Challenge answered! And in a record number this week. Thank you for your fantastic stories inspired by last week's prompt, what you've written makes me want to know more, each and every one!
This week…what's say you do it again?
We again have fewer words, so more of the ones you write come from you, not me. These prompts are meant to get your fingers typing, nothing more. If you never use a single one of these words or images but you accept the challenge and write a wee marvelous thing, you're doing it right. Or write.
So pass this link on to a friend. To someone who wants the tiniest, friendliest, most colourful writing push. Let's see more stories, let's be gleeful together.
Blue, Blossoms, Backs, Births and Pyres
May last week's responses to falling ashes get you primed for sharing your own.
A tiny flake of blue split away from the ceiling, and another, and a third: drifting down like falling ash.
Onto Ameenah’s red-eyed face. A flake into her left eye, a flake onto her lip (and licked unconsciously away) and a flake below her nose so that when the next sneeze began, she inhaled it sharply into her sinus cavity.
Blue. Right there. In the centre of all the trouble.……The sleeping part of her blinked, took a deep, deep breath and…
## Volcano eruption in 15 minutes!
The computer voice is too loud and too shrill. I blink awake and almost fall off the chair.
My back hurts and why am I on a chair? It takes a few seconds for my brain to catch up. I was on guard duty, sitting near the computer and I must have fallen asleep, feet up on the console.
I drop my feet to the ground and only then does it register what the computer just said.
It’s the stupid blue shower puff that does it.
It’s unravelling a little at the edges, a tidemark of dried soap bubbles fragile across an edge, and she reaches out with a tentative hand. It’s crisp and dry, sharper against her skin than she expects. She pulls away, brings trembling wounded fingers to her lips, feels a thin high sound rise up like bile in her throat, helpless and bestial. It echoes…
They say that to be a martyr is a holy thing. They say it is a gift.
The thing we must remind ourselves is that it is never martyrs saying these words, for the martyrs are dead. It is the living who fill their silence. It is the living who spin reason as flowers wilt on a martyr’s grave.
“It is god’s will,” they’ll say, “it shows our faith,” they’ll say and say and say, standing on tiny squares of ground beneath which there are no bones, the bodies of the martyrs burned to ash on foreign pyres.
Recall her yellow rays?
A mem’ry now, for falling ash
Enrobes the world in grays
No birds can sing, no flowers bloom
‘Neath endless winter’s veil
That we once lived above the ground
Seems like a fairy tale
We were so foolish, arrogant
Too full of pride to see
The signs were there, we should have known
There is no Planet B.
Her grandmother had come from Yavin IV to collect her, reassuring little Kel that things would get better. “The firsts are going to be hard Kelar, but the sharp edges will wear off with time.”
And things had gotten better.
She still visited that day in her dreams though. The images would come back fresh, drawing her up and out of sleep, tears streaming down her cheeks.
falls like ash
trees silent witness
the curve of his back
the sweep of his hair
Keep going. Keep the momentum. It's what makes all the difference in writing, I promise.