MOOC, Writing Fiction

Milk Wood

As many of you know, I registered for a Massive Open Online Course (MOOC). This is my first course of the kind, so I was rather curious about the way it'd be organized. Considering that this wouldn't have the traditional teacher-student model I know so well and that it was a course for which no writing experience was required, I wondered how effective something of this type could be.

Start Writing Fiction by the Open University's Future Learn offers the interesting possibility of the learner being able to go through the different steps of the course at his own pace. It started April 28 and will last 8 weeks.

Now, I know that teaching writing is a bit like teaching someone how to cook. There are different styles, different tastes, different ingredients. However, there are a number of techniques that, when used properly, can improve the end result considerably.

So, although I've been writing for a while (I'll never admit to how long... I wouldn't want to give away my age *cough cough*), I thought I'd benefit from a structured learning environment to consolidate those techniques.

Throughout the weeks, I'll post a few comments on what I thought was "Interesting" and "Uninteresting".

Week 1: Starting to write fiction

• Start keeping a writer’s notebook for life observations

• Write both fact and fiction, discussing the difference

• Read character sketches in novels

• Do a quiz on the readings from Orwell and Heller

• Listen to novelists on how they started

• Start writing yourself.

Interesting: Although I already used a notebook to jot down ideas, words, sentences, collect newspapers clippings, names of songs, anything, I never spent much time making notes about people. This course focuses on creating a character, and it was interesting to pay more attention to this aspect of writing. 

Uninteresting: One of the goals I had when I registered for this course was to have feedback from others. As it happens everywhere, people are too eager to comment on anything/everything without giving some thought to what they are commenting on. This is not only unhelpful but potentially harmful.

Week 2: The habit of writing

• Discover your own writing rituals

• Listen to novelists talking about their own rituals

• Read novel extracts for how characters appear

• Do a quiz about the readings from Atkinson and Greene

• Learn about heightening powers of observation

• Experiment with story beginnings and write a mini-story.

Interesting: Reflecting on writing rituals and how published novelists introduce and develop their characters.

Uninteresting: The foreseen small interaction between the teachers and those attending the course. Yes, this is an open (i.e. free) course and I have received an email earlier today stating that more than 20.000 people registered for this MOOC. I'm not sure all of them are actually going through the tasks given, but... it's an enormous amount of people. Commenting at a 101 level would be impossible. However, I guess I'm old-school... I'd like to see the teachers online for an hour or two a week to answer questions in a chatroom situation or a live video stream, for example.

Week 3: Writing is editing

• Discover the importance of reflecting on your writing

• Explore how, where and when to make changes

• Consider what to bear in mind as you edit

• Review work from fellow writers

• Receive feedback from other writers

• Start writing another story.

Interesting: I found it extremely interesting and useful to reflect on my writing process. It tends to be a bit "impressionistic" and unplanned, I must admit. Once I start spending too much time drafting a story, taking notes and trying to make sense of it all, the magic is lost. I get stuck. How to find a middle ground is quite a challenge. I'm still working on it!

It was also very important, this week, to review the writing of fellow learners. Yes, there are a few rules one should follow to produce an effective and actually useful review. Did people follow those rules? Not always...

Uninteresting: Peer review criticizing an aspect of the story but not offering an alternative.

Week 4: Building your story

• Listen to what novelists think about research

• Develop further a notebook habit for research and ideas

• Explore ways of turning events into plots

• Read writing that focuses on personal concerns

• Do a quiz about the reading from d’Aguiar’s novel

• Investigate where ideas for stories come from.

Interesting: I've never felt the need to do much research other than finding the right name for a character. It was interesting to reflect a bit about that and about how much of each writer is in poured into the characters.

Uninteresting: The quizzes are definitely a bit odd. Being a multiple choice type of exercise, I'd expect them to have a right/wrong answer. In many of the questions that is the case. However, there are answers that depend on the opinion of the learner. So, I'd either remove them or rephrase some of the questions.

Week 5: Creating convincing characters

• Read about four ways to create characters

• Do a quiz about Novakovich’s methods of creating characters

• Discover the effect of ‘conflict’ on your writing

• Learn how to turn stereotypes into rounded characters

• Review work from fellow writers

• Receive feedback from other writers.

Interesting: Receiving feedback from fellow writers. At the beginning of the course, learners were offering feedback in a rather unorganized way. This week, I was fortunate to have a few peer reviews that were structured and very helpful.

Uninteresting: I continue to find the quizzes rather "fragile".

Week 6: Developing and portraying characters

• Listen to novelists on developing their characters

• Investigate ways of getting to know more about your characters

• Read a short story to see how characters are portrayed

• Learn four ways of portraying characters

• Experiment with one or more of these methods

• Start writing the first draft of your final short story.

Interesting: It was very interesting to see the methods accomplished writers used to portray their characters.

