rhiannon_s: (brain)
This was a really hard one to write. I had absolutely no idea what to write and I must have hit my 500 words minimum target in just aborted first paragraphs that went nowhere alone. This is less a short piece of fiction than it is my own plea for inspiration and finding none. Maybe I ought not to have taken yesterday off from writing after all. So anyway, I've barely scraped the 500 words minimum I set but at least I scraped it.
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As you can see, not great. I'm trying to stay away from Sci-fi or fantasy, and only barely managing it too. I feel I can get too trapped in those genres, but I really have no idea about other genres in which to write. I really only know those genres, well those and the cosy ITV tea-time dramas mentioned, and those all seem far too unrealistic to write in for the reasons I've just wrote about. I seem to have lost my imagination and I do not know what to do about that. I suppose I could always fall back on more fanfic, but I don't want to do that either. I don't know what to do, I really don't.
rhiannon_s: (brain)
The Iron Rhino
The great iron behemoth lumbered to a stop, steam leaking out of every plate joint from its hydraulic systems. The dorsal guns, useless in motion as the beast pounded along on all four legs, now emerged out and swept the horizon. Or as much of the horizon as possible at any rate, the smoke and dust rising from the hellish battlefield merged into the stagnant radioactive, pollution filled mists, reducing visibility down to a few hundred feet of multi-coloured mud and hell. With no other iron beasts sighted, a hatch popped open and a snorkel deployed.
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rhiannon_s: (brain)
Beechwood Road in Spring.

The beech trees towered over the old road creating a giant tunnel; branches forming great vaults overhead and crisp fallen leaves tiled the ground even in spring. It was lit a dim green, the vernal leaves bright filtering the spring sunshine. Blue tits sung in the heights, and somewhere in the underscrub a rustling indicated blackbirds and song thrush. In the background the splashing and tumbling of the river, which up in its headwaters still tumbled rocks around in its race as much as it tumbled over them.
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rhiannon_s: (brain)
Another short one, just really not feeling it today, but still something. Managing to do something is a good thing.

The last storm of winter was usually a joyous occasion to the people of the island, as it was usually a weak and faltering thing, bookended by splendid sunshine. Some years the last storm came long before it was expected and was the start of a long, warm and calm spring. A storm to be discovered only by the end of June when everyone looked back in the weather almanac to see when it had came.
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rhiannon_s: (brain)
Life on the Duck Pond
The ducks scattered on the pond, taking flight in a burst of splashing and quacking. There didn’t seem to be any particular reason that Janey could see, but such was life on the duck pond. Or, for Janey, life on its edge. Maybe it had been an unseen lurking pike, or eel, or even the distant sound of the 3.45 Air France flight to parts unknown that passed overhead. The ducks would soon be back, but for the moment it left the pond empty except for ripples and floating feathers.
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rhiannon_s: (brain)
This one is a little bit gory and dark.

We Are Afraid Of The Dark
In darkness is where it always seems to begin. Whispering sounds and scuttling noises, always something just on the edges of the sense. It is always darkest before the dawn though, not in literal terms, but in terms of the soul. As the literal light creeps back into the world, the shadows crowd in around the edge of vision. Now sight conspires with sound to tease and horrify. Fluttering movement, seen from the most peripheral of vision, joins the scuttling and cuttling sounds.
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rhiannon_s: (brain)
A bit of a shorter one today, and something different.

Wood and Cottage

The sunlight had shifted from the clear strong brightness of day into the warm, long yellowy orange of oncoming twilight and the birds were starting their evening chorus in the woods. Although the genteel and tamed wood had been under the control of man for hundreds of years, managed copses and coppice stools for firewood and charcoal, the glades where larger lumber had been taken, and the few places where some enterprising soul had made an effort at cultivating some fruit trees. Pears or apples, perhaps, the remaining trees were too far returned to the wild in their abandonment. The gradual withdrawal of man over the last few decades had leant an air of shaggy wildness back to the woodland. It all meant that with a little imagination, Charlie could justify the cottage with the name of Wildwood Cottage once again.
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rhiannon_s: (brain)
Grabbity Scratch and the Incautious Child.
You will have heard many stories of the things that live on the edges of your vision, the crocodiles that bite your ankles if you step on a pavement crack, Jenny Greenteeth who will drag you into weed covered ponds, Will of the Wisp who lures you out to the marshes and into rivers, or even Chalky Nancy and her floury cottage…, but today we talk of Grabbity Scratch who lives in the hedges and brambles and tries to pull children into them to eat them or turn their arms to jelly.Read more... )
rhiannon_s: (brain)
Feedback desperately sought.

‘Asteroids don’t make course corrections!’.

Asteroids don’t make course corrections, the statement rang in Warren Moore’s ears as if it were afraid to make its way properly to his brain.
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