#Three line tales: Retribution


photo by Nimesh Basu via Unsplash

For Sonya’s Three line tales photo prompt

She hadn’t wanted to; he had seen the look of terror on her face and known that fear of the bike had been merely an extension of her fear of him.

“Lean with the bike, not against it,” he had roared when he felt her struggling, but she hadn’t wanted to lean anywhere, just for it to stop, and it had, but not the way either of them would have chosen.

When he saw the black figure rise up among the meadow flowers of the field, he had not been surprised; he had always known what death would look like when it came for him.


Never Never

Exactly 150 words. For Crispina Kemp’s creative challenge, inspired by this photo.

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She had always thought it was a magical place, the slow stream that babbled if you listened hard enough, and the wood that had somehow escaped the developers, where blackbirds sang and jays and woodpeckers chattered. The stream disappeared into a culvert, carrying its leaf-boats into the dark, and she had walked the length of the wood countless times but never discovered where it came out.

The town grew, estates sprawled, but the wood remained untouched. Pastureland formed one boundary, a lane another, and a low wall bounded the rest. Something drew her back to the wood that end of summer day, drew her along the stream that entered the domain from the farmland, to the culvert where birds sang and the leaf-boats disappeared.

Without hesitation, she stepped into the stream and followed it into the dark to find out where it came out. It didn’t, and nor did she.

Latent defect

Inspired by Lynn Love’s tremendous piece of flash fiction, I thought I’d have a go at Crimson’s Creative Challenge too. The springboard is this photograph.

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It seemed perfect. Rehabilitated churches were so cool—pricey, and you had to be prepared to spend a fortune on restructuring the interior, but the result could be stunning. Saint Peter’s had been mucked about with over the centuries. The foundations were thirteenth century, but Henry VIII had hammered it, then Cromwell. It was burnt down during a factory revolt in the nineteenth century and bombed in the Second World War. When the congregation dwindled to nothing, the diocese decided to sell it.

Steve and Lucy decided to go for it, signed up the architect, swooned over the plans. Then the priest came for the de-consecration. It should have been done before the sale, but somehow it had been overlooked, he explained with an unctuous smile.

With a few words of release, he broke the bonds of eight hundred years, and all the nightmares came to stay.

Black Moon

A short story inspired by this image chosen as the prompt by Diana Wallace Peach for her spec fic writing challenge.

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Sand crabs chitter as the boy runs. His bare feet make no sound in the dry sand. He runs down the middle of the avenue in the light that is slipping from red to blue, keeping away from the shadows cast by the empty buildings—empty of human habitation, but who knows what else may be lurking there? Who knows anything any more?

He runs at a steady desperate trot, as he has since he entered the city and found that there was no one there to turn to. How long since he last ate or drank, he doesn’t remember, and although hunger and thirst are slow killers, what he has seen terrifies him more.

Sand is everywhere, in dunes and flats, ridged by the wind in some places, in others smoothed like a dull mirror. They had been learning to cultivate it, the people who lived around the lagoon. There had been fish too, once the sand settled. If only there had been nothing worse. Images crowd behind the boy’s eyes and he sobs. Tears blur his vision and he stumbles, utterly weary but he dare not stop, dare not look back.

The city seems endless. He had hoped to find people there, people he could tell about what happened. He wanted someone else to take the decisions for him, find him a place to sleep, a safe place. But the city is silent as only dead stone can be silent. There is no one to help him, and no one to tell what is coming out of the sea. He runs. Runs.

Houm. Houm.

Faint, but terrifyingly familiar, the booming rolls through the empty city, funnelled down the narrow streets, swelling louder to fill the avenues. He sobs again but still refuses to look back. He runs.

At either side the buildings have dwindled from eight stories and more to a mere three, then two. The majestic avenue wavers and gives out. Gaps appear between the houses; sheds replace stone. Suddenly, beyond a dune of compacted sand, the city ends, and beyond he sees hills, real hills not dunes. He gives a gasp of relief; hills mean safety.

He decides to scavenge for food and water in these last derelict dwellings before attempting the trackless plain that spreads at their feet. He has not much idea of judging distances, but he thinks the hills look closer than the city looked from the lagoon. He peers about the poverty-stricken neighbourhood and chooses a place less dilapidated than the rest. He is about to try the door, when he notices the light on the hills. The gentle red is dying, and blue is swelling up from the plain.

Houm houm houm houm.

The sound is louder, louder than the pounding of the blood in his ears, and he turns slowly, reluctantly, and looks back in the direction of its source. Blue light creeps down the sandy street with his footprints speckling its untroubled surface. He raises his eyes, and fear forms cold, knotted coils in his stomach. The eclipse.

