I started a group on Facebook called Flash Fiction Fridays.
This is for Authors to play around with their craft and readers and fans to see what words they devise. Prompts will be given out in the middle of the month, and the Flash Fiction stories (less than 1000 words) will be posted on the First Friday of the month on Facebook and then spotlighted here on my blog throughout the month.
These flash fiction prompts challenge you to create short and gripping narratives that are under 1000 words. All writing remains the intellectual property of the contributing author and should not be shared outside this group without permission.
The prompt for this month was: “While painting a portrait of a fictional subject, the image comes to life.”
Our second guest author is Teresa Crumpton
Reflection by Teresa Crumpton (Mar. 3, 2017)
With the base of the drums vibrating the floors and walls my brush strokes glide on the canvas with easy. Normally the scenes take weeks, to completely work themselves out of my head, but tonight with the glow of the full moon it's as if the brush has a mind of its own. Truly I’m just the vessel.
There’s no other way to explain it. As I weave the story together with my brush, the wind outside blows through the open French doors making the long sheer curtains billow. The heat from this hot as hell New Orleans summer night is stifling. Sweat has been running down my neck, and everywhere in between for the better part of a day as the images fill my head.
The beat changes as the scene begins to remind me of the street outside. The French Quarter is always so vibrant with life and color that I’m not surprised it's coming across in my work. I’d spent the last few days being a tourist, and taking pictures so that when I head home in three weeks I’d have plenty of material to inspire me.
I really hadn’t imagined that I’d get so overwhelmed that my muse would strike. She had become a fickle bitch as of late. But here in this city full of ghost she’d come alive, and I was willing to ride in her wake.
As three figures come fully to life the scene on the canvas turns dark and almost sinister. Where I had a seemingly loving couple before me, is gone as a third figure shows herself.
The tempo in both my head, and from the stereo changes, and the woman moves on the unsuspecting couple. I take a step back hoping that the scream that just sounded outside my doors is not what is reflected in the painting, yet in my heart I know the truth and I’m just trying to lie to myself.
The dark lady is staring back at me, and she hadn’t been when I put my brush on the easel. The knife in her hand is dripping blood. An eerie cackle cracks the night sky, and the red and black figure tries to find a way out of the painting. A blade is suddenly at my back, the pressure digging in.
“We are one,” the voice behind me says. “I am you. See what happens when you ignore me. When you hide from me.” She licks the the sweat off my neck pushing the knife in a little deeper. “Next time it will be you.”
The music changes again and the figure is gone. All that remains is the woman in the painting pointing the knife in my direction.
