Posts Tagged ‘flash fiction for aspiring writers’


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!



In the days before the fall of Britain, in the court of Arthur, there was a boy named Gareth who cleaned pots and pans while the knights drank and boasted of their great deeds. “Beautiful hands,” they called him, jeering and drunk, while he rubbed his fingers raw on their plates.

But he knew that one day he would have deeds to boast of, that one day he would sit with them at the round table, that one day he would be a kitchen boy no more.

This is for 3 Line Tales. Thanks to Sonya for running the challenge and Scott Umstattd for providing the prompt photo!


The tour guide stood just to the side of the carving. She smiled the smile that had gotten her hired and waited for the group to stop murmuring.

“This carving,” she said, “was made at least six hundred years ago. Nobody really knows what it was supposed to represent–”

A woman in the back made a huffing sound.

“But,” the guide continued, “we have several educated guesses…”

“Guesses?” The woman stepped forward, her battered coat trailing along the ground. “Why not simply ask someone who was there?”

The guide smiled. “Six hundred years ago?”

“Mayflies,” the woman muttered. “You’re like mayflies. Illiterate mayflies who can’t recognize a simple message.”

“And what message is that?”

The woman was silent, looking into the strange, elongated figure. The guide looked with her and thought, just for a moment, that the figure seemed to move.

“Run. The message is run.”

Word Count: 146

This is for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers. Thanks to Priceless Joy for running the challenge and any1mark66 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 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!


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!


A gloved hand brushed against pink paint. White chalk dust came away on Victoria’s fingers. Scrawled upon the wall was a smiley face: so crude a child of five could have drawn it. Next to it were a series of lines, like tally marks.

She had seen them before: at the school, at the houses, under the bridge.

“Come on,” Sergeant Brodie grabbed her hand. “We have three missing girls to find.”

Victoria smiled. “And I found them.”

“They drew that?” Brodie looked at the face.

“It’s a symbol,” Victoria said. “Marking meeting places. Safe houses. It’s how they’re communicating to each other.”

“The kidnappers?”

Victoria shook her head. “There are no kidnappers. They ran away. And not just them. It’s a network of runaways and forgotten people, all watching out for each other.” She looked at Brodie. “It’s almost a shame we have to bring them back.”

Word Count: 148

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