Kreative Kue 18, issued on this site last week, asked for submissions based on a photograph depicting an old shepherd’s hut on the edge of a field.
Two stories resulted.
Sacha Black, who blogs at sachablack.co.uk offered this tale of a childhood dare:
Narnia’s Shed By Sacha Black
“I’m not going in there Tom,” I said shoving my hands in my pocket and kicking at the grass.
“I’m not chicken. You go in if you’re so brave.”
“That wasn’t the dare. I’ve done mine. Tell him, Chris.”
Chris nodded, and gave me a hard shove towards the shed.
“I hate you both.”
A heavy well of dread formed in my stomach, twisting and furling knots. I took a couple of steps towards the shed and looked back at the boys.
“What if I never come back, like those other kids?”
“It’s not Narnia, moron. It’s just a bloody shed. Get a move on. Chicken, CHICKEN. Chiiiiicken.” Tom rammed his hands under his armpits and flapped around making chicken sounds. Chris sniggered and my cheeks burned.
“You’re a basterd. You both are.”
I stormed toward the shed leaving them behind me giggling. I won’t be shown up. Besides they were only rumours. The three kids that disappeared probably just ran away from home.
I touched the shed door and pulled the lock back. A rush of cold air shot through the gap sending a tingle down my spine. I paused. What if I really didn’t come back? I looked back at the boys. Chris had joined in the chicken dance. I closed my eyes and puffed my chest out yanking the door open.
A rush of freezing air blew around me and sucked at my body. It pulled harder. My hands struggled to hold on to the handle. The wind got stronger. Colder. Both legs were sucked in. My waist then torso. I yelped as my fingertips fell one after another. My hand burned trying to hold on.
Both boys froze, colour draining from their faces. Chris moved first. Then Tom. Feet pounding on the grass. Another finger slipped. And another.
“I can’t hold on. Hurry.”
One finger and a thumb were left grasping the wooden door. Chris stretched his arm, reaching, red faced and puffing. Splinters shredded my finger. Chris screamed “hold on.”
My energy drained, he wasn’t going to make it. Tears streaked my cheeks, and warm liquid dribbled down my leg.
“No,” Tom yelled, eyes bulging his hands stretched out.
My last finger slipped. I let go.
My own effort entitled “Albert and Jarvis — a collaborative tale” is here. I am still looking for suggested continuations.
Meanwhile, let’s see what we can do with this image:
Using this photo as inspiration, write a short story, flash fiction, scene or poem, and either put it (or a link to it) in a comment or email it to me at email@example.com before 6pm on Sunday (if you aren’t sure what the time is where I live, this link will tell you).
Go on. You know you want to. Let your imagination soar. I shall display the entries, with links to your own blog or web site, next Monday.