It’s time for some Fiction Shots — flash fiction, that is! A Drift of Quills are at it again: one picture, three authors, little bitty writing space. The inspiration for our tiny tales comes from an untitled piece by the artist JuYoung Ha on ArtStation. Gorgeous, isn’t it?
It’s always fun for me to see how other authors interpret a picture or invent a story from it. Isn’t it delightful how wonderfully, crazily different we all are? Let’s see how these fiction shots play out…
A Drift of Quills put their heads together and came up with a flash of inspiration. Fiction! Good for you, good for us. So we headed over to the Department of Stories, picked a picture to serve as our topic (subject to interpretation!), and got to work. Writing to a random theme is challenging. So is keeping the tale to a particular word count.
Behind closed doors we’ve each written our own bit of flash fiction. No sharing until today. Let’s go see how this exercise turned out, shall we?
The marvelous (subject to opinion) picture we wrote to is called “Long Walk,” by the talented Jonathan Bach. There is some great artwork to see on his site. I wish there was more! Be sure to check it out.
Just the other day I wrote here on the blog about writer’s block, and it just so happens that I penned a short tale about that very subject a few years ago. I was poking through my files today when I ran across it and I thought, “Aha! Serendipity!”
I hope you enjoy! If you like it, I would love to hear your feedback. Just leave a comment below, email me, or comment via Twitter or Facebook.
BY ROBIN LYTHGOE
Such a small whisper couldn’t even begin to penetrate the weighted air holding the room in thrall. Dust motes made timid forays into the single, narrow beam of light sidling in through a clerestory window. Books—beautiful, enchanting, influential, fabulous books—crammed the shelves from floor to ceiling. They teetered in stacks on chairs and on the floor. They balanced along the window ledge. Every one of them had assumed the tight-lipped silence of a group of curmudgeons. Traitors they, refusing to offer even the slightest, most fragile means of escape. Even the glorious maps of places far and near, real and imagined, curled away from their duties. Mute. Contrary. Continue reading Deliver Me: A Short Story→