This, in case you somehow missed the title of the post, is 5MinuteFiction. You have been assimilated.
And welcome to 5MinuteFiction. That means we write fiction. In five minutes. Shocker, I know.
The Rules
* You get five minutes to write a piece of prose in any style or genre
* You must directly reference today’s prompt: musical
photo by Michael Summers
* Post your entry as a comment to this post.
I’ll close the contest at 1:45. That gives you 5 minutes to write and ten to accommodate the vagaries of relative time, technology, and the fickle internets. If you are confused or just want to whine, feel free to email me.
At the close of the contest, this week’s guest judge, Shane Arthur, @shanearthur will nominate five finalists. I’ll put the nominees in the poll on the side of the page, and at 9:30 PM EDT I’ll close the poll and declare the winner.
For updates, you can subscribe to my RSS Feed, or follow me on twitter.
What’s the prize? Well, nothing, obviously. But we’ll all agree to tweet and/or blog about the winner of today’s contest so their fame and fortune will be assured.
A Few Notes:
* In the interest of time and formatting, it’s best to type straight into the comment box. It’s also smart to do a quick highlight and copy before you hit “post” just in case the internets decide to eat your entry. If your entry doesn’t appear right away, email me sometimes comments go into the suspected spam folder and I have to dig them out.
* I reserve the right to remove hate speech or similar but I’m not too picky about the other stuff.
* This is all for fun and self-promotion. So be sure to put your twitter handle at the end of your post and a link to your blog if you have one.
With past submissions I’ve read, I think how at least 10 could have won. I know it will be hard to decide. I hope you know that the ones I choose are only the subjective opinion of one person. Tastes vary, so, as I say over at my site, “Write On!”
You never were musical. You hated to dance.
You drew sometimes. It was beautiful, you took my breath away but you said, “ah, it’s nothing,” and then you wouldn’t draw again for months.
You couldn’t write, and you hated that, that you couldn’t share my passion, though I told you I didn’t mind.
You thought there was nothing you could do, no one for you to be.
You could have been mine, but what is that, really? To be a possession. Or is loving and being loved enough to justify existence? To define a life.
You made music, though, in my heart, soul, life.
When I couldn’t find you this morning, I knew.
They called, not long ago, to tell me they found you, and can I come down to the station.
I’m not going to go. I know you’ll understand.
The construction site was the perfect place.
An entire housing development was on hold due to financial difficulties with the general contractor. A dozen half-finished homes stood silently in testament to the decline in America.
He heard the music…sweet music play in his head.
This is where he’d begin his sprint to the Oval office.
George Taft–the great-great-great grand nephew of the former President–surveyed the sad grouping of studs and debris. He would sell it as sad commentary, but the gleam in is eyes betrayed what he really saw.
Opportunity. A crescendo. The music played on.
His advisors and PR teams had come up with a slick campaign stump speech and an entire marketing agenda. By the time the elections came around in 18 months he’d have a lock on the Presidency.
Fiscal crisis? He had a plan.
Immigration? A plan for that too.
Wars on multiple fronts? Yep had the solution to that one.
Unemployment? Simple fix.
He’d be ready to counter any argument and any attack his opposition might bring to the table. Everything has already been vetted.
He sighed he looked around the bleak half-built neighborhood. The music softened.
In an hour, his people would be onsite ready to setup. Computer models had been run for the perfect positioning and the perfect lighting. Even his blue tie was picked for exactly the hue that would enhance his face at the right time.
He heard trumpets ringing with victory.
First he’d convince all the sheep to vote for him. Then he’d convince them to worship him.
The anti-Christ smiled. It was all so perfectly choreographed. Like a Stephen Sondheim musical.
@rbwood
http://www.rbwood.com
NEW “The Word Count Podcast” hosted by yours truly! iTunes and RSS details on my website
He squinted his eyes and glared death at the other side of the bed. Unfortunately, it made absolutely no difference.
“Wake up,” he hissed. “Why should I be the only one suffering?”
“Huh?” His boyfriend’s slightly slurred response only served to set him off.
“Wake up, wake up. Honestly, I don’t see how you can sleep through that racket.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Can’t you hear it?”
“Oh . . . that. It doesn’t bother me. I like music.”
“It isn’t musical, though. It sounds like someone strangling a cat.”
“What is this vendetta you have against bagpipes, anyway?”
