Dream a Little Dream

Every night he dreamt the same dreams, his face twisted, distorted into a mad caricature of his usually angelic visage. Every morning he woke, shivering in the half-light of dawn as the last traces of adrenaline dissipate, slowly leaking from his blood stream. Leaving him drained, ruined and empty after his hollow rest. He dreams of shadows moving, obscured beneath the twilight of the canopy – of the hunt, of the eternal chase played out, dreams of predator and prey. He spends each night, twitching and rolling in his sleep – he spends his days in a bewitching state halfway between the sleep that eluded him and the vigilance that is expected.

He dreams of long grass swaying before his eyes, of hunters unable to see past their own guns, picking their noses. Each night he dreams – of roles reversed, of the apex predator challenged in the grasslands. Of swaying howdahs beneath the midday sun. He wakes each day, having found his way to her feet at night – wakes confused and stretching in answer to her early morning grumblings. His foster mother moves softly around him, as softly as she can on those towering legs. Never knowing how he sees her after his long night living in the memories of his ancestors, a race war stretched over millennia.

Each night Mr Tibbles dreams of tigers.

This story has been on my mind for a while, had to get it out…and along comes with the words angelic, ruined and foster. Thanks as well to Steph at for Unable to See Past Their Own Guns and Picking their Noses

It’s a Gas

Another 33 word retelling for Trifecta, this time based around a more modern myth:

Money can make you happy.

Fame, fortune, power – the things in life that matter.

Find a house, a wife, a girl on the side.

Kow-tow before the Money. The golden secret to success.

Beowolf

Another retelling for Trifecta, this time Beowolf. I have also written a couple of longer stories based on myths, His Father’s Son, as well as this one: Bad Wrap Jack

I came to their rescue.
I knew there was no such thing as monsters – I took advantage of them, their naivety.
Said I slayed him, their murderous Grendel.
His mother was my pension.

Mythras

Mother always said I was special.
That the other boys would see – one day.
That my Father would acknowledge me – eventually.
I dragged my death through the streets.
The crowds, the pain – unforgivable.

Thirty three words retelling a classic story for Trifecta Writing ChallengeThe first of (at least) two…

All Quiet on the Blog-stern Front

On Writer’s Block

. . .

The Void – intro -

She never could resist the lure of a carnival, a Medieval fair, a school fete. Could never ignore the flashing lights and the pitches of the carnies, felt compelled by the sweet imitations of excitement nestled deep within Sideshow Alley. The silver flash of steel in the wood chop, the plunging grace of high-diving pigs, the tragedy inherent in the army of smiling clowns. The inevitable hyperbolic promises to see the World’s Strongest Man, the World’s Beardiest Woman – the siren-song of novelty and a dream of at least a temporary reprieve from the pace and pressure of the world surrounding her.

A Love Story

He mutters and grumbles to himself in his sleep. She rolls nearer to him, unable to rest, unable to tell him how she feels – he would never understand her. He turns his head away in the darkness, struggling to maintain his grip on his fleeting dreams. She smiles to herself and into the night as he starts to awaken, his schedule now like clockwork, his routine settling and helping them both though the day. She drags him toward her breast and he writhes inside his blanket – grizzling and nuzzling before he attaches and starts to feed. The warmth of her baby lures her away from her paranoid insomnia and back under the spell of Morpheus.

This story is a response to this week’s Trifecta Writing Challenge, to write a love story in less than 333 words, without using any of these thirty-three words (or their variations) from this list:

The Void

“Try not to scream,” I told her, “screaming will only excite them, will only serve to make them angrier.” She was sobbing hysterically by this stage, not far from where I found her, lost and alone in the scrub. I stumbled across the trail of blood leading through the bushes. She had tried to work her way along the track, I suppose, although only a fool would tread such a path, slick with moss – it was too obvious a path, too obviously a trap. She was bleeding as though a razor had slashed her flesh, the bougainvillea slicing its autograph along her spine.

Patient Zero

I know now what I should have done, I knew then what I was supposed to do – she was in so much pain, doubled over, coughing up blood. I should have killed her then, before the virus had taken over – when I still had a chance; this is all my fault. My sweetheart, Patient Zero.

Another flash piece for Trifecta, this time they asked for three sentences, still telling a complete story. Man, do they love the number three…this one could cover last week’s challenge for a romance, although it is more than 33 words. See what I mean about the number three?

Ghost

He stood, waiting in shadows. Waiting for action, entwined deep within his now nightly ritual – waiting for her. She passes within inches…