Showing posts with label story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label story. Show all posts

Saturday, April 3, 2010

Muse Wars 7: Beam Me Up Scotty


Originally started by Melissa @ The Things I'd Tell You, the Muse Wars continued with the 2nd challenge set by Tanya(me) @ Meaninless Meandering From a Madmother, and the 3rd by Kakka @ Menopausal Mumma, the 4th challenge by Lori @ Random Ramblings of a SAHM, the 5th challenge by Gemma @ sometimes you just need to vent., 6th challenge   @ Menopausal Mumma,  Challenge 7 by Lori @ Random Ramblings of a SAHM. whoever links first will pick challenge 8.


Are you up for it? Anyone can join in, you just need to write a story as your interpretation of the photo in around 500 words (although this limit was removed by Melissa in the first challenge so it is merely a suggestion).

Tall,  and still as a statue, he knew his father would be proud. The third generation in this chosen occupation he took great pride in his heritage and his work. Not many nowadays followed the family calling. Not many nowadays were up for what they considered to be an archaic career choice. He knew a lot of his peers considered him strange for taking this little needed path, but he had never cared what others thought. Only his family, always his family. The light of respect that shone in his father and grandfather's eyes when he came home for those rare breaks was enough for him. He needed no more.


 A gentle ocean breeze blew past him, but he betrayed no movement. It was a glorious day, the kind that always made him that little bit homesick when he thought of long, sunny days and bright blue cloudless skies. Home where it never rained and each balmy day blended into another. Home where his family waited patiently for this tour of duty to end. Home where he could be himself.

Without a doubt he was almost ready to leave this lonely place, as beautiful as it was. There was only so much solitude he could take, and six years was a long time. He knew his replacement was being groomed, but it took time to train in this ancient century-old art. Just a little longer, he thought, just a little more patience. Only three more days until the new moon, then he would be free to depart.

He stood, stoic, solid, duty-bound as the sunny days blended into moonlit nights. He gathered all his data, collected any drops of information that came his way. At last it was time.

In the dark of a cloudy moonless dark night, the neighbourhood rumbled with roaring thunder. On the rocky outcrop his body shuddered and moaned, slowly coming to life after the six years anchored to the ground. In the distance another tall, solid identical intelligence agent waited to replace him. By morning no-one would even know he had been replaced, and he would return to the home planet with his wealth of earth data for the scientists to analyse this primitive planet with its lack of technology and soft-fleshed vulnerable inhabitants.

His family would welcome him, their bright lights flashing in emotion, as he settled back into his portal base on the edge of the purple sea of molten hydrogen. Where the four suns always shone day and night.

Monday, March 15, 2010

Challenge 4 Muse Wars: The Things We Do For Love

Muse Wars
48 hours 500ish words - Let The Challenge Begin...


The loud blast of an angry car horn made Jenny leap, only the strong biting grab of her seat belt saving her from slamming her forehead on the steering wheel. With a muttered curse she continued her kerb crawl ignoring the louder and louder beeps behind her. They could all go to blazes, this mission was too important to rush. Struggling to peer into the garish glare of the seedy shopfronts, Jenny scanned each hooded teenager throroughly, slowly, intensely. Where the hell was Immie, and what on earth was her seventeen year old daughter doing sneaking out of their hotel in the dead of night? She could not believe that her normally sensible child had changed almost overnight under the influence of an on-line acquaintance. This new Immogen was an absolute stranger to her own Mother. The once sweet dark-haired beauty had been transformed into an angry, sweatshirt-clad, sullen punk. She had even tinted her glossy brown hair with some sort of murky purple dye, though Jenny supposed she should be grateful that there were no body piercings or tattoos to worry about. None that she could see anyway.

The kerbside crawl continued. Cars now weaved around her snail-pace vehicle, drivers screaming abuse as they flew past. She had no idea what she would do if she could not find Immie. She was in a strange land, with no friends or contacts to call on... well none she wanted to renew connection with if she had a choice.