The Black Moon has risen and has almost obscured the dying sun. The Black Moon will draw up the Great Tide, the greatest tide of all, even greater than the tide that washed over the world to leave the lagoon when it withdrew. Since the Black Moon began to rise, each successive tide has been wilder, higher.

He remembers the waves of the last high tide that flooded the lagoon and the thin fields around it. He rode out the flood, hanging onto a broken door, miles across the plain. He had hoped there would be help or at least comfort in the city, because he had seen what came out of the lagoon on the flood tide, but the Black Moon also brought the Black Plague.

The chittering of the sand crabs sounds like mocking laughter; there is no help to be found in the city, or anywhere. The boy looks to the hills, but his eyes are dead, dead as his hope. When the blue light vanquishes the red, and the Black Moon vanquishes the sun, they will leave the ocean depths and reclaim the world—the Behemoths.


A better place

Strange image calls for strange story. This is D. Wallace Peach’s February speculative fiction prompt.

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How long she had stood in the falling cold, the baby couldn’t say, but her back wore a white blanket now, and her toes were covered in it. It was longer again before she realised she didn’t feel cold anymore, that her thoughts were unfreezing and she could remember. There had been so much sorrow, crying and death. Tears filled the baby’s eyes, but the image of the woman with fiery hair smiled at her, and the tears dried.

She remembered the fiery woman who had swept down from the hill where all the others were lying dead or dying, and how the woman screamed in anger and threw bolts of flame from her hands until the sadness became a forest of flames. The flames swirled and twisted and carried the baby in strong fiery arms and left her in this strange, quiet place where cold white fell from the sky.

She shook her head and found that her forehead was butted up against a tree, and in the tree was a tiny human house and on the roof of the tiny house was a family of mice, white as the falling cold. She pushed. The house lurched, and from inside came the shrill miniscule shrieks of humans. She pushed again and the tree cracked. The mice twittered and leapt to the ground. Instead of running away they watched, intrigued. The baby’s unfrozen thoughts grew clear as spring water, and suddenly she knew. The mouse family knew too. The fiery woman smiled inside the baby’s head from within the flames of her hair and the baby smiled back.

The baby nudged a third time and the tree trunk broke. The tiny house slipped and fell to the ground, splitting open like a coconut. The tiny people rushed out then back, in and out, in and out of the wreckage unable to resign themselves to leaving behind this or that piece of useless junk. Then one pointed. Their movements froze just for a second, before they screamed in unison and ran. The baby stretched out her trunk and trumpeted a baby war cry. The mice squeaked, the baby stomped on the matchwood human house, and the cold stopped falling. The fiery woman spoke inside the baby’s head.

No more. Never again.

No more, agreed the mice.

Never again, agreed the baby, and started off into the great forest where the white cold had never fallen, to look for others like herself.

Three Line Tales: World of water

For Sonya’s Three Line Tales. I do like this photo!

photo by Lalo via Unsplash



The ocean is in turmoil, heaving and crashing with a deafening roar, waves whipped by ferocious currents and tempestuous winds.

Nothing but water moves from horizon to horizon except the screaming gulls, hundreds and hundred of gulls, struggling against the gale.

Even the gulls will tire though, need to settle on land, and when their strength gives out and they fall, crumpled feathers and weary wings, into the waves, there will be nothing left at all.

The end of something

For the Secret Keeper’s weekly writing challenge. This week’s words:


south field

Moving house is an ending and beginning, consigning years of accumulated habits to the box of souvenirs, with the pebbles and the postcards. Gone, the baker and the daily walk, the rattle of dustbins and rooftop cats, the smiles of old acquaintances. Will we regret the loss, or embrace the turning of the years, the new path chosen? This new life just starting is a weaving of bonds that will last, we say, and arrange our relics with loving care, already forgetting what they looked like in the old place

As these golden dusks spread and gather shadows into night, we feel the weight of emptiness, and wonder, will we tie up our barque in this tame wilderness, and never leave its haven for wilder shores?


No voice breaks the hush,

no sharp, mechanical sounds—

dark stream murmurs low.

The wish in the wind

This is for the Secret Keeper’s weekly writing challenge. The words to use are:



There is a wish that whispers in the wind,

A cry that rises faintly from the earth

And rustles in the dry leaves of the oak.

The urgings of the spring are thrusting green,

Through rotting leaf and beetle-scurried loam,

Where deer hooves scuff away the dross

To find the sour acorns. Life goes on,

Despite the bitter wind that whispers, soon,

The cold and frosty billows will be spent.

Fox sniffs and digs for voles, warm blood,

Hawk swoops, owl sweeps the grassy night.

Soon—hind shivers, leaps the bramble hedge,

No luxury for longings in her rapid flight.

Twittering Tales: Fire

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.