Posts Tagged ‘writing’


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!



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!


He made light and shadow dance in canvas and oil, as though he had bound them with brushes and force of will. Seascapes, landscapes, sunrises, and sunsets were brought to shimmering life beneath his talented hand. He was popular; he was acclaimed; he was happy.

Then came the shaking, the clenching, the pain that ran through his bones like quicksilver. The diagnosis was clear: total loss of muscular control within a year. No more paintings.

Once more he sat out in the cold, wind in his face, and forced his brush to glide over the canvas.

His last sunset.

Word Count: 99

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


The War is coming.

They feel it in their bones. The shops are shut. Windows are barred. Mothers hold their children close. The streets are empty. A lone newspaper flutters on the breeze, drifting between abandoned cars.

The War is coming.

There has been no announcement on the radio. There has been nothing on the television. The Internet is a haze of grey. Nobody talks about it. They simply know.

The War is coming.

The tanks come, and the soldiers with them. Rifles and helmets glint and clank as they move through empty streets. Darting eyes stare through boarded windows, watching them move.

A soldier stops for a moment, aims his rifle at a noise: a cat, sitting atop a dustbin. In a flash of fur and claws and eyes, it is gone. It knows better than to be out when the War is coming.

They come to the port, looking out over the channel sea. Waters lap gently against the metal legs of abandoned dock cranes. The tanks roll to a halt, treads becoming still and silent. The whisper of waves on rocks fills the cold air.

And in the grey mist, they see the shadow of the enemy.

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

Origami Escapism

Posted: August 31, 2017 by J.A. Prentice in Flash Fiction
Tags: , , , , , ,


Paper folds easily in her fingers, shapes forming from orange, blue, yellow, green. She makes boats and birds and swords and cars and aeroplanes, putting them in a little row under the shadows of the barred window.

She wishes more than anything she could make a key.

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


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!