It has been a while since I wrote here, and with the end of 2015 approaching, I shall catch up with a few of my pieces of writing that I have submitted in the past few months.  

During 2015 I began to write flash fiction (very short pieces of fiction), I feel this has really tightened up my writing and given me the opportunity to try different genres.  I am sad to say that two of the places I submitted writing to - Flash! Friday and Micro Bookends, are closing down and a third place - Three Line Thursday is having a hiatus.  I am very grateful to the folk who run these writing places and can appreciate the huge time commitment these endeavours must take.  Grace Black, David Borrowdale and Rebekah Postupak - you are heroes!

Other pieces of writing from the past weeks are as follows:

SPOTLIGHT
I was delighted to be interviewed by Rebekah Postupak, for the last in Flash! Friday's Spotlights on writers around the globe - the interview can be read here, there were many questions, and I could have written much, much more about writers from Scotland.

FLASHDOGS - Anthology 3
I am relieved to have submitted my 2 stories for the upcoming Flashdog's 3rd Anthology, which will be published early in 2016, with the proceeds going to The Book Bus charity.  My 3rd story for this anthology was a collaborative piece, written jointly with the fabulous writer Voima Oy, I was honoured to write with her.

VISUAL VERSE
I have very much enjoyed taking part in Visual Verse for the past 3 months, I particularly like their fabulous image prompts.  My pieces, Unheard Frequencies, My North Star, and In the Turquoise Afterglow, can be read here.

101 WORDS
I wrote a short piece, A Little Deaf? - which you can read here.


Wishing the very best to all for 2016.
F. E. Clark, 21st December, 2015.

Star sparkles on his paws and a rakishly torn left ear, Mr Spiffy – for that had been his name always – gazed back at earth.
 
Stowed away on an intergalactic schooner, each day at 10.33 internal spiffy-time, he would press his front paws against a portal window and flash the receding earth. 
 
Back on earth, the feline world wondered at Spiffy in the sky, while the human population conjured old prophecies and lies.
 
When he could see his home planet no more, he flashed at his appointed time out of contrariness.   Sadness overcame him, he yowled to the darkness.
 
“What have we here?” Mr Spiffy turned and glared; the human had found him. 
 
The human’s mission was a long and solo one, destination unclear.  Hurtling through the cosmos, he began to unravel.  Lamented his past, cried for his children, he settled into telling old tales, over and over to his captive audience of one.
 
As the twinkle star crossed the path of the Zeeper, an alignment was made, casting a spell borne of the deepest wishes of both parties; the silent and the dravelling.
 
“Curioser and curioser,” Mr Spiffy’s voice rang out, deep and rich.  He had had it with the human’s tales, his dreams had been haunted by giant white rabbits and spiteful old clocks.
 
“You can talk!”
 
“Indeed I can.  Off with your head.”
 
As they journeyed through the out there beyond, they became fast friends, talking of dreams and daemons, of longings and friends.
 
If you can guess spiffy-time, perhaps you might see, Mr Spiffy twinkling.

​*

I wrote this piece, in response to the prompts given in this past week's Flash! Friday online contest - and was delighted to receive an Honourable Mention.  You can read the judges' comments here.

The ravages could be shored up no more.  Soft light and distance failed to conceal what she had fretted and fought against for decades.
 
She screamed for the alchemist, the surgeon, thrusting plastic and promises.   On a desperate quest she sent them:  the colostrum of the great white beast, heart of a unicorn, eye of a condor. 
 
A year and a day they were away, adventuring far.
 
While she cowered in her ivory tower, alone in shame, shielded from the world and its fearsome sun.  Starving for the past.
 
They returned to find her desiccated corpse.  Light as a butterfly.
 
Many had thought she had passed long since.  They covered her face in the coffin, talked of the beauty of her youth.
​*

Really chuffed to receive an honorable mention for this flash story - which was my response to Flash! Friday's Vol 3 - 45 challenge - you can read the judges' comments and about the other winners here.  This is particularly lovely for me as this is the first time I have had any rating in this weekly contest.