All he could do was shrug. “It’s like fingernails on a blackboard. I don’t understand how you can sleep through it.”
“You’ve never had to listen to your snoring, have you?” came the wry reply. “Get back in bed and I’ll try to find something suitably . . . musical, to distract you.”
They took shelter in the abandoned mine when the storm came. The wind howled as if trying to wake the dead one moment and musical and soft the next. Hidden down the dark shaft they could hear it. At first they had wanted to get out of the rain, but soon the gusts of air threatened to pick them up and carry them away, so they sought refuge, not only to dry off, but for fear they would be carried away to a different time and place.
Derek always carried matches in his back pocket along with the cigarettes he swiped from his old man’s dresser drawer. Every few minutes he would light one and they’d watch it burn out.
The two older boys, Derek and Benson, tried to act tough, but Victor could see the fear in their eyes. It only worsened when the wind subsided. They moved through the tunnel, eager to head home to eat dinner and dry off, but debris blocked the entrance. Huge boulders and crumbled rocks prevented their escape from the mine, and the two older boys cursed and punched the walls.
Inside was dark, but they could tell it was almost night outside for the temperature had started to dip. They huddled together, despite thinking it was gay, and listened to their hearts beating and their teeth chattering.
Someone would come for them. Someone had to come for them. Or at least, that’s what they thought.
The mine rested on an abandoned lot that no one was supposed to go near. How many times had they been told it was dangerous? More times than any of them could count.
Derek’s matches were dwindling. He’d long smoked the two smokes he’d stolen from his pops. Each time he lit a match, he’d look at his friends’ faces. They were fifteen years old. They could get out of this. Even though he thought it, when he saw the fright in their faces, the quiver of their lips when their eyes met, he knew they were in terrible trouble.
The rumblings started out low and sporadic. Their stomachs cried for food. Victor started to cry. Benson tried to soothe him, but was unable to. He kneaded his friend’s thin arm, his fingers testing the flesh. None of them could stand. None of them could scream, and Derek found himself scraping a rock along the hard flood of the mine, sharpening it to a point. Black fog filled their heads erasing right from wrong.
With a shaky hand, Derek lit the last match the fight for food began.
Rent was playing in town. That very night.
Adam’s toes tingled with excitement. He’d wanted to see the musical since he was in high school. Being poor and living in a one-horse town did nothing to help him in his endeavor to witness possibly one of the most brilliant stage shows to traipse across a Broadway stage since Phantom.
There was only one small problem.
Cynthia sat on the couch next to him. The silver studs lining her earlobe glinted in the flickering light from the TV. Her face, utterly lovely in every way, was contorted in a mask of annoyance.
“You want me to go watch a bunch of fairies dance and sing?” The contempt in her voice cut at his heart.
“That’s just fucked, Cyn. How the hell can you be so narrow-minded? I mean, look at you!” Adam gestured to the leather ensemble she’d chosen for their date. Yeah, like she was the epitome of normal.
“If you’re queer, just say it and get out of my house.” Cynthia refused to look his way.
“You know what, screw you. Screw this town. Screw the bigoted parents that squirted you out. A guy can enjoy musicals without suddenly falling over with the need to suck dick!”
Adam stormed out of her house. Outrage zinged every cell in his body. Oh, he’d go see Rent, alright. He would sit there, front row, and enjoy every last note of it.
Then tomorrow he would buy a train ticket out of that hellhole.
@RCMurphy
“And that’s when he comes in and slays the dragon with his magic sword, freeing the princesses and saving the kingdom!”
Larry sighed. “And I suppose that they get married and live happily ever after?”
“Uh,” the rather flamboyant young man in front of him hesitated. What was his name? Gary? Greg? Something with a G, that was all Larry remembered. “Well…”
“Thank you for your time,” Larry said. “Please leave your script with my receptionist, and we’ll get back to you.”
The young man hesitated, then sighed and left the office. Larry sat back at his desk. The truth was that the script was well written. It was just so full of cliché’s as to be ridiculous. Sure, fairy tales made for good stage productions, but not one who’s only twist was that the poor present boy hero was actually the son of a king from the neighboring kingdom. Ugh.
“You’re next appointment is here, Mr. Flagg,” the voice of his sectary said.
“Thank you, Sarah,” he said back into the speaker on his phone. “Please, send him in.”
