Shop Mobile More Submit  Join Login
About Literature / Professional DakoaMale/India Recent Activity
Deviant for 3 Years
Needs Core Membership
Statistics 102 Deviations 294 Comments 2,865 Pageviews
×

Newest Deviations

Literature
New Life
The cavernous space of the terminal extended for miles, a faded coffin of once-shiny metal, now tarnished and dull. Almost a kilometre above, the ceiling was made up of a sea of glass panels, the light of the day fighting its way through the decades old grime and dirt that had accumulated on the panes. The walls were a jumbled mess of access panels, thrusting antennae, maintenance hatches, and signal boxes. Braced in the middle, supported by thick grey pylons stretching the length of the space, was a quadruple-track line of maglev railway, the enormous rails the only part of the old station which still shone with the glow of maintenance.
Beneath it all wound the grand concourse; an enormous thoroughfare, its surface scuffed by uncountable feet, its walls marred by the taint of ancient graffiti. While it wore the scars of heavy use, those days were long gone, and now just a single citizen graced its tired bones, a grubby satchel dumped beside his feet. Though his body leaned frozen agai
:iconDakoa:Dakoa
:icondakoa:Dakoa 5 2
Literature
Faith
The Bridgekeeper sat and waited, his feet pulled up under him, a blanket draped over his knees to help ward off the chilly mountain air. Across his lap lay a long knobbly staff, upon which he rested his wrinkled knuckles, the palms of his hands turned up as if in supplication. His eyes were closed, his breathing steady, and his aged heart beat almost coyly in his chest, his pulse inconceivably slow.
The pose was one he’d adopted for decades, identical to that of his predecessor, and each that had come before. The groove he nestled into, the concave bowl of smooth rock, was testament to the diligent service of his kind, the scraping robes of countless Bridgekeepers shaping the mountain itself as they manned their post, their long-kept seat a pinnacle perched beside a gaping chasm.
From where he sat his view spanned the great forest spread out below, the rolling woodland laid out like a thick carpet of rich green and dusky brown, interspersed sporadically by lakes, meadows, and out
:iconDakoa:Dakoa
:icondakoa:Dakoa 14 2
Literature
Iron Will
The day was uncomfortably hot, the sun’s rays scorching all they touched, searing the land. Making his way along the overpass, GLD-14 kept to the shadows as much as he was able. Not designed to handle such extreme levels of sunlight, he could only risk minimal exposure. If he courted the sun’s rays too much, his body would overheat, his metallic joints expanding and grinding against one another, his CPU gradually frying inside his skull. The effect wasn’t fatal, but it wasn’t good for him either. If his joints wore down and degraded too far he’d need to replace them, and spare parts sadly didn’t grow on trees. As for his CPU, it wouldn’t burn itself out due to the excessive heat but it would begin to function quite erratically, his behaviour becoming decidedly peculiar; the last time it had happened he’d only regained his senses a little after midnight, the built-up heat finally dissipating, and found himself standing waist deep in the wa
:iconDakoa:Dakoa
:icondakoa:Dakoa 5 0
Literature
Dreaming in the Deep
When most people decide to dive, strapping a tank to their back, clamping an air hose between their teeth, it’s because they’re looking for a thrill. They want to explore the underwater world, frolic with the fishes, and come up having seen the planet from a different angle. They want the experience; the adrenaline, the novelty, the wonder.
When he’d first decided to dive, it was out of sheer, unforgiving terror; he hated the water.
He didn’t know where the fear had come from, he knew it was irrational, but it haunted him nonetheless. Every time he swam in a pool he’d have visions of sharks gliding through the water, snatching him from the surface. To venture into the ocean would conjure imagery of tentacle-like seaweed, wrapping round his legs, pulling him under. He could swim, was intelligent enough to realise that his fears were implausible, yet still… there they’d lingered.
However, having read somewhere that ‘flooding’, a form
:iconDakoa:Dakoa
:icondakoa:Dakoa 4 0
Literature
It's a Wonderful Day
I was fourteen the first time I tried to kill myself.
I slipped the strap of my guitar around a tree branch in my backyard, and jumped.
Almost twelve years I’d been climbing that tree. Twelve years of scraped knees, splintered hands, and muddy clothes. Twelve years of reliable strength and fortitude, and yet that’s the day the branch chose to break.
I landed on my back in the grass beneath, my neck and jaw hurting like hell, a branch which felt solid enough to me slamming into my chest, and my vision blurry with tears.
Given the circumstances, I’d understand if you didn’t believe me, but I swear to you I saw Death that day. He was standing right there under the tree, with his black robes, gleaming scythe, and chalky complexion, just looking down at me. I couldn’t say exactly what thoughts were going through his head; he’s a pretty hard guy to read after all, what with the fact his face is just a skull. However, if I were to hazard a guess I’d s
:iconDakoa:Dakoa
:icondakoa:Dakoa 7 15
Literature
Flights of Fancy
The lead up to their date had been excruciating. He’d been so nervous about it, twitchingly checking his phone all week, his mind convincing him that every new message, call or email was an impending cancellation, every alert a looming disappointment. When the day had finally arrived he’d spent almost two hours getting ready, doubts and second thoughts about the outfit he’d picked out days prior arriving with his breakfast, forcing him to reconsider. He’d then arrived at their designated meeting point almost an hour early; partly because he didn’t want to be late, and partly because he was so anxious he simply couldn’t sit still at home a moment longer.
If his friends could see him, he knew they’d be laughing at him. To get so worked up over a simple date? It was ridiculous behaviour from a grown man, almost as if he was a teenager hitting puberty all over again and noticing girls for the very first time. The thing was, with this woman, on this
:iconDakoa:Dakoa
:icondakoa:Dakoa 3 2
Literature
The Slap
The office was stuffy and cramped, a desk with four facing chairs taking up the majority of floor space with the rest consumed by filing cabinets, bookcases, and a feeble attempt at a houseplant. A window had been propped open to circulate and refresh the air a bit, but was achieving little.
Despite the slight chill of the day, a thin sheen of perspiration matted the Principal’s forehead. “I take it you know why you’re here, yes?” he asked, his authoritative tone uncomfortable and clearly forced.
Sitting across from him, her small stature made even smaller by her forlorn posture, Miss Laveda nodded. “Ajay,” she mumbled, her hands fidgeting in her lap.
The Principal nodded in confirmation, his eyes sympathetic. “Right. You know what he’s been saying, yes?”
“I do,” Miss Laveda replied, her head lowered. “But I didn’t do it.”
A light breeze picked up, fluttering the blinds across the windows and stirring s
:iconDakoa:Dakoa
:icondakoa:Dakoa 3 2
Literature
Refuge in the Rains
The rain was a cacophony of drums, a thrumming roar that spread in all directions, swallowing everything in its path. The house was just a tiny speck in the enormous downpour, the rains all-consuming, torrential. As far as the eye could see, the land was blanketed in water, sheets of it falling from the sky without relent, drenching without discrimination.
It had been raining since they arrived, five days prior. Their small rental car, winding its way up the rural lane, weaving determinedly around potholes and ruts in the road, had felt the first pitter-patter of its arrival. The sun had barely set, and by the time they reached the tiny farmhouse chosen for their vacation, the darkness slowly enveloping them, the heavens had well and truly opened. They’d sprinted back and forth between the porch and car, unloading everything as quickly as they could, luggage and groceries clutched to their breasts as they attempted in vain to shield them from the deluge. By the end of their endea
:iconDakoa:Dakoa
:icondakoa:Dakoa 6 4
Literature
M1n1beasts
The forest teemed with movement. A hundred trees dipped and bobbed in the breeze, their leaf-heavy branches whistling and sighing as they swayed, the sun blazing through their canopy. A thousand mushrooms shone with morning dew, their caps glimmering like baubles on a Christmas tree. A carpet of ferns, grasses, and mosses, their numbers abundant beyond count, spread out across the forest floor, blanketing it in shades of green, yellow, and brown. Throughout the scene, an army of tiny, insectoid workers scurried to and fro, pollinating, feeding, and generally supporting the ecosystem.
AdminBot GN24NIV, referred to simply as ‘Adam’ by the majority of his co-workers, powered his way through his rounds, touching base with his subordinates, monitoring progress, checking in across the forest. All of two inches high his small stride covered just a centimetre or two at a time, and taking into account the extensive reviews he conducted as he made each cycle of the habitat took a lit
:iconDakoa:Dakoa
:icondakoa:Dakoa 1 2
Literature
Prisoner of Passion
The graphite whispered as it moved, hissing a song that only it understood, the blank canvas beneath it surrendering to its ministrations, welcoming its touch. A stroke, a supple graze, a lingering touch, the white staining black as it lay defenceless. A form emerging from the fog, sharpening, focusing, refining. Time spinning past, a glance losing minutes and then hours, shadows lengthening, chasing away the light. Still the graphite whispered, its desires not yet satisfied, its ambitions not yet fulfilled, a gnawing hunger pushing it on. A stroke, a flick, a languorous caress, a marking of its territory, a claiming of its subject…
It was hours before she finally sat back, her pencil trembling in her hand, her wrist resting feebly on her thigh. A dull ache radiated up her thumb, snaking around her joints, streaking up her arm, her strength depleted, cramp setting in. The graphite had taken her once more, possessing her heart and mind, coaxing her, seducing her with its sweet cal
:iconDakoa:Dakoa
:icondakoa:Dakoa 5 11
Literature
Sheltering Sprites
The double doors rattled at his approach, a heavy wind stirring the thick metal chain that looped through the door’s handles and met at a padlock in between. Lifting the lock, he fumbled as he inserted the key, his thick gloves making his movements awkward and cumbersome. It took him a moment to get it, and then the padlock popped open, the chain falling free. Gathering the spool of metal links in his arms, he tidied it as best he could and stowed it nearby. Re-pocketing the key, he reached into another fold of his coat and withdrew a swipe card. This he inserted into a reader mounted on the door itself, watching as a pulsing red LED finally flashed green, the doors swaying slightly as they unlocked.    
From within the building a dull warble of alarm started up, lolling back and forth in pitch. Pulling a door open he hurried to a nearby control panel, a bulky glove rising to his mouth, his teeth wrenching it from his hand. With a freed digit he jabbed the cod
:iconDakoa:Dakoa
:icondakoa:Dakoa 16 20
Literature
The Right Man
The night was balmy and pleasant, but a wind had started to pick up, fluttering her skirt and causing her skin to prickle like goose flesh. She wrapped her arms around her chest, hugging herself, the strap of her purse digging into her shoulder, and quickened her pace. The streets were dark and empty, most commuters and shoppers retired for the evening, the few stores still open a haphazard scattering of bars and food stalls, their soft illumination bathing the pavement in sporadic orbs of light.
She turned off the main road, abandoning the soft, tantalising smells of grilled chicken, soy, garlic, and onions, for the damp decay of narrow alleyways. She knew the risk of traversing the small ill-lit passages, however at this time of night the chance of running into anyone was extremely unlikely. In any case, she walked the warren of back alleys regularly enough, wasn’t even venturing that far from the main street, and the quiet step of her flat school shoes drew little attention.
R
:iconDakoa:Dakoa
:icondakoa:Dakoa 2 3
Literature
Torment Eternal
Eternal life.
The goal of sorcerers, alchemists, and billionaires alike.
The whispered promise of demons, fountains, and technology.
So many chasing after the same ambition, pursuing it relentlessly, dreaming of it hopelessly, yet none truly comprehending it. They thought it would bring them peace, the fear of death stripped away allowing them to live in the manner they so desperately sought, unburdened and unchained, but they were all fools. Release from the claws of death was no blessing…
He’d never wanted to live forever. Perhaps that is why he did. A cruel and twisted fate, that stole the dreams of those who craved it, and bestowed it instead on one who so desperately did not.
He could not have explained how it had happened, how he had been granted life eternal. All he could remember was leaping from the cliff; wind whipping at his hair and face, an icy and unforgiving sea rushing up to meet him… then opening his eyes upon the beach and knowing not how he had foun
:iconDakoa:Dakoa
:icondakoa:Dakoa 5 0
Literature
Inner Peace
“Just breathe.”
He inhaled slowly, the air seeping into him through his nostrils, swelling his chest, resting a moment, then escaping in a gentle stream. In… and out… In… and out.
“Do not focus on the breath. Just observe it,” the voice of his tutor ahead of him intoned, even and unhurried. “If it is fast, it is fast. If it is slow, it is slow.”
He tried to distance his mind from his breathing, tried to detach himself from it and become a bystander inside his own body; a passenger, with nothing to do but wait, and watch…
He studied his breath, determinedly aware of it as it entered him, resolutely aware of it as it left. After a few cycles, feeling as though he wasn’t getting enough air, he consciously made the next inhalation deeper, filling his lungs. Holding the breath for a few seconds, he let it out with a slow and satisfying exhale. There was an uncomfortable pause, and he realised with a start that his body was no
:iconDakoa:Dakoa
:icondakoa:Dakoa 6 9
Literature
Little Brother
The stone slammed into his head, knocking him off balance, his external plating ringing out with an echoing clang. He wobbled crazily, his internal gyros struggling to compensate for the unexpected impact.
“Get lost, Little Brother!” the man yelled, his arm reeling back to hurl another projectile, the woman clinging to his neck laughing cattily.
Cambot 406 spun erratically, his balance not yet restored after the previous strike, but his desperation to protect the lens mounted in his ‘face’ compelling him to attempt the evasion. The rock ricocheted off his pyramidal torso, the metal pinging out its complaint at the assault, and he teetered wildly, his body not built to handle this kind of abuse, the solitary wheel supporting his frame ill-equipped to counteract unexpected force or shifts in equilibrium. Recognising a lost cause when he saw it, the forces of gravity pulling at him relentlessly, he surrendered to his fate and tilted his head as best he could to pro
:iconDakoa:Dakoa
:icondakoa:Dakoa 5 4
Literature
Coming Home
“Houston, we have a problem.”
A phrase so infamous, so ingrained in people’s minds, that it was practically impossible to utter anything else when something went wrong up in the unforgiving black. NASA hated it, for a number of reasons. First and foremost, obviously, because it meant something had gone wrong and they were about to have a hell of a time on their hands attempting to deal with it. Second, the fact that it was so well-known, so trivialised, so inherently ‘Hollywood’, meant that it had a tendency to make everything after it sound somewhat less serious than it actually was. Finally, pedantically, they hated it because it was wrong; attributed to astronaut Jack Swigert during one of Houston’s most historic episodes, the words that should actually have been recorded for time immemorial were “Houston, we’ve had a problem”. The fact that they weren’t, that Hollywood had trumped NASA and rewritten history, made it feel l
:iconDakoa:Dakoa
:icondakoa:Dakoa 1 6

