Blackness enveloped the city.

The power curfew began at midnight. The grid was shutdown.

Homes were silent. Streetlights dark. A flicker of rare candlelight betrayed the restaurant or club that refused to close.

An occasional set of car headlights crept passed, driven by those lucky enough to still have access to the electricity needed to power them.

Beside the river rose two bright towers, the only illumination for miles around. The weapons factory was kept open twenty-four hours a day, three hundred and sixty-five days a year.

A shuttle train deposited the night shift. A fleet of robots fully charged and ready to work. The exhausted day shift departed, taken back to their pods to be re-energised.

As the train left the security monitor didn’t notice the tiny figure who leapt across the tracks.

In the shadows, Alejandro waited. He double-checked the wiring and the fuse on the package.

His death was imminent. His hope was that it would not be in vain.

Tonight, humanity began the fight back.

Copyright Pamela S. Canepa

Written as part of Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers. The challenge is to write a flash fiction story in around 150 words, based on the weekly photo prompt. Thanks as always to the challenge host Priceless Joy. For more information visit HERE.

To read other stories based on this week’s prompt, visit HERE



The forensic investigators had gone. The security forces had abandoned the scene. Demolition signs and safety warnings adorned the perimeter fence that surrounded what was left of the museum.

I stumbled through broken piles of furniture, shattered glass and mangled steel. Rubble and dust covered everything.

They told me she may never be found. If she had been standing next to the bomber there may be no remains. They had tested all the samples they had lifted. Results were inconclusive.

My daughter was listed as missing presumed dead. I searched on through the wreckage.

My life lay in the ruins around me.

Copyright J. Hardy Carroll

Written as part of the Friday Fictioneers challenge hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields (more details HERE). The idea is to write a short story of 100 words based on the photo prompt (above).

To read stories of 100 words based on this week’s prompt, visit HERE.

The scenes from Manchester are very much in my mind this week. My thoughts are with everyone involved, especially the parents and children. My apologies if this piece upsets anyone reading it.


The St. Patrick’s Day celebrations were over. An old drunk started singing ‘The Dying Rebel.’

‘I never would have thought those songs would be anything but historical,’ said the red-haired woman.

‘I never thought they’d put up a border posts across Ireland again,’ the man replied.

He looked at the woman. ‘We need to make America side with Europe. If they do, Britain has no choice but to concede the North.’

‘And Ireland is one,’ the woman said. ‘Everything is ready?’

‘The car with British plates is parked in the alley.’

He handed her an envelope. She pulled out a British passport. ‘Who was David Phillips?’

‘Attache at the British Embassy. Leave his papers in the car. Park outside the American Embassy at midday. You’ll have five minutes to get clear before detonation.’

‘A British attack on their embassy. Do you think the Americans will buy it?’

The drunk reached his final line: ‘God bless the cause for which I die.’


Written for ‘What Pegman Saw’, a weekly prompt based on a view from Google Maps. The idea is to write a piece of fiction of around 150 words based on the prompt. Full details can be found HERE. This week we’re off to Dublin.

This is an imagined scenario based on the very real problem that the British exit from the European Union will result in a hard border returning between Ireland and Northern Ireland, putting the still fragile peace process there at extreme risk. Just one of the many troublesome results of this ridiculous British political and economic folly. It should not be taken as a reflection of my own thoughts, sympathies or otherwise about the situation in Ireland, past or present.

For more stories based on this week’s prompt, visit HERE.



They had been waiting for three hours in the airport terminal. The departure boards were full of yellow-highlighted rectangles reading ‘DELAYED.’ The fog looked thicker than ever out the window.

The children were climbing on the seats again.

‘Joe get down from there and let go of your sister,’ Claire said.

The kids ignored her. Pete gave a look of apology to the serious-looking woman sitting opposite them.

A loud groan grew around them. The yellow rectangles turned to red – ‘CANCELLED.’ An announcement came over the loudspeakers. Pete managed to pick out the phrase ‘return to your airline check-in desk to make alternative flight arrangements.’

There was nothing else they could do. Pete grabbed the carry-on luggage and Claire rounded up the kids. They joined the disgruntled crowd heading back to the check-in area.

The woman who had sat opposite them remained. What should she do now? The explosive belt strapped underneath her clothing gripped tightly to her sweating skin.

She had no instructions for this eventuality.

© Dawn Miller

Written as part of Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers. The challenge is to write a flash fiction story in around 150 words, based on the weekly photo prompt. Thanks as always to the challenge host Priceless Joy. For more information visit HERE.

To read other stories based on this week’s prompt, visit HERE.


The new Buckingham Palace looked exactly like the old one had from the air. The last remnants of the construction site had almost gone, only a large fence remained, to be removed before the official opening next week.

The pilot brought the Boeing 787 Dreamliner round in another long circle over the city as he waited for clearance to land. The Mall was still closed off, Green Park and St. James’s Park remained eerily empty. This was his first flight here since the day the old palace had been destroyed.

He thought back to the large crowds that had spread out as far as he could see below him that day. They cheered and celebrated as King William had been crowned.

He remembered the flash and fireball emanating from the palace, spreading like a wave, engulfing the thousands of individual specks, before the roar of the explosion reached him through the sky. He remembered having to correct the plane as it was hit by the turbulence, minor at that distance. His was the last plane to land before the airspace was shut down. He was in the sky long enough to glimpse through the smoke and flames and see the black hole were the palace had once stood.

Next week the monarch would be able to take up residence in the centre of London again. He banked once more and began his descent into the airport.

© A Mixed Bag

Written as part of Sunday Photo Fiction. Write a story of around 200 words based on the photo prompt given (above). For more details visit HERE.

To read more stories based on this week’s prompt, visit HERE.