#sundaylit — Public Fediverse posts
Live and recent posts from across the Fediverse tagged #sundaylit, aggregated by home.social.
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It's always BEER POUR o'clock somewhere in the world. The diplomatic deal between the U.S. and Japan to bring a couple of billion-dollar Japanese beers to the U.S. for bottling and distribution is the catalyst for an advertising juggernaut pitting two of the world's top commercial directors against each other to see who can produce the best beer-pour commercial for global marketing. What ensues, no one could have anticipated. DRAMA. DECEPTION. DIPLOMACY. #sundaylit #mastodon #sunday #book #books #bookstodon #scribesAndMakers #writing #writersCoffeeClub #writer #video #clock #media #advertising #film #politics #satire #politicalhumor #political #novels #novel #suspense #humor #funny #drama #diplomacy
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This week’s #SundayLit prompt is: Time
My trail meandered through forest and fields and forded streams. I followed skeptically. In late afternoon, it led into a treat—strawberries. I gorged myself, sure they were the tastiest ever, then threw more in my pack, staining everything pink. There was no concern about food that time of year. I had more of an issue with the lack of sanitary products.
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#SundayLit Q1. Do you write and/or read short stories?
Q2. What are the benefits and drawbacks of writing short stories?I write lots of short stories, most of them flash length. The advantage is that I can turn them out fast and run with a single item. This disadvantage is primarily you need to stay focused, and the idea can't require a buildup.
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“Winter Night”
On a winter night, dark and dreary.
A computer’s glow on my face, weary.
I labored words to outpour.Said the Raven, "Nara Moore."
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Benefits:
1. It's much more economical to explore an idea (or part of an idea) through a short story than through longer forms.
2. You can churn them out if you need to.
Drawbacks:
1. The idea might be too big to properly explore.
2. A lot of people hate reading short stories - even when they're provided gratis.
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@Emmacox I do both, although they're not my preferred format.
I write short stories to scratch itches or to fill out gaps in my world building or character development. Sometimes I write fanfic, but that's usually to scratch the aforementioned itches.
I read them to see how the market is - what's being published - and to gauge trends. It's rare that I find anything especially engaging (anyone seeing my reviews on my blog or bookwyrm will quickly discover how picky I am) , but it has been known to happen. I almost never read fanfic, mostly because it's nearly always a first (only) draft and fucking awful. I've been banned from fanfic channels for mentioning writing is rewriting.
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Winter Night:
They huddled around the fire as they ate.
“What can you tell us about witches?” Eric asked, abruptly.
“Not much,” Fal replied. “They’re outlawed by the High Tower Edicts. Their magic taints them, somehow.”
“What do you mean?”
“Warts, croneism, bad-“
“Croneism?” Leira ejaculated.
“Becoming crones,” Fal answered, shrugging. “Hagism, if you prefer.”
“He has such a delicate way with words,” Alfonsa commented.
“But your magic doesn’t taint you?” Leira asked.
“No,” Fal answered.
“What do witches do that you don’t?”
“I’ve heard they have a lot of sex.”
“That’s both sad and hilarious at the same time,” Alfonsa remarked. -
@ElisesWritings I found myself providing deliberately funny answers, which might have been fine had anyone actually read them - but I soon realised that nobody was. Some might click favourite, and a few might even boost, but it was just an automatic reaction. There was no real engagement there.
With #SundayLit, I feel people at least read the work, and answer the questions. You know, having a conversation about writing, which I really like.
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#SundayLit prompt is: Games
{Snip Konbini Idol](https://www.pixiv.net/novel/series/11417104)
At night, we wrote and presented poetry. We all took part, but Shishi came alive when performing. On stage, she rived Sarah Bernhardt herself. Once or twice, Kan-chan’s critiques offended her, especially as our internment wore on.
We also played endless rounds of Go. We briefly bet smokes, and Tomo consistently won my daily ration. Shishi played like a wizard when cigarettes were on the line. Otherwise, she couldn’t be bothered. When we smoked on the veranda, she would graciously let me bum one. I happily switched to betting coins after Shizuka gave them to us.