How lovely to be included in this anthology alongside so many wonderful writers and artists.

Three Line Thursday is an open,  weekly online writing contest, conceived and run by Grace Black, who is herself an inspired writer.  As its title suggests - every Thursday, we are given an image as a prompt and asked to submit 3 lines of writing from that cue.  Sometimes there are special challenges, sometimes there are prizes, the entries are judged and results are published on a Monday.  Recently the winning special challenge entry has been published in Flash Fiction Magazine.

I would recommend any interested writers to come and have a go at writing on a Thursday.

Light Lines is an anthology of winner's words, prompt images and lines about light - all from the writers who come and write for Three Line Thursday.  The cover image is by Matt Adamik.  Light Lines is available via Amazon - the UK site here, US here.

I am delighted to have one of my paintings, which was used as a prompt, and two of my own 3 line poems included in this anthology.

I wrote these three lines in response to the stunning image above, from Matt Adamik.  His photo was the prompt in this week's 3LineThursday writing contest.  I was delighted to be given an Honourable Mention - you can read the judge's comment and the rest of the winners' pieces here.

I remember sitting on the bus, looking through the drips and licks of water running down through the condensation.  Rain driech day.  On the cold side of the road.  Mould and fallen leaves.  Damp creeping.  Ivy.  Childminders with prams bump and jostle.  “Are we there yet?”  CCTV cameras, Wi-Fi, unwired electro charged.  Greyness.

I remember the lick of salt on my skin.  Lemon poppy-seed cake.  A clear, clean, endless beach.  Cold sparkling.

I remember the dark coming down and the mist gathering on the hill as we walked.  Too far to turn back.  Not far enough to be there yet.

I remember the song he sang as he sat on his own at the back of the bus.

I remember the coconut scented gorse and the larks in the impossible blue.

I remember the slide down, skewwhiff and juddering.  No end in sight.  Into the black.

I remember the quiet place.  I wish for it now.  Some carry theirs with them.  Too heavy for me to manage with all I have with me.  Carry it through, set it down lightly, there on the sideboard in the front room.  Too fragile to look at.  If you drop it you’re done for.

I remember, I forgot something important.  Scry and scrape, but it’s illusive and gone.  Will you help me find it?
*

This is a piece of free writing I did at a workshop I attended yesterday.  We were tremendously lucky to have the poet and author Alan Spence lead the workshop - which was inspiring and thought provoking.

Excited to take part in this month's Visual Verse writing, and see my story up there next to so many pieces of fabulous work - all inspired by the same photo prompt.  

Visual Verse is an online 'Anthology of Art and Words' - you can read my story 'Unheard Frequencies' here.

Thunder tears of the giant lizard rumbled all around the kingdom.

“Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.”

The villagers stayed indoors, covering their ears when they ventured out. Zilla searched all day for the gnomes: their grotto, fairy house, cake shop, the potting shed, even the pub, but could not find his tubby friends anywhere.

“Waaaahhhhhhrrrrghhhhhhhh,” he wept.

The gnomes had gone. There were no signs or clues; vanished into thin air. The villagers whispered about witches, spells and doomsday prophecies.

Zilla sat in his flat and wept, where were they? What would he do without them? Who would make his tea?

Gnome juggling, gnome throwing, gnome bouncing – so many games they had played, such fun they had. Zilla guzzled candies, drank coffee, paced.

Finally, at 5.46am he drowsed into a snot filled slumber, the villagers had sighed and slept too.

The jaunty knock of the mail-badger woke Zilla a few hours later. He lumbered to the door to find a single card lying on his doormat. Scrabbling for his bifocals, Zilla examined the postcard.

A glossy bright picture of people supping cocktails in the sun. Addressed to ‘That Darned Lizard, Back of Beyond’ it carried the message:

‘Gnomes on Tour – Dear Lizard – we has gone hollydaze. Wish you woz here. The Gnomes. XOXO.’

