Sunday Photo Fiction -The Premier Maître de ballet


She sat on the wall, legs kicking with the tap, tap, tap of patient leather on wood. Even though she had heard her mother calling, she continued to stare at the pink flowers. They danced in the cool breeze, the promise of mystery whispering in her ear, words just beyond her understanding.

“There you are. How many times have I asked you to come when I call?  Dinner is getting cold.” Without looking, Jenny knew mother was shaking her head because she always shook her head when she was mad.

Instead, Mother sat beside her, wrapping an  arm round her daughter. She wanted to understand her daughter’s silence world . Why this particular spot? It was nothing but a patch of meadow sneaking into the trees, slashes of sunlight gilding the ground around them.

“Why do you come here, Jenny?” Mother asked, speaking in the certain way she did when sad. If only Jennie could talk, but she didn’t. Doctors said she would never speak, never be normal.

Mother rose and helped Jenny to her feet.  “I cooked your favorites.”

Small smile.

As they walked away from the clearing, Jenny twisted back for one last look. “I’m sorry, faeries.” she whispered. “I’ll be back.  Promise.”


JSW Prompt 8-2-2016


He knew it well, having lived his ‘After’ life as a Dream Taker. Men came to his village when he was ten, tested all the children.  He was the only one taken from his family, his world, to a cold place on the far side of the planet. Later, he learned the building was once a  slaughter-house,  but it made no difference. Nothing made much difference  anymore.

No happiness dwelt there, nor any sign of care and kindness. He lived hardship and pain, lived where fragile bodies broke. His body stood against the torment, but he knew it would not last forever.  Someday, some time soon, he would break, too.

Each day, he struggled to remember the broken fragments of his life ‘Before,’ as if somebody had taken a sponge and wiped away parts of his memory. There was nothing left. It was too late for him. If they remembered him at all, they would draw away in fear. If they didn’t, it would be as if he’d never existed.

Maybe he hadn’t existed ‘Before’ they took him away, ‘Before’ they changed him into something so unlike himself he could never go back. Each day, he tortured himself, no longer knowing why.

His alarm buzzed and he rose, gathering his midnight dream-coat and heading to the Commander’s office.

Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers

 Late but who cares:)

photo-20160807074033992This photo prompt is provided by Yinglan.

The Soccer Ball

Sammy had  never played soccer before, but he was anxious to give it a try. The way his folks were, he’d sit inside a plastic bubble for the rest of his life, protected from the hate and unhappiness and general muckiness of the world. If he had his way, he’d be out rolling in the dirty (which carried disease), climbing the highest trees (from which he might fall and break his neck), riding his Uncle’s horses (from which he might also fall and, at least, break a leg and which also carried disease.)

On the field, the boys stopped, looked. He looked back. A long detente between the status that was and the status which wanted to be. Finally one of the boys held up the soccer ball.

“Wanna play?” he asked, light brown hair falling into his eyes. “We could use another.”


Friday Fictioneers 19 August 2016



Photo provided  by  C.E.Ayr 

It had been years since they’d found the wasp’s nest on the beach and taken it home. They were stars in their own orbit, blind to the rest of the world. Until they weren’t.

“Look, each chamber is separate, yet conjoined. We are the center  and each separate chamber is another aspect of our lives. Maybe your divorce is here and my first crush is here.”

“What happens when we run out of chambers?” he’d asked

She smiled sadly and never came back.