Our Go tournaments became so successful that the servants even spied on them. Then, with enormous delight, they penned satirical poems about my playing and “accidentally” recited them where I’d overhear. Fortunately, they made a greedy move one night.
End Snip
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#SundayLit on the theme of games…
In my book, a character reminisces about the things they love about their home and notes olenball amongst them. This would translate to deer ball, and I’ve sometimes pondered over what such a game might entail.
I imagine quite a bit of running… 🤔 I like creating games, but not really big on sport.
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Games:
She held out her two fists, fingers down. Braia tapped the left one. Sana unfurled her hand to reveal that it was empty.
“Bad start,” Sana said. “I take wood,” replacing the missing pedaille. Rain hadn’t even seen her take it.
Sana moved the pedaille positioned in front of her Minister piece. Braia responded by moving her pedaille immediately before one of her chevaler. Sana responded by moving her Emperor's footman in line with the Minister’s. Braia brought out her dragon.
“Wyvern,” Sana said.
“We call it The Curtain.”
“We?”
“We used to play in the Dragon Tower.”
“But no longer?”
“I like tactical games, but I prefer them to have an element of luck. No battle has ever been won on tactics alone.”
The word spread. The crowd grew. Sana playing an Armen Knight. The Gods themselves couldn’t have wished for a better match. There were applause, cheers and jeers as the game progressed. Most of the audience favouring the local hero, Sana. Lots of money was wagered.
The game was close. Rain didn’t know who was going to win. He tried to guess the possible moves each of the opponents could take, but found that he was wrong on most occasions. In the end it was a mistake that turned the game.
Braia exposed one of her Barons. Sana took it, realising too late that it was a trap. From then on it was a foregone conclusion.
Sana tipped her Emperor on its side, conceding. The crowd erupted into applause.
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#SundayLitQ 6. How does your characters aspirations and fears affect the conflict in the novel?
Character aspirations and fears *create* the conflict. If they desired nothing and feared nothing, all the background conflict in the world means nothing.
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#SundayLitQ 3 Do all stories need conflict to work?
Well I typed out a long answer and then the page refreshed and lost it all, so I’ll just say:
To me, brought up in the western storytelling perspective, yes. Even in cosy slice-of-life (though conflict in those is often so low as to be utterly boring to me).
A perspective that suggests that while conflict is baked into western storytelling structure, it can be absent from the storytelling structures of other cultures:
https://artofnarrative.com/2020/07/08/kishotenketsu-exploring-the-four-act-story-structure/And a rebuttal:
https://mythcreants.com/blog/the-myth-of-conflict-free-story-structures/ -
#SundayLitQ 2. How do you strike a balance when writing conflict? How do you ensure the conflict isn’t too easily overcome/too insurmountable/a relentless barrage?
I…don’t know. I think I’ve just read so many books that I’ve internalised the rhythms of stories that appeal to me, so I have a sense of when things are too flat/easy/drawn-out etc.
I’m also a character-first writer, and I feel like they tell me when I’ve made something too much, and need to tone it down.
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@Emmacox #SundayLit
#SundayLitQ 1. How does conflict appear in your work?For my work there’s usually interpersonal conflicts and internal conflicts. There is traditional type conflict between protagonist and antagonist too, but I don’t go in for grand battles or good-vs-evil type stuff, or physical conflict.
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#SundayLit prompt is: Conflict
A nice chance to share the (current/draft) opening of my new WIP.
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Conflict:
“Why haven't I heard of you before?”
Banks’ fist whitened, as he grew more frustrated.
“I still don't know who you are,” Wells said, glancing around to the others for support. “Or why I, or anyone else, would wish to share everything we have learned with you. You say the Russians are planning to move, but what proof do you have?”
“Yes,” Chung added. “I would need to confirm with my own sources before I would ever commit to such an coalition.”
“Is that why you prohibited us from bringing any communication devices to the meeting?” Wells asked, his expression triumphant – like he had made some crucial point.
