Posts Tagged ‘writing’

tltweek68

There is a school that does not advertise, that has no website, no campus tours.

Its alumni are the powers behind the world, the figures in the shadows, whispering in the ears of presidents and kings.

They are the writers of history.


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

The picture looks like a graduation which, coincidentally – or not coincidentally, given the time of year – is what I’ll be attending next week. Only a BA, though, not a degree in ruling the world from the shadows. 😉

inside-the-diner

Cheerful fifties tunes greeted Tara and Greg as they walked into the diner, a bell chiming behind them. There wasn’t a speck of dust in the place.

“Hi, folks!” a waitress said. “What brings you to our diner?”

“We needed somewhere quiet,” Tara said. “Somewhere to relax.”

The waitress smiled. “That’s usually what it is.”

The world flickered, like a bad signal on a television: counter rippling with black mold, music slowing, the waitress’s face rearranging itself like a jumbled jigsaw.

Tara blinked and all was normal again.

“So,” the waitress asked, leaning close, “what can I get you?”


Word Count: 99

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

auto-aftermath

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! 

photo-20170508154649843

Music filled the gardens as figures in ballroom dresses and tuxedoes danced under the starlight. Aiko wasn’t one of them. She sat by herself, looking out over the city spread out below.

The grounds stretched over the hillside, full of enclaves, fountains, and winding paths. It was supposed to be natural, but Aiko knew better. Each blade of grass was trimmed perfectly to size; each plant had been specifically selected for its colour, its rarity, its scent, crammed into an unnatural ecosystem. There were no ugly plants, no weeds, no animals.

Aiko’s parents called this place their Eden, their retreat from civilization, but nothing about it was real. As she looked around at the designer chairs and designer gowns, the artificial grass and artificial conversations, she found herself wishing to be down in the streets of the city.

They were dirty, but at least they were real.


Word Count: 147

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

199-05-may-7th-20171

“Last night,” the woman said, “Miss Amelia Edwards went missing immediately after leaving her office.”

Victoria leaned forward, studying her two visitors: one man, one woman, both in black suits. Government service was written all over them: the office-chair postures, the cut of their clothes, the silenced pistols tucked into their coats.

“And you want me to find her.”

“No,” the woman replied. “We found her two hours ago, floating in the Thames. We want you to find her phone.”

“How critical is the information it contains?”

The man slid a cheque across the table and Victoria raised an eyebrow.

“How did she die?” Victoria asked.

“Drowning,” the man said. “No signs of force. No chemicals in her system. Whoever did it was clever.”

“That would be beyond clever,” Victoria replied. “To show no signs of force at all, not even the smallest bruise…”

“What are you implying?” the woman asked.

Victoria sighed. “The phone may be beyond my skills to recover.”

“You can’t tell us where it is?”

“I can tell you exactly where it is. The bottom of the Thames.” She shook her head. “The thing about murders that look like suicides is that sometimes, they’re suicides.”


Word Count: 199

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

sandra-crook-1

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!

photo-20170501154634901

There is always work for loggers in war. Stakes must be raised to pierce the flanks of horses; ships must be crafted to raid coastlines; siege engines must be fashioned to penetrate high walls.

But rarely was there demand for so much work as quickly as the Prince asked for. The Serpent Crest raiders had raised a fortress in the center of a low valley, rings of hills and cliffs forming a natural fortification. From there, they struck like stinging wasps at the scattered villages.

The Prince wanted them gone.

“Madness,” one logger said to another as they hewed the forest until the earth was bare.

“Madness,” the lords murmured inside the walls of his city.

The Prince’s will was done, his logs stretching across the river.

“Madness,” the Serpent Crest commander whispered as the flood descended upon the valley, the redirected river sweeping away everything in its path.


Word Count: 148

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