The Weakness – Mondays Finish the Story

Photo by: Barbara W. Beacham

The Weakness

The cemetery spread along the area known as Devils Abode. Nate stood outside the cemetery’s largest crypt, holding a bucket. He straightened the thin black tie that went with his black suit. The sounds emanating from within the crypt chilled him.

“Ohhh. Ah…oh!”

“How long has this been going on?” complained Nate.

Morgan, who dressed similarly, shifted uncomfortably. “Six months.”

Nate spat angrily. Hiram Furstenberg was The Institute’s greatest demon hunter. Legend was, he had one significant weakness. “I can’t believe a succubus tricked him and now he’s sleeping with it.”

“Succubi are Hell’s beautiful experts in seduction,” shrugged Morgan.

Nate cringed. “Do we really have to tell him his girlfriend’s a demon?”

“‘Fraid so,” shrugged Morgan. “This comes from the top.”

“You mean…?”

“Yeah. HIM.”

“Oooooh, so good!” groaned the succubus from the crypt.

Nate sighed. “Okay, but why do we need this bucket?”

Morgan shrugged. “Remember. Hiram has one weakness.”

“Yes! Yes! Right there!” she squealed.

“Yeah. It’s obviously beautiful women.”


“No? What then?”

“Right before he kills a demon, he hurls. Big time. Projectile type stuff.”

“Oh!” Nate shuddered. “So when he learns his…”


“For six months?”


Nate winced. “I think I need a bigger bucket.”
Written for Mondays Finish the Story. Look here to see what other folks wrote:

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Drinking Alone – Sunday Photo Fiction

Photo by: Alastair Forbes

Drinking Alone

Frankie, Gemma, and Bobby entered the old Roman ruins after another successful jewelry heist. Gemma was proud of her younger brothers for not shooting anyone…this time. The beatings she delivered to them were finally taking hold.

She led them into the dank catacombs beneath Dover. It was 3:13 AM in the morning and she figured no one in their right mind would go there at night. They’d be all alone to divide up their loot. Nonetheless, all were watchful and tense.


Bacchus, the god of wine, sulked on Mount Olympus. Most of the gods were gone all the time. Mars, the god of war, was far busier in the modern world than in the ancient one. For the same reason, Hades was constantly busy processing the dead. Mount Olympus was empty and boring.

Bacchus hated drinking alone. He craved company. He noticed that mortals still visited the Bacchus temple ruins beneath Dover. With a smile, he snatched up a bottle of wine. It was time to reestablish contact.


He noted three mortals waited in his old temple. Bacchus wore his best toga, the one that revealed his goat’s legs. In an instant they’d know the friendly god of partying and merriment had arrived. He brushed his hair away from his freshly polished goat horns. He wanted to look nice for his triumphant and happy return to the mortal world.

He burst into the old temple, wine bottle in hand. His finest grin stretched across his face and he shouted, “Ta-da!”

Frankie saw the monster’s goat legs first and its horns second. “Devil!” he screamed.

Gemma took one look and shouted, “Kill it!”

Bacchus froze. “Huh? Devil? Wait! I’m…”

An AR-15 assault rifle, a shotgun, and two .45 Automatics began firing.

Bacchus flew against the wall and collapsed in a heap. The thieves grabbed their bags and dashed away.

Being immortal merely means weapons don’t kill. They still hurt, and Bacchus was hurting a LOT. He sat on the floor and reached into his toga. Luckily, one bottle of Amaretto survived. He sighed and mused, maybe drinking alone isn’t so bad after all!
Each Sunday photographer Alastair Forbes presents an original photo as a prompt for flash fiction stories. This is my story for the week. Look here to see what other writers imagined:

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The Refund – Shapeshifting 13 #16

The Refund

“It’s lovely here,” said Elizabeth as they strolled down the wooded path. “But this is no Faerie Kingdom!”

“What would convince you?” said Rachel.

“With tangible proof, I’ll refund your psychoanalyst fees.”

A unicorn passed them on the path. “Good morrow, Rachel!” it called.

Elizabeth stared blankly.

Rachel grinned. “About that refund…”
This week at Grammar Ghoul Press’ Shapeshifting 13 writing challenge, we’re writing exactly 52 words based upon the photo above. This is my story. Look here to see what others wrote:

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The Good Neighbor – Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers

Photo by: Dawn Miller

The Good Neighbor

The robberies that plagued Martin ceased when Tim moved in next door. He never asked what Tim did. He was just happy to have a good neighbor.

One day, as they walked their dogs on the pathway beneath a rusty bridge, a car lost control and suddenly teetered over the bridge’s smashed railing. A mother and two kids screamed for their lives.

Tim’s dog, Gregor, suddenly reached up and disconnected his leash. The Malamute leaped nearly one hundred feet onto the bridge. In seconds he pulled the imperiled family from the car.

Martin noticed Tim seemed frozen in place. No hand-waving or shouting broke his catatonic state. Gregor returned from his amazing rescue and reconnected his leash. Instantly, Tim returned to life and he smiled sheepishly.

Once Martin recovered from his shock, he realized the truth. “Tim? Or is it Gregor?”

“Sorry about the trickery with the puppet,” said Gregor/Tim. “Shopping malls don’t accept dogs alone.”


“You going to tell?”

“Who would believe me?” asked Martin. “Besides, why risk losing a good neighbor?”
Written for the Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers writing challenge. Each week a photo is provided as a writing prompt. This week, Dawn Miller offered up a good one. Look here to see what others wrote based upon the pic above:

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The Wrong Decision – Mutant 750

The Wrong Decision

Simone had begun to rue the day she met Sheldon. Oh, he possessed the physicality she desired. As he rowed the boat down a tributary of the Mississippi River, his pectoral muscles rippled most divinely. Despite that unruly beard she fancied his gentle and open face.