“Noooooooooooarrrrghhhhhh,” Zilla roared, lumbering as fast as he could to the police station. Zilla knew the gnomes would never call him a LIZARD, never. As he explained to the constables, this could only mean one thing – his gnome friends had met with foul play.

No one believed him.

Days and weeks passed, more postcards arrived, Peru, the Moon, Las Vegas, Atlantis.

Until one unexceptional day Zilla arrived home to find the gnomes had returned. They acted as if they had never been away, but they seemed different.

Zilla’s gnomes were gone.
*

I wrote this piece in response to ZEROFLASH's September competition - delighted it came 2nd.  The prompt for the competition was the photo above in the genre of sci-fi or fantasy.  I had some fun writing this piece of nonsense.  You can see the full results here.

Jazz of autumn.
Spiced. 
Balanced precariously; half day, half night.  Poised, we plunge into the turning season, bound for the coming night of winter bright.
Blue sky.  Indian Summer.  Berry pie.
Yellow Birch leaves trickle down.  One.  By.  One.  By. One.
Sparrows assemble on power lines ready to soaaaar round the curve of the earth.  Flying on, and on, and on, until Af-ri-ca.  
Crisp new school starting stationery, reading lists, Gatsbys and politics.  Crackling frosty mornings, winter clad in woollen layers.  Wood smoke on the night air. 
Cackling geese, trailing above, circling, circling, alighting and circling.  
Stocking up for winter.  
Hibernation.  
A temptation.  
At any age.

(This was my response to a Micro Bookends flash fiction weekly challenge - which asked for a piece of short writing that had Jazz as its first word, and Age as its last.  I was delighted to get an honorable mention for this piece - you can see the judge's comments here.

Enjoying combining my paintings with my words.  This short verse was my response to a twitter prompt from @fieryverse who publish a word or phrase on Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays and Sundays.  The verse or poem must fit into a tweet (140 characters).  

The prompt was 'fallow field'.  The painting I chose to accompany my words was one of my Daily Paintings from May 2013, 'White Flower, Yellow Day' the original painting is available here.

This challenge is open to all, write your verse, add in the hashtag #FIERYVERSE and join in!

INSIDE OUT

The atm machine disappeared, it left a hole in the wall; they just bricked it up.  My mam used to get her money there; it caused us a lot of extra walking that machine being gone.

Soon my new red trainers wore down, long time before I got a new pair.  I loved those red trainers.

Anyway, afterwards they used red brick, set back from the grey granite, as if you could still see inside the wall.  I guess they just ran out of money, or didn’t care to add the facing bricks to finish it off. 

Seeing inside, I remember, that got me thinking.   Five years old and fascinated by the interior of everything that came my way.  Blood and spit and puke and crap and piss – yeah ok - but what was really inside? 

Did our dream monsters, live in our heads?  Could you tell by our faces?  If we looked fierce – was this us, really us, or something inside showing? And, if a whole money machine could disappear, well, what else could be there one day and gone the next?

Of course I know now that the neighbourhood was changing and the bank had just moved on, but I can clearly remember my puzzlement.

I wore my superhero pjs inside out, tried to see down my own throat with my mother’s make-up compact.  I watched everyone closely, especially the grown-ups.

And I saw.  Sharp teeth arguments, death skulls, many fingered fists.  I saw my first aura near the time the atm disappeared.  Boiling anger, seething frustration, broken depression.  I took to wearing my sunglasses continually. 

When did it stop?  It must’ve been when I got sent to the new family.  I lived in the grey world for a long time then. 

Why bring this up now?  Well, I’m not sure if it began with the new trainers – red of course - or the red brick of my new house.  Yeah, it’s a thing for me – new place, new trainers. 

Whatever, it’s back.  Don’t believe me?  I can see your spirals of pain, sparks of joy; I can see your gleaming avarice. 

I can see you inside out.


