Tag / Flash Fiction

by Colette

Inheritance

Written by Miss Smiley

grandpa_child_reading

A love was born for stories, snuggled into the arms of a grandparent.
Image Courtesy of http://www.sud.org.es/

Tommy got the inkwell for his 8th birthday, right after Grandpa died. This is because Grandpa had given it to him in his will, but, nonetheless, a present received on your birthday is still a birthday present, regardless of the circumstances around said gift.

He treasured the inkwell. Sure, it was old, with a faded monogram on the front, painted in a gold, flaky paint that was slowly peeling, but that didn’t matter to Tommy. It was from Grandpa. He’d loved Grandpa, and it was one of the only things he’d received when he’d passed away; the other thing being the first copy of Tommy’s favourite book,The Albany Treasure, written by Grandpa himself.

Grandpa was always writing things. Mum said that was his job. Tommy didn’t believe this – how could writing something be a job? Jobs were things like fire-fighters or doctors or, his personal favourite, pilots. Or teachers… maybe… though he still didn’t like them.

But Grandpa wrote stories.

Tommy asked him once how he came up with the stories. He’d heard a reporter ask his Grandpa that question once and Tommy was curious. Where did the ideas come from?

Grandpa had chuckled and told him, “not sure, my boy. Not sure. I just dip the quill in the inkwell, Tommy and the ink and quill just… go walking.” He’d surveyed Tommy for a moment, as if weighing up a decision. “In fact, the inkwell’s a bit… well, it’s a clever inkwell. If I tell it what I’m writing for, it’ll write me a story. Simple as that.”

Tommy had looked up at Grandpa’s bright blue eyes, with the wide-rim glasses tucked into his old cap, and made a decision. The decision was this – nope. He’s lying.

But he smiled anyway, because he loved Grandpa and Grandpa deserved to have his stories believed. Continue reading →

by Colette

The Inkwell

Written by Sparky 

book_igloo_home

A home for book lovers and writers; that’s our Inkwell.
Image Courtesy of thisiscolossal.com

“It seems so long ago now, when we started.” The scratching of the quill was the only sound in the room. I dipped the nib back in my inkwell and carried on. “There was only a few of us back then. A few like-minded people who had known each other for a few years by that point. We had moved from one forum to another. At first we only talked online, brought together by our singular love for one author. Evolving over time as we got to know each other more. We began to explore our own creative depths with each other. We had our own world there, we controlled what happened within it. It was subject almost entirely to our own rules. I say almost, we never had full power there, but it just seemed that way. We created stories with each other, cemented friendships both through the site and out in the real world. Relationships sprung up and faded away, but the friends we made there stayed. Such was the magic of that place; our Old Kingdom.

“Afterwards, we started to pave our own path and make our own world completely. A forum dedicated not just to one author but to our work, our stories. We made more friends during that stage of our journey, more writers brought together by our joint love of the written word. I remember many moments where we all celebrated each other’s achievements. From finishing stories to creating new ones, each new world enjoyed by all.”

I sat back, reading over my words, taking a small break. The history of my writing career was almost laid bare in front of me. Everything I had written had been seen by the people I had met through these places. Those friends were amongst the closest friends I had, the ones I trusted most. I took a sip of the sweet tea cooling next to me and carried on. Continue reading →

by Colette

Heartbreak

Written by Fantasy Girl 

the_yellow_wallpaper

A woman’s descent into madness reflected in Gilman’s The Yellow Wallpaper.
Image Courtesy of thedailyshift.com

You know how it feels, don’t you, to be living life but it’s like a dream. A simple, serene picture can turn into the waking nightmare. Well, that’s what it’s like for me anyway, I don’t know about you.

The vines – woven through the complex trellis designs – no longer create an escape from reality, but a barrier, stopping me from running. And when I finally get through, the roots claw at my feet, the vines grip my throat and I struggle to breathe. I begin to panic, I’m alone and no one will rescue me.

But then I’m back in my living room and I still can’t breathe. The raging fire in the hearth on the same wall doesn’t thaw the ice that’s lodged itself in my soul. And the constant cheery chirp of the red-breasted robin, as it sits on the frosted branch, no longer makes me smile.

I’m lost, trapped in a sea of twisted vines.

No one will save me.

No one cares.

I will stay here, forever wishing the drooping branches of the willows would brush my cheeks again, like the kiss of an angel, but they only tangle themselves in my hair and refuse to let go. They wrap themselves around my wrists and stop me from moving – are they trying to calm me down, maybe? Trying to make me think rational thoughts? I scream.

But then I’m back in my living room, still screaming. The fire in the hearth doesn’t warm the chills that run down my spine. And the constant cheery chirp of the red-breasted robin, as it sits on the frosted branch, just makes me angry.

I’m lost, trapped in a world of fear.

I don’t want to be saved.

I don’t want anyone to care.

