At the hands of Cedric the Bull, a hundred yellow heads rolled from the grey two-by-four of the executioner’s slab. When the valiant knights of the Yellow Castle climbed the high walls of his fortress, they found them lying in a pit ten bricks deep, all jumbled together.
It took ages to match them up with their bodies again.
This is for Three Line Tales! Thanks to Sonya for running the challenge and Carson Arias for providing the prompt photo!
Lily gave Mark a look of disdain. There was, he thought, an art in the way she curled her lip.
“It’s not really my fault,” he said.
“All right.” Lily sat down. “Explain. I’m a fan of absurdist fiction.”
“You could have left a note. ‘Do Not Eat. This is for the party.’ I came in and saw a pizza. What was I to do?”
“Put a little effort into restraining your gluttony,” Lily replied.
“It was one piece.”
“And it was one bullet that killed Lincoln.”
“But–”
Lily glared and Mark knew he’d be off to buy another pizza.
Word Count: 100
This is for Friday Fictioneers. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for running the challenge and Dale Rogerson for providing the prompt photo!
(See? I can be normal sometimes.)
“So,” Alice asked, waving the plush green toy up and down in front of his face, “what do you think?”
“Will I ever be free of stain of Universal?” Adam replied in his deep, faltering voice. “Or shall that image be a pestilence upon me until the end of time?”
“That’s what you get for not setting the record straight,” she said, “and letting them just go on making their silly monster movies.” She looked at the toy and smiled. “I think it looks cute.”
“Then there,” Adam said, “you see their first mistake, for none could look upon my terrible visage and think me… cute.”
Adam stepped forward and light spilled over his misshapen features: over scars that had never healed right, skin that had an unnatural hew and seemed to be stretched too tightly over too large a frame. Yet in his gleaming eyes, there was a depth, a sadness, an intelligence that went beyond any other’s. He was his master’s creation: still there, long after his master was ash scattered over arctic ice.
“I don’t know about none,” Alice replied, draping her arms over his shoulders. “In fact, I can think of one exception.”
Word Count: 197
This is for Sunday Photo Fiction!
Elizabeth tried to ignore the fact that her neighbor’s door had ten locks.
So he’s cautious, she thought. Perfectly normal.
The locks went, one after the next, until the door opened a crack and two intense eyes glared out her from a haggard face.
“What is this?” he asked.
“I’m Liz. Your neighbor. We’ve never talked before, but…” She took a deep breath. “The power’s gone out all down the block, so–”
“You’ve come to the right place,” he interrupted, throwing the door open. “Come in.”
She walked into the house and found herself faced by shelves and boxes of food, bottles, and ammunition. A loud click came from behind her and she turned to see her neighbour holding a crossbow, a grin splitting his face.
“Blackout’s just phase one,” he said. “The zombies are coming next. And we’ll be ready for them.”
Liz decided not to visit him again.
Word Count: 150
This is for Flash Fiction for the Aspiring Writer. Thanks to Priceless Joy for running the challenge and Maria for providing the prompt photo!
“It was really dark last night, but I’m pretty sure this is the place.” He peered around like it would be behind a rock. Everything was perfectly calm. The bright grass, little road, and wooden bridge were like something from a postcard.
“Stan,” I said, “if this was the place, we’d see it.”
“Not necessarily. The water’s pretty deep.”
I rolled my eyes. “How did it get in the water again?”
Stan shrugged. “Things happen.”
“Yeah. Generally for a reason.”
He shifted. “I was a little… inebriated. I thought I could make it if I got a running start and floored the acceleration. Take a short-cut past the bridge.”
I gave him my most you’ve-got-to-be-kidding stare.
“What?” he replied. “I almost made it.”
“And you’re sure it was here,” I said.
“Yeah.”
“Where there are no tracks in the grass. And no sign at all of a car in water that is, honestly, not that deep.”
After a few minutes silence, Stan looked at me.
“I think… this might not have been the bridge.”
“Yeah.” I sighed. “I think that too.”
We got back into my car and drove off to check the next bridge. I hoped this would be the right one. After six attempts, I was getting a bit annoyed.
Word Count: 198
This is for Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner Week #26. Thanks to rogershipp for running the challenge!
“And if you look to your left,” Ernie said to the tourists, giving a flamboyant gesture of his hands, “you’ll see one of our longtime residents.”
Cameras clicked and fingers pointed as they beheld the blue-feathered bird. She was perched upon a branch, a hollowed cup in her hand.
“And what’s so special about her, then?” a man asked.
Ernie looked at him: balding, dismissive look on the face, arms crossed.
There’s always one, he thought. Some smug moron in a flower-pattern shirt trying to show off.
“Well, sir,” he replied. “This is the most magnificent bird in the world. She’s been with us fifty years. She can tap out her name in Morse code and do basic arithmetic.” He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “They say that in the great fire, she guided more than fifty people to safety.”
The man didn’t say anything more after that. The number of camera flashes quadrupled. Everyone wanted a picture of the magnificent creature.
That night over drinks, Ernie told his boss what he’d said and the older man burst into laughter.
“You never do anything halfway, do you?”
Ernie just grinned.
Word Count: 192
This is for Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner Week #25. Thanks to rogershipp for running the challenge! Photo from pixabay.com.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Jeff asked, shouting over the wind.
“Yeah, man!” Blaze (which he thought sounded better than Roger) yelled. “This’ll be killer promotion! Everyone who comes by on the road will see it. And look! There are, like, a hundred cars down there!”
Jeff looked. There were a lot of cars: racing blurs of wheels and windshields, shooting by just under the bridge. Their engines howled and the horns honked. He suspected some of those honks were directed at them.
They were clinging to the bridge, spray paint cans in hand. Ropes and harnesses held them up, borrowed from Blaze’s brother, who was under the impression they were using them for rock climbing.
“When they see this,” Blaze gloated, spraying on part of the second E, white paint getting everywhere, “they’ll all know us. The Pies! Greatest rock band in the world!”
With a mad laugh, Blaze raised a fist in celebration. His shoe slipped on the wet metal. He fell, the can of paint dropping from his hand.
He hung there in the harness, screaming, until rescue services arrived. They made the news. It was, as Blaze had predicted, excellent promotion.
Word Count: 198
This is for this week’s Sunday Photo Fiction.
