tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-55979836419705097962012-02-10T17:47:43.816ZThe thoughts &amp; flash fiction of an aspiring author &amp; writer of urban fantasy.Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.comBlogger3371100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-31554691656899876862012-02-07T22:23:00.001Z2012-02-07T22:23:50.965Z<p>And I’m feeling rough. Not sure why. My brain has been all over the place. I keep forgetting things – even when I’m in the place that I want to be for the things I’ve forgotten, but even though I know there is something missing my brain is just not getting it.</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/gc1.jpg" width="325" height="328"></p> <p>I also feel sickly and headachey, though. Perhaps I am due one of my god awful nightmares for being so stressed all the time. There just doesn’t seem to be a moment where I stop, at the minute. Even in my dreams I’m racing around trying to fix stuff.</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2012/02/full-moon.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-3155469165689987686?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-63375751033245452072012-02-05T19:44:00.001Z2012-02-05T19:44:06.055Z<p>…is an awesome word and also what the snow appears to be right now. </p> <p><img title="Rebecca Clare Smith in her winter jumper!" alt="" src="https://fbcdn-sphotos-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-ash4/422959_10150532874715823_584525822_9694497_1441249344_n.jpg" width="323" height="574"></p> <p>Of course this means wrapping up warmly in my winter jumper again (as you can see above) and taking little white doggies out for walks in the beautiful snowfall. It’s quite lovely, actually, walking them in the dark with the silence and the glitter of white flakes and the lack of people.</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2012/02/ubiquitous.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-6337575103324545207?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-62252741843928903292012-02-04T16:49:00.001Z2012-02-04T16:49:44.028Z<p><a href="http://twitter.com/#!/search?q=%23flashfiction" target="_blank">#flashfiction</a></p> <h3>First &amp; Last</h3> <p>She closed her eyes, not waiting long to feel the soft curve of heat press gently against her lips. He tasted of every fantasised kiss but so much better. The raw gentleness of his mouth tested her, finding her tentative response with surprise, but didn’t withdraw.</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/tumblr_lv184zK02L1r0v7ofo6_250.jpg" width="324" height="447"></p> <p>Instead he kissed her again, as if checking that the first was real and wanted. Lips moved in the dark with tender reply.</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2012/02/valentine-fiction-1-of-4.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-6225274184392890329?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-18117738366333390032012-01-30T21:07:00.001Z2012-01-30T21:07:15.999Z<p>The typewriter leaks ink on the muddied floor of my mashed up mind, but here in white crayon the letters unfold beneath blue splattered lines. I have scribbled in unfathomable words the discord of heart crimes and regrets. A waxen figure cuts the page, all pale silhouette.</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/pain-1.jpg" width="325" height="319"></p> <p>A character of bittersweet memory and cloaked intent, she is my queen of disconnection. </p> <p>Her tongue stabs with paper cuts in inkblot stains. This is my saviour. This is my wax scrawled beauty, half-sighted and sore. In broken dreams she haunts me.</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2012/01/pink-ribbon-scars.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-1811773836633339003?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-11346210752837248162012-01-27T18:24:00.001Z2012-01-27T18:24:13.754Z<p><a href="http://twitter.com/#!/search?q=%23flashfiction" target="_blank">#flashfiction</a></p> <p><font size="2"><em>“But on the viewless wings of Poesy, Though the dull brain perplexes and retarts: Already with thee! Tender is the night, And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,” <br></em>- Keats (Ode To A Nightingale)</font></p> <h6></h6> <h4>Writing is Immortality</h4> <p>The cursor on the screen still blinked, the story now finally inked. Centuries later, she’d put pen down to paper, her guilt now finally in print.</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/20.jpg"></p> <p>The agent on the phone, to the writer unknown, outlined a few edits to the tale, but all were spoken to no avail. The writer was adamant that not a detail lay dormant of the truth she had harboured too long. </p> <p>If only she hadn’t done that which was wrong.</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2012/01/nightgale-flash-fiction-4-of-4.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-1134621075283724816?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-83463016102540318262012-01-26T22:26:00.001Z2012-01-26T22:40:34.517Z<p>I don’t understand. Why does nobody tell the truth? Why don’t we all just speak our minds instead of hiding our true thoughts and feelings? If you want something then you go get it.</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/guitar-smashing1.jpg" width="325" height="487"></p> <p>I figured this out in 2009. Not so long ago, I know, but at least it happened. </p> <p>It may take me a long time to be sure on what I want or feel, but when I know that’s the truth of it I’ll go for it. I won’t give up, even if it means waiting for a very long time, because everyone deserves to be happy. And I would rather be happy and true to myself than a miserable liar.</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2012/01/just-tell-truth.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-8346301610254031826?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-16915461172259827922012-01-25T12:34:00.001Z2012-01-25T12:34:05.988Z<p>I get this Beatles song stuck in my head quite a lot. I’m not sure why. My dad used to play them to me when I was little. He’d swing me around to their music until we were both dizzy and had to sit down. </p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/kiss-1-1.jpg" width="320" height="423"></p> <p>Sometimes I feel as if things like that happened in another life. It’s almost as if I can’t remember them as me, but I do.</p> <p>Anyway, my favourite song then was apparently Octopus’s Garden. The thing is, I only know the first two lines of that and I don’t remember the tune, but Eleanor Rigby sticks with me like no other.</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2012/01/all-lonely-people.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-1691546117225982792?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-49235778745949330782012-01-22T17:26:00.001Z2012-01-22T17:28:02.362Z<p>Well, I didn’t get it. The library job, that is. There were a lot of candidates though so there was probably somebody with more relevant experience than me and I was a bit nervy about the whole thing. As a friend at work told me, it is a bit ‘shit&#39;, but I suppose at least I still have a good job that I enjoy. I’m lucky in that respect.</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/111.jpg" width="325" height="330"></p> <p>I’ve also got some more hours at the second job so I’m hoping that will help with the whole birthday funds thing as I’m twenty-two next month. Maybe this time around I’ll have a better birthday. </p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2012/01/im-not-gonna-write-you-love-song.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-4923577874594933078?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-12977302321205517102012-01-20T00:11:00.001Z2012-01-20T00:11:47.360Z<p><a href="http://twitter.com/#!/search?q=%23flashfiction" target="_blank">#flashfiction</a></p> <p><em>“Darkling I listen, for many a time, I have been half in love with easeful Death, Call’d him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die;” <br></em>- Keats (Ode To A Nightingale)</p> <h4> </h4> <h4>To Die &amp; Become One With Nature</h4> <p>His eyes they closed, a simple plea to the dark enfold; forgiveness for what he was guilty. His heart it slowed inside his chest now a mortal beat within his breast.</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/Sadness_by_Darkrose42.jpg" width="324" height="463"></p> <p>Nearby, the ghost, she whimpered still. She’d seen his lover have her fill then flee the scene with nought but haste and fresh discovered immortal taste. </p> <p>Yet here he lay as in crept the burning light of day. </p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2012/01/nightgale-flash-fiction-3-of-4.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-1297730232120551710?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-62791119582597569782012-01-18T11:12:00.001Z2012-01-18T11:12:21.745Z<blockquote> <p><em>…under the lamppost? </em></p> </blockquote> <p>Yeah, lyrics again.. I can’t help it. Sometimes this modern day poetry is all that makes sense. I’m feeling a little better this morning. A little more comfortably numb. I had a mini sort of breakdown in the corner of my mind and took myself off for a walk in the dark and the cold by the canal.</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/tumblr_lu1kpwmE3P1qmexn3o1_500.jpg" width="320" height="384"></p> <p>I’m so tired and so stressed out, but when I try to sleep thoughts just push on in and mess with my head. Lyrics and questions and problems and too many answers. I’m driving myself up the wall. And when I do that I post it all here or <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.tumblr.com" target="_blank">tumblr</a> if it’s to specific people who I don’t reckon will read it.</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2012/01/do-you-remember-way-i-held-your-hand.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-6279111958259756978?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-366669146058580742012-01-17T00:12:00.001Z2012-01-17T00:12:51.866Z<p>In case you hadn’t guessed by the <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2012/01/look-around-you.html" target="_blank">montage</a> I made in yesterday’s post, I have had a lot on my mind lately. A lot of it hasn’t been my fault and whenever I get to that comfortably numb point something or someone happens again to throw me right off kilter.</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/a5017-bw.jpg" width="325" height="457"></p> <p>It happened in that week after new years with that message that he probably never meant, because that’s the only way I can explain it without hurting all over again and driving myself insane. Besides, if he’d meant it he would have told her the truth, finally ended things the way they should have been ended and turned up to tell me how he actually feels no matter the time of day or where I was. </p> <p>And yeah, if that happened he’d maybe have a chance.</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2012/01/dabbling.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-36666914605858074?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-49831521797876694992012-01-14T18:25:00.001Z2012-01-14T18:25:15.922Z<p>Well I went to the job interview last Thursday. I think it went okay; perhaps not brilliant as I was a little flustered. In fact, by the end I was so frazzled I accidentally reversed the car into a trolley stand in front of the trolley collector.</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/bootje5.jpg" width="320" height="427"></p> <p>No damage was done to either the cars, trolleys or stand but it was a sign of how much I’d gotten myself worked up. It only bumped it anyway.</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2012/01/look-around-you.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-4983152179787669499?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-41777841542989322142012-01-12T00:53:00.001Z2012-01-25T10:49:44.973Z<p><a href="http://twitter.com/#!