Unfortunately, a thorough checking proved he owned not a single hectare of land. He owned no business that anyone knew of, and apparently he received no known endowments from a wealthy family. He was a charming and fit vagabond, but a landless one, and that would never do!

Luckily, his tales of travel and adventure were impressive enough to keep her interest. Though how he expected her to endure such similar travails along with him, she couldn’t imagine. Her role would be to raise children (by properly guiding the servants of course), but how would that be possible without a sufficient monetary stipend?

She hoped this one last boat ride might prove his worth, but he’d grown quiet as he struggled mightily with the boat’s oars. Without his exciting tales, Simone had grown bored and impatient. Clearly, pursuing a boat ride with him was the wrong decision. “Are you experiencing a difficulty, Mr. Cotsworth?” she inquired.

“A slight one, my dear Simone,” said Sheldon. “Apparently seven alligators have fastened their toothy jaws upon the boat. They’ll be quite unable to attack you as long as I row with vigor. You’re quite safe I assure you, but this exercise is quite strenuous.”

Simone rolled her eyes. One of Sheldon’s more annoying habits was his penchant for hyperbole. “Not one nor two, but seven alligators, Mr. Cotsworth? Perhaps the entire population Mississippi’s alligators converged upon this very spot?” she quipped.

Sheldon grinned. “I do enjoy your wit, dearest Simone. The problem shall soon be rectified when we arrive at my ship.”

Simone groaned. Did he actually intend to continue pursuing this wild fantasy? “Would this be one that moves through water as easily as air?”

“The very same! Even unto the stars in the heavens.”

“I should think claiming to own a balloon, the greatest aerial invention of man, would be sufficient, Mr. Cotsworth.”

“But this is 1884,” protested Sheldon. “Greater inventions since Montgolfier’s balloons have developed since then.”

“Truly? Was it in this heavenly ship where you encountered the 7,000 bird-headed warriors?”

“It was!”

“And in this ship you defeated the nine-foot tall creatures with iron hides and their space navy of four hundred vessels?”

“The very ones!”

Simone crossed her arms angrily. “Pish-posh, Mr. Cotsworth! Hyperbole owns a certain charm, but only in dribs and drabs. You’re wielding a sledgehammer and claiming it is a rapier!”

“It’s all true!” exclaimed Sheldon. “We’ve nearly arrived at my ship. I’ll show you everything I’ve described.”

Simone had had enough. “Mr. Cotsworth, I’m afraid your request for marriage has proven quite unsuitable. I’ve rather more serious proposals to entertain, you understand.” She stuck her chin out imperiously. “Take me to shore at once!”

Sheldon slumped. “Are you certain?”

“My decisions are always final, Mr. Cotsworth.”

A huge vessel suddenly breached the waters, rising up from below. It easily stretched forty feet long. Simone watched in shock and amazement at the vessel’s size, but this proved to be only the conning tower. It rose still further and the ship’s true length of four-hundred feet soon hovered, supported by heavenly forces, above the waters. Sheldon swung himself aboard the great ship with unparalleled athleticism.

A bird-headed man stepped out from a hatch and called, “All is ship-shape and ready for star travel, Cap’n!”

Simone’s mouth fell open. Her sharp tongue had placed her in trouble before, but for the same reasons she possessed equal expertise in escaping retribution. “Oh, Sheldon!” she called. “Perhaps I’ve acted hastily. Would you consider discussing your charming proposal further?” Her eyelashes fluttered invitingly.

Sheldon grinned sadly. “I’m afraid you said your decision was quite final, and I do have other rather serious opportunities to pursue. Good luck to you!” He waved and entered the ship before it streaked into the heavens.

Alone in the boat, Simone looked about for assistance. Behind her, she realized there really were seven alligators biting into the boat. Without headway to drag them behind they appeared ready to enter and attack at any moment.

“Bother!” muttered Simone. “Letting him escape was clearly the wrong decision.”
Written for Grammar Ghoul Press’ Mutant 750 writing challenge. The picture above was the media prompt. “Hyperbole” was not only the word but the literary structure to include in any story. I think I included entirely enough of hyperbole, oodles of it, boatloads! Enough to sink a battleship. :) Look here to see what other folks wrote in answer to these prompts:

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Demonic Indigestion – Gargleblaster Microstories #228

Evonne held her hand before the fires within the restaurant’s kitchen wall. “Yep. It’s a gate to Hell. You actually cooked in this?”

“Sure,” said Lindsey. “Cooked Devil’s Food cake there for years.”

“What enraged the demons?”

“Mom made Angel Food cake.”

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Toilet Paper – Friday Fictioneers

Photo by: Claire Fuller

Toilet Paper

The generation-ship had traveled through space for 772 years before they found him. Peter had rested in cryo-sleep for the entire duration before they revived him.

Human society aboard ship had changed.

Bel’Nuerte led Peter on a tour. “In these shelves,” he said, “We store the toilet paper.” He opened a shelf.

Peter gasped. He held up copies of “Huckleberry Finn” and “Animal Farm.” He roared, “These are books for reading!”

“We didn’t realize…,” stammered Bel’Nuerte.

Never wipe your butt with these. Learn from them!”

Bel’Nuerte held up book by Rush Limbaugh. He said, “Even this one?”

Peter’s face fell. “Okay. You can wipe your butt with that one.”
Each week, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields supplies a Fictioneer-donated photo as a writing prompt for flash fiction. Look here to find how to add your own story, and see the stories others wrote based upon the photo prompt above:

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