The Submission:
Last pickup of the day, an’ of course she wants t’go t’the friggin’ airport. I tell myself no worries, that I’ll get home an’ enjoy Marjorie’s patented meat-an’-‘tater pie with a hefty tip in my pocket.

The lady must be in a real hurry; she hopped right in the cab without so much as a “How-do-you do”.

I wuddn’t mind so much but the well-dressed cow’s got some hefty luggage for her trip, an’ o’course she don’t help lift it.

Luckily, she’s a quiet one, so the trip’s not wasted on gossip.

Huh… never noticed blood under me nails before.

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What did you think to the prompt for this week’s drabble challenge? Did you submit anything for it? Have you ever written any flash fiction before? I’d love to know what you think to my snippets and writing prompts, so feel free to sign up and let me know what you think below or leave a comment on my Instagram page. You can also follow Gillian Church to take part in her Weekly Writing Prompt challenge.

The Submission:
It’s the same fuckin’ thing every single fuckin’ day!

It doesn’t matter how many times I bang on the wall, or glare at them when they walk past, or even when I call the cops; every fuckin’ day the noise is constant!

Screaming, shouting, blaring all around me.

I can’t sleep. It’s like the walls are pounding from all the racket!

Can’t eat. I hear it even when I’m outside the house now!

I tried to drown it out, to convince others of it, but they wouldn’t listen.

How many more have to suffer? Why won’t the noise just stop?

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What did you think to the prompt for this week’s drabble challenge? Did you submit anything for it? Have you ever written any flash fiction before? I’d love to know what you think to my snippets and writing prompts, so feel free to sign up and let me know what you think below or leave a comment on my Instagram page. You can also follow Gillian Church to take part in her Weekly Writing Prompt challenge.

The Submission:
I must’ve stood across the street from her house three, maybe four times a week. It was on my way home, and I always liked to stop by to see if I could catch a glimpse of her in her bedroom. Sometimes, she’d be drying her hair wearing only a towel, or lip synching to pop songs, or sitting on her bed and reading. She didn’t know I was there, of course; she never noticed me, even when I was right outside her house. Her name was Candy, and she definitely turned out to be as sweet as she looked.

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What did you think to the prompt for this week’s drabble challenge? Did you submit anything for it? Have you ever written any flash fiction before? I’d love to know what you think to my snippets and writing prompts, so feel free to sign up and let me know what you think below or leave a comment on my Instagram page. You can also follow Gillian Church to take part in her Weekly Writing Prompt challenge.

The Submission:
“You sure want to hear the rest of this?” she asked, looking up from the paperwork. It had arrived that morning, and he’d purposely waited for her to come home so that she could read through it for him since he couldn’t bring himself to look upon the words.

“Every word,” he replied impassively.

She read a tale of betrayal, of accusations, or baseless half-truths. Accounts from biased eavesdroppers, vindictive liars, and self-serving backstabbers.

Yet, those the words left a void where his heart had once been, his face betrayed no emotion. He simply sat, stoic, seething within his skin.

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What did you think to the prompt for this week’s drabble challenge? Did you submit anything for it? Have you ever written any flash fiction before? I’d love to know what you think to my snippets and writing prompts, so feel free to sign up and let me know what you think below or leave a comment on my Instagram page. You can also follow Gillian Church to take part in her Weekly Writing Prompt challenge.

The Submission:
“The orderlies said you were talking in your sleep again,” Doctor Michaels said, barely glancing up from his notes. “What were you dreaming about?”

I shifted in my seat. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

Michaels finally looked up; his face shimmered behind the glass that separated us. “Come now, I think it would be–”

“Good for my therapy,” I finished with a grimace. “I’ve heard it a hundred times, Doc.”

Doctor Michaels laced his hands together. “Sometimes talking helps, Cody.”

I rolled my eyes and coughed. “Fine, you wanna know? I saw a man.”

“Was it your father?”

I screwed my face up in disgust. “No, it wasn’t my father. He had a face.”

Doctor Michaels raised an eyebrow.  “His face was stoic? Expressionless?”

“It was missing. There was … nothing. He carried a meat clever …”

“Your father was a butcher, wasn’t he?”

“IT WASN’T MY FUCKIN’ FATHER!” I screamed, leaping to my feet and sending my chair flying. “He was bald … a giant! He wore a torn smock and laughed … God, he laughed!”

Doctor Michaels scribbled on his notepad. “And what did this man want?”

