Raven's View Stacks: Flash Fiction Friday

Honour

Mike Young — Fri, 10 Apr 2026 15:43:38 GMT

Photo by Wolfgang Hasselmann on Unsplash

TL;DR - Given a photo, and the rest is up to you. 1000 words max, post a link in the comments if you want.

The 2012 challenge for this included a photo of a crooked tree lost in the fog. Very enigmatic. I picked a similar photo and edited the story a bit. I wrote this originally on a very hot day, so the images of cool mist were a pleasant change. It’s short, at only 400 words, as it was mostly about the setting. And with a twist at the end, of course.

Honour

The morning mist clung to him, seeping through his wool uniform, chilling him to the bone. Once more, he stood alone in a muted, shadowy world, waiting.

He squinted across the field, and eventually picked out the old tree, more shadow than shape. The early hour, the isolated location, this thick mist, should give them all the privacy they needed for the ritual. This was how a proper gentleman defended his honour.

This time would be different. He breathed in a calming breath, and tried to focus. The damp air smelled of both life and death, of fresh grass, early morning flowers, and the musk of a passing deer, of leaf mold, smoke from the battlefield, and quickly buried bodies.

The distant sound of cannons was muffled, but reminded him that after this was over, he still had a regiment to lead--hopefully to victory, but likely to death once again.

He’d only been waiting a few minutes, but already the dampness was sneaking through his riding boots. No point in delaying the inevitable. He straightened his jacket and stepped forward. Within minutes, the wet grass had soaked his pant legs to the knees. Hopefully, after this was done, he’d be able to grab a few minutes in front of a hot fire, and maybe even a quick shot of whisky.

As he got closer to the tree, the shadows resolved into shapes—horses, his opponent, their seconds. He tensed as he approached the crowd, yesterday’s insult fresh in his mind, but maintained a calm resolve. His cousin stepped forward with the weapons, a matched brace of pistols, the silver filigree bright even in this light. He picked one, then waited while the seconds retired to load the guns. He hoped the powder was still dry, as last time he’d had a misfire.
The morning sun was just starting to burn through the mist as he took position, back to back to his opponent, both ram-rod straight, pistols cocked and ready. Their seconds slowly counted out the paces. “One, two, three . . .” At ten, he turned, aimed and fired. Damn. Another miss.

He saw a puff of smoke from his opponent’s pistol, then heard the pop. He felt a sharp pain in his chest, and blinked as a red mist formed in front of his eyes. He’d lost.

“Waiting to respawn – five, four, three . . .”

The field vanished.

He adjusted his headset and flexed the haptic gloves. “Squeeze the trigger,” he muttered. “Don’t pull.”

“... two, one, zero,”

The morning mist clung to him, seeping through his wool uniform, chilling him to the bone.

Cat Fight

Mike Young — Fri, 03 Apr 2026 14:59:52 GMT

Photo by Andy Luo on Unsplash

TL;DR - Suspense, like a ticking time bomb. Crank it up. 1000 words max, post a link in the comments if you want.

I had some trouble with a good story idea, until I dropped by my local pub and watched some of the dynamics there, between friends and between strangers. No fights, at least not this time, but alcohol always cranks up emotions nicely.

I decided this would make a good setting for my Fairy Tale Folk. 1100 words

Cat Fight

“I just hope I don’t have a wardrobe malfunction,” said the witch.

Red tugged at a strap, and the latticework of lace shifted suggestively. “There,” she said. “Don’t wiggle too much, just perch on the stool and show some leg. I’ll be behind the bar, I’ll let you know if anything slips out.”

“Who else is playing out this story with us?” asked the witch.

“The wolf is the young stud—easy role for him—and Snow White will be a sweet young thing perched near you at the bar. Flirty, animated sort, skimpy clothes, into drugs, high heels that say ‘do me’, and annoyingly thin. As in a size zero dress. Wiry little thing.”

“Should be easy for her to play,” said the witch. “I do worry about her, though. She hasn’t taken our re-assignments well. She really seems on edge lately, ready to go off like a firecracker.”

The Grimms’ tales brought the witch and her friends to life, but then interest in the stories faded, leaving them adrift. Luckily, people still needed their power to bring a story to life and boost emotional impact. Hence, their current assignment.

The witch checked her makeup one more time. “I’m still glad that Snow has finally decided to join us. She is a good fit for this character and needs to realize she has some actual skills at this role-playing. I just hope she’s not into drugs in her between the stories life too. I’ll talk with her later. Let’s get going now. Story outline looks easy; let’s go breath some magic into it.”

_____________________________________________

She crossed her legs and smiled at the bartender. “Hi, I’m Martha. Nice place here. I think I’ll start the evening with a Jagerbomb.”

“You got it,” said the bartender. “I’m Celia. Cute outfit, I like all that peek-a-boo you’ve got happening.”

“Thanks Celia. I need all the help I can get to bait my hook; I don’t have a sexy young body like yours anymore.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll still turn some heads,” said Celia.

“I remember when I used to turn all of them,” said Martha. “Sometimes I wish I didn’t remember those days, how easy it was, all the guys, all the parties”.

“Well, it is a young crowd in here,” said Celia. “More my age.”

“Suits me fine,” said Martha. “I like the challenge of the chase, sometimes even fighting with some trash over a guy.”

She gazed around the room, not too crowded yet. A skinny little thing sat a few bar stools away, tapping her foot, fiddling with a drink coaster. She had black hair piled high, pale skin, overly bright eyes, a couple of tattoos, scarlet lipstick, and a minuscule dress over her scrawny frame. Sort of a skanky look.

Skinny girl stared back at Martha, then smirked.

Martha glared back. Oh, bring it on, girl. She could feel an extra bit of aura from the girl, pumping up her appeal, so she cranked up hers too. She could already see a few eyes turning towards the bar—obviously for her.

“Another drink?” asked Celia.

“Sure,” said Martha. She checked her watch, then glanced over at the door. There he was, right on time, all six foot four inches of him. Long black hair brushed back, piercing eyes, a strong nose, full lips, that unshaven, rugged look. A V-necked t-shirt showing some chest hair and his biceps, tight leather pants, and Western boots. And—not that it was really needed—a powerful projection of raw sex. The room was silent long enough to hear a few gasps and sighs, then the buzz returned even higher. Martha checked her dress, still okay, then added a minor spell to boost her look. Game on. She could sense the heightened pheromone levels in the room as the other customers reacted to the three of them and to each other in response. Most were here to get some action. The ladies preened, fluffed their hair, hiked their skirts a little higher, and laughed a little louder. The men glowered at each other, flexed their muscles, and tried to check out the two women at the bar without their own girlfriends noticing—unsuccessfully. The wolf at the door smiled around the room, managing to imply to all the women that they were on his list for later, and to all the men that he was less of a rival and more of a buddy to share a pitcher of draft with later on.

He walked over to the bar and smiled. “Ladies, good evening,” he said. “I’m Romulus.”

The skinny girl spoke up first. “Hi, I’m Tammy. I’m here with my grandma.” She gestured over at Martha.

Martha smiled graciously. “I’m Martha, no relationship to this poor scrawny thing. Can I buy you a scotch and tell you about some of the positions I learned in my Tantric yoga classes?”

Tammy hopped down off her barstool. “Hey, who are you calling scrawny, lard ass?”

Romulus held up his hands. “Now, ladies, I can appreciate both a boyish figure and the more Rubenesque. But would a fight really solve anything? Especially since it’s obvious who would win?” He smiled at them both.

Martha slipped down from her own barstool. “Yes, it is rather obvious.” She walked over to Tammy and gave her a shove. “Go away, little stick girl. If you really are a girl.”

Tammy stumbled back, paused, then launched herself at Martha with a hiss, nails out like claws. They screamed and punched at each other, a whirlwind of arms and legs, shoving back and forth, then suddenly Martha was on her back, with Tammy straddling her, holding a knife to Martha’s neck.

“This ends now, bitch,” Tammy yelled as she started to push the point in.

The witch knew they couldn’t really be killed in the stories, but it would feel like it—she knew from experience. And this had gone much further than planned. The wolf pulled at Snow’s shoulders, but her legs were wrapped around the witch, one hand twisted in her hair, the other pushing the knife against her neck. The witch could feel a sharp pain, and a trickle of warm blood running down her neck. She pushed with her hands, and her power, and whatever spells she could think up in her panic.”Snow, Snow, it’s me, it’s Agnes, snap out of it! It’s only a story.”

Snow yelled, pushed harder, her eyes wild. Then she paused, relaxed, and suddenly sat back. “Oh, jeez, sorry, Agnes. Are you OK? I really got carried away. I guess I took your comments to heart, just triggered something.”

“That’s OK,” said the witch. “I’ll need to weave a spell or two to edit this ending out. But what about you?”

“I’m fine,” said Snow. “Don’t worry about me, no problem.” She adjusted her little dress and walked out.

Romulus and Agnes looked at each other, both raising an eyebrow.

Tiny's Taco Hut

Mike Young — Fri, 27 Mar 2026 16:22:06 GMT

TL;DR - Choose a setting from a list of six possibilities. Your choice. 1000 words max, post a link in the comments if you want.

Here’s a brand new story, my first one in many, many moons. I was just answering a sudden urge, I guess—maybe it’s the spring weather. Last week, I reposted an earlier story, where we’d had to pick from a list of six settings. I’d chosen “Aisle Nine in the Grocery Store”, and liked it even more after I tweaked it. But another title on the list intrigued me: “Tiny’s Taco Hut”. It sounded like there might be a story there, and reminded me of another hut from Russian folklore, that of Baba Yaga. So far, I had an idea and a twist, but was missing a story, a character and a plot. I find that usually, if I mull the concept over for a while, letting it rattle around in my brain, my creativity will get to work. I had a molar extracted yesterday, and needed to distract my mind, so I worked on the story in my head as I lay there, mouth numbed up, dentist kneeling on my chest, pliers in my mouth. And voila.

The settings were:

The Bone Cathedral
Aisle Nine In The Grocery Store
The Venom Club
The Tower of Babel
Suburban Meth Lab
Tiny’s Taco Hut

My story is 730 words. I may start writing again, as I do have another dentist appointment coming—a bridge this time. Replacement of some ageing infrastructure.

Tiny’s Taco Hut

They’d taken his stuff again. And they’d knocked over his lean-to. He was usually safe back here in the bushes, hidden from the strip mall parking lot. Every month or so, a gang of local kids, punks, would hassle him there, but he still preferred his freedom, away from the rules and regulations of a city shelter. He could always collect more stuff from the back of the local stores. He tried to keep things tidy around them, and they seemed to tolerate him.

He was heading out to start scrounging when he spotted the new place, a small square building with a peaked roof, smack dab in the middle of the parking lot. New since last night, too—had it just been dropped off somehow? There was a small sign reading “Tiny’s Taco Hut” and a takeout menu next to the closed window. No customers yet, but it was early, so the lot was almost empty. By afternoon, there were still no customers, but there were some new wrappers and empty cups, adding to the normal trash in the lot. It was a nice day, so he did a thorough cleanup of the whole lot. There were two small dumpsters on the back of the hut, so he just emptied the garbage into one of them.

The next day, after his trash collection, he checked the second bin. It was clean and empty, except for a single takeout bag in the middle, next to a Big Gulp drink. The tacos in the bag were still warm and seemed to be untouched. He took the offering and smiled his thanks at the hut. Somebody in there was a kind soul.

This became a new routine; he’d clean up, and then there would be a meal waiting in the second dumpster. One day, he noticed some flyers by the takeout window, closed as usual, so he slipped them under the wipers of some nearby cars.

The local kids, those same punks, soon discovered the hut and dropped by late one night to check it out. He could hear them hooting and hollering at each other in the distance, and the sounds of breaking glass. until the racket suddenly stopped. He’d smelt the spray paint on the evening breeze, so he headed out the next day to see if he could scrub some of it off. However, the place was already clean, with nothing broken. He never saw those kids again. either.

Eventually, it was Fall, along with chilling rains, so one day he just climbed into ‘his’ dumpster to enjoy his meal. He propped the lid open a bit and settled down for his hot supper, plus a can of cider he’d managed to scrounge. It was so warm and quiet in there, he just closed his eyes to rest for a bit.

