Tag Archives: creative writing



Entry to this week’s 3LineTales! Image courtesy of Sonya.

One step forwards, two steps back. Do a one-eighty, trip on a crack.

The dead-ends frown, they forbid en mass. Rocks and hard places, litter the past.

But what to do? No way around. Lest fire he thought. Will fly like sound!


One Way




Entry to this week’s Friday Fictioneers!  Back from a long hiatus 🙂

“The plebs. Why do they leave? Don’t they know all roads lead back to Rome?”

“Their shepherd understands this but he must delay, lest slaughter and slavery reach his people.”

“So exodus he proffers but revolution he disguises. Marching in circles to cull the weak, breeding the strong to fight the stronger.“

“Would the empire be so blind? Wolves can smell their sheep a hundred leagues away.”

“The empire let them go for they no longer desire food but a challenge.”

“And the shepherd?”

“A sheep-wolf or a wolf-sheep. Makes no difference.”

Moments Before…

quiet scrabble.jpg

Entry to this week’s 3LineTales! Image courtesy of Moritz Schmidt.

The blind saw the light: Eyes-see-stars. Five filled bars.

The deaf heard the quiet: Heart-beat-pound. Skip no sound.

The mute spoke the word: Lips-shush-babel. Spell then scrabble.


The Wintermare


Entry to this week’s Sunday Photo Fictioner

Ovid jolted from his sleep. Red-eyed and still shaking, the shock of the car-wreck still reverberated in his dreams. Harsh words thrown and hot tempers flashed. A slap to the face carried the screeching pitch of tires unhinged that had turned the world grey. Rubbing his eyes a bit to peek out the window, he saw her again. Grey flurries fell, no longer caught by a shattered windshield of broken dreams. She was gone but now she’s there hidden behind an intact dashboard and a pair of unused wipers. Guilt imprisons us all he laments and shuts the curtains for the fourth time today.


Wings of Fate


Agapao awoke to the sight of fluttering wings. Dusk settled upon the land as the distant night crept across the blood-soaked fields, covering the horrors of war like a traumatic dream. The last two armies had annihilated each other. The few survivors claimed victory not over each other but against fate for mountains of corpses surrounded them, singing the tune to the world’s end.

Agapao looked overhead. An eclipse of moths encircled the now blackened meadow beneath the crimson skies. Some would land on a body and depart with a spirit in tow. These moths would fly towards the fading light so that the departed may find new places to inhabit. Others would land and bury themselves into a carrion, stapling the body to the soul. Those unfortunate individuals became the walking dead, forever to roam the Earth under another’s will. Turning to the moth that twitched on his chest, Agapao pulled out his knife and cleaved it in two. Fate had no business playing with the still living.


An Elegy for Pan


Entry to this weeks Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers. Image courtesy of Etol Bagam.

The stars beam on a twilight passage.
Our eyes transfix as your figure enters.
With red dress in tow and footsteps echo,
You approach, pipes quivering silently below.

“What will play tonight? Daughter of Pan Sybarite!”
“Grace us with your voice, for sounds of old are lost”
“And memories of those times tossed.”
“The Great Pan is dead. Can you help us lament?”

You close her eyes and part your lips,
And let your voice and instrument mix.
An elegy you sang. A requiem some say,
As distant skies rumbled, rain and tears tumbled.
The old Gods bid farewell. The young belle dispelled.
The stage rests empty.


The Murmur



Clark heard a whisper in his right ear. He had been climbing the rock-face of the Yosemite for seven days straight, hardly getting any sleep under the mountain’s shadow. With his head turned, he heard another whisper, this time from his left and a bit more coherent.

“Turn back. This is not your time.”

The mountain then rumbled as several loose rocks tumbled down the cliff side.

“No!” Clark hissed. “Not after that wench left me!”

A jostle of voices now rang between his two ears, almost making him convulse under the strain of his weight. He gasped for breath as sweat evaporated off his forehead. Then he heard it. Her voice rang from up above, beckoning him to come in jest.

Anger seethed from every pore as he tore his pickaxe into the overhanging rock. The mountain however would have none of it. The pickaxe broke off a piece that sent both Clark and the rock-face rolling. When the dust had settled, the tears of rage were no more. They found their peace in the murmurs of the cold-water stream below.