#writephoto: Fusion

For Sue Vincent’s #writephoto prompt.

We all thought it would come from the ocean, or perhaps a whiteout from the Poles. No one imagined this. No one but those who bought seats in the giant bathyscaphs and never resurfaced. They knew, and now they will be burrowed down deep beneath the mantle of the ocean.

Only now, waking after a night of burning, suffocating heat, do we realise why the idea of shuttles to take the super rich to the stars was abandoned, and why deep sea excavation began.

This morning, the last morning of life on earth, the sky is an ocean of magma, the solar system in fusion, and clouds of grey ash will be the last fragile rampart to fall before the fiery deluge.

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Microfiction Three Line Tales: When the lights went out

This little story is for Sonya’s weekly Three Line Tales writing challenge.

photo by Nick de Partee via Unsplash

 

The lights went out all over the world, some in an explosion of darkness, others like a ripple of dark fire, and a great silence fell.

In a forgotten corner of an unvisited park on the edge of an isolated town, where the wild woods met the tame, a single light shone, bright as a bonfire.

No people were there to see the light dancing in the glass—all were cowering in underground bunkers—only a fox, hurrying back to his earth, saluted the memory of the Earth with a respectful flick of his tail.

 

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Microfiction #writephoto: Pandora

This is for Sue Vincent’s Thursday photo prompt

There was something strange about the couple at the house on the hill. They had been in the village no time and already their names cropped up everywhere: he on the board of governors of the local school, though they had no children; she as president of the local historical society, even though the old one had not wanted to retire; both of them opening the village fête, though no one could say who invited them; and now it was rumoured, he was standing for mayor and she as parliamentary candidate.

A lot of land went with the old house, and they kept horses. The woman from the cottage at the other side of the lane liked horses, had done ever since was a girl. But horsey stuff had been for rich kids and she’d just admired them from afar. The horses on the hill were beauties, such a brilliant chestnut they were almost red, with long, golden manes. They were wild though and rarely came close to the fence that ran along the lane.

That day, the day it happened, she had thought she heard the horses crying in distress. They weren’t in the field. The whinnying came again, louder, more like a roar. After a moment’s hesitation, she climbed the fence and hurried up the field to the barn. The sound of hooves clattering was clearly audible. She flung open the door and caught her breath. The stable was a mass of dancing shadows thrown by a huge fire. Flames leapt to the beams, but there was no smoke, no smell, no heat, and no sound, except the wild calling of horses. In consternation, she took a step backwards as the fire surged towards the open door. She cringed, backing away from what she saw now were not flames but horses with flailing hooves the colour of red gold, an image she took with her into eternity.

The wall of flame divided and multiplied into a vast herd of fiery horses that galloped through the village leaving black ash in its wake. It would have gone down in history as the beginning, except that there was no more history to write. This was the beginning of the end.

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#Three line tales: The end of the beginning of the end

My apologies to Sonya for hijacking her three line tales photo prompt (photo ©Breno Machado), but the opportunity is just too good to miss. It’s a scene from the end of Abomination. You can download the entire novel free here

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With the sound of a skyfull of canvas ripping, lightning lit up their anxious faces, and Carla saw her own terror reflected in Tully’s eyes.

Instinctively, they all huddled closer as hail beat like automatic fire on the loose metal sheeting of the roof, and a desperate wailing rose above the din of the storm.

‘That’s not the storm,’ Carla whispered as Tully’s arms tightened around her. ‘That’s drax, and they’re bringing the Burnt Man with them.’

Three line Tales: Running

Catching up on my three-liners, Sonya’s weekly photo prompt.

Photo ©Martins Zemlickis

They jogged out of the underpass, suddenly cold though they had entered in hot June sunshine, and into uncanny silence.

Broken trees dripped chill; sleet blew in a rising gale, and the howling that began was not the voice of the wind.

The marathon runners had left the summer of ’16 and emerged in the post apocalypse of ’26, where the Beast was waiting for them.

In the beginning

Sticking with the apocalyptic theme.

Photo ©Judgefioro

In the beginning,

Nothing broke the silence of the night,

But the call of wolf and owl.

Nothing broke the darkness,

But the far-off stars,

And the terrifying, fluctuating moon.

In these last days,

Blood red clouds stream and scream in tatters,

Flames lick the coping of the skies.

Nothing breaks the searing light,

But the falling stars,

And the great, black void of the sun,

Where I still see your face.

Three Line Tales: The End

This story in three lines is inspired by the photo below. The prompt is from Sonya’s Three Line Tales challenge.

Photo ©Samuel Zeller

“We’ll have a tremendous view,” he said trying to smile. “We’re lucky they can predict exactly when it’ll start.”

“Lucky?” She pushed away her coffee untouched.

“Lucky would be if they’d had the sense to prevent the Apocalypse, not predict it.”

 

Haiku sequence: Bitter

Inspired by @TheBotaiku haiku prompt: Bitter.

Bitter the morning

the last day’s blood red dawning

no bright spring to come.

 

Harsh the bleak light falls

on the dark, wave-churned ocean

where sea beasts flounder.

 

Raucous the wild cry

of hungry ravens flocking

last supper starting.

 

Despair on the wind

on ragged storm wings riding

the sun will not rise.

 

Farewell happy fields

green meadows filled with birdsong

the long night begins.

Poetry challenge #12: Quatern

I know I promised we would go back to the ‘shape’ poetry forms soon, and we will. But this is a form I discovered very recently and tried out to see if it is humanly possible to get a poem out of it without too much loss of blood or hair. It is! In fact it’s quite simple.

A quatern, if you didn’t already know is a poem of sixteen lines divided into four stanzas with a refrain that changes place in each stanza . The only other rules are:

Each line must have eight syllables

The first line (the refrain) becomes the second line of the second stanza, third line of the third and last line of the completed poem.

There are no restrictions on rhyme or metre, but I have tried for a simple rhyme pattern and a bit of a rhythm because I wanted to. You don’t have to unless the extra challenge appeals.

This is my example, those two moons again.

 

Two moons rose on a darkened field,

The stars were hid and no light showed,

But falling beams of darkness cold,

A voiceless wind in silence flowed.

 

While swell tides swallowed shore and cliff,

Two moons rose on a darkened field,

And veils of snow hid their wan light,

Till wild winds tore the flimsy shield.

 

From the uncharted depths of night,

Cold rocks circled the dying sun,

Two moons rose on a darkened field,

Growing, greening, forever done.

 

And when the mountains, rivers, seas,

The very heavens forced to yield,

No moving finger writ, the end,

Two moons rose on a darkened field.

 

The best way to start is to think of a good, strong first line (eight syllables, remember) that will stand up to use as a refrain. The rest is easy.

Post your poems or links here anytime this coming week. Looking forward to seeing the results.