Category / Half Hour Challenge

by Doishy

Risen From the Alleyways

Written by Blue-Eyed Devil

Would you walk this road?

Would you walk this road?

He stretched out his hand. Wet. It was wet, falling from the sky. He had never liked it. It was always cold. It made his nose run. He couldn’t feel his fingers. What was the point in finger-less gloves anyway?

He pulled his hand back under the dripping cardboard roof. It was a good home, but if this downfall kept going like it was it would start to sag. Then it would fall apart and then he’d have to find a new home. The prospect scared him. Everyone wanted the best home. Sometimes they’d fight over them. He wasn’t much for brawling. Never had the knack for fistfights.

He watched as a pair of feet ran by his door. Two different shoes, different sizes. Another like him, then. Trying to find a home tonight. He guessed that he wasn’t the only one who didn’t like being wet.

Eyes clenched tight, he tried to remember being warm. It was hard. It had been for some time but he managed to pull some shade of memory from the recesses of his brain, somehow, and he suddenly felt a bit less cold. The power of the mental process? Could he summon a pair of gloves that had fingers on from nothing too?

With a soggy sigh, the roof of his house gave out. His shoulders slumped as a cascade of cold wetness trickled over his woollen hat and down his back, sending shivers up his spine and dispelling the imaginary warmth he had been able to pull up from his mind.

He guessed he’d have to look for a new home now anyway; either that or go to sleep in the cold. Continue reading →

by Colette

The Locked Room

Written by Bobartles

oviatt_building_angel_doors

The grand double doors of the Oviatt Building in Los Angeles, California. These majestic works of art could very well reside with Gabe and Lucifer’s dad.
Image Courtesy of bigorangelandmarks.blogspot.co.uk

Peter took the steps three at a time, bounding towards the top floor at a speed a good deal greater than his wizened frame and long brown robes would seem to allow. He pushed through a small choir of residents on the landing, sending at least one priceless lyre crashing to the ground and knocking a small cherub over the banister, where it vanished into the gloom with a muffled curse.

“Sorry!” he called back, without stopping or turning to meet the indignant glares of the residents. Sandals slipping on the polished marble tiles, he turned the last corner and saw his quarry pacing back and forth outside a pair of very bright, very intricate and very heavy-looking golden doors.

“Gabe. What’s wrong?”

The man by the doorway winced a little and turned to face him. At nearly seven feet tall, he loomed over Peter like a strikingly blonde and particularly well-dressed oak. As he turned, his hand fell away from the slight bulge in his immaculate white suit jacket; the only indication of the concealed holster Peter knew lay beneath.

“Peter,” the man’s voice was deep and calm, but trembled slightly with hidden concern, “We’ve got a problem. He’s locked himself in again.”

“Again?” Peter glanced up at the ominous double doors. He raised an eyebrow and turned to his friend.

“Before you ask, I’ve tried knocking,” the white-clad man murmured, “I’ve called through, too. Hell,” he winced again, “I’ve even tried leaving him a message the old-fashioned way. That’s why I called you. It didn’t work. Not from me, and not from anyone else.”

“You mean…” Peter’s voice trailed off as he saw the panicked expression on the suited man’s face.

“Your kind were always his preferred children,” Gabe whispered, “Above us, above any others. He once said he’d do anything for you. And now he’s ignoring them.”

Peter muttered something foul under his breath. Gabe twitched.

“How long?” he asked. The man in white shrugged.

“I don’t come up here very often anymore. Nobody does. Could be hours, could be decades. But you just have to look down to see that something’s wrong. He’s lost interest.”

“Well…” Peter looked up at the doors, “Have you tried forcing your way in? Surely he’d understand that you were worried…” His voice trailed off as he saw the look on Gabe’s face.

“No. The last time that happened…” he closed his eyes and grimaced for a moment, before his expression changed suddenly to one of hope. “Wait. We can’t open it; trust me, you don’t want to know what he’s like when he’s angry. But…” he glanced up at the doors, to a slight bend in the upper right corner, “… there’s someone who’s done it before.”

Gabe flipped a slim mobile phone from his pocket; opened it with a snick of steel.

“John. It’s Gabriel. Get me the Morningstar.”