/search?q=%23flashfiction" target="_blank">#flashfiction</a></p> <p><font size="2"><em>“Why dost thou pass away and leave our state, This dim vast vale of tears, vacant and desolate?… No voice from sublimer world hath ever, To sage or poet these responses given – Therefore the name of God and ghosts and Heaven, Remain the records of their vain endeavour” <br></em>- Shelley (Hymn To Intellectual Beauty)</font></p> <h4>Immortality Comes To You, You Do Not Go To Immortality</h4> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/redrosewoman.jpg" width="324" height="324"></p> <p>Her lips like rosebuds slumbered dead, and yet they whispered all filled with dread a bleating warning to his ear, a phantom rumour filled with fear. “I ask you not to take from her the crimson nectar that you prefer–”</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2012/01/nightgale-flash-fiction-2-of-4.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-4177784154298932214?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-36550841216366624712012-01-10T22:35:00.001Z2012-01-10T22:40:34.972Z<p>I seem to be waiting on a wish…</p> <p><img src="https://fbcdn-sphotos-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-snc4/44266_442746615822_584525822_6057889_3050152_n.jpg" width="325" height="578"><font size="1">Taken by me.</font></p> <p>I don’t mean to be, but it looks like that is what has happened. I’d tried to convince myself that he didn’t care and he has ruined my illusion with his likely meaningless message.</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2012/01/dandelion-clocks.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-3655084121636662471?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-15686694152700189742012-01-08T17:01:00.001Z2012-01-08T17:01:39.283Z<p>I went out again last night, mostly to forget and escape the thoughts in my own head. </p> <p><em>Be still my beating heart…</em></p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/tumblr_lx99idUBRr1qbpwzeo1_500.jpg" width="322" height="434"></p> <p>Needless to say, it didn’t work. I left my friends and came home because the thoughts and hurts were too heavy on my mind and heart. It’s stupid when something so little as a text can do that to you.</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2012/01/why-do-i-do-these-things-i-do-to-myself.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-1568669415270018974?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-52666192593960307232012-01-06T01:28:00.001Z2012-01-06T01:29:55.759Z<p>My baby died the other day. And by baby I mean my car (before anyone panics). Her name is Pandorica and her battery died. So joy of joys, I’ve had some more financial stress buying her a battery. </p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/seven_deadly_sins__greed_by_chupisama-d32wg01.jpg" width="332" height="496"></p> <p>Luckily this happened close to pay day and I have some great car engine savvy neighbours, one of whom fitted the new battery for me. So Pandorica has been resurrected. Huzzah!</p> <p>However, this still means dire finances yet again this month. I’d like to know when that is going to end. Where are the leprechauns with my pot of gold?</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2012/01/theorist-deviation.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-5266619259396030723?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-91559380855818660792012-01-05T13:43:00.001Z2012-01-05T13:43:37.157Z<p><a href="http://twitter.com/#!/search?q=%23flashfiction" target="_blank">#flashfiction</a></p> <p><font size="2"><em>“That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim” <br></em>- Keats (Ode To A Nightingale)</font></p> <h3>Through Hemlock</h3> <p>The forest clamoured with ghostly light, filtered through the broken boughs and slinking in the phantom fog, whereupon he supped the bittersweet taste of darkened memory. White flowers clustered close to his dream dazed head, poisoned stars in his forest bed.</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/dead_rose.jpg" width="318" height="403"></p> <p>Barefoot in mirthful mind she danced, a figment of his stupor advanced. </p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2012/01/nightgale-flash-fiction-1-of-4.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-9155938085581866079?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-91066344539178502122012-01-02T02:17:00.001Z2012-01-02T02:17:40.523Z<p>I have an interview lined up for a Saturday job. Unfortunately, the interview time is when I’m at work. I’ve called my supervisor so hopefully I’ll be able to take that afternoon off to go for this interview, but she isn’t back at work until Tuesday. </p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/The_Mermaid_by_Liinchen.jpg" width="322" height="429"></p> <p>I wouldn’t think she’d object to my taking that afternoon off as, after all, the job I’m going for is a Saturday library job – still working for the council.</p> <p>This will leave me with three council jobs (<strong>if</strong> I get it).</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2012/01/welcome-to-2012.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-9106634453917850212?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-39249653531073641132011-12-30T23:15:00.001Z2011-12-30T23:15:10.213Z<p><a href="http://twitter.com/#!/search?q=%23flashfiction" target="_blank">#flashfiction</a></p> <h3>Salt Tears</h3> <p>“Don’t touch me.” She stood on the edge, eyes hard set on the drop below. “I can’t bear it if you touch me.”</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/mermaidlyt.png"></p> <p>He crept closer, nervous of the drop. The ocean clanged below, slamming against the cliff walls, dragging rocks to the depths. The cliff could go at any moment. They both knew that. </p> <p>“Please, just come back inside and we can talk.”</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/12/flash-fiction-no-74.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-3924965353107364113?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-60876476319709343872011-12-27T21:17:00.001Z2011-12-27T21:17:28.795Z<p>An awful lot has happened this year. I think I preferred 2010. At least that year had some wholeness and happiness to it. So much seems to have gone wrong this year.</p> <p><img src="https://fbcdn-sphotos-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-ash4/408667_10150449566975823_584525822_9393918_66589140_n.jpg" width="321" height="361"> <br><font size="1">A terrible photo of me from this year’s Xmas Eve.</font></p> <p>It didn’t start particularly promisingly with my mum getting so ill and us thinking that she’d had a mini stroke and, in all honesty, it hasn’t ended well either. Maybe the curse of the odd year will leave me for the even one. Maybe it will all get a smidgen better than it has been.</p> <p>I can hope all I want for that When Harry Met Sally New Year’s Eve, but I don’t think it’s going to come so the best I can do is hope for 2012 to be better.</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/12/2011.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-6087647631970934387?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-10520298842821650132011-12-25T23:19:00.001Z2011-12-25T23:23:30.880Z<p><a href="http://twitter.com/#!/search?q=%23flashfiction" target="_blank">#flashfiction</a></p> <h3>Small Miracles</h3> <p>The splintered vision stared back at me in the slanted rain. Darkness crackled the too cruel sky as my true form shimmered in the broken glass. The rain should have been snow, but this was to be the bleakest Christmas I had ever known unless a miracle could be coaxed.</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/121941906232989.jpg" width="321" height="481"></p> <p>Ripples expanded from the lips of my shoes, skittering light in an exquisite dance.</p> <p>I’d left the note by his bedside. He was sleeping and wouldn’t notice it until he awoke with nobody beside him, the imprint of my body cold and empty. This was only the second time my true self had been called to the fore.</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/12/flash-fiction-no-73.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-1052029884282165013?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-70428125718742291602011-12-22T00:59:00.001Z2011-12-22T00:59:06.290Z<p>I don’t know quite what this is or what you will think of it when you read it.</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/f84807ef033160c1e23fafddb272abba_we.jpg" width="319" height="455"></p> <p>As you know, I’ve been trying to write poetry to get things out but nothing has manifested itself. My writing is just dying in my hands and I’m not sure what to do with it. There’s probably nothing I can do except to wait it out a bit.</p> <p>However, I have attempted this in some vague hope that it will pull something through that is more than nothingness.</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/12/each-wish-resign.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-7042812571874229160?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-79179893738916936362011-12-18T02:12:00.001Z2011-12-18T02:12:24.547Z<p>It’s nearly Christmas and I don’t feel Christmassy at all. Maybe that’s partly the bleak outlook everyone has right now or maybe it’s the fact that I still can’t have a night out that doesn’t involve breaking down and crying on somebody at some point.</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/IMG_11312.jpg" width="323" height="431"></p> <p>There’s also the other thing that I’m getting quite sick of. Maybe most girls would enjoy it, but I don’t. I never have and round about now it’s just making the things going around my head worse.</p> <p>Maybe you even already guessed that with my lack of being able to deal with something as innocent as a kiss. I don’t know.</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/12/deafening-quiet.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-7917989373891693636?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-58231442955066857422011-12-16T02:31:00.001Z2011-12-16T02:31:09.369Z<p><a href="http://twitter.com/#!/search?q=%23flashfiction" target="_blank">#flashfiction</a></p> <h3>Autumn Whole</h3> <p>His lips pressed against the bare flesh of her breastbone, her pulse jumping against his skin. Fingertips ran across the line of her jaw, pulling free a sigh as her eyes lit with a smile, curving the corners of her soft mouth. Her gaze sparkled on his.</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/tumblr_lv184zK02L1r0v7ofo6_250.jpg" width="332" height="458"></p> <p>“Why did you come back for me after all I did?”</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/12/flash-fiction-no-72.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-5823144295506685742?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-75091435795651152752011-12-15T18:06:00.001Z2011-12-15T18:06:55.080Z<p><em>…Than anything I could bring myself to do to you.</em></p> <p>- Fall Out Boy: I’ve Got All This Ringing In My Ears &amp; None On My Fingers.</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/silhouette-2.jpg" width="320" height="480"></p> <p>Dear heart, stop aching. Dear mind, stop contemplating. I’ve been chopping potatoes to make chips (that’s fries to Americans). My finger hurts from the motion. And my hands are a little unsteady everytime I cut. </p> <p>Only cutting potatoes. Only thinking of something else.</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/12/truth-hurts-worse.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-7509143579565115275?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-83659113205197728202011-12-14T17:46:00.001Z2011-12-14T17:49:59.524Z<p>There&#39;s supposed to be some escape in dreaming. I can tell you there&#39;s not. </p> <p>Instead there is your subconscious poking at things that are best left alone. When I can get to sleep, I am sleeping a lot recently. The getting to sleep is hardest; second only to waking and realising everything you’ve dreamt is just that… A dream. </p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/SAM_31382.jpg" width="312" height="463"></p> <div style="width: 321px; clear: both; font-size: 0.8em">An old picture of me taken by me.