Week 18 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 @iam_nirupama in December and @RozLevens in January. I’ve taken some liberties with formatting simply because WordPress is not Twitter and to make it easier to read.
Finally caught up after the festive period. This week’s cover photo is from our visit to Plymouth. Extra points if you can spot Archer.
It was a media #circus. An army of cameras and microphones desperate to get the scoop. The brighter the lights, the more esteemed the expert analysis, the more successful the misdirection. Real news never saw the light. Real news was a good friend of the editor in chief.
It was warm and comfortable in his #cocoon. The world, a distant murmur. His thoughts drifted like gentle lapping waves on some timeless shore. Even the sharp scratch had faded now. There was something, some danger, a spider? The thought floated away with the next wave.
With a final flurry, she stood shaking in the spotlight awaiting the familiar cries for #encore. None came. Instead, a single slow clap resounded around the hushed theatre. How had he found her, here of all places? More worryingly, what had he done with the audience?
Everyone knew he was a #charalatan. Purveyor of the skankiest snake oil in the county. He offered up elixirs for everything from a sniffle to the cure for death itself. It was the latter that piqued her interest and unlike most customers, she was not going to be cheated.
They shut down the radio telescopes after all attempts to #obfuscate the message had failed. It always read the same, totally immutable, it was a new universal constant. Unable to be manipulated, suppressed, diluted or twisted. It was undeniable, insidious, utterly alien.
The crushed origami #unicorn bobbed along the gutter, a flash of silver in the torrent. A boot saved it from the drain. From the shadows, a bedraggled pock faced figure watched the couple make good their escape. He knew they had to run. He had a choice whether to follow.
What a difference a week made. Last Monday the train had been packed with coughing commuters, sniffing and sneezing their way into the new year. This week it stood silent, like the city. Flu season was to be brutal this year, the year the #latent harvester virus awoke.