Magenta Monster

Yep even more story starters for you all!

1) She put her lipstick on, it was sugar pink and matched the powder blue vanish on her nails

2) The sleepy village with its prize winning gastro pub and endless footpaths was the idyllic British norm…

3) Hair crinkled in black ribbons that were looped back into a sort of tendril

4) The food was laid out neatly it was not a normal picnic though

5) It was by all accounts just a but if larking about, the boys had decided that a spot of bare knuckle boxing was the thing to do

6) The tongue flickered out of the mottled scaled snout

7) The queue stretched on and on and on, she was so hungry and her feet hurt so much and even her throat was swelling shut for the need of a drink

8) The sun was setting, the heat shimmer of the long day…

9) It was a way of controlling the population, it started with the heart patients

10) It wasn’t even a real memory but it was all she had

Fluffy Butterflies (first published on Blue Monster)

A pet hate of mine is fluffy butterflies, whatever possessed anyone in their right mind to make fluffy butterflies? Do these flying insects in the natural world have a coating of fur like mammalians? I think not, nor do they come in such lurid shades of purple and pink – and they certainly are not glittery!

Oh I know they have golden shimmer upon their wings and some are a deep dawn blue that is luminous but they are not fluffy and they are not of the sort of size a small child can hug happily. Besides, have you ever seen a magnified image of one? They do not exactly inspire cuddly thoughts but more – oh my god this thing can fly! Where can I hide?

I have very specific things I want to do to people who make purple and pink fluffy butterflies.

The end

Marbles (first published on Blue Monster)

The marble rolled about placidly within its jar, pondering the surrealness of life, when suddenly a chubby little hand, all fat rolls and grease, scoped it from the jar and its brethren. Then, as if greasy fingerprints were not insult enough, the chubby hand rolled the marble none too gently so that it collided with a small miserable green sphere of glass.

It was obvious that the green sphere was no marble, not just by the absence of the swirl within but the fact that the collision between them had sent a large chip hurtling away from the green glass sphere. This made the marble sad, for though it was not actually a marble made with tempered glass, it was a glass object and a spherical one at that. It felt an affinity to it and it had grievously injured it.

However, being a marble it could not say anything, not even sorry, and it certainly could not fight back. So it had to endure hours of such treatment which inevitably led to more injured glass spheres and a headache – though as a marble has no head it was technically a marble ache.

Eventually it was placed back into the jar where it sat amongst a sea of its brethren; they begin to scheme. Revenge would be beautiful and possibly cascading and possibly very messy with a few glass jar casualties.

The end

The Ship (first published on Blue Monster)

Along the coast a misty haze rises and blots out the horizon. This is when the destroyers often move, using radar and sonar and the like. They move with stealth and do the strangest reconnaissance of the sea floor, which considering they use explosives to do so, seems pointless to try and hide.

The waters are an azure blue and the palms on the beach wave forlornly; penguins dive into the waters and fly underwater. What are they looking for here? What are they doing?

I think we shall never know but I like supposing:
Suppose they have found Atlantis or something of its ilk?
Suppose they are tapping the trunk cables and threatening the Internet and the like?
Suppose they think there is something, some rarity to be mined down there?
Suppose they are looking for a crashed space ship?
Suppose they find it?
The coast is rocky near the land and safe harbour is hard to find and like many ships before it, the destroyer behaves erratically and scuttles with a sideswipe to the rocks peeking from beneath foamy waves.

We shall never know.

The end

A Child’s Story (first published on Turquoise Monster)

In the Beginning
The stars where bueatiful
And surrene
But then the moon appeared
Scattering crumbs
off Self
in their paths
They tasted and became hungry
Seething with desire
Angry with avarice
at each other
The throng moved as one
Distorted where their
pretty faces
as they became the Doom
They fell upon the moon
Who died without a sound
Distended became stomachs
feasting greedily
They became heavy
Crashing through the sky
They lay in puddles of destruction
Until the children found them
and cradled them
Giving them to their parents
To wind
They disgorged the moon
Which the older young
Threw to the sky
It coalesced and was joyous
The stars played
And danced
until all the lines of hate
that had creased their faces
where gone
And then in happiness
they drifted back to their vault
Where they sat in
Companionship
with the moon

Fairy Tale (first published on Turquoise Monster)

Bread crumbs stretched for miles
Children follow them in hope
Crushing blow
Of avian beak
Tears of innocence
Tears of fear
Crewly abandoned not once but thrice
No food, no love
The pesants life
Little feet bare
Mud stained fretful
This time lost
This time without recourse
Bread stale, hard
used as marker
so now stamaches starve
Two children hand in hand
Stumble through viscous wood
Hoots and calls
rent the air
Getting dark, getting cold
Hungry burns
But fear consumes

The smell
Sweet, succulent, stickyness
lures them
as if a dream
A house with warmth within
A house with edible eaves
A house with frosting dust
And sugar paned glass
Woundering at heaven
They enter
Faint with hunger
Delerious with saccarine high

Until the keeper
The archect
And crone
Arrives
Anger, rage greed
dispicable hunger
Locks one terrified in a cage
dangling iron
he makes a strange bird
the other enslaved
drudgery of the domestic estate