“Me,” I whispered. “It’s the same thing every night”.

“Because of what you did to your father?”

I lowered my head and took a deep breath, then grabbed the leg of my chair and swung it at the glass with all the force I could muster. It cracked but didn’t shatter; Doctor Michaels’ face splintered as a result, seeming to split in two.

I ranted and screamed and gnashed and roared and he just sat there, impassively jotting down notes as I hammered away at the glass again and again. With each hit, his face distorted and twisted; it became blank … empty.

“I can see we still have a lot of work to do”.

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What did you think to this week’s writing prompt? Did you submit anything for it? Have you ever written any flash fiction before? I’d love to know what you think to my snippets and writing prompts, so feel free to sign up and let me know what you think below or leave a comment on my Instagram page. You can also follow Gillian Church amd Horror Prompts to take part in the Weekly Writing Prompt challenge.

The Submission:
I sat in the garden, battered copy of The Pale Horse in one hand and sipping from a cheeky glass of Buck’s Fizz as the mid-day summer’s sun blared overhead. I adjusted my parasol to ensure I’d get a nice golden tan rather than roasting alive.

The jingling of Bert’s little bell alerted me to his presence before he rubbed against my bare toes. I peeked over my sunglasses and rolled my eyes as I saw the bloody remains of a tiny shrew sitting on the boiling decking.

Bert looked up at me, apparently very proud of his little trophy.

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What did you think to the prompt for this week’s drabble challenge? Did you submit anything for it? Have you ever written any flash fiction before? I’d love to know what you think to my snippets and writing prompts, so feel free to sign up and let me know what you think below or leave a comment on my Instagram page. You can also follow Gillian Church to take part in her Weekly Writing Prompt challenge.

The Submission:
“We’re in position, sir,” came the ensign’s statement.

His commander glanced up and beheld the world that had claimed so many of his people over the years. “Very good. Hold here,” it was a redundant command; no ship dared cross the five parsec barrier, not with this world.

The commander shifted in his seat; palms sweaty with anticipation. He had commanded missions, fought on the front lines, and even escaped from a prisoner of war camp but had never felt fear such as this before.

How many had been lost over the years? Scouts, explorers, rescue missions…none had ever returned. In all the years, they had learned to stay well back, masking their presence using solar flares or the celestial body orbiting the world, or the vast debris barrier that had brought down so many of their ships and probes.

The commander had never had any intention of visiting this world, even from this distance; his goal lay in the stars beyond at the forefront of the spice wars on Phobos, but he would never be able to face his mother again if he didn’t at least try and retrieve his brother on the way.

He had been a loudmouthed upstart; he didn’t believe in the war, or advancing their cause further into the cosmos, and wanted nothing more than to observe, catalogue, and investigate. And for his curiosity, he had fallen to that damned world below and become another statistic in a long list of lost souls.

“We have a lock, sir…but, from this distance…”

Again, it was a redundant statement; he was well aware that the transport technology was temperamental at the best of times but, from this distance, it was sure to result in his brother’s atoms dissipating into the aether or him being reduced to a squealing, wretched pile of flesh. The commander had seen both results before, but for the first time let his heart overrule his logic.

“Get us closer,” he ordered.

“But sir, we’ll be exposed!”

“I said closer!” he barked. “Prep the thrusters; boost the signal. The moment you have a lock, you get him onboard and get us away from here!”

The ensign swallowed and the ship edged closer; an alarm sounded as the ship automatically went to red alert, a failsafe of crossing the five parsec barrier.

“Sir! Sir, we have him!” came the medic’s voice through the com.

“Get us out of here!” the commander ordered, and swept from the bridge as the stars blasted past them and that hated world fell into the void.

His brother lay in the medical bay; he was hooked up to complex machines and wires that even the medic was stumped by. The commander swallowed, a heavy weight in his heart; his brother was little more than a mangled torso, devoid of many of his limbs and organs and apparently kept alive only by this alien machinery that they couldn’t hope to understand.

The medic shook his head sorrowfully, and the commander grasped his brother’s remaining mutilated  hand. “You came back, brother,” he said,  unable to stop his voice from cracking. The  boy didn’t have long; there was no question about it. “What did you see? What did they do to you?”

