Each week I will be posting a photo I grab off the internet and challenge bloggers to write a relatively short flash fiction piece inspired by the photo. While there are no definitive style or word limits, I suggest trying to keep your posts to under 300 words.
Wired – a mostly true story
He was only seven when the monsters came. Whispering to him late at night, telling him stories, telling him … things. I sat and watched as he stood open-eyed, staring off into the distance, talking to someone I couldn’t see, in a language I’d never heard. He was only seven.Continue reading “Wired – a mostly true story”→
It still stood on the sidewalk, a melancholy reminder of better days. The days when Grampy taught her to play, the days before. Before the Bluebird Pandemic had swept across the world, leaving millions of blue-faced corpses in it’s wake. The doctors had died in the first wave. The plague wiped out most of the world population, lack of sanitation took still more. Then came the looters. They stripped everything including the ebony and ivory keys from her beloved piano. Ayrelan had made a small memorial garden on the top of the derelict instrument, a tribute to better days.
The rigid formality of the place suffocated her. It was too much like the stark formal walls of the asylum. An exceedingly odd place to find a mark but Solanj didn’t question. She waited behind one of the massive stone columns unwinding her bracelet. Continue reading “A Very Odd Mark”→
The bottles were lined up in a row. The window faced the full moon and each bottle touched some bit of the metal grid. All was in readiness. Shara entered her circle of salt, lit the candles and settled herself to the ground. She began mixing herbs with her mortar and pestle and chanting her spell.Continue reading “Inn of the Purple Door – a Crimson Creative Challenge”→
Heavy raindrops soaked his cigarette as Sam stood assessing the wreck. Bloody steam bandits! They had derailed the train en-route and, in the confusion, made off with the steam generator. Sam stepped lightly over twisted metal and worse. Now to catch the thieving buggers.
Noemei opened her eyes to her squalid surroundings. The stench of sweat and excrement mixed with something worse, the smell of fear. The air was ripe with it. Slavers! Her Island village had been raided. She’d been thrown in the hold of a ship with the other children and what adults were left after the massacre. She brusquely wiped a tear away. This would not do, her mother had told her to get away and get away she would.Continue reading “Noemei”→
Your Friday prompt for Stream of Consciousness Saturday is “abash/a bash/bash.” Use “abash,” or “bash” as a noun or a verb. Bonus points if you manage all three. Have fun!
Much Abashed about a Bash
Helena was much abashed when she arrived at the party wearing the same frock she’d worn just weeks ago. But with the servants gone, what else was she to do? She’d thought to take a bash at dressing herself for the evening gala and felt she’s done fairly well. Her gown was not new, but she’s done her hair up in a fashionable twist with tiny ringlets falling to her shoulders. The hair style was simple with her naturally curly hair and she’d further adorned it with her mother’s silver combs. The double strand of pearls around her neck had also belonged to her mother. Helena fondled them for a moment in quiet contemplation. Oh how could her parents have had the bad taste to be murdered and left her all alone. There was nothing for it, this party was her meal ticket. Many favors were owed her family and she intended to collect. Plus, it was the poshest bash of the season and the food was bound to be good. Helena’s tummy rumbled silently as she stepped across the threshold and presented her invitation.