*
This story was my response to the flash fiction contest - Flash Frenzy at The Angry Hourglass - which gave the above image as a prompt, with a 360 word count limit.  Delighted to have been given an Honourable Mention - judges comments can be viewed here.

Skater Girl

X-ray me and you would find my tags writ bright and boisterous, through skin and sinew down to the bone.  

Sell out or survivor?  Bones break, life happens; walk a mile in my Jimmy Choos goofyfoot before you decide.

I hit the 180, stopped my Caballerial short: the corporate cult has much in common with the streets.  A change of costume, learn the lingo, practice your tricks; a bit of focus, it’s not so hard.

Now, I hide my vices deep underground, set in grey concrete – cold as stone.  A woman with a past, take me on if you dare.

It’s all a game.

by F. E. Clark, 2015

(I wrote this short story in response to Micro Bookend's contest - where we were asked to begin a story with 'X*'  and end it with 'game' - this along with the above photo prompt led me to write this piece of flash fiction.  Delighted to hear that it came 3rd in the competition - the very kind comments from the judge can be read here.)

OUTLIER

“Oh.  Gawd.  I’m soaked.” Kara wriggles in her skinny jeans.  “Can you even see the path?”

“Yes, just a bit further.” Jan plods on, up ahead.   

“Maybe it’s hidden for a reason.”

Light sparkles through the rain drenched trees; Silver Birch, Beech and the occasional raddled looking Scots Pine.

“Outlier, outlier, outlier …” It has become a mantra for Jan. 

“Jan, we don’t even know if there IS an outlier.  That bloke from the pub looked like a real wind-up merchant.”

Exhausting the tourist infested sacred-sites they had sought other places.   Ordinance Survey Maps, books and locals, all held plenty of clues for those who looked. 

Finding the main circle easily enough, they had gone looking for the outlier stone.

“Out-lier, out-lier, out-lier.

Jan stops suddenly, Kara barges into her back.   Then she sees it.  The stone is set right in the middle of the path. 

“Oh my gawd, it’s like a giant cock!”

Silence.   Cold drops of rain sprinkle down on the girls.

“OUT LIAR!!  OUT, LIAR….” Jan rounds on Kara, “LIAR!”

“Jan.  What do you mean?” a shiver shakes Kara. 

“You KNOW what I mean.  How COULD you?”

Kara focuses on the outlier stone.  It rears at an angle up into the trees, double the height of a tall man.  She shakes her head.

“You LIAR.” Jan walks away, circling the stone.  It is covered with moss and lichen.  She cannot bring herself to touch it. 

“We didn’t mean to.”

“Liars.” Jan whispers seeming to sink in on herself.

“It’s over.”

Jan’s not listening, she stumbles past Kara, back along the path.

Kara stands.  Stunned, looking at the stone.  Afraid to follow. 

After a long while the cold hits her.  She walks round the stone, notices writing near the base, looks closer.  ‘We do not speak of our magic’

Realising she has no-one to tell about her discovery she begins to sob.

The car is gone when she reaches the trail-head. It is a long walk to the village. 

When finally, she pushes into the bright pub, a voice cackles, “Found the truth stone did ye lass?”


by F. E. Clark, 2015

My response to Luminous Creatures contest 8 - which asked that we used the above photo prompt and included the words 'do not speak of our magic'.  This story took 1st place in the week 8 contest, and along with 4 other writers I also was awarded an overall award for the most wins of this 8 week summer contest - especially delighted as I had only discovered the contest halfway through. 

The Blue Bird

Yesterday had held the potential to be a perfect day.  After he had left, a thick envelope from an old friend arrived by post.  She brewed fresh coffee, peeled a clementine, and sat and savoured the letter. 

Chatty and full of news, it brought hope, a part of her old self stirred.  The fruit juice on her fingers and the lingering aroma of coffee smelt exotic in the small apartment.

She suddenly felt giddy with life again.

Out to the grocer’s, the pharmacy, errands run there was still time for the market. The first day of spring and the sky was the most beautiful blue. 

