‘…and tonight the witch shall be punished for her sins, her soul purified. She shall taste the wrath of the Almighty…’ the priest was shouting at the highest chord his voice could muster. With each invocation of the Lord’s name, his eyes dilated and his hands trembled; lost in self-righteous ecstasy. Continue reading
I watched him as his hardened eyes focused on the screen; men in camo covered in dust, a mike shoved under their unwilling mouths, replying to questions in a rehearsed monotone. Colour abandoned his face, shriveled out of him like water from a sponge forgotten in the sun. A hundred condolences rushed to my tongue, none adequate. I stepped forward instead, and placed my hand on his shoulder. But his eyes, now red, never left the TV, his mind wondering only of the son he’d lost; the one standing next to him a mere presence trespassing on his grief.
This is in response to Trifecta’s challenge:
Color: complexion tint:
I changed it to the British version, but the word is still there, up for your critique. Thanks for reading.
We used to sit around the table, all five of us, every Sunday at lunch. Until the trolls invaded and all my boys left; called up and conscripted.
I harvested the land with the women, and waited at the gate every sundown. Those who returned were unrecognizable. A guilty thought chafed at me; if this is what they came back as, did I want my boys to return?
But the choice was never mine.
Three of us sit at the table now in haunted silence, staring into the fires of the two lit lamps; a tribute to our dead.
For this episode of Friday Fictioneers, I went with fantasy. I hope you like it.
My Paul is a cat person. I hate cats and always wanted a dog. So we agreed when we moved in, ‘No Pets.’ We even shook on it.
But when one day I was walking home and found this husky pup stuffed inside a box on top of a skip, shivering, I couldn’t help it. I scooped him up and took him home. Continue reading
Your wisdom dazzled me.
Admiration came easy.
I knew nothing.
You taught me everything.
Master lay in bed, wheezing, choking, looking up at the water mark on the ceiling. He was alone except for his servant sitting straight by the bed, his eyes fixed on the man, his irises filled with love. Continue reading
At birth she weighed half a stone. My baby became a beauty but all she saw was fat. Now, at sixteen, I see her smiling at the skull jeering in the mirror.
Miss Theresa Bell is on her way home after visiting the Misses Ferrels when she crosses paths with Mr Stone. He is in his usual bold attire, highly unfashionable and utterly inappropriate. He is indeed handsome however, and Miss Theresa cannot help but steal a stealthy peek at him from underneath her bonnet. It is then that Miss Theresa notices that Mr Stone has paused and is now standing at the end of the street looking straight at her. Continue reading
The little old lady sat on the couch. Two cats slept on her lap. The other snuggled next to her feet. Three flights of steps separated the old lady and her arthritic legs from the world. But the little lady did not mind. Meals came on wheels once a day, cabbage stew and soup, no salt. All in all the little old lady was quite content, she waited for her son, the last of three. He would return one day as he had promised and help her cross the gulf that were the three flights of steps.
They stole my baby, Julia. I found her though. They called her Mary. I took her back and loved her. But somehow, she never looked at me as when she had been Julia.
This is for Trifecta. We had to write 33 words in the first person. What do you think?