Uninteresting: Writing the first draft of my story is something I've been struggling with, oddly enough. I am usually fast in planning a story and even faster in writing it. My gut-feeling tells me the reason why this is happening is the fact that I fail to recognize a logical sequencing in the tasks suggested in the course. Some seem to be "out of place" and others quite repetitive. What should have led to this moment, writing the first draft of the story, didn't... At least for me...

Week 7: Reading as a writer

• Listen to novelists on how important reading is for them

• Note your responses to what you read

• Read a novel extract, investigating its technique

• Do a quiz about the reading from Toni Morrison’s Jazz

• Review the first draft of your short story and redraft

• Learn of the benefits of reviewing other work.

Interesting: Reading other writers' work is, in my opinion, extremely important. I have found myself having no time to read, for some reason, and noticing immediately that my writing becomes more difficult, more confusing and in need of a lot more reviewing.

Uninteresting: Well, it's not the first time that I mention the fact that I have been struggling with the tasks suggested by this course... This has led to a certain stand-still in my story...

Week 8: Your final story

• Review work from fellow writers

• Receive feedback from other writers

• Write a reflection on your story

• Edit and redraft your story

• Review the important tools that help you to progress as a writer

• Do a quiz about character and story and the approaches picked up on the course.

Interesting: Submission time! The story had to be ready! It wasn't... Life does tend to kick us about a bit every now and then and,as a result, I finished week 8 at the end of... week 9. So, I am not sure if there will be enough people around to take a look at my story. We'll see. PS: There are still plenty of people willing to review stories.

As a matter of fact, I'm doing my bit. I've reviewed two already. Writing a review is always interesting for me. It makes me reflect on the writing process without being too close to the story.

Uninteresting: Still the quizzes. They don't add anything to the course. In my opinion, they are often embarrassingly easy.



Final Comment: Apart from the weaker aspects mentioned above, I think this course did promote a more systematic reflection upon many aspects of the writing process, especially character building.

Only time will tel whether this course had a strong enough impact on my writing or not. For now, I find myself being considerably more self-conscious about my characters' portrayal. I do hope this is good and not somehow constricting!

The Gold Locket

Collins Land

Event: 500 Word Snatch

Location: Milk Wood, Second Life

Host: Lizzie Gudkov

Prompt: Your protagonist’s dog digs up an old gold locket in the garden. Your character is shocked when he opens it up. Why?

Time: 30 mins

 

Penny was a fun, happy kind of dog with a mind of her own. She would take off on a tour of the vicinity as if the end of the world was right at the door. After a few times trying to keep up, I completely gave up. Neither my legs nor my will could match hers.

She would disappear for hours, but right before dawn, she would always come back, tired, dirty, but pleased about her own private adventures of exploring the neighbors’ gardens and the fields behind our house.

Every now and then, she would bring a trophy back with her. Once, she brought a squirrel. It had been dead for a while and its stench invade the whole house for days. Another time, she brought a black bag filled with old brittle papers. These were love letters to a woman called Carol. They seemed quite personal and I was worried for a while that my dog had taken them from someone’s home. However, no one complained or claimed them, not even after I handed out a few flyers at the local market and at the train station.

Penny never worried at all. She was actually very proud. She most likely considered herself the greatest adventurer and scavenger, a true treasure digger.

As time went on, it became more and more evident that my dog had absolutely no intention of sharing her time away with me. As soon as I opened the door, she would disappear, running in a different direction each time. She seemed to be using those stealth techniques secret agents use to avoid being detected, although she lacked the calm, composed posture of these agents.

One day, she brought back something quite intriguing. It was an old gold locket. It was covered in mud and an excessive amount of saliva. Penny was a “drooler”.

When she entered the house, I thought she had swallowed something. I could see a metal cord hanging from her half open mouth. After a closer look, I realized she had it in her mouth.

It was quite a struggle to convince Penny to drop it. She considered it her property and I could see that, this time, she hadn’t brought a gift.

When I finally managed to salvage the locket, I washed it and cleaned it a bit while my dog sat next to me, on the kitchen floor, gazing at my movements carefully and anxiously.

It was made of gold, or so it seemed. I opened it carefully. I really didn’t want to break it. To my surprise and, I must admit, concern, there was a photo of a woman inside. I slid the photo out of its frame to see it better, trying to shake off the drops of water that had ventured inside the locket. On the back of that photo, was written “Carol”. The first thought that came to my mind was that Penny had invaded a familiar garden, the one where the love letters had come from.

I don’t know what came over me, but I jumped up from the sofa and went outside. Penny was rather confused. It wasn’t her time to go out, but she didn’t complain, so off she trotted, happy with the opportunity offered and, as usual, she disappeared around the corner.

This time, I made a huge effort to keep up with her. Perhaps she would take me to that same house.

She did. When I saw Penny, she was sitting, proudly, inside a garden. The house looked abandoned. The windows were boarded up. And Penny sat by a tree.

As I approached, I couldn’t believe my eyes. She had dug up a hole. Inside the hole was a disarray of bones. A skull had rolled towards a planter, abandoned to its fortune.

