‘Put your hand in.’

Charlie hesitated and looked into the dark hole in the rock.

What was the worst that could happen? It’s just a rock, he told himself.

Legend said it was the skull of an old dinosaur. Another said medieval warriors proved their strength by striking it with their sword. Others believed it was linked to witchcraft, a dark portal to a world of spirits and ghouls.

‘Prove you’re not scared.’

Charlie took a deep breath and shoved his hand into the black crater.

The disturbed adder struck the soft flesh and buried its fangs into the invading arm.


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 piglet squealed in the sack as Harald threw it to the ground. It landed on the unmarked grave of his former rival.

The familiar rustle approached. The huge snake slithered across the ground towards him.

‘This is the last I have,’ Harald said, pointing to the piglet.

The snake reared up and looked Harald directly in the eyes. ‘Then you sshall have to find more from ssomewhere else to honour our bargain,’ he hissed.

‘Must I forever be in your debt?’

‘You knew the conssequencess when we struck our deal.’

‘What if I cannot find anything to sacrifice to you?’

‘Then I will vissit your family and take what I wissh.’

The snake took the sack in it’s jaw and dragged it away.

Harald trudged back through the forest. He came to the clearing and looked at his farmhouse. The children were in bed. The fire in the downstairs room silhouetted Karina in the window.

Happiness came with a heavy price, murder with a heavy burden. This was the price he paid to be with the woman he loved.

Copyright Kecia Sparlin

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.


‘What now?’ screamed Aetius.

Another hail of arrows split open the sky, hurtling down on them. On command the surviving legionnaires raised their shields and fended off the onslaught. The screams and cries signalled more men lost. The wild gale battered them, the rain hammered them relentlessly.

General Manius stared through the bleak grey storm at the huddled remains of the Ninth legion, strewn along the unforgiving rocky hillside.

They were hopelessly lost in this barren land. There was no escape. Retreat was blocked behind them, and they had no idea which way would lead them to safety. The aquila had been lost.

On all sides they were surrounded by the hellish inhabitants. Why had they been sent to conquer this desolate place? There was nothing here worth Rome having.

‘General, what now?’ Aetius yelled again.

Through the storm Manius heard an evil animal howl. Emerging from the thick fog, fearsome warriors charged towards them.

‘We fight and we die,’ Manius commanded as he hauled himself to his feet. His men followed his example. They rushed to meet their death. Manius fell to one blow from a giant axe.

The Ninth legion was lost to history. The land called Caledonia remained wild and unbowed.


203 06 June 18th 2017
Copyright A Mixed Bag

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

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


The priest held the heavy wooden chest tightly as the carriage bumped along the path. The coachman whipped the horses, travelling at breakneck speed.

They emerged from the forest and the pace relaxed. Out from the cover of the trees, no-one would dare ambush them now. The wheels rattled as they ran over the cobbled stones onto the bridge that led into the fort.

Just as the priest began to relax there was a jolt, an anguished cry from the horses, and the coach slammed into the side of the bridge before coming to a halt. Still clinging to the chest, the priest looked up.

‘Good evening to you, Father.’ The man wearing a hood said. ‘I don’t think the congregation will be happy that their hard earned offerings are going straight into the Sheriff’s coffers, do you?’

The priest gulped. The man took the chest from him.

‘You can tell the Sheriff that it was his old friend, Locksley of the Hood.’

With that he was gone and there was only silence on the bridge.

© Joy Pixley

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. For more information visit HERE.

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