revenge tale

Writer’s Prompt: The Bitter Dish: A Gripping Tale of Long-Awaited Revenge

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Ten years of quiet fury came down to a single vial and a plate of warm steak.

Writer’s Prompt

The ceramic plate burned through the folded bar towel in Marci’s grip. Prime rib, medium-rare, swimming in dark au jus. In her apron pocket, the glass ampoule felt cold against her hip. Tasteless, odorless, and swift enough that he’d be slumped over his steering wheel before hitting the interstate.

Ten years. Three thousand six hundred and fifty nights of watching her mother stare blankly at the pastel wallpaper of Oakridge Manor, humming lullabies to ghosts. All because of six words delivered over pot roast: “I’m tired of you. I’m through. Goodbye.”

Booth four was tucked beneath the amber glow of a faux-tiffany lamp. Arthur sat alone, thinning silver hair catching the light, reading glasses perched low on his nose. For six months, Marci had refilled his iced tea and cleared his empty bread baskets, hiding behind dyed black hair and a nametag that read Chloe. He never looked higher than her apron strings.

She paused in the service corridor, out of view of the floor manager. Her hand slipped into her pocket. The ampoule cracked cleanly between her thumb and forefinger. She hovered the clear liquid over the steaming jus. Just two drops. That was the sentence passed by a decade of grief.

Marci stepped out. Arthur looked up as she set the platter down.

“Here you are, sir.”

He didn’t touch the silverware. Instead, he took off his glasses, set them beside his knife, and looked directly into her face. The casual indifference she remembered was gone, replaced by a hollow, searching exhaustion.

“You have your mother’s hands, Marci,” he said softly.

Her breath caught, the room narrowing to the space between them.

The plate sits untouched, and the silence hangs heavy. What happens next? Tell us your ending in the comments below.

Writer’s Prompt: The Thump of Vengeance: A Hardboiled Flash Fiction Mystery

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A cold room, a bouncing ball, and a private eye pushed past the brink—until the rhythm of obsession reveals a name.

Writer’s Prompt

Wren Evens chewed on his cold cigar the way a cow chews its cud, eyes fixed on the cracked plaster across the room. He wore a battered outfielder’s glove on his left hand, rhythmically tossing a fuzzy green tennis ball against the wall.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The door creaked open. Freddy stood in the frame—short, balding, wire-rimmed glasses perched on his slick forehead.

“Wren, don’t take it wrong, but the tenants are complaining. The constant thumping is driving them mad.”

“I thump until I have the answer, Freddy. Might happen in the next second. Might be next week. But I’m gonna thump until I figure out who killed Jeanine. When I figure it out, I’m going to cut the killer’s heart out and feed it to the sharks.”

“Please, Wren,” Freddy whispered, backing out.

Three more thumps rattled the baseboard. Then Wren froze. A savage roar tore from his throat, low and feral like a lion scenting blood. He had it.

He stripped off the glove, letting the leather drop to the floorboards. His fingers grazed the cross-hatched grip of the .38 snub-nose nested beneath his arm. Cold steel. Reliable steel. He snapped his fedora into place, pulled his trench coat tight against the city chill, and slammed the door behind him.

Eddie Stanky’s joint smelled like stale draft beer and wet wool. Stanky sat alone in the rear booth under a buzzing neon sign, counting a stack of greasy bills.

Wren slid onto the vinyl bench opposite him, right hand buried deep inside his coat. Stanky looked up, eyes narrowing behind smoke. He didn’t reach for a weapon. Instead, a twisted, knowing smirk spread across his scarred lip.

“Took you long enough, Evens,” Stanky rasped. “Too bad you’ve got the wrong guy.”

The streetlights flicker outside, the neon hums, and Wren’s finger rests on the hair-trigger. Did Eddie set the trap, or is Wren walking into one? How does the confrontation end?

Writer’s Prompt: Tina Buffanti: A Hard-Boiled Tale of Murder and Premonitions

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Tina Buffanti inherited a PI business, a loaded gun, and a burning need to send her father’s killer to an early grave.