</div> <p>A great writer once wrote: </p> <blockquote> <p>‘It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live, remember that’.</p> </blockquote> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/12/hush-little-dove.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-8365911320519772820?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-23357193566913344442011-12-12T12:07:00.001Z2011-12-12T12:07:52.203Z<p>The Divine Hell challenge has come to a sad end. I hope that readers enjoyed all that the writers involved in the challenge had to offer. </p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/pain-3-1.jpg" width="318" height="469"></p> <p>If you haven’t read the entries and don’t know who was involved then perhaps you should check out the rather excellent roll calls posted by the lovely <a href="http://by.davidaludwig.com/?p=1336" target="_blank">David A Ludwig</a>, <a href="http://www.darcytodracula.com/2011/12/divinehell-roll-of-honour.html" target="_blank">charity girl Margaret</a> and blog challenge leader <a href="http://timonysouler.blogspot.com/2011/12/divinehell-doing-rounds.html" target="_blank">‘Timony Souler</a>. </p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/12/aftermath.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-2335719356691334444?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-18733002298365893982011-12-09T12:09:00.001Z2011-12-09T12:09:35.270Z<p><a href="http://twitter.com/#!/search?q=%23flashfiction" target="_blank">#flashfiction</a></p> <p>She put down the glass. “It wasn’t your fault.” </p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/I_feel_the_light_betray_me_by_po_so.jpg" width="321" height="428"></p> <p>Her eyes flicked over his face, blue pursuing grey. His expression remained unchanged. The lack of regret chilled her spine with the unerring sensation that she’d gotten something wrong.</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/12/divine-hell-fiction-treachery.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-1873300229836589398?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-68063379616310446752011-12-08T22:58:00.001Z2011-12-08T22:58:39.367Z<p>I write poetry when I don’t know what else to turn my thoughts into. It comes out as something beautiful and fair less tainted than me. </p> <p>But I haven’t been able to write any…</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/number4-69.jpg" width="330" height="440"></p> <p>You may have noticed that poetry has been an after effect of all other break ups and bouts of depression. Now there is none. Now I can’t even do that.</p> <p>I’ve tried. Oh hell, I’ve tried… but it turns to less than dust.</p> <p>I can’t… express myself. </p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/12/lost-in-endless-sea.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-6806337961631044675?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-10996300029306174702011-12-08T11:15:00.001Z2011-12-08T11:15:30.583Z<p><a href="http://twitter.com/#!/search?q=%23flashfiction" target="_blank">#flashfiction</a></p> <p>She steadied herself, breathing through her nose with closed eyes. Eventually her hold on the door jamb relinquished. Her hands shook before her face, spattered in red.</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/Rose.jpg" width="320" height="320"></p> <p>Her wolf form had resisted the change but the beast inside had been uncontrollable.</p> <p>It was her mother’s fault. If only she hadn’t insisted that Keera come help in the kitchen. Dinner was supposed to be stir fry, but now the lunchtime sauce covered the counters.</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/12/divine-hell-violence.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-1099630002930617470?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-84950553063871187872011-12-07T12:05:00.001Z2011-12-08T11:13:23.241Z<p><a href="http://twitter.com/#!/search?q=%23flashfiction" target="_blank">#flashfiction</a></p> <p>She petted the wolf, smoothing his sleek fur and curling against his warm hide. His breathing resounded against her ear. He sensed her calm as she slowly drifted into sleep.</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/wolf4.jpg" width="314" height="236"><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/glasseyeswolfgirl.jpg" width="314" height="240"></p> <p>The tip of his tail flicked.</p> <p>She didn’t know what he was. It was perfect. She thought he was just a big dog that she could cuddle, but that was so very far from the truth.</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/12/divine-hell-fiction-fraud.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-8495055306387118787?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-78930999693158548432011-12-06T11:15:00.001Z2011-12-06T11:15:35.946Z<p><a href="http://twitter.com/#!/search?q=%23flashfiction" target="_blank">#flashfiction</a></p> <p>“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned,” he murmured, anointing his forehead with the red liquid. It dripped down to his lips and he closed his eyes.</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/bloodylips.jpg"></p> <p>They all told him that it was perfectly natural. This was the right order of things. He ought to enjoy it. </p> <p>Savour it, even.</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/12/divine-hell-fiction-heresy.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-7893099969315854843?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-21899201304207371752011-12-05T09:00:00.000Z2011-12-05T09:00:07.328Z<p><a href="http://twitter.com/#!/search?q=%23flashfiction" target="_blank"><font size="1">#flashfiction</font></a><font size="1"> </font></p> <p>Stuck in between life and death was not where she wanted to be. Through the fogged existence she could see her body lying cold on the snowy ground. </p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/fallen-angel-girl.jpg" width="323" height="430"></p> <p>One step through the gateway and she’d be home forever…</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/12/divine-hell-fiction-limbo.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-2189920130420737175?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-88334416889054042772011-12-04T19:15:00.001Z2011-12-04T19:15:06.283Z<p>This is just a quick note about Monday through to Friday posting this week. The lovely <a href="http://twitter.com/#!/LadyAntimony" target="_blank">@LadyAntimony</a> has challenged us all yet again. This time it’s to do with <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Inferno_(Dante)" target="_blank">Dante’s Inferno</a> also known as the Divine Comedy.</p> <p><img style="display: block; float: none; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-yNRj-ANNOFM/Ttd0E-e5hFI/AAAAAAAADXs/OjLX8tekVUQ/s320/Dante%2527s+Hell.jpg" width="249" height="352" /></p> <p>Like the <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/search/label/Seven%20Sins" target="_blank">Seven Deadly Sins</a> challenge, this one focuses on the circles of hell and will only be 150 words long. To follow the challenge on twitter simply look for the <a href="http://twitter.com/#!/search/realtime/%23divinehell"><b>#DivineHell</b></a> hash tag.</p> <p>So please remember to follow along on Monday!</p> <div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-8833441688905404277?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-52483112508871658662011-12-04T02:32:00.001Z2011-12-04T02:32:18.523Z<p>When the chips are down, what do you do?</p> <p>You play FreeCell until all the thoughts go away and you’re left with an empty mess. I keep emptying everything out of my head until I feel distant and hollow. </p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/silhouette.jpg" width="322" height="429"></p> <p>Sometimes, not knowing exactly who reads this is a burden. I can’t sugar coat or anything… not that I want to sugar coat. I just want to be prepared, I guess, for whatever might be slung at me for an interpretation of my thoughts.</p> <p>I kissed somebody I shouldn’t have kissed the other night…</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/12/rosehips.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-5248311250887165866?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-5326018113205969322011-12-02T21:04:00.001Z2011-12-02T21:04:58.875Z<p><a href="http://twitter.com/#!/search?q=%23flashfiction" target="_blank">#flashfiction</a></p> <h3>Death Breath</h3> <p>He touched her lips of sapphire blue and remembered them red. </p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/960234834_l.jpg" width="315" height="455"></p> <p>Long nights had been spent in this house. Long nights had dragged them closer in, tucking them under its protective shawl. Wind creaked the old stairway. He glanced up at the steps from where he knelt, seeing nothing but the dark shadow seeping out of the landing.</p> <p>They’d met here a thousand times before, but he wondered what could have brought her back. The circle outside lay unbroken.</p> <p>It was unsafe.</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/12/flash-fiction-no-71.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-532601811320596932?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-84301781236171638322011-11-30T23:54:00.001Z2011-12-03T15:45:16.574Z<p>Why do you delete somebody out of your life? Maybe because part of you can’t bear that they’re there any more. Or maybe it’s because it hurts to see them, hear them, breathe them…</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/Sea_Born_by_secret_heartache.jpg" width="315" height="548"></p> <p>It’s so easy to erase… at least only with technology.</p> <p>And typing that has made me realise how I’ve tried to do what Clementine does on a whim in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. Except I can’t erase everything. Just like her.</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/11/world-was-on-fire.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-8430178123617163832?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-36226827564426860322011-11-29T23:18:00.001Z2011-11-29T23:18:25.350Z<p>I know, I know: Fall Out Boy lyrics aren’t the most socially cool way of starting a post, but they seem somehow apt and after re-listening to the song (<em><a href="http://www.plyrics.com/lyrics/falloutboy/ivegotadarkalleyandabadideathatsaysyoushouldshutyourmouthsummersong.html" target="_blank">I’ve Got A Dark Alley And A Bad Idea That Says You Should Shut Your Mouth</a></em>) I can see why they were playing in my head. I know it’s silly, but I find a lot of comfort in lyrics that are poetic or contain complicated thoughts.</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/DSCN02681.jpg" width="316" height="421"></p> <p>Do you ever feel like you’re disappearing or you don’t quite exist? I do sometimes. I feel like I’m dissolving or fading away like the Cheshire Cat and soon all that will be left is a fake smile, but nobody will notice.</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/11/hopelessly-hopeful.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-3622682756442686032?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-71215261111993044002011-11-29T10:18:00.001Z2011-11-29T10:18:50.274Z<p><a href="http://twitter.com/#!/search?q=%23flashfiction" target="_blank">#flashfiction</a></p> <p>In accordance with <a href="http://twitter.com/#!/LadyAntimony" target="_blank">@LadyAntimony</a>’s November fiction challenge of 250 words, here is my offering:</p> <h3>My Tricksy Precious</h3> <p>“‘One ring to rule them all’… What bull is this? Where’s the original note?”</p> <p><a href="http://ladyantimony.blogspot.com/2011/11/november-blog-challenge.html" target="_blank"><img style="display: block; float: none; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iKJHpMvX1kE/Tr1_GHKfUnI/AAAAAAAAC5s/G_YNLuirXyc/s200/ring_box.JPG"></a></p> <p>The paper crumpled in her hand, heavily lined eyes black with anger. How hard was it to follow a set of simple instructions? She should have done it herself. Always expect shoddy work if you send a demon to do a necromancer’s job.