The police later told me that the owner of this house was long gone. The wife had disappeared mysteriously and he had always claimed that she, Carol, had gone back to her family up north.

I don’t know, if they ever caught him or not, I really don’t know. But one thing is for sure, now I always try really hard to keep up with Penny and, I must say, I’m getting better and better at doing it!

Star Wars

The Bayou

“I’m dying here,” wailed Peter, an aspiring actor.

“Join the club,” the director replied.

“Star wars?!” Peter insisted.

“That’s where the money is.”

“Insidious and entrapping,” crackled the actor.

The director sneered. “Go on, now. The others are waiting.”

Peter always wanted to be a star, but he had obviously misunderstood the ad looking for actors to feature in a reality show.

“You must choose your battles right, my dear,” snapped the director. “Now, be a darling and move along.”

An axe in hand, the actor dragged his feet towards the helicopter that would take them to a remote island.

100 Word Stories

#7 Flash Fiction B&W Challenge - Home

Harvest Moon

#7 Flash Fiction B&W Challenge

The river ran deep, as deep as some of the deepest sorrows she had to fight every day. She often sat on the wooden pier, watching the river flow through the aged planks, oblivious of the multitude of sounds exploding around her. She would scratch the surface of the rusted nails holding the pier in place.

If the pier collapsed, she wondered time and again, how she would react. Would she be so startled that she wouldn’t have time to react? Or would she struggle to swim back up, grasping for air?

For some reason, she imagined herself floating downwards, as in the films, into the unknown. She shook her head. That was silly. Her survival instinct would definitely kick in and make her fight, as hard as she could, to live.

However, she didn’t want to live or rather she was undecided about that. The past few weeks hadn’t helped either.

The big question was to leave or die. Neither seemed feasible.

A long string of phone calls brought her nothing but more pain; although the police assured her they would protect her. They didn’t.

The saddest thing was actually the only thing that made her happy. They had no children.

That last day, when an overly concerned husband called the emergency line yelling for help, the detectives went to their house, but found nothing.

“I didn’t do anything,” her husband swore repeatedly. “I didn’t.”

They had to let him go.

A few weeks later, an envelope arrived at the police station. It contained a wedding ring and a white piece of paper saying “Go back and look for it”.

The police did search the house again. This time, they found a transparent plastic bag in the freezer, with a finger inside. The DNA matched.

Her husband claimed to be innocent till today, almost ten years after she went missing. The neighbors remembered seeing her sitting on that pier and some even ventured a theory or two about what had happened. He was convicted, of course. Circumstantial evidence only, yes. Apparently a finger was worth more than nasty bruises, a swollen eye and a broken arm.

As she sat at the beach, the warm water splashing at her feet, she thought of that river, as dark as it was, that had saved her life. Her survival instinct did kick in. And besides, she still had plenty of fingers left.

The Liebster Award!

Thank you, Cybelle, for the nomination to the Liebster Award!

Everything I do, I do it passionately, above all writing.

Being nominated by a fellow blogger, a fellow story writer and especially you, someone who has followed my writing path regularly, means a lot to me.

In "There was a Time", Cybelle blogs both stories and absolutely stunning photos, often blending these two worlds perfectly. Do drop by for a visit!

I am told to share a bit about myself by answering these questions. So, here goes!

1. What is your favorite city?

      Although I don't live there, I'd say Lagos, Portugal. It's a city by the sea (and I do love the sea!) where you can close your eyes and hear the wind whispering secrets, the seagulls arguing, people chit-chatting away, the boats entering the marina. When it rains, there's a certain calmness. I like that.

2. What is your favorite character trait?

      The ability to listen. The Buddhists call it mindful listening. I'm not a Buddhist, but I'm very sensitive to the generosity that listening without interrupting or judging involves. It's very uncommon to come across it nowadays.

3. What is your favorite book?

      This is a tough one! My background is Modern Languages and Literatures, so choosing one single book is not easy. Being a former educator, I'll choose Lewis Carroll's Alice in Wonderland. I've always been fascinated by the perplexity the main character feels towards the world around her. This perplexity and the use of both language and the absurd have inspired many of my stories. 

4. What subject in school gave you the most grief?

      Maths! *rolls eyes*

5. What is the most exciting thing that has happened to you in the last 10 years?

      The last 10 years have been a time for big transitions. I stopped working as a teacher and started writing. I think realizing my life could continue to have meaning, beyond the job I so loved and for which I worked so hard, is definitely at the top of the wonderful things that happened to me in the past few years.

6. Who has been the biggest influence in your life?

      My family (for the good and the bad!) and my friends. Oh, and I mustn't forget my students. They taught me a lot about not losing hope.

7. What is your biggest pet peeve?

      People who don't say "hello" or "goodbye", basically... rude people. Oh, and selfishness. And also people who are self-centered. But then we'd have three pet peeves!

8. Do you have a dream you’d like to share?

      Having peace of mind! I'd like to be able to sit down and not think about anything, literally. Some say that's possible. So, there's hope. :)

9. Which would describe you best, a romantic idealist or a philosophical pragmatist?

      I think I'm a philosophical pragmatist. I do have my moments of romantic idealism, I do! However, my matter-of-fact side inevitably takes over.

10. What is your biggest fear?

      Loneliness. Despite the fact that I cherish my moments of silence, I'm an outgoing, communicative, gregarious person!

11. Why do you like to blog?

      This blog is like my workshop. My stories are posted here and there throughout the world wide web! So, my blog is the place I return to, my resting place, where I keep my "writing self". It's also my "writing home" where I receive my guests, old readers dropping by to check new stories and new readers looking forward to discover my writing. Some become friends and that is inspiring!

And now, it's my turn! I nominate...


The 100 Word Stories Podcast, daily drabbles, a weekly writing challenge and podcast.
Virtual Writers World, daily and weekly writing challenges, book reviews, story writing.
iRez, virtual identity, culture, story writing.
MusePalace, poetry.
Serendipidy Haven's Blog, virtual reality and story writing.
Living Virtuality, virtual reality.
Imagining the Impossible, virtual reality and story writing.
Writer's Kaboodle, interviews to upcoming writers and book reviews.
More Graffiti, drabbles and haikus.
Wide Awake But Dreaming, story writing.


... to the

Note: I wish I could've nominated Honour's Post Menopausal as well, but... the number of followers is way above the 300, which only shows what a great job Honour is doing!

Finally, I'm told that it's part of the award to ask you a few questions. Here are my 11 Questions for you, should you choose to accept the Liebster Award (copy and paste them to a post on your blog and then try to pick 10 other blogs to nominate, that have less than 300 followers):

1. What is your favorite place in the world (virtual and/or real)?
2. What is your favorite character trait?
3. What is your favorite book?
4. What are you reading at the moment?
5. What is the most exciting thing that has happened to you in the last 10 years?
6. Are you a cat or a dog person?
7. What is your biggest pet peeve?
8. Do you have a dream you’d like to share?
9. Which would describe you best, a romantic idealist or a philosophical pragmatist?
10. What is your biggest fear?
11. Why do you like to blog?

A Story Waiting To Happen...

Annwn Willows

... Annwn Willows (click here for full text).

This post is part of a series of monthly articles  for the Virtual Writers Inc. website about sims in Second Life that could be inspiring for writers. My goal is to trigger ideas for new stories, new characters and new settings.

Note: One of the characteristics of Second Life is the fact that it's constantly and rapidly changing. Sims come and go; others look quite different, as time goes by. Do take that into consideration when using the links provided. 

***

Annwn Willows

“Annwn Willows is about a story still asleep”, writes Joanna Corith as she introduces her sim. How could I not write about it, with such an introduction? How could we not drop by for a visit? After all, we are writers incessantly looking for stories.

I decide to follow Joanna’s suggestion and open my browser. With Ólafur Arnalds’s breathtaking song Ljósið playing in the background, I sit on a bench in the island where visitors land upon their arrival, and watch. Night time is slowly fading away and the sun is coming up. Everything looks mysteriously beautiful. Annwn Willows makes me think of being born, of growing up, and getting old.

Four islands populate the four corners of this water sim. We shall visit all, tracing a fine balance between Time and Life. I invite you to join me for a tour of this wonderful world of stories and dreams.

From where I sit, having as a confidant the sweetest looking squirrel, I face an island across the water. I wonder how I could get there. I grab a bird and fly over (spread across the sim, there are a few stars and other objects you can click to get a ride).

The first island I take you to beams with yellow grass that clears, here and there, giving room to a few sit-down areas around a ruined ice-cream van. A rotating chair by the line of lights draws my eye to a cup resting on the table, promising the outbreak of spring. A “Welcome” banner invites me to check the van, while a deer grazes placidly behind it. This makes me think that a group of teenage friends could meet here and, with the excuse of having a few ice-creams, hang out throughout the afternoon, delaying the inevitable moment of returning home.

Despite the visible decay, there’s a sense of magic as I approach a table where a few candles burn inside clear glass bottles. Underneath the glowing bottles, a newspaper announces both worrisome and interesting news. On this island sheltered from the world, the deer grazes on by the edge of the waterline, oblivious of everything.

As I walk farther away from the van, I see an old piece of wood floating about and a door on the ground, lying on its side. A fragile line is holding it sideways, which is something quite impossible to comprehend.

Above the water, a meteors shower is falling. Or is it being pulled back into outer space by an unexplainably powerful force? The pallet raft and the two floaters make me think that there will be a positive outcome though, come what may.

I grab a raft and head west toward an island covered in blue grass. There, a piano whispers a song played by two, a symbol of Life moving onwards and shared with someone special. The bike, the hammock and the table with the tea set, are also made for two.

Farther into the island, a secluded spot in the middle of a dense wooded area, much like a playground, is covered by water. Two small toy boats and a toy raft roam around peacefully while yellow particles (are they glow-worms?) seem to be as playful as the small boats. I look up. A meteors shower makes its appearance here as well, a symbol of Life’s troubles to be overcome. As I look to my left, I see a horse. It seems to be a carrousel horse, unpaired from its siblings. As playful as it may look, a sense of mischievousness and danger, the kind of danger we all put ourselves in one point or another in life, takes over.