A young man walked in, looking amazingly like the last man that just left, only a little older and far more conservitly dressed. Larry raised an eyebrow.
“Good morning, Mr. Flagg,” the man said. “I am Greg Rouse. I believe you just saw my brother, Gary?”
“Brother?” Larry said. “Are you here to try and re-pitch his play?”
“Sort of,” Greg said. “But really, more of a re-write. I have some ideas on how to turn his story into something more dark, set in the modern day, but with all the magic and dragons still intact.”
Larry raised his other eyebrow. That was intriguing, to be sure.
“And with one other final twist,” Greg said, smiling.
“Oh?” Larry said.
“Oh, yes. A musical.”
Larry smiled. He did so love musicals.
@BlanchardAuthor
No one else would likely call it musical, the atmosphere in my office. With the TV and the Ipod player turned off, the only regular sounds to be heard are those of the machinery. The air conditioner hums along blowing coolness into the room. The fan keeps time with a small click at every rotation, ensuring the beat stays fast and steady. The computer clicks in with a higher voice, whining at the work that must be done. The song of the room is interrupted irregularly by the clicks and clacks of the keyboard, the low throat-clearing sound of the person working and the creak of a chair tired of supporting the weight. On the screen, the page never ends, demanding to be filled with line after line of dark text on white light, adding an almost inaudible high pitch to the work and increasing the intensity. It demands attention even when the neighbors begin to pound in new fence posts or the mowers come to cut down the empty field of brambles. But when it’s good, all these noises, so irritating to some, combine to create a symphony of creation, harmonized perfectly, meshing seamlessly, everything operating to the beat of the fan as the song appears in the light and the writer remains intently focused on the words. And the piano and the guitar, sitting silently in their corners, look on with envy.
@JulesCarey
The rain fell like notes from a symphony. Listening to the musical now as we stood beneath the awning of the coffee shop, he glanced at me and I pretended not to notice. Each drop was washing away my reserve, my hurt. I didn’t like it. For a few more minutes I resisted and pretended that I was as mad as I was fifteen minutes before.
“Please,” he begged, “say something. Anything.”
I tossed it around for another twenty seconds, knowing how agonizing those seconds were for him.
“You lied.” I took a millisecond to glance sideways at him. I wanted to say more but the anger was gone and the excitement and possibilities were starting to take over.
The musical was nearly over now and we would be able to leave our momentary haven. I would have to chose what way I would walk. I could stay and walk with him home, or turn my back and head far away.
Twenty minutes now. That long ago I would’ve walked away, but now my anger was gone and my interest was fully piqued.
“Ok, I guess a baby isn’t such a bad idea.” I caved.
“And neither was skipping the vasectomy appointment,” he said and kissed my check. I grabbed his harm and walked out into the rain.
I don’t have a single musical bone in my body. My maternal grandfather, paternal grandmother, mother, and brother all do. They can pick up an instrument and play it with no practice whatsoever. I hate them.
Okay, so I don’t hate them, really.
The problem is, I love music. I love to sing. Until the Christmas when I was 13 and my parents bought me a karaoke machine as a gift, I sang as loud as I could, wherever and whenever the urge took me.
With that karaoke machine, I could have singing parties!
And then I taped myself and played it back.
My world trembled. Did I really sound like that? Is that what I subjected people to, day in and day out? I mean, my sister always said I couldn’t sing, but she sounded like a cat in heat when she sang, so I didn’t put much stock in her opinion.
Now I’m seventeen, and somehow managed to get in the school musical. It wasn’t my plan, I swear. The drama coordinator liked me, and I’m part of the drama club, so I got this part I didn’t even try out for. I’m supposed to be the first one on stage—alone—to start the show. If that wasn’t enough to cause my stomach to clench, I also have a singing role. A solo.
I peeked past the curtains at the audience. Our school is famous for putting on a good show, so it’s packed.
“Everybody ready?” Mr. C called. “Okay, let’s go!”
I took my position on stage left, prop phone in hand.
Oh, God.