*

Continue reading →

by Colette

Monthly Editorial: NaBloPoMo And November’s Content

sparkler_halo

Get ready to spin those sparklers this coming Bonfire Night.
Image Courtesy of inspire-stella.blogspot.co.uk

Hi Inkblotters,

Welcome to the start of November – otherwise known as National Novel Writing Month, and now National Blog Posting Month! The latter is a rather new phenomenon that started up in response to NaNoWriMo, for the busy-worker bees and the ones that prefer to blog once per day, rather than try their hand at writing a 100k novel. For the modern world, blogging once per day is much easier (I should think) than sitting down with a cup of coffee (or glass of wine) every day to write a thrilling tale. So let us know if you’ll be challenging yourself with NaNoWriMo, NaBloPoMo, or both this month!

For those of you who tune in to read the editor’s note, however, we’ve got some smashing content to bring you this month. And again, we’ve hand-picked November’s content in relation to a specific theme, so let us know if you spot it (the hint is in last month’s Half Hour Challenge). Kicking off the month in style is Bobartles HHC entitled “The Locked Room”, both sinister and comical. Next up on the 8th we’ve got new contributor Magnificent Mayhem’s poem “Residue”, which speaks volumes about the fragility of dolls. And we’ve also got Lilith’s HHC entry coming up on the 24th, detailing the six angels of death with some fantastic Hellish imagery. Of course, that’s not all we’ve got to offer this month, so keep checking back or follow our Twitter @inkblotswriting for all the latest enthralling content.

In other Inkblots news, last month marked the awesome return of the Fiction Frenzy under the theme “Trick or Treat”. There were lots of great entries, so it will be hard to decide a winner, but be sure to expect it around the middle of the month. Remember, the Fiction Frenzy will be held tri-annually throughout the year, so expect the next one between January and April next year!

November’s Half Hour Challenge was picked by Inkblots Editor Lilith and is certainly an interesting one. “Book of Secrets” should give you plenty of pennies for your thoughts this Bonfire night. Why not try your hand at writing a book of secrets for a character, presenting it in journal entries, or blog about it for NaBloPoMo? Make sure you send your entries into creativewritinginkwell@hotmail.com and label it as “HHC Entry” for your chance to be published in next month’s content.

Have a sparkling November, and keep warm during Bonfire Night!

– Silver, Inkblots Editor

by marleylilith

Keep Smiling Through

Written by Dice

Dancing on VE Day, May 1945. Such a wonderful celebration! Image courtesy of graphics20.com

7th May 1945. The sound of celebration was in the air. The Mall leading up to Buckingham Palace was awash with excitement and colour. People danced, sang, cried, laughed, hugged and kissed each other. All wanted to share the moment of triumph. Rule Britannia and long live the King.

Robert was no longer celebrating; he had join those crowds early on, but now he walked alone over the rubble of bricks and mortar that had once been his family home. Only a few weeks earlier it had been hit by a V2 Rocket. Robert had been serving at the war office at the time, but his wife had witnessed it. Robert thanked God that she survived, and that their son, Albert had been evacuated a year before. He tried to picture what Gloria had described. She had said she watched the rocket fly through the roof, a moment later there had been an almighty explosion as if the devil himself had reigned damnation on the street. Deafened by the explosion, her hair flying in the wind from the blast, Gloria had watched as other houses and buildings fell to the explosion, yet their home had remained standing like a lone soldier whose comrades had fallen around him. The wind had changed direction whooshing past her, racing back towards their home. And in that following instant their home was gone. Other houses had pieces of wall remaining, some had only lost a single wall. Robert and Gloria’s home was completely obliterated.

Robert kicked at the bricks sombrely. He had been frustrated enough with his amputated arm that had prevented him from re-joining the fight back in 1941 and defend his family. And now their home was gone too. What kind of a man cannot defend his family or provide a home? He had tried so hard. Everywhere was full. Robert wasn’t a poor man, he offered much to possible land lords. All he wanted was a home to shelter his now deaf wife, if he couldn’t help or defend her, he would provide a home. But he had failed.

As darkness fell Robert could still hear the joy and laughter throughout the ruined city. Limping he made his way down the steps into the Holborn Underground Station, where he and his wife had lived since the bombing. As usually he was greeted with the stench of urine and sweat. The stay in the Underground was unpleasant, but where else could they go? As Robert reached the bottom he could hear singing.

Continue reading →

by Colette

October’s Content And The Return Of Fiction Frenzy

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Time for some late night pumpkin or Jack O’Lantern carvings? We think so!
Image Courtesy of irishcentral.com

Hey Inkblotters and welcome to October!