As I prepare to move onwards, I still have time to visit a small mound surrounded by water and connected to the island by a fragile log bridge. Three brown pelicans took possession of the area and one seems to be quite impatient with my presence. Perhaps this is a family of pelicans, the father eager to protect mother and child.

I then head north, to the next island. As I arrive, I am greeted by a pair of shoebill storks. You may not know these birds, but I can tell you that they do look awkward! It is said that we all act oddly as we grow older, but that doesn’t stop me from trying to engage in a conversation with them. Perhaps they can tell me a bit more about this place. However, they are totally uninterested and point the way toward a ruined windmill, crumbling on the ground.

I notice there’s a bed inside. Above it, a junk-chime tinkles softly. It’s made of a can of tomato, a few keys, a wrench, the cable of a knife, a porcelain cup and a spoon, just enough elements to write a whole story.

I lie down. A butterfly is flapping its wings gently at the foot of the bed. Through the wood planks, I notice a swing, a vague recollection perhaps, hanging from a meteor. The swing is for one or for two, and I cannot help thinking that our journey to discover stories untold is approaching its end.

Funny thing, these meteors, they come crumbling down, destroying, devastating everything, and I dare say everyone who has the misfortune to stand in their way. However, they also have the enthralling power of making you look up, toward the sky, embracing change, taking on a new path, a new future.

I hop on an old bath tub and sail away east, past a few geese flying. The last island is bordered by snow. The water is still there, omnipresent throughout our voyage, yet here it’s colder. The rocks are grayer as are the flowers. The water lilies still bear a touch of yellow, stubbornly, while white lilies threaten to invade. An old wooden bench resists the flow of time. I sit down. It’s only for one. From my seat, I watch the flamingos, immobile, in their elegant beauty. A lonely sparrow sings merrily. Oh, wait, there’s another nearby. That’s good.

By the edge of the island, I see a rowboat, half sunk in the water. I imagine an old retired sailor preparing the bait for his afternoon of fishing and telling, perhaps his grandchildren, stories from back when he was a young man.

Curiously enough, I notice now, there is no meteors shower here, only yellow fireflies. Well, they are particles, but in our stories, they’ll be fireflies!

It’s time to leave. I grab a ride on a bird. I decide to fly away with the geese. They are going back to the island in the middle of the sim where we landed as we arrived. Its waterfall draws me to explore the world beyond the surface. Something tells me that there is much more under this placid water mirror. Well, I must confess. I know there is!

This sim is impressive and remarkably symbolic. Its aesthetic design is empowered by colors, shapes, and details. The right hint of sound, here and there, makes the beauty of silence stand out.

I close my eyes and listen. Yes, I do hear stories of “memories, dreams, thoughts and passion”. As Joanna Corith states, Annwan Willows is a “temporary vision”. As temporary as Life is, I dare add.

Finally, I’m back where I started. I sit one last time by my confidant, the lovely squirrel. He asks me about what I have seen. I tell him about the new stories I have in mind, so many stories!

Oh, and there’s a moon, stars, and a Little Prince as well, somewhere in a dream. But that’s for you to find out, because… there’s a story waiting to happen at Annwn Willows.

THE END

***

Disclaimer: Virtual Writers Inc. and I are in no way affiliated with any shop located in the sims featured in this column nor do we intend to promote them.

Run

Avatar Games - LEA8

He spent his whole life running away, from school colleagues, from girlfriends, even from his wife. However, nothing compared to that night when he woke up in a strange bedroom. The evening had been amazing, and filled with good conversation and plenty of alcohol. He met a few people from the old days, back when he listened to that song incessantly. Running Wild? Well, the bizarre fire, burning the curtains and the furniture did make him run fast. They could never explain what happened, but the time he spent in jail sure cured him of that unflinching need to run.

100 Word Stories

#6 Flash Fiction B&W Challenge - Merry-Go-Round

Wintersweet

#6 Flash Fiction B&W Challenge

“Merry-Go-Round in black and white, it spins a tale as old as time. It flies away and turns around. It haunts even the bravest of souls,” mortal silence invaded the room when Timmy started to speak. 

“The story goes, ladies and gentlemen, that a young lady sat on one of the horses of the merry-go-round for a spin or two. Merrily, anticipating the happiness of a fleeting fantasy feeling of freedom, she pulled her cape closer to her neck, lifting the collar to protect her from the cold. Spinning around is indeed chilling.

While others got ready as well, sitting here and there on the horses and unicorns and on all sorts of magical creatures, she looked around and smiled. She wasn’t smiling for any particular reason. She was just smiling a contented smile of approval. After all, the merry-go-round had been brought by her father to be gifted to the town and she kind of felt entitled to enjoy one free ride.

