#SwiftFicFriday – Week 72 Prompt

#SwiftFicFriday – Week 72 Prompt

Welcome to the new and improved flash fiction writing prompt series – #SwiftFicFriday!

I’ve changed the rules, so if you didn’t see my tweet, check them out!

Rules to keep in mind:

  •  You have THREE DAYS (8AM Friday-8PM Sunday on the east coast) to submit your entry.
  • Include social media links/handles/anything you want to promote (Twitter, FB, etc) & word count in the comment with your submission.
  • Submission must be between 150-300 words.
  • All stories are property of the authors.
  • Winner will be determined via reader votes on Mondays.

Ready, set, write!

Prompt: Found this picture and thought it was cute! So, tell me a story inspired by this image:

Piano Lesson by AquaSixio

Happy writing!

10 thoughts on “#SwiftFicFriday – Week 72 Prompt

  1. Kendra recognized the home of a witch the moment she stepped across the threshold. It wasn’t anything overt. There weren’t gnarly candles cascading over shelves or fragrant herbs hanging from the eaves. The house appeared like any other modern day home with the exception of electric appliances. But the energy of a witch’s house was the same the realms over. There was a vibration in the air, a pulse of energy that designated what kind of witch lived in the dwelling.

    Phinn’s mother is a Forest Witch.

    The house sat in a glade about the size of a soccer pitch with gardens in the open spaces running right up to the trees. The trees themselves acted as a sort of tall hedge with paths among them to allow for herb, fungus, and pine needle gathering. Bees buzzed among the flowers and fruit trees growing in the gardens. Pixies flitted through the sparkling sunshine, leaving trails of glitter behind them to dissipate in the warm air.

    Phinn opened the front door, carved with the likeness of a watchful owl below the moon. The moon was a round window at the head of the door so the residents could see who’d come to call. Kendra followed him inside, noting the entryway full of potted jasmine bushes to make the room smell delicious when the sun heated it.

    “Mother, are you about? It’s Phinn.”

    They strode to the back of the house, passing doorways down the hall. One such doorway led to a parlor and the sounds of someone plinking on a piano. A small barn owl tested the keys, listening to the notes played until they faded into the silence. Charmed, she watched for a few moments until the owl turned its head and met her gaze. Then slowly winked one eye.

    300 #CloudburstColorado words
    @SiobhanMuir

    Liked by 2 people

  2. Not the Doors Piano Bird

    What is the word, I need to know?
    What is the word, tell it to me slow?
    I need to hear that slow sweet word,
    That tells the tale of the piano bird.

    I flew so high that I lost my way.
    Into a sky as blue as your eyes,
    I touched the clouds all soft and grey
    And rested till the sun did rise.

    Piano bird, he rattled those keys
    Piano bird, he pecked away
    a little Jelly Roll Blues if you please,
    could swim in the sounds till the end of my days.

    What is the word, I surely need to know?
    What is that word, sing it sweet and slow.
    My soul needs to hear what my heart has heard,
    The comforting chords of the piano bird.

    I fell back to earth on giant wings,
    Landed in a field of new-mown hay.
    Blessed by the sun, the warmth it brings,
    And there I slept till the end of my days.

    What is the word I have always known?
    A younger lad, and a man full grown?
    The joy that it brings, that magical word,
    The song that sings from the piano bird,
    The song that sings from the piano bird.

    208 words with title
    @billmelaterplea
    http://www.engleson.ca
    https://www.facebook.com/william.engleson/

    Liked by 2 people

  3. Commenting on behalf of Joe Garland:

    “Did you hear that?”

    Since I was asleep a moment before the question was asked, I heard nothing.

    “What?”

    “There’s someone downstairs. Listen.”

    One of the difficulties of moving into a house in the country to get away from the insanity of the city is that you don’t hear as much as you did before but everything you hear is different. And very loud.

    I listened. I heard.

    “Is someone playing the piano?”

    “Badly,” she said. “But better than you.”

    I knew she had a grin but it was a nervous one since, well, someone was in our parlor—that’s what we call our living room—playing the piano. A piano we inherited when we moved in two months before. As well as all the other things that an old, country house is heir to. But I wasn’t sleeping anymore, let alone dreaming.

    She turned her light on. It took me a moment for my eyes to adjust. She was looking at me like her Lancelot. Her Indiana Jones. Yes, she was desperate. I pulled the covers off. Billy Joel was still enjoying himself—more like Joel Olsteen—as I tried to figure out whether I left the baseball bat under the bed before realizing I hadn’t had a baseball bat since I was fourteen.

    She was cowering—my word, not hers—as I headed to the door, empty handed.

    “Plunger.”

    It was a good suggestion. I got it from the bathroom. I didn’t think much about the impact of the rubber end on an interloper until I was on the steps. She was on the landing, watching and then inching down behind me.

    The light was off in the parlor. I flipped the switch. I don’t know who was more surprised. Me. Or the owl.

    “Who’s There?” by Joseph P. Garland,
    @JPGarlandAuthor, 296 words, none of which is sesquipedalian.

    Liked by 2 people

  4. Sickly orange midday light burned through dusty parlor windows into the old hill house. Sound, like light, seemed loathe to intrude upon the mausolean manor. The pasty, squat seigneur of the estate worried clammy hands over his rumpled dressing gown, fat fingers twitching anxiously since finishing the plate on the end table.

    Across from him in a high backed bergère a dark woman sipped impassively from her chipped china cup. Ominous vapors emphasized the molten glow of her amber eyes. Her host glanced regretfully at his own empty cup. And the dead bottle next to it. The chime of a single ghostly note shattered the silence, its extended reverberations drawing the woman’s attention to the corner piano.

    “What was that?”

    Malain’s voice was unperturbed. In contrast, Hawkin’s own owl had nearly given him a heart attack.

    “That’s Evie…” He clutched his chest with heavy breaths.

    Malain sipped thoughtfully. The same note sounded again, shorter this time.

    “Does she play?”

    “Tish is trying to teach her. Should we get to the purpose of your visit?”

    “I need your help. Taking back my daughter is going to be an all-hands situation.”

    “No. Way.” Hawkins spread his hands definitively. “I know who she’s with; I was here when they found her!”

    He wouldn’t have believed a smile could be more dangerous than Tisiphone’s if he hadn’t seen one right across from him.

    “I’m sure you have some ideas for dealing with them. Besides, you did say if I ever needed anything to ask.”

    Hawkins eyed the area for viable egress, wishing the table between them was bigger.

    “When, when did I say anything like that?”

    “You don’t want me to remind you, do you? Not while your wife is at home.”

    A darker heavier tone from down the keyboard hung about them.

    299 Four Sisters AU words
    @DavidALudwig

    Liked by 1 person

Tell me what you think!

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.