We’ve arrived at the turn of the spooky season once more, so it’s time to start penning those ghost stories. Who knows, I may even write one up myself for the Fiction Frenzy we’re hosting this month! But I digress, let’s talk about October’s content and what goodies you’ll be able to dig your teeth into this month.

The beginning of October’s content brings in another one of Dice’s Alexander episodes – he’s churning these out like there’s no tomorrow! But I guess that’s only fitting for science-fiction, right? We’ve also got three new contributors this month; on the 8th is Elanor’s “Sheffield Steel” with references to a few British cities, Miss Smiley’s prologue of “Death’s Mistress” on the 16th, and Dizzy Dazzle’s poem “The Humanitarian” will be coming up on the 20th. Plus, there’s a couple of surprises wiggled into this month’s content too, so make sure you keep checking back throughout.

In other news, we’ve got the return of the Fiction Frenzy, formerly known as the Friday Frenzy. Our writers and readers loved the concept, but sadly just couldn’t resist a Friday movie evening or a night out on the town. And who can blame you? So, the Fiction Frenzy now operates for the entire month. Starting from today until October 31, the Fiction Frenzy will be in full swing with the delectable theme Trick or Treat. There is, however, a twist, which you can read more about in our forum post, here. If you think you’ve got extra inspiration, don’t just sit on it, write about it! We want as many submissions from our readers and current contributors as possible – after all, it’s a Frenzy for a reason!

And to wrap up this long post yet again, (I’m good at waffling on aren’t I?) the theme for this month’s Half Hour Challenge is “Where Angels Fear To Tread”. The theme was thought up by our own Lilith and comes from the full quote: fools rush in where angels fear to tread. Remember, you can email your Fiction Frenzy and HHC entries to creativewritinginkwell@hotmail.com, or follow us on Twitter with our username @inkblotswriting to get all the latest posts straight to your feed.

Have a spooky one! 🙂

– Silver, Inkblots Editor

by marleylilith

Careful

Written by Rob

The dawn of time. Two travelers trek through a desert wasteland.

The Dawn of Time. Two travelers trek through a desert wasteland.

After forty years of trudging through the barren wastelands, Arthur spotted another human form on the horizon, and ran as fast as he could to catch up.

“Hey” he shouted “Wait”, coughing in the sulphurous atmosphere, panting heavily. Stumbling over the basalt rubble, frantic for human company, eventually Arthur made himself heard over the howling wind. The figure turned and looked at him. Another old man, beard and hair down to his waist, clothes in tatters, very dirty.

“You as well?” said the man. Arthur was confused.

“What? Me as well what?”

“You caught the leprechaun?”

“Yes”

“….and told him you wanted to live for ever?”

“Yes”

“You should have said “for evermore””

“Well, I know that now.”

“Never mind: only fourteen million years or so before anyone else is born.”

Rob has the record for most HHCs completed, having taken part over 40 times in the years he’s been writing with us, so naturally we’re very proud to present another of his challenge pieces here on Inkblots. If you’re interested in the Half-Hour Challenge or any of our other challenges please feel free to check out this section of the forum – anyone can join in!

by Colette

It Is Hard To Tell

Written by Rivers of Tarmac

A shooting star of simply space hardware? A wish is a wish all the same. Image Courtesy of whitewolfpack.com

A shooting star or simply space hardware? A wish is a wish all the same.
Image Courtesy of whitewolfpack.com

I saw two shooting stars last night. I wished on them, but they were only satellites. Is it wrong to wish on space hardware? I wish, I wish, I wish you’d care.
– Billy Bragg, A New England.

A face peers out through the cracked and grimy window. The skin might be pale and sallow, then again, it might not. The face is thick with dirt, and it is hard to tell. The eyes might be blue, or brown, or green. They are sunken and shadowed, and it is hard to tell. The face opens its mouth, and a voice heavy with despair slinks from it.
“Please, god, let me find the money by tomorrow.” The eyes latch on to a light moving slowly across the sky. A shooting star? It is hard to tell. “I wish I would find the money to pay him by tomorrow.” The voice pleads with the light in the sky. If the light has noticed, it gives no sign. It marches on.

