#writephoto microfiction: Trapped

This is for Sue Vincent’s photo prompt

lights

Snow had fallen gently all day, but at nightfall it stopped. Inside the house, they listened to the silence and shivered. Not one of them had dared set foot outside since the whispering began. Nothing entered the house on the river; the electricity didn’t work and the phone line was dead. Batteries were flat and signals were silent. They were not certain what they had done, but the whispering rippled through the fur of the trophies littered throughout the house, and something glittered in their glass eyes. In the kennel, the dogs howled until they let them out. Now they were silent, gone, swallowed up by the malevolence of the forest.

They sat huddled together before the hearth, watching the flames and wondering how long the wood would last. The whispering would stop, they said, the forest had no hold on them, not really. In the morning they would leave. They kept their guns ready, feeling safer with the comforting steel in their hands, and when the first bottle of whiskey was finished, the sharp prick of fear was dulled, laughter returned, and they pretended that their prison was no more than a power outage.

They were sleeping when the grey light of dawn began to glow with an orange light. They woke, not to the sound of whispering, but to the angry crackle and roar of flames and the acrid smell of soft furnishings burning. With cries of fear, they fled the burning building. And the forest was waiting for them.

 

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Published by

Jane Dougherty

I used to do lots of things I didn't much enjoy. Now I am officially a writer. It's what I always wanted to be.

35 thoughts on “#writephoto microfiction: Trapped”

      1. That was brave of you! If you have to rely on a French library for your reading matter though, you can’t be picky. It’s where I read most of the fantasy I’d never really paid any attention to before, like Ursula Le Guin. Never got round to reading her in English.

      2. They had a stock of English books in the store that they let me read through, but that didn’t last long, so it was anything and everything else from Bronte to Balzac in French….with occsional relief in a parcel from Grandad. Oddly enough, it was in France I discovered fantasy too… starting with Stephen Donaldson.

      3. Thank goodness the French are prepared to translate everything, books from all over the world. I dont remember nearly so many foreign books available in English translation.

      4. They still love Agatha Christie and Conan Doyle. Not sure about Ian Fleming, but all the Scandinavian and American thriller writers, chick lit, romance and whatever are translated, as well as a lot of Italian and Spanish authors.

      5. It might be just an impression, but because there’s so much written in English, there’s less incentive to translate foreign writers. There’s much less written in French so they translate that much more.

      6. It is possible, but I think of the Persian poets, the classical and Egyptian texts as well as the European writers of the past few centuries. I don’t think we are all that bad 😉

  1. eeeek! Nicely Creepy Jane 🙂

    (*^‿^*) ✫¸.•°*”˜˜”*°•.✫ღ˚ •。* ˚ ˚✰˚ ˛ Have a Wonderful Weekend my Friend~ ★* 。 ღ˛° 。✫¸.•°*”˜˜”*°•✫ (*^‿^*)

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