No, I’m not losing my memory.
It’s the title of my latest story.
At only 700 words, it’s a very short story, again written with a Writing Magazine competition in mind.
The inspiration was a wonderful novel written by Joe Brainard, called simply, I Remember, in which every paragraph begins with the words… ‘I remember’. Continue reading “Eleven things I don’t remember”
The Six Minute prompt was a weird photo of a truck and a construction project on the edge of a lake. After a few seconds of peering, I made out a biblical quotation. I groaned. The seconds were ticking away. What was I going to do with this?
When I visit the Six Minute Story site, I always choose a random prompt. This is like a dice game. I have no idea what Lady Luck will throw my way.
Once the prompt appears, I have six minutes exactly of frantic typing until I am locked out of the text box and can write no more. Continue reading “The Cement Delivery”
I am proud to report that my 6 Minute Story, The Swing, was selected as one of the 6 Minute Story site’s featured stories. Continue reading “The Swing – again.”
I had forgotten how wonderful it is to write, free and unfettered, against the clock. No time for editing. No time for self-doubt. And when it is done, it is done.
I heartily recommend the Six Minute Story site. Here you can:
You may choose a prompt and consider your story options in advance. But once you start typing, the clock starts ticking and you must continue until the time runs out. After 6 minutes, you are forced to stop. There is no second chance to add, edit or to tweak.
When its done, you can save your story and choose a Creative Commons License. Or – if you really want to – you can trash your story.
I prefer to pick a random prompt and I like to start writing without giving myself any time to think. I just see what happens and the only internal ‘editing’ I do is to try to bring the story to some sort of conclusion within the six minutes. Luckily I am a very fast typist.
Here is a link to my latest Six Minute Story: Choosing.
Walking along the South Bank with my daughters, I mused on how much history and how many iconic landmarks were contained within a few short yards. When I decided to write a flash fiction piece, this little story (and the linkages) just seemed to pop into my head.
They agreed to meet at London Bridge and make another attempt to cross the gulf that separated them.
Walking along the South Bank, they made slow progress. The same arguments were replayed; until, outside The Globe, she responded dramatically – as she always did – leading to a public exhibition of tears and tantrums on the steps of The Tate.
He accused her of being theatrical and she shed more tears as they walked past The National and accused him of orchestrating their disharmony – in full view of the queue outside the Royal Festival Hall.
Eventually she managed to govern her emotions, but not until they reached the facade of the old County Hall. By then it was too late. Things had moved on, he said. He decreed they would never see eye-to-eye if they kept circling round in the same old way. As his opposition hardened, she came to the realisation there were some bridges that could not be mended.
At Westminster Bridge they agreed to stop battling against the tide. The time for negotiation had passed.
By unanimous decision, on reaching Parliament Square, they elected to go their separate ways.
Here is the walk:
Ruth Livingstone 