Posts Tagged ‘flash fiction for aspiring writers’


In the sky, pale lights flicker under the cover of the clouds, scattered in sacred geometry. On the ground, they’re lined up in rows, following the grids of the city, the levels of the buildings. They’re part of the Design.

Earnest drives his taxi and tries not to see it. He tries not to see the way even the rain drops have a beat to them. He tries not to hear the way even the sirens come in patterns.

A woman hails him and he pulls over. She climbs into the back seat and smiles at him. Her eyes glow like nebulae.

“You can feel it, can’t you?” She shakes her head. “I’m sorry.”

His grip tightens on the wheel.

“You need to drive,” she whispers. “They’ll be coming for you.”

And in a window, he sees a man with shadows for a face looking down at him.

Word Count: 148

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



A man in a battered coat looked up at the building: nondescript blocks of reddish brown brickwork.

Inside were terrible things. Terrible secrets. They had tried to make him forget what he had learnt, what he had seen…

No. He pressed his hands to his forehead, feeling the scars under tangled brown hair. He would not forget.

He made his way to the side door. A piece of wire gleamed in his hand and he was in, stumbling against the wall.

He remembered steel and sparks. Pain, bright as the sun.

He remembered another sun. Air like velvet. Meadows of glass flowers, shattering in the wind.

“I had a name,” he whispered. “Why did you have to take that? Why did you take my name?”

Stumbling, he walked into the office. Someone screamed.

“Why did you take it?” he asked. “Why did you take it?”

There were no machines. No steel. No sparks. Just computers, cubicles, and people, backing away from him.

“This isn’t it.” His head whipped back and forth. “Where did it go?”

He was still shouting when the police dragged him away.

From the shadows, a man in a bowler hat watched, his smile a crescent moon.

Word Count: 200

For Sunday Photo Fiction. Thanks to John Robinson for the prompt photo.


Mr. Misra sat on the porch and watered his flowers.

He lived just off Main Street, in the yellow house with the flowers out front. He hadn’t lived there long. There were always new owners in the yellow house.

They showed up, full of personality and energy, introducing themselves to all their neighbours. There was a lot of shaking of hands and exchanging of gifts and invitations to parties.

Then they would go quiet, sitting on their porch in the midsummer days. By the time fall hit, they were just glimpses through the curtains, shadows that would fade by Christmas, replaced a few months later by new owners with fresh faces and fresh smiles.

The flowers always remained.

Mr. Mishra watered his flowers and watched the first golden leaves fall from the branches of the trees.

Word Count: 136

This is for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers. Thanks to Priceless Joy for running the challenge and shivamt25 for providing the prompt photo!


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 for providing the prompt photo!


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!


“It is a grave,” Mister Quanah said. “Resting place of a thousand souls.”

“Why should that concern me?” Southron asked, hand upon the golden swan head of his cane. “I want my garden.”

The workers came, tearing up earth and moving stone. Twisting metal fences stabbed into the ground.

And each day, another pot appeared, fire burning underneath. Nobody saw who was leaving them. Southron hired guards, fired guards, set up cameras, threw out cameras, issued rifles, replaced locks over and over.

Still the pots appeared.

At sundown on the fourteenth day, Southron decided to delegate no longer. He sat out in the garden as night fell and moonlit shadows stretched from cold metal fences.

In the morning, he ordered construction be halted and sold the house. Nobody could ever persuade him to say what he saw that night, but he never set foot in the country again.

Word Count: 148

For Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers. Thanks to Priceless Joy for running the challenge and Yarnspinner for providing the prompt photo!


“Seriously,” Jenn said, holding up the goop-laden cup, sticky brown liquid coursing over her hand, “what does corporate think coffee looks like?”

Walter sighed. Reclined in his chair, he threw his ball up in the air, watching it bounce against the ceiling.

“I’m sure if you sent a complaint,” he said, “they’ll get right on it.”

“Right on it.” Jenn rolled her eyes. “Six months time, then?”

“If we’re lucky.”

“And if we tell them productivity’s down twelve percent?”

“Layoffs.” The ball landed in his outstretched hand and he tossed it up again. “And because of budget cuts, no new coffee for sixteen months.”

Jenn shook her head. “Stupid corporate.”

She picked her up cup and went to the window. The Earth was rising, just over the grey, rocky horizon, a blue light amongst the canvas of stars.

“They’ve got no idea what it’s like out here.”

Word Count: 147

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