Posts Tagged ‘short story’


Susan wasn’t sure how Jimmy had lost his shoes. He’d been wearing them when he went out and they hadn’t walked off by themselves, had they? But the shoes remained lost and despite her threats to make him walk to school in his socks, she bought him new ones.

Years passed. Jimmy was James now, a hundred miles away at university, too buried in textbooks and notes to call his mother. Susan was in the garden, trimming hedges that had become labyrinths of thorns.

There in the roots, beneath woven webs and grey dust, she found his shoes.

And smiled.

Word Count: 100

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



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.


There had been magic once in the city – sorcerers with runes and chants, creatures made of thought and fear, shadows that whispered – but then the Order had come. They carried rods of harnessed lightning, the power of new technology, and they stamped out the old ways with ruthless efficiency.

But in some parts of the city, the shadows still whispered.

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


Sarah sat down at the kitchen table. Her hair hung low over her sunken eyes and the sagging bags underneath them. Her dressing gown drooped from her slumped shoulders.

Mark had given up asking how she was feeling.

She picked up a slice of bread, put it on her plate, and reached for the butter knife. Then she stopped.

“Look,” she said. “There’s a heart.”

And she smiled, her lip twisting up, her eyes gleaming.

Watching her, Mark smiled too.

He wouldn’t tell her he’d done it. He didn’t want thanks.

All he’d wanted was to see that smile again.

Word Count: 100

This is for Friday Fictioneers. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for running the challenge and Kelvin M. Knight for providing 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!


The sea surged against the rocks, pummeling cliffs into cascades of stone and dust. Wind whipped against the villagers’ skins as they pulled themselves onto the roofs, watching streets become rivers and rivers become oceans, murky water flooding the low ground. Cries rang out over the hard drumming of rain against earth and the wolf howls of the storm.

Little Tabitha perched on the roof’s edge, fingers running through puddles on the terra-cotta tiles, soaked strands of black hair stuck to her brow. She looked at the white crests and brown waves beneath.

There were shadows in the waters. All around the dim of the storm rang out, but Tabitha could not take her eyes away from them.

A woman’s face rose from the swell. Her eyes were shimmering saltwater, her a hair a tumbling waterfall. She raised a finger to her lips and then vanished into the swell.

Tabitha’s mother pulled her back from the edge.

The winds died and the sea crept away like a wounded lion, leaving destruction in its wake. The storm had done its worst and the village yet stood.

And in the very heart of the devastation, Tabitha had seen something beautiful.

For Sunday Photo Fiction. Photo is thanks to A Mixed Bag.