Favourites

Old City Station :iconyar0:yar0 2,153 62 landscape #27 :iconsylar113:Sylar113 4,044 110 Urban Agriculture :iconjuliedillon:juliedillon 4,038 276 480 underwater partition 01 :icontigers-stock:Tigers-stock 3,937 1,343 Wonderful Day :icondeadslug:DeadSlug 1,524 51 Silent Music :iconcanankk:Canankk 246 188 colour pencils :icongrezelle:grezelle 658 59 Rainy Porch :iconb1nd1:B1nd1 6,733 449 What Lies Beneath :iconreynante:reynante 436 29 pencil carving heart-leaf chain :iconcerkahegyzo:cerkahegyzo 7,163 752 Mini Faerie Mermaids :iconsakimichan:sakimichan 15,357 527 Red lights :iconsnatti89:snatti89 3,383 47 Af :iconpetemohrbacher:PeteMohrbacher 6,036 193 Monks :iconaproman11:aproman11 762 68 Cambot 406 :iconuoa7:uoa7 1,594 116 Finally Home :iconcold-tommy-gin:Cold-Tommy-Gin 1,719 169

Groups

deviantID

Dakoa's Profile Picture
Dakoa

Artist | Professional | Literature
India
I dabble across most media, but focus predominantly on writing.

Taking a break from novels I've decided to work on a series of flash fiction based on the illustrations of some of the amazing artists here on DA!

(~1500 words across any image/genre I feel like.)

This keeps me writing, provides me with a challenge, and stimulates ideas for future works.

The pieces I choose to work with and 'caption' vary, based almost entirely on my mood. I believe that art is highly personal, and hugely subjective, so the interpretation I take on artists' work is solely my own. If the artist has chosen to provide a short quote/story/thought with their work then I will potentially include this in my efforts, or work around it, though this is at my own discretion.

All artists' work will be linked and heavily credited. If through some oversight I have failed to do this please let me know and I will correct as soon as possible!

Finally, if I have chosen to caption your work and you are unhappy with me doing so, please let me know and I will of course remove the image. The words will remain, though without the wonderful accompaniment. I will be sad, but it's your work and I will always respect your wishes.

Activity


*Apologies in advance, but this journal entry is going to be pretty self-indulgent...*

That said... Wow, 100 Flash Fiction pieces!

Considering the average length of my pieces is 1,500 words, that means collectively I have something in the area of 150,000 words here!

Honestly, some days I never thought I'd reach 100. I literally remember writing the 10th/25th/33rd/50th, every time thinking 100 seemed so ridiculously far away.

If you've not read anything other than my stories before, and have been skipping over the descriptions for each piece completely (as well as my deviantID), my aim has been to write a piece of flash fiction almost every day, inspired by one of the amazing artworks featured here on DA. The purpose has been to help me grow as a writer, forcing me to write every day and practice my craft, make up stories on the fly, and step way outside my comfort zone as I tackle genres unfamiliar to me.

I estimated that to reach 100 it would take me five months, taking into account that I'd give myself the weekends off...

In reality, it actually took me about six and a half, as I forgot to factor in Christmas, New Years, my wedding, and my honeymoon.

I've had some awesome experiences along the way, I've seen some amazing pieces of art, and I can feel my own writing is personally all the better for it. Furthermore, it gives me immense pleasure to say that not one single artist opposed the use of their work, so every piece retains its inspiring image (credited and linked to of course)!

So, to commemorate my 100th piece of Flash Fiction (which went live today!) I've decided to;

a) Pick out 10 pieces which particularly resonate with me for some reason or another.
b) Actually sort out my gallery so the pieces are grouped by genre, something I should have done ages ago (DONE!)
and
c) For those that care (I'm honestly guessing no-one) work out numbers of my stories by genre


Off we go!

Flash 100 Stats

Philosophy & Perspective - 17
Fantasy - 16
Sci-fi - 13
Family - 11
Romance - 9
Horror - 8
Socio-Political - 8
Spiritual & Occult - 5
Mystery & Suspense - 3
Humour - 3
Historical - 1
Transgressive - 1
General - 5


10 Most Resonating Stories (in no particular order other than reverse chronological)


1) It's a Wonderful Day
It's a Wonderful Day
I was fourteen the first time I tried to kill myself.
I slipped the strap of my guitar around a tree branch in my backyard, and jumped.
Almost twelve years I’d been climbing that tree. Twelve years of scraped knees, splintered hands, and muddy clothes. Twelve years of reliable strength and fortitude, and yet that’s the day the branch chose to break.
I landed on my back in the grass beneath, my neck and jaw hurting like hell, a branch which felt solid enough to me slamming into my chest, and my vision blurry with tears.
Given the circumstances, I’d understand if you didn’t believe me, but I swear to you I saw Death that day. He was standing right there under the tree, with his black robes, gleaming scythe, and chalky complexion, just looking down at me. I couldn’t say exactly what thoughts were going through his head; he’s a pretty hard guy to read after all, what with the fact his face is just a skull. However, if I were to hazard a guess I’d s

A light tale about a man trying to kill himself, and the anthropomorphic presence of Death who refuses to take him. It was one of the most enjoyable pieces to write, and I loved being able to give the piece a really sarcastic feel!