He woke in a panic as the container rocked back and forth. Must be the waste management truck. He leaped up, pushed the lid open, and was ready to jump out when he paused. He was twenty feet in the air, and so was the other container and the building itself. He looked down—no garbage truck. Just two long scrawny legs, like a chicken’s. He banged on the side of the dumpster and screamed—at who or what he didn’t know. The legs seemed to fold in on themselves, and the hut, and his prison, returned to ground level. He scrambled out and headed for the edge of the lot. Past the bushes, past his lean-to, deep into the woods.

The next morning, he crept back home, but for several days he avoided the parking lot and the thing crouching in the middle of it. Eventually, his empty stomach prompted him to carefully check out the lot. Tiny’s Taco Hut was still there. There were some parked cars, with a few people wandering about, and it was full daylight. He’d be ok. He looked in ‘his’ dumpster, empty except for the usual takeout bag. Still warm too, as if it had just been placed there. He relaxed on the pavement in the sun, back against the hut, and enjoyed his meal. He worked especially hard that day on the lot, as a lot of trash had accumulated. People just didn’t care. And whatever this hut was, it hadn’t hurt him. That night, he moved his meagre possessions—several blankets, a few clothes, a handful of treasures—into the dumpster. He woke up in the middle of the night as the container began to move, but it seemed gentler, almost as if it were rocking him.

He went back to sleep.

Aisle Nine in the Grocery Store

Mike Young — Fri, 20 Mar 2026 17:14:22 GMT

Photo by Hanson Lu on Unsplash

TL;DR - Choose a setting from a list of six possibilities. Your choice. 1000 words max, post a link in the comments if you want.

This 2012 challenge from Terrible Minds was to choose your setting, from a list of six.

The settings were:

The Bone Cathedral
Aisle Nine In The Grocery Store
The Venom Club
The Tower of Babel
Suburban Meth Lab
Tiny’s Taco Hut

I liked the challenge given by a boring choice. Here’s my updated version, at 800 words.

Aisle Nine In The Grocery Store

Bonnie felt like a fool, still pushing her cart up and down the same aisle. She paused, pretending to read the label on a can of salmon, and looked behind her. Nobody. At least nobody she was interested in.

It had started with yet another smile, the online kind, of course. She’d had a lot of them on the dating site lately, especially since she’d added some photos. She’d started in there as just text, wanting men to appreciate her for her mind, not her body. She soon admitted she was just as biased, as she was only checking out the cute guys. She knew the text only profiles could have written anything, just to set the hook. She’d done that a bit herself. And it couldn’t hurt to pick out some flattering pictures from several years ago.

So, in spite of knowing a lot of this was just a game for people, some truths, some half-truths, some out-and-out lies, in spite of this, here she was, loitering in Aisle 9.

One of last week’s smiles had seemed intriguing, his profile interesting, his subsequent emails open, thoughtful, and funny. She was surprised when her friend Kim didn’t share her enthusiasm about her new friendship.

“Bonnie,” she said. “Are you looking for a pen-pal or do you want to get some action going? You’ll be an old maid, same boring job, an apartment filled with cats, trading emails with some pathetic guy living in his mother’s basement.”

Bonnie glared at her. “OK, so what if we do meet? He’ll be a nice guy for a while, we’ll date, he’ll start sleeping over, and I’ll start to like him. Then he’ll start pulling back, say it’s not my fault, then he’s gone.”

“Or you’ll do the same,” said Kim. “Like with Dave, right? I thought he was a keeper.”

“It’s just so much work,” said Bonnie.

“So shut up and get to work,” said Kim. “Tell this guy you want more. Just don’t get up and run when the honeymoon’s over. And don’t let him do it either.”

“What if he doesn’t want to meet?” said Bonnie. “What if he just wants to be friends and won’t talk anymore? This is kind of nice like this, I really like him.”

“And then you’ll call me at 3 am again,” said Kim,” complaining about your boring job, and how you’ll never meet anyone.”

Bonnie poured out another couple of shooters, tossed hers back, and slammed the glass down.

“OK, one more try!”

“That’s my girl,” said Kim. “Look, he’s online now, I’ll tell him you want to meet.”

They waited, Bonnie chewing at a nail, until her phone chimed.

“I can’t look,” she said. “What did he say?”

“Yes!” said Kim, pumping her fist. “He wants to meet you this afternoon. Wait—at the grocery store. Well, that’s different.”

“He wants to check out the melons?” said Bonnie.

“Good one,” said Kim. “Just a sec.” She typed, then waited.

“Ha, he laughed, says he’s a leg man too. Hmmm, maybe I should go instead.” She laughed at Bonnie’s look. “Just joking.”

“OK,” said Bonnie. “Tell him I’ll be there—quick, before I change my mind. Shit, I’m nervous, this feels like my first date when I was twelve.”

“Twelve? I was ten,” said Kim. She typed, then waited. “Done. Two o’clock. He even picked the aisle for you to lurk in. Here, I’ll write it on your arm so you don’t get flustered and forget.”

So here she was, all dressed up, wandering up and down aisle nine. Luckily, it was a huge store, so sticking to one aisle didn’t look that weird. There had been a couple of cute guys earlier, one had even flirted a bit, but she’d turned him down.

No sign of her guy, though.

She glanced at her watch; it was almost two thirty. That was it, another loser after all. She scurried to the exit and hopped onto a waiting city bus. She stared out the window, blinking back her tears as the bus pulled away. She wiped her face and sat up.

“Get a grip, girl,” she said. The woman across the aisle looked up, then back to her book.

Bonnie bent over her phone. First, she sent a nasty text to the asshole, saying she was never really interested anyway. Then she sent one to Kim, telling her aisle nine was a waste; he never even showed.

Her phone buzzed with a message. It was from Kim. “9? Nine? u dork, I rOt it 4 u. Six! 6! Run!”

But it was too late. Bonnie slumped in her seat. Maybe she’d see if Kim would drive her to the pet store tomorrow.

Hunter or Helper

Mike Young — Fri, 13 Mar 2026 14:47:06 GMT

Photo by Elimende Inagella on Unsplash

TL;DR - Follow directions to choose a sentence from one of your books, then write from it.

I assume you’re a reader, so grab the book you’re currently reading. Turn to page 83, scan down through that page and pick the 8th sentence. Use that sentence as the first line of your story and let the creative juices flow for the next 1000 words. Where you take the story, is entirely up to you. It doesn’t even have to be the same genre as the book you’re reading.

My prompt was from Ready Player One - by Ernest Cline. Our Sci-Fi club was reading it. Page 83, sentence 8 - “Each sector was divided up into many different zones that varied in size and shape.”

My story is 787 words. I wanted to explore choices, and ethics—what we do even when no one is watching.

Hunter or Helper?

Each sector was divided up into many different zones that varied in size and shape. Most were kill zones, only a few were safe, but Dan was confident he could make it across the sector alive. He’d always been in good shape and active in sports, a star quarterback in college. More importantly, the previous two weeks’ basic training had uncovered some surprisingly good skills with a variety of weapons. He did realize, though, that his odds in The Game, bad to start off, also depended on which side the gamers chose when play started. Some would declare as Hunters, trying to chase down The Runner and kill him for a share of the prize money. Some would choose to be Helpers, trying to try to block any Hunters, and also give The Runner access to better weapons and armour, more ammo, even shortcuts to a safe zone. They, too, could get a share if he won, but only a small cut.

Joining this week’s game had been an act of desperation for Dan. First, he’d lost his job, and now his son was sick. The prize would be enough for medical treatments, and he hoped for a comfortable retirement. He’d even be able to surprise his brother-in-law Bob with some cash, next time he pestered Dan for money for some hare-brained scheme. Dan hadn’t told his family he’d decided to be The Runner.

“I’ll be gone a few weeks,” he said. “It’s a huge business deal, the opportunity of a lifetime.”

Officially, he would remain anonymous—win or lose—as did the other gamers. No one had to ever know what choices any of them had made. There was a difference in consequences, though. The gamers played through automatons, and though they could feel the pain of blows, knives, and bullets, death was an illusion for them. The worst consequences were for the Hunters, and even then, their ‘death’ was only a coma for a few days. The Runner, on the other hand, could actually die. He was physically there, not just directing an automation via a console. Dan checked his equipment one more time, and approached the Gate. This first zone was a safe one, but only for 30 seconds. Then it would flip, and the Hunters and Helpers would start after him. He gave a thumbs-up to the GamesMaster and stepped into the zone. He scanned the status overlay as he walked through. Nothing in sight yet, except a rat on the nearest video pedestal, chewing on one of the cables. Not his problem. Dan loaded his rifle and got ready to run.

Bob settled into the chair in front of his console, placed the VR helmet over his eyes, and slid his hands into the control gloves. This new reality system was the best he’d ever experienced; he’d feel every footstep, but also every blow, every shot. He’d borrowed the entry fee for a seat in The Game from his sister, after a long argument. He was good at this, he’d be sure to win, and pay her back before her husband Dan found out. More importantly, he would have more than enough to start up his new project.

“It’s a great deal, sis,” he said. “Best I’ve ever come up with. Dan wouldn’t even listen to me this time when I asked, but I’ll show him.”

Bob checked the odds board— definitely favoured choosing Hunter this time, with a much bigger payout to be split. This Runner scored high in fitness, agility, and marksmanship. He could still benefit from a team of Helpers, but he would attract Hunters, too. He’d be a tough nut to kill, but also would be a worthwhile challenge for people. Bob checked the game timer—any minute now. There it was, the buzzer, and The Runner stepped through. He was a big guy, with his face blurred by the system of course, but his stance looked confident as he stomped through the gate, all armoured up and ready to go.

When the rat chewed through the cable, there was a spit of sparks, and a brief pause before the backup feed took over. For a split second, the facial blur was off, and Dan’s face gazed out of the screen.

Bob sat up and stared at the screen. It was the same blurred image now, but for a moment, he could have sworn it was his brother-in-law. Dan had claimed to be going on a business trip, but maybe he’d lied, maybe he was just looking to get rich quick. Bob sat at his console, alone and anonymous, and moved his mouse towards the two status buttons—red for Hunter, green for Helper. He clicked on the button.

Momma's Boy

Mike Young — Fri, 06 Mar 2026 16:26:30 GMT

Photo by Javardh on Unsplash

TL;DR - Use 10 given words and an aphorism. 1000 words max, one week, link in comments if you want.

We were given some words and an aphorism to get us started. Note - An aphorism is a concise, memorable, and often witty statement that expresses a general truth, principle, or observation about life. You can do your own word list via online tools, or ask a friend for some. Wiki has a nice list of aphorisms.

The words: cafe, devil, course, path, other, first, days, catch, warmth, justice, apart.

The witticism: A man who has been the indisputable favourite of his mother keeps for life the feeling of a conqueror - Sigmund Freud

Some readers may recognize the mayor from back in 2012. My story is

Momma’s Boy

The Devil smiled as he sipped on his coffee. It was surprisingly good for a bland little cafe in a bland little town. He sat quietly in the cafe booth, gazing out the window, soaking up the sun’s warmth as he waited for the catch of the day to walk in. It was a quiet morning, with just a few locals perched on stools at the counter. The waitress slumped at a corner table, idly flipping through a magazine, cigarette burning down to the filter in her ashtray. He checked his list—she wasn’t on it. He settled back in his seat, humming along with the music. He’d triggered the juke box as he walked in, having it play a series of slow Leonard Cohen songs, faintly, in the background. They fit his mood today. His tunes weren’t actually in the juke box, but no one seemed to notice.

When the bell over the door tinkled, he and everyone else. looked over. In swaggered a large man, jacket buttoned tight over his stomach, face flushed, flashing a big smile. The newcomer strutted and preened, full of confidence, greeting the few patrons by name, slapping them on the back. The waitress came to life. With eyes wide, a beaming smile, and wide arms, she rushed towards him.

“How’s my favourite little boy?” she cried.

He stepped back. “Mom, I’m the mayor, not your little boy anymore.”

“Nonsense,” she said. “You’ll always be my boy, even as a famous and popular mayor.”

He dropped his voice. “Thanks mom, I appreciate you always being here for me. I wish I had the same support from the press. They love to twist every little thing I do into the worst light possible. They even pick on my weight.”

“Now Robbie,” she said, “they’re just playing up to their readers. They know the people are upset over all the cuts you had to make, so they will support anything that is printed against you. They don’t understand you as I do.”

“It’s a tough job,” he said,” and it wasn’t easy to get here.”

Over the years, he’d had to burn a lot of bridges, do a lot of back-room deals, bend a lot of rules, and upset a lot of people. But apart from the occasional hate mail, it was worth it; he was finally here.

