Response – JSW Prompt 7-29-2017

I know I am way behind on JSW prompts. At least, my responses and re-blogging your responses. July was a busy month and the writing bug just withered away. I know August will be better! So, here’s to a great month of Just Start Writing prompts!

Feel free to join in and respond to the prompt. Please try to keep your response under 300 words. If you reply, I will re-blog your post to my site (sometimes I am slow, but I get there).

You can tell a lot about a womans mood just by her hands. For instance, if they are holding a gun, shes probably angry.


Y’d think it would be self-explanatory, but I’ve known some dense ones in my time.  Most of’em, consequently, are sleeping in the dirt. Real restful, that.

A lady holding a gun don’t sit well with me. Ladies are ladies. Guns are not. Nor are they made for ladies, what with their killing ability and all. Course lots of folk disagree, most of them those very ladies.

So that’s how I come to find myself standing at the top of the stairs, hands raised, dark-haired lady pointing her pistol at me. Damn uncomfortable, for sure.

“Thought  i told ya not to come back here!”

“Ah, Rosie, you’d of missed me if I didn’t come back now and again.”

She gave me that look. “I’ll miss ya right to the gave you don’t get outta here.”

“Don’t be so darn mean,” I replied. “I brought ya a bag of penny candies.”

“Penny candies don’t make up for what you did, Jake.”

“It was only once, Rosie, I swear.”

“Swearing in my house now?”

Used to be my house and now it apparently ain’t. Maybe I’m one of them dense ones. Sure didn’t think she’d act this way.


Wood-chips flew up next to my foot.

“Darn, woman!”


“What’cha….” I stumbled back down’em steps and to the door, falling outside. You know it, I got to my feet and ran like the devil was after me. And maybe he was cause that damn woman ran me all the way out-of-town with that pistol.

Least I gotta eat them candies.








blue chair

Flash Fiction for the Practical Practitioner

The Lost Moment

He lingered at the entrance to the small cafe, transfixed by the grey-blue chair. She’d been sitting there the last time he’d seen her. Dark hair. Grey eyes. Slim neck. Long legs.

His heart jumped at the memory, the feel of her hand in his. They’d spent so many magical days together, exploring the nooks and crannies of the city. Picnics on the Seine. Crying at Notre Dame. Sneaking up the Eiffel Tower. The Louvre. The Pere Lachaise Cemetery, searching for the distant possibility of ancestors..

They’d met in a quaint little town in the west of France, each reaching for the same item in the market. Had ended up laughing and having dinner. A year later they married. Three children, a dog, and several houses later, retiring, looking forward  to peaceful days and romantic nights.

With a sigh, he moved on. If only he’d had the courage to talk to her that first day.