As the carousel started spinning, she could hear light giggles of enthusiasm that grew as the carousel sped up. In a few seconds only, they were spinning so fast that the giggles of enthusiasm gave place to anguished shrieks.

She tried to steady herself on her horse, but realized her scarf was trying to flee, so she turned half way backwards to grab its end. That’s when her long radiant blond wavy hair, the same hair that only a few seconds before shone in the sun and sparkled with delight, got loose and became entangled in the center pole.

It was horrendous. Everyone screamed. The children cried. Mothers and father ran to take them away from the merry-go-round as soon as it stopped, which fortunately to all present didn’t take long.

I’m not sure what happened to her…” That’s when he paused, in mid-sentence, aiming for an enhanced dramatic effect.

“Must you always tell us utterly grotesque stories each time we gather?” protested Molly, a petite spinster who took the opportunity to snuggle closer to Emery, the middle-aged wannabe Romeo who couldn’t believe his luck.

“My dear Molly, weren’t we supposed to tell scary stories?” asked Timmy.

“No, my dear fellow, we are supposed to tell ghost stories and that was definitely not a ghost story,” replied Emery instead.

Timmy stood up, pushed his chair back onto its place by the dining-table and walked away.

Everyone look at one another baffled by the abrupt unannounced departure. They did discuss it for a few minutes after which the next storyteller, who happened to be Emery, moved on with his tale.

Half-way through it, they heard a tremendous noise. The lights went out and a shadow crept into the room. It waltzed towards Molly and Emery without anyone noticing it.

Suddenly, a ghostly shriek reverberated through the room. When the lights came back, Timmy was standing, victorious, looking at those present still recovering from the dreadful fright. That meant everyone except petite Molly.

“Here it is. We finally have a real ghost. Well, at least we do hope our dear friend does her job and become one to haunt us at our eerie soirées,” concluded Timmy, wearing a silly old wig.

Needless is to say, these storytelling evenings never took place again. Timmy still holds on to that wig though, the one with long radiant blond wavy hair, which seemed to shine in the sun and sparkle with delight.

Cool

Wintersweet

Ronnie knew nothing about card games and his buddies made sure they let him know exactly that each time they met for beers and Poker.

So, one night, he tried to look cool and threw his cards on the table, solemnly saying “Here, the dead man’s hand.” 

His buddies roared laughing. “What a loser!”

He chuckled. “I was thinking… The fifth card is a two of clubs and not the nine of diamonds.”

His buddies saw Ronnie swinging something at them, but they never made out Ronnie’s new buddy from the gym, hiding in the darkest corner of the room.

100 Word Stories

#5 Flash Fiction B&W Challenge - Piper

Guernica by London Junkers - LEA 6

#5 Flash Fiction B&W Challenge

The ballroom was empty, except for the curtains left behind. The door was closed. 

Piper had the room all to herself. Well, to herself and a few of her friends. 

“Would you like to dance,” she asked Pea. 

And they swung from the chandelier for a long time, which made Peaches rather impatient. “Why do you always have to do this, each time we come here? There’s no music. Can you hear anything? Anything at all?”

Standing by the door, Poncho chewed his nails just to aggravate PJ while tapping on the wooden floor with the heel of his shoe.

“Stop that!” shouted Poncho.

“What?” replied PJ, still chewing his nails. “I’m just setting the rhythm here, so they can dance.”

“Not that! The nails thing.”

“That’s what I meant,” said PJ, happy to have achieved his goal in such a short period of time. He was getting better and better at it.

“Come down from there,” roared Peaches. “Right now, come down from there.”

Piper and Pea stopped the swinging rather abruptly, not because Peaches had ordered them to but because they heard an odd sound, a cracking kind of sound.

“Oh dear, the chandelier is going to crash on the floor, and we with it,” said Pea.

Piper laughed. “No, it won’t! And even if it does, we won’t get hurt.”

“You’ll get hurt, you’ll get hurt, you’ll get hurt…” yelled Princess, who had been silent till then, observing the curtains. Perhaps she could use them to swing from one window to the next, like Tarzan.

“Shut up!” shouted Poncho. “Just shut up, Princess, shut up!”

“Leave her alone,” said PJ. “She’s a Princess.”

PJ was such a gentleman, thought Princess, a soft toothless smile on her face. She was missing the upper central incisors. That gap only made her sound even less of a princess whenever she decided to yell, which was her natural way of talking to anyone.

Another cracking sound echoed throughout the room, this time louder.

“Oh, yes, we are going to die…” whispered Pea.

“No, we are not! Look, we can grab those vines and swing from window to window,” replied Piper.

“Those are not vines. Those are curtains. And they are mine,” yelled Princess, running towards them and squishing them as hard as she could.

“They are not yours at all,” protested Poncho.

“No, they are not,” seconded Peaches.

Princess ignored them and proceeded to squish and squish the dusty curtains. She squished them so hard that she started sneezing. This caused Pea to get startled and lean back. Piper tried to keep the balance and swung her legs. The ceiling cracked noisily. Poncho and Peaches ran towards to door of the ballroom. PJ grabbed Princess by the wrist and pulled her away from the windows.

