Posts Tagged ‘writing prompt’


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!



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.


They never expected her to survive: not with an arrow in her side, her horse dead, her water gone, and miles of bitter desert ahead.

She limped on, a trail of red specks marking her way through dust and rocks. Her throat burned and her body ached, but she pushed on.

She collapsed feet away from the gate of the high wall. Soldiers rushed her inside, giving her water and laying her on a soft bed.

“Riders,” she said. “Riders on the eastern border. A thousand men, war-ready, with bows and steel.”

Then her eyes closed and she was still.

Word Count: 100

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


“It would have been nice and cosy: wood-burning stove, colourful shutters on the window, a comfy bed…”

“So what happened?”

“We went over budget three weeks in and the workers walked.”

This is for Three Line Tales! Thanks to Sonya for running the challenge and Niv Rozenberg for providing the prompt photo!