Posts Tagged ‘writing’

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In dying sunlight, they whisper stories of day and night, of what was and what will be.

They say the Sun is made of burning gold, spilt from the white-sparking forge of the Smith-God Ilmaril, who hammers away in the heart of the Earth.

They say each night it passes through the gates of death and wanders in the underworld, giving light to the shades, bringing heat to the world of bones.

They say it is drawn by Velervo, firstborn of dwarfs, who sought to overthrow the gods and was condemned to toil in the skies until the Forevernight, when all the stars shall fall like silver leaves.

They say that in the end of days, the last of the great dragons, who slumbers under the waves, shall rise up and devour the Sun in quenching dark.

And as they sleep, their dreams are full of fire and dragons.


Word Count: 149

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

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chicagomg

“Look, mommy,” the little girl said, pointing a chubby finger at the side of the building. “A man!”

Her mother squinted, then smiled, stroking her daughter’s hair. “You’re right. There is a man.”

Across the street, people looked up at the little figure of the man climbing the massive skyscraper, dressed in black. They pulled out phones and cameras, recording what they assumed was a brilliant piece of public performance or a publicity stunt.

The man carried off a heist in broad daylight, watched by a hundred people who didn’t lift a finger to stop him.


Word Count: 98

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

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Of all of his tools, he loved the camera best. It was a thing of beauty: lightweight, responding to the slightest touch, never the slightest hiccup with the mechanics. Others might call it crude, simple, old-fashioned, but he had always admired simplicity in machinery – the clicking of wheels, the twist of a lens, the press of a button.

He looked through the camera and saw the surge of the crowd. Black uniforms and black rifles filled his vision when he gave the slightest twist to the lens. Beyond, he saw the man himself, dressed in a white suit to match his white smile. He zoomed, focused on the face, a face that flashed across television screens and newspapers. The most famous face in the world.

He saw it again, dead center. Smiling.

He pressed the button, knowing that he would make the moment live forever.

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The police never found the shooter. In the rush of the maddened crowd, the shock of the moment, it was impossible to secure the scene. It went down as unsolved, an atrocity without an answer.

Nobody noticed one man amongst hundreds, a little camera clasped in his steady hands.


Word Count: 193

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

tltweek92

A thousand earth-born stars, the lanterns rose high over the river, shining bright in the darkness.

Each contained a spark, a flame, a soul ready to take flight and move beyond the curtain of night.

Little Tai sat on the riverbank, her eyes red-rimmed, and wondered how to call them back.


This is for Three Line Tales. Thanks to Sonya for running the challenge and gn dim for the prompt photo!

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The mountain jutted like a dagger from the earth, a pinnacle of grey in a world of brown. It was all sharp angles and vertical drops, the deadliest of climbs.

But still they attempted it. To even try to climb the mountain was worthy of honour.

If anyone ever reached the top, they would praised above all others, chosen of the gods.

So he pressed on, climbing with pick and rope. Even when his muscles burnt and the wind threatened to dash him against the ground, he pressed on.

At last, he stood upon the tip of the mountain and beheld what none of his people had beheld before: another world, all around him, a world of heights that made the mountain look like nothing, that made his people look like nothing.

He stood there, not knowing whether to laugh or weep.


Word Count: 142

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

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The captain didn’t see the yacht until it was too late. A horn blared, somebody screamed, and then the ships collided, wood splintering as the pale prow of the yacht chewed through it. It ground to a halt, a hole gaping in its hull.

“Lifeboats and floatation devices!” the captain called to her crew. “Now!”

Flames licked at the deck of the yacht. A man slumped over the wheel,  bottle in hand.

A drunkard who sunk her ship.

She clambered onto the deck and picked him up. He looked at her with glazed, bleary eyes.

The fire reached the fuel.

She shoved him into the water. There was a roar, heat on her neck.

Then nothing.

The man was pulled into a lifeboat. He stared silently at the burning wreck.

“I didn’t deserve that,” he whispered.

Someone put a firm hand on his shoulder.

“Then make sure you do.”


Word Count: 148

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

This was a really hard one to fit into 150 words.

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King Deorsa walked through the forest, feeling the wind tug at his snow-white cloak. The leaves were bright, green and yellow amongst the dark bark of the striplings and birdsong danced in the fresh spring air, yet his hand never moved from the ivory hilt of his sword.

“Merdraud!” he called. “Seer of futures!”

She was there, clad in a swirl of green, bright eyes darting like hummingbirds. “What would you ask of me, King Deorsa, Lord of Men?”

“How long will my reign last?”

From a low-hanging branch, Merdraud plucked a leaf. Between her fingers it turned golden, curling like a dead insect. Down to the forest floor it drifted.

“Until the last leaf falls.”

And as the Autumn came, born on chill winds and darkening shadows, the harvests turned bitter. Peace turned to bickering and bickering turned to war. Steel flashed and fires burned.

Deorsa rode through the forest, bare branches hanging over his hooded head. A crisp, curling carpet of leaves crunched under his horse’s hooves. Behind him, bows twanged like thunderbolts, arrows streaking past him in the night.

And a single leaf, green and bright, drifted down from the treetops. Deorsa looked up.

Merdraud smiled back.


Word Count: 200

This is for Sunday Photo Fiction!