She found the ceramic bird, among the household debris, noticed it for its colour; the impossible blue of the sky that day.  Wanted it immediately, a keepsake of this feeling of lightness.  She held it in her palm, cool and smooth, its weight convincingly heavy.  There was a small mysterious hole in the top of the bird’s head.

She bought it without haggling, calculating the juggling she would have to do with the housekeeping money.  Everything seemed possible.

On his return she had shared her joy, showing him the blue bird.  He became enraged at her ‘spendthrift ways’, cursed, grabbed the bird, smashed it against the kitchen wall.

She knew from past experience not to weep.  Swept the broken ceramics up, served the meal, retired to bed. 

The next day, after he had gone to work, in her bare feet she trod on an un-noticed shard of the bird.  Unshed tears from the night before, and many nights before that, unleashed.  On the kitchen floor she had wept violently, until utterly spent.  Then lay down, closed her eyes. 

Death comes to everything, but oh, she had only had the blue bird for a few hours.

Opening her eyes she saw a curl of paper under the kitchen units.  It could only have come from the blue bird; he demanded that she kept the apartment spotless.

Reaching out she found that the paper was yellowed, and there, hand-written in old-style letters was the word ‘FREEDOM.’

by F. E. Clark, 2015

I wrote this story in response to the above photo prompt, and including the words 'death comes to everything' for the Luminous Creatures contest, week 7.  It came 3rd place, but this is not the end of the story for this piece - a lovely artist friend read my story, and made this fabulous blue bird - which I think really illustrates the possibilities for the character in my story.  I am now proud owner of this blue bird - thanks to Marion Achurch.  There is something very beautiful about the ripples sent out from creative energies.

Madame Doofay and the Six Sugar Candy Skulls

“I see six bejewelled skulls, atop six crystal pillars.”

I regard the seventh skull-shaped gummy chew, stuck on the top of my middle finger.  Swivelling its grinning face round I flip the world the bird; waiting for Madame Doofay to reply.

“The skulls will speak to you of the way ahead.”

This dame is a bit off tangent. 

The skulls were a gift from Jason, from the festival, I had not been invited. I had moped all weekend, delighted when he had turned up with the bag of sugared candy, soured only by talk of Felicity who had shared his adventures.

“The sixth has a message for you.”

I hold the telephone mouthpiece further away.  Swallow. Skull six, yellow I think.  It keeps its own counsel.  I dip the seventh skull into my gin and tonic and watch the sugar fizz, then slurp.

“This is no laughing matter.”

“I’m….not…laughing.”  A fizzle of gin and sugar goes down the wrong way. “I just want to know about Jason, that’s all.”

BEEP.

“Time’s up my dear, if you wish to pay for a second session please press the star key now.”

Coughing sour gin and sugar, I hit the star key. 

BEEP. 

“I am Madame Doofay, I scry my crystal-ball for you – what is it you wish to know?”

“It’s still me,” through the coughing. 

“Me who dear?”

“…….. about Jason.” I fling myself onto the floor, head between my knees, choking.

“Ah, I see in my crystal-ball a proud young man, smiling at an amber-haired beauty.”

Felicity has amber hair, I bet she even bought the darn skulls.

I throw up the sugary mess, but something is still stuck and I retch.

“The crystal never lies, my dear. I see six pillars of crystal and six skulls – the sixth skull will tell you your truth.”

BEEP. 

“Time’s up my dear, if you wish to pay for a second session please press the star key now.”

“HELP! Can’t…..breathe.” 

I drop the phone.  From where I lie I hear the BEEP, then, no more.

The yellow sixth skull melts away, mission accomplished. 


by F. E. Clark, 2015 
My response to Luminous Creatures contest number 6 - which asked that we use the photo prompt and to include the words 'six crystal pillars'.  This story came 1st and I am delighted to show my winner's badge here.