“Mister Wells,” Banks began, his voice deadpan. “Have you ever been in a modern warzone?”
“No, of cour-”
“Then let me tell you that the current generation of drones can track a phone signal and deliver a twelve-and-a-half kilogram warhead - that's about twenty-eight pounds for you - with pinpoint accuracy. Completely autonomously. The operator could launch it from a boat kilometres out to sea, or from the top of the Rock of Gibraltar, and the first time you'd be aware of the attack is waking up before the Pearly Gates and trying to explain to Saint Peter why you're such a lecherous cunt.”
Wells blanched. The others in the room remained silent, looking equally shocked.
Now, Banks was getting somewhere.
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11/16 #Wss366 #crude #MastoPrompt #hunter #SundayLit Twist
#FanFiction #TheHunger 1983
“I must have died and gone to heaven. I see an angel.”
I looked over, taking in the speaker. Crude like his clothes: expensive, tasteless, like a gold-plated oil donkey gushing crude.
“I thik I’d too many.” I slurred, then looked at him. “Gin fizzy.” (Giggle.) “Lime twist,” and pushed my empty glass across the bar.
“You’ll hav’ta excuse me, powder woom.”
Pushing through the crowd, I stopped in front of the restroom and looked back in time to see him add something to my drink.
“A hunter,” I thought. But I was one too, fingering my razor-sharp ankh medallion.
#NMV366 #NMPrompt #NMSL #Vampire #TheHunger1983
#Drabble #MicroFiction #TootFic #FanFic -
11/16 #Wss366 #crude #MastoPrompt #hunter #SundayLit Twist
#FanFiction #TheHunger 1983
“I must have died and gone to heaven. I see an angel.”
I looked over, taking in the speaker. Crude like his clothes: expensive, tasteless, like a gold-plated oil donkey gushing crude.
“I thik I’d too many.” I slurred, then looked at him. “Gin fizzy.” (Giggle.) “Lime twist,” and pushed my empty glass across the bar.
“You’ll hav’ta excuse me, powder woom.”
Pushing through the crowd, I stopped in front of the restroom and looked back in time to see him add something to my drink.
“A hunter,” I thought. But I was one too, fingering my razor-sharp ankh medallion.
#NMV366 #NMPrompt #NMSL #Vampire #TheHunger1983
#Drabble #MicroFiction #TootFic #FanFic -
11/16 #Wss366 #crude #MastoPrompt #hunter #SundayLit Twist
#FanFiction #TheHunger 1983
“I must have died and gone to heaven. I see an angel.”
I looked over, taking in the speaker. Crude like his clothes: expensive, tasteless, like a gold-plated oil donkey gushing crude.
“I thik I’d too many.” I slurred, then looked at him. “Gin fizzy.” (Giggle.) “Lime twist,” and pushed my empty glass across the bar.
“You’ll hav’ta excuse me, powder woom.”
Pushing through the crowd, I stopped in front of the restroom and looked back in time to see him add something to my drink.
“A hunter,” I thought. But I was one too, fingering my razor-sharp ankh medallion.
#NMV366 #NMPrompt #NMSL #Vampire #TheHunger1983
#Drabble #MicroFiction #TootFic #FanFic -
11/16 #Wss366 #crude #MastoPrompt #hunter #SundayLit Twist
#FanFiction #TheHunger 1983
“I must have died and gone to heaven. I see an angel.”
I looked over, taking in the speaker. Crude like his clothes: expensive, tasteless, like a gold-plated oil donkey gushing crude.
“I thik I’d too many.” I slurred, then looked at him. “Gin fizzy.” (Giggle.) “Lime twist,” and pushed my empty glass across the bar.
“You’ll hav’ta excuse me, powder woom.”
Pushing through the crowd, I stopped in front of the restroom and looked back in time to see him add something to my drink.
“A hunter,” I thought. But I was one too, fingering my razor-sharp ankh medallion.
#NMV366 #NMPrompt #NMSL #Vampire #TheHunger1983
#Drabble #MicroFiction #TootFic #FanFic -
#SundayLit prompt: Unexpected
The last excerpt from Grace & Favour, as it releases today and next week I'll hopefully have a new WIP to refer to.
