Entry to this week’s 3LineTales! Image courtesy of Moritz Schmidt.
The blind saw the light: Eyes-see-stars. Five filled bars.
The deaf heard the quiet: Heart-beat-pound. Skip no sound.
The mute spoke the word: Lips-shush-babel. Spell then scrabble.
Entry to this week’s FFfAW! Image courtesy of S. Writing!
Once there was calf who lost his belle in a vast field of flowers. He searched day and night, traversing the meadows and painting lines into the ground for his love to see. Giant circles he drew; spirals and constellations he wrote along the slopes of the Great Plains with highest of hopes. Yet by month’s end, his belle was still nowhere to be found. Exasperated and now sullen, he lay down and fell into a deep slumber. Spring turned summer turned fall before he woke. Opening his eyes, he saw now only a single patch of flowers jutting out in the distance. Moving closer, he realized it was none other than his beloved whom the flowers cover and the same patch that had concealed him.
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Entry to this week’s Sunday Photo Fiction!
Two fronts by the sea.
From East and West they came.
Calm as a breeze. Light as a tease.
One day they meet.
A tickle at first.
A spark here and there.
But enough to ignite. Drew fate’s sight.
Potential made fright.
Day turned night, and night lit day.
Lightning strikes and thunder quakes.
Till morning comes and blue skies wake.
Two fronts met and left no trace.
Entry to this week’s 3LineTales! Image courtesy of Samuel Zeller.
The people have spoken (they were not heard). They demand payment (not a cent spurred).
Ninety-nine percent (bailed out the 1). Occupying the streets (a failure to stun).
Till one day by the hill (Capitol Hill). A bright flash sent a chill (Nuclear Chill). The world changed forever after.
Entry to this week’s FFfAW! Image courtesy of The Storyteller’s Abode.
Cain stood at the edge of the world. Behind him lay the universe he built. Cycles upon cycles he had folded; iterations beyond what mortal and immortal memory could recall. In front lay the white, a domain he cannot fathom for the black shields him from sight. But now his world is failing; temples crumble into ruins, honoring gods once alive but now dead.
Taking off the mask, a shadow is cast and two steps he takes. His right launches him forward, disintegrating the ground beneath and crippling one half of his body. A necessary sacrifice he felt for it would allow the other half to survive. His left stabilizes his flight as he braces for an impact that may never come.
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Entry to this week’s Sunday Photo Fictioners! Off to rewatch the pirates trilogy now!
“But no one approaches The Lagoon by broadside. Four tiers of guns, two hundred in all. Furnishes holes in both ships and coastlines. It is suicide!”
“She’s a formidable Galley. Fended off five sloops one time and they were no small fish. Now I hear rumors of Spanish gold. A quarter of the King’s vault emptied.”
“A quarter! And you suppose she’s fetching the full haul. What a mighty weight to bear!“
“Too much weight me thinks… Less she plans the crew to push. Would probably still see port by day’s end.”
“How much did she shed? A hundred tons? Two hundred?”
“More. Probably had to toss the essentials. Food, water, and … guns.”
“Guns? We counted the two hundred this eventide.”
“Aye, guns for show. Who points a gun in both rain and shine?”
Entry to this week’s 3LineTales! Image courtesy of Glen Noble.
Numberless book, scattered between stacks. Your name, you hardly remember.
Printed but discarded, lost to archives. Decades you wait, in dark no sight.
Till Gutenberg takes you, white light and all. The internet has found you, a thousand eyes crawl.
Entry to this week’s Friday Fictioners! Image courtesy of Sean Fallon.
“Tis a waste”, Abaddon exclaimed. “So much potential, only to be bottled up and cast into the depths. It rotted him from within.”
“Indeed, avarice turned him foul and his demeanor acidic. A miser he fell with the passage of time, the enemy that could not be preserved.”
“A gilded cage would not staunch such decay. Did he take his wealth to his grave?”
“No, a change of heart transpired by death’s door. He gave his majority to the orphanage.”
“Ah, so he realized but moments late. A saint he would have been. No soul can be caged.”
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Entry to this week’s FFfAW!
The guitar chose Selene. Its voice, she’s heard long before she could see. Its songs taught her another way to speak. A prodigy the world called her since the age of three. They performed everywhere, circuses and concert halls alike; their duets produced music of the divines. But on one fateful day, center stage in front of a packed house, she simply stopped and walked away. Those close to her heard the early signs.
“She’s fighting him.”
“Can she keep pace?”
“Who’s playing whom?”
That night, she threw the guitar into a furnace, and turned voice to char. Years followed as she wandered city to city in silence. Some thought her mad. Others thought the guitar possessed her. The truth only she knew. Her muse had died. A past life awaited her return.
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Snapshot Vignettes 