Heartbreak was written on behalf of a challenge set by Fantasy Girl’s college English tutor. The challenge was to write about heartbreak through language, structure, and form, without alerting the reader to the reasons for a character’s broken heart. Fantasy Girl chose to focus on one simple image of vines twisting in on itself in wallpaper – presumably, this challenge was set in response to The Yellow Wallpaper by Charlotte Perkins Gilman. Like Fantasy Girl’s writing? Make sure you check out Commune and Black Mirror.

by Colette

Inkblots New Year Special: Festive Fiction (Part 2)

Image Courtesy of fimfiction-static.net

The sun rises on a new year, and we’ve got some spectacular HHC entries to kick it off in style!
Image Courtesy of fimfiction-static.net

Welcome to our New Year Special – the second and final part of our festive fiction bonanza. Both entries published below have been picked for their startling creativity given the half hour time limit. Doishy’s piece is of particular interest, having taken inspiration from the ingenious and innovative HHC entries we’ve had over the year. The second HHC from Dice – featured after the read more tag – we just couldn’t resist in posting up! It’s another of his Alexander shorts, so we hope you enjoy! 

– Silver, Inkblots Editor

tinkerbell_fairy_wings

We believe in fairies, we do, we do!
Screen taken from Disney’s Secret of the Wings

Door 7 – Fairies

This is Jeremy:
(o.o)

How are you feeling today, J?
(o.o)b

Pretty good then?
d(o.o)b

And why is that?
(O.o)- <3_______________________(*o.o*)

You’ve met a nice girl? That’s wonderful! What’s her name?
-(o.o)-

You don’t know? Why not talk to her?
(@.@)

Ah, nerves. Tell you what… why don’t I talk to her for you?
(o.o)b

Awesome. Excuse me….miss?
(*o.o*) ?

Hi, my name’s Narrator and I was wondering if you would like to go talk to my friend over there, Jeremy.
(<.<) ___________________________(*o.O*)

He is a pretty cool guy, if sometimes a little out of it.
(*o.o*)b

You will talk to him! Awesome. I will let you be then.
(o.o) _____________________________(*o.o*)

(o.o) _________________(*o.o*)

(o.o)_________(*o.o*)

(O.o)_____(*o.O*)

(O.o) <3__(*o.O*)

(O.o) <3__(*o.o*)

(O.o) <3__(*O.o*)

(O.o) <\3_____________(*O.o*)

Well that didn’t go so well did it, J?
(O.O) <\3_______________________________________ (*O.o*)

Faeries aye, am I right?
(¬.¬)

Ah well. Shall we go get drunk instead?
(¬.¬)b

Good lad!
*A few hours later*

f(=.o)- u(o.O) <Riiight……
< And I’m telling you, there was this voice talking to me and a magic girl and it’…it wa’s assuM!

Continue reading →

by Colette

Angela’s Touch

Written by Rob

diary_close

“I’d always felt Jenny had kept a part of herself in reserve.”
Image Courtesy of englishthroughlaxas.blogspot.com

I wasn’t even aware that Jenny kept a diary, until I found it lying in the hallway. I guessed it must have fallen from her bag. I recognised immediately what it was, even though it wasn’t written on a pre-printed, pre-dated book, but rather in an ad hoc collection of thoughts, scribbled into a well-thumbed, hard-backed book. I felt guilty about reading it; I knew I shouldn’t. She’d be mortified if she knew. Although we’d been married eight years, and we’d always promised each other “no secrets”, I’d always felt Jenny had kept a part of herself in reserve. It was as though there was a locked room inside her, that she’d lost the key to. I did not doubt she loved me, but I’d never felt that she’d trusted me with her inner sanctum, the core of her, the bit that made her tick. This memoire was too good an opportunity to pass over and so I sat on the “telephone chair” and read.

The early pages were mostly taken over with worries about the children: Derek’s first day at school, Linda’s poor spelling, Derek’s cut knee, and so forth. I didn’t seem to get much of a mention until I found “Kevin is a pompous arsehole!” in thick black letters, double underlined, following a passage describing our row about the Florida trip we couldn’t afford. That made me smile. I knew Jenny had come to my way of thinking about our budget a week or so later and, sure enough, there was the grudging, “I suppose he has a point,” two pages later. Continue reading →

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

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 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 Colette

Alex

Written by Dice

multiverse_2-660x266

Time. A tricky topic for sure, but incredibly intriguing.

Alex was your average mid-twenties young professional. He was tall, slim with short brown hair and blue eyes. He worked nine to five every weekday before returning home to his one bedroom flat to watch TV or browse the internet.

Today was different, lo and behold he had turned off the TV, finally bored of watching the same old rubbish. He sat for a while staring at the black screen, glancing occasionally at the remote which sat within easy grasping distance. He glanced at his watch: 9:58pm, that new comedy would be starting soon…

Alex was brought out of his battle of will by a knock on the door. Confused at who would visit at this hour, but glad of the distraction, Alex peeled himself from the sofa and made his way to the door. He stopped at the sound of another knock. The knocking wasn’t coming from the front door, but the door to his bathroom. He sighed, clearly he’d left bathroom window open.

“Come in,” called Alex joking to himself. His laughter was cut short when the bathroom door opened and a man who, in nearly every way, looked exactly like him. Apart from the clothes, the Alex doppelgänger wore an expensive grey suit which fitted to this man’s clearly more toned body.

“Thanks,” replied the doppelgänger whose voice was also exactly the same as Alex’s. Alex stood perfectly stunned, after a short silence the new Alex held out his hand and spoke, “I’m Alexander, good to meet me again.”

Alex fainted. Continue reading →