Three Line Tales : A murder of crows

three line tales week 91: a raven at Stonehenge for Halloween

photo by Julien Laurent via Unsplash


 

Feathers flutter in the wind – a parade of crow’s wings, a pair nailed to each fence post, blue black dancing over the churned earth.

Daw knows the farmer who owns the land, who shoots the crows. Grover his name is. The man never could bear to see anything beautiful fly, his instinct always to capture, to cage, to kill.

Grover had a wife didn’t he? Nancy. Not seen her for a long while.

 


Written for Three Line Tales. See the prompt pic and write a tale.

 

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Three Line Tales : A hush after the storm

three line tales week 87: a hand reaching up from a meadow under a pink sky

photo by Bryan Minear via Unsplash


 

It was the freedom of movement Reem valued the most. She would walk to the top of the hill overlooking Burnley, the grass hushing her steps, the breeze hushing the grass.

Raising first one hand then the other, she wriggled her fingers, allowed the breeze to wrap around her, pass over her, bringing the smells of the city – petrol fumes, the local chip shop, crushed vegetation.

Adnan laughed at her ritual. ‘Why up there of all places?’

She just smiled, pulling him close. ‘Because I can.’

 


Written for Three Line Tales. See the pic and write a post. See here to join in.

Three Line Tales : The rest is silence*

 

three line tales week 86: a small boy reading a book

photo by Ben White via Unsplash


 

Watching my small son sing was the best – he’d inhale so deeply, the force of his own breath would make him stand on tiptoe, gradually sinking to the ground as he sang, like a deflating balloon.

The sound wasn’t good – he’d sing whatever came into his head, regardless of the tune – but his grinning enthusiasm, that was what I loved.

I watch his chest rise and fall now, the mechanical rhythm of the ventilator in place of his own puppyish gasping. I long to take him in my arms but he’s attached to the bed with lines and drips, all the things that keep him alive.

I wish I could hear that tuneless song just once more before he goes.


Written for Sonya’s Three Line Tales. See the pic and hone a tale. See here to join in and to read the other stories.

*The title comes from the Prince of Denmark’s last words in Shakespeare’s Hamlet.

Three Line Tales : The Spark

three line tales week 85: sparkler and sunglasses

photo by Matt Palmer via Unsplash


 

The front room stank of beer, the armpit smell of stale kebab meat. Gingerly, Sandy stepped over discarded food wrappers, knocking over a bottle that gurgled lager onto the rug.

‘God’s sake!’

A muffled cry from the crumpled duvet on the sofa told her Dave hadn’t made it to bed last night.

‘You’re a pig!’ Why did she still flat share with this loser?

‘Didn’t find it,’ he mumbled.

‘Find what?’

‘The spark.’

Dave always claimed his night’s picking up girls in clubs wasn’t selfish gratification, but a quest for the ‘spark’, an indefinable moment of connection that would tell him when he’d found his soul mate.

Sandy pulled back the duvet, revealing a mass of tangled brown hair, lids firmly shut over what she knew to be dazzling blue eyes.

‘You can’t even see in front of your face, you idiot.’ She let the duvet drop.

 


Written for Sonya’s Three Line Tales. See the pic and write. Visit here to read the other stories.

Three Line Tales : Miss Salome’s world stops spinning

 

three line tales week 84: glamping

photo by Niv Rozenberg via Unsplash


 

Miss Salome was nervous of her new home at Lombardi’s World of Physical Wonders.

She was used to the contented cluck of the hens, the rhythms of a farmhouse bound by sunrise and seasons. But Lombardi’s was a like a city, all noise and bustle under canvas and always a new face – Atarah the alligator woman, Sherman the dogfaced boy, the half and half Charlie, Abdu who they called the leopard skin boy … too many to remember.

She had once lived rooted to the earth, now the soil beneath her was forever changing from red to brown to grey, back to red with the rumble of cartwheels.

Then one day she saw him, a man in miniature, so small and perfect he could be cast from porcelain. He sat on the top step of the neighbouring caravan, hands resting on his knees, watching her.

‘Welcome to the neighbourhood,’ he said smiling and for once she was pleased of her beard, pleased it hid the flush of pleasure that rogued her cheeks.

 


Written for Sonya at Only 100 Words’ Three Line Tales. See the pic … and you know the rest. Go here to read the other stories.

To learn more sideshow acts and terminology see here.

 

 

Three Line Tales : The falling

three line tales, week 83: origami paper cranes on a table

photo by Dev Benjamin via Unsplash


 

The bell went for break, the children’s whoops and laughter receding along the hall as Shona set to tidying. She’d been showing them simple origami swallows, training their faltering, stubby fingers to create sharp folds, the table scattered with a rainbow flock of creased paper wings and torn beaks. The tap of shoes in the hall made her turn.

Poppy. Sensitive, more likely to be found talking to the dolls than her school mates. ‘Miss, the birds – they’re falling!’

Shona smiled, sent the paper rustling with her hand. ‘We made them, remember? They’re not real.’

Poppy shook her head, pointing to the window. ‘Not those. Those.’

The sunlight flickered, dimmed. A sound like hard rain falling. The children screaming.

 


Written for Sonya at Only 100 Words’ Three Line Tales. See the prompt pic and just write. See here to join in and to read the other tales.

Three Line Tales : A thousand plucked wires

three line tales week 82: a very long skeleton

photo by Samuel Zeller via Unsplash


 

It was the spaces between the ribs Sam watched, triangles of black caught between bleached pins, growing and shrinking with each coil and flex. Crescent bones hooked together, held a moment then snapped apart, making a sound liked plucked wires.

‘How is it doing that?’ he whispered.

The serpent was stripped of flesh and muscle and skin, the elongated organs long dissolved to atoms. The diamond-shaped skull turned at the sound of his voice, blank eye sockets searching for him.

Col sighed, scrubbed his forehead with blunt fingers. ‘How are any of them doing it?’

Behind him, the sound of a thousand plucked wires.

 


Written for Sonya at Only 100 Words’ Three Line Tales. See the pic and write a tale … And unlike me, try to keep it to three lines! See here to join in.