“And you do such a good job,” she said. “You won’t be long in this little town.”

“Yeah, thanks mom,” said the mayor. He looked around, then pointed. “Who’s that guy in the booth, new in town?”

“He said he was here to collect someone,” she said. “He must have meant collect something, like one of those repo men I see on TV.”

The Devil had been eavesdropping from across the room, an easy trick for him. He rose as the mayor approached.

“Mr. Mayor,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for you—do sit down.”

“Really, for me?” said the mayor. “The waitress said you were here to collect something. If you’re here for my limo, well, this time it’s the town’s, and it’s paid for.”

“No, Robbie, I’m here to collect you,” said the Devil. “Time to pay up for all those rules you bent, all those people you stepped on.”

The mayor started to get even redder in the face. “Now look here, Mr . . . Mr . . . “

“Mr. D will do,” said the Devil with a little smile. “Go on.”

“Look here, Mr. D, if you’re another goon from Washington, you can just turn around and get out. The press has been spreading nothing but lies. Your people have been through my office files, business records, personal finances, my wife’s business, my brother’s, and couldn’t prove anything.”

The Devil smiled, and the room seemed to get a little darker. “No, they couldn’t prove anything, but you and I know that you’ve been a bad boy.”

The mayor sat back and waved a hand. “Pffft! Just talk. You don’t know squat about me.”

“You’d be surprised at what I know,” said the Devil. “You chose this path years ago. Let’s start with the puppy your sister had, the one you convinced her had just run away. But we know it was more than that.”

“It was an accident, I didn’t mean it,” said the mayor. He sat forward again. “Wait, how did you know about that?”

“Relax,” said the Devil. “There’s more. A lot more. I’ll just give you the highlights for now.”

He went through a litany of incidents, and as he did so, the mayor sank lower and lower in his chair.

When the Devil finally stopped, he smiled at the mayor. “So, you see, with that record, it’s time for me to collect you.”

“You’re not from the Justice Department in Washington, are you,” said the mayor.

“No,” said the Devil. “Another justice department. Similar, but different. We tend to win all our cases.” He casually stirred his cold coffee with his finger until it bubbled and steamed, then took another sip. “She makes excellent coffee; maybe I can offer her a job.”

“You leave my momma out of this!” said the mayor, grabbing the Devil by the sleeve.

She had seen the ruckus and hurried over. “Everything all right here, Robbie? Want me to call the sheriff?”

“No, Mom, it’s OK,” said the Mayor. “You were right the first time, this man is here for someone, not something. He’s here for me.”

“But you can’t take my boy from me,” she said. “He’s all I got. He’s not that bad a boy, really. Don’t arrest him—I couldn’t live without him here. My life would be worthless. Please, I’d do anything.”

The Devil smiled.”Anything?”

“Mom!” said the Mayor. “Be careful what you say, you don’t know who this is.”

“Why don’t I give her some hints?” said the Devil. “One, I’m pleased to say that your son has been a very bad boy for most of the last forty-some years, starting with the accident with his sister’s puppy. And two . . . ” He smiled, then slowly his teeth sharpened into fangs, his skin reddened, and two horns appeared on his forehead.

She took a step back, grabbed a chair back for support, then nodded. “I guess I sort of knew this was coming,” she said. She straightened and raised her chin. “Take me instead.”

“It doesn’t work like that,” said the Mayor. “Or does it?”

“Contrary to what people say,” said the Devil, “I can be a pretty reasonable fiend from Hell. Your mother here is not on my list, so she would have some extra value to me. You, given your course in life, you’ll be mine eventually. I could delay things, I suppose.”

“Would you really do that for me, Mom?” asked the Mayor.

She smiled and held out her arms. “Yes, I would, for my favourite little boy.”

The mayor jumped up and gave her a quick hug. “Mom, you’re the best.” He turned to the Devil and held out his hand. “Mr. D, nice doing business with you, hope it’s a long time before we meet again.”

Making a Choice

Mike Young — Fri, 27 Feb 2026 16:40:24 GMT

Photo by Michelle Celedon on Unsplash

TL;DR - Use 4 of 8 given random words. 1000 words max, one week, link in comments if you want.

This was another challenge from Terrible Minds, to use four of eight random words in a story. You can use the list here. or go to one of the many online random generators out there. My point is to start you thinking with eight, but constrain you to only four of them. The less connected they are, the better.

Here is my list, with my choices shown in bold: Saw, Milkshake, Bath, Flowerpot, Wheelchair, Bully, Zoo, Heretic. I went with my fairy tale folk again, as they’d had a few weeks off and were getting restless. My story was 908 words.

Making a Choice

“Why me?” asked Rapunzel. “Why not Red Riding Hood?”

“Because you’ve had to make this choice in your stories,” said the witch. “And you always choose your kids, even knowing of the hardship that awaits you, single, with the twins in the wilderness.”

“Well, I do love kids,” said Rapunzel.

“And you do love Princes,” said the witch. “You just love them a little too much.”

“But this is more than a retelling of a fairy tale,” said Rapunzel. “It’s a march at a clinic—there’ll be real mothers and children out there. It could get violent, people could get hurt.”

“The Grimms have decided to widen their scope even more,” said the witch. “Our power to persuade and influence will help direct the crowd and build this into a stronger story, hopefully a defining moment. It’ll be ok, think of it as just another job, slip into your role and don’t get all involved.”

“Who will be doing the other side?” said Rapunzel.

“Romulus, our wolf,” said the witch. “Not visibly as a wolf, of course, just as that tall, dark and handsome character he wears so well, leading the women with his charismatic power, talking of the sanctity of life, their duty to have children, the evils of your pro-choice group.”

“Good casting there,” said Rapunzel, “given that many of them will likely be carrying one of his kids.”

“Jealous?” said the witch.

“No, he’s a little too rough for me,” said Rapunzel. “I prefer my princes; they’re always so gentle and grateful.”

“Just wondered,” said the witch. “OK, off you go, the story is starting. Rememberer, confrontation, then conversation. No concussions.”

###

Rapunzel ducked as something, possibly a tomato, flew past her and splatted against the clinic wall. She was glad the twins were back inside, sleeping. She hefted her sign and yelled out a chant. “Right-to-life, your name’s a lie, You don’t care if women die!”

The crowd picked up the chant and moved with her. She loved the flow of power when this happened, the surge as those around her picked up her emotions and fed them back to her, then back out to the crowd. This was a new clinic, in a poor area of the city, and a focal point of the movement, a chance to show solidarity. These women all needed it, and the support it gave for their tough lives, filled with difficult choices. Rapunzel shook her fist at Romulus as he led his crowd closer. His group were mostly men and women he’d picked from the more upscale parts of town. Children were not a problem for them, as they all had nannies, housekeepers and private schools to deal with them.

She saw that his crowd held signs lettered with Biblical verses, and words like murderers, heretics, sinners. Right in the front was a wheelchair, with a twisted little body in it, surrounded by beeping monitors and dripping tubes—limbs twitching, blind eyes rolling wildly. The woman pushing it held a sign proclaiming that pro-choice would have murdered her baby. As Rapunzel stared at the child, the blank eyes cleared for a moment, and one winked at her.

Rapunzel grinned. “Rumplestiltskin, you little bugger.”

“What?” said the woman next to her.

“Nothing, just saw a friend,” she said.

“These are not friends, these are enemies,” said the woman. “Show them no mercy.”

Rapunzel looked around her, realizing she might have pumped the crowd up a little too much. They were all chanting and screaming with the same fervour as the wolf’s side was, no longer content with just making a stand for their beliefs. Her crowd was ready for an aggressive push, to try to outdo their opponents with violence. This would be a defining moment, alright, but for the wrong reasons. The wolf’s side looked ready for bloodshed, too. Any attempts by either of them to nudge toward conversation would be a failure.

The woman behind Rapunzel gave her a shove. “Come on, let’s get the bastards!”

This was too much; it wasn’t just another job. She decided to take the chance of upsetting the customer and quickly dialled back her power. That helped, but she still needed a distraction to break the spell. Rapunzel looked up at the balconies overlooking both sides of the street, crowded with people shaking their fists at the other side, balconies with rows of flowerpots hanging over the railings, all bursting with blooms. She gave a quick, high whistle to Romulus and caught his eye—he was starting to look a little worried. She pointed up, then down to the space between their two mobs. Hoping he’d got it, she focused on the balconies opposite her, pushing. The people stopped their wild-eyed yelling, paused, then grabbed some flowerpots and lifted them overhead. She saw the wolf focusing upwards, too, and felt his surge of power matching hers.

With a crash, the pavement in front of them was buried in a mound of shattered pots, dirt, flowers - a riot of colour. Both crowds froze in their forward march, then turned and looked around at each other, as if coming out of a trance. Which they were, she thought. She grabbed a sign from the woman next to her. Using it as a shovel, she started to clean up the mess, with just a little nudge to those around her. The wolf smiled and started to do the same on his side.

Cowboys and Indians

Fri, 20 Feb 2026 15:54:44 GMT

TL;DR - Simple challenge: write about Cowboys and Indians.

This was a challenge from 2012, just to write about Cowboys and Indians. It could be a shootout on a dusty street, a chat around the campfire, a battle or a meeting. 1500 word limit this time, and a list of words to include: rope, dust, whiskey, medicine, and ceremony.

I tried a twist on the theme, 1281 words

Cowboys and Indians

Charlie grunted as he pulled his boot off. “Damn, my corns are killing me. It’s been a long day.” He slapped his pant legs, raising a cloud of dust. “Glad I can spend most of the day on my horse.”

“Sucks to be old,” Dave said. “We all feel it.” He poured his friend a drink. “But what brings you to town at this time? Is it open stage night here already?”

“Nope, that’s tomorrow,” said Charlie. “Even have some new tunes ready. Told the wife I needed to drive in to pick up more fence wire at the co-op, and I do. Neglected to mention I also needed a drink, but she may have guessed that.” He sipped on his glass of whisky, savouring the flavour. He wiped his white moustache. and nodded. “I needed that.”

“How’s the water holding out at your place?” asked Dave.

“Stream’s starting to dry up,” said Charlie, “and so are the wells. North pasture is pretty bad, really needs some extra from that stream.”

“That’s snow melt, coming in from the mountains,” said Dave. “Should be fine even now, shouldn’t it?”

“Should be,” said Charlie, “but I think it’s being all used by the new guy upstream from me. Some guy, from India I think, bought Dave’s land when he went bust. Plans to run a feed lot now, finishing off beef for market. Doesn’t know we need to share things around here, especially water.”

“Another one!” said Dave. “Where do these people get the money?”

“Lots of relatives,” said Charlie. “Everyone chips in, so that’s a big help. Plus, the bank always seems to have extra credit for them, sometimes even with Federal backing from some new fund or something.”

“Seems every month another one moves in,” said Dave.

“Wish they’d stay in their place,” said Charlie. “It isn’t right, it should be our own people buying up local farms. These people don’t even go to our church.”

“I hear you,” said Dave. “I do wish the government would help us people too. The latest plan from Ottawa is that they want to license all our water wells, make us apply for a permit to draw our own water from our own land.”

Charlie’s family had raised cattle here since his great-grandfather homesteaded in the area over a hundred years ago. They’d not been one of the lucky ones to find oil in their pastures, but thanks to hard work had still managed a good living. But lately he’d seen beef prices drop, and feed and fuel prices rise. Survival was now just a delaying tactic, selling off parcels of land bit by bit. And as the old spreads shrunk, the old families moved out, and new ones in. People without an appreciation for all the work that had already been done to make this a strong community.

“Another round of medicine,” said Charlie. “Then I really need to get going.”

Charlie thumped the dashboard as his jeep shuddered to a stop. He turned the key, pumped the gas—just a whir, a rattle, and a clunk. He really hated machinery. He’d grown up with horses and wagons doing the work around the farm, and didn’t take to all the equipment that seemed to have taken over. Expensive equipment, even used, and always breaking down on him. Some of his neighbours had even started riding their fence lines on dirt bikes, and then of course whined into their cell phones when a sudden snowstorm caught them unawares. It was getting dark now—Heather would be worrying about him. He pulled out the cellphone his son had bought him and called her.

“No, don’t come out, dear, “ he said. “Someone will come along in a bit, and I’ll grab a ride home. Just wish I’d brought my rifle so I could shoot this damn thing and put it out of its misery.”