Harry the ill-advised fling once again featuring. I feel like he gets the lions' share of these prompt excerpts, but also...he is the one bringing a dose of the unexpected into Leo's careful life.
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#SundayLit Q2: The Mentor archetype is often depicted in popular fiction as an old white man.
An interesting observation. I write in a Japanese millue, so this isn't quite what happens. It's an old, wise Japanese man.
How easy it is to slip into genderized stereotypes. I will have to think about how to shake this up a bit. Too late to change it completely.
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#SundayLit Q4: Dreams can equally mean goals. Do you, as an author, let your protagonists achieve all their dreams?
I like "happy" endings. So love is fulfilled. Some of the characters' secondary dreams are fulfilled. Usually in the form of found family and finding a purpose for their life.
Other dreams are impossible: For example, Kao dreams of a world without prejudice. Fat chance.
I also write about Karmic Entanglement. My characters never escape their destiny. This is spoiler territory though.
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#SundayLit A3: Has a dream you’ve had ever sparked a story or poem?
Some of the more biazzar bit of my dreams show up in stories. No full stories are inspired by dreams. The illustration below is from a dream and is part of For Love of a Konbini Idol
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He said, "Honey, will you grab me a beer?"
She said, "Sure. When you buy me a mattress."
#beer #bed #Reading #ReadingCommunity #Readers #sundaylit #sunday #mastodon #Bookstodon #booksky #BookWorm #book #BookTok #Fiction #instabooks #beerlovers #politics #dialogue #hollywood #bookaddict #CabinLife #competition #contest #parody #Satire #drink #Read #politicalhumor #FanFiction #fictionfavorite #vibes #rural #RusticDesign #rustic #WritersCoffeeClub #Writers #Author #writer #WritersLife #authors -
10/18 #SundayLit prompt is: Dreams
The last stand-alone #dream sequence I wrote is:
#PIXIV: Camellia Blooms サザンカの花
#AO3 Camellia Blooms サザンカの花 -
#TimeTravelingGhost Part 49: EP 4: 1937 Amelia Earhart.
#Wss366 #TimeTravelAuthors 10/13. What does someone else in the story think of you? #SundayLit color
The spheres were round robin egg-sized #opals or #moonstones, with smoky #blue fire in their depths and pleasantly cool to the touch.
“Those could be dangerous,” Emily said. “I would hate for something bad to happen to you. I’ve never been much use for intellectuals, but I like you.”
“Thanks.” Then, in a faltering voice, I said, “I like you too. I’m glad we met.”
Holding out my hand, I continued, “You should take two of these.”
I was met with a questioning look, so I added, “It doesn’t make sense, but nothing that’s happened to me recently does. I just have a feeling that these were meant for us.”
Her fingers briefly touched mine as she took the spheres. Her fingertips were warm. Surprising for a ghost. That was another strange thing. But I was glad.
“Shall we find out about our ‘friends,’ the rabbits?'” I said, my hand still outstretched.
It tingled faintly in my grasp—a comforting feeling.
The foggy tropical night faded, replaced by a lush #emerald-#green light streaming down like sunlight #filtered through a stained-glass window, so brilliant that I was temporarily blinded.
#TootFic #MicroFiction #Serial #TimeTravel #NMFic #Spooktober
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#SundayLit A3: Which colours regularly crop up in your storytelling? Why is that? 2/2
Here is a sample. Full range color use.
Snip Konbini Idol
All around was a clear blue sky, and far below were green prairies cut by tan roads. Houses clustered like prayer beads along them.
Ahead, the path ran along a ridge toward a higher mountain. Stone cairns marked the way, with lines of prayer flags strung between them. Above each cairn flew an orange flag. At the end of the trail, more tangerine flags billowed around a larger stupa, brilliant gold, in the bright daylight.
End Snip
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#SundayLit 10/11 prompt is: Colour
The meaning of Blue.
