Just a quick note to let everyone know that the anthology I mentioned a couple of weeks ago is now live. You can get your copy here (for you in the US, and here for those of you in the UK). The title is TL;DR: A Redditwriters Mixtape Vol. 1
In its pages you will find thirty-one stories from twenty-six authors. There is no theme to the anthology, so almost everyone will find at least one story to his or her liking. There’s fantasy, crime, horror, and even comedy.
Why should you buy this anthology? Because that way you’d be giving to charity. The proceeds from this endeavour go directly to Doctors Without Borders. So, if you buy a copy, you won’t be giving money to us, but for a good cause.
Are you bored with promotions yet? Yes? No? Well, here’s another one. The Man Behind The Bar is free worldwide for today only (May 28). You can get a copy here. If you live in the UK, try here, if in Germany go here. Here’s the link for Canada and Australia. Check other regional Amazon shops for your free copies. Oh, and I’d love it if you could leave a review.
Anyway, on to writing prompt 42
Thunder cracked in the distance. “You sure it’s the right grave?” Burt asked. I rattled and slapped the flashlight, and muttered a few curses. “Eleventh from the path,” I said over the whistling wind and the pattering of the rain. The flashlight came to life, and a yellow ribbon cut through the darkness. I pointed the light beam on the tombstone. The rain washed the name away. two New ones replaced it. They were our names.
Originally, the above prompt was bigger (more like a vignette, though probably too small even for it), but since I’ve decided to publish these prompts on Pinterest and had to use background graphics for them for more people to, hopefully, benefit from them, available space became an issue. Anyway, for the readers of this blog, and those interested in the slightly longer version, here’s the original piece.
The flash illuminated Burt’s face staring at me, water running in rivulets on it. “You sure it’s the right one?” Moment’s later, thunder cracked somewhere in the distance.
Roger slapped his flashlight, rattled it, and emitted a few silent curses.
I nodded. Stupid me; he couldn’t see me in this pitch black. “Eleventh headstones from the path,” I said over the whistling wind.
Roger’s flashlight came to life, and a yellow ribbon cut through the darkness. “Finally.”
“I have a bad feeling about this,” Burt said. “Let the dead rest, my pop used to say.”
“Doesn’t surprise me one bit. You’re as senile and superstitious as he was. In his best days.”
Roger whimpered loud enough for me and Burt to hear. His light beam was shaking. He pointed a finger at the tombstone.
The letters on it faded away, as if dissolved by the water. New letters formed and replaced the old ones.
They were our names.