Sunday Photo Fiction 9-24-2017

Walking in fall was the best, he decided, scuffing his boots through the leaves. He liked the nip in the air, the cold night, the shortening days.

“All right, time to walk on your own,” he said, lifting Andrea off his shoulders and to the ground.

Off she went, tottering and laughing at the crunching leaves.

He hadn’t wanted to take her when her mother died, hadn’t wanted the responsibility. She wasn’t his child, but he was as close to a father as she had ever known.

She tumbled, silent for a moment as if not sure whether to laugh or cry.

His heart melted. A career was a career. This was….

This was….. well, he didn’t know what this was.

Scooping her up, he lifted her above his head, spinning wildly to her shrieks and laughter.

She’d changed something inside of him, something vital, something he’d never wanted but now would never let go.

Dropping her down, he hugged her tight.  “Don’t you worry, baby girl. Daddy’s here forever.”

 

Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner 9-8-2017

Rusty Gate

Flash Fiction for the Practical Practitioner


 

Tom pulled himself up and over the wall, dropping into the overgrown courtyard beyond. “Come on, dude.”

Danny dropped beside him. “This is stupid.”

“Which room?”

“On the left.”

Tom ran across the courtyard, followed by Danny.  They peered into the darkness, seeing a broken table, a blanket of leaves and trash scattered into the corners.

“Who was killed?”

“A hooker.”

“How?”

“Like Jack the Ripper!”

Tom’s eyes widened. “Truth?”

“Yeah.”

A clatter sounded from across the courtyard.

They turned to stare; saw nothing.

“Let’s go.”

Ignoring him, Tom crept into the murder room, foot kicking something under the leaves. He pulled up a rusted knife.

“Is that blood?”

“No.”

“Yes!”

Another clatter.

“Someones coming!”

“Hide!”

“Run!”

The sound of footsteps approaching.

“Run! Run! Run!”

They tumbled out of the room, pounding across the courtyard.  Up and over the wall. Neither stopped running until they reached Tom’s house.

Behind them, in the shadows, something chuckled.

 

FLASH FICTION FOR THE PURPOSEFUL PRACTITIONER 8-26-2017

makesbike

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The challenge for Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner will open early Thursday morning, August 24th. 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, August 31st, 2017.


Flash Fiction for the Practical Practitioner


 

“It’s there again!” he said, peering out beyond the window shade.

“What?”

“The green bicycle.” Whispered.

“Oh for God’s sake, Sam, grow up.”

“But it’s a spy bike,” he assured his mother. “Really.”

“It’s a bike, nothing more.”  She swished back into the kitchen.

“It’s not,” he whispered, still watching.

A window above the bike opened and a boy dropped to the sidewalk. He jumped on the bike and pedaled quickly away.

Sam ran to the door. He was just about to step outside, when his mother called.

“Sam! Come back and finish your supper!”

“But MOMMMMM!”

“No!”

Sulking, he slunk back to the table. “Spies don’t eat peas.”

“Of course they do, Sam. That’s what makes them so sneaky!”

 

 

 

Friday Fictioneers 8-12-2017

PHOTO PROMPT© CEAyr


He balanced on the flat rock, looking into the uppermost round hole.

“What?” Becky asked, pulling on the tattered hem of his shirt. “What?” Anxious. Excited.

“Fairies.”

“What! Let me see!” She pulled his shirt again.

“They’re wearing pink tutus.”

“I don’t believe you.” Hands on hips.

He stepped down.  “Look for yourself.”

Becky scrambled up onto the rock, standing on tip-toes to peer into the hole.

“I don’t see anything,” she complained.

“Look closer.”

She squinted her eyes. Squealed. “I see them!  I see them!”

“What?” He pushed up beside her. “Where!”

Laughing, she jumped down and ran away.

 

 

Sunday Photo Fiction 6-1-2017

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.

201 05 May 28th 2017

“What the frick-n-frack is that?”

“It’s Krakus, Lord of the Anggawho,” Donny replied.

“Ugliest thing this side of… well, forever.”

“Come on, Uncle B. It’s way cool!” Bouncing up and down, Donny started an unbreathable, unbreakable, chatter about the toy and it’s origin and….

B looked around. Caught the eye of a mother who frowned. The sales clerk who shrugged.

Yeah, lots of help ladies, thanks.

No way he was going to get this freaking-fracking ugly crap for his nephew’s birthday. For one, it was ugly as sin, and for two, his bro’s wife would kill him. Or, at least, give him that ‘I-knew-you-be-an-asshole’ look he’d been getting way too often lately.

“Hey, bud! I hear there is a two-foot tall, live-action, GI Joe at the front of the store.  Wanna go see?”

What? It was the first thing which came to mind.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah!” Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce.

The toy shrugged and waited for the next little boy. He’d get dinner yet.

 

spf

Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers 4-10-2017

photo-20170206154748327

photo-20170403154705794

This week’s photo prompt is provided by Yarnspinner. 

Guide for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers

1. A prompt photo will be provided each Tuesday to be used as a base to your story. Please include photo prompt with your story.

2. Linking for this challenge begins on Tuesday and runs to the following Monday evening.

3. Please credit photo to photographer.

4. The story word limit is 100 – 150 words (+ – 25 words). Please try to stay within this limit.


The thing had to have come from here, according to Becky, and what better place to birth a monster? The lingering scent of smoke filled his nostrils, fire out but not forgotten.

Did he believe in monsters? No, not really. All the monsters he’d ever feared had been childhood monstosities under his bed or inside his closet.

Did he want to be here? No. The wildfire had come too close, something of which he needed no reminder.

But here he was. He could tell her he’d come, looked around and seen nothing. Ease her mind. Have a hotdog. Watch the game.

Maybe, one day, she’d get over her fear of monsters. That usually happened, right, at the end of childhood?

Ever hopeful, he headed home, already thinking of the game.

Dark crept out of ash behind him, a gnarled grotesque thing, the smell of fire and smoke swirling around the door as he went inside. Tendrils, like fingers, seeping in.

Sunday Photo Fiction 4-4-2017

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.

196-04-april-2nd-2017

© A Mixed Bag

He could just make out the roof of the house, the stark white of the barn, the lighthouse beyond. If he could see them, they could see them, but would they?

“Daddy?” Strawberry blonde curls tangling in the wind.

“Yes?” He looked down.

“When is Mommy coming back?”

God, it broke his heart. “Never, baby.”

She started to cry and he knelt, folding her into his arms.

“I’m not going to leave you, Baby. Never, never, ever.”

“Ever?” asked her tiny tear-filled voice.

“Never,” he promised, knowing he was lying, but lying had become his life. How else could he keep her safe, keep his promise?

He rose, holding her in his arms, walking back along the trail which led, eventually, to the house. Hopefully, a safe house, at least for the time.

What do you want for dinner?”

“Pancakes!”

He laughed. “Then chocolate chip pancakes it is.”

“Stuffed full!”

“Stuffed full,” he replied, hiding his own tears.

“I love you, Daddy.”

A hesitation. A catch. “I love you, too, baby. I love you, too.”

He hoped, for today, that would be enough.

FLASH FICTION FOR THE PURPOSEFUL PRACTITIONER 4-2-2017

The challenge for Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner will open early Wednesday morning, March 29th. 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, April 7th, 2017.

Flash Fiction for the Practical Practitioner

sneakers

The shoes sat in the closet for days, weeks, months, a year. No more superhero leaps and bounds. No flying the world backwards. No heroes, no villains.

Every day. Month. Year. I looked at the shoes. I should give them away. Banish them from my life.

Just like he said I’d tossed him away.

Sheet around his neck, flying off the roof of the porch. Hospital visit one. Slamming into a brick wall not leapt in a single bound. Hospital visit twelve. Spinning wildly on the tire swing, leaning back, hair in the dirt as he spun. Got up and fell down, cracking his skull on the corner of the steps. Visit thirty-two.

Visit fifty-four. Humpty Dumpty had a last fall. For once, they couldn’t put him back together again.

The doorbell rang. I closed the closet and walked through the empty house. Handing the keys to the realtor, I walked away. Free.