A glimpse of a plum haired beauty under a darkened hood quickened her pulse. Is it? Craning forward, Jenny rolled down the window for a clearer look. Only then did she notice the grey-haired man holding her child in his suit-clad embrace. Dear God, he was so much older, even in her wildest imagining she had not expected this.
"Immogen!" Anxiety raised the pitch of her voice, shrilly splitting the underlying night murmers. The couple turned, dismay warring with relief as Immie recognised her mother. The companion merely sheepishly shrugged, appearing resigned and prepared for this confrontation. Her anger overrode concern, and Jenny thought she could easily kill right then. How could he act as if this was not a big deal, what sort of a person was she dealing with?

"Hi Mum." Her daughter's defiance resurfaced, shock receeding quickly. She pulled her reluctant companion over to the now stationery car. "Aren't you going to say hello to Dad?"
Shocked brown eyes met the bemused brown gaze of her former youthful indiscretion, thought long left behind in her agonised dash back to Australia.

Damn internet, once Immie knew her birth father's name she would not be deterred from this destructive path. The web made the world so bloody small sometimes.

"Hello Ari. Long time no see."



Monday, March 8, 2010

Challenge 2: Look Not In My Eyes for Fear

HER:
The icy cool of the smooth glass soothed her burning skin for a fleeting moment before the tabletop began to burn with a fire all of its own. It ignited the throbbing of her temple which seemed to echo right through the whole structure, creating a hypnotic drumbeat pounding down to her fingertips. Oh, how she ached to scrape her burnished black nails across the sleek surface but Teagan refused to break the aloof pose. She lay, forehead pressed to her distorted reflection, determined to hold him with her green-eyed gaze. She would not even blink, not whilst he was trapped. The pounding of her heart ecstatically joined the rhythmic chorus as the blood pulsating through her veins leapt to consummate this ancient dance. To the onlooker it appeared she dare not breathe, her very stillness the ties that bound him, frozen. It was a war only one would win.

HIM:
He sat, waiting, watching, willing her to break. Silently his dark eyes beseeched her: "Let me go, free me, give me the chance to dance once more in the sunlight..." Still she gave no mercy, showed no flicker of compassion for his pressing needs. He knew she would not grant him liberty, he could only pray for a fleeting chance to escape. Surely she could not stay encased and motionless forever, could she? Braedon allowed a shiver to break free to ease his fears. The sun would be setting soon and it would all be too late. Would no-one miss him? Was there no chance of reprieve? He swallowed the lump in his throat that threatened to choke him. He would not give her the satisfaction of breaking his pride, he knew it was part of what she craved. Control, domination, debasement. He knew he could not show any weakness, he had to keep his turbulent emotions repressed, hidden away from her piercing stare. With a deep bracing breath he looked through the long black lashes, his malt whiskey eyes tremulously meeting her emerald green glare.


THEM:
She stood, her dark tresses flowing forwards to frame her pale face. He started, too shaken by the sudden movement to try and escape, standing still imprisoned in her burning stare. He waited for the harsh chanted words that would destroy all hope. His breath came in fast shallow gasps, he wanted to cry.

She turned to him, her hand outstretched, her mouth began to move.

"Well, come on shrimp... you win, we'll go trick or treating now. Though I still think going out in the daylight sort of spoils the fun. But I guess you are allowed to be scared of the dark when you are six."  His heart leapt with joy... Who said big sisters were no fun?




Things I'd Tell You - Challenge 2 of the Muse Wars!


As the first to respond to Melissa's challenge I have been delegated the responsibility of the next. Same thing. A blog challenge to the writers amongst us - aspiring or professional.


Again, a pictorial challenge.Tell her story. You have 48 hours to tell us all about this female. SO blog people, whatever your muse or mind tells you to. First to report back with a link gets to pick the next pic or challenge.

Saturday, March 6, 2010

Things I'd Tell You Challenge - Walking Away


Clack clack clackity clack... The staccato of her steps eerily echoed around the empty foyer as Claire nervously glanced over her shoulder. So far so good, no-one appeared to halt her purposeful progression to the door.
"Going somewhere?" She freezes like a rabbit in the high beam of a hunting ute. God no. She was so close to escape.
"George? You were sleeping so soundly I didn't want to wake you."  She summons forth her most dazzling smile, revealing her bleached pearly whites to their best effect.Turns to face her captor. "And after our late night," pauses lowering her lashes suggestively, seductively, "Well, I thought you could use some well-earnt rest."

