Week 37 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 @fhaedra in May. I’ve taken some liberties with formatting simply because WordPress is not Twitter and to make it easier to read.
If this week’s photo isn’t evidence we are in the end days I don’t know what it is. When cats and dogs lay down together something is surely afoot. After last weekends complete miscommunication of the first tentative steps at reducing the lockdown it comes as no surprise even the animals are confused. I’m an optimistic kind of fellow and I was willing to refrain from criticism of the government handling of the situation all the time they were transparent. The last couple of weeks I’m getting dizzy from the amount of spin that has crept into the daily briefing. From PPE, to testing numbers, to international comparisons I’m afraid it’s becoming obvious that normal service for this government has been resumed. What’s the saying – lies, damn lies and statistics.
Writing this week has been good. I’ve almost reached my goal of getting 20 drabbles for Iron Faerie Publishing’s upcoming Four Horsemen anthologies. I wrote a 5k circus-themed dark tale for a monthly competition, which was a bit of fun. I’ve also been invited to help in a collaborative writing project with a great bunch of writers. I’ll drip-feeds details when I can, but I’m thrilled to be asked and the project looked really interesting.
“#Mother, you’re embarrassing me!”
Ignoring her son’s pleas, she dabbed away at the imaginary speck on his cheek. “Just a bit more spit should do the job.”
Across the courtyard, a cluster of girls giggled and pointed.
“There you go, Honey. You’re all set. Enjoy college.”
Was it abuse? I can’t say. One moment I was twisted like a pretzel baying in agony, the next moaning in ecstasy to her expert touch. #Petrissage or torture? Either way, by the end of the thirty minutes I felt both fantastic and violated. A bittersweet happy ending indeed.
My most vivid memory of those post-war years was of people stopping my mother in the street. They’d spit on her and call her a #quisling whore. Every time she’d turn her back, look down at me and smile.
The day I met my father, I understood why, understood what love was.
I was born in a #village, grew up in a town and now reside in a city. But I never left. I remained. Over the years those close to me fell by the wayside and I could do nothing. Now my winter has come. I’ll not see the spring. I’ll be buried under the ever-hungry concrete.
“Superstitious nonsense,” said Akat, launching a pebble into the river. “Rocks, don’t have spirits.”
The shaman sighed. The young always struggled with the #orenda. Luckily, the pebbles were always keen to help educate.
“Ouch! Who threw that?” cried Akat,rubbing his head.
“I hope for your sake that whatever part of me might #transfer from this world to the next doesn’t remember your actions here today. For if there’s an iota of afterlife for me, know that beyond death’s veil I’ll be plotting your downfall.”
“Uhm, put this one in a cell!”
It waits for me. Not in the shadows or moments of doubt. I have other demons that dwell in those domains. No, this monster invades my daydreams, affording me no peace. Driving me onwards when I’d rather linger. Please #ennui let me be. Let me just finish my tea.