No Butterfly Wings

I cannot even remember when it began, it was, at the time, of so little consequence; a buzzing in my right big toe.  I only really noticed when the numbness spread over the whole foot and even then we joked about it.  As the loss of feeling advanced up my shin I had this creeping fear that I was to be turned to stone.

Then came the dizziness, the falling over, the headaches, the stone cold tiredness, and the viruses.

Pains – unbearable pains.  The loss of words.

Petrified.

Then came the tests: bodily fluids, scans, the tiny hammer to my knees – while all the while the fear crept. Tongue fumbling attempts at describing the hundred different intermittent symptoms left me exhausted and tearful.

‘I will sign you off work for a few weeks.  We could try this drug.’

A diagnosis of exclusion, a double negative, this ticket allowed me entrance to the ‘What do you expect me to do about it?’ list with my Doctor. 

Then came sloughs of brain-fogged days, night terrors, sweats, shakes.  The seclusion.

Like autumn leaves falling, pieces of my life fell and were lost.  It cost too much energy to explain, even to friends, and these too fell away.

Trips out became marathons of difficulty and panic – from the corners of my eyes other worldly shapes threatened.  Floors twisted and buckled beneath my shuffling feet.

Then came the drugs to stop the side effects of the drugs that did not seem to be working, months skated past.  A harsh winter huddled down, lost to all, a giving in of spirit.

Then one day, the green smell of spring in the air rang clearly through my being and brought with it the urge to stop all the medications.  My body violently purging the chemicals, I began to emerge.  Crawling through the shattered glass of dependence, a creature half gone – no butterfly wings for me.

The symptoms surge back, a tide of known pains, I breathe with them.

Here I am now, part broken, part petrified. 

Changed, but still here.

by F. E. Clark.

(My response Luminous Creatures contest number 5, which asked for a story which included the above photo prompt, and included the words 'this creeping fear'.  This story came 3rd in that contest.)

Inheriting the Mask

by F.E. Clark

“I have painted this mask for over 50 years now” she announces, inhaling a long draw from her cigarette.

“Every day” she tips the fag ash onto a saucer.

“It was my style, my verve, my signature, but now it is just me.”

Lola stares mutely at Josephine whose eyeliner is almost perfect, only slightly bleeding into the creases of her face.

Lola adjusts the shimmery cocktail dress she is wearing, pushing up the green fedora on her head, meets Josephine’s glaring kohl-rimmed eyes.

“I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of people who have seen me without it in the last, oh, forty years, and of those handful; several have left the land of the seeing” Josephine mutters. She takes another draw from her cigarette.

Lola stops her wriggling, stills, she herself knows that she is one of the remaining few who have seen Josephine without her ‘mask’, though she thought that this was her own secret.

“Barefaced, I am a vague impression of reality, or is that only vaguely impressed by reality? I digress….” Josephine, as she often does, seems to be talking to someone else.

Lola thinks Josephine is perhaps thinking out loud, and stays very still, watching. Maybe she has gotten away with it. Maybe it will be ok….

“And YOU, young lady! Where do you imagine you are going at 9am in the morning dressed in my best dress and hat? Which, I must say, should NEVER be worn together. And, what is that on your face? The idea is to accentuate my dear, not paint bruises on oneself.”

Lola cringes, busted. “I just wanted to look like you Nana Jo…..”

“How many times have I told you, not to call me that – I am JOSEPHINE! Do you hear me? Josephine to one and all. A nana is a fruit, and a rather phallic one at that.”

“Sorry” Lola whispers.

Josephine stubs the last of her cigarette out on the saucer, surveys the six year old before her and says, “Come here then girl. Let me show you how to do it properly”.

(I wrote this story in response to the photo for The Angryhourglass contest, week 55, 2015.  It came first in the contest.)

I am dedicating this page of my website to the writing I do.  

I am honoured to be part of an international group of writers who call themselves the Flasdogs, who write short fiction - flash-fiction.

This summer solstice I had 4 of my short stories published in their 2nd anthology:  Solstice, volumes Dark and Light.