The End

I looked down at the tiny cars way down below. They were so far away, they almost looked like toy cars. I sighed and turned back into the room hundreds of floors above.

“You sure you want to do this?”

The man opposite me nodded solemnly. He was down on one knee, looking at me with pleading eyes.

“I can’t do this no more.”

I stared into his sea green eyes, wishing I could tell him not to do this, telling him to go back home to his wife and pretend like nothing had happened.

Slowly, I raised my right arm and pointed the gun somewhere between those eyes. There was no way I could let him do that and he knew it.

Silently, the bullet tore threw his body.

When I turned back to the window to look down, the two cars were gone.

Sunday Photo Fiction, October 22nd 2017

Forgiveness

I watched the hand curl around the door, the long fingernails digging into the wood. In the shadowy moonlight, I could see the knuckles turning white. The door creaked. It was standing half ajar, but I was sitting in the dark, hidden away from the outside. All I could see was the door. The door and the hand curled around it. And of course the shadow. It was so huge, it almost occupied the entire doorframe, the hulky shape blocking out the moon.

I shivered. I didn’t know what to do. My teeth were clamped together so hard, my jaw hurt, but I knew they would chatter as soon as I opened my mouth. It was so cold here. The floor was so cold, hard and wet. The hand moved a fragment of an inch, barely noticeable, but I was so fixated on it, I noticed it. The door creaked once more, now slowly opening wider. I wanted to scoot further into the corner I was in, but there was nowhere to go.

That was when the screaming started. Thousands of voices around me, begging for forgiveness.

FFfAW, Week of September 5, 2017

Photo prompt provided by artycaptures.wordpress.com

A New Life

He took one step at a time. Carefully placing one foot above the other, he hoisted himself up the steps. They were uneven and covered in grass, but he did not seem to notice. His thoughts were elsewhere; the steps a lifetime away.

He kept seeing the shocked face, inches from his. First the happiness, then the shock, then the twisted expression of hatred and pain. He hadn’t wanted to end it this way. He had wanted to take her with him. Lock her up and keep her close. But the order to remove her had come and he had to obey.

Without realising, he had reached the top of the steps. He stopped walking and shook his head, trying to remove the veil of images that covered his view.

He looked down at the village and took a deep breath. He would start his new life here, he thought. They would never find him.

He started down the steps when all of a sudden, he was wrenched backward and thrown to the ground.

The man above him sneered at him, his gun inches from his face. He felt a sense of déjà vu, then the fatal gunshot sounded.

FFfAW, Week of July 18, 2017

Photo prompt provided by J.S. Brand

A Lesson in Organic Writing by Steven James

Have you ever tried to write a thriller organically?

I’ve been mulling over mine for quite a bit now and I can never figure out how to keep the plot moving and fresh.

Reading this article by Steven James has been an eye-opener. He uses only these four questions, when he feels he gets stuck on the plot:

“What would this character naturally do?”
“How can I make things worse?”
“How can I include a twist?”
“What promises have I made as a writer that I have not yet kept?”

And somehow they lead to new plot points, new ideas that can be developed further as the novel progresses.

If you want to read more about writing organically, follow the link to the article, where Steven James explains how he used his questions to write his own novel, Every Deadly Kiss.

https://www.criminalelement.com/blogs/2017/07/a-lesson-in-organic-writing

Remember

He stared at the photograph. The colours were already starting to fade and the corners had been folded by accident when it had slipped behind the desk.

He remembered the spot exactly. It had been his favourite place as a child. Sitting on the rocks, listening to the wind rustle through the leaves of the trees and the water flowing somewhere in the distance down the slope. It had been a tranquil place, where he had always been at peace.

After a while he had stopped going to the place. He had started socializing more, had a girlfriend. He had almost forgotten all about the place, until their one-year anniversary as a couple.

She wanted to go somewhere romantic, so in the spur of the moment, he had packed a picnic basket and taken her to his special place.

Looking back, he couldn’t quite piece together what had happened. It had all been wrong.

Trying to reconnect his new self with his past had ended in a disaster. Somehow, in a rage of sudden aggression, he channelled his anger towards her. Then she stumbled backwards.

As though in slow motion, he could still see her tumble backwards over the stones, hitting her head hard and her body bouncing down the slope of the hill until it came to a rest.

Snapping out of his dream, he ripped the photograph into tiny pieces. He couldn’t let the memories rip apart his carefully constructed perfect life.

FFfAW, Week of June 6, 2017

Photo prompt provided by Pamela S. Canepa

Grey Skies

He stared up at the grey building. Some of the windows were lit, but they did nothing to cheer him up. Craning his neck, he could see the sky above, an even darker shade of grey than the building. His fingers gripped the umbrella tighter. He hoped he wouldn’t be needing it later. He didn’t want his new suit to be ruined.

Taking a deep breath, he stepped into the building. The receptionist took his name with a blank nod, then gave him directions to the room.

It was only on the first floor, but he preferred to take the elevator.

Minutes later, he knocked on the door, then took a step back. He heard a faint “come in” and carefully pushed down the door handle.

Without looking at the man at the desk, he swiftly closed the door again, grabbed one of the chairs and pushed it under the handle.

The man at the desk stared at him as he wordlessly pulled out his gun.

“It wasn’t us,” he said, his eyes locked on the muzzle. “None of us snitched.”