2) Little Brother
Little Brother
The stone slammed into his head, knocking him off balance, his external plating ringing out with an echoing clang. He wobbled crazily, his internal gyros struggling to compensate for the unexpected impact.
“Get lost, Little Brother!” the man yelled, his arm reeling back to hurl another projectile, the woman clinging to his neck laughing cattily.
Cambot 406 spun erratically, his balance not yet restored after the previous strike, but his desperation to protect the lens mounted in his ‘face’ compelling him to attempt the evasion. The rock ricocheted off his pyramidal torso, the metal pinging out its complaint at the assault, and he teetered wildly, his body not built to handle this kind of abuse, the solitary wheel supporting his frame ill-equipped to counteract unexpected force or shifts in equilibrium. Recognising a lost cause when he saw it, the forces of gravity pulling at him relentlessly, he surrendered to his fate and tilted his head as best he could to pro

A sweet tale of a little Cambot who just wants to be left alone, and doesn't want to spy on people anymore. It was really fun to dip into an Orwellian dystopian future, and Cambot 406 became one of my favourite characters.

3) Milkshakes & Martians
Milkshakes and Martians
Sandra tapped her nail against the side of her glass and smiled politely at her friend. Sat opposite her, Betsy had been talking practically non-stop for almost ten minutes now, her speech a machine gun of words that never seemed to have an end in sight. She’d pause occasionally, her burger edging toward her mouth, but then she’d think of something else that she absolutely positively had to say there and then and so the meat patty would drop down again, yo-yoing back and forth incessantly.
Sandra didn’t mind really. For one thing, Betsy was as yet the only friend she’d made in this town, and it was an easy relationship to manage. As long as you didn’t feel the need to get a word in edgewise, Betsy would just keep going. By the end of their time together, Betsy would swear the evening had been a real gas and the friendship would be stronger than ever, all without Sandra ever having to say more than a few words here and there. Meanwhile, Sandra got to feel t

A simple diner scene between two housewives in 60's America. It didn't get many looks from the DA community, however I typically avoid historical pieces (as not having lived in the period I see so much scope for making horrendous mistakes) and this is the one exception, which seemed to pull through regardless and thus make me immensely proud of it.

4) The Volunteer
The Volunteer
Doc Delloroy was tired. He was tired of space, tired of life aboard the ancient and rickety International Space Station, and tired of people in general. His personal theory was that you had a finite number of social interactions you could actively become enthused at taking part in. Once you hit that number, it was all just faces in a crowd. He could back it up with evolutionary theory, making compelling arguments regarding tribal hierarchies, clan size, and social structures, but more than that he had a veritable crap ton of anecdotal evidence, and really, wasn’t that more authoritative to anyone who’d bother to listen?
He’d been in space since the late 30s, a bright-eyed volunteer coaxed up with the promise of lucrative pay, a position of repute, and a collection stories that would dazzle any cocktail party he cared to attend once he returned to the good ol’ green and blue. What no one realised at the time was that getting up was one thing, but coming back down

One man 'trapped' in space, one woman 'trapped' up there with him, neither seemingly able to make it down to Earth. I like this piece because I went so deep into creating the characters they almost became larger than the story themselves, in turn making the story one of my longest. I don't hold it against them.

5) You Can Run
You Can Run
I can’t remember the last time I slept. A few minutes here or there, a jerk of my head, and that’s it. I’m back on my feet, I’m running again.
It’s the sound. That’s what comes first, that’s what I hear, that’s what sends shivers down my spine, that’s what pushes me to my feet. That awful, scraping sound. Like branches scratching along a car door, clacking incessantly, striving to get in. I stand in a hurry, my heart racing, and I run.
I used to be happy. I didn’t appreciate it at the time; I bitched and moaned about the little things, complaining when people talked at the cinema, or when I got cut up in traffic. Now though, now that I can’t remember a time I wasn’t looking back over my shoulder, now I realise how fortunate I really was. It may not have been a glamorous life, perhaps. It wasn’t smooth sailing all the way. It wasn’t a continuous stream of jokes and laughter. But damnit, it wasn’t t

A tale of the macabre in which a man is pursued by a relentless horror. I'm particularly fond of this piece as it was given a dramatic reading by princesskittehh who did an awesome job;
You Can Run by Dakoa by princesskittehh

6) A Flower Blooms
A Flower Blooms
Love is a mysterious thing; an undefinable, unquantifiable enigma, that could parade in plain sight and yet remain as elusive and unfathomable as the deepest of life’s unanswerable questions.
Or at least, that’s how it felt to her.
It seemed like all around her people were pairing off. Strangers reached out a hand and clasped one another, a connection made. Acquaintances altered their course, diverting so as to intercept and intermingle. The hugs of friends softened and slowed, feelings intensifying, intertwining limbs lingering tenderly…
Yet she remained an island.
She didn’t know what was wrong with her, if there was even anything wrong at all. As far as she could tell she simply didn’t seem to feel what others did, but had no idea why that would be the case. She understood the base principles, and could appreciate that people enjoyed having someone that they could rely on for comfort and warmth, but what eluded her was the actual drive itself; she felt

A romantic coming of age, in which the protagonist explores her own feelings of love and what it means to be normal. Suggested by PennedinWhite and featured by doughboycafe, it earned me my first (and at time of writing; only) DD. How could I not love it!

7) Reanimation
Reanimation
The first thing she saw when she opened her eyes was the cracked tile in the ceiling. A spider web of fault lines running across the ceramic plate, she was always surprised it hadn’t come crashing to the floor in the time she’d been asleep. Instead, it somehow remained lodged in place, a reminder of the aging and imperfect nature of the facility.
Lifting herself to a seated position, she swung her legs over the edge of the gurney and lifted her arm, studying her fingers as she cycled through them one by one, assessing the mobility. The large surgical lights of the operating theatre looked down at her, their brightness long since dimmed, as she rotated her wrist, spinning and flexing the joint, easing the resistance she found there. Moving on to her elbow, she continued her series of checks, turning her focus to the monitor standing nearby.
Eighty-three years.
The figure pulsed idly in the bottom corner of the screen, and fell within operational parameters. The stiffness in

An automaton awakes every 83 years and goes about her work, without fail, never deviating. I'm pretty sure at the time this was the first of my pieces that went over 200 views, though it was eclipsed by a wide margin shortly after by A Flower Blooms. However, I still really like the concept, and putting the twist into place was particularly delicious.

8) A Life Truly Lived
A Life Truly Lived
The mid-afternoon sun filtered through the window, casting its gentle glow across the room. Suspended in its mild light, dust motes drifted aimlessly, the swirl of their flight directed by air currents unseen.
He wondered if all human lives were not basically the same; slowly twirling flakes of existence, dancing around one another, their course altered and affected by forces unknown. You hover a while, basking in the light, your life’s direction affected by things as simple as whether or not you were on time to catch the bus, before you slowly fall, your height dropping lower and lower, until you touch down on the ground and finally lie still.
He’d heard once that eventually, given enough time, all people became dust. The body breaks down, we become our constituent elements, we turn to dust…
He wasn’t sure how true it was, but he liked the idea of spinning a while in the breeze, floating through the sky, travelling the air currents, traversing the planet. Perha

An old man reflects on his life to date, reminiscing over the key events and how he got to where he is. I think it's one of my most emotional pieces, and was simply a pleasure to write.

9) Pitch-o-Mat 5000
Pitch-o-Mat 5000
The sun was blisteringly hot, scorching the air and crisping the ground. Mirages danced on the horizon, heat waves radiating up. The temperature had already crept up so high that in all directions the land had baked and cracked, acquiring a tortoiseshell-esque appearance as it stretched into the distance.
Still, the game continued; one team sitting patiently in the dugout, the other defending the field.
Were it any of the traditional games, play would have long since been called off, conditions untenable. However, were it any of the traditional games, the diamond would never have been located out in the middle of the desert in the first place. For Mechanoid League Baseball, this was their home.
Established almost forty years ago, the league’s popularity had grown so quickly it now dominated its two human predecessors. Traditionalists still clung to the older leagues; die-hard fans of the players they’d grown up knowing and loving. Modernists however often had no such attach

A good old-fashioned game of Robot Baseball! Another story which didn't get much attention, but of which I'm still particularly proud. The reason for which is that I am not American, have never played baseball, watched baseball, or had even the slightest interest in baseball. Three hours of research later however, and I feel I managed an engaging piece which did not feature any major screw-ups (fingers crossed).

10) Break Free
Break Free
The studio space was quiet and still when he arrived, the lessons for the day concluded, the students dismissed. Without them the room felt hollow and empty, devoid and robbed of its soul. Only when it was filled with music did it come alive, a bubble of sound, rich, and indulgent.
He set down his case on the floor by the door. Opening the clasps he flipped the lid and delicately removed the instrument. It was a masterpiece, even when it lay silent. He knew the exorbitant amount of money his parents had spent on it, knew the time and effort they’d invested into his tuition.
Most children had wooden xylophones when they were young, then perhaps a bongo or drum, maybe a recorder or flute, before moving on to ‘adult’ instruments.
He’d had a violin.
His parents had insisted.
Other children had gone outside, picked up a football or cricket bat, played with one another, made friends, made enemies… They’d had a childhood.
He’d been inside.
Sitting und

A prodigy, pushed into music against his will, deviates from the sheet music for the very first time and finds a reason to actually love his violin. This was one of my earliest pieces, and honestly the first which I was exceedingly happy with, which stirred my own emotions and ambitions, and which gave me an enormous shove to continue on this path. Whilst the pieces listed here genuinely are in no particular order, it is still this very last of which I think I am proudest.


If you've read till here, I sincerely thank you. Hopefully some of my indulgent rambling has at least inspired you to push forward anew with your own craft, and if you're simply here to read then I hope you'll peruse the rest of my gallery. As well as the 10 stories listed here there are another 90 which I hope you will enjoy!


P.S. Special thanks and mention to CloudedHeu, my first watcher, and the first to comment that was not the artist behind the chosen image. These things may seem small, but they pack a huge punch. Thank you again.

