Okay, here is my submission to this wonderful literary rodeo which, despite me setting my clock to New York time, I entered too late cause I am over here in the UK and cannot read the clocks I plonked on my desktop. 🙄
Anyways, hope you enjoy my 297 word flash fiction story (words counted using the competition recommended WordCounter.net). Maybe you’ll nip over to the Carrot Ranch and join in with the next themed competition prompt on September 7th.
This first prompt was based on the following prompt:
UP, UP, UP AND AWAY
Kelvin M. Knight
He hooked one wing in here, where the cloud was softest and fluffiest and the other wing he slid in there, where it was least yuckiest. Quickly he hauled himself away from that childish heart-shaped number one to this more grown-up harp-filled number two.
This cloud was larger than the first. There was more room to play. And play those cherubs did, with their rainbow-coloured harps, but not him. He was on a mission. He stretched, he leapt, he snagged, he swung, from two to three to four to five.
Careful or you’ll climb yourself a scar!
And scarred wings are notoriously difficult to un-climb!
Because they scar straight to your heart of hearts!
To spite these three overprotective garden angels, he climbed ridiculously swiftly from that fish-shaped number five though six to this mountain-themed number seven.
The adolescent angels on the cloud above him gasped as he dangled from a single wingtip, but not one of them offered him any assistance. Polishing their halos, they disappeared into glorious sunlight.
Gritting cloven toes, he sang. Seven flew into eight. Because he used all his wings, including those he didn’t know he possessed. Then, there it was, that glorious number nine, so high above him he felt dizzy. This next climb was going to be the toughest, would require the biggest leap of faith, the mightiest flap then swing. But those rewards. Cloud number nine was where miraculous things occurred.
Breathing deeply, he calmed himself, then stretched and flapped everything there was and wasn’t. He roared. He squealed. He tumbled, down passed clouds eight to one to where the numbers turned negative.
Here silveriness stopped him. Here, writhing on his back, he thumped his wings until this stupid silver cloud turned black, whereupon crimson and hot things danced.