</p> <p>“I thought that was the original note…”</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/11/november-fic.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-7121526111199304400?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-76953191044153906842011-11-25T18:30:00.000Z2011-11-25T19:10:24.849Z<p>The thing that I was worrying about is all clear. Negative not positive. So that’s good, really, even though a small part of me is kind of disappointed. I suppose that’s to be expected.</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/mrdarcy.jpg" width="315" height="292"></p> <p>The <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.tumblr.com/post/13222176927/i-just-love-this-scene-so-much-he-has-his-heart" target="_blank">title of this post</a> is taken from a scene in Pride &amp; Prejudice. My favourite scene, in fact, which is probably because I can see myself in it doing exactly what Elizabeth does because she’s too proud and too hurt, despite the fact she obviously quite likes Mr Darcy. The moment when he says it and you can see his heart in his eyes is so beautiful. </p> <p>It’s rare anyone truly looks at you like that.</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/11/most-ardently.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-7695319104415390684?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-5778253036870450912011-11-25T13:36:00.001Z2011-11-25T13:36:29.289Z<p><a href="http://twitter.com/#!/search?q=%23flashfiction" target="_blank">#flashfiction</a> </p> <h3>Better The Lover You Know</h3> <p>It was the last kiss they would have and she didn’t know it. </p> <p>He played the smile like he had a thousand times before, almost pulling it off. The question surfaced in her eyes but was brushed away as he hugged her close, hiding his face. He couldn’t let her see what he was about to do.</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/tumblr_lv184zK02L1r0v7ofo6_250.jpg" width="314" height="434"></p> <p>She stroked his hair, fingers clinging at the nape of his neck, and then kissed him lightly, ready to step on the train. He tugged her back, deepening the kiss, their last kiss. Flushed and bright eyed, she pressed onto the carriage.</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/11/flash-fiction-no-70.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-577825303687045091?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-68592089305144819462011-11-23T21:58:00.001Z2011-11-23T21:58:58.628Z<p>Feeling tired and distant today. I’m having trouble getting to sleep properly on a night leaving me maybe three hours sleep a night, which certainly isn’t ideal. My second eldest brother and his wife came over for the last time yesterday.</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/autumn.jpg"></p> <p>They’re emigrating to New Zealand to start a new life together there. They spent the day here and then we drove them to where they’re staying later on. For a change, there were no arguments and my brother didn’t make as many digs as usual. </p> <p>As I’ve said, I feel distant and distracted today so this post may not be entirely all there. </p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/11/tinctures.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-6859208930514481946?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-79201186065569198142011-11-20T16:55:00.001Z2011-11-20T16:55:40.486Z<p>I’m eating stew. It has no dumplings in it, so I thought I’d make up for that by titling this post after them. I’m also trying to distract myself from the fact that, even though it’s delicious, I’m already starting to feel nauseous eating it. It’s amazing what we’ll do for distractions, isn’t it?</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/HeartPour.jpg" width="319" height="425"></p> <p>I’ve been going to the pub a lot lately even though I can barely afford it. Luckily, I’m blessed with really good friends who distract me from that and other things while I’m there. Next Saturday I’m going out on a more planned night out with a good friend, too. It gives me something to look forward to this week.</p> <p>I keep trying to find little things to look forward to, pinning significance on barely important stuff to keep myself going. It’s working for the moment.</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/11/im-eating-stew.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-7920118606556919814?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-6943653731756880472011-11-18T11:08:00.001Z2011-11-18T11:08:27.867Z<p><a href="http://twitter.com/#!/search?q=%23flashfiction" target="_blank">#flashfiction</a></p> <h3>Sea Kiss</h3> <p>Brine gathered in her hair, sweeping in then sweeping out like the slow exhale of human breath. Sand clung at her golden curls in a race against the sea. Her still fingers lay curled in the smoothed dunes, half-buried.</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/1215wqater.jpg" width="317" height="476"></p> <p>She tasted of sea salt and red wine.</p> <p>Waves crashed against rocks, creating a cacophony of crackles all along the bay, but her lashes did not part to show the blue brilliance of her eyes. Almost shrouded in sand, the bottle by her hand had been finished a long time ago. Dawn light crept rose tinted across her cream skin.</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/11/flashfiction-sea-kiss-brine-gathered-in.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-694365373175688047?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-88959004900849686922011-11-16T10:29:00.001Z2011-11-16T10:29:14.372Z<p>There are more letters cluttering my floor. It’s better to get things out even if you can’t get any answers. It’s not fair to have things unexplained and left with questions, but if you can’t have the conversation to put your mind at ease and help you to move on, the only thing you can do is get it out.</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/pisces-eye.jpg" width="317" height="379"></p> <p>I’m getting it all out as much as I can, but there seems to be far more than I would ever have thought possible. My days have become sort of vague. Everything is monotonous and the same. </p> <p>There’s also this terrible vacant, distant thing going on with my head. I don’t feel as if I’m all here most of the time. Days are simply a living distraction where I forget what I’m doing or I do things without any reason. It’s awful. It’s like dissolving. </p> <p>And I don’t like it one bit.</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/11/there-are-more-letters-cluttering-my.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-8895900490084968692?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-42979836351392093602011-11-13T23:48:00.001Z2011-11-13T23:48:08.816Z<p>It’s strange when the things that you once took for granted as bits of fun and a joke between friends becomes something you suddenly can’t think about any more. I won’t go on about it, though. </p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/Thesleepover077.jpg" width="319" height="426"></p> <p>Today is one of my good days where I can pretend that nothing has happened and it wouldn’t do to ruin that. Pretending probably isn’t the best thing I can do, but it’s better than remembering every little touch, I guess. I know that if I do that I’ll drive myself to tears and I don’t want to. </p> <p>Hanging with great friends is helping keep me distracted. Distraction is all I can do for the most part. That and focus on other worries that I have and other stresses. There are so many that I worry I may end up with yet another migraine, dragged on by all my anxious thoughts.</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/11/demon-in-my-safest-haven.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-4297983635139209360?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-13862252061309302612011-11-11T14:51:00.001Z2011-11-11T14:51:08.463Z<p><a href="http://twitter.com/#!/search?q=%23flashfiction" target="_blank">#flashfiction</a></p> <h3>Doomed Youth</h3> <p>Liquorice. That’s what it tastes like. I close my eyes and try to enjoy it, but I fear I never will. Liquorice isn’t my favourite taste. I’ve always found it disgusting, but now I can feel the permeability within me.</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/Moon-1.jpg" width="318" height="477"></p> <p>The stickiness doesn’t shock me. It’s hot and thick.</p> <p>I wonder why he wants me to do this, but I don’t ask. Questions can be answered later when my stomach is full and the dark whorls in my eyes have returned to their normal size. I suppose they might not become normal, though. Maybe they’ll stay like that.</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/11/flash-fiction-no-67.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-1386225206130930261?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-58583969375951449322011-11-09T23:10:00.001Z2011-11-09T23:10:46.599Z<p>I have a big thing for the moon. I don’t know if I’ve ever told you that, readers, but I do. I always have had. I could stare at it for hours. It’s beautiful. And still. And quiet.</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/4459913871_b64c3efe53_large.jpg" width="322" height="322"></p> <p>It’s like being watched over by something so bright and so calm when all else in your life is dark. Its beauty is so exquisite and ethereal…</p> <p>Third life post in a week without a fiction in between, right? Must mean there’s something up. I don’t know. There isn’t really. But sometimes I need to write things out so they aren’t cooped up in my head, pulling my mood deeper and deeper down.</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/11/shoot-moon-miss-completely.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-5858396937595144932?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-73137159339264409142011-11-07T17:38:00.001Z2011-11-07T17:38:04.109Z<p>I put my heart in a letter the other night. This letter will probably never see its recipient. It was never meant to be posted anyway – it was just a way to help me get to sleep and stop thinking things out.</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/Heart_Mail.jpg" width="290" height="386"></p> <p>A very good friend of mine, one of the best, once told me about how writing letters to people (even if you don’t send them) can help you to deal with things. Maybe it’s because you get out the things you want to say but can’t since you don’t have to worry about what the other person will think and how they’ll react.</p> <p>Some of us are trapped by thoughts of others (hence my <strong><a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/11/here-i-am-rabbit-hearted-girl.html" target="_blank">Rabbit Hearted Girl</a></strong> post).</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/11/love-letters.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-7313715933926440914?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-67520797079335644752011-11-05T15:38:00.001Z2011-11-05T15:38:23.903Z<p>I wish people were braver than they are. It seems to me that, these days, nobody stands up for who or what they love. They just hide it all away in the background and carry on doing what everyone else wants them to do.</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/3305wsk.gif" width="319" height="399"></p> <p>Why do people do that?</p> <p>I know I used to be one of the culprits for this kind of behaviour. Hell, sometimes I still am, but I like to think that I’m a lot braver and a lot stronger than I used to be. I won’t say it was easy making the change, because it wasn’t. </p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/11/here-i-am-rabbit-hearted-girl.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-6752079707933564475?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-28785641018260765132011-11-04T18:33:00.001Z2011-11-04T18:33:57.619Z<p><a href="http://twitter.com/#!