tltweek98

The bear – a little too white, too soft – frolicked in the pristine snow and the little girl clapped her hands, smile spread to show her slightly-crooked white teeth.

“It’s beautiful, daddy,” she said, tugging at his hand like she was trying to pull it off.

But he remembered when there had been real bears, when there had been real snow, when there had been a world outside holograms and domes, so very, very long ago.


This is for Three Line Tales. Thanks to Sonya for providing the challenge and Caterina Sanders for providing the prompt photo!

Advertisements

lampost-s-pier-sandra-crook

There is a street that cannot be found on any map, wandering and slithering like a serpent through the undergrowth. Old brick and peeling plaster slink from one corner of the city to the other. Even in midsummer, there is a heavy grey fog, thick as soup, and even in midday, the crescent moon hangs in the sky.

And at the top of flickering lampposts, stars twinkle, bound in glass and iron. Long ago, an old woman reached into night and plucked them down like flowers from a meadow.

Now they light her street, long after she is gone.


Word Count: 99

This is for Friday Fictioneers. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for running the challenge and Sandra Cook for providing the prompt photo!

photo-20171211155310530

He couldn’t remember how he arrived. All he knew was the flicker of tallow candles, the bone-white plates, and something fried, turned over and over in batter and fat.  He prodded it with a fork, but it remained a mystery.

Two great wooden heaved open and his hosts entered. There were seven of them, some in dresses of starlight, some in robes of night. All hid their faces beneath masks of porcelain.

“Are you liking your meal?” one asked.

“It’s excellent.” He’d been raised to be polite.

“Good. Now to discuss the plans you’ve been putting into motion…”

He blinked. “What?”

The porcelain-masked figure sighed and looked at the others. “You got the wrong one again.”

“Sorry,” another muttered, “all mortals look the same to me.”

“We’ll send you back right away,” the first one said. “Sorry for the inconvenience.”

And he was gone, the room dissipating like steam.


Word Count: 149

This is for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers. Thanks to Priceless Joy for running the challenge and Yarnspinner for providing the prompt photo!

18-eric-wiklund-10-december-2017

Deep in the bog, Greeneyes lived with her family. Their roof was moss, their round door grey wood, their floor bare earth. They were goblin-folk, driven into the shadows.

One night, Greeneyes walked under the stars and heard a voice cry out.

“Little goblin, tell me your name.”

Names were potent things and Greeneyes knew better than to give hers to night-voices.

“I am a leaf in spring,” she said. “And what are you?”

The water stirred. She saw a leather-skinned man, his neck wrapped with a tight cord.

“I am a king. Cut me free and I shall set you upon a throne of silver and gold.”

Greeneyes laughed. “What do I want with silver? You can’t eat it and you can’t burn it.”

“I will give you beauty to make princes kneel before you.”

“I am beautiful enough.”

“I will give you justice,” the bog-man said through stiff lips.

“Our justice will come,” Greeneyes replied. “One day we shall laugh in Goblintown. But it shall not come from you.”

Greeneyes left the king to his hangman’s rope and went back to her house, where peat fires burnt brighter than gold and songs meant more than dead king’s promises.


Word Count: 200

This is for Sunday Photo Fiction. Thanks to Eric Wiklund for the prompt photo!

tltweek97

Grandmother had a door painted in all the colours of the sea – from blue to green to grey – and it was always locked with a chain of unbreaking iron.

They said that she had wrestled with the god of the waters and bound him with iron, stone, and wood – a three-fold charm.

When I pressed my ears against the wood, I could hear the ocean – the crash of surf driven endlessly against the cliffs, the cry of lonely birds over grey waves, and the soft whisper of a cold sea breeze.


This is for Three Line Tales. Thanks to Sonya for running the challenge and Bogdan Dada for providing the prompt photo!

icicles-dale-rogerson

Pale icicles hung from leafless branches as Breda stood in the woods, wrapped in a grey cloak, eyes fixed upon the tower window. She saw the flare of a candle, bright as the first star.

Words rushed through her head, memories falling like snowflakes.

“It can’t be. I’m promised to another.”

She remembered the tears glistening on her love’s cheek, remembered the hurt in those leaf-green eyes.

Now all she had was candlelight, dim in the falling winter night.

“No,” she whispered. “This isn’t the end.”

And she stepped out from the woods, towards the castle, towards the light.


Word Count: 99

This is for Friday Fictioneers. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for running the challenge and Dale Rogerson for the prompt photo!

photo-20171204154641645

“Do you have any idea how fast you were going?” the police officer asked. She had a hard face and a torch that scorched his eyes like a small sun.

“Quite fast, ma’am,” James replied.

“Quite fast indeed. Any reason for the urgency?”

“Just eager to get home.” He smiled nervously. There was a mewling sound and the torchlight swept down.

The kitten looked up at the light, little eyes blinking. The police officer smiled.

“Cute little guy,” she said.

“Yes,” James muttered.

“I’ll let you off with a warning.” She wagged a finger. “But just this once, you understand?”

James’s head bobbed up and down. “I understand.”

“Good. Have a safe trip. And no more speeding!”

She walked back to her vehicle and drove off, vanishing into the dark.

“I thought she’d never leave,” the kitten said. “Now remember our deal, James, and drive.”


Word Count: 145

This is for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers. Thanks to Priceless Joy for running the challenge and Enisa for providing the prompt photo!