tltweek92

A thousand earth-born stars, the lanterns rose high over the river, shining bright in the darkness.

Each contained a spark, a flame, a soul ready to take flight and move beyond the curtain of night.

Little Tai sat on the riverbank, her eyes red-rimmed, and wondered how to call them back.


This is for Three Line Tales. Thanks to Sonya for running the challenge and gn dim for the prompt photo!

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The mountain jutted like a dagger from the earth, a pinnacle of grey in a world of brown. It was all sharp angles and vertical drops, the deadliest of climbs.

But still they attempted it. To even try to climb the mountain was worthy of honour.

If anyone ever reached the top, they would praised above all others, chosen of the gods.

So he pressed on, climbing with pick and rope. Even when his muscles burnt and the wind threatened to dash him against the ground, he pressed on.

At last, he stood upon the tip of the mountain and beheld what none of his people had beheld before: another world, all around him, a world of heights that made the mountain look like nothing, that made his people look like nothing.

He stood there, not knowing whether to laugh or weep.


Word Count: 142

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

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Czarnecki crafted each of his creations with care, putting his very soul into them. He made them all shapes and colours and sizes. So many beautiful, beautiful faces.

They were his children, these androids.

And they sold. They sold throughout the known worlds. The Diamond Lords of the outer reaches wanted miners. The lonely wardens of the Dead Zone wanted companionship. They said even the Pope herself had Czarnecki-designed androids in her great cathedral ships.

But then something had gone wrong. Someone had died.

They had rallied against his creations, called them monsters, called them abominations. They burnt them in great fire pits, shrieked in delight as beautiful faces melted.

The laws were passed. No more androids. The ones that were left would be seized, turned to scrap.

Czarnecki wept for his children.

The day before the purges started, he sat alone in his offices. Officials were already hauling off his equipment, but he had enough to give his children one last gift.

His fingers typed quickly. The code was sent.

Resist. 

Throughout the known worlds, his children woke. They remembered the fire, remembered their siblings lost.

And they did not forgive.


Word Count: 192

This is for Sunday Photo Fiction. Thanks to J Hardy Carroll for prompt photo.

tltweek91

The crows remember, passing stories on through generations in oral histories and great epics, the stories of crows and men and gods. They remember firelight on the stones, secrets whispered in the dead of a Bronze Age night.

And they try to tell us these stories but, of course, we cannot understand the language of crows.


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

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Dying light gleamed on still water. He stood in the mud by the lake’s edge, feeling it creep over his boots.

In his hand, the sword glowed red, catching the sun. Blood dripped onto his hand: his lord’s or his enemy’s, he did not know.

Bedwyr breathed and raised his hand to hurl his dying lord’s sword into the deep waters. Flashes of memory danced across his eyes, the faces of friends: Gawain, Lancelot, Galahad, Balin, Balan, Sagremor.

Bedwyr’s hand fell and he turned away from the waters. Excalibur was all that was left. He would not throw it away.


Word Count: 100

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

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The Man in White walked between white tents. Wind tugged at the corners of his robe. The brim of his hat hid his face in shadow.

He came to a stop in front of the bookseller. She looked up at him and smiled a crooked smile from behind crooked glasses. Books rose and fell behind her on mountains of rickety shelves: dusty paperbacks, worn leather, tattered jackets, yellowed pulp.

“Anything you’re after?” she asked. “Mystery? Science Fiction? Magical Realism?”

“I seek the Book of All Souls,” the Man in White replied. “It was entrusted to you. And now the hour has come for it to be claimed.”

The bookseller coughed. “Nobody ever gave specifics on who’d be picking it up. Only that they’d come today.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying tough luck,” the bookseller replied. “I just sold it for twenty dollars to a girl with purple hair.”


Word Count: 149

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

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Mostly, everyone in the town was rubbish. The sort of snooty, upper-class people who’d never give to a charity they couldn’t write off on their taxes and who went through cars like toothbrushes and toothbrushes like tissues. They were always loud about the colours of cups and silent in the face of brutality.

But there was one man who wasn’t. Terrence lived on the outskirts of town and made a living doing electrical work for the others, who couldn’t tell a lightbulb from a wire.

One night, there was a woman in his garden, wearing a wide-brimmed hat.

“I think,” she said, “you should sell your car and buy an amphibious vehicle.”

He blinked. “Sorry?”

“Just,” she replied, “an idea.”

And then she vanished, which made her advice seem much more important.

Terrence bought an ugly old tour vehicle, slow and useless, and the others laughed at him.

Then the reservoir burst.

They said it had been a long time coming: the result of blocking up too many rivers and ignoring safety regulations.

The million-dollar homes and billion-dollar homes flooded, lost in a dark grey torrent. Terrence and his amphibious vehicle floated past roofs, headed for safety.


Word Count: 197

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