Thor's Flash Fiction Contest

Greetings, friends.

Today, I would like to extend an offer to you. My alter-ego and I greatly enjoy Flash Fiction, which is a story of one hundred words or less. Since (I would assume) our readers are also writers, I offer you the following contest.

You are to write a Flash Fiction piece based upon the prompt and post it in the comments below. My fellow Avengers and I will choose a winner.

Your entry must be one hundred words or less. No going over.

Your deadline is TONIGHT, midnight, Pacific Daylight Time.

The winner will receive their choice of either a query critique or the opportunity to guest post on the YAvengers blog.

I wish you luck.

Your story can take place in this setting, be about it, or be related in any other way.
This is only the prompt to get you thinking, not an instruction.
Take it away!



  1. She yanked both boys into the hallway by the ear.

    “But Mom, he started it.”

    “I care not who started it!” She yelled. “I care that you clean it up before your father returns.”

    “It’s not fair, Mother. Without his lightning there would be no fire. Therefore no damage. I don’t see why...?”

    “Enough from both of you. You destroyed it together, you’ll fix it together.”

    As she left, the blonde boy said to his brother, “You always get us into trouble.”

    “I get us into mischief, Thor. You get us into trouble.”

  2. The dirtiness of this place was absolute. That was what my sister had told me five months ago, when she was still alive. The palace was left in shambles. Dry, crimson-red blood from the latest war stained the walls, and a horrid smell clung to every surface. I knew, with painful certainty, that this was where she’d been held hostage by the monarch.

    The Great Palace now resembled a jail.

    “Ana? Are you ready?”

    The voice appeared from nowhere. I turned, immediately feeling the strain of the shackles on my wrists. All I could do was nod.

  3. Grandfather leans heavily on his cane, raising his eyes to the arched ceiling as if admiring the decor. The peeling paint and broken glass give me the creeps.

    "What is this place? Why are we here?"

    "This is where it all began."

    An icy wind rattles through the halls, chilling my blood. Grandfather squeezes my hand, sensing my need for his warmth and comfort.

    "Can we go now?" I plead, but Grandfather doesn't hear me. He is lost in his memories.

    I don't see his knife till it plunges into my chest.

    "For immortality," he whispers.

  4. There’s sweat beading on my jawline. It creeps past my collarbone, the sticky trickle sinking between my breasts, seeping past the necklace he’d placed around my neck, heavy with ancient magic. My feet swung gracelessly, rhythmically kicking at the tattered plaster. I try not to fall off the crumbling windowsill.

    It’s a long way down.

    “I’ll be here when you need me.” His eyes pinned me in place, two glowing embers set against dark skin.

    “Just go.” I stared at my knuckles, bone-white.

    When I looked up, he’d slunk back into the walls, leaving only his shattered silhouette behind.

    Note: when I look at the picture, I see the silhouette of a young boy's head and shoulders in the wall to the right. Anyone else see it?

  5. “So it’s a fixer upper,” the man mused. “Cal, do you remember the time when—“

    “I remember every time,” Cal interrupted, her three-syllabled invocation of the word “every” dripped with distaste.

    The shadow that gave the man presence and form seemed to diminish.

    “But it is ours to make magic of the purest kind, love,” Cal quickly added.

    The shade beamed in pride.

    Outside, feet below the forgotten corridors, a crowd entered the theater. Young and old gathered, playbills clutched eagerly in hand.

    “Calliope?” the shade asked.

    “It’s time, dearest Homer.”

    “Tell me, O muse, of that ingenious hero…”