He didn’t bother to climb out, as the driver’s door was tied closed with some rope. He settled back, relaxed, and lit a cigarette. He was almost finished when he saw a light approaching from town. He didn’t bother to get out, as he knew none of his neighbours would just drive by; they would stop and check. He was surprised when the car slowed, but then passed him. Charlie tooted the horn a few times and watched as the car stopped, then reversed. The driver got out and walked over—it was his new neighbour. He waved and smiled as he walked toward Charlie, white teeth bright against his dark skin.

“Charlie, what is wrong? Is it broken?” he said.

“No problem,” said Charlie,” just taking a rest, ah, sorry, I forgot . . .”

“Rajit,” he said. “I was just in town, picking up some spices my uncle sent me. Are you sure this jeep is OK? It looks like the same kind I worked on back home.”

“You can fix things like this?” asked Charlie.

“No problem,” said Rajt. “I am top mechanic back home in India, fix many old jeeps like this, I know all the tricks. Here, let me look.”

Before Charlie could protest, Rajit had the hood up and was rummaging inside.

“OK, try it now.”

With the first turn of the key, the motor sputtered to life.

“No problem,” said Rajit. “Loose distributor. Good to go now. But it sounds a little rough still. Go ahead, I will follow you home just in case.”

Charlie tried to convince Rajit he could manage just fine now, but was unsuccessful. His neighbour nodded and agreed with him, but somehow still managed to follow Charlie right up to the front of his house. Heather was waiting on the porch, a shawl around her shoulders. When she heard how Rajit had helped, she insisted he come in for a cup of tea. After Rajit praised the beauty of the West and shared his hopes to start a new life for his two sons, Charlie seemed to thaw a bit.

“So, how’s your place doing in this dry spell?” asked Heather.

“Not good,” said Rajit. “I had two wells put in already, but they are drying up. I called the man who did them, but he just said I must have picked a bad spot.”

“That’s supposed to be his job,” said Charlie. “He should know better.”

“Well, it might depend on the customer,” said Heather. “Some of the local people are having a hard time accepting all the new people in the area.” She looked over at Charlie, but he was carefully avoiding her eyes.

“I have had to draw from the stream,” said Rajit. “And I know that is not good for you, but my feedlot takes a lot of water. I can afford one more well, but it has to be a good one.”

Heather reached over and laid her hand on her husband’s arm. “Charlie, maybe you could help your neighbour with this.”

There was a pause, then Charlie nodded. “Could drop by, I guess. Pretty good dowser, just like my dad was. Can walk a property with my bent sticks, and if there’s any water, I’ll find it.”

“And then I won’t need the stream,” said Rajit. “That would be such a wonderful thing for you to do. Do we need a contract for this?”

“Hell no,” said Charlie. “We don’t stand on ceremony here, especially between neighbours.”

“Thank you,” said Rajit. “But how may I repay you?”

Heather smiled. “My husband is a genius with cattle and horses, the best in the county. Not so much with machinery. I’m sure he might find a few things around here for you to help with.”

A Valentine's Gift

Fri, 13 Feb 2026 16:23:28 GMT

TL;DR - An unlikeable protagonist. 1000 words max, one week, link in comments if you want.

This was another flash fiction challenge from Chuck Wendig at Terrible Minds. We were to write about a protagonist (that’s the good guy) that is a balance, unlikeable yet nice enough to keep us reading about them. 1000 words max.

I decided on a Valentine’s Day story, with my heroine a mostly sweet young thing that’s sort of taken advantage of. A balance, Here’s my story - 676 words.

I also recorded a version of this a few years ago.

A Valentine’s Gift

She shivered as he settled his cloak over her bare shoulders for the quick dash from the limousine. Shivered not from the evening chill, not from the silk lining of the garment, but from anticipation.

Kathleen had known Victor for several years, their paths crossing at various clubs and charity galas, but as no more than nodding acquaintances. He drove a luxury car, dressed in expensive clothes, dated a succession of beautiful women, and was her latest target. She was from a rich family, an only child, and had quickly learned to use her beauty, wit, and charm to get whatever she wanted from men. Now she wanted Victor, but on her terms. Kathleen had seen women quickly succumb to his smouldering gaze, but when he’d tried that with her at a charity ball, he’d seemed surprised at her resistance, her continuing coolness towards him. He’d recovered quickly, praising her beautiful green eyes—never guessing they were contacts, tinted to complement her red hair, with a bit of UV filter added in.

He’d persisted in his attempts to charm her, though, and finally, after she made his successful seduction a New Year’s resolution, she started to carefully let herself thaw. She began to smile and flirt back, as they shared an afternoon coffee at a sidewalk cafe, or a carriage ride in the park, granting him the occasional discreet laugh and delicate touch to his arm. Then she would draw back for several days and ignore his calls. He would then send her more flowers and jewelry, with beautiful letters begging her to see him again, she would relent, and it would repeat.

She’d grown tired of the game, though, so had decided that tonight, on Valentine’s Day, she would give him his reward. Victor had somehow managed reservations at the city’s most exclusive restaurant, but when he’d suggested that they dress elegantly, Kathleen had claimed her wardrobe was just too sparse. As she’d predicted, he’d then sent over a beautiful ball gown, flowing to the ground in delicate layers of green, strapless to show off her delicate shoulders and more than a hint of cleavage. She’d recognized the gown’s exclusive designer and was impressed. She’d remembered how he’d praised her long, pale neck, so she’d swept her hair up, pinning it with an antique clip he’d sent her.

She felt, and looked like, a traditional southern belle from the previous century. For his part, Victor was elegant in the simple black and white of a perfectly fitted tux, the only colour a blood red cummerbund and matching cloak lining. She had to admit they made a lovely couple. As they paraded between the tables to their private booth, she could feel the envious eyes of all the women on her.

Victor was a perfect date, picking a selection of delicious menu items, complementing them with the most expensive wines, and listening attentively to her every word. He kept touching, stroking, caressing her, always subtle, just a gentle finger along her forearm, a brief tap of his thigh against hers, a soft feather-like touch to her neck as he leaned forward to whisper in her ear. She flushed at all the attention, her bare skin tingling, and was soon touching him back, whispering, flirting. She flushed, ready for the next step in her plan, so suggested that they skip dessert and leave.

Soon they were in his penthouse apartment, with lights dimmed, soft music in the air and champagne in a bucket by the leather couch. She excused herself for a moment to the bathroom- her eyes were tired - and took out her contacts. She wanted to take her hair down too, but he had begged her not too so she indulged him.

She settled back on the soft couch, picked up her glass, smiled, and looked into his eyes. Deep, dark eyes—she felt like she was falling into their black pools.

Time seemed to stop. She felt frozen in place, aware of her pulse beating quickly just under the skin of her neck, as Victor leaned closer and whispered softly into her ear, “And now, my dear, my final gift to you—eternal life.”

Lost in Translation

Mike Young — Fri, 06 Feb 2026 15:19:58 GMT

Dancers perform -opening ceremony -summit at Uluru. (ABC News: Stephanie Zillman)

TL;DR - Start your story with a random nonsense sentence. 1000 words max, one week, link in comments if you want.

This 2012 challenge from Terrible Minds was to use a random sentence for your prompt. The site he used is no longer there, but there are several others. Try this one.

Use your random sentence as the first or last one in your story. Genre is your choice.

I clicked a few times and got several interesting sentences, so I decided to use them all. As usual, this is the better, tweaked version. 910 words. BTW - This is sort of a sequel to a previous story I did, The Fire of the Gods.

Lost in Translation

“The newcomer constitutes the else goodbye.”

What the hell? She checked the translator box settings. The chief’s words made no sense. Hopefully, at least hers were making sense to him. She keyed her mike again. “Greetings to the forest people. We are your friends.”

The native chief frowned and spoke once more. “A splendid cylinder digs any grandfather.”

“Crap,” she muttered. She smacked the box with the side of her hand, then spoke loudly and slowly. “We were here before, and lost one of our own people.”

The box was dutifully squawking and whistling at the chief, but no response from him this time. The natives waited, their weapons definitely all at the ready.

She keyed the squad’s internal channel. “Chuckie, I’m not sure these translator boxes are working any better than the last ones they tried here.”

“I heard the last team just gave up trying to talk,” he said. “Just went on with their research. Until the incident, and they lost Barbara. She had gone to help the chief’s son, knowing that she was probably too late. We need to find out what happened, but we won’t calm them down much in all this armour. We’re like the boys from the next town, walking into the Palace Hotel just itching for a fight. And the locals are just dying to take them all on.”

“Standard protocol, you know that,” she said. “But let’s dial it back a bit. Keep your weapons ready; just lower them a bit toward the ground. Try not to give the impression that between us we’ve enough firepower to wipe them all out.” She fiddled with the box again. Maybe it’s this blue knob, she thought. She reached up, lifted her visor and smiled at the chief. “About Barbara—“

The natives all shouted in anger and raised their weapons. Their leader shook his fist at her and yelled, “The soft drum sands the dread synthesis. The newcomer constitutes the else goodbye.” With another yell, he threw his spear at her, a signal for the rest to launch their own spears and arrows at her team.

“Hold your fire, guys,” she said, barely having time to slide her visor down.

The weapons all bounced harmlessly off their armour, but the natives looked ready to charge now, axes and knives raised overhead. Her team all had their weapons at the ready now, too, nervously sweeping the crowd, dotting them with their laser sights.

“Back up, guys, carefully, towards the ship,” she said. “Dean, get ready to lob some gas and smoke.”

“Coach, incoming on your right,” he called back.

She swerved, finger tightening on the trigger, to see a very small monkey racing at her, chased by a very large dog. In seconds, the monkey had ducked behind her, grabbing her leg. The dog skidded to a stop, baring its teeth at her, growling in a deep, angry rumble, its hair raised on the back of its neck, its tail twitching.

“Boo!” she said, stomping her foot at the dog. It just growled more and took a step closer. Those jaws looked powerful. “Damn it, guys, I don’t like dogs, especially when they look like they’re part wolf and part Great Dane. And, I don’t think this one likes me.”

“They can tell if you’re bluffing or not,” said Chuckie. “Don’t back down or he’ll go for you. We had one like that on the farm. It was like he could read your mind. One time me and my brother was out back looking for this little calf and—”

“Can it, Chuckie,” she said. “Right now this one looks ready to leap.”

“Want me to shoot it?” said Dean.

“No, it’s only a dog, jeez. Let me think,” she said.

There was a low whistle from the crowd. The dog paused, then looked back, as a little girl peered around from behind the chief. She whistled again, and the dog trotted back to her, wagging its tail. The girl smiled and waved her hand back at the armoured soldiers.

“Saved by the sisterhood,” said Chuckie.

“Shut up,” she said. “And not a word of this back at base. OK, let's try this one more time, guys. Cover me.” She carefully turned the translator box off, reached up, and removed her helmet.

She smiled at the natives. “Thank you,” she said. She smiled again and gestured towards the little girl while reaching back for the monkey. She peeled it from her leg and shooed it back toward the natives.

The chief gestured to his people to lower their weapons. Perhaps these were the same gods as before, but just with thicker skins. At least they had stopped yelling insults at his people. He leaned down to his granddaughter.

“Thank you for calling back your dog. Now run back to the village and tell the women to prepare a feast for our visitors.”

Maybe this time the gods would learn his language, so that he could tell them about their friend, Bara. How an evil witch had possessed her, and had spread corruption to his son. His people had worked quickly to kill her and consume her flesh. This was the way it had always been, as only by doing this could they prevent the evil spirit from spreading back to all her own people. He smiled and stepped forward, eager to teach the strangers. They would be grateful to his people for saving them all.

Sleep Tight

Mike Young — Fri, 30 Jan 2026 14:22:51 GMT

TL;DR - Write about fear, either triggered or from a phobia. Include the words dark, crunching, eerie, monster and fear. 1313 words max, one week, link in comments if you want.

This week’s challenge was to write about fear. As a kid, life can be unsure, with many unknowns, as we explore the world, as we take risks. Many fears are of real things, and some of those remain as helpful protections. Children can have vivid imaginations too, and develop fears of all those things that go bump in the night. Fears that as adults we either dismiss or learn to live with, but as kids, they can seem very real.

I decided to use my Fairy Tale Folk and let Romulus carry on a story he had started before. Here’s my story - 1146 words

Sleep Tight

“So, when do you come out of the closet?”

“Not right away,” said the wolf. “It’s a standard story about a little boy in bed, a dark room, and his fear. Not sure when or if I’ll pop out, my plan is to stay hidden and just use my magic to pump up the emotion.”

