Writing Challenge

I always read the ideas on Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie but never get round to doing them in time, so today I’ve pulled my finger out so I can play the game (I think those metaphors together may be dubious, but I’ll keep on).

This is for prompt 2

In 25 words or less, write a story (beginning, middle, and end) about what’s happening in this photograph.


So my brief story:

The tree reminded her of her mother, a dramatic and looming presence, and she always worked harder beneath its stern gaze.

Link to Saturday flash splash 07.01.17


Microfiction: The Scrapings

And again, some one line stories:

We knew it would end like this, not with a bang or a whimper, but with a loud harrumph.

“That’s just how it is,” he rasped, “men show their feelings by hitting each other, women by affection.” And that was when I knew I wanted to be a woman.

“Drunken poetry,” she wrote with a flourish in pink biro, “it contains all truth. Drunken poetry,” then she gave up, as the rhymes deserted her.

A light flickered, the air grew cold. Grandma had returned.

“That’s just how it is,” she ranted, “men prove their strength by striding round the world conquering things. Women prove their strength by enduring, by suffering.” And that was when I knew, I wanted to be a man.

Leading a double life was difficult with Facebook, it took planning and copious notes.

He woke up slowly, his head thundering and his stomach lurching. He eased himself onto his side and saw the Devil sleeping peacefully beside him. I am never drinking again, he thought.

“That’s just how it is,” they shouted, “people are selfish. They all want to be rich, and they don’t care who suffers as a result.” And that was when I knew I wanted to be an alien.

Microfiction: The Wordicons

Thanks to Wisp of Smoke  for inspiring the title. Some more very small tales, unconnected, although I always end up imagining a story that ties them altogether. Anyway…


Inside the locket she kept a demon’s egg.

He carved and whittled, preserving the faces of the dead in fruit. It was the least he could do.

“It was just easier to be clever, when there was so much less to know,” said the polymath, mournfully.

She sat on the bus, gripping the seat in front, with her eyes shut. ‘They ripped him out of me’, she whispered to no one in particular.

His expression flicked back and forth from hopeful to blank to hopeful; as nothing helpful continued to happen.