Posts Tagged ‘writing challenge’


Ian Thorn was happy with his reputation as the finest mind in England, his impressive number of completed cases, and the money that piled up in his bank account. What he could live without were the bodies.

It was all right at first. His clients came in and he solved their murders. But then he found a man stabbed to death on the Underground during his morning commute. A visit to his brother’s house in the country revealed a secret Satanic cult.

Solving mysteries was all very good, but he preferred not to have his work follow him home.

“Take a vacation,” his friend, Inspector Banks, said. “Try the beach.”

So Thorn went to the beach. He walked the golden sands, watching sunlight play over clear waters, a salty breeze in his face.

And then he found it, floating in the shallows.

He sighed. There was another case to solve.

Word Count: 150

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


“Just sing,” they tell him. “You’re only an entertainer and it’s not your job to talk about these things.”

But he has seen what comes of silence.

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


Screeching horns. Crashing metal on metal. Squealing tires. Glass splintering in spider-webs of shards.

And over it all, the thunder of gunfire and the smell of gunpowder.

After, they sit on the curb, staring at the wreck of the car: windows blown out, tires flat, mirrors snapped off like old branches.

“Could have been worse,” Aaron says, taking a long draw from his cigarette.

“Car’s a wreck,” Dave says, cradling his bloodstained arm. “I’ve got a bullet in me. How could it be worse?”

“Could be dead.” Aaron stands. “Come on. Job’s not done yet.”

Word Count: 95

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


The guards shut the Palace gates tight and barricaded them with whatever they could find: antique chairs, president portraits, vases. The roar of the crowd was deafening.

“It’s all right,” the President-For-Life said, waving a hand. “The people love me. All these revolutionaries… They’re all being paid. They’re actors.”

“Then they’re actors with guns,” a guard replied.

“I have a plan,” the President-For-Life announced. “A great plan. You’re all going to run out there and hold them off while I go out through the back.”

The guard sighed, pulled his gun, and shot the President-For-Life.

Viva la Revolution,” he muttered.

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


“There’s an imprint,” the man whispered, breathing in the old leather. “An echo.”

“And what does that mean?” Melissa’d had enough of him sniffing around her shoes.

True, she’d told him he could do it, the events surrounding them had been peculiar (with peculiar being used as a euphemism for “bloody terrifying), and he was her best chance of getting to the bottom of it all, but did he have to sniff?

“It means that the shoes remember their previous wearer.” He rose. “They’re haunted.”

Melissa sighed.

Haunted shoes. Just what she needed.

And they’d been just her color too.

This is for Friday Fictioneers. Thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for running the challenge and Magaly Geurrero 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!


Mighty oars and mighty arms

haul the longship across grey waves

Bright prow towers o’er briny water

Golden dragon’s tongue is red like blood

And along the curving hull

round shields like scales lock

They come as day breaks o’er the shore

with splitting axe and slashing sword and cutting knife

Before them sounds the song – the cries of victims slain

Blood and fire are their way

They shall not rest till the end of days.

But then across valley green

Comes a different tune

The horn, the horn

The horn of the avenger

And before that horn their faces paled

Their knees clattered, their tongues wailed

For there upon a hill of green

Was bold Ealdwine

His banner high

His sword in hand

His mail in morning air shimmering

And by side a hundred men

Angles, Saxons, Celts

With slung bows

With sharpened swords

And in their eyes – death, death to the Northmen

Ealdwine cried aloud

And arrows came in rain of steel

The Northmen to their boats ran

Ealdwine upon their tail

His men hewed with sword and spear

And by their hands the enemy fell

Those mighty oars and mighty arms

Would not return to Northland

Word Count: 199

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