“Well, you do that well,” said Red. “Last one you were hiding under a bed—scared me just to listen in. I wouldn’t want you under mine.”

“Or in it?” asked the wolf.

“Hey,” said the woodcutter. “She was lonely, and used way too much of that love potion on you. Just drop it, OK buddy?”

“Sorry guys,” said the wolf. “You know I can never resist a bit of teasing . But I should get going on this, I want to make it a good one.”

If it was good enough, it would become part of the bedtime stories told to kids, and part of their dreams. Hopefully, a sufficiently scary part, boosted by the magic he and the others had gained when the fairy tales brought them to life, a magic that they now put back into their work.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Good night, son, sleep tight.”

“Night dad,” said Stephen. “Um, could you leave the door open a bit?”

“Well, just a bit,” said his dad. “You’re a big boy now.” He left the door open part way, the hallway light cutting a path right to the bed.

Stephen lay in the middle of the mattress, careful to keep his feet far from the edges. He remembered the last time he’d carelessly let a foot dangle over the edge—the sudden hot breath on it, the voice in his ear, his screams. His dad had run in quickly and turned on the lights. Together they had looked under the bed, in the closet, and found nothing. His dad gave him a big hug and said he’d be just fine. He’d then lain awake for hours, jittery with fear, afraid of every little noise.

Stephen made sure the covers were tucked snugly around his feet, and stared out into the hallway. He could hear the TV in the living room. A hockey game, it sounded like, with his sister whooping and cheering. He was just starting to relax, his eyes drooping, when he felt, and heard, a quick puff of hot air. He watched as the door slowly swung shut, with an eerie creak of the hinges, almost closing. Now there was only a thin crack of light, reaching across the floor to the foot of his bed. The rest of the room was dark.

He called. “Dad?”

No answer.

He leaned toward the door and called a little louder. “Dad!”

No answer.

Stephen sank back, pulled the blankets tight under his chin, and listened. Nothing at first, just the distant TV noises, then a faint creak.

He lifted his head up—there it was again. The noise wasn’t out in the hall; it was somewhere in his room. As his eyes got used to the dark, he could see faint shapes in the shadows, with bits of light looking back at him. He stared hard at the nearest shape for a few minutes, then relaxed when he realized it was only a pile of his clothes over a chair, with a belt buckle faintly glinting in the sliver of light from the door.

He looked again at the door, and that sliver of light. It wasn’t far; he could slip across quickly and open it again. He had just started to pull the covers back when he heard a creak from the corner of the room. He froze, then turned and peered into the dark. Another dark shape, with two red spots glowing near the top. Just my dresser, he thought, with clothes on it, and a battery charger or something. He started to smile, then one of the red spots disappeared for a moment, just like it was winking at him. He carefully slid under the blankets, still watching the two red spots, and then he heard it. A crunching, like toast, but louder. Like bones.

“Dad! Dad!” This time, he screamed with all his might.

As he listened to his dad’s quick steps coming down the hall, he heard a quick rustle in his room, just for a second.

“What is it, Stevie, another nightmare?” His dad pushed open the door and rushed over, their dog at his heels.

“No, I was awake. Dad, I heard crunching noises, loud ones, and saw something, over there!” Stephen pointed to the corner. Nothing there now, no monster, just his dresser. Clean, square, no clothes on it, no battery chargers, nothing on top except his clown doll.

Once again, his dad checked in the corners, under the bed.

“Here,” said his dad, holding up an old bone, “Peter must have been gnawing this— I’ll make sure he stays out this time.”

Stephen watched as his dad inspected the room for him, especially the closet. He thought he saw the clothes move when his dad opened the door, but he wasn’t sure.

Once again, his dad tucked him in carefully, gave him a hug and kiss, and said he’d be fine. His dad left the door wide open, and headed back down the hall, the dog at his heels.

Stephen waited.

This time, the puff of air was stronger, longer. His bedroom door swung closed, slowly, steadily, the light narrowing, until with a click it latched. Stephen whimpered. He wanted to duck right under the covers. He was afraid to watch, yet was afraid not to. He peered again at the corner. Nothing there except the square shape of his dresser.

He heard another click, from the other side of the room. He watched, eyes wide, lip trembling, as his closet door slowly swung open. Inside was a tall shape, with two red dots at the top, staring at him. As he stared, unable to move, one of them closed, then opened.

Stephen tried to scream.

A Study in Colours

Mike Young — Fri, 23 Jan 2026 14:59:55 GMT

8/2015 -alley south of Queen W, Toronto

TL;DR - pick a colour from a list of ten. Use it for a story. 1000 words max, one week, link in comments if you want.

This challenge from Terrible Minds was about colors. Or, here in Canada, colours. We were given a list of exoticly named paint colours. Choose one, make it the title of your story. The list was: Grasshopper Wing, Bone China, Timeless Lilac, Pageant Song, Burnt Tile, Fuchsia Kiss, Flamingo Dream, Glorious Gold, Mermaid Song, Flint Smoke. I’d been taking photos of back-alley graffiti for years, both tags and murals, and was quite familiar with the amazing palette these artists used, so I picked a few colours. The story is 805 words.

A Study in Colours

“Tock-a-Tock-a-Tock-a “

Alexa gave the can a few more shakes, tapped the nozzle to clear it, then tried a line on the wall. Nice coverage, no drips - she liked this new one by Montana.

The Queen Street alley was relatively quiet at 3 am, with just the noise of a few restaurant fans, the hum of traffic, the clang of an occasional streetcar bell, and distant drunken yells as the King Street bars shut down. She’d managed to save some black primer from a contract job, andeven in the dim light, she could see this would be a beautiful colour on it—Fuchsia Kiss. She’d had to buy all new cans after the bulls caught her in the trainyards doing some fr8’s. She’d lost her backpack climbing a fence, but saved her ass. She loved these new colours and their names—Grasshopper Green, Mermaid Song, Timeless Lilac. All would blend beautifully in this new piece.

She jumped as a door banged open next to her, but it was just someone from the cafe putting out the night’s garbage. She caught a whiff of it and then another familiar smell, as the dishwasher stayed outside for a break.

“Want a toke?” he asked, extending his hand. She smiled and went over; they’d shared a joint before.

“Coming along good,” he said. “The owner will be glad to see a new piece of art, especially since it’s for free.”

“Better than tags,” she said. “Glad we can do this stuff along here.” She knew many of the store owners and appreciated that they tolerated mural work back here.

She handed the joint back, “Thanks, back to work now, want to be done before dawn.”

She worked quickly, checking her sketch, adding layers of colours, filling in some gaps. She’d come a long way since her days writing tags in here with cheap cans and markers, with practice she’d developed good can control and a unique style. Her former mentors were now her peers and accepted her as an equal, sharing walls like this with her. She knew her art would stay as is, untouched by others, even taggers, until someone else needed some space to express themselves.

As the sky lightened with pre-dawn light, she could see her work even better. A few people wandered past, checking the trash for bottles or something to sell, heading for a favourite spot for spare change—they nodded, and she smiled back. She’d been here before, usually with friends, but even on her own, she felt safer than she might in the suburbs. She’d even stashed some paint here at times, knowing it would be safe. This was a community where people actually spoke to each other and cared about, and cared for, each other.

She was almost done. She grabbed a can of white, slipped a skinny cap on it for a fine line, and added a bit of detail. She signed the corner, Pres, and stepped back.

“Nailed it,” she said. The face she had done looked good, well shaded, and the lettering around it was crisp. She took a few photos with her phone, then packed up. She’d come back after work for more photos and to see if her friends were there. She was heading down the alley when she heard a voice from the shadows.

“So, you’re Pres,” it said. “Nice to put a face to the tags I’ve seen over the years.”

She turned, ready to run, as a cop stepped out of the shadows.

“Don’t run yet,” he said. “I’m a fan of your mural work, it’s nice stuff. My name’s Steve.

“I’m not a tagger,” she said, “I just do art like this, and we’re allowed in here.”

“I know you used to be a tagger,” he said, “but I haven’t seen any new tags this year. Let’s start off fresh here. Nice art—are you getting any paid murals so far?”

“I do OK,” she said. “What’s it to you—why are you here?”

“This is sort of a project of mine,” he said. “I’m trying to get good artists like you hooked up with people in communities to do some work to revitalize an area. Rather than just issue tickets and have the city buff over the same walls every month.”

“Let me guess, you want me to work for free, with my own paint,” she said.

“Nope, I’ll supply the paint,” said Steve. “Good stuff, too. Just give me a list.”

“None of that Tremclad crap,” she said.

“Trust me,” he said. “And we can add a bit of cash for you, too. And promote you as an available artist—local papers, YouTube, wherever. Come on, Timmie’s is open, I’ll buy you a coffee and tell you a bit more.”

“Make it a breakfast wrap, and we’ve a deal,” she said.

A Wedding Tale

Mike Young — Fri, 16 Jan 2026 15:03:13 GMT

ChatGPT image

TL;DR - Use three given words as a prompt: cummerbund, hobbit, frenetic. 1000 words max, one week, link to yours in the comments if you want.

There are many types of ‘nudges’ that can get a writer’s imagination going. One is to use several ‘random’ words. We were given the words cummerbund, hobbit, and frenetic, butyou can also find your own via a tool such as Random Word Generator.

This was a good start, but I wanted to narrow it down for myself. Weddings had been in the news, and I added, of course, my Fairy Tale Folk. Not as in creators of a new story for the Grimm’s, but just trying to fit in with ‘normal’ life. 1005 words

A Wedding Tale

“How do I look?” asked the wolf, adjusting his cummerbund.

“Lovely,” said the witch. “Just try to act less like a wolf at the wedding. Dial the charisma charm down a bit. Especially with the elven bridesmaids, they are all daughters of Galadriel, so show some respect.”

“Just trying to help,” he said. “With hobbits on the groom’s side, they may want some other options.”

The witch shook her head. “Romulus, don’t be naughty. I know some of our people are not convinced yet, but these mixed marriages can work. Frodo and Ladrea’s will not be that unusual. Just be nice, and smile, without showing too many of your teeth.”

When they arrived at the church, they had to push themselves past a group of protesters, all jostling with a line of guards and chanting with a frenetic zeal. The crowd shoved their signs at them, signs filled with Biblical quotes and warnings about how this was an unnatural union that would lead to the end of marriage and the collapse of civilization.

“What’s with these guys, Agnes?” said the wolf. “Humans can’t see what we really are, unless it’s in a story or a dream.”

“And that’s a good thing,” she said. “Or they’d see that the wedding ushers are all Orcs. I did a quick spell just now to check what people were perceiving. They see this as a mixed marriage, but between two men—one short and swarthy, another tall and slim.”

“Ouch,” said Romulus. “That’s going to piss off the lovely bride. Can I go over and thump some heads? Please?”

“Just let me go and talk to them first,” she said. “And when talking and logic fail, I can maybe nudge them with a spell.”

“I’ll come for backup,” said Romulus. “I’ll behave, honest.”

As they got closer, Agnes saw a familiar face in the front, a tall blond woman , hair coiled up, wearing shorts and a halter top, yelling to the crowd through a megaphone. The woman stopped and smiled when she saw the witch approaching.

“Rapunzel, what are you doing here?” said Agnes. “Oh, and are those yours? Again?” She pointed to a double baby stroller next to the blond.

“Please, Agnes, just Ray,” said her friend. “And yes, they are mine, twins, eight months old, and the father’s taken off already. I managed to pick another jerk of a boyfriend, of course. Luckily, I have lots of friends who are always eager to help with my kids. But my life sucks, it’s just not fair. I’m supposed to marry a prince, and all I end up with are jerks.”

“Oh, Ray,” said the witch. “I know that your character in the stories - at least the earlier versions - has a sad tale to follow. Hair let down, prince climbs into tower, you fall in love with prince, he gets you pregnant - twins in fact - then he’s blinded and banished. But your life between the stories doesn’t have to follow that path.”

“It’s not all that bad,” said Ray.

“Come on,” said the witch. “Seems you’re either pushing strollers of kids around and whining about your life, or hanging on the arm of some tall, dark and handsome loser.”

“Hi, Romulus,” said Ray. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Rom. tone it down,” said the witch. “Ray—focus. And stop acting like such a princess all the time. Your prince will come, but who knows, he might be just a regular person. Just be a little more patient, and a little more selective than all these bad boys, they’re charming but shallow.”

“Hey, we’re not all bad,” said the wolf.