The cavernous space of the terminal extended for miles, a faded coffin of once-shiny metal, now tarnished and dull. Almost a kilometre above, the ceiling was made up of a sea of glass panels, the light of the day fighting its way through the decades old grime and dirt that had accumulated on the panes. The walls were a jumbled mess of access panels, thrusting antennae, maintenance hatches, and signal boxes. Braced in the middle, supported by thick grey pylons stretching the length of the space, was a quadruple-track line of maglev railway, the enormous rails the only part of the old station which still shone with the glow of maintenance.

Beneath it all wound the grand concourse; an enormous thoroughfare, its surface scuffed by uncountable feet, its walls marred by the taint of ancient graffiti. While it wore the scars of heavy use, those days were long gone, and now just a single citizen graced its tired bones, a grubby satchel dumped beside his feet. Though his body leaned frozen against a sidewall, his eyes staring into space, his fingers moved as if possessed, flurrying back and forth, his wrists arching and flicking in servitude. Firm in his grip, a graphite stylus swept delicately through the air, its determined efforts emblazoned on the canvas steadied by his free hand, braced against the sidewall. Images blossomed on the page, birthed from his will, gifted with shape and form.

Off to one side, a figure emerged from one of the giant entryways, the hundred-metre high arch far surpassing her comparatively tiny stature. She paused a moment, gazing around the concourse, before her eyes locked on the artist. Having spotted him, she began to move once more, her feet carrying her toward him, her head shaking in exasperation.

“You’re here again?” she asked as she drew near, her heels clicking lightly on the thoroughfare.

The artist didn’t even look up, just kept staring down the length of the enormous terminal, his fingers twitching over the canvas, his stylus sweeping to and fro across the page. “Sorry, Sis,” he muttered absently. “Did I miss dinner?”

She sighed, rolling her eyes as she joined him against the sidewall, her pose in opposition to his, her back braced against the rough surface. “You missed dinner, breakfast, and lunch,” she chided, though the words lacked any real venom. “Did you eat?”

“I don’t know,” he shook his head, his fingers ever moving, the canvas never left alone. “I don’t think so. But it doesn’t matter; I don’t feel hunger when I’m working.”

She rolled her eyes again, her lungs emptying in a long, slow exhale. “You may not, but your body still does, idiot!” she scolded. “You need to eat, whether you feel like it or not.”

“I’ll eat when I’m done,” he replied, his gaze wandering slightly as he studied the terminal. “And it’s not nice to call people names.”

She laughed despite herself. She knew he was serious, that he hadn’t meant it as a joke, but sometimes he still managed to be funny despite himself. Her brother was special; he saw the world a different way from everybody else, perceived things a little differently, and struggled to fit in accordingly. He didn’t seem to mind though, his thoughts always wandering somewhere else, keeping him engaged in whatever captivating concept he’d stumbled across. In some ways, she was almost jealous. She’d felt a spark of what he did when she’d first pursued her studies, her research into ecosystem science and sustainability giving her a channel to focus her energies, an outlet for her passions, however since she’d completed her degree and joined the workforce she’d lost it somewhere along the way. Now it just seemed like a grind, day after day, just going through the motions.

“So, what’s eating you this time?” she asked, pushing the unwelcome thoughts from her mind, craning her neck to peer at the paper in his hands. “What’s got you so worked up?”

For the first time since she arrived he moved more than just his fingers and wrists, swivelling his entire body to prevent her from getting a look at the canvas. “It’s not ready yet,” he complained, his eyes still roaming the terminal. “Soon though, very soon.”

She held up her hands in a placating gesture. “Alright, alright,” she soothed. “How soon are we talking? Should I be finding something to force feed you with and drag you out of here, or can I just hang around a few minutes?”

“Just a few more minutes,” he muttered, his attention fading again, his focus redirecting to his current task, the stylus once more scurrying across the page.

She watched him, could see the look in his eyes that told her she had effectively disappeared from his thoughts, and shrugged. There was no sense getting angry at him or upset; it wasn’t as if he was ignoring her out of spite or malice. This was simply how he was.

Checking the floor was relatively clean, she scooted her way down the wall, dropping herself down into a seated position. Above her, a dull vibration to the air announced the arrival of a heavy duty freight train, one of the few services that still ran through the old, abandoned terminal. Cruising through at a relatively sedate eight-hundred kilometres per hour, she watched as its enormous chain of carriages whipped past, its definition blurred into a wavering stream of red and yellow. The sound dampeners in place along the station’s tracks were clearly an older model, deemed unworthy of replacement given the aging terminals lack of use, as she could hear the dull throb of the train’s passing, reverberating mildly through her auditory canal. The newer stations were practically silent, the modern sound dampeners reducing the trains’ passage to a feeble whisper, regardless of speed.

After a few seconds, she found that she didn’t overly mind the throb of the passing train, the mild vibration proving almost soothing. Closing her eyes, she rested her head back against the sidewall, content to wait in this manner until her brother was done…

“Sis?”

She woke with a jolt, unaware she’d fallen asleep, her brother’s foot knocking lightly against her own.

“Hmm?” she asked, blinking as she opened her eyes, her thoughts slow and scrambled. “How long was I asleep for?”

Her brother shrugged, his expression typically apathetic, his eyes listless. “I don’t know. I just finished and noticed you were still here.”

She scowled at him, attempting to remind herself that whilst it would sound harsh and demeaning from anybody else, from him it was simply a statement of fact; he was genuinely so poor at expressing himself, so weak at maintaining his focus on anything outside that which he was currently captivated by, she could have set herself on fire and he’d not even blink until he finished his task-at-hand and noticed the ash.

Rolling back her sleeve she checked the time, her eyes widening as she read the digital display. “Two hours?” she gasped. “You let me sleep here for two hours! What the hell? I thought you said you were going to be done in a few minutes?”

Her brother cocked his head, confused. “I am done,” he said simply.

Biting her tongue, she hauled herself to her feet, brushing down the folds of her clothing where it had ridden up. “Alright, come on then, we need to get out of here,” she grumbled. “We were supposed to be home ages ago.”

As she turned to leave, she noticed her brother hesitate behind her.

“Yes?” she asked, shooting him a querying look. “What’s wrong now?”

He gazed back at her, his innocent expression in the face of her annoyance unsettling her as it always did, though she tried to ignore it. “Don’t you want to see?” he asked, his hands holding out the canvas.

She paused, swallowing back an unfair remark, and then returned to him. “Sure,” she said, reaching out her hand and ruffling his hair affectionately. “What have you got for me?”

A distracted smile playing on his lips, he handed her the canvas.

Gazing down at his sketch, the immense precision-like detail of the piece characteristic of her brother’s drawing style, she stifled her surprise.

The abandoned terminal was transformed. In her hands, greenery flowed down the station walls, vast trellises of ivy, flower, and vine. Light blazed through the roof, the dull, grime-encrusted ceiling panels cleaned to a gleaming finish, the rays of the sun invading the dark confines of the terminal once more. Aqueducts littered the image, water flowing abundantly around the ivy, feeding the greenery, channelling itself into small tranquil ponds and glistening fountains. The maglev rails remained, however the unimpressive and ubiquitous grey support pylons which held it aloft were concealed behind varying designs of column, mosaic, and marble. The thoroughfare too was resurfaced, cobbled paths winding through grass, meandering between flower beds, ambling beneath glorious gazebos and pavilions.

“This… This is amazing,” she whispered, her eyes roving across the image, her mind practically salivating at the view.

“There’s more,” her brother replied, reaching into his dingy satchel and pulling free sheafs of papers; a veritable horde of designs, concepts and models, ranging from the overarching to the minute, detailing every aspect of the transformed space. “I planned everything.”

She took them from him reverently, her hands flicking between the pages, studying the work. “These are incredible,” she breathed, her heart thumping within her chest, an ancient spark flickering once more beneath her ribs. “What possessed you to do this?”

He blinked at her, his head turning to gaze down the length of the terminal. “This place once saw use by over three million travellers a day,” he said simply. “Now it handles almost nothing. The world moved on, leaving it behind, but the space should not be wasted. It’s still tied in to the major grid; it’s still within easy reach of billions. We never seem to have enough green spaces, we keep turning everything into industrial or commercial, but once they’ve moved on we’re left with this. But if we make this green again, we can bring people back. We can rezone some of the surrounding areas as residential. We can build up more of the ecosystem. We can rejuvenate the entire area. We can help it live again.”

She stared at him, amazed that her brother, someone who had troubled holding a simple conversation, could consider so lofty a goal. “I… I didn’t think you cared about that sort of thing,” she murmured, her mind’s eye already picturing the transformation, visualising the reawakening of the tired and dying space.

Her brother shrugged. “I don’t,” he said simply. “But you do, and I thought it might make you happy again.”

Stunned, she watched as her distracted brother turned away, his unusual mind already wandering away onto a new project, his disinterested eyes glazing over as he chewed upon a fresh idea.

“Thank you,” she whispered, pulling him into an awkward hug, aware that although the display of emotions at a surface level may seem overtly one-sided, deep-down he was still her brother, and no matter how badly he expressed himself to the outside world some bonds were irrefutable. “I won’t let you down.”

He wavered slightly on the spot, and though ultimately his arms failed to rise and return the embrace, still she felt his love.

“Together, we’ll give this place new life,” she promised, the empty concourse echoing with her vow.

New Life
This piece of flash fiction is based on the impressive "Old City Station" by yar0.

A cool artist, he has an awesome gallery of digital pieces covering sci-fi, fantasy, and landscape. Some of the concepts chosen are fascinating, with a lot of the 'plain' landscape pieces hinting at a narrative just swept through. His style is excellent, and he's definitely worth checking out!

With "Old City Station", I loved the composition; the huge sense of scale, the vast emptiness of the space, and the awesome design... A highly evocative image!

