(Credit: Maxime Desmettre, digital-art-gallery.com/artist/1438)
The bursts of anger were powerful, but short. Most of the time she did not want to kill the little girl at all. Sometimes the girl was almost like the sister she never had; doing summersaults on the moss, falling into the stream with arms and legs flailing. In those moments she wanted Joanna to stay or at least to return regularly. Those were also the only times she felt truly lonely. She could lose herself in her craft for months on end, weaving and chanting, needing nothing but the completion of the next spell. But if after having made her smile, Joanna waved goodbye and the forest closed between them, something stirred in her heart which she had thought long dead and it was getting harder to strangle each time.
It was easier when the anger came. When Joanna chased one of her cats or wanted her to follow her to the village, the rage rose up through the mud of her soul and chased Joanna away. Which was nice; there was some satisfaction to be found in tears, and in the time following she could almost forget the little girl and her smiles.
Until the next time Joanna came knocking at her door.
Posted by W. R. Woolf on October 22, 2014
Sometimes even the most violent scenes can look peaceful; it all depends on the soundtrack. When the woman released her first wail, I only heard it for a fraction of a second, then my ears clogged up and all I heard the rest of the time was a soft whooshing, like gentle ocean waves.
She sank to the floor, curling up as if she was folding into herself or as if she were the baby. As the blood began seeping from between her legs, I though how lucky it would be if I were allowed to start over, to try again with all the knowledge I have now, or even without my gathered knowledge to just get another chance to do the right thing.
My mind must have gone away for a while. When I again saw what was before me, she lay pale and crying on the floor, and with the iron in my nostrils and the ebony of her hair, I was reminded of Snow White.
Posted by W. R. Woolf on October 17, 2014
One day she looked up and there he was.
His brilliance dazzled her.
She took the first step and almost immediately after they were a couple. Or at least she meant that they were; he never answered her directly. His warmth which had made her fall in love stayed, but a month into their relationship he continued to be distant. No matter how many new dresses she bought and times she got her hair done, he did not come any closer.
She was all for not smothering each other of course, but was 8 light minutes not too far? And with all these clouds coming between them, she was beginning to doubt his commitment.
When for three rainy days she barely saw him, she put her foot down and craved a straight answer from him. He just let his light fall on her and warmed her as always, but then she noticed that he did the same for a woman on the other side of the street.
She spent a week eating ice cream with blackout drapes keeping out his brilliance.
Posted by W. R. Woolf on October 16, 2014
(The Fengyu Bridge)
I know I’m not going back;
I chose this path
Into a world where things don’t have to make sense,
A world of dreams.
However, watching my pain burning bridges still makes me ill at ease.
I might be able to swim across.
In that case, I’ll have to get rid of some luggage,
Or it will surely drag me to the bottom.
But that train of thought is pointless;
I came in here for a reason
I don’t want to go back.
But if you held my hand,
Maybe I could learn to walk on water.
Posted by W. R. Woolf on October 10, 2014
He lived in loneliness for a long time before he succeeded in creating her. He gave her milky skin, rosy lips and cheeks and hair the colour of ripe wheat. He made her thighs and belly round and her breasts like small white apples. Caressing her weak chin, he turned on the power.
When she opened her blue eyes; pale to the point of seeming blind, his heart gave out, and she was left alone in a world that would have thought her Venus about 200 years earlier, but now thought she was lacking both exercise and sunlight.
Posted by W. R. Woolf on October 8, 2014
(Credit: Justin25_rocks at fanpop)
I often find that I want to write about dragons.
However, every time I think of dragons, I immediately think of the classical fantasy setting with nimble elves and stout dwarves riddled with dungeons and magical forests. Not that there is anything wrong with a classical fantasy setting, I’ve read some really good stories in that setting, but when I’m trying to write some little flash fiction text, I’d like to try something new. I have to get better at giving my dragon glasses and letting him live on the roof of a skyscraper with a daytime job in construction, or at least making it an aquatic dinosaur which is a threatened although dangerous species. The problem is that even now the firebreathing monster is flying through my head and incinerating all my attempts at changing it.
Posted by W. R. Woolf on October 4, 2014
Even if you had grabbed the Holy Grail, you could not goad me to go see a goat gored for your goblin gobbling god while you and all your Godwottering sacrifice-goers look on with gaping gobs like a gorgon had met your goggling eyes.
Go, you Goth, and dig your own grave. I’ll gladly top it with gravel.
Posted by W. R. Woolf on October 2, 2014
With lips bluer than robin’s eggs, he stood as still as his shivers would allow, looking out at where sea and sky met, forcing his thoughts away from the water caressing his midriff.
They watched him from the shore. Some of them shouted at him at first, but they soon got tired of that. In fact, they soon go tired of the whole thing and one by one they left.
Twenty minutes after the last one left, his eyes closed and he slumped into the water. Coughing and gasping, he struggled to his feet and looked at the shore, fearing jeers and laughter. The silence was somehow worse.
Posted by W. R. Woolf on September 26, 2014
(Faceless Composition by Lara Jade)
I am real. I am real. I am real. Not just my pain, me, I am real. This changing collection of ideas and images connected to the physical part which I point at when I say me. This sensation of memories glued together with lies. I have beliefs and dreams and fears. I have potential. You cannot steal my realness.
And around me, all that I see, touch, smell, taste, hear it is real to me. You might sense differently, but you cannot steal my reality.
And as all my sensations change, my reality changes with it and as my memories and perception changes, the thing I call me changes, but I still call it me and you cannot steal my changing identity.
Posted by W. R. Woolf on September 24, 2014
(Credit: jeff-joye on Deviantart)
‘All you need is love,’ they told me and gave me a pillow with that same message.
I hug the pillow every night; it’s soft and comfortable and becomes warm after a while, and I really don’t want to seem ungrateful, but when I look at the padded walls and the tiny window in the door, I feel like one of the monkeys from the experiment with fake mothers; loving the soft, furry mother even though she never has any nourishment for me.
Posted by W. R. Woolf on September 20, 2014