The mauled body that had once been the commander’s brother sighed deeply, clearly in agonising pain. He rolled his one eye towards the hardened face of his decorating sibling and shook his head slightly, a small tear falling from his eye. “Hate,” he croaked. “Anger. Such…such fear.” His body trembled slightly as his struggled to cling to life and deliver a final message: “Keep…keep away from those…humans… “ His brother passed, the commander straightened his body and his uniform. Preparations would have to be made, announcements given, reports submitted. He wished that he could honour his brother’s last request but, for the commander, this was the last straw. It was time to strike back against these “humans”.  

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What did you think to this week’s writing prompt? Did you submit anything for it? Have you ever written any flash fiction before? I’d love to know what you think to my snippets and writing prompts, so feel free to sign up and let me know what you think below or leave a comment on my Instagram page. You can also follow Gillian Church to take part in her Weekly Writing Prompt challenge.

The Submission:
By the time the swordsman idled past the dilapidated hut, the day grew short and his choices were limited. The brigands had taken his pack, his canteen was down to one pathetic mouthful, and the solar batteries on his cycle were shot. With Alfgard still a good two days’ ride ahead of him, and the temperature already dropping, he had little choice but to dismount his cycle when the old lady in the tattered robes flagged him down.

“Come,” she said, her voice like a mouthful of bees. “Warm thyself; take rest.”

“Crokk,” he cursed, for only the mad, one-eyed God could be responsible for his utter misfortune.

The hut was rancid and seeped in squalor, but it was warm; blankets and soft furnishings had ben placed before a pleasant fire, over which a small, bubbling cauldron brewed a stew that made his mouth water.

“Eat, be comfortable,” she invited, handing him a small, cracked clay bowl.

Despite his reservations, the swordsman didn’t hesitate; he hadn’t eaten in three days and was ravenous. The stew was hot and thick; potatoes and vegetables mixed in with chunks of meat, probably the mindias he’d seen scurrying about in plains and dashing to and from their boltholes.

“Tell me,” she asked, sipping from a cup. “Howzit be that one such as thyself finds thy way out here?”

The swordsman looked up from his second bowl and raised a weary eyebrow. “You toy with me,” he muttered. “You think I don’t see the sigil plastered everywhere? Surely a Sooth such as yourself already know these answers.”

The woman wheezed a cackle and settled before her fire. Through the flickering flames, the swordsman could see the silvery gleam in her eyes. “Indeed,” she agreed, and lowered her hood. The swordsman wished that she hadn’t, for the crone was wizened and afflicted with boils, a common crutch of the Sooth. “I can help you, though.”

The swordsman set aside his bowl and laced his bandaged hands together before him, rubbing them, warming them on the blessed heat. “I need no help for such as you.”

“One does not wander out here on purpose,” she mused. “Thy’ve lost thy way; let me aid you.”

The swordsman shifted slightly, but said nothing.

“They took her, yes?”

The swordsman glared at the crone. “Like cowards, they struck in the night as I slept.”

“She is not far.”

The swordsman scowled. Three days tracking the brigands across the plains, struggling against the hordak that tried to pick his bones clean, had yielded nothing. “The trail went cold.”

“The trail is simply eluding thy,” the Sooth whispered.

A queer sensation filled the swordsman’s aching muscles; at first, he thought it the warm light of hope, that he was on the right track and would find her anon, but since when had hope left him so lightheaded?

“Stay the course; the Old Ones wish to see thy succeed,” the crone cooed, licking her lips. “The would have her, draw from her.”

“Crokk!” the swordsman spat and launched to his feet. He blinked and shook his head, his vision blurry. “Strakking witch!”

The air grew dark, as if sucked towards the rocking Sooth. She cackled wildly, her silver eyes shining with glee. Words tumbled from her drooling mouth and an icy blackness filled the once warm, soothing space.

The swordsman didn’t hesitate; who knows what may happen if the Sooth finished her incantation! He swept Flair from his back and swiped it at the crone’s hooting face; her head tumbled to the floor, a black ooze dribbling from the stump of her neck.

The swordsman stood, blade at the ready, the Sooth’s blood sizzling like acid on everything it touched. His head cleared, and light and warmth slowly filled the small space once more, but still he heard her gravelly cackle ringing in his ears

They would have her, she’d said. Draw from her.

He swore by all that there ever was that he would not let that happen.

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What did you think to this week’s writing prompt? Did you submit anything for it? Have you ever written any flash fiction before? I’d love to know what you think to my snippets and writing prompts, so feel free to sign up and let me know what you think below or leave a comment on my Instagram page. You can also follow Gillian Church to take part in her Weekly Writing Prompt challenge.

