Fiction, Flash Fiction

FLASH FICTION: Worst of All

At the stroke of midnight, the book opened with an unapologetic pang. Pages furiously fluttering,  it stretched its spine and spread itself across the dusty sideboard.

Then it moaned, quietly at first then louder, in a mounting crescendo until it settled on a double-page spread displaying the most treacherous spell in the book.

Muttering quietly to itself, it waited impatiently to be noticed but the house remained quiet. Another urgent fluttering of pages ensued. It sounded like a swarm of bats. Still no response. Waldo, the wizard who wanders, had wandered out of the place five days ago, and was yet to return, but his apprentice was there.

Fast asleep, the boy of no more than fourteen years old dreamed self-indulgently in the next room. The book sensed him, knew him by his shallow breathing. No wizard had ever breathed like that; fast and careless. A waster of air, yet, with a keen eye for opportunity.

Losing all patience, the book closed and opened again. This time louder and faster than before. The sideboard rocked slightly with each pang; knocking a neighboring shelf in the process. Empty glass jars and bottles rang like bells. Too quiet still to wake the apprentice. Too quiet indeed.

The book flew into an urgent frenzy; opening, closing, opening, closing. Ringing the jars and bottles continuously; moaning and fluttering, and groaning, and muttering. Until the first jar broke, then a bottle, then another couple of jars.

Then the apprentice was awake. The book noticed the quickening heartbeat; relished it. It spread open on the treacherous spell again. Laying in wait like a spider in its web, the book lay innocently flat as the apprentice approached.

Confused the boy surveyed the damage. His glance went around the room but he could not find the culprit. The book made no sound. This one is slower than the others. A quiet snigger let the apprentice’s blood run cold.

“Who’s there?” he cried in a high-pitched voice. Acutely aware of his lack of magical defenses, the boy grabbed a half-burned log out of the cold fireplace.  The snigger recurred. Louder this time. “Who’s there?” shouted the boy while raising the log above his head.

“Don’t be afraid. It’s only me,” the book finally revealed itself. The apprentice stared in confusion. “Come closer,” the book squeaked. “Try a spell.”

The log dropped heavily onto the dirty floor. “The master said not to touch anything.”

“The master also said to dust…oh, what’s the harm in a little spell? I won’t tell.”

The apprentice swallowed hard. “M-maybe a dust spell?” the boy probed.

“Yes! A dust spell! Oh, you are so very clever,” cried the book.

A shy smile spread across the boy’s face. The first one since becoming Waldo’s apprentice. The book fluttered its pages again – so fast the boy couldn’t make out a single symbol on any of them.

Eventually, it landed on the same double-page spell where it had started. “That’s the one! The very best dust spell I have to offer!”

“And you won’t tell the master?”

“I won’t say a word!”

“Alright.”

The apprentice hovered his hands over the double-page spread; palms down. Imitating his master, he slowly read the curly symbols as he had been taught to do in the year he had served the wandering wizard.

Nothing happened. There was no flashing light, no sizzling sound, no whirling wind.

“I don’t think it worked,” sulked the boy. His eyes filled with salty tears as he ran his finger through the thick dust that still covered the sideboard around the book.

“Oh, I think it worked alright,” sniggered the book as it watched the apprentice dry up and shrivel, like so many before him, until only a pile of dust remained next to the sideboard.

Apprentices really are the worst of all, mused the book as it flapped closed.

When Waldo returned three weeks later to find his apprentice gone, the book did not say a word.

A note for creators:
This flash fiction work is subject to the following license: Attribution 4.0 International (CC BY 4.0)

Attribution — You must give appropriate credit, to ‘Josie Cole (@josiecolewrites)’, provide a link to the license, and indicate if changes were made. You may do so in any reasonable manner, but not in any way that suggests the licensor endorses your use.

See ya next time 😉

If you have enjoyed this flash fiction piece, I would love to hear about it in the comments below. If you adapt this for your own creative project, feel free to post a link to your project or website.

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Fiction, Flash Fiction, Story

FLASH FICTION: Owlternative

This week’s flash fiction is inspired by the #SwiftFicFriday – Week 72 prompt provided by the fabulous Katheryn J. Avila (Fiction Trials). 167 words. Enjoy!

The music reluctantly played – in his head. It was a soft, sweet sound; only faint but unmistakably clear. A tiny voice. It sounded like a bell made of glass.

He didn’t know what it was trying to tell him then. He still didn’t know it now. All he knew is that it seemed very important. It had been days since he’d played the piano.

“Why was the piano important again?” he asked.

“Who knows?” answered the therapist. “Tell me how you felt that day.”

“I remember…scratchiness…in my throat; all of a sudden. How it made breathing…hard. Panic and pain. Gagging. Clutching at my throat…and…I remember there being no hands…just feathers…feathers!”