I set out with the idea of making this a sci-fi piece (recent examples include "M1n1beasts", "Coming Home", and "Strangers in the Night"), possibly with some socio-political elements (prior pieces include "Iron Will", "The Slap", and "Little Brother"), however ultimately I found that the way the narrative unfolded I couldn't make it anything but family life (most recent works include "Refuge in the Rains", "An Old Man's Treasures", and "Fold, Pinch, Pull" )

For the concept, I was initially looking at this huge, technologically advanced station, and the vast energy put into its construction. Despite this, as it's empty, I then wanted to look at the abandonment of the facility, and turn this into an environmental tale, looking at the paving over of nature to make way for technology which we then discard, and how we should instead be recycling, reusing, and revitalising the space. However, I found in the end that I was drawn so much more heavily toward the relationship between the two protagonists, the strained interaction they have due to one having a minor mental disorder, and what the other's life is like as they compensate for their sibling's disability. This seemed a much richer tale, and a more fascinating route to travel, so I decided to go deeper, showing how love can survive despite adversity, and how familial bonds can sometimes help us when we least expect it...

Hopefully it works well, and proves an interesting read!

*Please Note: Interpretation is entirely my own and may not align with the original artist's.
Loading...

The Bridgekeeper sat and waited, his feet pulled up under him, a blanket draped over his knees to help ward off the chilly mountain air. Across his lap lay a long knobbly staff, upon which he rested his wrinkled knuckles, the palms of his hands turned up as if in supplication. His eyes were closed, his breathing steady, and his aged heart beat almost coyly in his chest, his pulse inconceivably slow.

The pose was one he’d adopted for decades, identical to that of his predecessor, and each that had come before. The groove he nestled into, the concave bowl of smooth rock, was testament to the diligent service of his kind, the scraping robes of countless Bridgekeepers shaping the mountain itself as they manned their post, their long-kept seat a pinnacle perched beside a gaping chasm.

From where he sat his view spanned the great forest spread out below, the rolling woodland laid out like a thick carpet of rich green and dusky brown, interspersed sporadically by lakes, meadows, and outcrops of craggy rock. He didn’t need to open his eyes to see it; he travelled it every second of his watch, his consciousness flowing out from the barren mountain top, washing over the fertile land like an unstoppable wave, seeping into every nook and cranny, trickling over every blade of grass. He knew practically everything that happened within the great wood; was aware of the movements of every creature, large or small.

He had known therefore of the traveller’s approach for some weeks now, the young man’s progress slow but determined, his camps at night prepared with caution and sense, perimeters established, traps laid to protect him from the denizens of the dark. The forest claimed many of those that sought the mountain, the brash and foolhardy falling prey soon enough, but he suspected the traveller was neither of these things, and having observed him for a time acknowledged that he would soon be called upon.

As it happened, when the young man finally arrived it was amid the blazing glory of the setting sun, the golden light bathing them in its dying glow.

“Greetings,” the traveller called out. “Is this the path to Paradise? Are you another of her guardians?”

The Bridgekeeper lifted his head, turning his countenance toward the man. When he opened his eyes, he heard the traveller’s whispered intake of breath; a standard response to the first glimpse of his milky sightless orbs.

“I am the Bridgekeeper,” he intoned, his pace even and unhurried, the script firm in his mind. “I do not claim to be a guardian; more a humble servant on the path, here to offer my guidance to those that seek it.”

He raised his hands, his open palms an unspoken invitation.

He could feel the traveller’s hesitation, sense the whirring of his mind, before a single coin graced the surface of his skin. Assessing the offering he weighed it in his hands, gauging the material.

“Gold?” he asked, though he knew the answer. “You must value my council highly.”

“Council is always welcome, especially on this most perilous yet rewarding of pursuits,” the young man replied, his voice confident and rich with good-humour.

“We shall see,” the Bridgekeeper replied, an eyebrow raised, his sensitive ears expertly judging the subtle clink of the traveller’s purse as it was returned beneath the young man’s garments, the relative value of the offering lessening as it was compared to the apparent worth of the pilgrim who bestowed it. “Tell me, why do you seek Paradise?”

The traveller smiled, a mirthless laugh rippling from his chest. “I suspect my reasons are little different from any other. They say that Paradise is a place of gifts, where wishes can be granted.”

“So they say,” the Bridgekeeper nodded, “but what is it you would wish for? Power? Fame? Wealth?”

“No,” the young man replied, his tone sobering. “I seek answers, and a cure if I can have it, for the affliction visited on one close to me.”

The Bridgekeeper gazed studiously at the traveller, probing him, peeling away the layers of his façade, peering into the darkened corners of his mind. A sister perhaps? Bed-ridden, a pestilent stench lingering in the air, her skin festering, a handkerchief on her bedside flecked with blood.

“Plague,” he muttered with heavy words. “She has little time left; perhaps it would have been better spent by her side rather than pursuing this fool’s errand.”

“You would label me a fool?” the traveller cried, his stance rigid, his eyes burning.

“That has yet to be seen,” the Bridgekeeper shrugged dismissively, unfazed by the hostility directed toward him, uncaring of the anger flaring within his guest. “Perhaps you will prove me wrong, perhaps you will not.”

The young man stepped toward him, his fists clenched, though the Bridgekeeper waved him still.

“Enough,” he intoned, his duty almost done, his arm waving to the chasm laid out beyond him. “Your trial awaits; go to it and we shall have our answer.”

The traveller continued in his approach, a curse rising in his throat, though he was cut short, his footsteps halting, his voice silent, as the air shimmered around them. The image of the chasm, a gaping cleft hewn in the mountain, separating one barren peak from its sibling, dissolved and ruptured, the vibration of the air punctuated with a supple pop as reality shifted and a curtain dropped. Revealed, the terrain on the far side of the chasm was robbed of its grey and lifeless exterior, the barren dusty earth replaced by a sea of green, supple trees and verdant grass stretching into the distance, butterflies and lightning bugs dancing in the air as the first retired in the glowing embers of the day and the second arrived in their stead to cavort in the pale glow of the night.

“What… This is…?” the young man stammered, his eyes wide, his fingers grasping.

“Paradise,” the Bridgekeeper replied. “The very edge at least. If there is an answer for what you seek it lies within.”

Lifting his staff, his bony fingers tight around the gnarled wood, he pointed to the chasm. “The paths are open to you now, though it is up to you which you would take.”

“Paths?” the traveller asked. “I see only one; a thick stone bridge, dusty and ill-used perhaps, but easily three metres wide, its blocks solid and true.”

“That is the first,” the Bridgekeeper nodded, “though there is another”.

Swinging his cane, he pointed toward the second bridge, nestled a short distance from the first, the chasm gaping and wide between the two.

“That is a bridge?” the young man asked, his voice incredulous, his disbelief palpable. “I thought it was a mere decoration!”

The Bridgekeeper shrugged. “It is the second path, and despite appearances it is the one I recommend.”

The traveller laughed. “That’s your recommendation? It’s a decrepit rope bridge, barely wide enough to hold a man! Half the planks are missing, and those that remain look rotten to the core! It doesn’t even seem to be tethered to anything, just secured to the mountain by the first of its posts at either end. There’s only a hand rope for guidance on one side, and what’s with the balloons tied to it? Are they supposed to keep the whole thing afloat, somehow prevent it from tumbling into the crevasse?”

The Bridgekeeper remained stoic in the face of the young man’s barbed laughter. “They are,” he stated plainly, replacing the staff on his lap, waiting for the traveller to make his choice.

They are!” the man cackled, his mocking mimicry echoing over the mountain, his arms hugging his sides. “That’s hilarious!”

“It is a simple fact, nothing more,” the Bridgekeeper replied. “And it is still the path I recommend.”

The traveller continued in his fit of laughter, strolling toward the forlorn and weary bridge. “Very well,” he smirked. “Let us see how sturdy she is.”

Bending to the ground he picked up a scattering of pebbles, hurling them at the bridge’s feeble planks, listening as some struck the wood and ricocheted, watching a great many more as they simply fell through the gaps, tumbling into the darkness of the abyss beyond.

“Well, that was uninspiring,” he chuckled, moving to the other bridge.

Again he bent, filling his hands with tiny stones, and again he tossed them at the crossing before him, watching with satisfied eyes as every single one bounced and scattered across its stony surface.

“Hmm, interesting!” he quipped, his face shooting the Bridgekeeper a snide grin. “Well, I thank you for your recommendation, but I suspect the true path here is the one which is not infested with termites.”

The Bridgekeeper shrugged. “If that is your decision, then I wish you well on your path.”

The young man gave an exaggerated bow, turning on his heel and stepping onto the stone bridge. When nothing happened, he flashed the Bridgekeeper another mocking smile and proceeded on his way, his steps growing firmer and more confident as he progressed.

It was only when he had made his way across two thirds of the bridge, his destination a mere five metres or so away, when his foot stepped clear through the stone, the material wavering and shimmering in the light as he tumbled through, his body toppling into the void. The last of the bridge of saw, before he plummeted into the chasm below, were the pebbles he’d so carefully tossed, still hanging traitorously in the air, resting atop what to all appearances seemed to be solid rock yet in reality was clearly anything but.

The Bridgekeeper sighed, unfolding his aching legs, leaning on his weathered staff as he hauled himself tiredly to his feet, the traveller’s fading screams lingering in his ears.

“Shame,” he muttered to himself, glad he could drop the outward persona of the Bridgekeeper and be himself once more. “It seemed a noble goal, though I guess no matter how well-intentioned your aim if you’re an arrogant fool at heart then an arrogant fool you’ll remain.”

Shuffling toward the rope bridge, he grasped his blanket tightly around himself, cursing the fleeing warmth of the day. “No respect for your elders, no manners, no sense of etiquette or courtesy,” he complained, his staff tapping at the ground as he walked.

Reaching the entry of the bridge he switched his staff to his other hand, clasping his blanket and the gnarled wood in the same gaunt grip, his free hand now latching on to the bridge’s guiding side rope. “You literally give them the answer, but oh no, they’d rather ignore it and make their own choice, come to their own conclusion. No mind paid to those with experience, those that have been on this mountain since before they were even born. No mind at all! Always looking for the easy way out,” he muttered crossly. “Haven’t they ever heard that if it looks too good to be true, it probably is!”

His steps were sure and unhurried on the bridge, the rope structure remaining obligingly still as he traversed it, his footsteps ringing out dully on the wooden planks. Where the gaps lay between the boards, a dull white glow blossomed beneath his feet, meeting him as he stepped forward, supporting him as he made the crossing.