/search?q=%23flashfiction" target="_blank">#flashfiction</a></p> <h3>Rehearsed Sickness</h3> <p>The body in the chair sat at an awkward angle, lips mismatching. The shadows of the room arched and hollowed its face. Sunken eyes stared unseeing at the floor.</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/corpse.jpg" width="322" height="322"></p> <p>Fingers ran over his flesh, which crumpled and flaked as if touched by paint stripper.</p> <p>The smell had reached her nostrils so many times before, decay and decomposition. It was disturbingly delicious. She patted her pocket where loose tablets jingled. She was supposed to take them every three hours to stop the manifestations and dampen her powers, but where was the fun in that?</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/11/flash-fiction-no-66.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-2878564101826076513?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-76948787451607259372011-11-01T18:17:00.001Z2011-11-01T18:17:45.675Z<p>Walking home from work I have an awful lot of time to think. Sometimes, like today, I think of things I need to say in a blog post to get them off my chest.</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/960234834_l.jpg" width="312" height="451"></p> <p>Unfortunately, by the time I get home and complete whatever needs to be completed before I get to my blog… these things jumble themselves away. I wish they didn’t so that I could get them all off my chest at once. The problem is that I only seem to have two real emotions at the minute. Crying and vacancy. </p> <p>They’re not really my choice of emotions. In fact, I’d rather not have them. </p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/11/defunct.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-7694878745160725937?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-43656531809781595312011-10-30T23:24:00.001Z2011-10-30T23:24:21.681Z<p>Sometimes I can only bring you poetry where thoughts would otherwise lie like memories inked upon the page. Sometimes this poetry tells you all that you need to know and sometimes it unrolls like smoke as you read and reread.</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Just%20moi/39251_420604760822_584525822_5510190_767124_n.jpg" width="316" height="569"></p> <p>I can’t tell you what kind of poetry this piece will be. I only know that I have written it and that it is unedited, uncut, unmuddied by further thought. It is as it was written. It is as it was first thought.</p> <p>Writing it helps. Releasing it sets it free.</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/10/incandescent.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-4365653180978159531?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-25641379399682612262011-10-29T16:11:00.001+01:002011-10-30T11:55:59.161Z<p><a href="http://twitter.com/#!/search?q=%23flashfiction" target="_blank">#flashfiction</a> <a href="http://twitter.com/#!/search/realtime/%23GhoulsGalore" target="_blank">#GhoulsGalore</a></p> <h3>Grave Error</h3> <p>The ground bubbled and shook where the soil had been freshly laid. Borborygmic ripples tugged at the earth, boiling below her feet and knocking her to the floor.</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/Dance-4.jpg"></p> <p>She scrambled towards the gate, but the ripples had spread out from one grave and through the whole cemetery.</p> <p>Skeletal limbs and half-rotted flesh broke the soil and turf. She wished she’d never started. It had been a stupid idea to go out there all alone to test her powers.</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/10/halloween-flash-fiction-week-4.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-2564137939968261226?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-10225985397349903692011-10-28T15:45:00.001+01:002011-10-28T15:45:47.151+01:00<p><a href="http://twitter.com/#!/search?q=%23flashfiction" target="_blank">#flashfiction</a></p> <h3>Angels &amp; Demons</h3> <p>There are two sides to my job. There are two sides to a lot of things. Occasionally, there’s also that grey in between place. And that’s where I live. </p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/angel-2.jpg" width="320" height="460"></p> <p>“You can’t work for both sides, Hera.”</p> <p>I smirked, brushing back dark bangs and tilting my head so I could see her better. Her white wings twitched, feathers trembling in the breeze. She thought everything was clear cut. I’d like to clear cut her wings right off and see her bleed out, but even I knew that was a step too far.</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/10/flash-fiction-no-65.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-1022598539734990369?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-7005420596735405592011-10-25T23:41:00.001+01:002011-10-25T23:41:06.163+01:00<p>I should start with some happy news because I haven’t given you any lately, have I? Well, the good news is that I finished the WIP. Next is the editing process, but right now my head is no way ready for that.</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/rainyst.jpg"></p> <p>Over the past few days I’ve been made to feel even more confused and hurt and in bits than I already was. It’s like somebody else can’t make their mind up or anything and then I’m being asked to wait while he gets his head sorted out with professionals, which isn’t fair. It’s not fair to ask someone to wait for them when they’ve decided to be with someone else.</p> <p>It just isn’t. And especially when you know how they feel about you. It’s stringing them along. It’s giving them hope for the longest time and then you’re probably going to take their whole world away anyway.</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/10/chance-of-torrential-rain.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-700542059673540559?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-61788658016379041632011-10-23T16:07:00.001+01:002011-10-23T16:07:13.027+01:00<p><a href="http://twitter.com/#!/search?q=%23flashfiction" target="_blank">#flashfiction</a> <a href="http://twitter.com/#!/search/realtime/%23GhoulsGalore" target="_blank">#GhoulsGalore</a> </p> <h3>Pack Of Lies</h3> <p>He covered his eyes with trembling paws. “I’m telling you, they don’t exist. They never have.”</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/WolvesEyes.jpg" width="321" height="300"></p> <p>His brother leaned closer, holding the torch below his chin. Light scarred his face with sharp shadows and harsh lines. “Well, they say we don’t exist. Who are you to say the gormagon doesn’t if we do?”</p> <p>“That’s different,” Seth whimpered.</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/10/halloween-flash-fiction-week-3.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-6178865801637904163?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-83814360417063986172011-10-22T14:16:00.001+01:002011-10-22T14:16:48.264+01:00<p>I went out a few days ago. It started off as a good night. My friend got me drunk, trying to take my mind off things. I guess it didn’t work so well because I ended up balling my eyes out in public. I hate public shows like that.</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/drowning-2-1.jpg" width="301" height="440"></p> <p>I’m not even sure exactly how it started or where it came from. I haven’t been able to cry properly since it happened. I just don’t know how or what to do or how to feel or… anything.</p> <p>I don’t understand.</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/10/long-kiss-goodbye.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-8381436041706398617?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-76929559803396342912011-10-21T12:01:00.001+01:002011-10-21T12:01:42.202+01:00<p><a href="http://twitter.com/#!/search?q=%23flashfiction" target="_blank">#flashfiction</a></p> <h3>Constant Sight</h3> <p>His mother leaned across the table, blood dribbling down her chin. She hissed at me, frothing and foaming, a mad look in her eye.</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/bloodgirl0.jpg" width="322" height="425"></p> <p>I swallowed down a hunk of pork. She’d been doing that all the way through dinner. It was best just to ignore her. It was best just to ignore them all.</p> <p>I slipped a glance at him with his sad eyes and drooping mouth. He said nothing, stirring the food around his plate.</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/10/flash-fiction-no-64.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-7692955980339634291?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-43617229870858601062011-10-16T14:18:00.001+01:002011-10-16T14:18:16.835+01:00<p>I’m not sure who reads this any more. These glib entries of real life I paste within these ebony pages.</p> <p>I feel sick to my stomach, but barely eating means there’s nothing to come up. I haven’t got an eating disorder. Maybe that would be easier to deal with than this. </p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/anniebath3.jpg" width="321" height="252"></p> <p>This one time when I truly do want to give up on everything.</p> <p>I told my mum that. I don’t think she quite understood it in the way I meant. I’m sure you probably have by now, dear reader. I guess I’m just so so tired of it all. I don’t think I can do it.</p> <p>I just want to give up.</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/10/montauk.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-4361722987085860106?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-62400933895429484052011-10-15T20:58:00.001+01:002011-10-15T20:58:04.122+01:00<p>Every now and again I like to post some of my poetry up here. It doesn’t always make sense so I ask you to understand of it whatever you will. </p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/kiss6.jpg" width="312" height="415"></p> <p>I hope you like these pieces. As always, they are pieces of me that I perhaps don’t voice as I should. Hopefully, they are more beautiful written down than they could ever truly be spoken out loud in hurried words. </p> <p><font size="1">[This poetry post started &amp; finished circa 08/10/11 – 15/10/11]</font></p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/10/sunshine-of-your-love.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-6240093389542948405?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-51922392620521215002011-10-15T12:13:00.001+01:002011-10-15T12:13:05.286+01:00<p><a href="http://twitter.com/#!/search?q=%23flashfiction" target="_blank"><font size="1"><strong>#flashfiction</strong></font></a><font size="1"><strong> </strong></font><a href="http://twitter.com/#!/search/realtime/%23GhoulsGalore" target="_blank"><font size="1"><strong>#GhoulsGalore</strong></font></a><font size="1"><strong> </strong></font></p> <h3>Below Stairs</h3> <p>The cellar steps reached below into consuming chthonic darkness. The air cloisters in my lungs, musty and old like stale breath. </p> <p><img style="display: block; float: none; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto" src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/colorful.jpg" width="275" height="407"></p> <p>My feet tell me I should go back, but I don’t because they are no longer master.</p> <p>The darkness calls a cypher to my brain that only I can understand. Human fear is weak in me. This body is too frail and this soul too lacklustre to support me any more. A replacement is due.</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/10/halloween-flash-fiction-week-2.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-5192239262052121500?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-50570889610514339752011-10-11T10:35:00.001+01:002011-10-11T10:35:15.111+01:00<p>There’s so much going through my head that I don’t know where to start and yet I have an almost eerie calm hanging over me. It’s like part of me is more sure than the rest.</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/angel-2.jpg" width="317" height="456"></p> <p>I kind of like that feeling. It’s a weird sort of reassurance that I lost for a couple of years, but it’s back now. There are reasons why it disappeared for a few years. However, I won’t go into those right now. It’s enough for me that the calming notion is back and helping me to stay a little more chilled out despite stresses I feel. </p> <p>I’ve been feeling stressed for about a week now. </p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/10/pick-me-up-tape-me-together.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-5057088961051433975?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-42991355019649160472011-10-10T13:04:00.001+01:002011-10-10T13:04:50.351+01:00<p><a href="http://twitter.com/#!/search?q=%23flashfiction" target="_blank">#flashfiction</a></p> <p>Usually I intersperse posts of fiction with those about my daily life. Today… that’s been cast out because it’s the extended edition of <a href="https://twitter.com/search/%23tuesdaytales" target="_blank"><strong>#TuesdayTales</strong></a>. This means that instead of the 100 word comments we’ve been leaving over on <a href="http://glitterword.wordpress.com" target="_blank"><strong>Glitter Word</strong></a>, today we leave the first 100 words of an 1000 word tale.</p> <p><img src="http://glitterword.files.wordpress.com/2011/10/hell_towera.jpg?w=329&amp;h=415" width="316" height="421"></p> <p>The above is the picture we base our stories around for today and the word prompt is <em>Spectrum</em>. For more details check out <a href="http://glitterword.wordpress.com/2011/10/10/tuesdaytales-extended-edition/" target="_blank">today’s starter post</a>. </p> <p>But this is my response….</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/10/tuesdaytales-writers-cut.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-4299135501964916047?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-51365080806016950842011-10-08T00:15:00.000+01:002011-10-08T00:15:00.075+01:00<p><a href="http://twitter.com/#!/search?q=%23flashfiction" target="_blank"><strong><font size="1">#flashfiction</font></strong></a><strong><font size="1"> </font></strong><a href="http://twitter.com/#!/search/realtime/%23GhoulsGalore" target="_blank"><strong><font size="1">#GhoulsGalore</font></strong></a></p> <h3>Murder Most Haunted</h3> <p>Right to left. It always started with the chalk screeching from right to left, slicing into the dusty blackness of the board. Annie edged away, watching words spill out in backwards, boustrophedonic waves. </p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/chalkonachalkboard.jpg"></p> <p>They were angry words, words of tearing, killing. Torrid words of ill will and repressed desires.</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/10/halloween-flash-fiction-week-1.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-5136508080601695084?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-61118416026418411552011-10-06T22:44:00.001+01:002011-10-06T22:55:36.494+01:00<p><a href="http://twitter.com/#!/search?q=%23flashfiction" target="_blank">#flashfiction</a></p> <h3>Lying In The Moonlight</h3> <p><i>There’s something I need to tell you…</i></p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/Silenced_By_You__by_splucy.jpg" width="307" height="411"></p> <p>The words burnt on the tip of my tongue but couldn’t come out. I watched him from across the room, thumbing the ring around my finger as he laughed and joked. The blonde had a predatory smile. Her hand caressed his raising the bile in my gut until he pulled away.</p> <p>The nausea remained. It had been there all day.</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/10/flash-fiction-no-63.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-6111841602641841155?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-75591532679660498542011-10-02T16:11:00.001+01:002011-10-02T16:11:20.244+01:00<p>As you know, <a href="http://twitter.com/#!/LadyAntimony" target="_blank">@LadyAntimony</a> has taken to giving out new fiction challenges every month. As this is October, the month where the veil between the living and the dead is at its thinnest, she’s decided on a ghoulishly good challenge to keep us all on our toes.</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/chauffe19222222111.gif" width="315" height="235"></p> <p>In a similar vein to the lovely <strong><a href="https://twitter.com/#!/theglitterlady" target="_blank">Stevie McCoy</a></strong>’s <strong><a href="http://glitterword.wordpress.com/category/tuesday-tales-2/" target="_blank">Tuesday Tales</a></strong> challenges, we have set words to fit into our challenge entries. But don’t think it’s just that simple! They will be creepy caricatures of four different ghastly beings. The first three beings are set, but the fourth is up for choice. </p> <p>As if that couldn’t be hard enough, Lady A has cranked the word count down to a difficult 250 words.  </p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/10/ghastly-new-challenge.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-7559153267966049854?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-91666658709026092402011-09-30T20:41:00.001+01:002011-09-30T20:41:22.357+01:00<p><a href="http://twitter.com/#!/search?q=%23flashfiction" target="_blank">#flashfiction</a></p> <h3>Oui Ja</h3> <p>“No,” he murmured calmly. “<i>You</i> don’t understand.”</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/Dead_Stare.jpg" width="319" height="352"></p> <p>Daylight squeezed through the murky panes, grey and dismal with the low hang of morning mist. She sat, motionless, in the chair. No words crossed her breath. He pursed his lips, hands deep in his pockets.</p> <p>“This is why I didn’t want to do it. This is why I told you we shouldn’t play this stupid game.”</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/09/flash-fiction-no-62.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-9166665870902609240?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-47979943438465933622011-09-29T23:43:00.001+01:002011-09-29T23:43:36.826+01:00<p>And I don’t feel the same. La la la…</p> <p>Ahem. I’m sorry you had to walk in on that. Except I’m not. I’m feeling quite bouncy and happy and I’m sure certain people that read this will know why… but as of yet it’s still an almost secret. </p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/tumblr_lo38yzQlnM1qe8fz1o1_500.jpg" width="324" height="324"></p> <p>But I promise, dear readers, that I’ll tell you soon. In other news… I’ve been doing a lot more photography for that band that I’ve been hanging around with.</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/09/everythings-changing.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-4797994343846593362?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-28404949201019335692011-09-26T18:32:00.001+01:002011-09-26T18:32:53.911+01:00<p><a href="http://twitter.com/#!/search?q=%23flashfiction" target="_blank">#flashfiction</a></p> <h3>Punch &amp; Judy <br><font size="1"><font style="font-weight: normal">This is week the last of the #DiceGames fiction challenge.</font></font></h3> <p>Damp patches blotted the bitumen, gathering in number until the tarmac was sodden. He waited until the rain was at its heaviest to load the car. The old pickup wheeled and wretched as the burdened sheets were slung inside, dripping wet.</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/Stacys011-1.jpg" width="317" height="238"></p> <p>He paused before packing away the tailgate, allowing his eyes to absorb the blood soaked linen. It was going to be a long drive. The discordant jangle of keys rattled in his ear as they turned in the door. </p> <p>The air in the car was clammy.</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/09/dicey-flash-fiction-week-four.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-2840494920101933569?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-21362559711583223752011-09-23T12:19:00.001+01:002011-09-23T12:19:55.674+01:00<p><a href="http://twitter.com/#!/search?q=%23flashfiction" target="_blank">#flashfiction</a></p> <h3>Red Pill or Blue Pill?</h3> <p>Blood spluttered from her lips as she lay sprawled across the grimy tiles, crimson blotting too pale skin. The pills sat scattered out of reach.</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/teen-pills.jpg" width="319" height="479"></p> <p>Her fingers feebly clasped on air. She closed her eyes, dry lips moving in silent prayer. One arm clutched about her burning stomach, she struggled to get closer to the pills, but every time she moved they seemed to get further away.</p> <p>“Get up.”</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/09/flash-fiction-no-61.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-2136255971158322375?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-6223049799533122552011-09-22T11:01:00.001+01:002011-09-22T11:01:44.462+01:00<p>Those of you on twitter may have noticed that I disappeared after posting last Friday’s piece of flash fiction, <em><a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/09/flash-fiction-no-60.html" target="_blank">Cinders</a></em>, and didn’t return until some time on Sunday. Saturday was a planned disappearance but Friday was not. </p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/Sunlight_61.jpg" width="327" height="291"></p> <p>Things kicked off once more in our household on Friday night. Regular readers may already know what’s coming. Those who don’t, well… </p> <p>My brother, <strong>Master Berserker</strong>, started a huge argument…</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/09/myriad.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-622304979953312255?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-43454794685397938172011-09-19T22:12:00.001+01:002011-09-19T22:12:01.799+01:00<p><a href="http://twitter.com/#!/search?q=%23flashfiction" target="_blank">#flashfiction</a></p> <h3>Eternal Youth</h3> <p>It wasn’t what I expected. The taste was so much sweeter.</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/VampireMale.jpg" width="301" height="348"></p> <p>I discovered him in Kew Gardens loitering amongst the exotic flowers, his fingers stroking the tips of delicate petals. He’d read the detail of each plant’s unearthing and smiled to himself when his eyes moved over the old names. We talked for a while, him inviting me to a drink at a local place.</p> <p>I didn’t understand what he meant by drink, then. I do now.</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/09/dicey-flash-fiction-week-three.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-4345479468539793817?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-85817521783559385182011-09-16T18:42:00.001+01:002011-09-16T18:42:00.346+01:00<p><a href="http://twitter.com/#!/search?q=%23flashfiction" target="_blank">#flashfiction</a></p> <h3>Cinders <br><font size="1">A continuation of <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/09/flash-fiction-no-59.html" target="_blank">Picking Up The Pieces</a>…</font></h3> <p>“Bailey’s ’n ice,” he muttered to himself, staring through the heavy duty pane into the freezer. The frosted glass was scraped away in places, allowing him to see his new possession.</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/gagged.jpg"></p> <p>The glass was specially imported. He didn’t want any way for water elementals to slip in through the reflections. He smiled to himself, cold eyes burning through the window to the young man frozen there. It wouldn’t take long before she would come too.</p> <p>He understood that that was how love worked having never tried it himself.</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/09/flash-fiction-no-60.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-8581752178355938518?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-49552925248251648172011-09-15T21:47:00.001+01:002011-09-15T21:47:27.807+01:00<p>Technically, this is my second week back at work but, as the first week started on a Wednesday, I’m still counting it as my first week back. And what a tiring first week back it’s been. I forgot just what an exhausting job it is.