He became agitated. The music swelled in his head.

“And then…?”

“More gagging. More pain. Scratching…with my feet. My feet were scratching. They weren’t even feet.”

His voice was barely a whisper.

“And then…?”

He put his hands over his ears but there were no ears…and no hands. Only feathers…and a tiny voice telling him to fly.

A note for creators:
This flash fiction work is subject to the following license: Attribution 4.0 International (CC BY 4.0)

Attribution — You must give appropriate credit, to ‘Josie Cole (@josiecolewrites)’, provide a link to the license, and indicate if changes were made. You may do so in any reasonable manner, but not in any way that suggests the licensor endorses your use.

See ya next time 😉

If you have enjoyed this flash fiction piece, I would love to hear about it in the comments below. If you adapt this for your own creative project, feel free to post a link to your project or website.

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Fiction, Flash Fiction, Story

FLASH FICTION: A Clockwork Bride

This week’s flash fiction is inspired by the #SwiftFicFriday – Week 71 prompt provided by the fabulous Katheryn J. Avila (Fiction Trials). 292 words. Enjoy!

“My darling.”

The words belonged to a man named Gaspard. They floated to her through darkness; right on time. He came to her late at night; every night. Most importantly, he always brought the key.

Shimmering in the weak candlelight, it dangled from a silver chain around Gaspard’s neck. She shuddered with anticipation as the key turned in the lock between her collar bones with a familiar crunch. A burst of silver dust shot from the key into her system. Her gears jumped into movement. She ticked like a clock.

Gaspard watched as she slowly turned around on the bed, stretched, moved her stiff limbs, and cracked her mechanical neck.

“Welcome back, Anthea,” he growled.

“Thank you, master.”

Gaspard watched gleefully as his clockwork bride put on her make-up and danced for him. Anthea’s eyes were pinned onto Gaspard the whole time. Gaspard felt a twinge of sadness as, eventually, her movements slowed as the magic dust became used up.

“Just a little longer,” she begged as the ticks of her clockwork body became less regular and her gears were starting to catch, causing her body to twerk involuntarily.

“No. Not tonight.”

The temptation to give in to her was great. But Gaspard had to be careful. Too much of the magic could mean her escape. Anthea sank down on the floor as her legs gave way unexpectedly; her eyes still fixed on Gaspard. Only when she was sure that he had succumbed to deep sleep, did Anthea dare to push herself up from the floor.

She slowly brought herself into a standing position, hoping she hadn’t miscalculated the amount of silver residue in her system.

“Thank you master,” she said as she strangled him, never taking her eyes off the key.

A note for creators:
This flash fiction work is subject to the following license: Attribution 4.0 International (CC BY 4.0)

Attribution — You must give appropriate credit, to ‘Josie Cole (@josiecolewrites)’, provide a link to the license, and indicate if changes were made. You may do so in any reasonable manner, but not in any way that suggests the licensor endorses your use.

See ya next time 😉

If you have enjoyed this flash fiction piece, I would love to hear about it in the comments below. If you adapt this for your own creative project, feel free to post a link to your project or website.

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Fiction, Flash Fiction

FLASH FICTION: A Game of Runes

The game was rigged, Cassia knew. Designed to test the strengths of the hopeless, and break the weak. No chance of success. Only thoughtful, strategic failure was an option. The game was exclusively reserved for men.

Cassia threw a glance at the present king who was stuffed into his throne at the edge of the arena. His grey skin was flabby and wrinkled. There was something unsettling about how it folded in on itself around his neck. A snow-white, wispy cloud of a beard fluttered around his chin as he took one labored breath after another. The Game Master stepped forward.

“Defeat is a skill. All future kings of Iruzar must possess it. Only he who can fail five-fold is worthy of the crown. Today we shall find King Ormont’s successor.”

Cassia flinched. There was no turning back now. She pulled the hood of her black cloak deeper into her face. The rough fabric scratched her forehead as she did her best to conceal the mark on her neck. It was the only thing that distinguished her from the male players.

The gates were closed and the Game Master spun the gyroscope of fates. For the first time, a woman had entered the arena; albeit in secret. Cassia swallowed hard as the gyroscope finally came to a standstill.

“The fates have chosen the runes! A game of runes to test those who fancy themselves the next king!”

The Game Master plucked a piece of polished peridot from a chain on his neck. He kissed it gently, then threw it up into the air. It flew high at first, then stuck; hovering above the center of the game arena. A shrill voice erupted from the glowing gem; announcing the rules of the game.

“The runes can never be moved. The runes can never be touched. The runes can never be read. Only the runes hold the answer. The players must try to win. The last to fail will die. Six players, five rounds, one survivor. One king.”

“One king!” cheered the crowd.

Cassia could feel the ground vibrate under her feet. Guilian was the first to die. He touched the runes. An accident. The searing ray of peridot light hit him right between the eyes and burned a hole into his skull.

