The tower, the voices, and the red balloon by Tricia Everaert

Prompt: Cut the strings | Word count: 1000 | Genre: Fiction

The room was round. The cool stone wall at her back was curved so the room must be round. She knew if she opened her eyes she would see one large window and an open vista beyond. She knew the deep window seat carved into the thick wall would be worn smooth from time and much use. The room would be softly lit as if from a gentle fire or a dozen candles, but she would never find the actual source of light or warmth. It was always this: emptiness and silence in a high stone tower.

She knew her name was Nicole. She knew when she opened her eyes she would be drawn to the window and when she looked down she would see trees and a garden and a maze. She would hear voices, and they would lure her out of the room, and she would find herself in the garden or under the trees. She never saw a door or stairs or knew how she got out of the room in the tower.

This content is for members only. Please login or register.
Log In Register

Young masterminds by Tricia Ever

Prompt: Masterminds | Word count: 1000 | Genre: Fiction

The chirping of crickets drifted languidly through the open window. The sheer curtain barely stirred in the faintest of breezes and the shadow of a tree branch hung motionless on the wall. Inside the room were two beds, and in each bed was a little boy. Both boys were supposed to be sleeping as it was quite late, even for a night in the middle of the summer holidays from school. They were wide awake, however. It is fair to say that good seldom comes of boys being wide awake when they should be sleeping, even when it is not a school night.

This content is for members only. Please login or register.
Log In Register

Farmer Liberté’s potatoes by Tricia Ever

Prompt: The club | Word count: 750 | Genre: (Historical) Fiction

“This day, it is hot enough to melt your wife’s heart, Guillaume,” complained Auguste, wiping his forehead with a bandana from his pocket. His blond hair was darkened with sweat, his fair face flushed red by exertion and heat.

“Bah! My wife, she always runs warm, she. More than you could handle, Auguste!” protested his friend. “More than is good for her,” he muttered under his breath.

“Your wife is a fine looking woman, Guillaume. Many men in the village envy you. I include myself there.”

“You would all do better to tend to your own wives,” growled Guillaume, his dark whiskers practically bristling. “No good comes of poaching from another man, you will learn that, I promise you.”

This content is for members only. Please login or register.
Log In Register

The letter by Tricia Ever

Prompt: Going home | Word count: 500 | Genre: Fiction

“Are you ready yet?” Tom asked the child.

“No, not yet,” the reply drifted back to him.

“Ok,” said Tom. “We can take our time.”

Tom sat on a thick lump of driftwood, hands stuffed deep into his pockets, his shoulders hunched against a wind that bit with sharp teeth through his thin jacket. Waves were being pushed onto the rocks by that wind, as it peeled the lake back layer by layer.

They were being peeled into layers, too, he and the girl. Life had become a stinging wind and blunt rocks, and they were caught in between, like the water, being battered by the two.

This content is for members only. Please login or register.
Log In Register

Brothers in Arms by Tricia Ever

Prompt: A white lie | Word count: 2,500 | Genre: Fiction

Two men faced each other by the tracks just beyond the railway station. One made note of the green backpack slung over the shoulders of the man across from him, while the other recognized details of black jacket and hat.  Signals acknowledged, they nodded to each other, stepped over the tracks and walked toward a stand of trees in the distance. The man in the black jacket made up for his lesser height with quick, energetic steps, easily keeping up with the taller man carrying the green pack. Once safe from curious eyes under the trees, they faced each other once more. “Roger?” asked one. “Simpson,” answered the other. With this confirmation that he had met the right man, the pack carrier held out his hand. “James Redding,” he said, “You must be Jock Sullivan?”

This content is for members only. Please login or register.
Log In Register

The Walk by Tricia Ever

Prompt: New Life | Word count: 1000 | Genre: Speculative fiction

She hurt. She hurt all over. Even her eyelashes felt bruised. She braced herself, preparing for the deep pain sure to come and opened her eyes.

With a grimace, eyes wide, she gingerly turned her head and saw what appeared to be a tunnel. It was dark green in colour, nearly absent of light. It looked to stretch on to nowhere and – with a careful turn of her head – came from no real where either.

This content is for members only. Please login or register.
Log In Register

Madeline and the Lighthouse Keeper: The letters by Tricia Ever

Prompt: Conversations with my spouse | Word count: 1,200 | Genre: Epistolary Fiction

Excerpt of letter from Dorothy Saunders to Madeline Smith

…storms have been fierce this year. They say more ships have been lost this year than in any other. As you can imagine, it is keeping Peter quite busy. (I tell you this in case you’re wondering why you haven’t been hearing from him.) (ARE you hearing from him?) Nevertheless, he stopped by today, for no particular reason at all, or so he’d have me believe. But I could see he wanted to ask after you and was working hard to keep his words between his teeth.

You know your own mind, Madeline, and I love you dearly, but you are more stubborn than an ornery mule when you catch hold of an idea. I truly do hope you know what you’re about, this time.

This content is for members only. Please login or register.
Log In Register

Memory by Tricia Ever

Prompt: The List | Word count: 1500 | Genre: Fiction

At the end of a hallway in an old wooden house, there was a grey-painted room with wide-planked creaky floors. The room was inhabited by a long crowded table, overflowing bookshelves, and the scent of creative endeavour. In it, a woman squinched her eyes at a drawing propped in front of her. She was muttering under her breath about uncooperative rabbits and stubborn trees, but as she was a polite sort of person, brought up to be careful of her words, nothing she said would have been unprintable in the children’s story the drawing was meant to become.

This content is for members only. Please login or register.
Log In Register