Como parte da comunidade Tale Foundry, semanalmente (dentro do possível) participo de desafios semanais de escrita. Desafios, estes, que têm como base uma pequena frase (o prompt), usada como base para uma peça de Flash Fiction (minicontos) com até 350 palavras.

Abaixo você encontra alguns dos contos resultantes destes desafios – alguns, porém, editados e revisados. indo além do limite de palavras do desafio original.

Observação: Algumas das histórias abaixo podem conter linguagem adulta.

Flash Fiction #1: A Light At The End

Abdiriel stood still under the pale plenilune. His hands trembling beneath the shadow of the wide cathedral doors.

He didn’t think demons could feel fear, much less remorse, yet here he was. On his hands, small pools of clotted blood remained, stuck in the dark cracks that covered his red skin. Soft red blobs, reflecting his face back at him. Signs of his past. Of his deeds. And of his remorse.

And yet, part of him wanted more. The screams. The blood. He loved it all – the carnal violence, yes, but especially the sense of power. It felt like eternal bliss.

No, it felt like an unpardonable sin. And perhaps it was.

The rumble of furniture drew his attention towards the large oaken doors, thick enough to absorb most sounds – when the people behind it aren’t in a panic to protect themselves from a demonic presence, at least.

Abdiriel could imagine a crowd rushing from side to side, clutching their crucifixes as they dragged everything they could to block his entrance. The perfect victims, part of him thought. What the fuck am I thinking, another side of his mind instantly snapped.

The incubus took a deep breath and placed his hands against the doors, ready to burst them open. He expected to feel his palms burning, and yet… nothing.

Once more, he stood there for a moment, contemplating the lacking effect of touching holy ground for the first time in millennia. A weird sensation simmered underneath his face, his eyes. Is this how humans felt when they wanted to cry? Maybe, though a demon would never know.

In an unconscious attempt to postpone the inevitable, Abdiriel mapped the insides of the cathedral in his mind, under the pretense of “trying to make sure things would go to plan.” He pictured the pews, the pulpit. And, of course, that loathsome “messiah”, nailed to a cross, who should be in view as soon as the doors opened.

The incubus closed his eyes. Minutes passed, maybe a couple hours, until he eventually breathed deeply and burst through the doors with utmost strength.

Pews and bibles scattered, as nuns and custodians ran for their lives. He looked up, at the detestable cross. He felt an unexpected familiarity to the man’s face, which almost made the image beautiful to his eyes, though, before Abdiriel had time to process the event, a bright golden light extended from the cross and engulfed him.

And he was never seen by mortals again.

Flash Fiction #2: A Matter of Perspective

Rushing in to avoid the thunderstorm that took over the skies outside, detective Richard “Dick” Seymour entered his office at the 14th precinct. Folders and papers from previous cases littered the floor.

The grizzled detective took a second to wipe the rainwater from his trusty trenchcoat as he tossed aside a letter from Ms. Helena Rosebush, who’d been a thorn on his side for many a year. Closing the door, the stoic detective fumbled around for the lampshade that had recently been hung in his office.

Finally reaching for it with his left hand, he turned the bright orange lights on, letting them reflect off of his hand. For a moment, he felt a rush of emotions and memories take over him. Love. Envy. Anger. He couldn’t stop staring at his ring finger, at the symbol of a painful past: a shiny golden ring. After all, he had yet to divorce from his wife, as opposed to all the cool characters from detective novels

 “Took you a while.” The voice startled the happily-married man. Standing by the coat hanger near his desk was detective Richard “Dick” Stanstill.

Seymour never quite understood why he was constantly surrounded by so many Dicks. He glanced for a moment at the office next door, where detective Dick Gotobed worked, as if trying to understand this mystery – but, as usual, he’d gone home early that day.

“How long have you been waiting here?” Seymour asked, as he sat down at his desk, doing his best gruff noir detective voice.

“About since the story started,” Stanstill replied. “You did ask me to come here, after all. Something about a… serial lampshade hanger?”

Seymour took a sip of water, wishing the precinct would allow him a bottle of whiskey like in his favorite stories. He thought of all the poor, innocent lampshades that had been hung. He knew they wouldn’t hurt a fly – no promises about moths, however, but that seemed fair to him. Realizing he’d once again lost himself in thought, Seymour looked up, relieved to notice that his guest had simply stood still.

“Yes,” he finally said. “We need to go over the evidence and catch this monster!”

“I mean, it’s just lampshades…”

Something in that sentence made Seymour’s blood boil. His colleague’s callousness reminded the detective of Commissioner Dick Clutterbuck – a man who’d just recently been promoted to be his boss and already proved to be a thorn on his side.

“Don’t you dare besmirch of those victims!” Seymour finally snapped.

“Riiiight…” Stanstill rose an eyebrow, before reaching for a sealed envelope – Seymour swore he could read the words “Top Secret” on it, though, in truth, the paper was far more mundane than his dreams. His colleague continued. “Well, anyway, I have some pictures of-“

“Wait! Not now!”

Stanstill would’ve stopped in his tracks if he wasn’t already simply standing still. “Why?” he asked.

“We have unexpected guests,” he paused, dramatically. “As you well know.” Before those words had fully left the detective’s mouth, both he and his colleague slowly turned their heads to the side, facing an unknown point in space, approximately where the reader was seated.

Flash Fiction #3: The Lone Tree

Four men circled the lone elder like hungry wolves. Each wielding their own weapon and grinning menacingly as they looked at their victim-to-be’s long robes and impeccably polished wooden rings and necklace.

 The old man, for his part, held onto a thin walking stick with trembling hands, his long white beard nearly touching the ground, painting an image that fit more a corpse than an actual living being.

 “Give over your stuff, old man!” one of the thieves yelled. “If it’s worth coin, you live. No tricking us, you hear?”


The elder barely opened his mouth, though the voice appeared to come from the entire forest encircling them, as a strong thunderstorm suddenly formed, covering everything in darkness.


In a flash, the man’s feeble walking stick turned into a tall yew staff adorned with a gem constantly switching between many colors. The elder looked up at the bandits and continued his incantations without blinking.


A strong light followed, blinding his assailants. The man pointed his left hand at one of them.

“Raido Ansuz.”

The thief suddenly flew backwards, a wisp of light leaving his body towards the skies. Before the other men could understand what happened, the elder continued his barrage.


A ball of flame engulfed another bandit, burning him alive.


The elder pointed his staff at another thief, freezing his attacker in place.


The final man dropped to his knees in realization. “Oh gods, what have we-”

Stopping mid-sentence, the thief grabbed his own neck as he desperately gasped for air before fully collapsing, water spurting from his mouth.

Content that none remained to challenge him, the old man transformed his staff back into a simple walking stick and continued his journey through the world as a feeble hermit. Where he’d stood for the entire encounter, a series of engravings now marked the ground.

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