The man took a step closer to him, keeping the gun firmly trained on the other man’s head.

“Don’t lie to me,” he said in a cold voice. “We have the videotapes.”

Sweat broke out on the other man’s forehead, but he did not reply.

The man with the gun nodded slowly. “I thought so.”

Then he pulled the trigger.

When he left the building, it was pouring down with rain, but he kept the umbrella uselessly by his side.

Image from free photo stock pixabay.com

Returning

Along with the workshop on “beginnings” I took, which I talked about in my last post, I also went to a workshop that was called “No Place Like Mine”, focusing on the setting of a story.

It was quite an interesting and informative class, where I realised that it really doesn’t matter too much if you haven’t been to the actual place you are writing about. If you do your research accordingly, then you don’t need to get a feel for the place. What’s most important, is how the character feels about the place.

I really found that piece of advice intriguing – since I have never visited the place where my own novel takes place, due to several reasons. Therefore, having done a ton of research before I started writing, I hope I am qualified enough to write about the place!

In the workshop, we also did some writing on our own projects, focusing on a specific place that is important to our novel. In the place I chose from my novel, there was a crime committed prior to the story’s plot, which the main character, Olivia, must eventually return to. It happened in her living room with and by people she loved, so I apologise beforehand if it has a rather dark vibe to it!

***

Taking a deep breath, she pushed open the door. The hall was dark and she could smell the dust in the air. Olivia thought she could smell the blood again too, but she knew they had cleaned that up. Taking a deep breath, she stepped forward and switched on the light.

The glow of the lamp barely lit up the space, as always, but there was no need to see things more closely. She knew where the dust was and the spiderwebs that caught in her hair as she moved. She knew where the wall had cracks from taking too many punches. She knew it all. All the little things that haunted her in her sleep.

Olivia moved into the living room, sucking in her breath when she saw the blood. She blinked a few times, until it was gone, but she thought she could still see the outlines on the floor and wall opposite her, even though she knew for a fact it was gone.

***

-Fia

They Shoot The White Girl First.

I recently took a writing workshop on “beginnings” and I thought I’d share the outcome of one of the writing exercises we did. We were given a list of opening sentences, which were taken from numerous novels, and were asked to continue the story.

Mine is my usual action-packed dark story, which could possibly be turned into a longer piece. By the end of it, I was somehow reminded of Misery by Stephen King and the scenes where Paul is lying on the bed being abused by Annie Wilkes. And at the beginning I started out envisioning it like the scene at the beach from Little Bee by Chris Cleave. Odd how those two should fit together..

Anyway, I hope you enjoy! And I do hope it’s not too dark.. I think there was a collective releasing of breaths when I finished up reading it out loud to the class. Though I don’t know why – I keep envisioning a happy ending somewhere down the road, beyond what happens in the snippet of the story that I focused on telling.

***

They shoot the white girl first. I didn’t know they actually meant to carry out their threat and so I stand frozen, unable to move, watching them point the gun at the second girl, and knowing that my time will come.

I snap out of my frozen state. I turn and run. I hear the voices behind me, shouting orders. Gunshots follow me, but I have started zig-zagging my way through the trees, so they don’t hit me. I hear footsteps and heavy breathing. My own breaths are coming ragged and I don’t know how much longer I can go on.

Suddenly, I have left the forest behind me and the sun seems to punch me in the face. It is too hot; my skin feels like it is burning.

The footsteps keep coming behind me; then I hear the shot, feel it going through me and tossing me to the ground.

I smell the foul stench of sweat and bad breath, then feel a kick to my ribs.

I scream and my eyes fly open.

Sunlight almost blinds me and I squint. Disoriented, I try to figure out what happened. Had I died? Or was I somewhere between life and death? I didn’t even remember whether I had passed out or not.

All of a sudden, I smell the foul stench again. I scream, feeling nauseated.

“Hey there,” a voice by my ear. “Slept well?” Then, I feel a punch to my already broken ribs.

I scream again and the figure I now recognise as a man laughs. I recognise him as the man who shot the white girl, the same laugh that escaped his lips after the shot.

***

-Fia

The Perfect Spot

Carefully, she peaked over the edge of the leaves. The rusty red of the car seemed to shimmer as the sunlight reflected off of it.

She smiled to herself, her eyes slowly scanning her surroundings. This was the place. She remembered it so well.

Deciding that there was no one to hide from, she pushed herself through the leaves towards the car.

Taking in the missing windows from the car, she thought back to when she had first found this place. It hadn’t been that long ago. At least, it felt like it had been only yesterday.

Bending through the window frame, she reached out her hand and stroked the cold hard skin of her mother, taking in the wound in the chest that had gotten bigger since she last saw it.

Her smile froze on her face when she heard a twig snap behind her. Her hand slowly reaching towards the gun in her pocket, her mind spiralled in a million different directions.

“Police,” a cold voice said from behind her. She whirled around, but before she could align the gun, she heard a different shot, then fell down on her knees, her gun dropping uselessly to the floor.

Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers, Week of March 14, 2017

Photo prompt provided by Tom Livingston with the blog The ForesterArtist

“First comes an idea. Then, characters begin to evolve out of the landscape of that idea. And then, finally, characters dominate: plot is simply a function of what these people might do or be. Everything has to flow from their personalities; otherwise it will not be emotionally engaging, or plausible.”

-Robert Harris