‘In a sun-dappled meadow surrounded by whispering trees and soft, chirping breezes,’ my friend Roland broke off from reading aloud, and sneered at me, ‘What’s a chirping breeze.’
I felt myself blushing and I wriggled in my seat as he read more from my masterpiece. ‘In the sun-drenched countryside the early morning light gently spills over rolling meadows. The sky is a vast, cloudless canvas painted in soft hues of pale blue and hints of pink as the sun peeks over the distant hills. Dew clings to tender blades of grass, which shimmer like tiny jewels under the golden glow. Each step along the winding park path feels like an invitation to pause and savour the fresh, crisp air, scented with wildflowers and the rich, damp earth.’
Roland feigned to put two fingers down his throat and wretch. ‘So, this is your entry for the Garston Writers’ summer competition,’ he waved the sheet of paper contemptuously.
I had been fretting for weeks over my entry and the deadline was tomorrow. The theme was, ‘A stroll in the park,’ but it was proving to be anything but.
Roland was enjoying himself and not about to let me off the hook, ‘The gentle rustle of leaves overhead dances in tandem with a chorus of birdcalls, as small creatures flit energetically from one tree to another.’
I snatched the sheet from him and frantically tore it into pieces. Lesson learned. I silently vowed never again to get A.I. to write stories for me.
Words: Richard Rooney
Illustration: A.I.
Flash Fiction 250
Flash Fiction 250 