@noellepierce
No one else would likely call it musical, the atmosphere in my office. With the TV and the Ipod player turned off, the only regular sounds to be heard are those of the machinery. The air conditioner hums along blowing coolness into the room. The fan keeps time with a small click at every rotation, ensuring the beat stays fast and steady. The computer clicks in with a higher voice, whining at the work that must be done. The song of the room is interrupted irregularly by the clicks and clacks of the keyboard, the low throat-clearing sound of the person working and the creak of a chair tired of supporting the weight. On the screen, the page never ends, demanding to be filled with line after line of dark text on white light, adding an almost inaudible high pitch to the work and increasing the intensity. It demands attention even when the neighbors begin to pound in new fence posts or the mowers come to cut down the empty field of brambles. But when it’s good, all these noises, so irritating to some, combine to create a symphony of creation, harmonized perfectly, meshing seamlessly, everything operating to the beat of the fan as the song appears in the light and the writer remains intently focused on the words. And the piano and the guitar, sitting silently in their corners, look on with envy.
@WendyWriteServ
(yikes – sorry for the double post!)
“Do you come to the opera often?” she asked me. Her lips were a beautiful burgundy red.
“Whenever I can,” I replied
“Have you heard the new Tenor? I’ve read he’s absolutely fabulous.”
“I can’t say I have, no, but I’m looking forward to seeing him.”
“And tell me, do you know-” She turned her head to her program and I couldn’t see what she was saying.
“I’m sorry? I didn’t catch that. You turned away.”
She looked up and quirked a smile at me, “You deaf or something?”
“Well, yes, actually, I am, but I can read lips quite well.”
I think I shocked her a little.
“And you like _opera_?”
“And musicals, yes.”
“But _why_? You can’t hear them!”
“I… watch them. I watch them singing. You can _see_ the passion of their words – the good ones. And I’ve read the Tenor is very good…” I smiled.
She shook her head in disbelief, and then narrowed her eyes.
“So, you can _see_ passion?
“Yes, In the eyes, the mouth, the way they hold their bodies…”
“Buy my a drink after the show?”
“Maybe. Ah, the curtain is rising… Shhh.”
@_Monocle_
She walked quickly away from the theatre, tears stinging her cheeks as they fell, strangers looking twice at her as she pushed past them. She couldn’t bear it, couldn’t bear to be out in the open where she could be seen, where she felt vulnerable and exposed; she felt flayed inside and needed to be somewhere she could loose her tears and feel safe; even if it were illusory safety.
She’d known from very early on he was married, but, it was one thing to know intellectually a piece of factual information about him; it was another entirely to see him with his wife, a woman he was in love with and watch his hands, his fingers slide up and down her flesh as his head bowed to her neck, it almost looked as if he were playing her like a musical instrument, a double bass perhaps.
‘Dammit’ she said aloud, the tears unstoppable, half running down the darkened street looking for any corner to hide in, any doorway to prop herself up in as she felt her legs buckle beneath her. Rummaging in her bag she pulled out her phone and a packet of tissues, barged past a walking couple, to their annoyance, and slumped into an apartment building doorway. She blew her nose and hit speed dial for her best friend. ‘Hey, ‘sup?’ Jo said, the words stuttered out of her mouth between wet sobs, ‘I saw him with his wife, I saw him with his wife coming out of a theatre, my heart’s breaking, tearing and ripping Jo’. Incapable of speech any longer she stood in the doorway, listening to her best friends’ voice soothe her and sobbed as her heart shattered more each second until she sat on the ground like a puddle of her own tears.
@WarriorAlcyone
“Two nights until the premiere and nothing is as it ought to be!” The director storms down the hallway with a half dozen production assistants trailing behind. “The elves are off-key. The orcs are on-key. The ent makes me lament. The prosthetic feet and ears look like they were made by three-year-olds. This is a disaster!”
Production Assistant Angela speaks up, “Maybe if we weren’t attempting to recreate the entire trilogy, we could focus on the more important aspects-” She is cut off by the director.
“More important aspects?” The director fumes. “This is Tolkien were talking about! They had to make a twelve hour movie and the fans STILL wanted more. ‘Where’s Tom Bombadil? Where’s the Scouring of the Shire?’ No! We have to painstakingly recreate every passage if we want the respect of the fans.”
Production Assistant Tom speaks next, “I’m not sure a twenty hour long musical is exactly what fans are wanting.”
“Artistic license!” the director says, “Also cut Arwen’s skirt higher.”
@briefconceits
She auditioned for the school musical just to be closer to this guy who barely knew she existed, hoping to be cast as a background or a chorus character.
When the cast list was posted, she was shocked to see her name at the top of the list, right next to the name ‘Dorothy’.
