Flash Fiction Friday: Counting Song

I challenged my writers' group by email on Tuesday night, after being sent this press release by a friend. Come up with something, not necessarily a poem, that has the same first and last line, with the last line of each paragraph/verse being the first line of the next. I wanted results at Wednesday's coffee morning - and promptly forgot to actually write anything myself! Until the coffee was served and Peter was tapping away, making me feel guilty. So I took inspiration from something I think I'd heard on CBBC the day before and wrote this in a couple of minutes! And why am I pleased about this? Because it's the first piece of fiction I've been inspired to write in ages, having been so busy with Rochester People!

Counting Song

One, two, three, four, five
Once I caught a man alive.

Once I caught the man alive
The poor lad had no idea
What he was in for.

What he was in for
Was a major dissecting.
Of the visceral kind.
He looked scared.

He looked scared
So I gave him five seconds
To run away.

One ... Two ... Three ... Four ... Five.

Micro Fiction: Arthur’s Destiny?

In a medieval town centre in the heart of Olde England, a couple of burly young men have just taken their turn in trying to pull a huge, ornate sword from a stone, to no avail. Next in line is a bent old man, using a tree branch to support himself as he shuffles slowly forward. Behind him in the queue, a teenage boy stamps his foot and huffs; next to him, Merlin, an old, wise wizard says:

“You must learn patience, Arthur. Fear not: it is your destiny; only you can claim the sword and then the throne of all England.”

“Where’s that potion you were brewing?” The youth turned to face the old man, his arms folded.

“What potion?” asked Merlin, cagily.

“The purple one in the titchy green bottle.” Arthur’s voice rose an octave.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Unfortunately, it’s impossible for a knowledgeable man of that age to feign innocence.

“I knew this would happen!”

“Knew what …”

“Oh, don’t give me that, you old fraud. You’re gonna take it yourself, aren’t you? No intention of letting me pull that stupid thing out from there.”

“You’re being ridiculous. I promised your father …”

“Pfffft!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Gimme the potion …”

A scuffle ensues, Arthur succeeds in knocking the wizard to the ground and sits on him, while searching through the many deep pockets in Merlin’s robes, pulling coloured scarves from one and releasing a white dove from another.

The old man finally reaches the stone. He looks quizzically at the ground around it and stoops to retrieve something he sees there. With a surreptitious glance towards the two fellows arguing behind him, he fumbles with a small, green bottle before finally loosing the stopper. He holds it shakily to his lips and allows a few purplish drops to splash onto his tongue, which erupts into fizzy white froth. He staggers momentarily. Then he throws aside his tree branch. Grasping the sword with both hands, he pulls it cleanly from the stone, its blade long and carved with runes. The assembled gathering clap and cheer - and drop to their knees reverentially. Merlin and Arthur stop struggling to stare in astonishment.

The old man tries the sword out for size - it’s almost at tall as he - sparring an imaginary enemy, before he turns to accept the crowds’ adulation and cries of ‘Your Majesty!’ Then he fits the hilt snugly under one arm as a crutch, and uses it to limp away a helluva lot quicker than he arrived.

“That was your fault, you imbecile.“ snarls Merlin and waves his hand in a complex sigil.

“Baa!” said Arthur.

Micro Fiction: Tenuca

The water was leaking steadily through the house, seeping into his trainers and making his towelling sports socks soggy. He needed to move fast but didn’t know what else he could try.
The PC was as high as he could have it off the sodden floor. The air around him had a momentary glitch, as did the computer screen. He cursed once more, the “There is a script error” message refusing to budge. Then magically, gone. It was all the fault of those greedy 21st century materialistic humans with too much they didn’t want to lose, too much they could have quite easily done without, to save their dying planet. But no, why should they give up their gadgets and leave the gift of life to their descendants? I want it bad and I want it now. And this is where we were. Humanity, with their homes being swallowed by the sea, with nowhere to run to, no dry place to survive. The adults had long since given up. It was his generation now, those like he, Tenuca, left to find a solution. There was no stopping Nature. She was fearsome and she was taking back what was hers. Bizarrely, the very thing that contributed to the earth’s demise seemed to be it’s one chance of salvage. The PC. To create a program so intense, so advanced with the virtual reality software on offer, that Tenuca could hold back the sea. They were working furiously to create a life for those that escaped. That they could use to rebuild. He tapped furiously on the one option he had left. Enter. Hold Breath.

“This program has performed an illegal operation and will be shut down.”

The Magician

Mslexia magazine offered the theme of gloves, I thought: Creepy white ones!

With the applause dying away, he dragged himself to the dressing room, where he sank into his chair, drained. Literally. He reverentially removed the white gloves. They sat threateningly on top of the dressing table.
He’d found his favourite dove, neck broken, lifeless, in his top hat. There were no fingerprints. The bunny’s tail, shredded. No fingerprints. He couldn’t find an assistant, not since the original one …well, at least she withdrew the allegations.
He wanted to be rid of them, he truly did. Tried washing them. Oh, as if! And they knew. He knew they knew. He chose freedom, so closed his eyes. And they tightened around his throat, squeezing gently. But firmly enough.
At a charity shop in some town they passed through a few days later, a new master magician was created.

End