fire of the sun. So to heck with that, time to completely steer myself away from this original point!

So I prefer to think about how weather can affect your thought processes and imaginations. Like how storms for me charge up something deeper and more brutally natural about the world. So, I’m further developing a philosophical trend of thought for a novel/novel pair of mine that involves the trinity of Machine, Sentience, and Nature and Nature certainly isn’t the way we like to think about it on our padded modern world. Nature, as we like to think of it now, can be easily corralled and persuaded to move or be removed so it can fit neatly into our little gardens or groves out behind our homes and other nice stuff like that. When in reality, if nature had its way, it would tear off our faces and wear them as trophies after sucking all the nutrients from our brains, of course. So when I see stuff like thunderstorms and droughts and snowstorms and hurricanes, I can’t help but be reminded just what the ruling of the world’s natural order is:

Humanity likes to think it’s at the top because of its creation of machines that allow it to survive the natural world. And yet, without that assistance, humanity would be consumed in an afternoon by a system that doesn’t care if it lives or die. Nature doesn’t care for art or culture or great legacies because it created all of those things in its earthy, pulsing womb. All that has been created or ever will be created is the product of the natural forces around us that provided all of the atoms and materials and the laws of physics and energy that makes every one of our human creations (from the material to the imaginative and existential). Again, when I see storms blasting bolts of sky-splitting energy or a rainstorm turning a desert into an ocean of flowers (Have you seen those Atacama Desert pictures? That’s what I’m talking about!), it makes me realize just how tiny we humans still are, even with all of our machines. Everything that we make seems to have an edge of disdain for it- disdain for the natural world that seeks to disempower and unmake us at every turn. I suppose that’s something that we humans can be thanked for, the feeling of scorn that drives us to pursue progress at an almost homicidal rate just to ensure that we aren’t subsumed by a force that can crack the freaking sky open with a flick of its finger.

I think I had an ultimate point I was going to try to get at with all of this but now I’m afraid I’ve lost it. Oh well, that’s part of the fun of doing these- the point arises from the process. It also helps that this is usually how I make my little diatribes. I usually just make noise and say things until I realize there was a point there all along that I just wasn’t able to see.

I suppose I could say here that it’s not just weather that affects our moods but our moods affect how weather appears in our eyes- from something to be afraid of or annoyed back to something from which all awe and self-reflection as a person and as a species springs.

If that was all a bit too high-brow of you, here’s a stupid thing I made up recently:

Being killed by Satan should now is called (by me and nobody else ever), “brimstoning.”

 

 

THE OTHERS

 


 

<a href="https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/climate-control/">Climate Control</a>

 

 

There was another dumb thing I made up that I wanted to add up there but then I forgot it. You’ll be spared, readers, this time.

 

 

Good luck, you brave writer folk!

 

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Flash! Friday: “Land of the Lost”

 

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I think, in honour of my first Flash! Friday entry, I should coincide similar satanic themes with this penultimate entry. It was going to be creepier at first, but I had too much fun randomly capitalizing words to make them seem important. Which automatically makes it biblical, I guess.

 

Have fun~

 


 

 

Prompt: Photo Prompt and Character (Hunter)

Title: Land of the Lost

Word Count: 160

 

Sometimes they come to us from darkened forests, their eyes wide and deer-like. Others fall down from the burning sky, flailing as if they were trapped in fog. Some are young, some are old. Most go mad when they see our welcoming smiles. The rest are worth all the Kingdom’s gold.

I see myself as a connoisseur of sorts, a hunter of the forlorn and lost; when they show up in our town, it falls to me to shepherd them. The most spirited and fiercest of fighters are the best catches; my butcher-eyed friends see them as a challenge. After all, the stronger the wall, the more spectacular the fall. And the greater the faith, the stronger the convert.

It’s ironic that when our Great Enemy finds His precious ‘lost children,’ He won’t like what He finds.

I should write a letter to the Boss: ‘Curiosity should become the eighth deadly sin.’ He’d get a hellish laugh out of that.

 

 

THE OTHERS

 


 

 

I think I laid this on a bit thick this time around but hey, if Mr. Stan can be the subtle master of lies, he can also ham-fisted and brimstoning. Death by Satan, now called “brimstoning.”

Hilarious!

 

 

Good luck, you brave writer folk!

 

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Daily Prompt 10: “Non-Regional Diction”

 

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It’s a two-post day today? How very strange. The moons must be in alignment. And there must be two moons… both are disturbing to consider.

 

Have fun~

 


 

 

Title: Non-Regional Diction

Prompt: “Write about whatever you’d like, but write using regional slang, your dialect, or in your accent.

 

 

So, Iveardtha we from Cheecago don’t really hear out own aixcent. I, personally, try to undo the most nasally part of the aixcent. At the very least, I don’t pronounce Cheecago as “ChicAHgo.” I think that just kinda sounds stupid. And yet, I really like learning mor’abou other regional differences in language across the US. And elsewhere I s’pose. Fr’instance, we Cheecagoans refer t’eh tennis shoes as “gym shoes.” I guess because we were always using them in gym class back in school. Also, dijuknow that only Illinois people think it’s right to end sentence with, “with?”  My friend Alec, hoo’sfrom Michigan,  thinks its kinda weird that weecan’ask people if they’d wanna, “come with,” if we’re goin’ somewhere. Instead’ov asking, “do you want to come with me?” Jus’seems wordy to me, honestly.

And I wa’sexperimenting earlier today with m’new microphone. And I think I remember pointing out just how strange my voice sounded sometimes. And I thin’kthat comes from my weirdly gravely voice that’still somehow high-ish pitched. Like I swallowed a cheese grater. Also, there’s one parta’my-mouth that doesn’t really fully open all the way, which makes it’sound like I’m slurring or mumbling more than I usually do.

Som’than-tawork on, I guess.

 

 

THE OTHERS

 


 

 

Pingback:

<a href="https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/non-regional-diction/">Non-Regional Diction</a>

 

I would have gone on further but even those one-and-a-half paragraphs took me about half an hour to do. Which is just too long to dwell on one post!

 

 

 

Good luck, you brave writer folk!

 

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