For most horror and horror-adjective fiction, red is the color of fear. Demon eyes blaze red, fire crackles.
However, in "Otherside Picnic," blue represents otherworldliness, and that seeped into my work. Ghost and phantom flames give off eerie blue light. Malignant creatures' eyes blaze blue.
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#TimeTravelingGhost Part 48: EP 4: 1937 Amelia Earhart.
#Wss366 #MastoPrompt #TimeTravelAuthors 10/11. Saturday excerpt (optional word: most) #Occultober 10. #Nephelomancy #SundayLit Colour
We approached Amelia and the signal fire. Its #blue flames gave off no heat, chilling us instead.
Stopping a few feet from Ms. Earhart. My prepared speech froze in my throat when she spoke.
“See the clouds?” She asked, staring at the sky that rimmed the ocean. “I’ve always loved flying in their midst and wondered what they said. I imagined them whispering their #most guarded secrets: ‘Life is short; soar.’ If there’s a God, surely he must speak through them.”
She raised a ghostly hand and pointed to the mist moving across the moon. “Tonight, they say, there will be an end.”
Her hand dropped, and she turned toward us. “You came to rescue me?”
“No. Just to visit.” I said. The comment was deliberately cryptic. I wanted to draw her in slowly.
“Then I’ll have to wait for a ship,” she said.
Emily spoke next. “There won’t be a ship. Nobody comes for you.”
“Then they’ve given up? Forgotten?” Amelia’s voice was thin. The last word was edged with despair.
“A hundred years from now, they’ll still be searching. You’ll still be inspiring women to be bold. That’s your legacy,” I said.
“Legacy,” her voice now laced with pride.
“Noonan?” she asked.
“He’s dead, too,” I said.
“So this is the end they foretold.” Her hand swept, taking in the sky. “Not a rescue, but death.”
“It’s time to soar. The clouds want to share their secrets with you.” Unlike her usual pragmatic tone, Emily’s voice held deep compassion. It touched me.
“You no longer need wings.” Emily continued. “Let go of the earth and take flight.”
A smile touched Amelia’s face for the first time. “Thank you. I didn’t realize. But I’ll be back. I want to be the first woman in space.”
With that, she faded. #God rays streamed from the moon, illuminating her. Then they were gone, and with them, Amelia Earhart vanished.
All that remained were the #marble-like embers of her fire. #Moon-bright #pellets that winked at us.
#TootFic #MicroFiction #Serial #TimeTravel #NMFic #Spooktober
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#TimeTravelingGhost Part 48: EP 4: 1937 Amelia Earhart.
#Wss366 #MastoPrompt #TimeTravelAuthors 10/11. Saturday excerpt (optional word: most) #Occultober 10. #Nephelomancy #SundayLit Colour
We approached Amelia and the signal fire. Its #blue flames gave off no heat, chilling us instead.
Stopping a few feet from Ms. Earhart. My prepared speech froze in my throat when she spoke.
“See the clouds?” She asked, staring at the sky that rimmed the ocean. “I’ve always loved flying in their midst and wondered what they said. I imagined them whispering their #most guarded secrets: ‘Life is short; soar.’ If there’s a God, surely he must speak through them.”
She raised a ghostly hand and pointed to the mist moving across the moon. “Tonight, they say, there will be an end.”
Her hand dropped, and she turned toward us. “You came to rescue me?”
“No. Just to visit.” I said. The comment was deliberately cryptic. I wanted to draw her in slowly.
“Then I’ll have to wait for a ship,” she said.
Emily spoke next. “There won’t be a ship. Nobody comes for you.”
“Then they’ve given up? Forgotten?” Amelia’s voice was thin. The last word was edged with despair.
“A hundred years from now, they’ll still be searching. You’ll still be inspiring women to be bold. That’s your legacy,” I said.
“Legacy,” her voice now laced with pride.
“Noonan?” she asked.
“He’s dead, too,” I said.
“So this is the end they foretold.” Her hand swept, taking in the sky. “Not a rescue, but death.”
