Three Line Tales: Ghosts

This is for Sonya’s Three Line Tales photo prompt.

photo by Khürt Williams via Unsplash


The beach at low tide—so peaceful and still, no one would ever guess how quickly the turning tide could rush across the silver sands, and the mirrored sky become silent waters.

She shielded her eyes to peer in the direction of the sea, a bright shimmer in the distance still, where gulls wheeled and cried their unsettling warnings.

A trick of the light perhaps, a glitter on the edge of sight, and she thought she caught sight of movement, a family playing on the strand, in the smooth, silvery expanse that the treacherous tide was now rapidly covering.


Three Line Tales: Hunger

This was a tough one. For Sonya’s Three Line Tales photo prompt.

photo by Prince Akachi via Unsplash




I hold breath fear and hope fighting legs want to run but hungry belly says stay.

She puts out hand and I cringe for the hurting blow cringe but hungry belly says stay.

Hand touches head and I feel fear in the fingers not hurting so I stop cringing and I say with eyes and ears—not bite dog only has hungry belly.

Three Line Tales: Out of the blue

I haven’t looked at Sonya’s challenges for ages. Time to get a grip.

photo by Ricardo Viana via Unsplash



He was a quiet boy, they said, never gave his parents any trouble, in fact, he idolised his father and didn’t want to share him, not even with his adorable little brother.

They did all the male bonding kind of stuff, camping, hunting, fishing, football games, built up a close father-son relationship, if a little exclusive and dismissive of female company, wimpy kids, foreigners, you know, losers and parasites.

He took it badly when his father left, but the last thing anyone expected him to do was take the gun his dad gave him for his birthday into his little brother’s kindergarten and spray his classroom with bullets.

Three Line Tales: One use for a dead star

A short story for Sonya’s Three Line Tales photo prompt.

photo by Marc-Olivier Jodoin via Unsplash


The Creator looked down on the high-rises that sprouted like fungus over the planet, the planes that swarmed in the skies where birds used to fly.

The oceans were mounting, land receding, and the battle between rich and poor for the diminishing resources was on a global scale.

“Cancer is a sad fact of life,” the Creator said, “time to cut this one out,” and picking up a dead star, she blocked up the hole in the universe through which the rejected life forms had escaped.

Microfiction: Grail

A 100 word story for Rochelle Wisoff’s Friday Fictioneers.

PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot




He looked down with distaste on the crowds milling around the souvenirs.

You’d never think this place had been a church once.

Of far more value than the artworks on display and guarded with the most elaborate security systems was what was hidden in the crypt.

The cretins don’t even know there is a crypt.

Well, he did, and he knew how to get in. He slipped into the shadows of the gallery and waited, dreaming of the Grand Master’s gratitude when he handed over his prize, how the world would change, and how it would be thanks to him.

#writephoto: Flight

This little story is for Sue Vincent’s Thursday photo prompt.


They halted on the road because she was tired and the baby needed feeding. He looked back the way they had come nervously. There was only a line of low hills between them and the town. He’d have preferred a mountain range. Or an ocean.

“It’ll be fine,” she said as she settled down and undid the front of her robe. “He said nothing would happen to us.”

Her husband looked at the glow in the sky that meant the town had been torched. “Not to us, maybe.”

She looked up in irritation. “But we got out in time, and that’s the main thing.”

“He also said that this could happen again.”

She shrugged. “But we’ll be looked after, whatever happens.”

“Doesn’t it make you…uneasy?”

“Look,” she said wearily, “it’s unfortunate about…the others—”

“The babies,” he specified.

“All right! The babies! But it can’t be helped. He’s more important. Look at him,” she smiled down at her baby son. The child paused in his suckling and raised his head, fixing the worried-looking man with a piercing blue stare. “Now tell me you’d put his life at risk for a bunch of insignificant babies that were probably already more than their parents could cope with.”

Her husband tore himself away from the baby’s blue-eyed gaze and looked back at the mounting flames.

“I hope you’re right,” he said.

“Of course I am,” his wife said, fastening her robe and getting to her feet. “Now, hold Jesus while I get back on the donkey. We’re not out of the woods yet.”