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Friday Fictioneers

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Copyright -Claire Fuller

Hi again, I don’t think I’ve posted in almost half a year but I’m back, although I can’t promise I’ll stay, being so busy with exams coming up and all. Here’s something I whipped up for Friday Fictioneer’s, hosted by Rochelle Wisoff. I haven’t written anything good in months, my pathetic excuse is writers block but I’m trying to beat it. Anyway, here it is, constructive criticism wanted and I hope you enjoy.

                                                                                                                                                        

It has been a while. For months I’ve passed this place and looked away, afraid to see the noose hanging from the tree. It’s gnarled knots and thick twisted branches, we used to climb across them and pretend we were monkeys’, or elves, or spies, giggling with glee, oblivious to all else.

So many memories, so much pain. I still remember our first kiss round the back, how we’d clambered onto the church roof, how once I broke my arm. I remember playing hide and seek, the last time I’d found him, hanging with a noose around his neck.

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Friday Fictioneers: Sharp Ends, Part 6

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Sharp Ends Series/ Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6 / Part 7 /

 Here we are, another week, another prompt, another part of the Sharp Ends series to tell for friday fictioneers! If you want to join, the link to Madison Wood’s page is here. This week I looked at the prompt and my mouth fell agape, how was I to fit a snowy mountain into my series, well I’ve found a way. Hope you enjoy and constructive criticism is always welcome. 

He shook her awake roughly, her eyes flickered open slowly, like butterfly wings readying for flight. A droplet of affection shone in his mercury, gray eyes and for a second she almost forgot where she was.

“Rise and shine, sleeping beauty, we’re almost there,” He growled, “Thought you might want to see the view as well.” He added, less harshly, his eyes darting about like a fish caught in a net, and indeed, he felt trapped, his phobia of flying was twirling him about its finger. She pushed him away from the window and looked out at the vanilla topped peaks, she was awed by the beautiful sight of the morning sunlight setting the mountains into a fierce white glow.

“Beautiful, ain’t it.” He whispered, she began to reply but a sudden shudder rippled through the plane like a sonic wave.

Friday Fictioneer’s: Sharp Ends, Part 1

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Sharp Ends Series: /Part 1/ Part 2/ Part 3/Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6 /Part 7 /

So it’s thursday again,

time for friday fiction, if you

want to join, click Here, for

more information.

 

 

 

 

Century old wood, groaned beneath her feet as she climbed the arthritic stairs onto the porch of the derelict house. She pried the door open, gripping the barbed wire in her beautifully manicured hands, ready to pounce on her prey.

The hallway was empty of life, except for the rats in the walls and the termites making their homes in the floor. Faded wallpaper, which had been popular in the seventies, latched onto the walls with their last curling fingers.

She entered the lounge and saw him sitting in a mouldy couch with springs sticking out like castle defences. Slowly, she edged forward until she was close enough, before throwing the barbed wire around his neck and tugging tightly.

He straggled briefly, his relaxed, unready muscles not filled with strength to stop her, the wire sunk deeper until he stopped flailing, his last words filled the room.

“I loved you…..”

A Life Of Memories

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He was thrown out of sleep, the rush of reality hit him hard in the face. Sweat drenched every inch of his body, but he felt cold, cold and numb inside. He had been in a fight with his duvet again, because it was twisted and tangled around him like knotted hair. His duvet wasn’t the only thing he was fighting with, he constantly wrestled with the memories that haunted his every waking moment of life.

Pictures and films of his memories passed through his brain, unforgiving, relentless, and reluctant to be let go. Like newborn babies, they clinged to him, and followed him everywhere. All he wanted was to forget, he would give everything up just to live without the haunting images.

Paintings of blood, films of war, songs of terror echoed in his brain. The smell of death lingered in his nostrils, an odious after taste of the war he’d fought in. He feared his memories, but every thought was comprised of them, the dread of thinking about it, hunted him, his memories were his life.