Posts Tagged ‘fantasy’


In dying sunlight, they whisper stories of day and night, of what was and what will be.

They say the Sun is made of burning gold, spilt from the white-sparking forge of the Smith-God Ilmaril, who hammers away in the heart of the Earth.

They say each night it passes through the gates of death and wanders in the underworld, giving light to the shades, bringing heat to the world of bones.

They say it is drawn by Velervo, firstborn of dwarfs, who sought to overthrow the gods and was condemned to toil in the skies until the Forevernight, when all the stars shall fall like silver leaves.

They say that in the end of days, the last of the great dragons, who slumbers under the waves, shall rise up and devour the Sun in quenching dark.

And as they sleep, their dreams are full of fire and dragons.

Word Count: 149

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



Cold, night-black scales slithered over dusty gold. Two eyes burnt like stars trapped in amber, bright in the shadows. Foul breath swept like fog between pointed teeth.

Ruined wings drooped limply on its back – splintered and skeletal, torn and crooked, like a tree caught in a lightning strike.

She stared up from the cave floor. Even all the treasure seemed like nothing against the enormity of the ancient terror.

“But,” she stammered, “there are no more dragons.”

“There is one,” he replied. “Once we filled the sky: numberless and beautiful as the stars. I had many brothers. Many sisters. But now there is only me. I am not beautiful. And there are no skies.”

In the darkness beneath the earth, on a pile of decaying treasure, she stared into the burning eyes of the last dragon and saw a shadow dance amongst the flames.

A shadow of wings and stars.

Word Count: 150

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


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!


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!


The wall was old as the land, they said, and the tree had been a sapling in the days of the Magic Wars, when witches had roamed free.

When a child, Brenna rested beneath the great branches, sagging under eternity’s weight, and imagined the things the stones had seen.

When she was a young woman, woodsmen came to fell it with gleaming axes, and she drove them off with a bow of yew.

When she died, they laid her to rest amongst ancient roots, beside the wall, and stone and wood whispered to her all the secrets they hid.

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!


A hundred days the armies encircled the hill of Arutbree. It was crowned by a fortress of sloping earth and rising stone over which soared the flag of the rebel king – the Golden Bear. Through tunnels and hidden gates, supplies crept, keeping the king fat and his army strong.

So the Queen had sent her greatest warrior.

“You’re not what we expected, ” the captain of the army said.

The Fox Knight had no horse, no shield, no gleaming mail. She wore cloth and leather. Her face was streaked with grey-green paint. Amidst grey and brown shone the cascading crimson of her hair and the white-streaked fox tail tied to her cloak.

And instead of a sword, she had only a hunter’s knife.

“Tomorrow,” the Fox Knight said, “Arutbree shall be yours.”

She vanished into the mists and shadows of the nights.

As golden rays sped across the slope, a horn sounded. The gates were open, the guard in disarray.

Charging up the hill, the army took the fortress in a torrent of death.

When they burst into the great hall, they found the Rebel King upon his throne, his eyes wide, a hunter’s knife in his heart.

Word Count: 197

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


Crimson light flowed over the swaying grass and gleamed along the edges of bristling spears.

“Nobody will come for you,” the commander hissed to the girl, but the girl just raised a hand into the air.

From the swaying grass, shapes moved, things of wind and shadow, ghosts of the fallen coming to the aide of the living.

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