“And why are you here with these people?” said the witch. “Frodo and Lahdrea are our folk, and do deserve happiness with each other. Let me guess, you’re upset because they get to marry and you don’t. Is that it?”

“Well, maybe a little bit,” said Rapunzel. “I do like Frodo and Lahdrea, but here they are getting married, in spite of their differences, and I’m still a loser..”

“You’re not a loser,” said Romulus. “You’ve a lot going for you.” He raised his hands. “Just not for me, sorry. But who’s this crowd of weirdos?”“

“I met them last month,” Ray said, “through a woman’s group I joined. They started talking about men and marriages, and how traditions seem to be disappearing and I added my ideas, and before I knew it they were all following me, yelling and waving signs.”

“Don’t forget that’s part of our power,” said the witch. “We add life and reality to stories; we can be very persuasive without even realizing it. You really should be more careful, as these people seem pretty worked up.”

“I guess so,” said Ray, “but their arguments seem pretty strong, they really believe they are in the right. And they do seem to have become really cranked up about it—my bad. But you’re a religious person, Agnes, can’t you see where they are coming from?”

“I do take my spirituality beliefs seriously,” said Agnes. “But they are a part of my life, of my values. And I don’t try to force those values on others. I believe in doing right regardless of what I’m told by others, rather than a religion where I’m doing what I’m told regardless of what is right.”

“Whoa,” said Agnes. “That’s heavy.”

“Works for me,” said Agnes. Am I making sense to you? At least enough to stop pumping these people up?”

“I guess I could tone things down; some of them were getting kinda tiresome anyway,” said Ray. “But they have a lot of protest in them now that needs to get out somewhere. I know, there’s a new condo proposed a few blocks away, on a former convent site no less. I’m sure I can lead them there and leave them to it.”

“Do that,” said Agnes. “Then drop by the reception after, I’m sure I can find some nicer boys there for you to meet.”

Over the Top

Mike Young — Fri, 09 Jan 2026 16:30:32 GMT

Image- www.jennylucascopywriting.co.uk

TL;DR - Write an over-the-top story, a pulp fiction pushed to the limits. One week. 1000 words max. Link to your in the comments if you want to.

Note - this is my own tweaked version of my 2012 story, plus a very much over-the-top ChatGPT version.

This 2012 challenge from Terrible Minds had been to write something over the top. It was described as pulp fiction morphing into pulp insanity. To just push the limits and be silly about it.

My Fairy Tale Folk were keen on this, so it went to four of them: Agnes the witch, Romulus the wolf, Bruce the woodcutter, and Red the riding hood. Oh, and a new addition, Barney the purple dinosaur. They used their magic for some pretty impressive transformations.

I did my usual tweaking, mostly line-editing stuff. My updated version is 1000 words.

Over the Top

“Looks more like a Dominatrix than an Amazon princess,” said the wolf.

“This is my interpretation of the basic story,” said the witch, “and how I’ll use my powers to build up the character.”

“Well, you’ve certainly fleshed this one out,” said the wolf. “And it’s not so much that leather costume, as the spaces in it - we’ll be getting an R-rating.”

“I think she looks good,” said Red. “We can’t always do sanitized fairy tales. I want to explore more after my 300 years in the same old same old. I picked Zombie Queen - with sharp teeth and long painted nails.”

“More like zombie slut,” said the witch. “A dead Jessica Rabbit. But in a nice way. That cleavage will likely shock the Grimms, but it will sell well and get more outsourcing gigs.”

“I stuck with me,” said the wolf. “But it’s pulp fiction so I cranked it up to Werewolf, with added speed and laser eyes.”

“That would explain those red dots on Red’s boobs,” said the woodcutter.

“Oops, busted,” said the wolf. “Sorry, they’re just so big. Great way for a zombie to distract her victim. But look at you, Danger Dan, just a simple hero, seven feet tall, with two light sabres and jet boots.”

“I’ll need all this to fight our monster here,” said the woodcutter. He turned to their fifth member. “How’s all that makeup and props going? Toned down the purple at least?”

“I’m newer at this,” said Barney, “so I can’t add details as easily. Glad I joined up though, way more fun than dancing through fields of flowers.”

“Those eye-stalks and tentacles look great,” said the witch. “Sort of a Flying Spaghetti Monster thing.”

“My challenge will be to wave them all and remember the plot too,” said Barney.

“It’s pulp fiction,” said the wolf. “We don’t need no stinkin’ plot. Let’s go.”

“Help,” cried the Amazon princess, tossing her long locks over her shoulder. “My leg is caught and the Zombie Queen is getting closer.”

A cry rang out in the jungle. “Never fear, Danger Dan is here!” There was a roar of flame, a crash, a cloud of smoke, some coughing. She heard someone muttering, “It’s OK, I’m alright.”

A tall he-man strode out of the smoke, muscles glinting with perspiration as they rippled under the skin of his bare chest, kilt swirling suggestively around his thighs, jaw set resolutely. He smiled down at her as he fondled his light saber. “Now what seems to be the problem here, little lady.”

Her breasts heaved as she pulled at her shapely leg. “Help me, I’m stuck. I was just sitting here and this plant started sucking on my toes. It nice at first, like hundreds of tiny wet adoring tongues, but then my whole foot got sucked in. And now the Zombie Queen has found me.”

Dan turned. “Which one is the Zombie Queen?” he asked. “They all look the same.”

“That one,” she said, pointing a delicately manicured finger. “The one with the two red dots on her boobs.”

“Busted,” said the Zombie Queen. “Damn your eyes, Werewolf. Quick, you furry fiend from Hell, attack them while I shamble closer.”

There was a whoosh, a slap on Dan’s butt, a smell of wet fur, and a taunting voice. “Run run, as fast as you can, you can’t catch me I’m the Werewolf Man.”

“Really?” said the Zombie Queen. “That’s it? This isn’t tag - kill them you idiot.”

Danger Dan whirled, back and forth, ready to attack, but the Werewolf jumped from spot to spot, too fast to follow.

“It’s OK, I’ve got this,” said the Amazon princess. She pulled a blowgun out of her skimpy costume - somehow - and raised it to her lips.

“Secret Amazon poison?” Dan asked.

“Ketamine,” she said. She winked back at him as she took a deep breath, her lips caressing the end of the tube. There was a puff of air, and a distant cry.

“Well done,” said Danger Dan.

She smiled and licked her lip. “It’s all about technique. Now it’s your turn.”

“What?” said Dan.

“The Zombie Queen,” she said, “she’s right behind you.”

“Oh yes,” said Dan. He smiled and casually pulled out his light sabre. Without even turning he swung behind his back - there was a grunt, and a thud, then a head rolled between them, an eye dangling from a socket, tongue black and swollen. Dan casually kicked it aside, pulled out a knife, and bent over the princess’s shapely ankle. “Let’s get that pretty little foot out now.”

She had somehow also managed to tangle her skimpy costume in some vines, so there wasn’t much left of it by the time he cut her free.

“Sorry about the outfit,” he said.

“That’s all right,” she replied, resting a hand delicately on his muscled chest. “It’s served it’s purpose.”

She pressed herself closer, twined a leg around his, closed her eyes, and tipped her head back - waiting. Dan wrapped an arm around her, bent his head down ...

“Argh! Roar!” They both whirled to face the new menace - a huge monster, slimy tentacles waving, eye-stalks bobbing in front, teeth glistening in a red maw that dripped with saliva. A huge, scary, yet slightly purple monster.

“Run away, run away,” cried the princess, as she tried to hold her costume together.

Dan pulled both light sabres out, braced his feet, and cried, “Never fear, Danger Dan is here!”

The princess clung to Dan like a limpet in a storm, arms wrapped around his waist, as the monster rushed closer and closer, roaring and gnashing its teeth, tentacles and eye-stalks flying about almost randomly. Suddenly it stopped roaring and started swearing. “Oh shit, watch out, watch out, too many, damn, can’t handle.”

They watched in amazement as the monster stepped on an eyestalk, then a tentacle, tripped, rolled, tumbled, then slid to a stop inches from their feet.

“Sorry guys. Take two?”

______________________________

ChatGPT version - Full disclosure. When I wrote this back in 2012, I did a good job of pushing the limits. making my characters more extreme, adding extravagant adjectives. Any AI-type assistance I ever use is limited to the occasional spell-checking.

But I thought I’d try an experiment. I kept the same intro talk between my characters, but pasted the rest into ChatGPT and asked it to add lots of very descriptive adjectives. Granted, I think I did paste in a good story for the AI to crank up, with over-the-top characters and lots of silly/fancy description, but I’m both impressed and alarmed at how easy this was to push even farther. I prefer using my own skills in writing, but I can see this could tempt people. This tool is so easy to use for ‘writing’, and while the output might be mediocre, formulaic, and repetitive, I think that there is an audience out there for it, willing to pay for it. Sigh.

Here is the ChatGPT result, definitely over the top.

“Help,” cried the statuesque, wild-haired Amazon princess, tossing her luxuriant, sun-streaked locks over her graceful shoulder. “My shapely, bronze-toned leg is caught in these thick, writhing jungle vines, and the horrible, decaying Zombie Queen is getting closer.”

A deep, heroic, unmistakably manly cry rang out through the steamy, shadow-drenched jungle. “Never fear, Danger Dan is here!” There was a thunderous roar of flame, a distant metallic crash, a billowing cloud of acrid smoke, followed by some hacking, sputtering coughing. She heard someone muttering irritably, “It’s OK, I’m alright.”

A tall, broad-shouldered he-man strode confidently out of the swirling smoke, powerful muscles slick and glinting with perspiration as they rippled beneath the golden-brown skin of his bare, sculpted chest, a short, rugged kilt swirling suggestively around his thick, muscular thighs, his firm, square jaw set in a resolute, heroic line. He smiled down at her with easy confidence as he casually fondled his humming, luminous lightsaber. “Now what seems to be the problem here, little lady?”

Her generous, gravity-defying breasts heaved noticeably as she tugged at her beautifully formed leg. “Oh, my brave, magnificent hero! Help me, I’m trapped. I was just resting here, peacefully contemplating some plump, fascinating gourds, when this sneaky, over-affectionate plant started sucking on my toes. It was quite nice at first, like hundreds of tiny, wet, adoring tongues, but then my tiny little foot got swallowed whole, and it won’t let me go. And now the hideous, shambling Zombie Queen and her blood-thirsty, slack-jawed warriors have found me.”

Dan turned lithely and alertly. “Which one is the Zombie Queen?” he asked. “They all look the same.”

“That one,” she said, pointing a delicately manicured, elegant finger. “The one with the two glowing red dots on her sagging boobs.”

“Busted,” croaked the Zombie Queen. “Damn your sharp eyes, Werewolf. Quick, you mangy, furry fiend from Hell, attack them while I shamble closer.”

Before Dan could even react, there was a sudden whoosh, a sharp slap on his butt, a pungent smell of wet fur, and a taunting, singsong voice. “Run run, as fast as you can, you can’t catch me, I’m the Werewolf Man.”

“Really?” said the Zombie Queen flatly. “That’s it? This isn’t tag—kill them, you idiot.”

Danger Dan whirled back and forth, graceful and deadly, poetry in violent motion, ready to strike, but the lean, twitchy Werewolf bounded from shadow to shadow, too fast and erratic to follow.

“It’s OK, I’ve got this,” said the Amazon princess calmly. She somehow produced a slender, polished blowgun from her skimpy, impractical costume and raised it to her full, determined lips.

“Secret Amazon poison?” Dan asked.

“Ketamine,” she said crisply. She winked playfully at him as she inhaled deeply, then her soft, plush lips caressed the end of the tube. There was a sharp puff of air, followed by a distant, startled cry.

“Well done,” said Danger Dan approvingly.

She smiled and licked her lip delicately. “It’s all about technique. Now it’s your turn.”

“What?” said Dan.

“The Zombie Queen,” she said urgently, “she’s right behind you.”

“Oh yes,” said Dan smoothly. He smiled and casually drew his gleaming lightsaber. Without even turning, he swung behind his back—there was a wet grunt, a heavy thud, and a severed head rolled between them, one milky eye dangling grotesquely from its socket, tongue blackened and swollen. Dan casually kicked it aside, whipped out his wickedly sharp knife, and knelt at the princess’s shapely ankle. “Now let’s get that pretty little foot out of this greedy plant.”

She stroked his broad back appreciatively as he hacked at the stubborn vines. She had somehow also managed to tangle her skimpy, fragile costume in the foliage, so there wasn’t much left of it by the time he finally cut her free.

