As noted previously, some weeks there are story themes and this week's writing prompt, though its dance card was not full (weeps delicately), it tended toward science fictional fills. Contemporary fantasy maybe?
Whatever it is, I love these sorts of stories, and I love that you come and share yours here. What a delicious gift, to get something fresh-baked to read each week. Thank you for that.
Speaking of 'each week' I thought maybe two weeks between prompts would garner more responses but I think I'll go back to once a week. I enjoy these too and two weeks seems, I don't know, like we're living through March again. Which is to say too fecking long.
Shall we?
Hippos, Green Asses, Sweet Jellyfish: Mostly Sci-Fi Stories This Week
And here are the things you were inspired to write when challenged with The Burning Sea:
In. Out.
The sky flames.
I breathe.
In. Out.
I hope this writing prompt inspires you, I thank you again and always for sharing your short stories here and I hope that sometimes you think………"Hmm. That could be something more." I know I've tucked away a few that I want to expand in future.
More Writing Challenges
The Burning Sea
Take Courage
A Trick of the Eye
Pssst! Our three latest books are below. Sherlockian tales, supernatural tales, ghost stories…what's your pleasure?
Welladay Jupiter Knight was a witch, like her mother before her, and her mother before her, and so on and on, back to the first of her line. The matriarch of this clan: Prudence Hawthorne Knight.
Every woman in this very old and very magical family could perform some kind of magic. Wella’s mother, Providence Star Knight, was a weather-witch. She knew when and how much snow or rain would fall, and was able to gently manipulate the breezes and temperatures to good effect. It absolutely did not rain on her wedding day. Wella’s fourth great-grandmother, Defiance Purity Knight, could see people’s auras and could make teas to cure folks of almost anything. Anything but a broken heart though, those needed to heal on their own.
Wella’s ability was related to time and its seeming plasticity. She was never late and she never missed a train. Work deadlines meant nothing to her. If she had to describe it to someone she would probably say that it was a bit like the dream where you run in place but never get anywhere. Except unlike the dream, there was no feeling of dread or impending doom. The monster never caught her. If she thought “I just need another minute”, she would get that minute… and any additional minutes that were required. Unpleasant things didn’t go any faster for her however. The dentist, standing in line at the DMV and applying for loans went just as slowly for her as they did for anyone else.
Was using her ability to press a kind of temporal pause button an advantage? Sure. Did she misuse it? Maybe. Taking the extra time during school to finish tests was sneaky, but was anyone getting hurt? She could watch a fire burn for hours or explore a museum, taking the time to see every single exhibit, and still be home in time for her dinner and her favorite shows.
Wella’s favorite moments were the one’s spent watching her daughter, Prosperity Steadfast Knight, discover her own magical talents. The most amazing of them was the influence her girl had on nature and growing things. The garden around their little house was always in bloom weeks before the rest of the neighbors, and Autumn seemed to hold itself back a little, just for them. Fresh flowers and summer fruit were on their table well into October.
Wella taught Prosperity about their family and the talented women they had come from. Prosperity would ask her mother endless questions about them and wonder what her own daughter might be able to do one day. The question she asked the most was, “Mama, if time stood still forever, what moment would you choose?”
And Welladay’s answer was always the same, “This one, baby. This very one.”
Heaven and hell, two sides of the same planet.
Hell is cicadas screaming in the night, while the air is still and sticky. Hell is red dust where it ought not to be, brought by furnace-hot winds from a cruel baking heart. It’s waking, sleepless, endless, mindless. Too hot to think, too hot to do. Clear blue skies, not sparing a drop. Smoke and fire, ashes and steam. Fear and foretelling, of worse yet to come.
The coin spins. The planet orbits. Life goes on.
Heaven is the sound of a lone kookaburra chuckling the day awake. It’s the trickle of a hidden creek. The song of the bell and the lyre, the whip and the butcher, the wagtails and the shrike-thrush.
Heavenly fog, and mist, and chill. Drips dropped from on high, from canopies in the sky. The smell of good rot, soil, and bark. Mossy tufts and fairy wrens, sticks covered in lichen. Fingers and noses chilled to the bone. Stillness and sweet air. Time may as well take a hike.