Enlightened #WritePhoto



I was alone.

My boots clicked on the stones. Ahead of me, a shape blurred and shifted. Behind me, another. But I didn’t look at either now. It wouldn’t change anything. They would still be there and I would still be alone.

The arch at the end of the walkway glowed with the promise of knowledge.

I wanted to run to it. I wanted to run from it.

With each step, I grew more uncertain. My thoughts a whirlpool.

Curious. Apathetic. Eager. Detached. Anxious. Calm.


I stopped. My body fought to escape its skin, pushing, pulling, stretching. Trapped, it grabbed my mind, twirling it like cotton candy, and tucked the feathered bits into a crevice I couldn’t access.

I straightened. Continued walking. Reached the arch directly after my first shadow and slightly before my second shadow.

We were alone.

And we were ready to step into the light.




My attempt at #writephoto, a weekly writing prompt for poetry/flash/short stories hosted by Sue Vincent




Turning comments off as I won’t be available to approve or reply. Just wanted to write a little something for Sue’s wonderful writephoto prompt. It’s been too long. 💕 Be well, my friends. 



Chaos in Black & White


We talk, words spinning around each other like flurries caught in a gust of wind.

Eventually, our thoughts drift down and settle on the ground in a blanket of confusion.

With an incredible vocal range, we sing a song of misunderstanding. High notes, encapsulated in love, float through the air. Low notes, heavy with meaning, cling to our faces and hair. They are a jumble of uncertainty.

His world, in black and white, frustrates me.

My world, in greens, yellows, and blues, frustrates him.

We never tried to understand.

Now we do.

Only to discover we are mutually colorblind.




Flash Fiction Challenge over at Carrot Ranch

February 1, 2018 prompt: Black and White In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story that features something black and white.



Choosing #WritePhoto



There was a prophecy.

I didn’t believe it.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want to or that it was, necessarily, bad, I just didn’t hold with such nonsense. Someone foretold something about someone at some time. Vague, much?

Also, these things always seem to be in riddles. They can never come right out and tell a person that he will die next Thursday or he will inherit ten goats from a long-lost uncle, named Fred, in three years.

Anyway, I heard the prophecy, as one often does, from a seer over a cup of tea that tasted like a mixture of cinnamon, dirt, and confusion.

I was a chosen one.

I scoffed.

Or someone near me. (Near me in bloodline or proximity?) One who would do great and terrible things. (Well, shit, were they great or terrible?) And I, or the person of undisclosed closeness to me, would know the prophecy was to come about on the eve of the day of his birth (now she’s precise) 15 years after the death of a loved one.


Fascinating stuff, eh?

I had questions. She refused to answer them. Said she wouldn’t even if she could. Which led to more questions (which she wouldn’t or couldn’t answer). Ah, such fun we had that day.

As I recall, I left before the tea got cold but not before she grabbed my wrist, imploring me to take this seriously, and telling me to watch for the day the world turned blue.

Delightful tea notwithstanding, I left in a hurry.

And, of course, I saw the blue of twilight (not altogether unusual) as I wrapped my son’s birthday gift. He would be turning 15. Still, I dismissed the old seer’s words as coincidence until he peeked his head in the room and gazed out the window. “Whatever you’re wrapping, I don’t want it. I want this,” he tossed a photo of my late wife in my lap. “It’s been 15 years. Time we bring Mum back, eh, Dad?”



Happy New Year!


My attempt at #writephoto, a weekly writing prompt for poetry/flash/short stories hosted by Sue Vincent




Self Care


She looked in the mirror at the woman she swore she would never become.

A soft, almost-youthful face with fine lines.

A handful of grey hairs hiding beneath dark blonde strands.

A pudgy middle pushing the waistband of her favorite pair of jeans.

The image irritated her. Angered her.

How had she become this…thing? This wife of a man who created her with perfectly weaved words of manipulation and cruelty then cheated on her for becoming his creation.

Time for some self-care.

She grabbed the prescription bottle, smiling for the first time in months, and dumped her husband’s heart medication.



Flash Fiction Challenge over at Carrot Ranch

November 30, 2017 prompt: Self Care In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story that includes self care.



Direction #WritePhoto



“No, no. That’s east. I’m sure of it.” Angela looked back at the three strangers she’d managed to pick up along her travels.

The tall, ginger-haired boy tilted his head. “I think that’s west.”

“North,” the little girl toddled up next to him. “South!”

Ginger-hair sidestepped the girl, giving Angela a look. “Why did we bring her?”

Skinny girl punched his arm, “Shit, she’s a baby. We couldn’t leave her. What’s wrong with you?”

Ginger-hair rubbed his arm then shrugged, “Kids are sticky and loud.”

“Okay,” Angela took a breath, blowing it out loudly. “Enough. We go that way. With the little girl.”

