No-one knew how the castle wound up in the middle of rural Ontario, but the experts agreed that the alabaster beauty was medieval European in origin. 11th-century French to be exact, based upon the crenellations, arrowslits, and machicolations.
“Well that’s obvious,” said Mayor Biggins. “Anyone coulda told you that from the ditch!” He waved toward the deep furrow running due east from the castle, all the way to the shores of the Atlantic.
Outraged, France demanded the return of its chateau. Words were exchanged; the UN got involved.
A week later, the castle vanished again, replaced by a 40-foot-tall Bishop.
This story was written for Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’s weekly Friday Fictioneers flash fiction event. The challenge is to write a 100-word story using a photo prompt. As always, I welcome comments and constructive feedback. Enjoy!
It began with a nest of sparrows in the oak overhanging the driveway.
Phil, annoyed at scraping bird poo off his Porsche each morning, sawed off that hospitable branch and laughed at the frantic chirping as he fed the whole thing into the woodchipper.
After that, the oak turned downright hateful. Halloween-like, it scraped fingers on his bedroom wall at night and, with one well-placed branch, punched a hole through the bay window.
The neighbors spotted him scaling the trunk the next morning with a chainsaw. Minutes later, it all came down – oak, Phil, and chainsaw – right on the Porsche.
This story was written for Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’s weekly Friday Fictioneers flash fiction event. The challenge is to write a 100-word story using a photo prompt. As always, I welcome comments and constructive feedback and love browsing the other entries as well!
What’s that? A bonus post today, you say? Enjoy it, and don’t miss Alien while you’re visiting!
Easier When You’re Younger
When Harry spotted an unattended bike on the sidewalk, he knew exactly what to do. He pictured himself soaring downhill, the wind setting his hair aflutter.
He struggled to recall how it was done.
Foot in left pedal. Foot in right. Straddle it. No, that didn’t work! Harry tried again from a different angle. His bulk just wouldn’t fit for some reason.
With a sick crunch, the handlebars crumpled into his trunk.
Just great. Now the bike was embedded.
They say you never forget how to ride a bike, but this was so much easier when he was a sapling.
This story was written as part of Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’s Friday Fictioneers flash fiction challenge. This is my first time participating, and I welcome constructive feedback! The challenge is to write a 100-word story based on a photo prompt. Enjoy!