Fiona

Fiercely reaching yet afraid of letting go. (756 words)

He wakes. Slowly. Reluctantly. To a feeling of being underground. Air heavy and thick with dust. Throat dry and aching. Eyes full of grit.

He is pinned, lying sideways on a surface, twisted and unforgiving, one arm beneath his hip and the other across his chest. He cannot feel his feet,…[Read more]

Congratulations, Knicky, a most excellent story!

Thank you, Sandra, for the comp, and for allowing me to imagine another Piety/Freedom Jones episode.

And thanks to all the entrants for being amazing writers and keeping me inspired  🙂

Fabulous competition! Hooray for all of us, especially Knicks. Thank you Sandra.

🙂 It has been a while, yes. Thank you for your flattering words, Sandra, and for trusting me with the monthly comp baton this turn around. Thank you Richard for the congrats. Well done to all! I thoroughly enjoyed each entry, lots of lovely lines and all the proper, not to mention yummy, writing I’ve missed reading around these here parts…[Read more]

@ Richard, glad to hear you were inspired, and hope it becomes a (good) habit. I did try to make sure I’d the time-line correct for Rebecca, but whichever, it worked as far as impact was concerned.

I should’ve known better than to panic –  what I took for drought was silent fermentation which resulted in an uncorking and a fizzing cascade of sparkling wines.   Knick’s violently vivid tale of betrayal dangerously intoxicating with an awe-inspiring detonation of language.

Richard B’s continuation of his ‘Whodunnit’ tale and Rebecca’s stoi…[Read more]

UNTITLED (600 WORDS)

‘Seriously, Dom, you’re going to want to know about this.’

Virgil’s words tumbled out with enough agitation to stir, not only my curiosity, but something in the darker recesses of my mind.

‘Piety’s back.’

***

Piety – Prototype 1: Experimental Transcendent Interface. An engineered being of such incredible power, I had…[Read more]

What becomes of the broken hearted?

Tomorrow, if I make it through the night, I celebrate my one hundred and ninth birthday. I hate my birthdays. Life’s punctuation. People wander about pretending it’s a secret that there will be a party for me in the day room. The press may attend. The staff will say things such as, “Well done”, as though…[Read more]

**A smol warning for all the darkness most foul; my headspace is aging like fine wine, and therapy is expensive ????**
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There were dreams I slipped into and out of. Through their haze I saw a prince and castle, figments of…[Read more]