“Which way?” Skinny girl asked. “You’re flailing your arms around and expecting us to know what you mean. Also, let’s not forget we don’t know where the hell we’re going and no one agrees on…anything, actually. And can we give the girl a name at least?”

“Toward the sunrise,” Angela said.

“Sunset,” Ginger-hair corrected.

“Dammit!” Skinny girl flung her hand at the nearby house, “I’ll say it again. It’s right there. A house. Signs of life. Possible help. No-brainer. And, fine, I’ll give her a name. She’s…Pam.”

Now-Pam yelled, “Pam!” Skinny girl smirked. Ginger-hair did not. Angela opened her mouth to argue and Now-Pam lowered her voice, “no house.”

“It’s right there, squirt,” Skinny girl pointed. “See?”

“See?” Now-Pam poked her stubby finger to the branches seemingly growing out of the roof.

“Huh,” Ginger-hair said. “I don’t remember that tree being there.”

Angela backed away, “It wasn’t.”

“No tree,” Now-Pam said. “Bad house. Run.”




My attempt at #writephoto, a weekly writing prompt for poetry/flash/short stories hosted by Sue Vincent




Rubbing Salt in the Wound #WritePhoto



“There used to be water here,” he pointed to the cliff. “Up to the standing stones.”

She nudged some loose debris with her foot. “This is cool, isn’t it? And, no, there wasn’t. Water, I mean.”

“How do you know?” He asked.

“I don’t,” she shrugged. “I just figured if it was you saying it, it must not be true.”

“Well, there was water here,” he insisted. “And it had salt in it.”

She laughed, “Salt? Okay, yeah, whatever.”

“Stop kicking that stuff. It was part of the water. Still is.”

“What’s wrong with you that you’ve got to make stuff up all the time?” She glared at him. “Water that had salt inside of it? You’re crazy, you know that?”

“I don’t know why I bother. Let’s go.”

She crouched and studied the debris. “I want to stay here and check this out.”

He grabbed her arm. “Don’t. Touch. That.”

“Why? Will the little, dried-up, old dirt eat me for lunch?” She yanked her arm from his grip and reached out.

“With salt,” he mumbled. The seaweed shot up and snaked around her body, thin tentacles covering her mouth and dragging her under the ground.



Happy Halloween and Blessed Samhain, my friends. 🎃💀


My attempt at #writephoto, a weekly writing prompt for poetry/flash/short stories hosted by Sue Vincent




Flash Fiction Contest: TwitterFlash 9×11


This contest asks writers to pen a flash in 99 words composed in tweets: 11 tweets, 9 words each. Here’s my attempt (not an entry, just challenging myself for fun). First are the actual tweets, then, same story in 11 sentences (each with 9 words).

Psst…the tweets are interactive. Like, RT, or reply right from this post. Give it a go…




They find me. Crouched behind a rusted filing cabinet.

Gloved hands grip my bare arms, lifting me easily.

Shoving me into bright sun outside the hospital ward.

I run back, stumble, fall hard on the asphalt.

I reach for the door. I reach for him.

Balancing on my left palm, I almost make it.

With their heavy boots, they step on my fingers.

They laugh. I shout. They threaten. I kick. Dammit!

They grab me, make me promise to stay away.

Tell me he is sick and dangerous. They lie.

Then, again, so do I. They will die tonight.




Tweet some fiction, fellow tweeps. You could win $25. 🙂 Check it out here.

Flash Fiction Contest: When I Grow Up


This contest asked writers to pen a flash in 100 words from the perspective (and voice) of your 6-yr-old self about…you guessed it…”When I Grow Up”. Here’s my attempt (not an entry, just challenging myself for fun).


Potentially Right

I hear them.

I’m in the hallway at school, cuddling Oscar, my purple owl stuffie. I’m petting his fur. Owls don’t have fur but I pretend it’s feathers. And that’s okay.

Their voices creep from under the door with number 17 on it. That’s my classroom. Words like “simple” and “incapable” hit me. I pull Oscar closer. They say I do not understand things.

I don’t like coloring circles in red and squares in blue to prove I know the difference. I know.

I know trapezoids, octagons, parallelograms… I want to find a new shape, maybe, when I grow up.


Flash Fiction Contests


Check out the flash fiction contests this month at Carrot Ranch. They start today and a new one is up every Tuesday and Thursday.



Click here to see the information for each contest.

There’s something for everyone.

Pick one (or more) and join in.

Free to enter. $25 prizes.


Go write some flash! 🙂 #FFRodeo


Selfless #Flash4Storms


Night is soft, quiet, speaking in layered moonlight.


She whispers through trees, between branches.

Do not be afraid. You are not alone…

Beautiful darkness soothes us even though she knows it is her that we fear.



Written for the hurricane relief flash fiction challenge over at Lemon Shark. I’ve just raised the first $1. 🙂 See? That was easy. Hope you join in.