Posts Tagged ‘creative writing’


They watch it on the monitors: grey against grey, shadow against shadow. And the more they watch, the more they cannot agree.

“Like a bird,” says the first man. “A bird with a plume made of smoke.”

“No, no,” mutters the second man. “Like a hooded man. A hunched, thin man, his legs like matchsticks and his face like darkness.”

“It has no shape,” the third man whispers. “It is a shifting thing, a cloak with no wearer.”

The door handle shakes and the monitors blink out.

The men can agree now on what it is.

It is here.

Word Count: 99

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



Josiah Lee was an ordinary man. He sold carrots at the  market, he helped the Smiths clean their drains, and he knew everybody’s name.

On a warm June night, he rose from his bed, took up his shovel, went into the yard, and began to dig.

When the sun rose, he still dug. His pajamas were mud-stained and his bare feet scratched. His wife called out to him, but he did not hear her. His daughters tried to pull the shovel from his hands, but he fought them off.

“It’s down there,” was all he said. “In the deep.”

Word Count: 99

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


They are wandering shoes, soles worn through walking, tips taped in layers of silver. The dust that coats them is the dust of a hundred places, scattered far and wide.

She wore them for many years, when her stomach roared with hunger and her fingers stung with cold. Now they sit beside a half-dozen other pairs, shining and new.

Her husband tells her to throw them away, but she cannot bring herself to do it. It would be like throwing away a part of herself.

When she dies, she will be buried in those shoes, to wander once more.

Word Count: 99

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


On a farm in the high mountains, a wizard lived alone. He’d had enough of people, enough of their wars and their squabbling. He made a house from stone and wood and set about taming the land with his magic.

The fields were plowed by sharpened boulders, drifting gently through the dirt. The fences opened and closed of their own accord.

Those who had been brave enough – or foolhardy enough – to catch a glimpse of his strange estates, said that the sheep are herded by men and women of hay and sticks, who tend to the lands while the master watched from far above.

But when their master looked away, the herders whispered amongst themselves, speaking in the languages of groaning branch and cracking twig, the song of old willows in the winds.

The wizard did not fear them, for they were his creatures.

Or so he believed.

Word Count: 148

This is for FFfAW. Thanks to Priceless Joy for running the challenge and Ellespeth for providing the prompt photo!


Mesmerized, Allison (who was seven and three-quarters years old and delighted in telling everyone) watched the glasses. Blue, yellow, and red liquid, all tipped to one side even though the glasses were perfectly straight.

She had learned about liquids in school. They weren’t supposed to do that.

Her nose wrinkled in thought.

“Any questions?” asked the man in the dark coat. He looked a bit like a magician, a bit like a scientist, and a bit like a character from one of the picture books she said she was too old for but read when nobody was looking.

“How do you do it?” she asked.

“It’s a trick,” he replied. “The glasses look like they’re straight, but they actually aren’t.”

The wrinkles on her nose wrinkled even more as she screwed up her eyes, daring the glasses to show her their secret. They stayed just as they are.

“That’s not true,” she said. “The table is straight too. You’d have to tip it, but you didn’t.” She looked at him. “So how did you do it?”

“Oh, that’s simple.” He leaned down to whisper a secret, the smile on his face wide as an ocean. “I tipped the universe.”

Word Count: 199

For Sunday Photo Fiction.


The cables whirred. Victoria listened to them, feeling the vibrations carry through the seats, the wind buffeting the windows, each tiny degree the car tipped.

That was the trouble with noticing everything. She didn’t know how to turn it off.

“Nervous?” asked the only other passenger.

She looked at him. Short hair – military cut. Thick coat. Pale eyes. Square jaw. Small scar on the lip.

“My name’s Peter,” he said.

The words were clipped, dictionary-perfect.

“There’s nothing to worry about. I ride it all the time. Never had a problem yet.”

“Just because you haven’t had a problem yet,” Victoria said, “doesn’t mean there won’t be one in the future.”

“True.” Peter smiled. “What brings you out here?”

“I’m looking for someone,” Victoria said. “But you already knew that.”

Peter drew a serrated knife from his pocket. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re not. I can see it in the eyes.”

Peter shrugged. “You’re dead either way.”

Victoria dodged as he lunged. His knife stuck in the seat cushion.

The car shook, he stumbled, and Victoria kicked.

He struck the door at precisely the right angle to force it open.

She looked away before he hit the ground.

“I’m sorry.”

She meant it.

Word Count: 200

This is for Sunday Photo Fiction.


In her tower of brick and concrete, she lay and dreamt of a world where there were no locks on her door, where her father did not watch her with drink-red eyes, where her arms were not black and purple with bruises, where she could see her love again.

Knuckles tapped on the window and there he was, all smiles and curls, his face bruised but his hand outstretched.

“Rapunzel,” he whispered, “let down your hair.”

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