“Don’t they know that sometimes the only thing you can do is have a little faith? A little trust in your fellow man? A little belief in something greater than yourself?” he grumbled.

His hands trailed along the bridge’s side rope, counting off the balloon strings as he went. When he reached the one he had in mind he paused, swivelling at his hips and touching the string to his staff. A dull orange glow rose in the wood, brightening as it intensified, and then flowing into the string which peeled apart at its touch, the fibres fraying and splitting, the balloon rising free and untethered into the heavens.

Sighing, he continued across the chasm, bitterly conscious of just how few balloons remained, just how many more he’d have to release until the last rose free and the one and only path to Paradise tumbled into the abyss below, lost forevermore.

“No faith,” he muttered. “None at all.”

Faith
This piece of flash fiction is based on the evocative "landscape #27" by Sylar113.

An imaginative artist, she has a stunning gallery of digital pieces with lots of fantasy, landscape, nature, and conceptual works. She's got a rich, endearing style, so is well worth checking out!

With "landscape #27", I liked the atmosphere; the rich colour palette, the leading of the eye, and the overall warmth of the piece... A lovely image!

Typically I choose the pieces I write to are selected by skimming through the day's 'Daily Deviations' or 'What's Hot', however this time a contest arrived in my notifications and it seemed a decent image source for the day's writing. The genre specified Fantasy (most recent pieces include "Sheltering Sprites", "The Dollmaker", and "Reality Unfiltered"), so away we go!

For the concept, I wanted to look at faith. It struck me that the image had this great contrast to it, that there was warmth, yet coldness, light, yet dark. The bridge takes you from the dark into the light, but the bridge itself appears weak. Is it really though? The balloons tied to it; are they purely decorative, or do they serve a purpose? Is the decrepit bridge actually more than it appears, and if you simply have faith can you safely make it across? Faith survives when we believe in something despite a lack of physical evidence; for some, this makes it always out of reach. For others, it is not even a question. However, is it getting harder to simply believe nowadays? To take things on faith? Where will that lead us?

That said, there are some additional themes; things like respecting one's elders, what makes for good character (personality-wise, not literary), etc., and there is some amount of parody involved.

As for the narrative, it focuses on two characters; one a guide, the other a pilgrim of sorts. The question comes down to faith; can the pilgrim trust in the guide, when he has never met him before, when they have no relationship, and when he has everything at stake...

Hopefully it comes together well!

*Please Note: Interpretation is entirely my own and may not align with the original artist's.
Loading...

The day was uncomfortably hot, the sun’s rays scorching all they touched, searing the land. Making his way along the overpass, GLD-14 kept to the shadows as much as he was able. Not designed to handle such extreme levels of sunlight, he could only risk minimal exposure. If he courted the sun’s rays too much, his body would overheat, his metallic joints expanding and grinding against one another, his CPU gradually frying inside his skull. The effect wasn’t fatal, but it wasn’t good for him either. If his joints wore down and degraded too far he’d need to replace them, and spare parts sadly didn’t grow on trees. As for his CPU, it wouldn’t burn itself out due to the excessive heat but it would begin to function quite erratically, his behaviour becoming decidedly peculiar; the last time it had happened he’d only regained his senses a little after midnight, the built-up heat finally dissipating, and found himself standing waist deep in the water beneath the overpass, some two kilometres from where he was supposed to be.

It had been more than a little embarrassing; he’d been late returning home, and the Master had been forced to give his legs a thorough cleaning so as to remove all the salt and prevent unnecessary damage. The Master had said it was alright, that she didn’t mind, but GLD-14 still felt bad about becoming a burden; he was designed to help humans, not give them tedious and wearisome jobs to carry out.

Peering over the highway’s sidewall, he stared down at the water lapping gently at the overpass’ support pillars. At this section of the highway the water was barely three metres deep and GLD-14 could still just about see the concrete terrain below, its dull grey façade shimmering beneath the waves. In other areas however, where the land was lower, the water was maybe thirty or forty metres deep, and the ground beneath the highway was concealed far from view, vehicles and buildings swallowed whole beneath the waves. He wondered from time to time what it must have been like, when the city was alive with people, the vehicles marching along beside one another, the buildings heaving with activity. The Master spoke of it sometimes, but it was hard for GLD-14 to picture the world before; all he’d ever known was the abandoned city, the lapping water, and the searing heat.

Arriving at his destination, he turned his gaze from the world beneath the waves and instead studied the sea of green laid out before him. This section of the overpass, perpetually shaded by the exit ramp which coiled its way overhead, was where the Master had planted the first of the seed plots. The soil had been dredged painstakingly from beneath the waves, the Master hauling it bag by bag to the relative refuge of the shaded section of overpass, and then tilling it into rows, seeds sown meticulously along the valleys of earth. GLD-14, who to his regret only been activated some years after, could only imagine the level of effort involved, the arduous toil required, but the cornucopia of vegetables spread out across the plot showed the Master’s labours had not been in vain.

Bending to inspect the quality of the produce, GLD-14 began the day’s harvest, eggplant, green beans, zucchini, and squash slowly filling a basket cradled tenderly in his arms. Where appropriate, he pruned and tended the plot, removing weeds, applying fertilizer, and watering the soil. Thankfully the plot was reasonably healthy, and he was able to complete the work quickly and without any issues; he had thirteen more plots to inspect after all, and he wanted to make sure he returned home in time for dinner so that the Master didn’t worry.

Tidying away his tools, he clutched the basket of vegetables to his breastplate and continued on his way. The other growth plots were located nearby, all situated along the overpass at one point or another; this section of the highway had originally functioned as a major interchange, meaning there were a number of exit and entry ramps weaving overhead to provide the all-important shade, without which the gardens would shrivel and die.

As he marched through the sweltering heat, he considered suggesting to the Master once more that they relocate to higher ground and cooler climes. It was a discussion he’d attempted to have several times already as the Master’s condition continued to deteriorate, however the Master was set in her ways and in her advancing age could be very stubborn. Every time GLD-14 broached the subject, she’d always bemoan his “defeatist attitude”, condemning it as the reason the world was in such a sorry state in the first place.

GLD-14 personally considered the poor stance toward environmentalism taken by mankind as a whole to be the prime culprit in the warming of the planet, the melting of the polar ice-caps, and the rising sea level, however the Master was rarely swayed. She’d counter his calm assertions, contesting that if man had put up more of a fight, refused to see the situation as hopeless or salvageable, then the world could have been put right once more. In her eyes, it came down to iron will, sheer gutsy determination, and ultimately disappointment that either had failed to sufficiently materialise.

Still, she’d stayed behind, and to her that counted for something. The rest of mankind may have “waved the white flag” and “gone running for the hills”, but she would remain in the city, her home; the place where she was born, where she’d been raised, and to her mind god-willing, where she’d eventually die.

Not being geared toward spirited debate, GLD-14 could never truly see the correlation between his desire for the Master to relocate to a more comfortable location and her resoluteness to remain where she was through “hell or high water”, but he supposed the fact she had yet to order him to refrain from bringing it up meant that he was making some sort of progress. Perhaps if he tried again today he’d have better luck…

Iron Will
This piece of flash fiction is based on the charming "Urban Agriculture" by juliedillon.

An entertaining artist, she has a cool gallery of digital pieces with lots of sci-fi, fantasy, and conceptual works. She's got a great style, so well worth checking out!

With "Urban Agriculture", I liked the concept; the blend of nature and machine, the overwrite of concrete with greenery, and the soft light and shadow... A lovely image, though if I'm honest the real reason I chose to write to it was because in her description for the piece juliedillon apologised for it not making sense. This really threw me, because whilst I agree some art does need to make sense, not all art does, and why should she apologise? In any case, I've built up a story around her image, so problem solved; sense made (hopefully)!

I'd originally planned a pure sci-fi piece (prior examples include "M1n1beasts", "Coming Home", and "Strangers in the Night"), however as I progressed the socio-political angle played more and more of a role so that's ultimately where I ended up (recent works include "The Slap", "Little Brother", and "Digital Dependence")

For the concept, I wanted to look at agriculture and the vital role it plays in our wellbeing. Without food, we die, plain and simple, however to grow food we need a healthy environment to produce it, and yet we're taking pretty poor care of that environment. Where will this attitude eventually take us?

As for the narrative, it focuses on two characters; one an automaton who simply deals with the world he's been provided, and the other his resolute Master who we meet only through the automaton's thoughts and memories, a woman who grew up through the period of upheaval, condemns the attitude of those that made it so, and bemoans the damage left behind. The title is a pun, and does not refer to what you would initially believe.

Hopefully it comes together well!

*Please Note: Interpretation is entirely my own and may not align with the original artist's.
Loading...

When most people decide to dive, strapping a tank to their back, clamping an air hose between their teeth, it’s because they’re looking for a thrill. They want to explore the underwater world, frolic with the fishes, and come up having seen the planet from a different angle. They want the experience; the adrenaline, the novelty, the wonder.

When he’d first decided to dive, it was out of sheer, unforgiving terror; he hated the water.

He didn’t know where the fear had come from, he knew it was irrational, but it haunted him nonetheless. Every time he swam in a pool he’d have visions of sharks gliding through the water, snatching him from the surface. To venture into the ocean would conjure imagery of tentacle-like seaweed, wrapping round his legs, pulling him under. He could swim, was intelligent enough to realise that his fears were implausible, yet still… there they’d lingered.

However, having read somewhere that ‘flooding’, a form of behavioural therapy involving immersing himself in the middle of his biggest fear, could prove an effective way to overcome it, he’d resigned himself to the endeavour.

That first dive, his heart was hammering in his chest. He’d told no one of his terror, afraid they’d prevent him from going through with it, and so he suffered in silence, flashing a brave face whenever he could, swallowing his fear. When it was his turn to jump, to allow the water to claim him, he’d felt the tremors starting in his legs so forced a wobbly step before anyone could see, the water rushing up to meet him.

