Microcosms 23

Dear all, our guest host this week is David Ashton and this means you’ve had a close escape as I had been planning a ‘metal’ themed post – ho hum next time perhaps (although I have included a little treat at the bottom of this post).

In between imbibing a few beers – I must say the #FlashDogs are doing hostelries proud in this respect 🙂 – David has pulled together a post which pays homage to other flash fiction competitions that have sadly shuttered. Both Flashmobwrites and the Midweek Blues Buster were music based, with a music video providing optional inspiration. David has selected some “classic” songs and bands for the location and main character(s). Feel free to find something in their back catalogue while you’re writing to listen to if you’re wanting an extra bit of motivation (or even listen to the first 200 tracks of my Infernal Clock 666 \m/ !).

As usual, our contest will begin with three things: character, setting, and genre.

We spun, and our three elements are character: Queen, setting: In the Jungle, and genre: poem.

Feel free to write a story using those or spin a new set of your own. Be sure to include which three elements you’re using.

  • Queen
  • Policeman
  • Angel
  • Carpenter
  • Highwayman
  • Prince
  • Dock of the Bay
  • Yellow Submarine
  • Country Roads
  • Rivers of Babylon
  • House of the Rising Sun
  • In the Jungle
  • horror
  • sci-fi
  • steam punk
  • mystery
  • fantasy
  • romance
  • drama
  • comedy
  • poem

Judging this week is Steph Ellis

All submissions should be a maximum of 300 words in length. You have until midnight, New York time to submit.

Enjoy the track, loosely linked to one of this week’s characters. One of the best bands to see live. And remember you may get more of this with each posting – unless others come forward. Be afraid, be very afraid …

Microcosms 24
Microcosms 22

10 thoughts on “Microcosms 23

  1. Ode to Jill
    159 words
    queen, in the jungle, poem


    If she’s trapped in the house, she’ll stare with disdain,
    You can see what she thinks; “Do you dare to contain,
    This magnificent creature, who must have her grass?”
    She cares not that her vomit’s a pain in the ass.

    She presides over subjects who bow at her feet;
    The provide her the food when she wishes to eat,
    Because in her jungle, there’s a sad lack of meat,
    But she does have a shelter, which is really quite neat.

    She demands to be free (between the two fences)
    Her sense of entitlement’s massive;
    If you’re not careful, she’ll sneak past your defenses,
    She’s lazy, but she sure ain’t passive.

    She lounges beneath the shade of the trees
    And she hunts prey she calls ferocious;
    She munches on greens and sleeps in the leaves,
    So by bedtime her breath is atrocious.

    She thinks she’s the queen of the jungle,
    But in truth she’s my Calico cat.

    Report user

    * * *

    Brian S Creek
    300 words

    (Angel / Country Roads / Sci-fi)

    * * *

    Looking around at the beautiful countryside you would not think that there had been a war. There is still green in places. The clouds are not so dark this far from the cities. It is almost peaceful.

    Hard to believe that the world has ended.

    Despite having no destination in mind, I wish I could take flight to travel further and faster. But my once beautiful wings did not make it through countless battles unscathed. Perhaps they will heal in time, perhaps not. Now that He is dead, who knows what power remains in the universe?

    At the end I cared for the wounded; Angel, Demon, and Human alike. But the conflict had been brutal, had been so incredibly unforgiving, and now it seems I am alone.

    So I wander.


    A quiet street in a small, country village. Movement nearby brings my warrior instincts back to the surface. I follow a faint beeping sound into a cottage.

    “Show yourself,” I bellow, wishing I could fan out my wings for added intimidation.

    The figure steps slowly from the shadows.

    Its metallic skin is a little scorched and dented, but it is in fair condition. The servant robot looks out of place in this quaint setting. Perhaps it too has travelled far like me.

    “Where is my master?” it says.

    I do not know what to say. These mechanical beings were not something my kind cared for. Abominations in His eyes.

    “Where is my master?” it repeats.

    But the world has moved on. Heaven and Hell ripped themselves to pieces, destroying mankind in the process. I look at the metal face staring wishfully at me; waiting. Perhaps this is the way it has to be now.

    “Where is my master?”

    “You are your master.” I reply. “This world is yours now.”


    1. Eek! Sorry to be a pain but could I ask for a quick edit?

      I’d like to change ‘you wouldn’t think’ in the first line to ‘you would not think’.

      Also, to fit the word count, I would then drop ‘what power still remains’ at the end of the third paragraph to just ‘what power remains’.

      Very much appreciated.

  3. Royal Shit Storm

    “Ya see her, Solly? There, at the end of the wharf?”

