Week 6 participating in the very popular #vss365 challenge on Twitter. The aim. To write a daily Very Short Story in less than 280 characters, a single tweet. Yes, that’s characters! Not words.
The prompts themselves are seemingly random single words, the whim of this month’s challenge setter. This months fun has been organised by @Tianna. I’ve taken some liberties with formatting simply because WordPress is not Twitter and to make it easier to read.
The cover photo this week was taken on a walk around a local wood, part of which opens out onto farmland. The harvested fields are a sure-fire sign of colder days to come. Not that the dogs cared, there was far too much horse poop to be exploring.
Periodically, the #comet would come rushing in from the frozen night,
desperate to feel the suns warm rays.
For a moment it would blaze across the heavens,
before its trip back into the inky darkness.
Not this time though, this time it would make landfall, finally home.
They’d said Johnson had sold his #soul at the devil’s crossroads.
Those that’d heard him play were in no doubt.
He had an unearthly talent.
Gene did not. He had the passion, he had many.
But he lacked the skill, the soul.
Luckily the devil was always happy to do a deal.
She’d argued it was better to be #uprooted than to cling to their ancestral land.
The elders would not listen.
Even when the animals had left, they stubbornly stayed.
Their deep roots did not save them when the swirling waters finally came.
Nature abhors intransigence.
What a piece of work is man, indeed.
When the bravest climb through twisted reason, so noble in action, so admirable in form.
Without apprehension, to ascend like angels, thru #smoke choked wells, now dust.
Paragons of a proud city and grateful nation, never forgotten.
By the time the #floodwaters retreated the village was gone,
along with those who’d clung so stubbornly to the past.
She sat on the hill and sobbed, vowed it could not happen again.
A lifetime later, familiar dark clouds drove her to burn the new village to the ground.
They’d wait for the #lunar tide to refloat the stricken ship.
Much the lighter now, its cargo carried off by greedy hands.
The locals could offer no clue as to how the lighthouse had failed, again.
Not that the sailors cared, there was ample grog.
The locals saw to that.
I turned a slow cartwheel staring out the porthole.
The once familiar blue-green opal fell away forever below.
Oceans, forests and deserts flowed past, an endless majestic procession.
An assault on the senses my stomach did a #somersault, I did not.
Lunch floated past.