*

The room is lit with harsh white lights. Machines beep and whir. The woman on the bed could be asleep. Then again, she could be dying. It is hard to tell. By her side, a small child sits in a chair. He trembles. He cries, silently. He stands up and crosses the room to the window, pressing both his hands against it, leaning his forehead on the cool glass. He could be seeking relief from the hot white glare of the room behind him. He could be hiding his tears from a mother who can’t see them anyway. It is hard to tell. His eyes latch on to a light moving slowly across the sky. A shooting star? It is hard to tell.
“I wish mummy would wake up real soon,” he chokes out. “Please?”
Behind him, the room falls silent.

*

A hand reaches out, gently stroking through the thick black fur. The hand is shaking. This could be a sign of age – then again, it could be due to the tremors of the cat. It is hard to tell. The owner of the hand sits on his porch and gazes up at the sky. Drops of liquid splash onto the ground behind him. It could be tears, or it could be rain. It is hard to tell. There’s not a cloud in the sky, though. A pair of eyes latch on to a light moving slowly across the sky. A shooting star? It is hard to tell. A mouth opens, desperation springs from it.
“Please. Please don’t leave me all alone not now. I wish she could stay. Don’t-” The voice chokes to a halt. The cat gives a tremor, and is still. Continue reading →

by marleylilith

You’re Home

Cold and alone… Can this really be home?

Written by Blue-Eyed Devil

No home for you there, little boy.
Just keep on walking by.
No point looking in, little boy,
Just avert your eyes.

The day is dark and cold, little boy.
But ’tis warmer still
Than the warmth of a lie, little boy,
And no lie hides the chill.

Truth will sell you short, little boy.
Leave you sad and alone.
You may shiver and cry, little boy,
But the truth is, you’re home.

by Colette

Morning Tiger

Written by Rob

weekend away

The couple’s weekend: wine, romance and sex. What can possibly go wrong?

“What are you grinning at?” Karen snaps at me. I should be used to this. She has a beautiful face but it’s screwed up enough to frighten a pitbull. I’m confused. Sure, we’ve not been getting on too well of recent, but last night, as soon as I slipped between the sheets, she was all over me like a rash. Such passion and surrender; so giving, so inventive: I thought all my Christmasses had come at once. This morning she seems to be back in the doldrums again.

“Didn’t you enjoy last night?” I try.

“I slept well, if that’s what you mean.” I give up. I’ll never understand women. I was feeling full of beans. I was up with the lark and out for a brisk constitutional. Now I can feel her sapping the positivity out of me again. I’m so glad I sneaked out of the dark room without waking her.

We’re away for the weekend. Karen’s pal Julia and her partner Derek invited us to watch the rowing regatta at Holme Pierpont. They found a quaint little hotel just a few miles down the road from the regatta venue and booked for all four of us. Now Karen and I are waiting for them in the lobby, ready to share breakfast.

The lounge door opens and Derek staggers out, looking like he’s near to death.

“What’s up with you?” I ask, though I’m fairly sure that I know. I left him in the lounge with a bottle of brandy at around midnight. It looks like he didn’t make it up to bed.

“I think I must have dozed off on in the chair last night,” he croaks. “I’ve got a mouth like the sole of a limeburner’s clog. Where’s Julia?” Continue reading →

by Colette

This One! An Alexander Episode

Written By Dice

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

The Chennai Mathematical Institute in India looks quite suitable for time travel. Which door will you choose?

“It’s this door,” declared Alexander gesturing to a white-wood moulded door, one of many in a seamlessly ending corridor which repeated in the same pattern of doors, plant pots and portraits of old men.

“I think you’ll find it is this door,” disagreed Zander demonstrating towards an identical door three doors down. Every door in the endless corridor was identical in every way. Having been led through a maze of identical, inter-crossing corridors full of identical white doors, Alex had no idea why these two should be different from any of the others. He decided it was best to ask Jennifer.

“This one is closer.”

“Who invented the room?”

“Who discovered its potential for inter-universal travel?”

Jennifer was the woman who he had met in the Impossible Room, which in turn had transformed into a replica of Number 10 Downing Street with this endless maze of corridors. Jennifer was the only one in the Impossible Room who wasn’t a parallel universe version of himself. She was slim with brown hair and a pretty face. She wore little make-up and had her hair drawn back into a low ponytail.

“What are they arguing about?”

“Which door leads to where we want to go,” she replied simply.

“But I thought we were, you know, travelling into the past.” Continue reading →