</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/Greed_by_promis-1.jpg"></p> <p>I know it’s not for long in the morning and the evening, but you cram an awful lot of exercise into that time and you have to concentrate really hard while you’re doing it (plus there’s my 40 min walk to and from work twice a day). There are also a lot more kids and parents now. Or so it seems. And a lot of the kids have switched from the infant schools to the juniors, or the juniors to the secondary or have left the secondary. Some of them have just started the infants too or they’re going to nursery with their parents.</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/09/3-2-1-youre-back-in-room.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-4955292524825164817?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-82754650178557104362011-09-12T21:34:00.001+01:002011-09-12T21:47:16.706+01:00<p><a href="http://twitter.com/#!/search?q=%23flashfiction" target="_blank">#flashfiction</a></p> <h3>Kill All Your Characters</h3> <p>“But why?”</p> <p>The cutlery in the hall stilled. One diner knocked over his goblet. Red liquid leapt from its grasp and pooled across the old banquet table. It spread across the ancient wood, squeezing in between plates and silverware, rippling as it pressed up against each object.</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/littleglassvial.jpg" width="316" height="421"></p> <p>A chair tumbled over, a young girl falling to the flagstones with her eyes fixed in a glassy stare of horror. She hit her head but didn’t feel it. Blood and small splinters of skull smattered the old stone.</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/09/dicey-flash-fiction-week-two.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-8275465017855710436?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-17246968753622926432011-09-11T14:57:00.001+01:002011-09-14T18:04:15.557+01:00<p>Sometimes I lie back and stare at the ceiling and have too many thoughts to hold onto them for very long at all. </p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/near_the_end_by_xxquoththeravenxx-d.jpg" width="310" height="491"></p> <p>Occasionally they escape into real conversations that occur at other times, leaving feelings of remorse and regret to twirl as dance partners in a hectic, stomach-based waltz, their feet to fast to stop for long. I’m told by some people that I have a beautiful heart. That’s not always true.</p> <p>But there are two sides to beauty as there are two sides to everything in life.</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/09/simply-must.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-1724696875362292643?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-72897329533180285862011-09-09T14:28:00.001+01:002011-09-20T11:02:33.810+01:00<p><a href="http://twitter.com/#!/search?q=%23flashfiction" target="_blank">#flashfiction</a></p> <h3>Picking Up The Pieces</h3> <p>She heard his screams from the other side of the mirror, but she couldn’t go back. Going back would rip her to shreds. The pieces were simply too small to pass through. </p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/Vanity.jpg" width="314" height="419"></p> <p>There was no way to save him from there. Without another mirror nearby or a pool of water, her elemental powers trapped her in the field. Fevered eyes stared back into the glass. A kaleidoscope picture flashed and died as the power of the other mirror finally broke into nothingness.</p> <p>He had to make it.</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/09/flash-fiction-no-59.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-7289732953318028586?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-17560843163557169272011-09-08T14:56:00.001+01:002011-09-08T14:56:20.127+01:00<p>As you know, I’m nearing the end of my current WIP, <em>Preying on Time</em>, and I’ve been dithering over writing the ending. This is not because I don’t know what happens in the end or because I’ve suddenly found that I dislike the story immensely.</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/smokey.jpg" width="319" height="352"></p> <p>The truth is that I slow down for endings. I’m not willing to simply get on and write them usually because it means the end of one novel and the beginning if something new.</p> <p>And I always have new ideas floating around to be written.</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/09/forming-thoughts.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-1756084316355716927?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-57453635344694574092011-09-05T01:15:00.001+01:002011-09-05T01:22:43.492+01:00<p><a href="http://twitter.com/#!/search?q=%23flashfiction" target="_blank">#flashfiction</a></p> <h3>A Dragon Just Wrecked Your House – Deal With It</h3> <p>My head pounded beneath the duvet of rubble. It was dark. Something breathed low and long overhead, the stench of sulphur stinking out the air. It rolled and smoked, sickening my insides as the acrid stink of burning flesh wrapped around my lungs.</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/Puff-Of-Smoke.jpg"></p> <p>It had come so suddenly. We should have listened to the warning, but my father was too proud. He said that it would never find us. </p> <p>He was wrong.</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/09/dicey-flash-fiction-week-one.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-5745363534469457409?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-24175262910969365882011-09-04T17:49:00.001+01:002011-09-04T17:50:30.172+01:00<p>Tomorrow is the start of the <strong><a href="http://ladyantimony.blogspot.com/2011/08/choices-choices-choices.html" target="_blank">#DiceGames</a></strong> blog challenge. So that’s a thousand words of fiction for you every Monday this month. I also thought that I started back at work on Tuesday but apparently term begins on Wednesday instead!</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/lettherainfall.jpg" width="316" height="316"></p> <p>So I have an extra day of freedom before I have to don my fluorescent coat and keep pedestrians safe as they cross the road.</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/09/death-of-another-summer.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-2417526291096936588?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-83882006430501848692011-09-02T12:59:00.001+01:002011-09-02T12:59:20.062+01:00<p><a href="http://twitter.com/#!/search?q=%23flashfiction" target="_blank">#flashfiction</a></p> <h3>Spectral Spies</h3> <p>My breath whispered along the passage in shuddering ripples, bouncing off the too solid walls and floors. I needed to get out.</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/HospitalBed-1.jpg" width="316" height="259"></p> <p>The night gown clawed at my ankles, clinging and sticking to my skin in the damp, but I pretended I didn’t feel it, holding the knife out before me in shaky fingers. Cold light echoed from thin slivered bulbs. There was no going back. I took another breath and stepped past the third laboratory door.</p> <p>It seemed selfish leaving the others, but I couldn’t risk it.</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/09/flash-fiction-no-58.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-8388200643050184869?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-85536317609730648512011-09-01T17:19:00.001+01:002011-09-01T17:19:30.997+01:00<p>Today is a quiet day. I haven’t had a lot of quiet days recently. There has been much to do and many people to see and distract myself with. Distractions are good to a certain extent, but not when they are also distracting you from writing.</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/GonnAraInhard.jpg" width="321" height="482"></p> <p>Mostly, I’ve been trying to ignore my emotions. I figured I could. If I ignore them then I don’t have to think about things. The problem with that is that I lose heart in the things that I really enjoy doing and I just can’t function when I try to do them.</p> <p>One major thing that I’ve been lacking in recently is the heart to write.</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/09/losing-your-inkheart.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-8553631760973064851?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-27707354509238798262011-08-31T14:28:00.001+01:002011-08-31T14:28:57.215+01:00<p><a href="http://twitter.com/#!/search?q=%23flashfiction" target="_blank">#flashfiction</a></p> <h3>Monster Heart</h3> <p>The firelight licked her goose fleshed skin as she lay bare and vulnerable before it. Thoughts chased around her head, skittering down her spine. </p> <p>“I don’t date vampires,” she murmured.</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/20101018_305.jpg" width="319" height="568"></p> <p>“Didn’t,” he corrected, dislodging his second boot and watching the play of warm colours across her skin. He paused. He could smell her sweet scents, autumn flowers and fallen leaves, whispering in with the sneaking sliver of fear. </p> <p>It wasn’t just her blood he wanted. It was her soul willingly given. </p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/08/flash-fiction-no-57.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-2770735450923879826?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-67284335039090389482011-08-30T00:47:00.001+01:002011-08-30T00:47:09.325+01:00<p>I seem to be getting myself into an awful lot of challenges lately. Luckily these aren’t the kind where I have to turn up with a sword and duel…</p> <p>Although, that would be quite fun. </p> <p><img style="display: block; float: none; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UNQFzFi861o/TkGgccj6GAI/AAAAAAAAAyc/xCzUpDImRTY/s1600/DiceGamesBlue.png"></p> <p>This isn’t the kind of challenge where I have to dice somebody up with a blade. I don’t even have to dice with death. but the dice will be deciding my fate… or at least the fate of some more flash fiction!</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/08/dice-games.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-6728433503909038948?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-55949905985195145052011-08-26T00:20:00.000+01:002011-08-26T00:20:00.805+01:00<p><a href="http://twitter.com/#!/search?q=%23flashfiction" target="_blank">#flashfiction</a></p> <h3>Death Wish <br><font size="1"><font style="font-weight: normal">A continuation of <em><a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/08/flash-fiction-no-55.html" target="_blank"><font style="font-weight: bold">Drink to Death</font></a></em>…</font></font></h3> <p>She smoothed her hand through her wet hair, dried blood clinging to her fingers. Death had healed her wound, but not her heart.</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/girl-and-rain-dark-1.jpg" width="322" height="596"></p> <p>The track clattered overhead. The thing about being a necromancer was that you belonged to death. And nobody killed death’s pets, but death.</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/08/flash-fiction-no-56.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-5594990598519514505?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-65255128751923481982011-08-21T21:29:00.001+01:002011-08-21T21:29:28.477+01:00<p><a href="http://twitter.com/#!/LadyAntimony" target="_blank">@LadyAntimony</a> gave me another blog award over on her blog <strong><a href="http://ladyantimony.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Thoughts, Musings and Broken Promises</a></strong>! This one is called the Liebster Blog Award. </p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/somechick-1.jpg"></p> <p>I’m so glad she chose to give me the award amongst so many <a href="http://ladyantimony.blogspot.com/2011/08/flim-flam.html" target="_blank">other brilliant bloggers</a> and want to thank her such a lot. </p> <p>And now it is my turn to select some of the excellent bloggers that I know. Sadly, I can’t nominate <a href="http://twitter.com/#!/LadyAntimony" target="_blank">@LadyAntimony</a> because she nominated me and I’ll try not to nominate the same people as her, too.</p> <p>So here goes…</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/08/would-you-believe-it.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-6525512875192348198?