Posts Tagged ‘short stories’

tltweek183

The crash left him gasping burning air, his head aching, scrabbling to tear himself free of the chair. Above, silhouettes gathered, their faces hidden in shadows.

A flag waved overhead, but with the light behind it, he could not tell whether it was theirs or the enemy’s.


This is for Three Line Tales, Week 183. Thanks to Sonya for running the challenge and Marcus Wallis for providing the prompt photo!

sandras-shells

She loved the sea-things the best: the sponges, the shells, the seaweed. She kept them on a little table where she could always see them.

But they were sad things too. The sponges were dry. The seaweed was brittle. The shells were hollow as promises.

How she hated promises. How she hated her life. A deep, roiling hate, a storm-hate, a tide-hate.

She was lured from her home, from her sisters singing in the deep, from the crashing waves, by the promises of the land.

Night after night, she lay cursing the legs she traded her world for.


Word Count: 98

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

Ohwonoh

Posted: October 1, 2018 by J.A. Prentice in Flash Fiction
Tags: , , , , , , ,

photo-20181001154610579

Ohwonoh stuck the antenna into the carton and set it carefully next to the plastic steak. His lip motors twitched. Perfect.

Ohwonoh was an eccentric even by the standards of his model. He had developed a taste for what he described as “an authentic lifestyle, in the model of the Creators.”

Faith in the Creators was not unusual. Most models held to the sacred text of the Manual and believed the Creators would return at the time of the Factory Settings Reset, but only Ohwonoh took his devotion to unusual lengths.

Ohwonoh regarded his artificial meal. It was perfection, just as it appeared in the picture in the archives. He’d leave it there in the shrine, next to the replica ceramic mug with its strange and untranslatable runes.

He bowed his head and uttered a prayer for sustenance in the old tongue of his people.

Batterylow. Pleaseswitchtopowersavermode.


Word Count: 147

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

foggy-fence

Nobody would watch the sheep at World’s End. They knew what happened to those who stood too close to the fence under an unfriendly moon.

But the Chief’s sheep wouldn’t watch themselves. And a Chief without sheep was no chief, not in those days.

When the stranger came looking for a job, it seemed both their problems were solved.

“Just watch them, boy,” the chief said, handing over the shepherd’s crook. “If they’re all there in morning, you can have a silver penny.”

This seemed a fair deal to the stranger, so he walked to the fence at the edge of the woods, where mists swirled about the black skeletons of trees, and stood watch over the sheep.

Around midnight, the woman came from the trees, smiling and laughing, and asked him to dance.

“I would not presume,” the stranger said, “to dance with a woman until I knew her name.”

The woman pleaded, flirted, laughed, but still he wouldn’t step across the fence.

They argued until the sun rose. When its light struck her, the stranger saw that her skin was bark, her hair was moss, and her arms only branches.

The stranger took his penny and left.


Word Count: 199

This is for Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner. Thanks to rogershipp for running the challenge!

 

nathan-sowers-dawn-millers-friend

Alfred had little in the way of luxuries. His cottage was a tumble-down thing, crawling with leaves and spiders. He worked eight hour days, toiling as a laborer. His muscles were the only thing he had still worth anything. The world had moved on and he’d never managed to catch up. Five centuries and he’d barely learnt to read. There just hadn’t been time.

But he had his one retreat: the evening cottage, tucked away inside the mirror. After a hard day’s work, he’d step into the empty silence, amongst mirror-image flowers fluttering in a backwards wind.


Word Count: 97

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

dadsshoes

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!

tltweek101

When the other children played with dolls, Riko played with wheels. When they discovered boys and girls and kissing, Riko discovered clockwork.

And when they had their families, Riko had children of iron and steam.


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