Twitterature: A Challenge

In August I challenged myself to post one piece of Twitterature up a week, inspired by friend and author Liss Macklin, her being the one who initially switched me on to the microfiction. Some of you may be asking “What on earth is ‘twitterature’?” well, Wikipedia calls it:

Twitterature (a portmanteau of Twitter and literature) is literary use of the microblogging service of Twitter. It includes various genres, including aphorismspoetry and fiction written by individuals or collaboratively.

The 140-character maximum imposed by the medium provides a creative challenge.

Basically, you try fit a mini narrative into a tweet. That’s it. The description above makes it sound a little more grand than it actually is. I had done the odd Twitterature post in the past, but nothing on a regular schedule.

I decided to make it more of a regular thing, every Tuesday, in fact.

In an attempt to keep this site up to date with all the daft things I decide to do, I figured I ought to collate the ones I’ve done up to September. Going forwards I’ll likely do a new post for these each month so it doesn’t become such a chore to record everything. October will be its own thing, probably just every Tuesday as normal as I’m trying to do Inktober, but in November I might do that but for Twitterature…

We danced on the edge of discs made of dust, eyes to the stars. Humans dead, long years past; we became more than we were. – Aug 1

Mists roll back from our perfect home, where visitors scream and monsters roam. Sacrifices must be made, stranger to strange. – Aug 8

She scratched at the scars. She’d asked for them to look like those tattoo necklaces from the 90s; they’d done a decent job. – Aug 15

Fronds danced on the wind like wings. We would call them ferns, but the colours were askew, all bruise purple and midnight. – Aug 22

“Curse words” she said and smiled.
“Oh, I don’t think calling them a fuc-”
“No. I’m going to curse them for all eternity, Bob” – Aug 29

Neon tubes flickered gently, casting jittery shadows on a grey expanse of carpet. Open plan, empty, a papery scent. Limbo. – Sep 8

Speak to me of dreams and magic, not doves or card tricks, true wonder and mystery. No mystic lies for empty hearts. Tell me. – Sep 15

We dream furiously together, hand-in-hand. Tormented by our own creations, our eyes flicker, nightmares fueled by us, for us. – Sep 19

He watched the creep of cold and death of leaves from trees. Scatter, crush, mulch. The change of small worlds before him. – Sep 26


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