Crackling flames lick at old bricks as she watches her past go up in flames. In the oven, passport, wallet, and paperwork crumble to ash.

She turns away from the blazing heat and walks out into the cold of night, leaving even her name behind her.

This is for Three Line Tales. Thanks to Sonya for running the challenge and Cathal Mac an Bheatha for providing the prompt photo!



Light shone out across the dark room, coming from the bathroom door.

Funny, Keeley thought, I was sure I’d turned it off.

Footsteps tapped on the tile. Humming rose up – off-key Sinatra.

Keeley tensed, every muscle becoming rigid, the hairs on her neck standing on end. She grabbed a lamp and crept towards the door, the power cable trailing behind like a tail.

With a deep breath, she turned the corner, lamp held high, heart pounding.

A man was standing there, a toothbrush in his mouth. He blinked, then sighed.

“This isn’t my house, is it?”

Word Count: 96

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


“Seriously,” Jenn said, holding up the goop-laden cup, sticky brown liquid coursing over her hand, “what does corporate think coffee looks like?”

Walter sighed. Reclined in his chair, he threw his ball up in the air, watching it bounce against the ceiling.

“I’m sure if you sent a complaint,” he said, “they’ll get right on it.”

“Right on it.” Jenn rolled her eyes. “Six months time, then?”

“If we’re lucky.”

“And if we tell them productivity’s down twelve percent?”

“Layoffs.” The ball landed in his outstretched hand and he tossed it up again. “And because of budget cuts, no new coffee for sixteen months.”

Jenn shook her head. “Stupid corporate.”

She picked her up cup and went to the window. The Earth was rising, just over the grey, rocky horizon, a blue light amongst the canvas of stars.

“They’ve got no idea what it’s like out here.”

Word Count: 147

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


Blackness filled the skies, a choking acidic haze. The ground quivered with each step the Thing took, the jumbled monstrosity of angles and shadows heaving its way across the town. Its tendrils snaked in every direction.

Wendy lay below the window, heart pounding, terrified but unable to look away.

“Almost too late,” a voice said – soft, ancient, whispering.

Wendy spun around. There was a man standing in her house, a straw hat on his head and his hand on the handle of a question mark umbrella.


“How did I get in?” The man shook his head. “Not the most interesting of questions.”

Behind him, she could see the corner of a battered blue box.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Wendy,” she replied. “Wendy Marsh.”

“Stay here, Wendy Marsh.” He opened the door. “I’m going to have a word with our friend out there.”

“You can’t!” she squeaked. “It’ll kill you. Like everyone else. Turned them inside out.”

The man smiled, tipped his hat, and went out.

He stood before the thing, this tiny little man with his umbrella against a thing vast as the night.

And from where Wendy was watching, it looked like the monster was trembling.

Word Count: 199

This is for Sunday Photo Fiction. Thanks to A Mixed Bag for the photo prompt!


Even after all those years, the Volkswagon gleams like a dragon’s hoard.

“I kept it just the way it was,” she tells him, her fingers brushing against his.

“That was forty years ago,” he replies and pulls his hand back.

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


The bus moves slowly, grinding its way along the forgotten roads, the long, silent stillness of the in-between. There is nothing for miles, nothing but the road. Night has fallen long ago, black shadows stretching over barren earth. The road is cracked and full of potholes. White and yellow lines have long faded to near-invisibility.

There is only one passenger, a woman with a small duffel bag and a long, dirty coat. She smells of old sweat, drying filth, and back alleys. One of her eyes is a piercing grey. The other is a gaping hole.

She has not paid for her ticket and he has not noticed.

Between long, dirt-trapping nails, she turns a golden coin. It glints in the light, sometimes looking one way, sometimes another, the faces changing: one moment presidents, the next pharaohs, then skull-faced things older than either.

“Where’s your stop?” the driver asks.

The coin spins.

“Turn here,” she says. Her voice seems full of old secrets.

And the bus turns, away from from the road, out into the darkness of the night. A new road stretches before it, like shimmering glass that reflects only shadows.

The driver does not notice.

Word Count: 197

This is for Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner. Thanks to rogershipp for running the challenge.


The elders told of how the stone arrived, trailing fire and smoke, kicking up clouds of dust as it slammed into the earth. They had understood that it must be a gift from the gods, sent from the stars like a streaking arrow.

For a thousand years, it was a place of sacrifices: gold, silver, crops, bone, and blood. It liked the blood most of all.

But then the old ways died out and the star-stone was forgotten.

Alone it lay in the woods, piled high with needles and dying leaves.

If rocks dreamt, this one dreamt of blood.

Word Count: 99

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