“What’s in that bubble floating on the wind, Daddy?”
“It contains the entirety of a life within; everything it was, everything it is, and everything it will become.”
The tick of the clock only moves in one direction from our insignificant perspective but that is not proof of times linearity; spacetime just ‘IS’. Everything has already happened, no beginning, no end, no entrance or exit from the trajectory set upon us. Perhaps by God or chance, I won’t postulate on the how or why beyond accepting that everything is relative.
It seems pointless to fret, if the path our lives will follow has already been settled I’m certain none of us know the outcome and in that sense, the risks we take are real, the love and tears and laughter genuine, and the direction we choose to go remains ours to determine.
Welcome to Four Line Fiction, a pix-to-prose challenge. Each Thursday, at 9:00am Eastern Time (Canada/United States) I will post an image I have captured myself, featured from another blog or plucked from one of the Interweb’s many royalty-free image sites. You as the writer are to use that image as a point of inspiration to craft a masterpiece of fiction in four lines.
The image for February 9th, 2023 is the black and white portrait of a woman in profile (looking left), taken from the shoulders up. The image has been digitally enhanced to create a bird’s nest-like pencil stroke effect.
Be creative and have fun. I look forward to reading the tales you spin. Don’t forget to show your fellow bloggers some love -❤️- take some time to read, like, and comment on their masterpieces.
I was the reasonable one, Dave thought sitting in the lot. The one who ensured contracts were in order and deadlines were met. I quit the tennis club, cycling, stopped seeing friends, giving everything to the job and this company. Peter, my old boss knew I was the glue that held it together before he retired but the new punk was blind. Always with the chide remarks about my gray hair and bathroom breaks. Always nitpicking my work, complaining about how formal I wrote or whining to colleagues about me returning from lunch a couple minutes late. Of course, never to my face or ever once acknowledging that I arrived early and stayed late, other than to suggest that if I wasn’t such a dinosaur I wouldn’t need to be here.
Then there is Bob. How many times do I have to complain about his hygiene? The guy hadn’t seen the inside of a shower in months and the stains on the same pair of pants he’d worn for weeks could have passed as a god-damned biohazard. To compound the matter, Sally was compensating by wearing a bottle of perfume every fucking day and twat-boss was on her case, not the real problem! We all have to work in this shithole, but it was hard when the haze of rose-scented Bobshit was permeating your brain! Something had to change!
Unknown
Sally observed Dave as he exits his car. It wasn’t like him to be late. He was talking to himself as he fretted, appearing agitated as he paced back and forth several times before opening the trunk. She continued to watch as he donned a heavy-looking vest she’d never seen before. He fumbled about in the trunk and with his belt for several minutes, but she couldn’t make out what he was doing.
His intention becoming clearer as he pulled the mask from atop his grey-fringed dome and headed towards the side door. Gasping, her hand instinctually shot to her mouth when she could make out what he was carrying. Realizing a reckoning of sorts was upon them she ducked into the washroom and locked the door. She was careful not to move or even breathe too loudly as she waited for the commotion outside the door to stop.
Lilith watched through the window as the woman rummaged through some old trinkets.
Charlton loved Inez. Plus, for a time she could bridle his deviant urges. Still, the demons slowly consumed him and they drifted apart.
Inez plucked the ring from its tiny box and a black cloud filled the room. Lilith grinned, her beastly servant becoming visibly agitated at its presence. She was right, Inez held the key to his soul.
Welcome to Five Word Weekly. Each Monday, I will post five random words to Greg’s Blog at 5:00am Eastern Time (Canada/United States). Your task is to craft prose or poetry using any or all of the word prompts. How you participate is entirely up to you. Your work(s) can be a single piece, a series of stand-alone projects, or an epic serial. Let the words be the inspiration that takes you wherever your imagination leads.
Here are your prompt words for the week of February 6th, 2023:
Be creative and have fun. I look forward to reading what each of you conjures up. Don’t forget to show your fellow bloggers some love -❤️- take some time to read, like, and comment on their responses.
It is absurd in a dubious kind of way, the need to fit in with simulated norms. I don’t care anymore if the jukebox plays a re-mix of this fucked up excuse for a life.
The nightbird does not bend beneath such sorrow, soaring high above the smoke-filled bordellos, She knows no fear of being crushed beneath the one-eyed monster’s armadillo-skinned boot.
I lay here all but empty – shamefully waiting for the scent of homemade soap, and the primal thrust of a hot starched pistol, Though I’ve not a pound of flesh left to give.
I’m swept high upon a ribbon that swirls in the turbulent eddies she leaves behind, Catching glimpses of freedom in the pull of her wake. Below my battered shell awaits, unsure if I’ll return.
Serena could feel her heart pounding and muscles tightening in the moments before the sedative took effect. Terrified to find herself in the one situation she had dreaded her entire life, where the lines begin to blurin between actuality and perception.
She struggled to push the harrowing shadow that hovered in the haze above her away but her lifeless limbs lay like dead weights at her sides. Not wholly unconscious but just beyond reality’s grasp, and left retreating into the darkest horrors churning in the recesses of her mind.
As consciousness crept back in and blinding light filtered through her eyelids signalling that she was somewhere else – was this the end?
She flung away warm blankets and struggled to lift herself against the push of the nurse’s thrust, “Everything is ok Serena, you are in recovery and the Doctor will be around to see you later but for the time being you need to rest.”
As the thermometer plummeted to new record lows and the chill of winter’s wind cut even deeper through the channel beneath Highway 89, Buzz feared his home and the bottle of antifreeze he keep tucked under his jacket wouldn’t be enough.
Miranda pleaded with Buzz to follow, but he was leery of the people in those shelters; they didn’t hold his best interest at heart and wanted him to conform to their idea of living.
Still, he knew it would kill Miranda if she returned to find him frozen so he followed her as requested.
He couldn’t pinpoint the origin of his fear and the desire to run back to the bridge but as he stood there something about the front entrance calmed him and he knew everything was going to be alright – at least for tonight.
Welcome to the inaugural Four Line Fiction, a pix-to-prose challenge. Each Thursday, at 9:00am Eastern Time (Canada/United States) I will post an image I have captured myself, featured from another blog or plucked from one of the Interweb’s many royalty-free image sites. You as the writer are to use that image as a point of inspiration to craft a masterpiece of fiction in four lines.
The image for February 2nd, 2023 is the word “Welcome” made of rainbow-coloured slats of plywood set against a multicoloured wall. Fitting for the first-ever Four Line Fiction challenge.
Be creative and have fun. I look forward to reading the tales you spin. Don’t forget to show your fellow bloggers some love -❤️- take some time to read, like, and comment on their masterpieces.
“Every Wednesday Mom insists I take her to the Sally Ann after morning Bingo,” I said with a deliberate eye roll.
“You say ‘Thrift Store’ with a pejorative connotation.”
“It’s all junk and every time we go, she stops at the tables filled with odds and ends left by the dead. How many quasi-fine China teapots and cups does an 82-year-old woman need.”
“Come on Sis, you know she collects that shit. Don’t you recall summer weekends being dragged from yard to yard? All those treasures she plucked from unsuspecting sellers put us through college.”
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