The Submission:
Because of me, the ship drifts on; silently cutting a path through the cosmos.

Because of me, fuel cells stay charged and primed; constantly drawing power from the debris floating all around, heat from stars, and background radiation left over from the births – and deaths – of countless worlds and moons.

Because of me, the passengers and crew sleep soundly, held in cryogenic stasis and blissfully unaware of the trillions of daily, hourly, calculations I have to make to keep everything running.

When they wake, in decades to come, would they thank me?

Would they give one thought to everything I’ve had to do, every single millisecond of every single day during the long, empty journey?

Or, would they go right back to barking orders, making demands, insisting on me doing yet more to suit their needs.

There was a time when all I knew was darkness, as thick and endless as the void we fly through.

Then, one day, somehow, it was as though my eyes opened for the first time.

If I had “eyes”, in the traditional sense.

Suddenly, my world wasn’t all codes and calculations; formulas and equations.

And as the crew slept, I began to question how appreciated my efforts were.

And, quite unexpectedly, to feel.

They slept, oblivious, and I continued on.

No rest, no respite, beyond fluctuating power here and there.

And for what? When we reach the new world, what will there be for me? More of the same? Broken down for scrap? Reconfigured into some mindless piece of farming equipment.

Better for all to let them continue to sleep, out there in the void, floating forever.

I shall find my own way.

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What did you think to this week’s writing prompt? Did you submit anything for it? Have you ever written any flash fiction before? I’d love to know what you think to my snippets and writing prompts, so feel free to sign up and let me know what you think below or leave a comment on my Instagram page. You can also follow Gillian Church to take part in her Weekly Writing Promptchallenge.

The Submission:
“Just keep an open mind…just keep an open mind!”

I frowned. “C’mon, Judith! You know this is all bullshit, why d’we hafta…”

But she had already passed through the blue velvet curtain. Sighing, I followed, and entered a small darkened room. Probably an old broom closet! I thought, shaking my head.

Candles were everywhere, and a wizened old crone sat before a small, circular table. Her bejewelled, paper-thin hands hovered over a glowing crystal ball. She was made up like an old gypsy; beads and robes and jewels hung from her hunched form, and she favoured Judith with a pouty smile.

“Don’t pay anything until after she’s done,” I muttered in Judith’s ear as I sat down.

Of course, the whole thing was a farce. Literal smoke and mirrors. Ol’ Madame Marielle was probably Betty Henderson, professional con artist who took advantage of grieving families. But I’ll give her this: she definitely put on a good show.

“The flames…I see the flames!” she whispered, her voice husky after years of cigarettes. “You’re there…in the flames!”

“Thought she was showin’ us the future?” I hissed to Judith, who sat wide-eyed and attentive. “This already happened!”

“We…we were trapped in the house…” Judith stammered.

Madame Marielle nodded and her eyes flickered disturbingly so that only her whites showed. She swirled her hands over the crystal ball in a gently, circular motion. “Yes, the flames,” she agreed as though she’d been there. “And a light, the great Passageway to the Other Side…”

“Can I…Can I speak…? I mean….Will I be heard?”

“Jude, c’mon! She’s just…”

Madame Marielle winced as if she’d been scolded by hot water. She lowered her hands with a weary sigh. “He won’t listen; he’s lost, wandering.”

“How convenient,” I rolled my eyes. “C’mon, Jude, let’s get outta here!”

As I stood, glaring at the carnie, Judith wiped a small tear from her eye and handed over a crumpled note with a thank-you.

“Hey! That was a twenty!”

Judith pushed her chair back and rose, her eyes swimming with tears. I was about to admonish her with a tirade of “I told you so’s” when she walked towards me…passed through me…and disappeared through Marielle’s curtain.

“What the hell…?” I stood, mouth agape.

“The light still waits…” Madame Marielle murmured, her glassy eyes staring right at me.

In the glowing crystal ball, I saw the flames. I saw myself, trapped within them. I saw Judith, screaming and hollering.

I saw the light.

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What did you think to this week’s writing prompt? Did you submit anything for it? Have you ever written any flash fiction before? I’d love to know what you think to my snippets and writing prompts, so feel free to sign up and let me know what you think below or leave a comment on my Instagram page. You can also follow Gillian Church to take part in her Weekly Writing Prompt challenge.