The Door

The blackness was creeping in slowly but surely, obscuring colours, obliterating life, engulfing my thoughts, weighing me down like death. I gasp for breath, running around in circles, stuck in a vortex of nothingness. I am as alone as I would be in the bleakness of space and cold. How much darkness can I take without any hope of light?

It is then that I see it, the door that leads to nothing, that leads to something, the only possibility of escape, however faint. I run towards it, but no matter how much I run, it does not get any closer. Its a race against the darkness, a race against hopelessness, a race against desolation, because somehow I know that if I don’t reach it now, I may never.

Then I hear the caw, I see the crow, seated atop the door, at the precipice of something. She’s staring at me with lazer sharp intelligence. “Help me!” I implore.

“What do you need?”

“To reach the door.”


“To get out.”


“So I can breathe.”

“Are you not breathing now?”

“I’m panting.”


“Because I’m running.”


“Because I’m scared.”


“I’m scared of the dark unknown.”

“Then stop and know.”

Something in her tone gives me the strength to stop.

So I stop, sit down, open my eyes, open my mind. I look. I feel.

The leaves are a soft cushion below me, the winds have calmed down into a gentle caress. Around me graceful shadows wave like ballerinas stretching, dressed in gowns of black, and charcoal, and slate, and pewter, and greys. I am suddenly awake to the beauty hidden in their subtle differences, in their textures.

I do not even feel the heaviness lift, or the sun rise, or the door open.

Suddenly I’m not afraid.


In response to Michelle’s Photo-Fiction #93 challenge.

The perils of growing up!

“Bleet Bleet”, exclaimed Sunny, “and to think that I envied their long coats!”
“At least no one is grabbing us by our tresses and dragging us away, only to be brought back naked and hairless.”

“I don’t think I want to grow up fast anymore,” added Shiny.


In response to: Three Line Tales, Week 63
Image by: Gemma Evans via Unsplash

The Return

Seven years.

Seven years is a long time. A person can change in seven years. Especially a person who has spent those years in prison.

Jess is excited to finally meet his papa. He’s too jumpy to sit, and I am too nervous to stand. I’ve painted him a picture of a protective hero, a superman straight out of Justice League. I’ve painted him a dream.
Will reality match the dream?

We are waiting for him at the bus stop, beside a giant rusted sculpture of a clock. The irony doesn’t escape me.

The vacuum at the pit of my stomach only grows.

Written for Friday Fictioneers with photo prompt by Jennifer Pendergast


How do they do it?

Put themselves out there, exposed, vulnerable, under the spotlight.
The fearless speaking words the world will hear.


There were some who defined words as mere sounds uttered from a mouth.

But words had power.
The power to arise courage in the hearts of men, to crush confidence, to invoke love, to provoke hate. Words had the power to open minds and initiate dialogues, to start wars, or end them.
Those little things written on thin sheets could make a hurting heart laugh or a complacent heart weep.

According to the playbill, the play was by an anonymous writer.

I prefer to be anonymous.


Written for Bikurgurl’s 100 Word Wednesday photo prompt.

Nothing to scale


My lungs are caving in, and even as I inhale I know there is no oxygen to be had.

All around is an infinite expanse with neither doors nor windows to break down, nor walls to scale.

None can get in and none get out, for I am trapped, imprisoned in my own mind.


Written for Sonya’s 3 Line Tales with photo prompt by Jake Oates via Unsplash

Music for Life

The music had entranced the ghoul who now lounged with eyes closed.
After hours of playing, Mia could barely felt the keys below her numb fingers. From the corner of her eye she looked out of the patio towards the gates wondering if she could make a dash for it while the ghoul slept. Surely she could jump over. A shiver of hope went up her spine and without meaning to she missed a note.

At once her head and legs became rigid and heavy as lead, frozen.

“I warned you not to think of escape.”

Suddenly Mia was enclosed on all four sides by tall windowless un-scalable bleak tiled walls, and the walls were moving closer and closer.

“Play my love. As long as you play the walls will stay away. You stop, and the walls start closing in again.
After all, life is one grand sweet song, so start the music*”

Written for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers using a photo by Mike Vore as prompt

*The quote Life is one grand sweet song, so start the music is credited to Ronald Regan.

The All Seeing Eye


Ted Ray, you are under arrest…

The cops swarmed in through the door and before we realized what was happening, Teddy was cuffed and on the floor. Somewhere in the room Nina screamed and I rushed to find my baby. The cops were screaming, Teddy was screaming, Nina was screaming, and I just didn’t know what to do.

Call Big J. You hear me, call Big J,” Teddy shouted as they led him away.

Six months, he had been underground for six whole months, and he just came home. It was Nina’s birthday. She was crying for her daddy. Barely 5 hours and the cops were here. How did they know he was home? How did they know?

Suddenly the door bursts open again and one of the cops is back. “Don’t be scared ma’am. I am not going to hurt you. I just need to collect the evidence.” Then he took away the stupid dragon puppet that had been hanging in the corner.

Now I’m confused. Why is the puppet evidence? It is just some silly toy that someone gave Nina a while back.

And then I remembered why it was hanging out here and not in her room. “His eyes glow in the dark,” Nina had said.


Written for Sunday Photo Fiction. Photo credited to A Mixed Bag.

The long walk home

Something was wrong. His steps home were slow, unsure, bent under the weight of the world. Worry lines etched his forehead as fear peeked out of sad wet eyes.

“What’s wrong my darling?”

“Ahmed,” was all he said.

“Did you two have a fight?”

“He’s my best friend,” he spluttered, the teetering tears pouring out.

“I know that. Why are you crying?”

“Someone said his nana can’t come here so he says his daddy said if nana can’t come they may have to go away. I don’t want him to go mom. Why can’t his nana come? I like her. She makes yummy chicken.”

“Don’t worry sweetie. I’m sure that’s not going to happen. Uncle’s just a little upset right now.”

“I think it’s silly. Just cause his family goes to their church place on Friday instead of Sunday, that’s no reason to not like them. Some grownups are silly.”


Written for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers based on photo prompt by Jessica Haines.

His Treasure

Holds me tight
I am his treasure
Never out of his sight
I am his treasure

Day or night
I am his treasure
A million calls
I am his treasure
No lone time strolls
I am his treasure

He makes the plan
I am his treasure
Says when I can
I am his treasure

Dressing me up
I am his treasure
Now doll
Now grownup
I am his treasure

He knows best
I am his treasure
Shut out the rest
I am his treasure
Cloistered safe
I am his treasure
Small price the chafe
I am his treasure

He holds me tight
I am his treasure
Never out of his sight
I am his treasure

The Frost Scouts



My shout startles her. “Seriously Jon…You almost gave me a heart attack. “

“I said don’t touch them, don’t even go near them,” I repeat.

“Them? It’s frost for God’s sake. Stop with your alien attack theories. You’re upsetting mom.” She’s pleading now.

“They are scouts for the Frost-giants,” I whisper, “for winter is coming.”

I see worry reflected in her eyes, worry and disbelief.

She takes a step forward as if to brush them off, when I make a lunge for her and push her away. They don’t believe me; they think I’m going crazy, I’ve heard the hushed conversations with the doctors. But it is what it is and there is only one way to convince her. I place my hand on the bark.

Her expression shifts from confusion to fear to horror as the frost scouts scurry up my arms and start entering my pores. It’s getting cold now, so cold that I’m losing sensation. I hear her scream. Then I know no more.


Written for Sunday Photo Fiction