I've often heard that the creative side of your brain is a muscle, and if he doesn't get enough exercise it can atrophy. Well this year, I have not been good at exercising anything including my brain. So as an attempt to have a better 2018, I'm looking at ways to reform my bad habits.
I've always enjoyed writing scenes from a picture prompt. Staying under 500 means it's good practice and hopefully helps me get my out of shape cerebrum back in fighting condition. Elizabeth Lister has created the Friday Flash Fics and I'm going to do my best to meet the challenge every week :)
You might find some of my characters from previous books show up or something completely off the wall and monty python-ish. Who knows but I'm excited to find out.
Just as a warning, curse words flow freely in this piece. I think it was my brain voicing it's opinion on being forced to exercise.
I'd love to hear your feedback about what I've written, so leave me a comment!
“Fuck.” Jack shook his foot trying to dislodge the slush that had invaded his shoe. Fucking rain, fucking snow, fucking England “ Icy tendrils crept under his arch and wrapped around his toes as the water made its way through his loafer. “I should be on a beach in Spain but no, I’m in fucking London, in fucking January, on the one bloody, fucking day it decides to dump slush everywhere.”
An old lady tisked at him as she passed, forcing Jack to clenched his teeth together in an attempt to stem the free flowing litany of curse words. His gram would have smacked the back of his head at the first fuck had she heard. Shoving his hands deeper into the pockets of his jacket, he continued his trudge along the Queen’s Walk toward Westminster Bridge.
“Kiss your mother with that mouth?” The woman, who carried a frightening similarity to his Gran stopped next to him.
“Pardon me?” He pulled his gaze from the black Thames flowing past. This is my contact? Are they pulling them out of retirement now?
“Here,” she passed him a small bag. “You’re feeding the birds now, lovie. Mind your mouth, all that cursing offends the clergy.”
“Fuck. The. Clergy.” He snatched the bag and shoved it in his pocket. He’d been all over bloody England running errands for those pompous arrogant bastards. Fetching artifacts and delivering summons, all because they couldn’t find one inexperienced guardian. Whomever this guardian was, Jack was markedly envious of his abilities. He’d give his left nut to get out from under the Clergy’s thumb.
“Why does your generation insist on learning things the hard way?” Her eyes narrowed on him and he could hear her inhale slowly through her nose. Whether the icy spike that rain up his spine was from the freezing rain slipping down the back of his neck or the old woman’s gaze he couldn’t be certain. Either way he was fucked and had to follow this through. “Do as you’re told and perhaps you’ll be a Guardian one day too.”
Jack looked up at the endless grey clouds above him, and tightened the neck of his coat. “That’s never something I wanted.” Unsurprisingly, the old woman had disappeared from his side and he wasn’t interested in seeing which direction she’d headed. If they wanted him dead, he’d be dead by now. His usefulness as a go-for hadn’t waned yet.
Keeping his gaze on his surroundings while avoiding slushy puddles, he continued his journey. Removing the small bag from his pocket he opened it and found bird seed? Why am I not surprised? At least I now know my next stop is St Paul’s Cathedral. He swirled a finger around in the seed and felt something metal brush the pad of his finger. Hooking it, he pulled it out.
Shock punched him in the chest and he clamped down on the initial instinct to fling the entire bag straight into the Thames filthy depths.