    “Yeah! She walked off the first ferry, I think.”

    “You were up early!”

    “Let’s party at the beach, you said! Bring your sleeping bag, you said! Wake
    up to the sun and the sea, you said!”

    “That’s what I said. Nothin’ about waking up before noon…”

    “You also didn‘t mention the creepy crawly crabs and how hard sand is…”

    “Fine…what about the old lady? Kinda weird, right? All alone… out there?”

    “Maybe she likes to wake up to the sun and the sea…?”

    “Yeah. Maybe…”

    Elizabeth thought it a minor miracle. The release, the quiet wave of liberation, even if it was momentary, overwhelmed her. Here, almost at the furthest reach of her domain, a calm June morning, the power of the heavenly elements stilled, the snap, the ferocity of wind and lightning contained, the rain, cooling the melting earth…this innocent Isle, unaware, unprepared…

    “She’s dressed kinda fancy, Solly, doncha think?”

    “I dunno. Some of these old babes…their minds gone for a stroll…they don’t even know if they have any clothes on…”

    “But, that pointy thing on her head…like a freakin’ crown…! And the robe. It’s got some sparkly rocks or something.”

    “Leave ‘er be, Freddy…leave ‘er be.”

    She’d had a lifetime of obligation, of duty, confined to her plush prison of wealth and constraint. And now, the power to harness the strength of nature, to lift the oceans to the sky, to demand the sea swallow up the land and allow the world to start anew.

    “She’s up to somethin’…look, Solly, her arms are stretched out wide, and she yelling…something…it’s crazy-making…”

    “Yeah…look at those huge dark clouds…and the sea…those waves…RUN, FREDDIE! RUN FOR ALL YOU’RE WORTH!”

    “Your Majesty, time to wake up. Did you have a nice dream?”

    Queen; Dock of the Bay; Horror of a sort
    300 words

  4. A Meeting of Small Gene Pools
    A.J. Walker

    Velvet and ermine are not recommended for trekking,
    or anything, in the steamy jungles of Papua.
    But when you’re the queen there are standards. And hardships go with the job.
    So the queen wore the heaviest velvet gown and was swathed in ermine as she met another
    lost, and currently confused, tribe in New Guinea.
    She smiled and waved her white-gloved hands, for she wore gloves too; goes with the job.
    Hardships inevitable, in circumstances incredible.
    You must look like a queen; be set apart from the usual.
    No-one could argue – in front of this nearly naked tribe.
    Each was astounded by the pasty old lady layered beneath red and white.
    ‘Strong of heart’, they said.
    ‘Steadfast’, ‘dependable’, they thought.
    ‘Quite, quite mad’, they were sure.
    But they liked her. And they took her and they put aside her crown
    for they had a new crown fashioned from Banyan wood.
    “All hail our Queen!” they shouted.
    The clothes maketh the queen, said the queen, to her dogged husband. Who’d seen it all before:
    “It’s Central Africa all over again!” He went pale flashing back to vast vats of bubbling stew.
    “All hail Queen Elizabeth!”
    The tribe danced, slowly; for it was hot.
    She drank from coconuts; a queen knows to remain hydrated.
    And the tribe danced. Slower.
    “All hail our Queen.”
    The sapping heat sapped relentless.
    Then the chief stopped the drums: it was nap time.
    And he bowed. Then, in stuttering Pigeon, with
    a smile as broad as a sea going canoe.
    He exclaimed: “All Hail our Queen,
    Long Live Sweaty Betty!”
    The queen’s face contorted.
    Her Pigeon rusty, so she stuck with english.
    “I am the queen”, she said, “One does not sweat.”
    Though maybe the day’s costume would benefit later from
    a quick hand wash.

    WC 300
    Queen/in the jungle/poem

  5. Jungle Nights

    Camouflaged wings
    in an outstretched night,
    nocturnal by nature,
    noiseless in flight.
    Round bodied, short-tailed,
    feathers soft and light.
    Soaring and swooping,
    the Queen’s instincts ignite.
    Flat-faced, wide eyed,
    celebrated sight,
    listening for nourishment
    hunting senses delight.
    Sharp beak, hooked talons
    seizing prey tightly,
    swallowing whole
    in spite of its plight.
    As dawn encroaches
    the Queen retires
    to her jungle hollow,
    sleeping until
    the twilight hours.

    WC 68
    Queen/In the jungle/ Poem

  6. I was a little tied up this week, so no time to devote to an entry, I’m afraid. Thanks to David for the great idea, and to everyone who entered. Please keep your support coming – and spread the word if you can.

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