He got cast as the Cowardly Lion. But he behaved more like an obnoxious ass.
By the last Sunday matinee, she and Uncle Henry were sneaking kisses backstage, and she’d forgotten she ever liked that other guy to begin with.
@Dennis_Frymire
Slap. Slap. Slap.
My fingers danced across the top my my father’s vinyl record collection. The waxy sleeves made their own music, their own rhythm.
It took me back to lazy Sundays together. The smell of fresh cut grass wafting through the screen windows of our house in Wisconsin. The twin sweaty glasses of lemonade on the porch, set ou by Mama, just waiting for us to settle into the rocking chairs.
“Ah…here it is,” he’d say, a small smile turning up at the corner of his lips. “This, sweetie, this is the song that made your mother fall in love with me.”
And my Mama would chuckle to herself in the kitchen, and start humming to herself. Busying herself about the kitchen and content with what the afternoon was. Simple.
He’d let me set the record on the player myself, a huge delight for a little girl of six.
“Where should we start it today, Daddy?” I asked.
“You know what I like to do? I like to put that needle anywhere.”
“Why?”
“I’ve heard this song a thousand times, sweetie. But every time it starts somewhere new, it’s like I’m hearing the music for the first time,” he beamed.
I smiled and set the needle down, having to stand on my tiptoes to see just where on the giant black expanse of vinyl the needle would land.
Then we’d sit on the porch. Listening to the song play through, sipping our drinks and watching pickup trucks ramble by the dirt road that ran by our house.
Slap.
There it was. The record we listened to every Sunday. The song that made my Mama fall in love with my Daddy. The musical creation that played a part in my existence.
“Here, this is the one,” I said, and handed it to my brother.
A hand gently rested on my arm. It was my husband, looking as handsome as I’d ever seen him. The way a man should look on our wedding day.
“You sure you don’t want me to dance with you?”
“It’s O.K. This is the father daughter dance. And I’m going to dance with my Daddy.”
My husband kissed me on the forehead, and lead me to the dance floor, which held a single rocking chair.
I sat. The song started after the first verse. I could almost hear my Daddy sigh. “Ah…this is my favorite part.”
I closed my eyes and listened, feeling him looking down at me from somewhere up in the heavens. It was like I was hearing the music for the first time.
Jeff Pfaller
@pfallerj
Oh, forgot my twitter handle: @noellepierce
I lived in a strung state around you, tuned to a point of the finest tension. I know you liked to keep me that way, ready for the stroke of your voice and touch, primed for the pluck of your words.
At some point I was bound to go out of tune, though you didn’t want to acknowledge that. That destined moment happened at our tenth anniversary. Standing there amidst friends and family you ignored my warning glances, disregarded my quiet requests, left me standing alone while you twirled someone else to my favorite song.
And I snapped. Like popping strings my nerves frayed and gave way, driving me across the club. You turned a hard smile on me that sliced through the last of my control.
The pain from the slap arrived as the scarlet blossom of my slap bloomed on your cheek. My words dropped like discordant notes, interrupting the party.
And I left, stalking across the room without a backwards glance, leaving you to try to find the remnants of the strings with which you once held me captive.
That does it for today!
That one was kinda weird. Not really one thing or the other for me. Can’t wait to see what everyone else did with it.
Shane ought to have fun with this. 🙂
Finalists should be up around 3:00. See you then and thanks for participating.
It had to happen today. A traffic jam at this very moment of my life. I was going to a musical with John. After today he’ll be going back home. People are just standing outside of there cars. I can’t believe this. I don’t know when the next time I can see him is. Why is this person sitting on my car.
“Excuse me, can you move.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Can you believe all this traffic?”
“No I have a friend I need to see and I can’t get to him.”
“Where do you need to be?”
“At the Smith Hall.”
“What’s the problem your right in front of it.”
@shells2003
“Oh my goodness,” Stephanie snorted, nudging my side. “Can you believe Abby actually showed her face here?”
I looked over at Stephanie wondering what on earth I saw in her, anyway? Besides her glossy blonde hair and the cheerleader outfit she wore, that is. But, then I guess that really isn’t in her, much rather than on her. Besides, all my friends told me the best thing I could do as captain of the football team was to date a cheerleader.
What no one failed to tell me, however, was this year as the captain of the football team, I had to participate in the school musical. My coach was assured rehersals wouldn’t interfere with any games or practice, and that it would look outstanding on my college apps. So, here I am, already in a musical I wanted nothing to do with.
