Week 9 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 through September and now we are in October @AuthorBertEdens. 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 is Archer off in the distance, as usual. We’ve clocked up a few miles walking this week, enjoying the last of the good weather.
I’m a CRACKED ACTOR, a CHINA GIRL.
I’ll DO ANYTHING YOU SAY for A BETTER FUTURE.
DAY-IN DAY-OUT nothing CHANGES,
No FAME. I’m no NEW KILLER STAR, NOTHING TO BE DESIRED.
Is it LITTLE WONDER that I’m AFRAID.
So LET’S #DANCE to the BEAT OF YOUR DRUM,
AS THE WORLD FALLS DOWN.
Monday 30th September – Inevitable
Maybe it was #inevitable.
My every action preordained, a precisely laid out path.
God knows, it felt like I was stuck on rails.
Unable to stop, I was an unwilling passenger.
One minute up, the next down, just desperately hanging on, screaming.
I f**** hate rollercoasters.
“Night #night. Lights off”
“Just a minute”
“No, now. It’s 20 past 9”
“One minute”
“You have school tomorrow. Bed”
“Muumm”
“Light, now!”
“I’m scared”
“What?”
“He’s under the bed again”
“Does he look hungry?”
“He keeps biting my toes”
“Damn it. Feelliiixx! Come on. Food!”
Wednesday 2nd October – Murder
“It’s #murder”
She looked down at the bloody mess at her feet.
She knew it would happen, but she’d walked on anyway.
The swanky bastards were going to make her pay, that was the rub.
“Are you ok?” asked a kindly voice.
“It’s these new shoes, they’re killing me”
#blood, it’s thicker than you think.
Surprisingly difficult to scrub off of hardwood floor when you’ve made the mistake of letting it congeal.
But what are you supposed to do, let Sunday lunch go cold?
Now, that would be a terrible waste, and mother so did hate waste.
What vestigial appendage was it that had housed compassion?
What shrivelled #organ, its function lost, had made us so blind?
Or empathy lost, was this an adaptation to a world already colder?
Did it have to be this way?
Couldn’t we have just used it a little every day?
The old friends sat in the sterile day room staring out the window.
“Is that Tom?”
“Yep”
“What’s he doing?”
“Seems to be dancing around the fountain.”
“Starkers again?”
“Totally, ” he said, nodding. “I think he’s #away with the fairies.”
“God, I wish I was with him.”
