Posts Tagged ‘sunday photo fiction’


Three days now the tomb had stood unopened. The workers would not go near it. Tales danced around the campfires, whispers of a curse far greater than that of Tut.

Insects buzzed incessantly, black carapaces glinting and silk-thin wings shimmering.

And in the night, shadow-things moved, half-glimpsed shades with swords of night and eyes like burning torches. Plague and death filled the camp.

One man swore he saw a procession of white-robed priests upon the hill, knives flashing, their hands wet and red, chanting praise to Sekhmet, the goddess who hunts in the night.

Others swore they heard the roar of a lion carried on the chill wind. They saw marks in the sand, the prints of a hunting beast.

On the fourth day, the tomb was opened. There was no death, no devastation, only gold, stone, and the sarcophagus, vast and black.

The expedition catalogued it, boxed it, paid their workers a pitiful few coins, and bore their hoard, their plunder, to their ship, a great steel ark tossed upon Mediterranean waves. They set off for London, over dark waters, the sky black with clouds.

And in the hold, amidst the crates, a low laugh echoed.

She was free.

Word Count: 200

This is for Sunday Photo Fiction. Thanks to Kathryn Forbes for the photo prompt!



A hundred days the armies encircled the hill of Arutbree. It was crowned by a fortress of sloping earth and rising stone over which soared the flag of the rebel king – the Golden Bear. Through tunnels and hidden gates, supplies crept, keeping the king fat and his army strong.

So the Queen had sent her greatest warrior.

“You’re not what we expected, ” the captain of the army said.

The Fox Knight had no horse, no shield, no gleaming mail. She wore cloth and leather. Her face was streaked with grey-green paint. Amidst grey and brown shone the cascading crimson of her hair and the white-streaked fox tail tied to her cloak.

And instead of a sword, she had only a hunter’s knife.

“Tomorrow,” the Fox Knight said, “Arutbree shall be yours.”

She vanished into the mists and shadows of the nights.

As golden rays sped across the slope, a horn sounded. The gates were open, the guard in disarray.

Charging up the hill, the army took the fortress in a torrent of death.

When they burst into the great hall, they found the Rebel King upon his throne, his eyes wide, a hunter’s knife in his heart.

Word Count: 197

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


King Deorsa walked through the forest, feeling the wind tug at his snow-white cloak. The leaves were bright, green and yellow amongst the dark bark of the striplings and birdsong danced in the fresh spring air, yet his hand never moved from the ivory hilt of his sword.

“Merdraud!” he called. “Seer of futures!”

She was there, clad in a swirl of green, bright eyes darting like hummingbirds. “What would you ask of me, King Deorsa, Lord of Men?”

“How long will my reign last?”

From a low-hanging branch, Merdraud plucked a leaf. Between her fingers it turned golden, curling like a dead insect. Down to the forest floor it drifted.

“Until the last leaf falls.”

And as the Autumn came, born on chill winds and darkening shadows, the harvests turned bitter. Peace turned to bickering and bickering turned to war. Steel flashed and fires burned.

Deorsa rode through the forest, bare branches hanging over his hooded head. A crisp, curling carpet of leaves crunched under his horse’s hooves. Behind him, bows twanged like thunderbolts, arrows streaking past him in the night.

And a single leaf, green and bright, drifted down from the treetops. Deorsa looked up.

Merdraud smiled back.

Word Count: 200

This is for Sunday Photo Fiction!


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.


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.


Three cups balanced on three poles. The wind stirred the rising steam.

And then they were there, the masters three. One wore scarlet, dark cheeks covered in curling white. One wore leaf-green, gold eyes twinkling. The last wore black and none could see her shadowed face.

“Each year we do this,” the scarlet master said. “And each year it makes no difference.”

“Drink,” the green master replied, raising the white rim of his china cup to his lips. “And be at ease.”

“We are at war,” the scarlet master snapped. “I am never at ease.”

But she drank her tea.

The shadowed master said nothing, still as stone.

A sigh issued from the scarlet master’s lips. “I will tell you how this meeting will go. I make demands. You refuse. She says nothing. You make offers. I refuse. She says nothing. We drink tea. She doesn’t. We bow. And we go back to war.” Grey eyes flashed, lightning in a storm. “It has been so a thousand years. One more shall make no difference.”

“Even after a thousand years,” the green master said, “hearts can change.”

The shadowed master sipped her tea and smiled a smile made of night.

This is for Sunday Photo Fiction. Thanks to Dawn Miller for the prompt photo!


Blackness filled the skies, a choking acidic haze. The ground quivered with each step the Thing took, the jumbled monstrosity of angles and shadows heaving its way across the town. Its tendrils snaked in every direction.

Wendy lay below the window, heart pounding, terrified but unable to look away.

“Almost too late,” a voice said – soft, ancient, whispering.

Wendy spun around. There was a man standing in her house, a straw hat on his head and his hand on the handle of a question mark umbrella.


“How did I get in?” The man shook his head. “Not the most interesting of questions.”

Behind him, she could see the corner of a battered blue box.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Wendy,” she replied. “Wendy Marsh.”

“Stay here, Wendy Marsh.” He opened the door. “I’m going to have a word with our friend out there.”

“You can’t!” she squeaked. “It’ll kill you. Like everyone else. Turned them inside out.”

The man smiled, tipped his hat, and went out.

He stood before the thing, this tiny little man with his umbrella against a thing vast as the night.

And from where Wendy was watching, it looked like the monster was trembling.

Word Count: 199

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