“It’s time to soar. The clouds want to share their secrets with you.” Unlike her usual pragmatic tone, Emily’s voice held deep compassion. It touched me.
“You no longer need wings.” Emily continued. “Let go of the earth and take flight.”
A smile touched Amelia’s face for the first time. “Thank you. I didn’t realize. But I’ll be back. I want to be the first woman in space.”
With that, she faded. #God rays streamed from the moon, illuminating her. Then they were gone, and with them, Amelia Earhart vanished.
All that remained were the #marble-like embers of her fire. #Moon-bright #pellets that winked at us.
#TootFic #MicroFiction #Serial #TimeTravel #NMFic #Spooktober
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#TimeTravelingGhost Part 48: EP 4: 1937 Amelia Earhart.
#Wss366 #MastoPrompt #TimeTravelAuthors 10/11. Saturday excerpt (optional word: most) #Occultober 10. #Nephelomancy #SundayLit Colour
We approached Amelia and the signal fire. Its #blue flames gave off no heat, chilling us instead.
Stopping a few feet from Ms. Earhart. My prepared speech froze in my throat when she spoke.
“See the clouds?” She asked, staring at the sky that rimmed the ocean. “I’ve always loved flying in their midst and wondered what they said. I imagined them whispering their #most guarded secrets: ‘Life is short; soar.’ If there’s a God, surely he must speak through them.”
She raised a ghostly hand and pointed to the mist moving across the moon. “Tonight, they say, there will be an end.”
Her hand dropped, and she turned toward us. “You came to rescue me?”
“No. Just to visit.” I said. The comment was deliberately cryptic. I wanted to draw her in slowly.
“Then I’ll have to wait for a ship,” she said.
Emily spoke next. “There won’t be a ship. Nobody comes for you.”
“Then they’ve given up? Forgotten?” Amelia’s voice was thin. The last word was edged with despair.
“A hundred years from now, they’ll still be searching. You’ll still be inspiring women to be bold. That’s your legacy,” I said.
“Legacy,” her voice now laced with pride.
“Noonan?” she asked.
“He’s dead, too,” I said.
“So this is the end they foretold.” Her hand swept, taking in the sky. “Not a rescue, but death.”
“It’s time to soar. The clouds want to share their secrets with you.” Unlike her usual pragmatic tone, Emily’s voice held deep compassion. It touched me.
“You no longer need wings.” Emily continued. “Let go of the earth and take flight.”
A smile touched Amelia’s face for the first time. “Thank you. I didn’t realize. But I’ll be back. I want to be the first woman in space.”
With that, she faded. #God rays streamed from the moon, illuminating her. Then they were gone, and with them, Amelia Earhart vanished.
All that remained were the #marble-like embers of her fire. #Moon-bright #pellets that winked at us.
#TootFic #MicroFiction #Serial #TimeTravel #NMFic #Spooktober
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#TimeTravelingGhost Part 48: EP 4: 1937 Amelia Earhart.
#Wss366 #MastoPrompt #TimeTravelAuthors 10/11. Saturday excerpt (optional word: most) #Occultober 10. #Nephelomancy #SundayLit Colour
We approached Amelia and the signal fire. Its #blue flames gave off no heat, chilling us instead.
Stopping a few feet from Ms. Earhart. My prepared speech froze in my throat when she spoke.
“See the clouds?” She asked, staring at the sky that rimmed the ocean. “I’ve always loved flying in their midst and wondered what they said. I imagined them whispering their #most guarded secrets: ‘Life is short; soar.’ If there’s a God, surely he must speak through them.”
She raised a ghostly hand and pointed to the mist moving across the moon. “Tonight, they say, there will be an end.”
Her hand dropped, and she turned toward us. “You came to rescue me?”
“No. Just to visit.” I said. The comment was deliberately cryptic. I wanted to draw her in slowly.
“Then I’ll have to wait for a ship,” she said.
Emily spoke next. “There won’t be a ship. Nobody comes for you.”
“Then they’ve given up? Forgotten?” Amelia’s voice was thin. The last word was edged with despair.