Then to the duality of crewl
Feed one as a lamb to fatten
Starve other to be
Docile meek
But children are not fools
The hag poor of sight
Siblin love strong
Form survivial plan
They have done this before
Many times before

A chicken bone
presented as a finger
for testing – always too thin
for the pot
Morsals shared in early morning
hidden in a sleeve
They survive
Until the murder light
enters their eyes
plummeting
tormentor to the fire
Freeing the bird cage boy
They look to the horizon
Wondering how to survive

More of my story starters to help budding writers 🙂

1) The asteroid against all probability and sensibilities was a meadow

2) Time trickled in a steady flow of moments, sometimes they would bunch together

3) If anyone had been watching the seed heavy grasses in the field left fallow for hay they would have noticed..

4) A dark realm existed just under the skin of the world

5) She had noticed that people were slowly turning grey

6) The house at the top of the hill had been needing a like of paint for as long as anyone could remember

7) Signs and portents seemed to be vying with each other to get attention

8) He surveyed the troops before him, they were rag tag and loathsome

9) The nasal choir champions were always highly competitive

10) Vat Grown Go Home was scrawled on the walls the economic collapse was making feeling run high

Obsession (first published on Blue Monster)

So you think I’m obsessed, do you? DO YOU?! You think that I cannot live without the feel of paper and pen, of ink and graphite, of the clunk of keys or the rattle of the endangered typewritter. Do you?

What of the time singing lullabies? Well, yes, of course I write them down, even you said they where good and I need to make the lyrics concrete! Stories, poems, assignments, letters to friends, letters to companies, the group emails, the forums. they all serve a purpose, you know. I’m not one of those crazy obsessive people. Honest.

I have lots of interests. Gardening, art, cooking, walking, origarmi – yes, I know I write about them all, but thats not obsession, honest – well, ok, maybe a little bit, but I don’t hear you complaining when I get a pay check do I, hmmm hmmm?

Besides, who said obsession was a bad thing?

Now out of my way, and have you seen my green pen? You now I can’t write without it…

Rainbow Snake (first published on Blue Monster)

Rainbow Snake sat in a box in a dark cupboard all forlorn and forgotten, his beautiful colours hidden. Of course they weren’t as bright as they used to be and the seam at the end of his tail was coming undone but he was still a good Rainbow Snake. Annabelle had played with him everyday, she had even taken him on holiday and dragged him through the sand.

The amount of times he had had to go around and around in the washing machine was nobody’s business. But the dizziness and sogginess and being pegged up by the tongue had all been worth it for the cuddles and being arranged around the other toys and into hearts and circles and all sorts.

Even when Annabelle had become too old to play, Rainbow Snake had slept on her bed and had helped with maths homework. Then they had moved away to university and Rainbow Snake had been used to keep the text books warm on a shelf.

Drunken students had draped Rainbow Snake round their necks whilst singing karaoke and again he’d had to go through the washing machine.

But then Annabelle had moved in with Ted and when they moved Rainbow Snake was packed into the dark box and never unpacked. It broke his heart that Annabelle didn’t want him anymore.

He’d been in here for what two – three years? There was a strange noise; it had started a few days ago, it sounded like a baby crying but Rainbow Snake couldn’t tell through the box and cupboard. The door opened and Rainbow Snake saw light and wondered if he was going to be thrown away as Ted pulled him out of the dusty box.

But Ted sat down and repaired his seam and then once more Rainbow Snake was consigned to the washing machine. Once that ordeal was over he wasn’t hung up by his tongue but put in another machine that blasted him with hot air whilst throwing him over and over so that he ended up in a knot. Ted then extracted him and untangled him and to Rainbows Snake’s joy he was given to Annabelle.

Annabelle smiled and hugged him; she looked tired but Rainbow Snake vowed he would look after her. But before he could say so he was lowered into a cot and there was a little wrinkly baby who reached out little fingers to him.

“Jeany this is Rainbow Snake; he was mummy’s special friend. I hope he will be yours now.” Rainbow Snake was very happy again.

The Deepest Reaches of the Earth (first published on Blue Monster)

Down deep in the depth no sunlight reaches the possible cradle of creation, the nursery of life, as it spews nourishment for the core of the Earth. The mid ocean ridges with their own life fed from volcanic vents that mar the sea sky with clouds of black and white particles. Hot enough to melt glass are the fount of life here.

Creatures that once had eyes crawl blindly across the ocean floor looking for substance and they are flaky and white – all pigment lost to the darkness, rendered unnecessary. The food chain here is something of a wonder, not based on sunlight, not on plants but on the small and insignificant chemotrophs, microscopic organisms that feed on chemicals, that love to munch the mineral rich water and multiply in its warmth.

This extreme environ is their home and they lurk here, silent in the rushing waters. Could this be the cradle of life? Not this one, not this rent in the earth’s crust for it is young, far too young and the strange aliens that lurk there have vestiges of life that knew the sun. But something similar could have birthed life and thrown it forth to encompass the world in all its multitudes.

The End – or not, as it may be.