Player two died as quickly as the first; Aurelion. Nobody would remember his name.

Round three passed in a haze. Cassia came close to deciphering the runes. A close call. The peridot ray singed her cloak as it shot out at Marcellus.

Round four passed in silence. Cassia was the first to lose. A stroke of luck!

One last round, Cassia reminded herself. She was facing only Gilbert now; a dark soul and King Ormont’s ward. The dance began a final time. Gilbert and Cassia circled the runes. One more reach, Cassia thought. As her hand went out towards the runes, Gilbert’s arm shot forward. He had been watching her. He suspected.

Cassia held her breath as her black hood was torn backwards. A collective gasp went through the crowd as the mark of womanhood sparkled in the sunlight. Cassia looked around. Even the old king had heaved himself out of his seat. Tears stung her eyes as the peridot ray rushed towards her. It hit in the centre of her chest and passed through her like glass. Cassia felt no pain.

The crowd watched in shock as the peridot ray, subverted by Cassia’s body, hit Gilbert. The mark on Cassia’s neck glowed green. She was unharmed. It was a game designed for men, after all.

A note for creators:
This flash fiction work is subject to the following license: Attribution 4.0 International (CC BY 4.0)

Attribution — You must give appropriate credit, to ‘Josie Cole (@josiecolewrites)’, provide a link to the license, and indicate if changes were made. You may do so in any reasonable manner, but not in any way that suggests the licensor endorses your use.

See ya next time 😉

If you have enjoyed this flash fiction piece, I would love to hear about it in the comments below. If you adapt this for your own creative project, feel free to post a link to your project or website.

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Fiction, Flash Fiction, Writing Process

How to start a flash fiction story?

Writing flash fiction is not an easy feat. But picking the right opening (especially the opening line) is amongst my favourite things when it comes to crafting brief but poignant stories.

I write a new flash fiction story every week and publish it on this blog every Friday. The main challenge is fitting a middle, beginning and end into 300-500 words…which is how short my flash fiction stories are. It started out with 300 words as the limit but the muse is a fickle mistress and, when I am inspired, even 500 words don’t feel like much room to play with!

Before I start writing, I always make sure that I have decided three essential things:

A. The point of view to tell my story from.
B. The main (and only) characters…I try to stick to two max!
C. The conflict between my two characters (otherwise it’s just waffle).

Once I have all of this straight, I write a brief outline – that’s the only way I can write on demand. Feel free to skip this step if you’re a pantser (I hear ‘discovery writer‘ is a more polite term for this in the writing community nowadays).

Armed with my outline and notes, I go straight to the opening line. Yes, that’s right. I don’t give my story a title until the very end. The reason for this is that even with my outline, there is no guarantee that I will actually stick to it. I use it to ‘cheapen’ the blank page and get me typing.

The most important part in choosing an opening line is to find a hook…your first sentence should be a statement that leaves the reader with one or more questions at the end of the first sentence. This is to signal that this story is worth reading. You are making a promise to your reader. For example:

She sat on her throne; unmoved for centuries.

‘Mythless’ by Josie Cole (@josiecolewrites)
License: Attribution 4.0 International (CC BY 4.0)

Would you read the rest of this story? I hope so. The questions that most readers will probably be asking themselves after this opening line are 1. Who is ‘she’? and 2. Why has she been unmoved for centuries? See how I did that? By using this opening line, I am promising the reader that I will reveal more information about this character if he/she/they keep reading.

Now, it’s your turn! Stop reading this post and go write a flash fiction with a killer opening line.

See ya next time 😉

If this post inspires a story, let me know in the comments below. And please remember to post a link to your work, too. I would love to read it.

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Fiction, Flash Fiction

FLASH FICTION: A Traveler’s Tale

The Traveler was tall and dusty. Golden particles swirled around him. Time moved slowly in his presence. His left leg dragged on the floor as he walked into the empty saloon; stiff as a broomstick. The bartender was struggling to interpret the Traveler’s facial expression. He had seen many faces but few that betrayed so little of what went on behind the surface. The eyes were young but the skin was dry and tough. Deep wrinkles ran across the Traveler’s forehead and from both sides of his nose down to his square, beardless jaw. They looked like they had been cut into his face with a blunt knife.

“Drink?”

The Traveler nodded. “Rum. Dark.”

The bartender’s hand shook as he poured two fingers worth of the best they had. He had a habit to shove the glass over to the customers across the sticky bar but something stopped him this time. Instead, he simply nodded to the Traveler who was in no hurry to reach out.

“You’ve come far?”

The Traveler’s stare was cold; hostile.

“You’re looking for a story, mate?”

The bartender was lost for words. He didn’t know whether he should agree or apologize. Neither seemed safe.

“Life’s not exciting enough in here, mate?”

