Cobblestones

Via Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers

Photo credit @ The Majesticgoldenrose

She had never stopped dreaming of that magical gateway. A courtyard ensconced in towering stone walls, seeped in history, knowledge and the secrets of the thousands who had lived here over the centuries.

The first time she’d seen them had been from her daddy’s shoulders. He’d carried her across the cobbles then put her down and stooped through the wicket gate, beckoning her to follow. Her head didn’t even brush the top.

She remembered being mesmerised by the enormous space hidden inside. Green grass, pink blossom, brown stone twisted to make towers and turrets, dozens of windows and doors. 

It was a castle from a fairytale.

She was just as mesmerised now, standing in that same courtyard, gown flapping in the breeze, nervously adjusting the cap on her head. 

She wobbled in her heels as the procession made its way across the cobbles. When she saw her father’s beaming smile she felt as high as if she was riding on his shoulders once again.

Thank you Priceless Joy for the prompt. It reminds me so much of my university so it was lovely to go back there for a few minutes for this piece 🙂

Believe

Photo Credit @ Pamela S. Canepa

Via Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers

Giant boots crashed through the forest. Shouts, laughter, the wet, heavy panting of a dog.

She shuffled further under the rock, hoping the dog wouldn’t sniff her out.

She was so cold, so weak. So lonely. She heard a child’s giggling as the family threw sticks for the dog to chase. Enormous paws flattened green shoots poking out of the ground and threatened to topple the rock she was hiding under.

She longed to creep out. To see the wonder and joy in the child’s eyes, wrap herself up in the warm magic of it. Like she used to, years ago.

The people sounds grew quieter as the family moved on. She crawled out, wings limp and dragging on the rough forest floor.

She watched them grow smaller and smaller, until they looked as tiny as she was, and she whispered, “all you had to do was believe.”

A girl named Natty

via Daily Prompt: Natty

“What sort of a name is Natty, anyway?”

“A better one than Yapper, that’s a dog’s name,” I stuck my tongue out at my friend.

It got me thinking though. How did I get the name Natty? I wasn’t given it, by parents or whatever. I didn’t have parents to give me a name. It must have come from other kids or the sort of guardians that drift in and out of your life when you’re a street kid like us.

“It’s cuz you never stop nattering, girl,” Old Mabs, a woman who acted as a foster mother for lots of us street kids, once told me. I’ve often wondered if she was telling the truth because I’m sure Yapper got his name because he doesn’t know how to shut up.

He’s annoying but Mabs looked after both of us at roughly the same time and I guess that makes him kind of my brother. We stick together, anyway. It’s a sort of unspoken agreement that as much as we get on each other’s nerves, we’re better off together than apart. Me or Yapper might storm off for a day or two but we always come back.

“Maybe it’s ‘cos you always look so natty,” he poked at me.

I rubbed my dirty face, which just spread the grime around more than anything, “do not.”

“Do so, your hairs all matted and stuff. Like matty, that’s what Natty means.”

“You’re making stuff up,” I huffed. I stood up and made to storm off from the dilapidated playground where we were planning to stay for tonight.

“Where you off?” Yapper asked.

“Away from you!” I shouted.

“He did make that up, that’s not what natty means.”

Me and Yapper both whirled to see who had spoken. A skinny boy wearing scratched glasses held together with duct tape and dirty clothes like ours seemed to appear from thin air. He must have been lurking near the swings, where we couldn’t see him in the shadow.

“Stay out of this, speccy,” Yapper spat, taking a step towards the boy.

“Oi, Yapper, leave him alone,” I shoved him back. “What does it mean then?” I asked the boy.

“Oh yeah, right, I got it wrong. It’s like ratty, like a rat. Ha ha, rat-face!” Yapper sneered and pointed at me.

“Yapper shut up for once!” I shoved him harder but he just laughed it off. He was bigger than me, after all.

The boy seemed uncertain, glancing nervously at Yapper as he said, “it actually means neat. Like – like smart, stylish.”

“Ha!” I wheeled on Yapper. “You said I look nice, you lurrrrrve me! Dummy.”

Yapper went red as a tomato and shuffled off to sulk on the roundabout.

“What’s your name?” I asked the boy with the glasses.

He shrugged, “I don’t have one.”

“Give yourself one,” I said.

He wrinkled his nose, thinking. “I think – I think I would like to call myself Beano. I had a comic called that once, and I think it’s a good name.”

“Then nice to meet you, Beano,” I smiled and held out a hand for him to shake. He shook it and smiled back.

“It’s better than a dog’s name like Yapper,” I whispered, jerking a thumb at Yapper who was still off sulking.

Me and Beano giggled.

 


Disclaimer: I had to Google what natty meant for this prompt, and it provided some surprise inspiration!

Modern Love

Photo Credit: @Yinglan

The very old and the very young were the only ones without their eyes glued to a pocket-sized screen; a modern city.

Me, I was an old soul. There’s something delicious about the feel of printed newspaper between your fingers as you savour a freshly brewed coffee. At the breakfast table, I might add. I don’t do on-the-go.

People berated our outdated trams but I loved their old-timey charm: a relic of forgotten class and glamour. I imagined businessmen in three-piece suits tipping their hats to ladies in kitten heels and pencil skirts.

I pushed my way through iPhones and Starbucks and stepped into the carriage; a brief reprieve from my thoroughly modern commute.

That’s when I saw her. No Tinder app reflected in those chocolate eyes. No foamy latte clutched to her chest. Beauty, pure and simple.

Our eyes met and, surrounded by Beats headphones, Fitbits and Nikes, I fell in good old-fashioned love.

That’s how I met your mother.


In response to Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers, photo prompt.

[161 words]

Heartbreaker

Thanks to u/BookWyrm17 for the Writing Prompt

Dying of a broken heart is a very real thing, and the most professional and feared assassins make their kills in this way. You are the target of one of these assassins, and even though you KNOW, they are very good at their job…

Something a little different from my usual fantasy stuff. I hope you enjoy it all the same.

CW: Sexual implications, mature content

Continue reading “Heartbreaker”