Down they went, sinking into the murky depths…

His auditory world, confined and focused to the water all around him, was overwhelmed by the sound of his own breath, ragged and raw, fast and unfocused, echoing in his head. He could see the plume of bubbles ploughing from his mouth, surging past the air-piece lodged between his teeth, racing to the safety of the surface. He could feel the pressure in his head, squeezing between his ears.

Down, down, down…

When they’d finally stopped, their dive leader checking them off one by one, confirming they were okay, he’d flashed back the all-clear; to expose himself had seemed unthinkable, a potential termination of his self-imposed treatment when he’d barely got off the starting line. So they’d set off, his heart still racing, his breath ever ragged, his mind leaping at shadows. Shapes gliding in the hazy water were hideous monsters, waiting to lash out at him. Clouds of sand, disturbed by the movement of their fins, were beacons calling out, courting their presence for the insatiable appetites of the deep.

That first dive, he’d withdrawn early. His fear was still a twisted knot within his chest, leeching at his mind, and he’d swallowed down his air too fast, emptying his tank while others in his group were barely halfway through. He’d returned to the boat in a flurry, his eagerness to remove himself from the cloying waters a welcome relief. His gear and equipment he’d shed almost giddy, their touch against his skin serving only to remind him of his ordeal.

Yet still he returned to the water.

He was stubborn, and refused to shy away. He would not allow his fears to conquer him. Again and again he submerged himself, dived headlong toward his terror, faced it in the open ocean.

By the end of his first week, his training completed, he was a certified diver, yet one who was still terrified of the depths, who still felt the onset of horror the second he immersed himself, who’d managed in the first few days to clamp his teeth so tight he’d eventually bitten through his mouth-piece, his air-hose surging away in a stream of bubbles…

Regardless however, he’d pushed on.

Beginning an advanced course, he’d launched himself upon his fear all over again, determined to beat it to submission through sheer force of will if he had to. Again he’d passed, again he’d certified, again he’d felt the presence of terror still lingering on his shoulder, and again he’d signed up for more…

He couldn’t pinpoint when the therapy finally took, couldn’t name a time or place where his mind had finally said “alright, I get it, we’re going to be okay here,” regardless of how deep below the surface he allowed himself to sink, yet still, it took.

Floating in the still and balmy waters, he wrapped his arms around himself and lay back, focusing his thoughts on the current as it rocked him gently to and fro. From his lips, a tiny stream of bubbles crept, edging their way toward the surface, trembling as they rose, shimmering and glistening in the light as the sun’s beams eased their own way down into the underwater world. He rolled his head to the side, studying the sand beneath him, a rippling desert plain covered by ocean, complete with dunes, valleys, and plateaux. A stream of fish glided past him, their tails glinting, their movements fluid and smooth.

His world was water, vast and unfathomable, teeming with life, swirling and churning as it crept around the globe. He knew more about the ocean now than he did his own hometown, the call of the sea beckoning him back time and time again, till he felt like he could never truly leave it.

It was a hazardous world, as all inevitably are, however the more he’d learned, the more he’d discovered he no longer feared. Trapped in sunken wrecks, his bearings lost, his air low, he still maintained his cool, his pulse steady, his breath even and measured. His movements were calm and collected, his thoughts untroubled, and fear had no handhold to latch on to. By embracing his terror, he’d realised that nothing could ever be so bad, no horror so insurmountable it could not be overcome.

Even knowing he could likely someday die there, the chances of ending his life beneath the waves significantly higher than if he simply remained on land, he could not bring himself to depart.

It didn’t matter that he had conquered his fear, that he had nothing left to prove.

The ocean was a part of him now; a strength that would never leave, a desire that would never fade away.

He would float forever more.

Dreaming in the Deep
This piece of flash fiction is based on the inviting "480 underwater partition 01" by Tigers-stock.

An entertaining artist, she has a helpful gallery of pieces, predominantly digital and photographic, which can be used as resources, stock, and effects. A huge collection, and incredibly useful, so well worth a look!

With "480 underwater partition 01", I liked the composition; the transition from sky to sea, the glimpse of the sea bed beneath, and the shimmering light playing through the waves... A lovely image!

I think the last piece I wrote to a stock image was "Fracture", which was to "Cracked Glass Texture" by EverythingIsInStock and penned as a philosophical piece. A pattern seems to be emerging as I decided to go philosophical with this one as well (prior examples include "Wake Up", "Let It Burn", and "The Meaning of It All")!

For the concept, I decided to look at fears and phobias, the irrational feelings they invoke in us, and the process of overcoming them. I wanted to make it quite an emotive piece, full of imagery and vivid description, so the reader could really enter the mind of the protagonist as he fought his fears.

As for the narrative, it follows one man as he attempts to overcome his fear of water, and drowning, by following the most extreme method he can find; throwing himself into it.

Hopefully it came together well, and shows that fears to not have to define us, they can be defeated!

*Please Note: Interpretation is entirely my own and may not align with the original artist's.
Loading...
*Apologies in advance, but this journal entry is going to be pretty self-indulgent...*

That said... Wow, 100 Flash Fiction pieces!

Considering the average length of my pieces is 1,500 words, that means collectively I have something in the area of 150,000 words here!

Honestly, some days I never thought I'd reach 100. I literally remember writing the 10th/25th/33rd/50th, every time thinking 100 seemed so ridiculously far away.

If you've not read anything other than my stories before, and have been skipping over the descriptions for each piece completely (as well as my deviantID), my aim has been to write a piece of flash fiction almost every day, inspired by one of the amazing artworks featured here on DA. The purpose has been to help me grow as a writer, forcing me to write every day and practice my craft, make up stories on the fly, and step way outside my comfort zone as I tackle genres unfamiliar to me.

I estimated that to reach 100 it would take me five months, taking into account that I'd give myself the weekends off...

In reality, it actually took me about six and a half, as I forgot to factor in Christmas, New Years, my wedding, and my honeymoon.

I've had some awesome experiences along the way, I've seen some amazing pieces of art, and I can feel my own writing is personally all the better for it. Furthermore, it gives me immense pleasure to say that not one single artist opposed the use of their work, so every piece retains its inspiring image (credited and linked to of course)!

So, to commemorate my 100th piece of Flash Fiction (which went live today!) I've decided to;

a) Pick out 10 pieces which particularly resonate with me for some reason or another.
b) Actually sort out my gallery so the pieces are grouped by genre, something I should have done ages ago (DONE!)
and
c) For those that care (I'm honestly guessing no-one) work out numbers of my stories by genre


Off we go!

Flash 100 Stats

Philosophy & Perspective - 17
Fantasy - 16
Sci-fi - 13
Family - 11
Romance - 9
Horror - 8
Socio-Political - 8
Spiritual & Occult - 5
Mystery & Suspense - 3
Humour - 3
Historical - 1
Transgressive - 1
General - 5


10 Most Resonating Stories (in no particular order other than reverse chronological)


1) It's a Wonderful Day
It's a Wonderful Day
I was fourteen the first time I tried to kill myself.
I slipped the strap of my guitar around a tree branch in my backyard, and jumped.
Almost twelve years I’d been climbing that tree. Twelve years of scraped knees, splintered hands, and muddy clothes. Twelve years of reliable strength and fortitude, and yet that’s the day the branch chose to break.
I landed on my back in the grass beneath, my neck and jaw hurting like hell, a branch which felt solid enough to me slamming into my chest, and my vision blurry with tears.
Given the circumstances, I’d understand if you didn’t believe me, but I swear to you I saw Death that day. He was standing right there under the tree, with his black robes, gleaming scythe, and chalky complexion, just looking down at me. I couldn’t say exactly what thoughts were going through his head; he’s a pretty hard guy to read after all, what with the fact his face is just a skull. However, if I were to hazard a guess I’d s

A light tale about a man trying to kill himself, and the anthropomorphic presence of Death who refuses to take him. It was one of the most enjoyable pieces to write, and I loved being able to give the piece a really sarcastic feel!

2) Little Brother
Little Brother
The stone slammed into his head, knocking him off balance, his external plating ringing out with an echoing clang. He wobbled crazily, his internal gyros struggling to compensate for the unexpected impact.
“Get lost, Little Brother!” the man yelled, his arm reeling back to hurl another projectile, the woman clinging to his neck laughing cattily.
Cambot 406 spun erratically, his balance not yet restored after the previous strike, but his desperation to protect the lens mounted in his ‘face’ compelling him to attempt the evasion. The rock ricocheted off his pyramidal torso, the metal pinging out its complaint at the assault, and he teetered wildly, his body not built to handle this kind of abuse, the solitary wheel supporting his frame ill-equipped to counteract unexpected force or shifts in equilibrium. Recognising a lost cause when he saw it, the forces of gravity pulling at him relentlessly, he surrendered to his fate and tilted his head as best he could to pro

A sweet tale of a little Cambot who just wants to be left alone, and doesn't want to spy on people anymore. It was really fun to dip into an Orwellian dystopian future, and Cambot 406 became one of my favourite characters.

3) Milkshakes & Martians
Milkshakes and Martians
Sandra tapped her nail against the side of her glass and smiled politely at her friend. Sat opposite her, Betsy had been talking practically non-stop for almost ten minutes now, her speech a machine gun of words that never seemed to have an end in sight. She’d pause occasionally, her burger edging toward her mouth, but then she’d think of something else that she absolutely positively had to say there and then and so the meat patty would drop down again, yo-yoing back and forth incessantly.
Sandra didn’t mind really. For one thing, Betsy was as yet the only friend she’d made in this town, and it was an easy relationship to manage. As long as you didn’t feel the need to get a word in edgewise, Betsy would just keep going. By the end of their time together, Betsy would swear the evening had been a real gas and the friendship would be stronger than ever, all without Sandra ever having to say more than a few words here and there. Meanwhile, Sandra got to feel t

A simple diner scene between two housewives in 60's America. It didn't get many looks from the DA community, however I typically avoid historical pieces (as not having lived in the period I see so much scope for making horrendous mistakes) and this is the one exception, which seemed to pull through regardless and thus make me immensely proud of it.

