In between pontificating on aspects of creativity, living a creative life, and putting edits on my novel or throwing words at my novella, I like to continue playing with the very short form of fiction.
Here is this week’s round up of twitfic. And yes, there are not one, but two, fart jokes (I’m so mature).
“Every time you slam the door a fairy loses its wings,” her mother yelled. She leant against the door and waited for the wings to float down.
Beneath the starry expanse she placed a mirror on the grass; a square of sky on the ground. “On Earth as it is in Heaven,” she intoned.
“Check out this view of Earth!”
They crammed into the small viewing port.
“You called me over ’cause you farted?”
Cuddled on the couch the stench wafted up nostrils.
“Romance is dead,” she said, shifting away.
“I tend to think of it as foreplay,” he said.
Putting a pen into the cassette’s cog he respooled the mangled tape. He wanted to hear her voice one more time before it was erased.
The day her hair began falling out she pruned the roses; denuding it to a thorned stem and waited for the first hint of regrowth.
He selected his favourite brown paper bag containing photos, Lego pieces, textas and a marble.
“I am the collector of broken things.”
He collected the sacred writings from public toilet walls and began to preach, “Today is the bidet of salvation.”
“We are all competent liars,” she said. “The truth lies in the one you believe in.” She leaned in and sealed her lips to his.