Writer’s Prompt

The rain in this city doesn’t wash anything away; it just turns the grit into a slick, black coat. I stood in front of “Buffanti Investigations,” the gold lettering on the door still peeling like a scab. My father, Mike, spent thirty years behind that glass before Dr. Mark Zilgar put two rounds in his chest.

The official report said it was a mugging gone wrong. My gut said otherwise. Mike had been tailing Zilgar for weeks, snapping long-range shots for the doctor’s “soon-to-be-ex.” He’d caught the good doctor doing more than reviewing charts with his head nurse—he’d caught the kind of intimacy that ruins reputations and loses licenses. Then, Mike ends up in the morgue, and the camera? Conveniently missing.

I don’t have the photos, and I don’t have a witness. What I have is a legacy of stubbornness and a Smith & Wesson that feels heavy in my purse.

My first order of business wasn’t filing paperwork or calling a lawyer. I walked into “Petals & Thorns” on 5th Street.

“Help you, Tina?” the florist asked, eyes darting to the black armband I was wearing.

“Lilies,” I said, my voice as cold as the marble in Zilgar’s lobby. “A massive spray. For Dr. Mark Zilgar’s visitation.”

The florist paused. “Zilgar? Tina, the man is still alive. I saw him on the news this morning.”

I leaned over the counter, the scent of damp earth filling my lungs. “He is for now. But I’ve always had a knack for premonitions, and I’m betting his schedule is about to clear up permanently.”

I walked out into the downpour. Across the street, Zilgar’s black sedan pulled up to his clinic. I reached into my bag, my fingers brushing the cold steel.

Finish the Story

The scent of lilies is already in the air, but the trigger hasn’t been pulled. Does Tina find the missing camera in Zilgar’s car, or does she become the very monster she’s hunting? How does the final confrontation end?

Writer’s Prompt: A Father’s Ashes, A Son’s Secret: A Story of Betrayal and Vengeance

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Writer’s Prompt

Frenchy Gamache never missed a day. Rain, illness, exhaustion — nothing kept him from visiting Charlie Evans at the assisted care living center at 4:00 p.m. Charlie, once a quick-witted storyteller, now drifted between worlds, his memories dissolving like fog retreating before the sun.

Most days, Charlie didn’t know his own name. But that day — that terrible day — clarity returned. His hands trembled as he gripped Frenchy’s sleeve and whispered, “He’s trying to kill me. My son… he wants me gone.”

Frenchy hesitated. Dementia was a thief of truths — replacing memories with ghosts. Was this another ghost… or the last honest message Charlie would ever speak?

Two days later, Charlie was dead.

Thirty-six hours later, he was ash.

No funeral. No goodbye. No dignity.

Frenchy stood outside the crematorium, fists clenched, heart burning with certainty: Charlie’s son hadn’t just wanted him gone — he made it so.

And Frenchy vowed, with cold resolve,

he would make him pay.

Writer’s Question

What moment in this story convinces you that Charlie’s death was murder — and how would you begin Frenchy’s revenge arc?

Flash Fiction Prompt: Christmas Justice: Two Misfits, One Dirty Job, and a Loan Shark’s Surprise

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When a grizzled ex-con and a street-smart teen team up to settle a debt, the holiday spirit takes a dark, dangerous turn.

Prompt

Harvey lit his last cigarette like a man lighting a fuse and said, “Kid, Christmas ain’t about giving—it’s about payback done with a bow.”

Eighteen-year-old Dante had been in trouble since he could crawl, but this time the trouble wore a Santa hat. His grandma’s life savings were gone—snatched by a loan shark who smiled while she cried. Harvey, a seventy-year-old relic from a different kind of crime, decided that was one sin too many. The kid reminded him of himself before life got heavy, before the bottle, before the regrets.

Now they sat in Harvey’s rusted Ford pickup outside the shark’s neon-lit “pawn shop,” the December wind howling through cracks in the door. The plan wasn’t perfect—it never was—but it had heart. A little misdirection, a fake police scanner, and a duffel bag full of IOUs written in blood and nerve.

Tonight wasn’t about revenge. It was about redemption—gift-wrapped, with Grandma’s name on the tag.

Question for Readers

If you were in Harvey and Dante’s place, would you go through with the plan—or find another way to deliver Christmas justice?

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