“A hundred years from now, they’ll still be searching. You’ll still be inspiring women to be bold. That’s your legacy,” I said.
“Legacy,” her voice now laced with pride.
“Noonan?” she asked.
“He’s dead, too,” I said.
“So this is the end they foretold.” Her hand swept, taking in the sky. “Not a rescue, but death.”
“It’s time to soar. The clouds want to share their secrets with you.” Unlike her usual pragmatic tone, Emily’s voice held deep compassion. It touched me.
“You no longer need wings.” Emily continued. “Let go of the earth and take flight.”
A smile touched Amelia’s face for the first time. “Thank you. I didn’t realize. But I’ll be back. I want to be the first woman in space.”
With that, she faded. #God rays streamed from the moon, illuminating her. Then they were gone, and with them, Amelia Earhart vanished.
All that remained were the #marble-like embers of her fire. #Moon-bright #pellets that winked at us.
#TootFic #MicroFiction #Serial #TimeTravel #NMFic #Spooktober
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#TimeTravelingGhost Part 48: EP 4: 1937 Amelia Earhart.
#Wss366 #MastoPrompt #TimeTravelAuthors 10/11. Saturday excerpt (optional word: most) #Occultober 10. #Nephelomancy #SundayLit Colour
We approached Amelia and the signal fire. Its #blue flames gave off no heat, chilling us instead.
Stopping a few feet from Ms. Earhart. My prepared speech froze in my throat when she spoke.
“See the clouds?” She asked, staring at the sky that rimmed the ocean. “I’ve always loved flying in their midst and wondered what they said. I imagined them whispering their #most guarded secrets: ‘Life is short; soar.’ If there’s a God, surely he must speak through them.”
She raised a ghostly hand and pointed to the mist moving across the moon. “Tonight, they say, there will be an end.”
Her hand dropped, and she turned toward us. “You came to rescue me?”
“No. Just to visit.” I said. The comment was deliberately cryptic. I wanted to draw her in slowly.
“Then I’ll have to wait for a ship,” she said.
Emily spoke next. “There won’t be a ship. Nobody comes for you.”
“Then they’ve given up? Forgotten?” Amelia’s voice was thin. The last word was edged with despair.
“A hundred years from now, they’ll still be searching. You’ll still be inspiring women to be bold. That’s your legacy,” I said.
“Legacy,” her voice now laced with pride.
“Noonan?” she asked.
“He’s dead, too,” I said.
“So this is the end they foretold.” Her hand swept, taking in the sky. “Not a rescue, but death.”
“It’s time to soar. The clouds want to share their secrets with you.” Unlike her usual pragmatic tone, Emily’s voice held deep compassion. It touched me.
“You no longer need wings.” Emily continued. “Let go of the earth and take flight.”
A smile touched Amelia’s face for the first time. “Thank you. I didn’t realize. But I’ll be back. I want to be the first woman in space.”
With that, she faded. #God rays streamed from the moon, illuminating her. Then they were gone, and with them, Amelia Earhart vanished.
All that remained were the #marble-like embers of her fire. #Moon-bright #pellets that winked at us.
#TootFic #MicroFiction #Serial #TimeTravel #NMFic #Spooktober
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Q4: #SundayLit When does showing get in the way of the story?
The biggest place I find showing gets in the way is pacing. Showing takes a larger word count than narrating.
Second, not all readers will get a simple show. What does a raised eyebrow mean or a sigh?
Third, it can feel like ping pong with multiple characters with changing emotions.. This is basically too much of anything is poor writing.
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#百物語 #HyakuMonogatari: 14 Smile 微笑
#Fandom #AlfredHitchcock #Psycho
#DrabbleTober #Spooktober
#SundayLit (#Happy & #Sad) #Wss366 #WordWeavers 10.5 — Antagonist sadness?A smile touched his lips, like a frost bloom on iron-hard ground: brittle, cold, and easily erased.
His eyes focused on the decaying Victorian on the hill. Mother would be so proud of his cleverness.