The bartender retreated from the bar. With his back against the wall, he stared at the Traveler with wide, open eyes. He still couldn’t speak.

“Alright, then. Let’s tell a story, mate.”

The Traveler reached into one of the many pockets that were sewn into his tattered coat. The bartender was surprised to see that instead of a gun or knife he pulled out a titanium compass. It looked heavy and was large enough to fill the Traveler’s palm. Golden particles seemed to emanate from the compass.

“Once upon a time, a young man yearned for an adventure. He was warned of dangers…but…he didn’t listen.”

The needle of the compass began to spin, picking up maddening speed and humming like a swarm of bumblebees.

“He wanted power. The power that comes from seeing the world. He didn’t know it then but there is no power in travel…just slavery. Time is a cruel master. Can’t manipulate it. Only a one-way street. But you’ll know it soon enough, mate. You’ll see. You’ll feel it soon.”

An impossible wind was blowing around the two men. The bartender thought about crouching down on the floor but he couldn’t move. He was pinned to the wall behind him. The golden particles formed a small tornado around the compass. Then, they started to move towards the bartender.

“You’ll feel it soon.”

The particles surrounded the bartender. They swirled around his head. The bartender tried to scream but his throat was too dry. He could only stare in horror as the particles forced their way through his nostrils and windpipe. He could feel them buzzing within his aching lungs. The Traveler watched emotionlessly as the bartender combusted into a cloud of gold particles. Then, he finally reached for the rum.

“Have a good trip, mate.” he mumbled.

A note for creators:
This flash fiction work is subject to the following license: Attribution 4.0 International (CC BY 4.0)

Attribution — You must give appropriate credit, to ‘Josie Cole (@josiecolewrites)’, provide a link to the license, and indicate if changes were made. You may do so in any reasonable manner, but not in any way that suggests the licensor endorses your use.

See ya next time 😉

If you have enjoyed this flash fiction piece, I would love to hear about it in the comments below. If you adapt this for your own creative project, feel free to post a link to your project or website.

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Flash Fiction

FLASH FICTION: Tea for Eternity

The future envisioned them. All six. Young girls; short and stocky. Unremarkable to say the least. Lost in the world, they were too ordinary to fit in. Too ordinary to stand out. They were invisible creatures, even to themselves. Hardly alive, hardly dead. Only the future knew their destiny. To the present, these girls were bone dry. The past hadn’t seen much of them, yet, but she would in good time.

“More tea?”

The present rolled her eyes, setting her empty china cup down on its saucer.

“Your skill to anticipate is exhausting. I don’t know why you even bother to ask. Don’t you know the answer?”

“I do.” replied the future, whilst filling the cup half full. “I even know exactly how many sips you will be taking from this half empty cup before you change your mind.”

The present let out a heavy sigh. Her gaze wandered over to her older sister now. No point arguing with the younger.

“I don’t know how you can bear it! Tea for eternity at this very table.”

“Oh I am not paying attention to that. All I need to know is right here in my memories.” She briefly tapped her left temple before taking up her needlework again.

“Ugh! Neither of you are even here! Your minds are elsewhere. It’s only me stuck drinking this mud!”

“Earl Grey.” the future chimed. “Would you like another blend for the next pot?”

“You haven’t complained about the tea before.” the past added unhelpfully, exacerbating the present’s dark mood.

“Enough! The both of you! I am sick of your tea. And what is your obsession with these boring girls?”

The future smiled. “You leave the future to me. All in good time.”

“One day you’ll see.” the past agreed.

In a wild rage, the present grabbed her cup with the intention to smash it against the wall but the future was already ahead of her.

“Release my arm!”

“In a few minutes when you are calm again.”

And so the hours passed. Each one worth a year in the human world. The present raged twice every hour but the future always anticipated and the past always remembered. Together the past and the future watched the girls grow up and, one day, they were all gone from view.

“What happened to the girls?” the present remarked one day in a calm moment.

“I don’t remember.” admitted the future. Her eyes were gazing at a young soldier. His future was sad.

“They died.” determined the past.

“And what happened before they died? Did they lead remarkable lives? Did they change?”

The past looked up from her needlework. Over the rim of her glasses, she shot a dark glance at her younger sister.

“You could have seen for yourself if you were patient enough.”

The future nodded. “More tea?”

A note for creators:
This flash fiction work is subject to the following license: Attribution 4.0 International (CC BY 4.0)

Attribution — You must give appropriatecredit, to ‘Josie Cole (@josiecolewrites)’, provide a link to the license, and indicate if changes were made. You may do so in any reasonable manner, but not in any way that suggests the licensor endorses your use.

See ya next time 😉

If you have enjoyed this flash fiction piece, I would love to hear about it in the comments below. If you adapt this for your own creative project, feel free to post a link to your project or website.

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