Not sure who came up with this one, but I wonder if they had Halloween in mind when they chose:
As always, it’s up to you how you use it. Poetry, prose, creative non-fiction, maybe even a bit of flash fiction (flash fiction is usually defined as a complete story of no more than 1000 words, though often it can be considerably less, sometimes 500, and if you’re really talented, sometimes just 10!)
Have a go, see what you come up with, and please do share it with us!
Inspired by Bassetlaw Museum’s ‘Museum Stories and Objects‘ exhibition, of which Retford Writer, Kevin Murphy, is a participant, this week’s prompt is:
Just for a change, I’m not going to suggest you use this in any way you like, instead, it would be good to hear about your favourite, most treasured, object. It can of course be anything and you can write a story, a poem, a bit of flash fiction, or any other form you like.
So, about this object of yours… first of all, what is it? What shape/colour/material? Where did you get it? Where do you keep it? Why? Are there sentimental connections? Does it do anything (a music box perhaps?)…. these are just a few suggestions.
Personally, I’ve got lots of ‘favourite’ objects (I’m a sentimental sort), but amongst them is my Tibetan Singing Bowl which I use for meditation, and well, just ‘cos I like to. I’ll tell you all about it some time….
Ladies and Gentlemen,
members of this awesome dissembly,
It is my privilege to
shriek to you today through the medium of space, without rinsing my worms; to
look back to our future; to explore how we may embrace a sea change in our shrinking,
free from excessive red tape, pies in the sky or other porkies and assorted
paper tigers; to discover, here and now, where we need to stand firm, but also,
to find those moments when we need to move on to better timing. And above all,
I urge you, with all my sinews, to hold up your palms, especially to this sea
of bubbles (and its associated cant and froth), and by opposing, see it off.
For, when all else fails, we need to stand above the crowd, cut through this
jungle and tangle: all those lies embedded in convention, to reach an avon of
peace and contention.
It felt incongruous sitting
there on the bandstand steps in the sunny park, half a dozen of their friends
messing about around them, oblivious. Drew was holding her hand the
big faux gold chain on his wrist digging into her arm, replicating the
pain. He was sucking on a roll-up and the smoke blew towards her making
‘For god’s sake Mel, stop
makin’ a fuss. I ain’t gonna stop spliffin’ just fer you, so yer can give that
up right now.’
Acrotiri, Cyprus, August 1976.
Captain Manders had tucked up five year old Janine after his wife had read her story.
Jackie now stood biting her thumb watching her husband carrying out his nightly routine of fine-tuning his tiny moustache, before leaving her for the Officers’ Mess.
He felt her presence and gave her a glance. He finished the right side with a flourish and turned to her, seemingly for approval. Continue reading
The Hat by Pete Brammer
The cruise ship Ocean Splendour had been at sea seven days and just entered port at Cadiz.
Penny Dixon-Wright and her daughter Carla Elizabeth, disembarked, to make their way into town. On their way back, Mrs Dixon- Wright suddenly grabbed Carla’s arm. “Look at that beautiful hat. It’s the most fantastic hat I have ever seen.”
The ladies entered the establishment to be met by a tall, long legged, black shiny haired, Spanish assistant. “Can I help you?” she asked.
“You certainly can my dear.” Penny pointed to the hat on the manikin, in the window. “I would like that hat, my dear.”
The assistant reached in and removed the hat. “You like it very much? Yes?”
“Yes. Very much.”
Minutes later she skipped out of the shop, box swinging from her hand, with a beaming smile across her face.
“I think you are happy mother, you look as if you’ve lost a penny, and found a thousand pounds.”
“I’ve never paid so much for a hat in all my life, but it sure was worth it.”
“It’s my cousin Jessica’s wedding soon after we get back,” said Carla, “It should be perfect,” she grinned. “There’ll be a few bursting with jealousy mum, you can bet.”
The following day, Mrs Dixon-Wright strutted up and down the numerous decks, like a peacock showing off her new headgear.
Suddenly an unexpected gust of wind whipped the hat off her head.
“Oh God! My beautiful hat!” she screamed, running across the deck, only tosee it fly off into the ocean.
Seconds later, passengers gasped as a crew member hit the water. “Man overboard” the cry went out.
It took what seemed an age, for the ship to eventually turn round and head back in the direction of the unfortunate seaman.
When they eventually rescued him, he was holding aloft the hat, with passengers cheering loudly.
As they hauled him back on board, the captain slapped him on the back. “Woodall, you should not have put your life at risk like that, especially, not for a bloody stupid hat. But after saying that; is there anything I can do for you?”
In reply, the crewman said. “Yes captain, you can tell me who on earth pushed me in!”
Closed Quarters by Angela O’Connor
I hated this time of year, early June. Because it led to July when the painful memories were brought crashing into my father’s heart again. At least that would be some emotion I guess!
Walking across our cramped yet functional bare room, I shut the lounge windows, not even glancing at the park across the way. The chorus of birds could not camouflage the silence between us. Papa and me.
Work was his life these days. When he came home he sat on that hideous leather chair and read every single word of the newspaper. The piano he bought me was supposed to be my companion. It was more like a burden. Mama was a superb pianist. She died 12 years ago.
I am not her. Indeed, I cannot even remember her. My young heart is screaming for Papa to talk with me.
‘Lucia play me a song that your mother wrote.’
‘Of course Papa.’
I knew this pleased him but he couldn’t see the tears falling down my face. As they dropped onto my gliding fingers, my heart was breaking. With both pain and pride.
Suddenly, the windows burst open from the Chicago wind.
‘You’d better go to bed Lucia.’
‘If you wish Papa’.