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-34972469548858098892011-08-19T21:30:00.000+01:002011-08-19T21:30:00.687+01:00<p>A few weeks back, I showed you a piece of poetry that I’d recently written in the post <em><strong><a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/08/6-weeks-ago.html" target="_blank">6 Weeks Ago…</a></strong></em> </p> <p>I’ve been writing a lot of poetry recently around the same sort of subject. It’s not something I do consciously, but it always helps when I have a problem or a trouble that I can’t work through and I need to get out. Unfortunately, I can never seem to get out what I want to say verbally. It only seems to show itself in rhymes and such.</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/Between_Darkness_and_Wonder.jpg" width="317" height="247"></p> <p>So here it is.</p> <p>Here are my feelings pulled into words on a page, encased in rhythm and rhyme, twisted into something less complex and confused than half sentences and unfinished words. This is my vulnerability behind the veil. This is my unspoken sensitivity.</p> <p>This is my honesty.</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/08/extra-honesty-in-poetry.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-3497246954885809889?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-36610022731001521712011-08-19T15:17:00.001+01:002011-08-19T15:17:35.929+01:00<p><a href="http://twitter.com/#!/search?q=%23flashfiction" target="_blank">#flashfiction</a></p> <h3>Drink to Death</h3> <p>The train rattled overhead like a xylophone spine. She closed her eyes and tightened her fingers around the tattered, cochineal rag.</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/girl-and-rain-dark.jpg" width="318" height="448"></p> <p>Excess rainwater collected in a puddle nearby, dripping slow and thick. The sound rippled through her body reminding her. She wet her lips and set her teeth. </p> <p>Where was he?</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/08/flash-fiction-no-55.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-3661002273100152171?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-79026384822992950242011-08-17T15:48:00.001+01:002011-08-17T15:48:23.586+01:00<p>As you are aware, regular readers, I was recently involved in <a href="http://twitter.com/#!/LadyAntimony" target="_blank">@LadyAntimony</a>’s <strong><a href="http://ladyantimony.blogspot.com/2011/07/repentance.html" target="_blank">Seven Days, Seven Virtues</a></strong> blog challenge. </p> <p>This involved writing very short pieces of fiction on the <strong><a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/search/label/Seven%20Virtues" target="_blank">seven virtues</a></strong> that counteract the <strong><a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/search/label/Seven%20Sins" target="_blank">seven sins</a></strong>. </p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/Seven_Deadly_Sins_Wrath.jpg" width="331" height="441"></p> <p>There will be <strong><a href="http://ladyantimony.blogspot.com/2011/08/choices-choices-choices.html" target="_blank">another challenge</a></strong> soon, but until then please feel free to revisit any of the past entries. You might also want to join in with the challenges. </p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/08/challenge-complete.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-7902638482299295024?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-3083127885724373372011-08-13T01:23:00.001+01:002011-08-17T14:47:20.604+01:00<p align="center"> <br>Seven days... <br>Seven saintly virtues...</p> <h3>Humility</h3> <p>“It was me,” she lied, not daring to look back.</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/YoureBloodIsMine.jpg" width="313" height="543"></p> <p>His face hardened and he rolled up his sleeves. The muscles in his arms flexed, pythons beneath his skin.</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/08/virtuous-flash-fiction-humility.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-308312788572437337?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-47013062468361260182011-08-12T01:10:00.001+01:002011-08-12T01:10:28.723+01:00<p align="center"> <br>Seven days... <br>Seven saintly virtues...</p> <h3>Kindness</h3> <p>It was the sweetest.</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/sexy-hot-photo-comments2.jpg" width="322" height="471"></p> <p>The poison drained from his body, filling her veins and curling through her velvet heart. Colour returned to his face, but her lashes remained shut.</p> <p>She backed onto her heels, the venom unfurling in her brain. Her breath held, lips tingling.</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/08/virtuous-flash-fiction-kindness.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-4701306246836126018?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-39147594893501349432011-08-11T02:00:00.001+01:002011-08-11T02:00:31.074+01:00<p align="center"> <br>Seven days... <br>Seven saintly virtues...</p> <h3>Patience</h3> <p>As he took the bullet, centuries passed before his eyes.</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/dark-angel-21114-1.jpg" width="325" height="244"></p> <p>His body thumped against the steps, the blood of innocents collecting on the rock from his pouring veins. She kept running.</p> <p>His sacrifice bled out unnoticed.</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/08/virtuous-flash-fiction-patience.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-3914759489350134943?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-40933530803972820802011-08-10T00:40:00.000+01:002011-08-10T00:40:01.075+01:00<p align="center"> <br>Seven days... <br>Seven saintly virtues...</p> <h3>Diligence</h3> <p>White feathers stumped and painted crimson clung at his weary shoulders and stuck to his blood paddled feet, but still he walked. The small gift was safely cradled in his palms.</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/angel-3.jpg" width="333" height="242"></p> <p>Nothing else mattered.</p> <p>His soles cut to ribbons on the sharp rocks, the precious gift nestled in his hands. It would be delivered. </p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/08/virtuous-flash-fiction-diligence.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-4093353080397282080?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-58320689041875215352011-08-09T01:14:00.001+01:002011-08-09T01:14:17.428+01:00<p align="center"> <br>Seven days... <br>Seven saintly virtues...</p> <h3>Charity</h3> <p>She pushed the bowl out on the step and hung back.</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/wolf-eyes-1.jpg" width="323" height="316"></p> <p>Hungry eyes glinted in the darkness, soft whines stripping from his shaggy throat. The little girl unbent her knees. She nudged the dish again.</p> <p>He watched, then pawed the ground momentarily. </p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/08/virtuous-flash-fiction-charity.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-5832068904187521535?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-45931834387927493822011-08-08T14:26:00.001+01:002011-08-09T01:13:40.598+01:00<p align="center"> <br>Seven days... <br>Seven saintly virtues...</p> <h3>Temperance</h3> <p>Gold poured through the cracks, chinking as it hit the floor, growing the yellow mountain at its base. It piled forth, mounting up around his feet.</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/Avarice_III_by_demons_I_weave.jpg"></p> <p>A slick smile slithered over her lips.</p> <p>“Take it. Do as I ask.”</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/08/virtuous-flash-fiction-temperance.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-4593183438792749382?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-77209203996002985592011-08-07T00:30:00.000+01:002011-08-07T00:30:00.446+01:00<p align="center"> <br>Seven days... <br>Seven saintly virtues...</p> <h3>Chastity</h3> <p>She cast her eyes downward and tried not to breathe in the delicious syrupy scent. The aroma caught on her lips, teasing her.</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/bloodgirl0.jpg" width="317" height="418"></p> <p>Tempting.</p> <p>He whimpered, sight fastened to the ivory fangs she couldn’t retract. Steel pressed against the desire to gorge herself; the monster inside refused.</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/08/virtuous-flash-fiction-chastity.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-7720920399600298559?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-63137823488697899492011-08-05T15:57:00.001+01:002011-08-05T15:57:42.313+01:00<p><a href="http://twitter.com/#!/search?q=%23flashfiction" target="_blank">#flashfiction</a></p> <h3>The Choices We Make</h3> <p>“I-I can’t! I can’t!”</p> <p>The words heaved, shuddered in between panicked sobs.</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/Dark_Christmas_alternate_by_carrows.jpg" width="315" height="474"></p> <p>“Please, no! I-I can’t do it! Please! Pluh-Please!”</p> <p>They ignored her and put the needle back in her arm. Her veins burned, her muscles coiled in white hot barbs, as she screeched and writhed. Sweat trickled low, collecting in salty droplets on her blistered lips.</p> <p>Her body stretched and contorted, but still it didn’t work.</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/08/flash-fiction-no-54.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-6313782348869789949?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-36058392086593412082011-08-01T16:17:00.001+01:002011-08-19T16:32:49.173+01:00<p>I wrote this then. I wrote it to get it off my chest when I knew it was too fragile to say out loud and because…</p> <p><img src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/untitled.jpg" width="317" height="435"> <br> <br>Well, because I’m much better at written words than verbal ones. I can write you a great essay, but I’ll suck at any debate. I can give you my thoughts, but without pen and paper they’re not going to be concise and I’ll forget everything that I need to say.</p> <p>It doesn’t need much figuring out. I don’t ask you to analyse it. I’m not sure I want you to. But now I feel like sharing. Now I feel, for some reason, that I have to set it free. Maybe it’s supposed to help in some way. </p> <p>I guess we’ll see.</p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/08/6-weeks-ago.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-3605839208659341208?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5597983641970509796.post-36745713126317612452011-08-01T09:00:00.000+01:002011-08-01T10:38:06.151+01:00<p>Well, apparently the lovely <a href="https://twitter.com/#!/icypop" target="_blank"><strong>Miss Icy Sedgwick</strong></a> thinks so over at her wonderful <a href="http://blog.icysedgwick.com/2011/07/seven-random-facts-about-icy.html" target="_blank"><strong>Blunt Pencil</strong></a> blog as she’s bestowed me with the very sought after Versatile Blogger Award that she also received from others.</p> <p><img style="display: block; float: none; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto" src="http://i106.photobucket.com/albums/m279/Jocasta_Lizzbeth/Journal%20Stuff/More%20stuff/VersatileBlogger.jpg" width="206" height="207"></p> <p>I’m incredibly grateful to Icy for the awesome award, which she totally deserves for her brilliant fiction and the thought provoking pieces she writes on her blog. As always, these lovely awards have rules. And what are those rules?</p> <p>I must share some more fantastic bloggers with you and give you seven sacred* facts about myself.</p> <p><font size="1">*not actually sacred; merely previously untold.</font></p> <a href="http://rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com/2011/08/versatile-me.html#more">Click to read more...</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/5597983641970509796-3674571312631761245?l=rebeccaclaresmith.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Rebecca Clare Smithhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14492054831175019378noreply@blogger.com5