Seems Stephanie wanted to do it just because I was. She swore it would make us look like the most cutest couple ever because we suffered together.
Yeah. Good idea. Whatever.
Butl, Janice…she sat in one of the plastic chairs, looking down at her shoes, sighing heavily. She winced at the sounds of laughter coming from Steph and all her cheerleading friends. She pulled out a portable CD player, and her ear phones, sliding them on and seeming to relax in another universe.
At that moment, Mr. Dempsey, the music teacher and Mrs. Taylor, the drama teacher walked into the room. It was after school, and it was auditions for a musical we still didn’t know the name of. It was something Mrs. Taylor was cooking up, and Mr. Dempsey decided to write songs for it. So, yeah. Should be interesting.
But, no. No, it was anything but interesting. The singing I specialize in requires no clothes, and hot steamy water rolling down my body. Steam works, too. But this? Willingly humiliating myself just to make my college apps look better? If I didn’t get into Michigan, this whole experience so wouldn’t be worth it.
“Welcome, kids!” Mr. Dempsey walked over to the piano and sat. “We are here to do the singing portion of the auditons. If you aren’t planning to sing, please come back tomorrow for the acting portion.”
He gave a moment for those not interested to leave. Yeah. Nice. Give a chance to leave to those who can.
He then continued, “You all picked out music and placed it in my inbox. So, you will sing with me accompaning you. Who would like to go first?”
With very little hesitation did Janice stand and walk to the center of the room. She shyly examined her flip flops, pushing her long, raven locks behind her ears. “I’ll go…if you don’t mind,” her timid voice floated across the room.
Mr. Dempsey grinned, flipping through his music sheets.
“Oh, sure. Get the nerd to go first,” Steph snorted again. “Entertainment, I tell you. Entertainment.”
“Shut up for a sec, will ya?” I rolled my eyes. The sound of her voice grated on my nerves.
As the piano began to play a nice Stevie Wonder song, everyone quickly stopped talking when the angel began to sing. I looked at Janice with new eyes. She had her eyes closed, the look on her face pure enjoyment as she sang her hearts content.
And I couldn’t help but stare. I knew I had no right to…but..
How I wished I could be the song coming from her lips. The words twining with the melody her voice box created. It seems sappy and silly and stupid but…it’s the truth.
My heart broke when she stopped singing.
And no one could seem to applaud. It was the most beautiful thing ever heard.
Sorry, forgot my Twitter handle too… it’s @WarriorAlcyone 🙂
Exquisite notes floated over the flower-filled meadow, drawing him on.
“Don’t go into the mead at midsummer,” that’s what the old biddies always said. But he knew they were hiding something good from him and here it was. Ahead of him, the grass rose up into a hill set with a stone arch leading into the earth. Alwin went gladly.
The harpist stopped playing and smiled at him. She was a beautiful young woman with long fair hair and eyes the blue of a summer’s sky. “We have lured you here with our playing, now come and be my prince.”
“So sorry,” Alwin said. “I’m here for the music. Please, don’t let me stop you.”
She shrugged. The musical refrain took up again and Alwin sat entranced. The fairies never expected you to be gay, he thought.
A picnic in the park; brightly coloured rug, plastic plates and cups, hazy sunshine and lazy daydreams.
Emma lay back and through half closed eyes watched the rest of the park’s inhabitants. The shift of bodies, the yell and shout of others at play reminded her of the overture from a musical.
Each player with a different costume, cadence and movement style, carefully developed to communicate their role in the story before it unfolds.
The city workers; jackets slipped off, shoelaces untied and ties hanging lose, a mere nod away from their working selves. Neat and precise in their movements as their ledgers and balance sheets.
The mother with children orbiting her, their racing and returning as chaotic as her dishevelled hair and thrown on clothes, inevitably with mismatched buttons to hole. A brood of be-denimed and tee-shirted small ones flocking and whirling at the freedom of the day.
As Emma closed her eyes fully she let the buzz and hum of the day wash over her and slept and dreamt of dancers, swans and fairytales.
Forgot my twitter handle as well
@AislingWeaver
Damn fine submissions everyone! You folks write better than some published authors I’ve read lately. It’s a damn shame more talented writers (like you guys and the folks over at our CCC site) don’t get their breaks! Just my two cents.