Photo story: Bird Tales: Call of the Jay


One of the things I have enjoyed playing with is using my photographs and writing little fictions inspired by them right on the image in Photoshop. These aren’t technically flash fictions because to be honest I don’t know how long each bit is. But they are fun and a way to combine two of my hobbies. Emjoy

call-of-the-jay

Just a bit of thought today


As a long time writer and a medium time blogger i have written about a lot of things. One of the things that I like to do is think back over the various things I have done. Now those of you who have joined my blog recently (Thank you) may not know that I do more than just flash fictions. I have written short story collections, poetry collections, novels, fan fiction and even erotica over the years.

I have been in the past really depressed that it seemed like my work was being seen by no one. That is in part why I started to post up those free flash fictions here. But also over the past two years I have gone from producing huge amounts of short stories and novels, to mostly flash fictions and drabbles to a really dry period for nearly a year. When I dragged myself back up by the bootstraps I found there was a new set of tales to be told but from a totally different style. I looked at my various pieces of art from the past forty years (Yeah I have stuff going back to around junior high school) and realized there were tales sitting right in front of me that needed only the words to be written. Thus my illustrated tales started. Now they are being posted up on two of my other blogs and of course over on deviant art.

If you don’t follow more than one of my blogs you will probably wonder what the heck. I have a total of seven right now and I am planning on starting one to put up all of my poetry.  This blog was started as a place to just ruminate on being a writer and all the things that both inspire and dull my art. Writers are probably both the sanest and craziest of people. We spend hours/days/weeks/months talking to our imaginary friends. We create stories that are our babies and we gleefully/timidly release them to the world to love/mock/enjoy all the time.

Everyday I see on social media people saying that society has stopped creating, that people dont read anything that isn’t 140 characters long and so many other dark and grumpy things but I argue that the art of story telling is still alive and people are still gobbling it up.

Everything from short stories in collections to interactive chat stories are out there. Novels are still selling and people have more choices than ever before to read. No longer do we need to feel ashamed of the hobby of reading thanks to all those dreaded electronic devices. You can read anything you want just by the click of a button.

I started rambling here commenting about my illustrated tales. I have written a series of different illustrated tales. They run the gambit of styles and genres. Though most of them could easily be considered childrens stories. I have used both hand drawn images and those i have created with an ap on my tablet. So the art is at times a bit primitive but it seems like those who see it are enjoying it.

When I started doing them I was expected them to be only a few pages but some of them are up in the twenty or more pages. While the text is only a paragraph at most on each image it does add up doesn’t it?

If you are interested in seeing these you can hit up either my deviant art page here

http://suteko-williamson.deviantart.com/gallery/

or my other blogs

http://booksbylisawilliamson.wordpress.com

or

http://talesofsirjacksonderabbitus.wordpress.com

And if you are looking for longer free reads you can find me over at Wattpad

https://www.wattpad.com/user/LisaWilliamson

flash fiction: Orange Fog Forest


The long path through pale orange fog leads I do not know where. I walk this path for what seems like days but it never changes. The sun, or is it the moon, sits at the same place, each time I look. The trees bend over, barely touching yet impenetrable when I try to pass. How did I come here? Why did I come here? I am lost in a forest of mist and fog and know not why. Once I knew where I was going, knew who I was, but now I keep walking. Maybe when I reach the end of this path, I will know who I am. When will this forest end and life begin again?

flash fiction: Fire Eyes An Echoes of Elder Times flash fiction


Summer Solstice is just another day to most. Filled with lots of sunlight, warmth and good times. Pull out the barbecue and beer and enjoy the long hours of golden sunlight. Play in that light and soak up the heat, good times are here.

But not too long ago people remembered, people held ceremonies celebrating the day. For it is the turning point of the year. The shortest night of the longest day, meant to get so much living done. There are a few who burn the bonfire, the bone fire still. They burn for the turning, to remind the world that they year will grow darker now. Long ago the fires called us to you but now they simply light up the dark, for few know how to get our attention any longer.

Look closely and you will see my eyes in those fires. Watching and waiting for you to invite us out to play. The summer will be only so long, so go ahead and live those lazy days of play for soon enough you will need to work to stay warm.

With the last golden ray of silken sunshine the torch is thrust into the perfumed wood. You, oh wise one, ignored the others and brought with you fragrant boughs. You brought woods that are not common for this place, Oak and Ash and Thorn, just as the old songs call for. You peeked my curiosity with those pieces of wood and I slid into the fire to watch. I wanted to see if you would notice me, dancing about below in the hottest part of the flames, and you did.

He smoke tasted so good when you leaned in, adding resins to the coals left when the wood burned low. I danced a jig and for a moment you watched me. A simple yet joyful smile built in your eyes and you winked at me before turning to speak to the young being at your side.

You fed the fire the whole night through. Your friends sang songs and drank fine wine but you paid attention to the fire, keeping it hot and bright enough that I felt welcomed once more. Will you gift me once more? Give me a place to play? If you do I will keep your fires burning bright the whole yearlong. For I am Salamander and you have called me from my cold sleep.

Flash fiction: Flowers for Her


The sunflowers drooped as the rain dripped down. The day was gray, overcast and sad, not anything like I had planned. I stood there, staring down, wondering where it all went wrong.

Yesterday she told me to meet her and to bring them with me. That she had something important to tell me, something that would change our lives forever. Well my life has changed, as has hers. Changed forever, in a split second.

She had been waiting for me, that is what they told me. Sitting on the hood of her car, basking in the early morning sunshine, when the truck came over the hill. They tell me the driver had a medical emergency, that there was nothing that could have stopped what happened, but that doesn’t make it any better.

Bending down, I place the sunflowers on that place where we should have met. At the side of the road by the mountain overlook. These flowers were meant for her, and so I leave them here, in her memory.

Flash fiction: The Golden Glow of Home


Standing below the skeleton tree I looked up at the golden glow coming from the window. It had been too long since I left her side, wandering the world in search of my destiny. So many miles of road beneath my feet, yet my path brought me back here, ending up in the place I had started.

It had been winter when I walked away, the world blanketed in soft white that reflected the glow from her window. She had sent me away, angry at my choices. I swore then I would never return. Spring had found me far away, yet my heart harked back to that window, longing curling in my belly for her sweet face.

I fought my way through summer, splashes of red staining the bright green that flowed across fields. Men and boys dying meant less to me than the home I could have had. The song of a single bird echoed with my memories of home.

Fall called me back, the dying of the colors bringing memories of times lost. Finally I came back to where I started, standing here working up the courage to climb those stairs and ask if I could come home.