"Ah, my sweet, but why the bag?"
"This? Oh, I'm just taking some of last season's purchases down to the consignment shop. It was your idea, remember?"
"You mean my cutting up your credit cards, and closing your accounts with the designer stores? Or the fact that I had the audacity to suggest you might like to look for employment?"
"Oh George, darling. I know you really didn't mean it, you were just angry with me for my silly splurge." Claire prettily pouted and leant forward to lightly run her peach pink fingernails through the tantalising tuft of chest hair peeking above his unbuttoned shirt. "And I thought we made up last night?" She allowed a becoming blush to shade her already heated cheeks. Pink was so her colour.
The pitiful yelp spoilt the effort as George tightly encased her hand halting movement. He pulled her close, enfolding her against his chest as with other arm he seized the suitcase she held within her grasp.
As he pinned her to him, he deftly opened the clasp on the luggage. Out tumbled the bright array of her new purchases, incriminating tags flashing the immeasurable cost of her addiction. The evidence of her lies flowed across the foyer floor like silken traitors. Claire cautiously raised her sullen gaze to George. Meeting his look of dismayed disgust she knew she had gambled and had lost.
"Oh Claire..."

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

Envy is my Middle Name...

I have had a few requests for me to post this piece since I linked Judith's Room back in this post. I didn't realise at the time that you need to be a member to read the blogs. And so here is my entry for the blogging theme ENVY.

Envy is my Middle Name...

I want him. I want him so much my palms sweat at the mention of his name. I tingle in anticipation when I know he is meeting HER because I will see him once more. He is coming again tonight as if he cannot get enough of her. But she is dirty, tainted. The things she allows him to do are not pure and loving like that he would share with me. Oh, if only he could see me I know he would never cast a second glance her way, but she will never allow that. Life is so unfair. I am sure she is taunting me, flashing me limited glimpses of their unbridled lust. I have never known a man's touch, SHE would not permit it. I think I have been saving myself for him, he is special. I am sure he is THE ONE.
 
Was that the door? Is he here already? The night has passed so quickly as I dreamt of him, of us. Oh, he is here, I must see him, I must! This time she will not have him for he is mine! What is she doing? Why is she holding that knife? I must have spoken aloud, she has heard me, she knows I want him. No, you must not, not again - YOU always spoil it for me, ALWAYS! The blood, so much blood and his beautiful eyes finally meet mine, but her image is the last he has seen. Why does it always end so? Am I destined to never be free? Why me, why not HER? Why can she not have a turn trapped inside this shell, shoved aside, locked deep within unable to break free? Why does she always get the chance to be with them when all I can do is grab shattered glimpses of life and love. One day I will escape, and she will be trapped within this one body we share.


I want him. I really want him. This time I am positive he is THE ONE. He is coming tonight, desperate to taste her tainted lips...



Tuesday, December 15, 2009

A Little Creative Spark Lit



Today an idea was born. A tiny germ of an idea. A story, or more to the point a series of short stories linked to a central character/theme. All because I was looking at a book of Maeve Binchy's short stories. I love the way she links them so simply, and brings them all to life.




Maybe all this blogging has refined my skills, and re-ignited the spark. We'll just have to see what I come up with...



Saturday, September 5, 2009

I have an idea,


or maybe it is more of a germ of an idea. I am going to start writing, letting my imagination rip in another blog. It will be totally ficticious and in no way related to my real life, merely a figment of the vivid workings of my brain.

I have not made up my mind as to what form this will take. A series of short unrelated stories, or a diary-like journal from one central ficticious character. Will have to wait for the germ to blossom into more.


Watch this page, or maybe not. To post incognito there can be no obvious links!


Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha...


The real truthfulness of all works of imagination, sculpture, painting, and written fiction, is so purely in the imagination, that the artist never seeks to represent positive truth, but the idealized image of a truth”
Edward G. Bulwer-Lytton