Tag Archives: Sunday photo fiction prompt

The Three Bears

Sunday Photo Fiction

Sunday Photo Fiction

“I won’t, Mummy.”

“Darling, please. We can’t. Not today. Mummy doesn’t get paid til Friday.”

“If I can’t have it I’ll scream. I’ll know you don’t love me.”

“Oh, precious. Mummy loves you very much. Look, we’re getting the bear.” She flipped the tag to check the price and handed it to the boy. He hugged it close and pressed his face into the fluffy white fur.

It would be fine, she supposed, smiling. There was a bone of beef in the freezer to make a broth. She could stop at the market for carrots and peas and perhaps some barley. And flour for bread. Her stomach lapped at the thought. Belly-filling meals for the pair of them for the next five days, if not hearty ones.

The boy looked up. “White bear says she wants the tan one,” he said. “She told me.”

She eyed the price tag. “Very well then.” There would be soup, but no bread, she decided.

He wrapped his arms around both bears and squeezed. She turned to go.

“But Mummy! I want the brown one too.”

She let out an exasperated sigh and tightened her stomach. “Very well then.”

There would be broth.

199 words

To read more flash fiction inspired by the prompt or to submit your own, click the blue froggy button:

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This has been an edition of Sunday Photo Fiction, hosted by the gracious Al Forbes. Al has been generous enough to host this weekly 200 word fiction challenge in spite of ongoing health issues. He’s now asking for participants to submit pictures of their own in order to continue the challenge.

Al, Thanks for your generosity. I love the luxury of 200 words and the chance to share stories with this lovely group. Look for photos coming your way!


You never see it coming


It happens on a Sunday. You slept late and you’re just getting up, reaching for that first cup of coffee and then you see the flash reflected on the cabinets—and as you turn around, you’re trying to remember if there was supposed to be a storm—but then you hear a boom so loud and crack it’s the last thing you’ll never hear again and just then you feel the great and terrible wave of it bone-thrumming-through you, and every other living thing and dead and just as—

This has been an edition of the Sunday Photo Fiction Prompt, hosted by Al Forbes. To read more flash fiction or to submit your own, click the blue froggy button:

Now a confession: this was actually a piece I wrote over the summer while attending Anthony Varallo’s 500-Word Story workshop at the Iowa Summer Writing Festival. It was the first thing I thought of when I saw the prompt. The piece is a little experimental, what with the second person and the use of a run on sentence that turns into train of thought, but I was inspired after reading the many superior examples in Micro Fiction: An Anthology of Fifty Really Short Stories (a book I highly recommend for the flash fiction lover in your life).

Apologize for the rerun to anyone who reads my blog the person who reads my blog. I’m trying to limit my blogging time in order to finish my novel The Kwan Factor. I’ve got an editor lined up in early 2017 (the amazing Kelly Dwyer!) and need to wrap it up before the end of December. Much to do!

Anyway, all best my lovelies. Thanks for stopping by and have a cozy holiday season.

The Unbearable Clicheness of Writing


It was a dark and stormy night when she heard the crash coming from the seaside-facing office. She hurried down the hall.

“Everything okay in there?” She peered around the door to find him at his desk—his face buried in his hands, his old Underwood pushed off to one side. Instead of answering, he gestured at the overflowing trashcan in the corner.

She walked over and discovered the shattered bottle of Dewars. In his agony, he must’ve thrown it, but it had bounced off the mountain of crumpled Eaton’s Corrasable bond that filled the bin.

At last he spoke. “It’s all so cliché. Every single word I put to the page. Try to understand, Barbara.”

It was the whole reason they’d driven the Roadmaster out to Point Sur–to clear his block.

She went to him and rested a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t be so hard on yourself, dear. What is it they say? ‘Write what you know’ or some such.”

He let out a bitter chuckle and reached to roll a fresh slice of paper into the typewriter. “Very well then.” He mashed the keys one by one and began again:

It was a dark 
and stormy night.

This has been an edition of the Sunday Photo Fiction prompt, hosted by Alistair Forbes. To read more or to submit your own, click the blue frog button:

The Last Time

Sunday Photo Fiction prompt

Sunday Photo Fiction prompt

Chloe was always doing that—changing plans last minute and expecting him to drop everything. He tossed the mobile onto the console. He had a job. He had deliveries. He still had to get from Ocean Gate to Fareham. Good thing he knew a shortcut down Wickham Road and could bypass the road-works.

Past Fontley Road, his mobile chimed once more: Can you meet me at Europa? Which was out of the question. He’d been in the lorry for six hours straight and she meant for him to drive all the way out to Avon?

He snatched up his mobile and scrawled the answer with one thumb: Why do u always

That’s when he saw the push-bike. And felt the sickening thud.

This has been an edition of Sunday Photo Fiction brought to us by Al Forbes.  To read more flash fiction or to submit your own, click the blue froggy button:

Author’s note: I recognized generally where this was and wanted to give the proper dose of setting and scene via the appropriate vernacular. But, being American, I’m afraid I overshot in some respects and failed miserably in others. So I think they only thing that could fix this is an all-expense paid trip to Exeter and Portsmouth. Which I am willing to do. In the name of literature and improving my craft. 😉



They say dead men tell no tales and objects keep their secrets. But if that car could talk it would tell you of long Saturdays at the track, her rooting and cheering, a loyal friend and fan.

“This is my season. This is my year,” she’d said.

And it was. She was Joey’s biggest fan, but she’d talked of racing since the early days; got up early on weekends to lend a hand, and often stayed up late, dreaming.

“Why do you want to race anyway, Joanie?” I asked her once.

“I can’t explain it. I just always wanted to. It’s my destiny, I guess.”

Destiny is a funny thing–it has its own agenda. It lures you out, chasing shadows of things too big to recognize.

“It’s a dangerous sport. It’s not for everyone, you know.”

She’d laughed and swatted at me like a pesky fly. “Women can do anything, same as men.”

Turned out she was right.

Joan Feller

Joan Feller

Inspired by Joan Feller.

To anyone who is a race fan or knew Joan Feller, please excuse my clumsy fiction. While I can’t claim either, I was inspired by a woman who by all accounts was a giving, caring and generous soul who followed her dream.



This has been a Sunday Photo Fiction prompt, brought to you by Alistair Forbes.

To read more offerings or to submit your own, click the blue froggy button: