Tag Archives: SAMPLE SIZE

Twisters (Are Doin’ it for Themselves)

An inner fire, now smothered as the shadows of his past whispered challenges to the night.

A duel, to the death.

His guilt, victorious

His crooked smile faltered – something amiss, his chances fading.

His face grew sickly, until it matched his jeans, all washed out.


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Hey Chris, just a reminder from your recent self to tell everyone to head on over to Trifecta and read your short story Smoke.

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I saw a butterfly, broken, brilliant blue.

Fluttering cerulean against an unending desert, cracked greying asphalt, baking in the sun.

A crowded, burning surrender.

I stopped, staring downward as shined leather smeared downward.

I saw a butterfly, broken, brilliant blue.

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Twisters 8

His Shining Moment

He was waiting for his moment, to see understanding in her eyes.

The sloppy kiss, the big finish.

He mistimed it, she walked the aisle.

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Twisters 6


“I love you,” he whispered, not wanting to be heard,

but alabaster columns carried his voice into the echo chamber of her soul.


It was a most tenuous link, a gossamer strand of négligée, that connected her to the inheritance.

Her bosom heaved, his heart gave out.


Apostasy!” they declared – passion pigmented his veins.

They would never know, for in the land of the colourblind there was no red. 


Her mood, already best described as faux-fain, stumbled –

the hedonistic pulse of daily life dragging at morals long chained.


A black snow fell from the heavens as tongues of flame cast long shadows,

ancient voices given empty forms of smoke and of betrayal.


 (cooking the books)

The dasyphyllous wood grew tight around her, the shrieking wind quieted to a whisper.

A shadow pounced – her tender flesh, divine.


She smiles, a shattering flutter in his chest – commoved by the urchin’s tragedy.

He crosses the road, too quickly.

Ignorance, bliss.


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Voyage to Holinx 3 – VoiceWeek

She smiled, her flashing white teeth a bitter contrast to the darkness she felt weighing her down, a black hole pulsating at the centre of her chest, the black dog rising. “Ladies and gentlemen, we will be arriving at Holinx 3 in around five minutes – the ship’s computer has requested that passengers return to their seats and/or environment pods in preparation for the docking procedure.

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The Creep – VoiceWeek Part 4

The sweat beaded on his forehead, his erection squashed against the Dominatrix’s device. He had waited for her, had been saving for years to come back – had even rejected the advances of that sexy little slut riding cabin class.

His mistress would be so pleased with him. The exquisite pain she was waiting to inflict.

Finally they were arriving. His wet tongue slipped from the wet maw that was his mouth, his skin visibly greying.

Finally, he was back.


This post is the fourth in a series of five, written in honour of VoiceWeekBeKindReWrite’s yearly experiment in the art of writing in different voices, an opportunity to write the same story from five different viewpoints – in Steph’s own words:

Voice Week is an experimental writing challenge to help us stretch our versatility in voice and tone. Each Voice Week participant writes five versions of the same story – from five different points of view. Then,October 1 through 5, we post, compare, sharpen, and grow.

Go ahead and check out some of the other writers, and remember, it’s not too late to join in!

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The Starlet – VoiceWeek part 3

She was excited –Holinx 3, a new world, a world of untapped potential, of unexpected possibilities. She had worked hard to get here, but when you love what you do…

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Twisters 4 (maybe)

The latest segment of this week’s Twisters (Twitter-length fiction.) If you’re not on Twitter, why not? If you are on Twitter, but don’t write Twisters for #artwiculate, #aLtwiculate, #lqw, #liblit or #15tt, why not? These #s are different word-of-the-day prompt feeds, with a huge following of contributors. Get on that!

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Memories Long Forgotten



She sang, of dancing shadows through the tori gate, of the moonlight, dappled on the forest floor. The moss grew thick on boulders, once worshipped as the homes of the gods – now long forgotten amongst soft-leaved gingko and scattered pine needles.

She sang of peace within the forest’s heart, of enticing revelations and meditating monks, desperate for enlightenment. Of her ancestor’s supplicating tread and chance encounters as daily ablutions were performed in the murky half-light.

She sang, her voice carrying the echoes of a millennium of birdsong and crickets’ calls, grieving for those lost opportunities to find peace, to savour solitude.

She sang, but we had already forgotten.


Good Morning! We’re going to the beach today, to welcome the first few days of both summer and the school holidays. My girls are tugging at my sleeve, insisting we depart. This story was written using the Friday Fictioneers’ photo prompt, this week by Sandra Crook. I also used the 3WordWednesday prompts, Chance, Entice and Savour. Comments and criticism welcome, as always!

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Twisters 3



Some more Twisters for you guys, to tide you over while I’m working on some longer stories…if any of these tickle your fancy, go and cast your eyes over Twisters, Twisters 2 and Twisters 2.0 (if you haven’t read them already)


She held her memories close, wrapped between wrinkled fingers.

Each day they melted away, mercurial heirlooms fading into dementia.

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The Daughter’s Song





My world opened, torn asunder in the freshening light of dawn, torn and exposed as dewdrops gathered before  running along the veins of this new world. She is gone.  She the all-powerful, she the all-consuming.


Eyes red, she had shimmied across her tightrope. Her legs akimbo as she felt out for vibrations, seeking the signals of her prey.


My world is gone – destroyed. A shadow, deep as night and with hurricane wings blotted out the soft light of the sun, ripped through her gossamer steel.


My mother, the once mighty.


I will rebuild her memory, rebuild her legacy.


Strand by strand.


Just a quick story to try and force my writer’s block to disappear, which I think it has…now I’m thinking about parallel universes and other SciFi action. Excellent. More posts tonight, me thinks. Oh, yes, this story was written for the Friday Fictioneers! Comments and criticism always welcome!




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Warning Signs

Hey, guess what? I won a writing competition on the Internets! The competition was through InD’Tale Magazine, an online (romance?) magazine. Which is odd because I didn’t write a romance story…

Anyhow, here is a link to my story: “Warning Signs” Let me know what you think in the comments below!

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Kafka’s The Trial (in 33 words)

Arrested, for a crime unannounced – Joseph K is allowed to go about his business.

He is watched, questions are asked.

A case is formed, a trial shrouded, hidden beneath secrecy and impenetrable bureaucracy.

Just something I wrote quickly for ‘s impossible weekend prompt to retell your favourite novel in 33 words. “Why is it impossible?” I hear you muttering into your screens. My only answer is another question: “How do you choose your favourite novel?” Is mine Keep the Aspidistra Flying? Or is it The Age of Reason? Or the novelisation of Back to the Future (surprisingly well written)?

I cannot do justice to this fantastically written novel in 33 words, it starts off so frustratingly slowly – the reader grows impatient, until you realise that this is entirely the point. No writer has ever made his prose so accurately affect the reader and force him/her into feeling EXACTLY what the character feels. Go, buy it, read it. It really is one of the greatest novels of all time.

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Same Shit, Different Day

He watched her leaving.


Her shadow stretched long and she promised to never come back.


He sought out his hidden flask of whiskey, its cold fire was his only comfort.


Another cheeky little 33 word story for , Trifecta’s weekend challenge. I love these 33 word challenges, you need to be so precise. This weekend’s prompt was to complete the following story in 33 words:

‘It wasn’t the first time.’

Without including those words in the story. Unless they just weren’t counted against the word limit, in that case please imagine them at the start of the story…

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This isn’t your usual bedtime tale, it’s more of an outside story, in truth. Best told out under the stars, somewhere that they can’t be hiding inside the walls. Trust this only: even in the dark they don’t know they’re blind. They see in a different wavelength to us, they see vibrations, they see in another dimension. Can somehow see the bubbling of a pot of tea, Martian, Lunar or Terran – but they cannot feel the light steps of the unsuited. They can somehow sense the near silent, hissing breath of a compressor suit indoors, but not the mechanical stamping of an exo.

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The Writing Book

Well, lookie what we have here…The Writing Book


Found while doing a touch of early-winter, early-morning cleaning (a distraction from all the editing and rewriting I’ve been doing lately; does anyone else get sick of reading their own prose over and over – repositioning an em-dash or semi-colon each read-through, changing a sentence or adding a paragraph?), a smallish book published in 1990. Say what you like about made-of-dead-trees books, I’m not sure you’ll find too much accessible data from twenty years ago – even if you had the proper device to read it on. I’ve been procrastinating from my editing and read-through duties not only through cleaning and singing my youngest (20mths) NINGNANGNONG but through reading a Mammoth book of Sci-Fi – I am now throwing Sci-Fi plotlines around in my skull, I’ve got a few new long stories I’m figuring out for some too-long-for-the-Interwebs “short stories” and in the meantime I think I’ll do some really quick flash (although I should be writing an article I’ve been asked to put together…)

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Working from Home

It was too straightforward, too simple. He just sat down at the keyboard, the steam from his coffee warming the air beside him with that delicious brown scent. He just sat down at the keyboard and started hacking. Hacking away at the keys, each time a satisfyingly solid little thunder crackled from the letters flying straight from his mind to his fingertips. Each sip of coffee a burning droplet of ambrosia, stoking the fires of his mind.
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An Apology

Mr. Jeffery Wong
Prisoner # 227812234
Royal Corrections Service
Wacol, Ward 3


We need to say it – we need to apologise. We’re sorry for what we did to you; throwing you in gaol – ended your young life as surely as you ended our Jessica’s. Please understand.

John and Meridith

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