“Sorry about the outfit,” he said apologetically.

“That’s all right,” she replied, resting a delicate hand on his warm, muscled chest. “It’s served its purpose.”

She pressed herself closer, twined a long, smooth leg around his, closed her eyes, and tipped her head back expectantly. Dan wrapped a strong arm around her, bent his head down . . .

“Argh! Roar!” They both spun to face the new menace—a huge, nightmarish monster, slick with slime, massive tentacles waving wildly, wobbling eye-stalks bobbing in front of a gaping maw lined with glistening teeth, red with drooling saliva. An enormous, terrifying, yet faintly purple monster.

“Run away, run away,” cried the princess, desperately trying to hold her ruined costume together.

Dan pulled out both blazing light sabres, planted his feet firmly, and cried, “Never fear, Danger Dan is here!”

The princess clung to Dan like a panicked limpet in a raging storm, arms locked tightly around his waist, as the monster charged closer and closer, roaring, snarling, gnashing its teeth, tentacles and eye-stalks flailing almost randomly. Suddenly, it stopped roaring and started swearing. “Oh shit, watch out, bugger, watch out, too many, damn, can’t handle . . .”

They watched in astonishment as the monster stepped on an eyestalk, then a tentacle, tripped awkwardly, rolled, tumbled, and slid to a halt mere inches from their feet.

“Sorry, guys. Take two?”

Wish Fulfilled

Mike Young — Fri, 02 Jan 2026 21:55:55 GMT

Photo by Jens Lelie on Unsplash

TL;DR - Write about a wish fulfilled - a choice made and the result. One week. 1551 words max (?). Link to your in the comments if you want to.

We make choices in life, and may enjoy or may suffer the consequences. Either way, we often have regrets and wonder ‘what if’. What if you had chatted up that cutie in the pub, or opened door number two or picked a different career or spent years on a world tour or even just settled down? Your life would have been different, and you would be another version of you. However, in most cases, there wouldn’t really be a better or a worse path.

This 2012 challenge was to write about a choice and its result. I picked one of my Fairy Tale Folk (tm)—Red Riding Hood, in this case. She wanted to try a different kind of role, and she showed a mature empathy, despite being a perpetual teenager. Mine is 1364 words.

Wish Fulfilled

“I just want to die!” Sophie flopped back onto her bed, grabbed a pillow, and flung it across the room. “My life sucks, nothing ever goes right for me!”

“Hey, watch it, you almost hit me!”

“Shit, who’s there?” said Sophie. She peered into the dark corner. “Get back out the window, you crack head. My dad’s a cop, and he’s in the next room.”

“I’m not a crack head. I heard you needed some help, Sophie. My name’s Red.”

“That’s a dumb name,” said Sophie. “What are you, another social worker for The Projects? My dad must have called you. You guys are a waste of time, always talking in that psycho gobbledy-gook.”

“I did get a call, ” said Red. “It sounded like you really needed someone, so I came right away.”

The call had hit Red while she was getting ready for another version of a story for the Grimms. She’d felt a blast of despair, of such desperate need that it had staggered her for a moment. She’d never felt that sort of call before, so had followed it here, to a 12-year-old girl, full of drama, emotions and hormones. She’d gone through those same issues and feelings herself—even if she’d never been 12—so had to answer this girl’s call.

Red clicked on the light next to her. “Do I look like a crack head?”

“No,” said Sophie. “But you don’t look like a social worker either. What’s with the cloak and hood?”

“It’s comfy, “ said Red. “Never mind, let’s keep this simple. If you could have three wishes, what would they be?’

“What are you, a fairy godmother?” said Sophie. “OK, smarty, let’s see. I want a new dress, and I want Danny to take me to the prom.” She paused. “And I want my mom back.”

“That’s quite a mix,” said Red. “First, your mom. I know her leaving really sucked. But I know that when she left, it was her choice. She had too many other things she was trying to juggle at once and couldn’t cope. She just had to simplify and get away to get some help. She still loves you and is doing somewhat better now. Right now, you and your dad are even closer and managing OK. If she had stayed, things would have gotten worse, much worse. Trust me.”

“Bullshit,” said Sophie. “You’re like all the others. You’re just saying that, you don’t know her, or me, or anything. She told me that she had to go, that she had no choice. Like all of us.”

Red used to think that too, that she and her friends were all just characters stuck in a story, unable to have any say in their future, in their own hopes and dreams. She knew better now.

“We all have choices and consequences,” said Red, “as part of our stories. We have our wishes and dreams, and we can try to make decisions to pick the path that gets us closer to them. And, along the way, enjoy what we can from the thread we’re on. Maybe find an even more exciting one.”

“You’re sounding like a social worker again,” said Sophie. “How do you know any of that’s true?”

“Because I can see the threads of our stories,” said Red. “Mine, yours, your mom’s. The many paths show what has happened, what might happen next, and the choices for each path. I see it all.”

“You ARE a crack head,” said Sophie. “Dad!”

“No, I’m not,” said Red. “And he’s out. So give me five minutes. At the least, you’ll have a story for your friends tomorrow in Miss Matheson’s class. Even better than the one Karen told you yesterday.”

“OK, that’s spooky,” said Sophie. “What are you, a mind reader?”

“I told you,” said Red. “I see the threads in a story. In yours, I see you picking blue wallpaper last month, instead of painting. I see you skipping math again last Monday. I see you leaving Danny a note.”

“Wow! “said Sophie. “How do you do that?”

“Not sure,” said Red. “But I’ve been able to do it for years.”

For centuries, in fact, ever since she and her fellow characters had been made real by the Grimm fairy tales they were in. In turn, they retold and re-spun the tales, using their magic to make the stories themselves even more real for people. And in between the stories, they’d found lives—and loves—for themselves.

“So, just grant my wish,” said Sophie. “Go back and make my mom stay.”

“Sorry, I can’t really play with the past,” said Red. “Too many other things change. But I can see where your mom made her choice, and the other choices she had for her, and the paths that would have unravelled for her. None is very good.

“Do you see any where she stays?” asked Sophie.

“A few,” said Red. “She stays, for a while, but then the threads show things like she and your dad fighting, her drinking more, you losing this apartment, you changing schools, and her leaving anyway. Trust me, this is a good thread for you and your dad. And not that bad overall for your mom, either.”

“Does she ever come back?” asked Sophie. “How do I choose for that?”

“I see some threads where she doesn’t, but many more where she does. But they are foggy to me if I look too far. And I don’t want to tell you what choices to make—I can’t always see everything. Anyway, you’re smart enough to do that on your own. I will say I do see you choosing to catch more math classes, and that seems to go well.”

“Math, yuck. Good thing my friend helps me. But how about my grade 8 prom? How do I convince Danny to go with me? How do I make him like me? Or can you just make it happen?”

“Maybe you’re looking at it the wrong way around,” said Red. “What about your best friend Stevie? No, hear me out. Yes, Danny is a big shot in the school, and you might feel important for one night if he takes you. But Stevie is a really nice kid. And he likes you. And my magical powers tell me he might not have a date yet. And I see that the downstream path does look promising. Sorry, that’s all I can say. Up to you to choose.”

“Well, I like him too,” said Sophie. “But we’re just friends. Although we do hang out a lot, and he listens to me, and he likes who I am.”

“And that makes you feel . . . ?” asked Red.

“Important,” said Sophie. “OK, maybe I’ll ask Stevie. But what about a dress? I can’t go in my old one, I’d die. I need something like this one—look—here’s the catalogue page.”

“Tell you what,” said Red. “You do need to remember not to give up, to keep dreaming, to take some risks and make some choices. To remind you of that, here’s a freebie.”

Red waved her hand. There was a flash, the catalogue photo shimmered and sparkled, then the dress flew off the page and onto Sophie.

“Whoah!” said Sophie. “Thank you, thank you.” She ran over and hugged Red. “But how will I explain to Dad how I got a new dress?”

“Trust me,” said Red. “He won’t even notice the new dress, he’ll just see his beautiful daughter. Have fun.”

And then she was gone.

Dinosaurs 'R Us

Mike Young — Fri, 26 Dec 2025 15:29:13 GMT

Photo by Fausto García-Menéndez on Unsplash

TL:DR - Write a story about dinosaurs. Any genre. 1000 words maximum, due in a week. Post a link if you want, for free compliments and suggestions.

This was a pretty simple challenge. I decided to let some of my regular Fairy Folk characters run with it, as well as a new recruit. They are old hands at this and can all be pretty flexible in their roles as they build and boost the story. For this one, they chose Red as the damsel in distress and Bruce the woodcutter as the hero. Romulus the wolf is usually whatever ‘bad guy’ is needed, but their team occasionally needs someone to play a monster, a dragon, or - today - a dinosaur. Luckily, they had found just the character who had finished several years in a TV series, to mixed reviews, and was looking around for a new challenge.

So, to the story, more vignette than volume at 700 words, but it could kick off more adventures in the past.

Dinosaurs ‘R Us

She could hear - could feel - the heavy footsteps pounding the ground behind her. She’d already stopped screaming, as she’d need all her strength if she was to escape.

She keyed her radio, “Jer, big trouble. The wind shifted, and I found a T. Rex. Or rather, it found me.”

The Athabaska U research team had picked a time gate managed by the Blackfoot tribe in the Alberta Badlands. They’d targeted the late Cretaceous for a first view of the evolution of flowers and butterflies, not for the dinosaurs. Such as the Tyrannosaurus Rex now crashing through the trees behind her. She and Jer had carefully scouted the area before he’d dropped her off, and it had been all clear, until the wind shifted and the giant lizard had picked up her scent.

“Don’t move, Katy. Wait it out,” he said.

“Too late,” she said. “I panicked and ran. The trees are slowing him down a bit, but he’s gaining.”

She dodged around the tall conifers, pushed through the ferns, and stomped on the small flowers she’d just been admiring. Hopefully, she wasn’t altering too many timelines.

“My screen shows you to the east, heading right toward me,” said Jer. “Keep on that bearing, and run like the wind. I’ll meet you with the sled.”

“Fading here,” she said. “Maybe five minutes and he’s got me. And he can catch the sled too.”

She burst through some ferns and spooked a pack of small velociraptors. They scattered in front of her, thin tails waving a feathery goodbye. She’d already threaded her way through a small herd of Triceratops. They’d ignored her and kept on grazing, but her pursuer had been forced into a delaying detour around them.

“Hang in there,” said Jer. “You’re heading straight for a bog. It looks like some new flooding, so your new friend may not know it’s here. Hopefully, he’ll follow us into it.”

Her lungs burned, her legs ached, and sweat was blurring her vision. One misstep, one tumble and she was done for. The crashing was right behind her; she could almost feel the hot breath on her neck, but didn’t dare try to look back.

Katy burst out of the trees - there was the sled with Jer on it, already starting to move away.

“Jump, Jump!” he cried.

She leapt onto the back and grabbed at the cargo webbing. There was a snap at her heels—she screamed and pulled her feet in. She finally dared to turn—six tons of angry dinosaur, 20 feet tall, snapping angrily as they pulled away, its feet already sinking into the wet ground. With a scream of rage, it slowed and stopped, hip deep in the ooze. She scrambled ahead to her partner and threw herself into his arms.

“My knight in shining armour,” she said. “That was too close.”

He held her for a few moments, as the setting sun lit them through a gap in the trees, then stepped back and smiled.

“And . . . scene!” he said. “Good one, Red, you did a great job.”

“Well, you wrote a good script, Bruce,” she said.

The woodcutter dipped his head, “It was OK, I guess. The witch’s editing tightened it up.”

“If this goes over well, maybe the Grimms will want to do more,” said Red.

“I’ve already written a longer version,” said Bruce. “Suitably violent, of course, with a bit of romance.”

“I wouldn’t say no to some steamier romance too,” said Red. “Don’t be afraid to push things a bit. These stories help bring us to life, and we, in turn, add life, some punch, back into them. Just like we did with the fairy tales.”

A voice called from the swamp. “Helloooo? Bit of help here, please?”

“Oops”, said Bruce, “I almost forgot about him. Don’t want to lose our newest member.”

“He did well,” said Red. “Years of experience already, and he did a great job adapting his skills to your story.”

“He’s a keeper, “said Bruce. “But first, we have to get him out. I’ll slide the gravsled over and hook some cables around him.”

As they got closer, Red waved. “Hi, great job. You were awesome. I could feel your hot breath and hear your teeth snapping right behind me. Oh, but I think the makeup is wearing off, you’re looking a bit purple now.”

