Write till your hearts content



Words pull me.

Night and day.

Sometimes i cannot stop thinking about it.

And other times i can’t start thinking about it.

Queer. But once i decide to start writing about something i am afraid i won’t stop.



It sits there silently calling me. It doesnt let me study. My wonderful table. My wonderful pen.

And i stare at my work realising i can’t resist the call anymore.

I get up and rush towards it and just start writing.

Time runs.


I wake up in the morning.

I haven’t had the faintest idea when i drowsed off , i haven’t had a proper sleep but then i know my hearts full.






Sunday Photo Fiction is a weekly Flash Fiction prompt based on the photo supplied below. If you wish to take part, the idea is to write a piece of fiction of around 100-200 words (usually called flash fiction). You can participate here.




Eegro was worried.

The sun was late and it never had been before , not in a thousand years.

” Seinter , assemble the Angels”  he ordered.

With a group of fifty Angels he entered the Dimension Portal to descend near the Sun. They were there in less than a second.

There was no breach , no war , no death.

There was no attack from the demons.

The Sun was not well. He did rise after a while but he wouldn’t be up for long and they all knew the end was getting near.

Eegro was more worried.



Dark Lies

It all happened on that day.

A day lost in the countless manveour of time. A far stretched lie that destroyed the Kingdom of Danteron.

It wasn’t the dragons, it wasn’t the dwarfs.

Humans as they call us are more complex, more intriguing. It was a human called Firtanhe.

He came as silently as a small wind , slept on the streets , ate very little. But it was his eyes that gave him up. The underneath intellect that lay hidden was too vast to be ignored or acknowledged. It was intriguing.

His rise wasn’t swift but it was noticed. His approach to problems were queer but optimal. He became a local legend. A year later , a governor and after 2 years the favourite adviser to the King.

Others resented him , some admired him. Although everyone were afraid.

He walked the streets with a certain stride , a confidence that was too confident , a fearlessness that invoked fear. He never smiled. He never talked. He whispered.

It was his whisper that spread , a kind of frenzy that drove people to follow him. To do whatever he said. They feared him , but also loved him.

He became more important than the King.

When an anonymous letter reached the kings hands that warned him of the impending danger to his kingdom by Firtanhe , it was burned in anger.


No one knew what happened that day.

Only that it lasted a day. The entire city lay in ruins , the army destroyed , the people killed and the king dead.

Only one man stood above the hills , looking at the remains that were caused by him ,  a faint pride mixed with sadness erupted in his eye.

He moved on.


No one knew what happened that day.

The entire city erupted in joy , the army hooted , the people rejoiced and the king wept.

Only one man would have done it , saving the city as he had.


It was whispered that the story was manipulated , that it was all dark lies.


Now onto this week’s one-word prompt.

MANIPULATE (transitive verb)

1: to treat or operate with or as if with the hands or by mechanical means especially in a skillful manner
2a : to manage or utilize skillfully
b : to control or play upon by artful, unfair, or insidious means especially to one’s own advantage
3: to change by artful or unfair means so as to serve one’s purpose : to doctor

The Workshop

Copyright -Claire Fuller

Copyright -Claire Fuller

” It is an abandoned workshop sir , near the outskirts of this town” said Mulew with a queer sadness in his voice.

Mr. M flinched his eyebrows , he was always attentive and now he was interested.

“Is it for sale?”

“Yes sir , but no one wants to take it. I hear it’s half the price currently running in the market.”

” Why does no one take it?” asked Mr.M with a deadly eagerness that betrayed his voice.

” No one speaks of the tragedy that befell that place. No one speaks of the bad omen there. I recently heard people tell that they hear strange voices at night.”

“Get your senses back boy , we are going for hunting , we are going for a deal” grinned Mr.M.

“But sir aren’t you afraid?”

“Oh that! Don’t believe everything they tell. I spread the ghost rumours , it’s just business.”

The Fight: Sunday Photo Fiction

Sunday Photo Fiction is a weekly Flash Fiction prompt based on the photo supplied below. If you wish to take part, the idea is to write a piece of fiction of around 100-200 words . You can find the details here.





“The King’s Fallen , run for your lives ” echoed the streets of Greithen , the once fabled kingdom.

Ser Friest , Ser Davouse and Ser Witemintes looked at each other , they were the only Knights left alive. Bruised and blooded they knew they couldn’t fight for long and escape wasn’t an option.

It was futile to kill all these small soldier , they made death look like a play.

They were noble but unyielding. And they had decided to fight.

Three people against an army? Well they were Knights. They gave their back against each other and stood harder than the ground.

The Salt King as they called him , watched them fight. His best soldiers didn’t stand a chance against them. As it turned out nor did his Knights.

They fought till their strength faded. Ser Witemintes fell first. He had killed more than The king could keep count.

A day after both the Knights fell , the land was drowning in the blood they had spilled.

The King was too dumbstruck by their bravery…..


1500 years later there were the images of three unknown Knights on a stained Glass window in a town called Dover.



Station : Friday Fictioneers

Copyright-Dawn Q. Landau

Copyright-Dawn Q. Landau


“Camp delta – to – station , is everything OK ?”

“Station responding , yes sir. We just set up.”

“Estimated time for first report – 13:00 hours”

“Acknowledged sir”


“Hello Arebraew , how’s things going on?”

“Well there’s a panoramic view of the ocean , and we have set up on a rock.”

“That’ nice”

“You know there’s a stairs that connects this abandoned lighthouse type house to the ground , as if we need them .”

“Ha ha!  Happy Human Hunting! ” chuckled the leader of the Green Aliens.




The Vase

“Synchronicity be damned , arrange yourself in 5..4..3..2..1 ” shouted Papa in a loud voice.

Breaths exchanged , panic stricken hearts made a quick gesture of arrangements and Lo , they were arranged in less than a minute.

“Why does fear do the job always , why not passion ? ” wondered he with an air of disappointment. It wasn’t easy , this new job he’s been doing for a while. Well , actually six days. They called him Papa now. He felt old.

He knew he couldn’t last long. He wondered how would he fade. How would it feel? Dry ? Dead?

He had to appoint someone to take care of the job. He took a look at them , the young buds , the bloomed ones. They lay there ignorant  of what they meant to the world around them. Of what they meant to humans.

He had often wondered in his young days , if they were just an object of beauty? A thing called “flowers” which would eventually die. A show of grandeur?  A sense of feelings mixed with colours that looked good?

But they had heart. And no one understood that.

He had decided.

“Jesse , come here” he shouted.

Out popped a young foolish jasmine.

“How do you feel ? ” he asked.

“The same , i have always felt the same way.” he said. ” I smell nice ” he giggled.

“This Vase is our home and we have to see it clean , Listen carefully Jess , i need you to take the responsibility of making the flowers arrange themselves after i am gone.”

“What for? , i don’t wanna do anything for the humans.”

“It’s not for them we do the arranging , it’s for us. We need to be synchronised and clean , in our proper places. That keeps us fresh and makes us live a little longer. You will understand.”


“Would you do that for me , for your father.”

A small tear formed on his eyes.

” I will , synchronicity be damned.”