This little tale of 205 characters is for Kat Myrman’s Twittering Tuesday.
Photo by hschmider at Pixabay.com
They thought they were safe from the world’s problems in their luxury chalets. The expensive boutiques, restaurants and security of the mountain resort kept out the riff-raff. But not determined arsonists.
This short piece is for Sue Vincent’s Thursday photo prompt. It’s a really beautiful photo, but somehow it didn’t inspire a specific story, just this rather general disaster scenario.
Once it was a land of rich meadows, but the mountains are cruel. Each winter the snow giants hurl tempests of ice and snow into the valleys and the meltwater floods the plain in spring. The meadows are full of water now. The cattle’s hooves rot in the damp mud and the wind sings, unbroken across the plain where nothing grows except marsh grass.
Every winter, the mountains stride closer, and in the spring their heads are wreathed in freezing mist that the sun never warms. The lands of men shrink inexorably and their children die of damp fever. Soon, perhaps, the winter will come that will never end, spring will never thaw the ice that covers the plain, and the snow giants will inherit the earth.
For Sonya’s Three Line Tales photo prompt.
photo by Christopher Burns via Unsplash
The frantic roar of the crowd filled his ears, the applause and his own blood pounding with the excitement of the most wonderful day of his life.
It was a sound he could never forget, not even after the accident when everything else seemed to have seeped from his brain, memories, faces, loves.
He didn’t need a crowd, an opponent, even a ball anymore, just the court—his single remaining memory did the rest.
This Twittering Tale of 246 characters is for Kat Myrman’s prompt.
Photo by veeterzy at Pexels.com
She left the trail and the rest of the group to look closer. They were wrong, it wasn’t a tree. She touched the pale smoothness, skin-smooth, warm, and felt the magic—dancers, horned and masked from an ancient time, dancing in this glade forever.
This 97 word story in for Rochelle Wisoff’s Friday Fictioneers.
PHOTO PROMPT © J Hardy Carroll
Kem shouldn’t have been surprised it was so hard to get close to the girl. She was an ambassador’s daughter after all. The trip to the funfair was a godsend.
He glanced at the bodyguard sitting next to her, hand on the concealed holster, as the flying saucer skimmed past. Kem waved to him. This was his lucky day—he knew Camlo who worked at the funfair. Camlo owed him one.
The flying saucers went into orbit amid shrieks of happy terror that turned to screams of real terror when one of the main struts sheered away.
This is for Sue Vincent’s Thursday photo prompt #writephoto
Her sons were waiting. Their chariots were harnessed, and the lios was a sea of men, horses and hounds.
“Don’t go,” she whispered to Diarmuid. “There’s no need. Let the old man rant. He can do us no harm.”
Diarmuid took her in his arms. “I must. If Conor brings his men across the river I shall have no choice but to fight him.”
Her fingers clutched the rough wool of his cloak, wishing she had the strength to hook her fingers into his flesh and hold him there.
“He promised,” she said.
“And he broke his word.”
Diarmuid held her away from him and smiled. She looked into his face and counted the wrinkles round his eyes, the silver hairs in the black. She would like to kiss every one before he left, but there was no time. Too many years they had been together for there to be any farewell that would ease the pain. She turned away so he would not see her sorrow. The sorrow of an old woman who could not bear that he might not come back.
The noise of the parting warriors masked the sound of beating wings. Her tears blurred the sight of the raven that settled on the ridgepole of the house. When Diarmuid returned it was upon his shield.
This is for Sonya’s Three Line Tales photo prompt. We’re getting grim again.
photo by Hans Vivek via Unsplash
He checked the address and glanced apprehensively at the broken store blinds scrawled with graffiti, wondering if it was really safe to leave the car for more than two minutes in this neighbourhood.
The owner had been vague about the problem, just asked for a complete fumigation, so he’d brought the works—for rats, cockroaches, lice, fleas—and lined up the canisters of different products by the side door of the building.
The lock had been broken—and in the dim light he made out amid the jumble of mattresses and plastic carriers, the huddled forms of maybe twenty human beings.