Tuesday, August 05, 2008

More Members, More Prompts

We now have eleven signed up, twenty flashes and one story posted and approaching 100 crits.

Here are some prompts to cover the week. Loads more at BC.

Monday Prompts

The Gods That Failed
Goldilocks is Asleep
When lovely woman stoops to folly
She turns and looks a moment in the glass
On the cheap
And children suffocate
No one scrambles over the sliding chalk
Bacon, bacon
On the divan piled, stocking, camisoles, stays
Unreal Cities
Hardly aware of her departed lover
A Silen Fan
A sea-fog like gunsmoke
So now the Victorians are all in Hell
Your favourite word is wee, and you eat Eccles Cakes


An so de rain a-fall and a-fall
Black Ball
There I places I will never go
Married and not pregnant: there’s posh for you
Where can I go then, from the smell
Bless you Alpha-Doggie
Good Boys
Into the grave that we have dug
Dai K lives at the end of the valley
Sin-Cake, Sin-Eater
Books, books, books
Of the forests and smashed faces
A crowd flowing over a bridge
A drowning child
Blodwen is leaving
He ravishes the fiddle, screams when drunk


What are we waiting for, assembled in the forum?
GOOGLE as a number
The night we were struck, the night
Icing, meteors
Trains will run later, and fuck it
Cheesy Bond
September was when it began
Magic ingredient
A swarm of frogs, swollen, hideous
I can remember, see, my father walking home. I was never there
Miss Marples, were they ever young and fucked?


You could try cheese
Mirror, mirror, on the fucking wall
The eighth dwarf
Crowds round the ticket barrier, a white face waiting
Death by Meteor
It has been said, that sometimes I lie, or bend the truth
Blind Faith
The very young T.E.
Was there a poster of me, with a moustache?
Blowing up the train
Poets only play with words, they always lie
We fight for something
There was an airfield here, the grass grows and leaves a pattern
What is the opposite of E’s?
My father ran round the garden in the dark


At least it’s something
September 1, 1939
There is no greater crime than leaving, except to stay
I may have been a Zulu, or wore petticoats
Mis-spelling, Miss Spelling
You can count on friends, but only to twenty or so
All I have is a voice
Accurate Scholarship is not of the soul
But the corpse, alas, goes on dying
You do not love the dead, the word is LOVED
After all you lasted longer
Practice hate, hate the village


I sit in a dive on fifty-second street
Truth-loving Persians
And where, exactly did the peach come from?
Why declare war?
Listen, there is a hum, and ticking
Through half-deserted streets
Tennis for the dead
Dogs skittering on polished floors
And I have known the eyes already
How the door clicks open
Let us go and make our visit
Do I dare?
The soot that falls back down the chimney

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