Only a few seconds later, the chandelier, the ceiling, Pea and Piper tumbled down onto the floor. There was dust everywhere. 

“Piper.”

Everyone was sneezing.

“Piper?”

They couldn’t stop.

“Piper…”

And they knew they’d be in trouble.

“Piper!”

“What?”

“Wake up. How do you feel?”

“We… We broke the chandelier…” replied Piper.

“I know. Don’t worry about that. It’ll get fixed. Now go back to your room.”

Piper stood up and walked away, waving her usual friendly wave of goodbye.

“See you,” she said.

“See you next week. Same place, same time.”

Piper nodded and as always, while she closed the door behind her, added, “… and same day.”

Note by Dr. Freud: Now they are five - Pea, Poncho, PJ, Peaches and Princess.

#4 Flash Fiction B&W Challenge - Food, Food, Food!

Storn

#4 Flash Fiction B&W Challenge

“Now, muzzle your temper,” barked Joey, the restaurant owner.

The argument began as a cordial discussion about different teams amongst a large group of football friends during a birthday lunch. One thing lead to another and the meeting ended in chairs flying left and right, tables being flung to the sides and a serious session of wild boxing. In the end, no one really knew who was on which side.

Joey solved the issue the old fashion way, with a bat. He swung that devilish weapon in all directions. There were broken arms and legs, smashed fingers and bruised egos.

“I will have nothing of this ever again here,” he continued, pointing at the door. “If any of you wishes to carry on, that’s the way out.”

The bashed group, showing their black and blues quite clearly, paid for the meal, the damages, and left without the slightest complaint.

The next year, as soon as that same group booked the restaurant for their annual lunch, Joey closed the place to other customers. He set the table carefully and got ready.

The group arrived cheerfully, despite the horrid weather. It was as if they were totally oblivious of what had happened the year before.

“Lots of wine, keep it coming!” some said, while others shouted in a repetitive chorus, banging their forks on the table “Food, food, food!”

Joey mumbled and grumbled throughout the whole meal. This time, if they pulled the same stunt, he’d… he’d... He became increasingly angry as the voices thundered louder and louder, the food and the wine doing their part.

“Come on, old man, we need more food!”

Now, one thing he never accepted lightly was if someone destroyed his restaurant; that was a known fact. But someone calling him old was undeniably more than he could handle.

He trotted into the kitchen hastily and marched back to the dining-room with the last chunk of meat.

“My best dish,” he announced pompously.

They all ate. They all enjoyed it. They all went home.

The next day, Joey read in the paper “Football team members drown after adventurous swim in the park under huge storm.”

He sneered, looking at the lake across the road. “Yeah, call it a storm.”

Tucked away under the kitchen counter was that bottle of arsenic he had purchased, just in case.

#3 Flash Fiction B&W Challenge - The Right Key

BCC

#3 Flash Fiction B&W Challenge

Some say music heals. Not for Louise. While she was a child, music was a torment. Her mother, a piano teacher, set her mind on making of her daughter a renowned pianist.

The days would pass, sheepishly, between school in the morning and piano lessons in the afternoon. Louise had no friends, simply because she had no time to have friends. Her mother didn’t seem to worry about that. “A pianist doesn’t need friends,” she would hiss at her daughter.

One day, years later, Louise decided not to go home immediately after school. It was her senior year and she dreaded the day when she had to accept a destiny long chosen for her. She wandered all the way to the lake and sat on the ground, her feet in the water. 

As she looked to her right, she saw a piano in the middle of the field. She wondered what a piano was doing there. Her mother scolded her each time she placed something on the piano “You’ll ruin it,” she would snarl. Yet, this piano was not only out in the open, subjected to bad weather and changing temperatures, but it also had a pot with flowers on top of it.

It probably doesn’t work at all, thought Louise. She walked up to it and sat down. She didn’t really want to play. That’s why she decided to take this detour in the first place. However, something drew her to the black and white keys, something she could not explain.

Cautiously, she touched a key. The sound it made was perfect. Then she touched another key. Again, it was perfect. Finally, she played whatever came to her head; she just played and played for hours.

It was almost dark when she realized that she should head back home. Her mother was furious when she arrived. Louise had missed her piano lesson.

Although she tried to explain that it hadn’t been wasted time, because she did play during those hours she was away, her mother wouldn’t hear a word of it. “Sit yourself down at the piano right now, young lady, and you shall practice your scales for three hours.”

That night, Louise packed a bag and left. Her mother would never see her again, not even after Louise became a renowned jazz musician.

Curiously enough, the other piano is still sitting by the lake, playing crisp, fine tuned notes, despite the years, despite the weather and definitely despite the flowerpot on top of it.

#2 Flash Fiction B&W Challenge - Daisies

Tatty Soup

#2 Flash Fiction B&W Challenge

Lost in the woods, an elderly man lived alone. His name was Patrick. 

