Mastodawn

Uncle did not speak of his humble origins. My presence must be an anathema to him. A statement in flesh and bone, not of what he had been, but what he would become if he were to lose everything he had gained.

#MastoPrompt #Writing #MicroFiction

Jon 6d ago

Micro SF/F by O. Westin 6d ago

RE: https://mastodon.art/@MicroSFF/114149050576447349

** Reposting this story I wrote last year
#GnuTerryPratchett
**

Jon Feb 25

Spring is in the air. Time for a bath.

Jon Feb 22

I was all right up to 1200, but struggled after that. I got the gist of 1100, but missed a lot of nuance. 1000 was more or less beyond me. ( I studied Chaucer in the original and know a few words of Old English). How far can you get?

https://www.deadlanguagesociety.com/p/how-far-back-in-time-understand-english

How far back in time can you understand English?

An experiment in language change

Dead Language Society

Jon Feb 9

Daibhid Ceanneadeach Feb 9

Here's a fun bit of royal trivia; when King Charles handed his previous titles over to William he gave William most of the documentation with his right hand, but ancient tradition demanded he used his other hand for the documents related to Cornwall.

This tradition is immortalised in the well-known phrase "Pass the Duchy on the left-hand side."

Jon Feb 7

This month (and this month only) I get my full time salary *and* my state pension. I was wondering what to spend it on. The answer, it turns out, is a new washing machine.

Jon Jan 4

#SundayLit Time

How long they walked for, or how far, Frida couldn’t tell. Neither time nor distance were the same here as in mortal lands. Halfdan led the way, Ulrika followed, and Frida brought up the rear, with Ulf riding in her apron pocket. As they walked, she became aware of a slowly growing movement in the darkness around them, a feeling of a wind that was not a wind, the creaking of trees that were no trees, and a snuffling sound, made by what she didn’t know, and nor did she want to.

Jon Dec 7

#SundayLit 100 word Short story: A Winter's Night

The fox ran over the moonlit snow. Hunger drove him, scent led him; down to the eaves of the forest, to a lonely cottage with a hen-house. Once among the chickens madness took him, blood splashed the walls. The door opened, a light shone. "Curse you, Reynard!" cried the angry witch. "You shall become the worst creature I can think of!" The fox swore as his head hit the roof, and swore again as he saw what he had become.

A man.

Jon Nov 30

This week’s #SundayLit prompt is: Games

Not something my characters do a lot, but there is this.

Jon Nov 27

#ScribesAndMakers Share the last sentence you wrote in your WIP.

“Kay, I always thought you were a hard faced bitch who only cared for money and herself. Seems I was wrong.”
“Yeah, well … don’t go f**king telling anybody, Princess.”

(Two sentences for context)