JSW 4-24-2017- Response 5-10-2017

Feel free to jump in and tackle the prompt yourself. Please keep your posts under 300 words and clean. If you link back to this post, I will re-blog your post to my site.



I am too sober for this.

I am too sober for anything.

I am too sober to live.

I am too sober to die.

I am.


I dislike disclaimers, but I feel I need one for this post.  I tried and tried and tried to write my normal story for this prompt but, the above is all that would come and will come. A character somewhere is in deep pain. I hope he/she will eventually come to tell her/his story.



Sunday Photo Fiction 3-19-2017 (for Week of 3-12-2017)

Each week a photo is used, donated by one of the participants of Sunday Photo Fiction, and the idea is to write a story with the photo as a prompt in around 200 words.

“So this,” she said, “is the reason we skipped school, drove half way to nowhere before your car RAN out of gas,” said in the way only irate girlfriends knew to speak, “walked the rest of the way, paid the last of MY money to see some dumb-ass exhibit with a dumb-ass model dressed as an astronaut.”

Somehow, I’d known she was going to react that way. We’d be having one of ‘those’ conversations real soon.

“It’s not just an astronaut.”

“Yeah. It’s a dumb-ass fake astronaut in front of a dumb-ass landing something.”

“Module. A landing module”

She snorted and walked away, pulling out her phone to call friends for a ride. She didn’t ask if I wanted to tag-along.

Stepping over the railing, I slipped inside the open back of the space suit, feeling it close around me like a glove. My radio crackled to life.

“That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.”




The challenge for Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner will open early Wednesday morning, February 22nd. Allow the prompt to take you anywhere you want to go! (Limit your stories to 200 words.)

This challenge is open until 11:00 pm Friday night, March 3rd, 2017.


The emptiness slashed against the sharp edges of his soul, leaving him raw and bleeding inside. The rows of abandoned parking spaces ran endlessly on, he imagined, to the end of the world. Where had they gone, those mothers and sisters and daughters who once flocked to this empty expanse of asphalt and the abandoned mall beyond?

“Gone,” he said aloud to nobody. “Gone.” As if repeating the word made it not so. Not so lonely; not so abandoned; not so empty. How was it they all disappeared yet the parking lot remained, flat and even and new?

He’d seen nobody since emerging from the shelter. No living being. No bodies. Nothing but empty expanses and abandoned buildings.

Was he the last man on earth? Was this a dream? It felt too real to be a dream. Too empty to be a dream.

He moved towards the abandoned mall. Stealing hurt, but he needed to survive. Was it theft if nobody else was alive? Scavenging, maybe? Maybe not.

Approaching the doors, he saw the hint of a shadow move behind the glass, just a glimpse of motion. Something seen out the corner of one’s eye.

Afraid, he began to run.