“Well, that’s me,” said Barney. “Pretty distinctive, isn’t it?”

Operation Hysterical Talons

Mike Young — Fri, 19 Dec 2025 17:22:51 GMT

Photo by Venti Views on Unsplash

TL:DR - Choose from a list of random titles. 1000 words maximum, due in a week. Post a link if you want, for free compliments and suggestions.

This 2012 challenge from Terrible Minds was to use a random title as a prompt. The site they used actually had generated a series of slightly silly military operation titles. The story doesn’t have to be military in nature, though.

My list was: Operation Hot Sheikh; Operation Hysterical Talons; Operation Smite the Venom; Operation Temperamental Nakba; Operation Unleashed Meerkat. Go here for a similar title site—just add that you want silly-named Operations. I used some of my Fairy Tale folk too—Romulus the Wolf and Agnes the Witch, Plus a bartender from my local.

My story, 1100 words.

Operation Hysterical Talons

She paused in the doorway, peering into the gloom. It was a typical small bar, dim even on a sunny day, with 80’s tunes in the background and a faint scent of beer, old smoke, and disinfectant. Maybe her prey would be here. A good metaphor, she thought, as today her spells transformed her. Gone were the warts, blotchy skin, hooked nose, and long fingernails. Now she was a very attractive woman, full-figured, mid-forties, well-dressed in a short, tight grey skirt, with white ruffled blouse open just enough, straight-seamed stockings, impossibly high heels—a cougar on the prowl for something young and vulnerable.

But first, she had some business.

“Hi, I’m Micheline,” said the bartender. “What can I get you, honey?”

“I’ll start with a Scotch, please,” she replied. “Straight up.” She leaned closer to the bartender. The woman looked yummy—low cut t-shirt, tight jeans, long curly brown hair, nice jewelry, bright nails, bright smile. And just a hint of flirty eyes.

The place seemed almost empty, but it wouldn’t hurt to ask. She leaned forward and touched the bartender on the arm.

“Love to relax and visit, but right now I’m here on business. I’m trying to track someone down for a client.”

“Nothing criminal, I hope,” said Micheline. “I’m new here, I don’t want any trouble.”

“No, just a business deal,” she said. She took a folder from her bag, marked Operation Hysterical Talons, Top Secret, and removed a photograph. “Ever see this guy around here?”

The bartender took a look, then laughed. “That’s easy, that’s Buddy. Nice guy, calls everyone buddy. He usually sits on his own, but after a few beers, he starts telling all these tall tales of his younger days, fighting monsters and stuff. He has a big imagination, but he's harmless. We call him Buddy the Vampire Slayer. He’s here now, over there in that dark corner, all by himself.”

“Thanks,” she said, “you’re a doll. Give me another scotch, and whatever he’s drinking. I’ll take it over.”

Buddy slumped in his chair, his large hand around a beer mug, eyes almost closed, with rumpled clothes, long hair, and a two-day-old beard. He was a big man, and looked to be well muscled under a layer of fat. He glanced up as she approached, squinted, then jumped a bit in his seat.

“What the . . . ?” He paused. “Must be the light in here, for a moment I saw a—”.

“A witch?” she said.

“Yes, I mean no, sorry ma’am.”

She put the drinks down and pulled out a chair. “That’s OK, I am one. And I know what you are, or were, and that part of that is the ability to see past disguises and simple spells.”

Buddy sat and looked at her for a minute, a thoughtful look on his face.

“OK,” he said. “I’ll go along with your little story, since you did buy me a drink. I like stories.”

“So do I,” she said. “They’re my life. Let me tell you one.”

She explained about the Grimms, the new interest in their tales, how generations of stories had brought the characters to life, and how, in return, she and her friends added new life and impact back into the stories.

“Nice little tale,” he said, “but this isn’t a German forest. It’s not even Germany. How do you explain that?”

“Outsourcing,” she said. “After hundreds of years, we’re back and strong enough that we can be hired out to help other stories and characters. Such as you, a Slayer,”

“Sorry,” he said. “You seem like a nice lady, so I’ll let you in on a secret. Those are just all stories I tell—none of it really happened.”

“OK, my turn to doubt,” she said. “I’ve heard some of those tales, pretty amazing stuff. But if they are only stories, what can’t you remember anything else about your past? How do you explain those blanks?”

Buddy waved his hand dismissively. “The doctors tell me I must have been in an accident that affected my memory. So I get a disability now.”

“And so here you sit and drink and tell your stories,” she said. “Is that fun?”

“Well, it’s what I have,” he said. “Anyway, what’s it to you?”

“I’m here to convince you to get out of that chair and back into the stories,” she said. “You’re needed again.”

“Sorry, haven’t convinced me,” he said.

“Not yet,” she said. She took out a cell phone, texted a message, and smiled. “I have a Plan B.” Buddy closed his eyes again. She sipped her drink, and waited.

As door of the bar suddenly flung open, the bartender, the two guys at the bar, and Buddy, all stared at the tall figure standing there.

He was tall and lean, with a full head of dark hair, black glittering eyes, white teeth, an open shirt showing off a gold chain amidst thick curly chest hair, tight leather pants, and bare feet. Conversation had ceased. The bartender smiled, “Wow, I mean hello, come in.”

The witch picked up her drink and moved her chair off to the side. She gave a little wave of the hand over the rest of the bar, saying, “Freeze, folks. OK, over here, Romulus, he’s all yours.”

Buddy pushed his chair back and stood up. “A wolf? In here?”

The wolf raced across the floor, long claws clattering on the floor, teeth gleaming, and leaped at Buddy. There was a growl, a bellow, and a crash of furniture. For several minutes, the two of them rolled back and forth, punching, scratching, slashing, biting, until finally the wolf managed to pin Buddy down.

“Thanks for the show, boys,” she said. “Buddy, calm down. This is my business associate, Wolf. He came to remind you of what our idea of fun is. Remember now?”

Buddy shook his head. “Damn, I’d forgotten. It all came back when he rushed at me, all those battles over the years—they were real! And I just seemed to know what to do, like riding a bike. Well, sort of, this is a little more violent. I’m glad these scratches will heal quickly, as there sure are a lot of them. ”

Romulus retracted his talons. “I did get carried away, but you did pretty good for a while. Are you in?”

“I think I’d have been OK if I’d only had some warning,” said Buddy. “OK, I admit it sounds like a crazy proposition, but I’m in. I’m really out of shape, though.”

“That’s why I’m here,” said the wolf, “I’ll be your trainer. Now, let’s straighten up this furniture before my friend releases her little spell she threw over the others. She’s already heading back to the bartender. I can guess she’s planning some fun for the evening.”

A Bit of Blue

Mike Young — Fri, 12 Dec 2025 14:08:33 GMT

Photo by Rick Lobs on Unsplash

TL;DR - Write about Good vs Good in the American Civil War. 1000 words max. Deadline of one week. Link to yours in the comments, or not ;-)

For this, in 2012, we had to write about two people Good vs Good. Two people, with the best of intentions, working against each other. One example would be all those families split by the American Civil War, brother against brother.

I decided to put a bit of a spin on this, using two of my fairy-tale characters again, the Woodcutter and Red Riding Hood. And a bit part for the witch. I’ve done several stories using this group of characters - here’s a link to the first in the series, with a bit of background too.

A Bit of Blue

“What about my boobs?” asked Red.

“Don’t worry,” said the witch. “We’ll bind them up. Add a bit of makeup, keep your voice low, and you’ll pass for a Civil War soldier.”

“Until I have to pee,” said Red.

“Just find some shrubs, say you’re shy,” said the witch. “This new role will be a good experience for both of you, and give you a chance to do something different together. Maybe it will fire up some passion in that guy too.”

Her friend, the witch, had managed to convince the woodcutter that he didn’t have to act the same with Red between stories as in them, that they could be more than a strong, silent rescuer and a helpless, naive woman. After 300 years, Red was looking for a little more passion from him, more than ‘just friends’.

“I hope it gets him going,” said Red. “I’m excited about this new role too, to be able to help out in this new interest in Civil War stories. I’m glad the Grimms decided to outsource us.”

“I like the one you’re doing,” said the witch. “So romantic, and yet tragic. Now hurry up, they’re almost ready to start.”

Red and Bruce were getting into character as Sarah and Thomas. They’d met some of the other characters and had skimmed the background notes. Like any of the stories, this one had a life of its own, a plot that had evolved and solidified over the years, that could move itself along. They were more than puppets, though. The story relied on them to add their presence to it. While the stories had brought them to life, they, in turn, used their powers to increase the emotional impact of stories, to boost the effect they had over their listeners.

“What about your, ah, you know - “ Thomas blushed.

“Bosom?” said Sarah. “Don’t worry. I’ll bind it well. And I’ll crop my hair, rub some dirt on my face, and keep my voice low. They‘ll never guess I’m a girl.”

“Nope, I still won’t allow it,” said Thomas. “Your place is here on the farm, not as cannon fodder in the Union Army.”

“And your place is not with the Confederates either,” she said.

“Those are our neighbours,” he said. “We have to stand together against Lincoln and the other Northerners. They want one big government controlling everything we do. It’s against our rights.”

Sarah shook her head, “I think our neighbours are more concerned with their pocketbooks than any federal control. They all need slaves to run their cotton plantations. What about all their rights?”

“Well, Sarah, you didn’t mind all the benefits our daddy’s plantation brought you—the fancy balls, this big mansion. And he always treated our workers like family, why he even let some of the house slaves use his books to learn their letters. “

“But they were still all slaves,” she said. “And hardly any of our neighbours followed his ways. They all said he was too soft.”

“They were just jealous of how prosperous this place was,” he said. “And now he’s gone, little sister. And there’s a war that’s already swept over much of this place and burned it to the ground.”

They’d argued for days over this, hiding out in one of the barns with the few survivors, both convinced they were doing the right thing, both trying to convince the other. Most of the slaves had been let go weeks earlier, when Sarah had convinced Thomas to give them their freedom. Some had decided to stay on anyway, at what had become their home, in spite of her pleadings. Time had run out now, as today they both were leaving to sign up.

“Daddy wouldn’t have wanted you to do this,” said Thomas.

“Daddy always told us to do what we thought was right,” she said. “Besides, I think he secretly had wished for another son. In between all the parties and dinners, he didn’t mind if I sneaked off and traded my gown and parasol for breeches and a rifle.”

“You did become a pretty good shot,” said Thomas.

“One of the best in South Carolina,” she said. “So I’ll ask to be a sniper. That will keep me safer from getting found out as an impostor or from getting shot. Come here, I’ve something for you.”

She stood on her toes, wrapped a blue scarf around his neck, and gave him a hug and a kiss.

“This was momma’s favourite scarf,” she said, “Wear it as a bandana when you go into battle. I don’t want to shoot you by mistake, no matter how much you teased me when I was little.”

Thomas was tired and dirty. They’d been fighting for only a few months, but already he’d seen countless friends and neighbours cut down. Often, the only gain, or loss, was a farmhouse or a small creek. After a battle, the infantrymen would argue around the campfires about whether it was all worth it or not. He shared their doubts himself, but was careful to avoid the discussions—as an officer, he was supposed to treat their words as treason. There had been talk earlier of concessions, of a truce, but Southern pride always seemed to get in the way. His skills and courage had kept him alive and earned him a spot today beside the General, not just as a servant but as a protector, ready to give his life if necessary. Thomas had caught his leg on some brambles on the way to the command post and could feel the blood trickling into his boot. He grabbed the bandana from his neck, wrapped it quickly around his calf, and hurried over next to the General.

Sarah was tired and dirty and had to pee. So far, she’d maintained her role as a man, and as a sniper in the Union Army. It helped that her targets were always far away, as she knew she wouldn’t have the nerve to dance again with one of her southern friends and stab a bayonet in his gut. But even from a distance, she was dismayed at how many died, and how quickly. Dozens were mowed down in a rifle volley or blown apart by a cannonball. The few times she spoke with her fellow soldiers, some were pumped up by their cause, but many were confused and tired. She’d heard from her brother, just once. The same fears and senseless killing on their side, but he said he hoped to move up in the ranks.

She settled down behind her log, sighting her Sharps rifle through a break in the forest. She had a clear view of the Confederate general and his aide. Her orders were to spare this general, to just pick off those around him. It was too far to identify faces, but it was still an easy shot, and the leader’s distinctive hat identified him. She focused on the bare neck of the man next to him and gently squeezed the trigger.