Microfiction: The last of the giants

This little fable is for Rochelle Wisoff’s Friday Fictioneers.

100 words exactly.

PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields


Once upon a time, a peaceful giant was slicing a fallen tree to make a soup, when the world changed. The little men with their high-pitched whiney mosquito voices were back. This time, there were lots of them, and they were armed. Bemused, the giant bent his head to hear what they were shouting. They put out his eyes. In his pain, the giant ran. When he tripped over a mountain and fell, they finished him off, and another bit of beauty was lost to the world.

Moral: Little men with weapons should not be left in charge of worlds.



This  86 word story is for the Friday Fictioneers.

PHOTO PROMPT © Sandra Crook


He’d always had trouble getting in and out of the garage. Reversing made him anxious and being in confined spaces gave him panic attacks. The new car seemed exactly right for him, so small it wasn’t like being in a car at all. It felt more like wearing a suit of armour, he thought. The salesman told him it had a powerful little motor, and very, very responsive. But who’d have thought such a tiny car could make such a huge hole in a garage wall?

Microfiction: Funfair

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.

Microfiction: Spiders

Only 71 words for this short for the Friday Fictioneers.

PHOTO PROMPT © Victor and Sarah Potter


She refused to close the blinds, preferred being able to see them. That was why she kept all the lights on too. They covered all the windows now, their webs sparkling with hoar frost, indifferent to the cold.

The power would give out sometime. Then the cold and the darkness would overwhelm the world. They always said bluebottles would survive when everything else had gone. Obviously, the spiders had other ideas.

Microfiction: Traps

This 99 word story is for the Friday Fictioneers photo prompt.

PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot


Rob showed his brother Joe the new production line.

“We’re all ready. First batch goes out today.”

“Two more fishing boats went down in the night, I heard,” Joe said.

“They found the wreckage this morning. No bodies. If these traps don’t catch them, I don’t know what will.”

Joe fingered the mesh. “You sure this will hold them?”

Rob shrugged. “It’s the toughest on the market…” His voice trailed away.

Joe nodded. “If it works, you’ll be a hero.”

Rob gave him a wry grin. “And if it doesn’t, there won’t be anybody left around here to care.”

Microfiction: Time machine

This short story is for Rochelle Wisoff’s Friday Fictioneers writing challenge. I went slightly over limit at 106 words.



When the watchmaker learned that his wife had at best three months left to live, he spent the first of those months building a giant timepiece.

“I won’t let you go,” he whispered to her at night when he finally left his workshop and climbed into bed beside her. His wife smiled weakly and patted his hand.

When the machine was ready, the watchmaker climbed inside and began to peddle. Backwards. He would turn back the clock to the time before his wife got sick.

After the funeral, they took him to the psychiatric hospital, but they let him keep his time machine. He’s pedalling still.

Microfiction: Christmas shopping

This short Christmas story is for the Friday Fictioneers prompt.

PHOTO PROMPT © Björn Rudberg


The toy store had been full of families, parents letting little kids loose among the bright packaging and letting them choose! Fiona picked out some cheap junk for the twins and left. Guilt followed her like a thief. After school, she took them to the charity shop, guilt prodding her to let them loose to choose something she could afford to buy. Their jaws dropped at the sight of the mountain of home-knit bonnets, each one a unique design, pattern, colour combination, representing who knew what for her five-year-olds. It took them half an hour to choose a dream.

Almost dead

This 100 word story is for the Friday Fictioneers photo prompt. Johnny is dead, I have a migraine starting, so what do you expect?

PHOTO PROMPT Dale Rogerson


Trees spangled with daggers crowd around the place.

Let me out! Let me back!

No one would hear, not even the birds. He felt the cold. Never thought he would. Nothing had ever moved him but blood, the sight, the smell, the taste of it, the beautiful tracery of veins and arteries he saw throbbing beneath the skin. He smelled it now, warm and sweet, pulsing through the cold earth. He couldn’t move, they’d made sure of that, before they piled the earth over him.

Sweet, warm.

A scuffle—night vision, he still had that—beady eyes in his. Rats.


Microfiction: Fire

A story of exactly 100 words for the Friday Fictioneers photo prompt.

PHOTO PROMPT © J Hardy Carroll


He stood, hands in pockets, watching the hoses play across the façade of his block and mentally calculating how much the insurance would pay out. Fifteen families lived there, officially. He didn’t count the rooms five or six immigrant workers shared, taking turns to sleep on the one bed. But he had made sure the police knew all about the men who squatted in the service area where the bins were kept. He made sure they found the paraffin, the lighter and the tins of food. He knew exactly how the fire must have started. Because he had lit it.

Microfiction Friday Fictioneers: Ghost ship

This story is in response to Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers prompt. It ought to be less than 100 words but it isn’t. I knew what story I wanted to tell and couldn’t shrink the word count enough.




The ship-builder gazed across the harbour where a cruise ship was making for its berth. He knew every vessel moored there, the yachts and the cruise ships, many of them his own. The little men scurrying about below decks belonged to him too, but he rarely thought about them.

He sipped his cognac, savouring the taste of freedom. It had been close. The jury had come within an ace of a conviction, but money solves most problems. He frowned. The cruise ship, lights blazing, appeared deserted and was ploughing through the berths of pleasure craft, making straight for… He looked closer. The glass slipped from his fingers. It was that ship, the one that had sunk, drowning the below-decks crew and fifty-three passengers when the car deck filled with water. Faulty door seal. It had been bad luck, not his fault. A ship out of action in the middle of the tourist season…Inconceivable He was innocent, the jury said so.

The ship loomed over him, blotting out the moon with its ten decks and its ghosts. He lost control of his bladder. At impact, he was already dead.