She had been so upset when the sheriff came by to ask questions about the abandoned car on Ashcreek Lane. Her shrill voice—a searing, shrieking wind, orphaned sparrows #piping under eaves, and the whistle of a willow cane—blew the crystal away.
But he was cleverer now. His eyes followed the bubbles emerging from the muddy bog, and with them, a full smile welled.
[Note 1] Feel free to join in #Drabbletober (A spooky 100-word story a day.)
[Note 2] Or join in on #HayakuMongogatari. Number your submissions one higher than the last. If we reach 100, a spook is supposed to appear. An internet #youkai. Maybe the muskrat.
[Note 3] Image from Psycho, Directed by Alfred Hitchcock#NMV366 #Drabble #Horror #Halloween #Hitchcock #NMWW #NMPrompts #NMSL #MicroFiction #TootFic
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Market Open
#Wss366 #MastoPrompt #SundayLit
The #market had just #opened, and Tina #trembled. This was her first show, a small affair in a neighboring village. There were a few farmers, a bored crafts person, a phone service vendor, one juggler, and a local musician.
Still, she was terrified. What if people thought her work was junk or that her display was sucky? Hopefully, no one from home would visit. That would be awful. She could hear the kids at school whispering about how cringe she was already.
Two old ladies stopped by, saying, “How cute! They’re darling.” Then they left without buying anything. Being treated like a cute kid was embarrassing. She’d worked hard on binding her stories and creating the cover art.
A man wearing a worn suit with leather patches on the elbows, like professors wore, stopped at her table.
He opened a few books, leafed through one, read a few lines to himself, and then looked at her and asked, "Did you make these?”
She nodded, then found her voice. “Yes, sir. I wrote them and bound them in-in-in the best leather-leather. I even made the cover art with old Tandy tools I found in the attic.”
“They’re good, and their prices are too low.”
He looked over her stock and selected five. “I’ll buy these if you give me a 20% discount. I’d like your email address. If they’re well-received, I’ll purchase more. At 20% off your new price. Maybe double at first, you can raise them later.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, wrapping them up.
“Here’s my card,” the man said. She looked at it and saw that it read, “Findle’s Rare and Exotic Books.”
#NMSL #NMV366 #NMPrompts #MicroFiction #TootFic #SliceOfLife
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#SundayLit prompt: Openings
(The Opening of my Time Travel Serial.)
Bijou: The Time Traveling Ghost -- Prologue: 2025: A Filthy Alley
Vague shadows coalesced. Regrets, half-lived lives cut short, but by what? There were just swirling doubts.
“Revenge” was the first thing I thought. But revenge for what and against whom? No answers arose.
I didn’t even know who I was.
“What was I?”
“A ghost.” That answer came easily enough. I knew that meant I was dead, but beyond that, the word held little meaning. “Can I pass through walls? Disappear? Drain life essence?” I didn’t know.
“So what can I do? There must be something.”
Again, the answer came quickly. “I can travel through time, space, and reality.” I suppose that was useful, but for what? Revenge, maybe, but that idea led nowhere.
I checked my memories. Did I even have any? No, I was without a past, but I knew things. “One plus one equals two. The Earth goes around the sun. Down under referred to Australia and sometimes New Zealand. The War to End All Wars started in 1914, and the US entered it in 1917. Lots of facts, but no memories. A ghost with no past. The Time-Traveling Ghost.”
What about the present? I had an answer for when, at least, 2025. In 2025, plagues had returned, and politicians were copying the 1930s playbook: appeasement, liberal hand-wringing, and the rise of fascism.
I didn’t like where I was standing in more ways than one—spiritually dystopian, physically vile. I stood in a filthy alley reeking of vomit and urine. Slogans screamed from the walls: a red swastika painted over the words “Eat the Rich.”
“Funny, I was going to say ‘piss,’ but that seemed vulgar. I must be a sensitive, proper ghost.”
Whatever, I wanted to go somewhere shiny and happy, away from this diseased time. It would be awful if I were stuck haunting this alley and era forever.
Someplace gay. “Gay Paree.