For Sonya’s Three Line Tales.
photo by Neil Armstrong (via History in HD on Unsplash)
He stands, listening to the blood pounding in his ears, his circumscribed vision fixed on the blue planet hanging in the vast darkness, and he wants to weep with the beauty of it.
This is the greatest moment in the entire history of mankind, he thinks, no one, nothing has created anything to equal this achievement, and I am part of it.
Then his gaze drops to this unknown ground, earth, dust, a world where he is the first man to leave his mark, and he sees the footprints.
The Three Lines Tales prompt is reflecting my WIP now. Even the photographer has the right name.
photo by Richard Clark via Unsplash
The river’s fury subsides, and William le Maréchal drags himself onto the bank, gasping, his fury the equal of any natural or magical phenomenon.
Striguil, so close, almost within his grasp—he could almost hear the feeble cries of the woman he would take, by force if she resisted, in order to legitimate his claim—and to be denied it by the unholy workings of a succubus.
From the lake, calm now in the evening sun, a woman’s voice rises in a gale of bright laughter—For all your toadying and flattering of kings, your line will never possess these stones, de Clare’s bones and the inheritance of his daughters.
For Sonya’s Three Line Tales prompt.
photo by Kong Jun via Unsplash
In the café the local radio talked about nothing else, the tiger shark, possibly, and the preparations to ‘deal with it’.
“No going in the sea for you two today,” they said, the parents, settling down under the beach umbrella where mother took out her book and father promptly went to sleep.
None of which stopped the twins going down to the water, just to look, and paddling into the shallows where nothing big could possibly be lurking.
Inspired by Sonya’s photo prompt.
photo by Vidar Nordli-Mathisen via Unsplash
Two small faces press up against the glass, laughing.
Cubs, she thinks. Mine gone. Nothing left. Empty water.
The attendants hustle the children away when the bear beats her skull against the glass until the bones break.
For Sonya’s Three Line Tales writing prompt.
photo by Philippe Mignot via Unsplash
Dawn on the quay; he’d seen it so many times before as he trudged, head bent to the cobbles, on his way to work, but this morning he seemed to see it for the first time.
They were already there, waiting up ahead for him, but he slowed his steps, watching the play of the first rays of light on the rippling water, making the damp stone glitter.
They were leaving, it was decided, so there was no going back, but suddenly he felt a catch in his throat, his vision blurred, and he wondered, if the others had been late, would he not have turned around and walked back home through the early morning splendour?
For Sonya’s Three Line Tales photo prompt. What a picture!
photo via Unsplash
Grandma Burke and Aunty Peg stare into their muddy memories, stirring up reproach and blame, while Cathy turns away and sobs, unable to cope with their notion of remembrance.
The old ones refuse to look at her or offer any words of comfort, and it’s Mam who cuts the cake, her face hard and judgmental too—as if she wouldn’t have prevented it had it been possible!
Mam digs in the knife, Grandma Burke turns her face away, and Cathy trembles uncontrollably—this would have been his ninth birthday.
For Sonya’s Three Line Tales prompt.
photo by Peter Gonzalez via Unsplash
When he moved them to the city, drawn by the lights, the life, the bubbling creativity (and the shops, it has to be said), she had acquiesced; they could always get out again.
That was years ago, and the city has grown, tentacular and voracious, eating up the countryside around, even the agricultural land disappearing under concrete and tarmac, until now it has meshed with the outskirts of the neighbouring cities.
These days, he takes her out in the car to get a change of scene, to watch the traffic lights change colour.