Posts Tagged ‘short stories’


There is a school that does not advertise, that has no website, no campus tours.

Its alumni are the powers behind the world, the figures in the shadows, whispering in the ears of presidents and kings.

They are the writers of history.

This is for Three Line Tales! Thanks to Sonya for running the challenge and Faustin Tuyambaze for providing the prompt photo!

The picture looks like a graduation which, coincidentally – or not coincidentally, given the time of year – is what I’ll be attending next week. Only a BA, though, not a degree in ruling the world from the shadows. 😉


Cheerful fifties tunes greeted Tara and Greg as they walked into the diner, a bell chiming behind them. There wasn’t a speck of dust in the place.

“Hi, folks!” a waitress said. “What brings you to our diner?”

“We needed somewhere quiet,” Tara said. “Somewhere to relax.”

The waitress smiled. “That’s usually what it is.”

The world flickered, like a bad signal on a television: counter rippling with black mold, music slowing, the waitress’s face rearranging itself like a jumbled jigsaw.

Tara blinked and all was normal again.

“So,” the waitress asked, leaning close, “what can I get you?”

Word Count: 99

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


They whisper of her, as they have whispered for six years of watchful peace. To some, she is a legend. To others, she is as real as the scars on their faces, the ruin of their lands, the screams that echo still as they try to sleep at night.

But now, though it is spring and the sun should be bright in the midday sky, dark clouds are drifting in. The wind grows chill and icicles form upon the leaves of trees. Children laugh as the snow settles on the ground, sprouting flowers covered in a blanket of crystalline white. They do not remember.

Horns sound from the mountains and the swift horses tear through the fresh-fallen snow. Above a great multitude in mail and fur flies the flag of the White Lion, billowing in the wind she has made.

They whisper no more.

The Winter Queen has returned.

Word Count: 149

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

Hello everybody!

It’s been a long time coming but Part 3 of my Fan Voted Story is here!

The winning suggestion from last time was made by Mandibelle16. Thank you for the suggestion that the ring was dark magic and there were consequences for using it.

If you need to catch up on the story, feel free to go back on the Evan Elias section of the Living Author’s Society page. While you’re at it, feel free to check some of the other authors as well, they’re very talented.

As always, please comment down below about what you think should happen and what you thought. The winning comment will dictate where the story goes from here!

Now, without further ado, let the story continue…



There is always work for loggers in war. Stakes must be raised to pierce the flanks of horses; ships must be crafted to raid coastlines; siege engines must be fashioned to penetrate high walls.

But rarely was there demand for so much work as quickly as the Prince asked for. The Serpent Crest raiders had raised a fortress in the center of a low valley, rings of hills and cliffs forming a natural fortification. From there, they struck like stinging wasps at the scattered villages.

The Prince wanted them gone.

“Madness,” one logger said to another as they hewed the forest until the earth was bare.

“Madness,” the lords murmured inside the walls of his city.

The Prince’s will was done, his logs stretching across the river.

“Madness,” the Serpent Crest commander whispered as the flood descended upon the valley, the redirected river sweeping away everything in its path.

Word Count: 148

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


Crystal-clear water flowed over the rough rock, collecting in a deep pool, white foam crashing against tan stone. The steady trickle landed on the body floating in the pool, her brown hair soaked through, her clothes dark and waterlogged, every inch of her dripping. A stream of crimson came from her shoulder, where a black arrow was lodged in her flesh. Her eyes were closed, her limbs still.

Then, with a splutter and a cough, her eyes flashed open and she jerked upright, her legs kicking and her arms splashing. Rings of disturbed water sped out from her as she grabbed at the rock, hauling herself up. She sat there, breathing heavily, wincing at the arrow’s bite. Water ran down her sleeves and her forehead.

She was alive. She had escaped.

But there was no time to rest. They’d be after her soon. She had to keep moving.

Word Count: 148.

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


Flocks of steel sweep the skies, birds of prey with sharp eyes and sharper claws.

The hooded figures stop in the shadow of an archway, letting their hunters fly overhead, careful not to make the slightest movement.

This is their world: where the eyes of their masters are always on them and bullets fall like spring rains.

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