Posts Tagged ‘short stories’


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!



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!


They say that on her long and winding road, All-Mother Macca met a great serpent, his body river-long, his teeth knife-sharp, his eyes star-bright. The serpent devoured her and for three days she lay in his belly. On the third day, she struck through his heart and cut her way out, leaving his bones to become the high mountains of the lonely north.

This is for Three Line Tales. Thanks to Sonya for running the challenge and Samuel Zeller for the prompt photo!


The elders told of how the stone arrived, trailing fire and smoke, kicking up clouds of dust as it slammed into the earth. They had understood that it must be a gift from the gods, sent from the stars like a streaking arrow.

For a thousand years, it was a place of sacrifices: gold, silver, crops, bone, and blood. It liked the blood most of all.

But then the old ways died out and the star-stone was forgotten.

Alone it lay in the woods, piled high with needles and dying leaves.

If rocks dreamt, this one dreamt of blood.

Word Count: 99

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


Ned’s plan had been fairly simple. Take an old tandem bicycle, fix it up a bit, and then turn it into a time machine.

When they took it for a trial run, Lee couldn’t shake two worrying possibilities from his mind.

The first was that the time machine wouldn’t work and they’d end up blown to pieces.

The second was that it would work.

“Come on,” Ned urged, wiping sweat from his forehead. “Peddle harder.”

“I’m peddling as hard as I can,” Lee lied, before applying a little bit more energy.

The bike began to shake. Lee closed his eyes.

There was a sound like an off-tune chorus of angels singing a dub-step cover of Enya and a light flashed so bright it almost seared through his eyelids.

Ned grinned.

“I’ve done it.” He gestured to the forest. “We’ve travelled back!”

Lee looked down and groaned.

“The bike chain’s broken.”

Word Count: 150

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


White stairs stretched forever, up and down, repeating floor after floor, glistening and clean.

He had forgotten his forgotten his name, forgotten his story, forgot anything but the stairs.

Sometimes he wondered if this was Hell and what monstrous things he could have done to deserve it.

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


The White Horse was a pub like any other, full of good ale, better people, and the roar of laughter. The fire in the hearth burnt like a sunset behind mountains of black charcoal and the dartboard was peppered with the stab marks of near-perfect games. Old friends talked long into the hours of the night, unwilling to leave.

Once you left The White Horse, you never came back.

The White Horse sat at the world’s end, beyond the horizon, perched above an expanse of twilight and mist, where echoes of distant songs carried from unseen valleys. It was where heroes came when their stories were done, a place to rest, to laugh, to tell their stories, before the time came to move on.

Some of them stayed an hour. Some stayed for decades, greeting future generations as they walked through the door to tell of their changed world.

All moved on in the end. Their hunger sated, their hearts rested, they set out along the last road and walked into the swirling curtain.

All save one.

An old man sat behind the bar, pouring drinks and hearing stories.

He remembered them all.

Word Count: 193

This is for Sunday Photo Fiction. Thanks to A Mixed Bag for the photo prompt!