danny-boweman-1

They never expected her to survive: not with an arrow in her side, her horse dead, her water gone, and miles of bitter desert ahead.

She limped on, a trail of red specks marking her way through dust and rocks. Her throat burned and her body ached, but she pushed on.

She collapsed feet away from the gate of the high wall. Soldiers rushed her inside, giving her water and laying her on a soft bed.

“Riders,” she said. “Riders on the eastern border. A thousand men, war-ready, with bows and steel.”

Then her eyes closed and she was still.


Word Count: 100

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

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tltweek84

“It would have been nice and cosy: wood-burning stove, colourful shutters on the window, a comfy bed…”

“So what happened?”

“We went over budget three weeks in and the workers walked.”


This is for Three Line Tales! Thanks to Sonya for running the challenge and Niv Rozenberg for providing the prompt photo!

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He made light and shadow dance in canvas and oil, as though he had bound them with brushes and force of will. Seascapes, landscapes, sunrises, and sunsets were brought to shimmering life beneath his talented hand. He was popular; he was acclaimed; he was happy.

Then came the shaking, the clenching, the pain that ran through his bones like quicksilver. The diagnosis was clear: total loss of muscular control within a year. No more paintings.

Once more he sat out in the cold, wind in his face, and forced his brush to glide over the canvas.

His last sunset.


Word Count: 99

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

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The War is coming.

They feel it in their bones. The shops are shut. Windows are barred. Mothers hold their children close. The streets are empty. A lone newspaper flutters on the breeze, drifting between abandoned cars.

The War is coming.

There has been no announcement on the radio. There has been nothing on the television. The Internet is a haze of grey. Nobody talks about it. They simply know.

The War is coming.

The tanks come, and the soldiers with them. Rifles and helmets glint and clank as they move through empty streets. Darting eyes stare through boarded windows, watching them move.

A soldier stops for a moment, aims his rifle at a noise: a cat, sitting atop a dustbin. In a flash of fur and claws and eyes, it is gone. It knows better than to be out when the War is coming.

They come to the port, looking out over the channel sea. Waters lap gently against the metal legs of abandoned dock cranes. The tanks roll to a halt, treads becoming still and silent. The whisper of waves on rocks fills the cold air.

And in the grey mist, they see the shadow of the enemy.


This is for Sunday Photo Fiction. Photo credit to A Mixed Bag.

Origami Escapism

Posted: August 31, 2017 by J.A. Prentice in Flash Fiction
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tltweek83

Paper folds easily in her fingers, shapes forming from orange, blue, yellow, green. She makes boats and birds and swords and cars and aeroplanes, putting them in a little row under the shadows of the barred window.

She wishes more than anything she could make a key.


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

smallpox-hospital-roger-bultot

In the ruins of the hall, the mad king kept his court. His tapestries were crawling ivy, his musicians cawing crows. He sat upon a throne of skull and stone, his sunken eyes glowering at his subjects: foxes and badgers and feral cats, a snarling court of white-toothed beasts.

Nobody came here, not anymore. He was sealed away with his madness, only old bones for company. Sometimes they whispered in the dark, telling him the secrets of the dead.

Each morning, he stood at the gate, watching golden light spread over the hills, never able to take that first step.


Word Count: 100

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

 

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Fingers pulled back on the bowstring. Sparrow could feel it fighting her, all the power of the strained yew struggling to break loose.

Below, the sounds of battle raged, a warring tide of blood and steel. Swords struck against mail; maces clashed with helms.

She shut it all out, ignoring screams and shouts and ringing. Her elbow brushed against the leaves of her tree as she breathed deep, eyes closing as she centered herself.

Then, in the flutter of a sparrow’s wings, she took her shot.

The arrow soared through the maelstrom of battle, striped feathers catching the wind.

A scream rang out, then a shout.

“The King’s hit!”

Arrows thwacked into the bark of Sparrow’s perch. Soldiers charged up the hill and into the trees.

The King lay on the battlefield, an arrow sticking from his ruined eye.

And Sparrow was gone, vanishing into the shadows of the forest.


Word Count: 150

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