Thursday Threads wk 159 Maybe You'd Like to Give It a Try

A Honourable Mention for this little story. 

Huddled close to the fire, Ella watched as Conor placed their skewered dinner carefully on top. The flames licked at the flesh, hissing and crackling as fat dripped down. It had been three days since they’d eaten a proper meal, three days of scavenging, three days of walking, hiding and killing.

Killing.

Technically, the Infected were already dead so killing wasn’t quite true but you never ignored an Infected. That’s how you lost people. Ella shivered.

“Reminds me of the bbqs we used to have, although the choice of meat was better,” he laughed.

“It’s not funny.”

“You gotta lighten up. This is the new world now, you eat what you can. Gotta stay strong.” He turned the skewer. “You have to at least try it.”

“Maybe you’d like to give it a try but I’m not. I can’t believe you’re going to eat it.” Ella turned away as Conor slid the meat off the skewer, tearing the hot flesh with his fingers. Bile rose, burning her throat, at the sound of Conor’s chewing, her appetite for even the meagre berries now lost.

“Are you sure you don’t want some?” Shaking her head, Ella sipped some water, thinking back to the days of Sunday roast; a simple roast chicken with all the trimmings. It turned her stomach. She would never eat meat again. “Shame, it tastes just like chicken.”

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Written for Siobhan Muir's Thursday Threads over at The weird, the Wild and the Wicked

Judge, Tina Glasneck
Tina says: The Cannablism story was dark, just like I love a story, and I couldn't help but wonder what got them to that point -- and I also wondered if they were eating the flesh of other humans, who'd they'd killed or actual zombies, and infected meat. 

Mid Week Blues Buster Changing Winds (judged 2nd place)

This story won me second place. Yay. xx

The whispers were true. Rosalind was back. As John watched from his high, stone walls, Rosalind rode in, escorted by his guards who made sure she was brought immediately to him. She stood before John, silently staring at him. It was happening again; he was losing himself in her green eyes, vibrant like an early spring morning promising excitement of the hunt.

  “Aren’t you going to offer me anything?” she asked. “It’s been a long journey.”

  “Rosalind, I banished you from the kingdom. Knowing upon your return you would be sentenced to death, why on earth are you here?”

   “I do not question where the winds take me, nor do I fear the consequences,” she replied, taking the goblet of wine offered to her.

    “It’s that kind of talk, witch talk that got you trouble in the first place.”

    “You haven’t changed much,” Rosalind said, walking towards the window. “Neither has the condition of your townspeople.”

    “There is a war to be funded.”

    “A war in a place these people know nothing about.”

    “You haven’t come back to discuss my taxes?” he asked, standing close behind her, his fingers entwined in her long raven hair. “I’ve missed you.” Rosalind felt his hot breath on her neck as he scooped her hair away, revealing milky white flesh. “I can over turn your death sentence Rosalind,” he murmured.

     She turned to face him, cupping his face in her hands and softly kissing him. “I will not change,” she whispered. “I am who I am, a free spirit who cannot be tamed. Even by a king.”

     The grip on her wrist tightened, his eyes dark and cold. “Then the people you care so much about will continue to suffer as I suffer, unless you renounce your ways.” His grip loosened.  “I love you Rosalind. And offer you everything.” His lips pressed on hers, demanding a response but none came. “You have sealed your fate,” he spat, his hand forming a vice around her neck. Rosalind, remaining calm, tried to pull his hand away, her nails digging in his flesh, breaking the skin.

   “And you have sealed you’s she panted as he released his hand, blood trickling down his arm from her nail mark.

    Rosalind didn’t know why the winds lead her back to John. And as she lay on the cold stone floor, her ankles in shackles, she didn’t question why. Even when she heard the stacking of wood outside, she didn’t question. She accepted everything, even meeting an apothecary along her journey who insisted her nails were painted with a clear liquid, to protect her from harm.  

      That now, was clear to Rosalind. Everything was done for a reason. Now to find the reason for her death as she was lead to the pyre. A muted crowd watched as she was tied to the steak and more wood was piled up around her.

    The flames licked and danced around her, spreading and growing, crackling and spitting. Soon, a wall of fire ate away at her as smoke drifted up and carried on the wind.

     The wound on John’s arm sent him into a fever. From his bed he smelt burning, could see the smoke swirl up high. He cried out as the pain in his arm spread throughout his body, until too weak to even moan. As life ebbed away, a breeze rolled over him, whispers surrounded him. The voice of Rosalind echoed in the air, her sweet voice, gentle laugh. “I am free,” she sang, “free to roam wherever the wind takes me, where you can’t harm me.”

   “Rosalind,” said the hoarse voice of John. “What have you done?”

    “You were right about sealing my fate John. My fate was to be free from you forever and to free the people from you.”   Stillness and silence enveloped John as the breeze, the wind and Rosalind left him to die alone.   

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Written for Mid Week Blues Buster over at http://thetsuruokafiles.wordpress.com/ .      

5 Sentence Fiction Empty

Joe watched the hungry flames as they licked around the frames and walls, spreading wildly and quickly, crackling fiercely; his artwork twisting, lapping, dancing high into the night sky. He couldn't hang around for long as the flames would be an invitation for the firemen and police despite the building being dilapidated, forgotten and condemned; he was just saving them time and money and enjoying his work at the same time, even if no one else appreciated his efforts in tidying up the neighbourhood from squatters and their misuse of vacant houses. The fire was alive as the old, wooden house behind it was barely visible, as the flames fed on the rotting timbers sending a plume of thick smoke swirling into the sky and even though Joe was drawn to the flames like a moth, he knew it was time to leave.

 Joe knew there would be no more squatters blighting his neighbourhood because he knew the house wasn’t empty as he had sent out fliers about a party and had watched them all turn up before setting the place alight for his own party. Sitting in his armchair, grinning with satisfaction, Joe picked up a copy of the flier he had made, admiring his handy work, turning it over in his hand and seeing a familiar handwritten note scrawled on the back made him wretch violently;  Dad, gone to this party, pick me up at midnight, love J.  

5 sentence fiction is hosted by the lovely  Lillie Mcferrin. There are amazing stories here you can read by amazing writers and remember, all stores are only five sentences. it's amazing what you can get from five sentences. xxx