4) The Volunteer
The Volunteer
Doc Delloroy was tired. He was tired of space, tired of life aboard the ancient and rickety International Space Station, and tired of people in general. His personal theory was that you had a finite number of social interactions you could actively become enthused at taking part in. Once you hit that number, it was all just faces in a crowd. He could back it up with evolutionary theory, making compelling arguments regarding tribal hierarchies, clan size, and social structures, but more than that he had a veritable crap ton of anecdotal evidence, and really, wasn’t that more authoritative to anyone who’d bother to listen?
He’d been in space since the late 30s, a bright-eyed volunteer coaxed up with the promise of lucrative pay, a position of repute, and a collection stories that would dazzle any cocktail party he cared to attend once he returned to the good ol’ green and blue. What no one realised at the time was that getting up was one thing, but coming back down

One man 'trapped' in space, one woman 'trapped' up there with him, neither seemingly able to make it down to Earth. I like this piece because I went so deep into creating the characters they almost became larger than the story themselves, in turn making the story one of my longest. I don't hold it against them.

5) You Can Run
You Can Run
I can’t remember the last time I slept. A few minutes here or there, a jerk of my head, and that’s it. I’m back on my feet, I’m running again.
It’s the sound. That’s what comes first, that’s what I hear, that’s what sends shivers down my spine, that’s what pushes me to my feet. That awful, scraping sound. Like branches scratching along a car door, clacking incessantly, striving to get in. I stand in a hurry, my heart racing, and I run.
I used to be happy. I didn’t appreciate it at the time; I bitched and moaned about the little things, complaining when people talked at the cinema, or when I got cut up in traffic. Now though, now that I can’t remember a time I wasn’t looking back over my shoulder, now I realise how fortunate I really was. It may not have been a glamorous life, perhaps. It wasn’t smooth sailing all the way. It wasn’t a continuous stream of jokes and laughter. But damnit, it wasn’t t

A tale of the macabre in which a man is pursued by a relentless horror. I'm particularly fond of this piece as it was given a dramatic reading by princesskittehh who did an awesome job;
You Can Run by Dakoa by princesskittehh

6) A Flower Blooms
A Flower Blooms
Love is a mysterious thing; an undefinable, unquantifiable enigma, that could parade in plain sight and yet remain as elusive and unfathomable as the deepest of life’s unanswerable questions.
Or at least, that’s how it felt to her.
It seemed like all around her people were pairing off. Strangers reached out a hand and clasped one another, a connection made. Acquaintances altered their course, diverting so as to intercept and intermingle. The hugs of friends softened and slowed, feelings intensifying, intertwining limbs lingering tenderly…
Yet she remained an island.
She didn’t know what was wrong with her, if there was even anything wrong at all. As far as she could tell she simply didn’t seem to feel what others did, but had no idea why that would be the case. She understood the base principles, and could appreciate that people enjoyed having someone that they could rely on for comfort and warmth, but what eluded her was the actual drive itself; she felt

A romantic coming of age, in which the protagonist explores her own feelings of love and what it means to be normal. Suggested by PennedinWhite and featured by doughboycafe, it earned me my first (and at time of writing; only) DD. How could I not love it!

7) Reanimation
Reanimation
The first thing she saw when she opened her eyes was the cracked tile in the ceiling. A spider web of fault lines running across the ceramic plate, she was always surprised it hadn’t come crashing to the floor in the time she’d been asleep. Instead, it somehow remained lodged in place, a reminder of the aging and imperfect nature of the facility.
Lifting herself to a seated position, she swung her legs over the edge of the gurney and lifted her arm, studying her fingers as she cycled through them one by one, assessing the mobility. The large surgical lights of the operating theatre looked down at her, their brightness long since dimmed, as she rotated her wrist, spinning and flexing the joint, easing the resistance she found there. Moving on to her elbow, she continued her series of checks, turning her focus to the monitor standing nearby.
Eighty-three years.
The figure pulsed idly in the bottom corner of the screen, and fell within operational parameters. The stiffness in

An automaton awakes every 83 years and goes about her work, without fail, never deviating. I'm pretty sure at the time this was the first of my pieces that went over 200 views, though it was eclipsed by a wide margin shortly after by A Flower Blooms. However, I still really like the concept, and putting the twist into place was particularly delicious.

8) A Life Truly Lived
A Life Truly Lived
The mid-afternoon sun filtered through the window, casting its gentle glow across the room. Suspended in its mild light, dust motes drifted aimlessly, the swirl of their flight directed by air currents unseen.
He wondered if all human lives were not basically the same; slowly twirling flakes of existence, dancing around one another, their course altered and affected by forces unknown. You hover a while, basking in the light, your life’s direction affected by things as simple as whether or not you were on time to catch the bus, before you slowly fall, your height dropping lower and lower, until you touch down on the ground and finally lie still.
He’d heard once that eventually, given enough time, all people became dust. The body breaks down, we become our constituent elements, we turn to dust…
He wasn’t sure how true it was, but he liked the idea of spinning a while in the breeze, floating through the sky, travelling the air currents, traversing the planet. Perha

An old man reflects on his life to date, reminiscing over the key events and how he got to where he is. I think it's one of my most emotional pieces, and was simply a pleasure to write.

9) Pitch-o-Mat 5000
Pitch-o-Mat 5000
The sun was blisteringly hot, scorching the air and crisping the ground. Mirages danced on the horizon, heat waves radiating up. The temperature had already crept up so high that in all directions the land had baked and cracked, acquiring a tortoiseshell-esque appearance as it stretched into the distance.
Still, the game continued; one team sitting patiently in the dugout, the other defending the field.
Were it any of the traditional games, play would have long since been called off, conditions untenable. However, were it any of the traditional games, the diamond would never have been located out in the middle of the desert in the first place. For Mechanoid League Baseball, this was their home.
Established almost forty years ago, the league’s popularity had grown so quickly it now dominated its two human predecessors. Traditionalists still clung to the older leagues; die-hard fans of the players they’d grown up knowing and loving. Modernists however often had no such attach

A good old-fashioned game of Robot Baseball! Another story which didn't get much attention, but of which I'm still particularly proud. The reason for which is that I am not American, have never played baseball, watched baseball, or had even the slightest interest in baseball. Three hours of research later however, and I feel I managed an engaging piece which did not feature any major screw-ups (fingers crossed).

10) Break Free
Break Free
The studio space was quiet and still when he arrived, the lessons for the day concluded, the students dismissed. Without them the room felt hollow and empty, devoid and robbed of its soul. Only when it was filled with music did it come alive, a bubble of sound, rich, and indulgent.
He set down his case on the floor by the door. Opening the clasps he flipped the lid and delicately removed the instrument. It was a masterpiece, even when it lay silent. He knew the exorbitant amount of money his parents had spent on it, knew the time and effort they’d invested into his tuition.
Most children had wooden xylophones when they were young, then perhaps a bongo or drum, maybe a recorder or flute, before moving on to ‘adult’ instruments.
He’d had a violin.
His parents had insisted.
Other children had gone outside, picked up a football or cricket bat, played with one another, made friends, made enemies… They’d had a childhood.
He’d been inside.
Sitting und

A prodigy, pushed into music against his will, deviates from the sheet music for the very first time and finds a reason to actually love his violin. This was one of my earliest pieces, and honestly the first which I was exceedingly happy with, which stirred my own emotions and ambitions, and which gave me an enormous shove to continue on this path. Whilst the pieces listed here genuinely are in no particular order, it is still this very last of which I think I am proudest.


If you've read till here, I sincerely thank you. Hopefully some of my indulgent rambling has at least inspired you to push forward anew with your own craft, and if you're simply here to read then I hope you'll peruse the rest of my gallery. As well as the 10 stories listed here there are another 90 which I hope you will enjoy!


P.S. Special thanks and mention to CloudedHeu, my first watcher, and the first to comment that was not the artist behind the chosen image. These things may seem small, but they pack a huge punch. Thank you again.

Comments


Add a Comment:
 
:iconcanankk:
Canankk Featured By Owner Apr 13, 2017
Thank you very much for the fav Icon - Blue Butterfly Time Gear Emote 
Reply
:icondakoa:
Dakoa Featured By Owner Apr 13, 2017  Professional Writer
My pleasure! Hope you enjoyed the story inspired by the piece; Flights of Fancy :D (Big Grin) 
Reply
:iconwintersmith6:
Wintersmith6 Featured By Owner Feb 8, 2017  Hobbyist General Artist
I really like your writing. I've only read a few of your pieces, but the I've yet to find one I don't like. Thank you for giving DeviantArt some proper literature :)
Reply
:icondakoa:
Dakoa Featured By Owner Edited Feb 8, 2017  Professional Writer
Wow, thank you very much!

That might well be the nicest compliment I've ever received :D (Big Grin) 
Reply
:iconbizaardwolf:
Bizaardwolf Featured By Owner Jan 25, 2017  Hobbyist General Artist
How in the world do you have ten watchers??? Your writing is truly incredible! This is indeed an enigma on its own, along with how you write such amazing short stories...
Reply
:icondakoa:
Dakoa Featured By Owner Jan 26, 2017  Professional Writer
Haha, thank you so much!

My small number of watchers is entirely my fault; I'm terrible at the social aspect of the site. I don't crop up much on message boards and I don't champion my work a huge amount, so I think I'm simply not out there for many people to find.

Still, I love DA and I really enjoy contributing to it, even if my introverted presence has kept me a little under the radar :) (Smile) 
Reply
:iconshining-scribe:
Shining-Scribe Featured By Owner Dec 15, 2016  Hobbyist Writer
Hello there! Thank you very much for choosing to join :iconunseen-writers:. Feel free to submit your written works to our gallery and help yourself to sampling the works of other writers our gallery has to offer. A writing prompt, our theme of the week, is produced every Monday to help provide creative inspiration. I hope we'll be able to help you grow as a writer. :heart:
Reply
:icontheevilovelords:
TheEvilOvelords Featured By Owner Sep 20, 2016  Hobbyist General Artist

Thanks for joining our group! :D
May we be graced by your presence for a long time :meow:

Sakurai Amy
Founder of The Writer Gang

Reply
Add a Comment: