Week 31 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 is organised by Dunglish (@EdHaiku575) in March and a new host @Zevonesque in April. I’ve taken some liberties with formatting simply because WordPress is not Twitter and to make it easier to read.
This weeks photo is of plum blossom in the garden. It’s day twelve of the lockdown and we are still climbing towards the peak. Thankfully everyone is doing their part and key workers across the board are going above and beyond to keep the lights on. All the while the NHS continues to fight the good fight. Sadly in some instances giving their own lives to save others. I do hope, at the end of all this when we all rush to get back to normality, we don’t forget the sacrifices being made. What and who really mattered when our backs were against the wall.
Writing progress this week has been slow. I’m working on a couple of short stories that are in research and outlining hell. I received my hardback copy of Forgotten Ones. Nothing better than physically holding a book.
How many jokes do you have to be the #butt of before enough is enough? It turned out for Pam it was ten. She’d tried to warn them. Show them the error of their ways, but they only ridiculed her more. None laughed now. They’d long stopped their pleading and screaming.
My grandmother used to tell a tale of the end of the earth. She claimed to be the last to see #Finisterre. I’d dismissed it as a tall tale, a flight of fancy. Only later did I learn the truth. That Finisterre lay beneath our floating city, swallowed by the rising waters.
“You’re not the first,” he said, stirring his coffee. In his hand a silver #zarf, its inset gems spoke of wealth, fine filigree spoke of culture even as his eyes flashed with brutal intention. I smiled and handing over the diamonds sat back and savoured my last coffee.
“What we got?” asked Yuri, rubbing his hands.
“Chicken,” said Vana.
Tearing open his ration, he smelt nothing. “#Chicken?”
Nodding, Vana tucked into her own grey-brown slab.
He took a bite and chocked it down. “Why is it everything tastes like chicken, but the chicken?”
It started as it always did with an accusation. The Sheriff rolled his eyes and covered his beer. It was #kicking off. The inevitable upturned table, an explosion of glass and the bar was a riot of drunken, flailing bodies. Another Saturday night at the Spur Saloon.
“You know you’re my #rock, right? I couldn’t have made it without you. I need your warmth,” he said, cracking the flint hard against the steel. He sighed. Two months marooned and his relationship with the inanimate was getting complicated. Crack. Nothing. “Oh f*** you!”
The liferaft bobbed along, a speck of #orange in an endless ocean. Far from any shipping lane, its crew knew they would not be found. Not that they were ever lost. Nothing escaped the Horus satellite. Its mute masters saw all, heard all. Their secrets demanded sacrifice.