By the side of the pathway to his house, he grew white daisies, hundreds of them. He loved all sorts of daisies, but he had a special fondness for white ones. They reminded him of snow. 

During winter, he could see the orange dots on the snow and that always made him think of spring. He didn’t know why his daisies bloomed all year long, while others only bloomed during spring and summer. He didn’t know why he never had to replant them either. He wasn’t much of a gardener. However, he was sure that these plants wouldn’t last decades. His did. He would water them every day. He would look at them, smile at them, touch them softly and even talk to them. They never replied, of course, at least not with words. Yet, there they were, framing the pathway leading to his house.

One day, Patrick saw a young man walking up the path, coming from the woods. Now, that was strange. No one ever visited him. He didn’t think anyone cared, honestly. He had no family, no children and definitely no neighbors.

The young man wiped his feet on the rug and knocked. Patrick stood still behind the door, hardly breathing. Perhaps the young man would go away. But the young man went back on the path and walked around the house towards the back. Then, he knocked on the glass window of the kitchen.

This is all I needed, thought Patrick, someone snooping around.

The young man wouldn’t give up though. He walked back to the front of the house and sat on the steps, taking his coat off. Patrick waited. He waited for an hour, and for another hour. It was close to sunset when Patrick decided he wouldn’t wait anymore. He opened the door abruptly, startling the young man.

“What do you want?”

“My name is Patrick and I was walking about in the woods. I enjoy long walks, you see.”

“And…?” asked old Patrick impatiently.

“Well, I spotted the beginning of the path leading up to your house. It’s beautiful. All these daisies are absolutely…”

“Yes, yes, yes… What do you want?”

Young Patrick smiled. “I was wondering how you manage to keep them so beautiful.”

“You bother me for hours to ask me for gardening tips?”

“I just wanted to tell you what a wonderful job you’re making. I am sure you enjoy them much as you walk to town and back.”

“I never walk to town.”

“You should, you know. There are a few orange daisies at the edge of the path that are just the right color.”

“White daisies, you mean.”

“No, no, orange.”

“There are orange daisies on my path?” asked old Patrick perplexed. “That cannot be. That is wrong.” And he started pacing back and forth. He had to solve that. “I need to pluck them out.”

“No! They are amazing. Don’t do that.”

However, it was too late. Old Patrick walked in the house, grabbed his gardening tools and hurried away up the path. Young Patrick struggled to keep up.

When they arrived at the edge of the path, the woods opening up to a clearing where a road would take them to town, old Patrick looked at the daisies and he simply couldn’t see any orange ones.

“Where are they?”

“They are right here.” And the young man pointed towards the town. 

The first building he could see was the local pub. In the flower pots at the door grew dozens of orange daisies.

“Those are not mine,” replied old Patrick, ready to head back home.

“Wait. They are. I saw the white daisies every year, as I grew up, and I always wondered how we could bring you back to town. So, one day, I thought I could plant some daisies of a different color, something that would draw your attention when you reached the edge of the woods. But you never did notice. And today, I decided to go fetch you. You see, we have daisies too!”

At first, old Patrick became quite irritated. He didn’t understand what the young man was trying to say.

“This is nonsense. I’m going home.”

Young Patrick grabbed him by the sleeve and gently pulled him towards town.

“My parents told me about you. They told me how you decided to live away from everyone after your wife and daughter died in a terrible car accident in town, many years ago. They told me people tried invite you over, but that you never walked away from your daisies. I know why you chose daisies…”

“Let go of me.” Old Patrick desperately tried to free himself from a past the young man was forcing him to revisit. 

“We are here for you. Always were. Look.” Young Patrick pulled old Patrick farther into the main road of town.

That’s when old Patrick noticed it. All the houses, with no exception, had planters with daisies. White, orange, blue, pink, yellow, purple daisies, there were daisies of all colors. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

“Unlike yours, these daisies have to be replanted, but they never go to sleep at night. We kept planting them over and over again, as many as we had to, as often as we had to. We haven’t forgotten you, we didn’t go to sleep.” And the young man continued. “Do you know which day it is today?”

Old Patrick made an effort not to remember. He kept silent.

“It’s been 30 years since your wife Margaret and your daughter Daisy died, my parents told me. Today is also my birthday. It seemed like a good moment to let you know we thought of you every single day. Come.”

Inside the pub, young Patrick’s parents waited. The place was crowded. There were all the familiar faces old Patrick knew from back then, plus a crowd of new faces, their children and grandchildren. He was speechless.

Old Patrick couldn’t help noticing the daisy carved on a dark wood panel, hanging behind the bar; underneath, the pictures of his wife and daughter.

Since that day, he walked his path many times to enjoy the company of the town folk. 

And whenever old Patrick told young Patrick he had become a good friend, the young man would protest vigorously.

“We’ve always been friends. You just didn’t know it yet.”

*

Note: daisy (n.) Old English dægesege, from dæges eage "day's eye," because the petals open at dawn and close at dusk.

Source: Online Etymology Dictionary