Posts Tagged ‘writing prompt’

phone-booth-jhc

Dirty tile and cold walls surrounded her as she dialed the number, black phone pressed to her ear. She ignored the dirt and ash, just like she ignored the foul stench that hovered in every room like a vulture.

The phone clicked and her heart leapt.

“Who is this?”

“John,” she whispered. “I–”

“I told you not to call.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s too late for that.”

The line went dead. She stood there, cradling the phone, unable to step away.

Outside the tiny prison window, the world spread out, so close but so far beyond her reach.


Word Count: 97

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

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Roger sighed. He had been promised gold, but all he’d seen were enough rocks to last him a lifetime and an expanse of cold, grey-green ocean.

After hours of searching the rugged shorelines of the islands, treasure still seemed to be in short supply.

He turned to Marie, who was scrutinizing the worn fragments of map with pursed lips and furrowed brow.

“Time to turn back, I think,” he said. “Storm’s coming in.”

Marie shook her head. “No. My great-grandfather’s treasure is out here somewhere.”

“He probably spent it all on rum,” Roger said. “I know I would. My point is–”

“There!” Marie pointed. “That’s it! Raven’s Point.”

The outcrop was just like the shape on the map: a rough outline of a raven’s beak extending over the waters.

And beneath, there was a cave.

Marie smiled.

“Full speed ahead.”


Word Count: 140

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

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Laughter echoed through the dirigible. Wine corks popped, letting foam splash into thin glasses. The band played on and the party swayed with the music.

Anna pressed her nose up against the glass, looking at the ground far below, almost lost in the wreath of clouds. She remembered looking down before, when the cityscape had spread out in a mosaic. Bright lights had shimmered amongst mile-high skyscrapers. Other dirigibles had drifted in the wind, like floating lanterns burning bright. When the third moon had risen, everything had lit up in waves of blue.

There was no light below now, only a marbled darkness beneath the churning clouds. Lightning flashed and she could almost hear the crack of thunder through the soundproofed glass.

“A toast!” her father cried, her hair hanging in disarray, his tie undone.

He climbed onto a table, tapping his glass. The dancing stopped and the music slowed as every head turned to look at him.

“A toast to our home!” He raised his glass and the blue wine shifted like an ocean tide. “To Beovorn!”

“To Beovorn!” the others echoed.

Anna watched a cascading orange cloud, moving slowly towards them, reaching out with tendrils of fire.


Word Count: 199

This is for Sunday Photo Fiction. Photo credit to A Mixed Bag.

tltweek77

In the lands by the ocean’s edge, they tell that once the jellyfish was a maiden, beautiful as the light dancing on the waters, who had a lover, sworn to fight in the queen’s service.

One day, her lover didn’t return from the war, felled by the barbed arrows of the enemy, and the maiden was so moved to despair that she cast herself from a high cliff into the churning waves.

The fates took mercy upon her and her form was changing, becoming bright and beautiful, drifting in the waters, untroubled by darkness.


This is for Three Line Tales. Thanks to Sonya for running the challenge and Pan Da Chuan for providing the prompt photo!

vw-in-israel-wmq

Emergency services buzzed around the car like flies around carrion. Police officers with notebooks out shouted at road safety workers, arguing about the importance of preserving the scene versus reopening the motorway.

In the end, the police conceded and the car was hauled away. There was no evidence to be gathered, nothing but the testimony of the other drivers and the distant, poorly angled CCTV video.

They handed the footage off to experts. They even showed it to a magician. The conclusion was unanimous.

In the middle of the motorway, the driver of the car had vanished from his seat.


Word Count: 100

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

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Forty days Muirdain had walked the path of All-Mother Macca through the wilderness. Her fair skin was burnt crimson and her hair was a fiery tangle of curls and thorns. Her scabbard hung empty by her side.

By the foot of a green hill, where stone steps carried on the ancient path, she met a woman, clothed in rags, her eyes milk-white and her teeth rot-brown. The woman called to her.

“Pilgrim, have you water for an old woman?”

Muirdain stepped past her.

“Spare a moment.”

Muirdain kept climbing.

“What brings you to this road?”

“Penance,” Muirdain replied. “The Queen asked that I walk the All-Mother’s path. Only then may I earn my sword again.”

“Then stop and spare me some water.”

Muirdain didn’t look back.

The All-Mother sighed. Three times she had tested the knight and three times Muirdain had failed.

She did not give fourth chances.


Word Count: 148

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

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Demolition started Monday. The crew would come in with their wrecking ball, smashing through brick and wood, reducing it all to pebbles and matchsticks. The dust would rise like a great mist and then there would only be silence.

The building stood and remembered the things that would soon be lost.

Memories were etched into wood and stone, drifting like ghosts in the stillness.

If you listened closely, you could hear them.

The laugh of a young child, one of seven, fighting to survive in a room made for two.

The tears of a new widow that had stained deep into the crumpled letter in her hands, making the words run in black rivers.

The slamming of a door by hands that never opened it again.

The clapping of proud parents, eyes glistening and smiles broad.

The patter of first footsteps, wobbling but determined.

A thousand stories hung in the air, so many people remembered in fragments of old memory, fading like photographs in a scrapbook.

Demolition started Monday.

But today was Sunday.

And it was a Sunday for remembering.


Word Count: 180

This is for Sunday Photo Fiction. Thanks to Mike Vore for providing the prompt photo!