Flash Fiction for the Practical Practitioner 8-12-2017


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Flash Fiction for the Practical Practitioner

She watched the red-haired boy from the back of the bus, excited to be on the way to Hogwarts with Ron Weasley.

Paul McCartney had written “Eleanor Rigby” for her. They’d had a torrid affair, but, devastated when Linda died, he’d pulled away.

She’d tried an affair with Tom Cruise, but he was too short.

Harrison Ford, but he was too old.

Hamlet, but really, who needed that?

So, she’d started an affair with Chris Crenshaw, rock-n-roll and sex god all wrapped in one. They were going to get married as soon as he dumped the latest ‘it’ girl on his arm.

She hated ‘it’ girls. So pretty. So stupid. So vapid.

The bus stopped and Ron-who-wasn’t-Ron disembarked. She like Harry better, anyway,

At the next stop, she stepped into the drizzle, heading to H&H Accounting.

“Morning,” the first H said as she walked in.

The second H called, “I need these figures yesterday!”

She sat down to enter them into the computer.

“I’m going to lunch with Chris, today,” she told them.  “I have to leave by eleven.”

She never even saw the bus coming.

Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers 7-26-2017


Guide for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers

1. A prompt photo will be provided each Monday pm to be used as a base to your story. Please include photo prompt with your story.
2. Linking for this challenge begins on Monday pm and runs to the following Monday pm.
3. Please credit photo to photographer.
4. The story word limit is 100 – 150 words (+ – 25 words). Please try to stay within this limit.

This week’s photo prompt is provided by Louise with The Storyteller’s Abode

“She’ll be a good one once we get her in dry-dock and shape her up.”

“Have I told you lately you’re out of your mind?”

“Well, not since fifteen minutes ago.”

“And here I thought it had been longer than that.”

The both stared out at the stranded boat.

“Who does she belong to?”

“Salvage to the salvager.”

Silent, the two men picked their way across the sand and rocks, stopping next to the boat. She was small but in fair condition, deck splattered with bullet-holes.

“You hired me to find the ships to salvage and sell.  I’m doing that.” A touch of defensiveness in his voice.

“Salvage her,” his boss said after a moment, starting to turn away, pick his way back across the sand. “Make sure you find those drugs. Nobody steals from me and gets away with it.”

A moment later, he was gone.


Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers Week 7-18-2017 – Response 7-26-2017

Guide for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers

1. A prompt photo will be provided each Monday pm to be used as a base to your story. Please include photo prompt with your story.
2. Linking for this challenge begins on Monday pm and runs to the following Monday pm.
3. Please credit photo to photographer.
4. The story word limit is 100 – 150 words (+ – 25 words). Please try to stay within this limit.

Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers

This week’s photo prompt is provided by J.S. Brand.


Standing at the bottom of the stairs finally put his reality into perspective. This place was not his place. He would never be able to make this place his. Slamming a wrong too many times didn’t make it right.

He’s have to climb the stairs, chance what lay beyond. The realization scared the crap out of him, but what other choice did he have? To stay here was to die. He had no illusions the Master would relent and allow him to live, just because it was what he wanted.

No, death or leaving and he dared not choose death. Death was final, even for one such as him.

He heard the sounds of pursuit, knew he had but moments to make his decision. Blood pounded in his ears. Fear curled like a cat in his soul.

The next moment, he ran up the stairs, the Master’s hold on him lessening with every step. Reaching the top, he looked back. For the first time, he knew no regrets.

Turning away from the past, he ran, light and free, in the future.


A photo prompt topic is to be used as your ‘muse’. They will arrive promptly at midnight each Thursday morning. Include the photo prompt and its credits with your story on your blog. All stories are to be crafted and honed to under 200 words in length.


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It was impossible to see far into the cave, but that didn’t matter.  What was he here for if not to explore, take risks, feel life flashing through his veins?

“You sure you want to do this?” Cricket asked.

He glanced over at her, face rimmed with the fur of her hood. So beautiful.

“Yes.” This was all he had left. This and Cricket, but he wouldn’t have either long. He didn’t want her to watch. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. And he damn well just didn’t want to put her through the trial.

“You will be careful?”

“Of course.”

“And come back?”

There was the rub. Coming back.

“Love you, Cricket,” he said, kissing her cold lips. “Always.”

She smiled. He didn’t want her to suffer. She didn’t want him to go, yet she wanted to respect his wishes in death as she had in life.

“Love you,” she replied, eyes meeting his for a moment before looking away. Listened to the swish of the oars, the crunch of snow and ice. Water like wind to wash away tears.

When she looked back, he was gone.




Response – JSW Prompt 7-10-2017 on 8-4-2017

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).

The watcher. He watches everyday looking down on the world below. no one ever knows he or she is there, buy for some odd reason you look up and see them starring right at you.


I remember him standing there, on the top step, lantern in hand, watching. Ever watching. Night after night, as dusk grew across the land until dawn broke. Watching. If I had known how to comfort him, I would have with glad heart, but sometimes when a man is broken nothing will bind him whole.

Day after day. Week after week. Year after year. His stood his lonely vigil, longing into the night. He ate little, slept less, days spent in silence, his counselors and I decision-making in his stead.

Nights I cried, as broken as he. But nobody saw, or knew, of the cracks inside of me. That much I could do for him.

I was a Queen alone, weight wearing heavy on my shoulders as my husband grew more and more a ghost.

A year ago, we buried him. Now I am truly alone. What little life remains in me grows weary. His heartbreak haunts me, knowing there was nothing I could do to salve his soul.

Now, every night, I stand on the top step, lantern in hand, watching. Ever watching. Night after night, as dusk grows across the land until dawn breaks. Watching. Because now, I know the truth.

When a woman is broken nothing can bind her whole.



Friday Fictioneers 7-1-2017

I’d greatly appreciate some feedback on this one.

PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields


The street was cobbled, narrow, splashed with sun and shadow. I heard the distant tolling of St. Andrews ricocheting through blood and bone and marrow, sea songs deep where I had no control.

It was death I heard calling.

I stepped into the shadows, walking to the land of bones. Sun. Shadow. Sun. Shadow. Sun. Sea salt and brine. Nowhere else to run.

Drowning in air.

I felt the pain before I heard the shot.

Sand. Fish-rough hands. A hand grasping my shoulder.

The sea always calls home its own.


Falling, drifting, far out beyond land. The land of bones.


Response – JSW 6-19-2017


Mistakes. Everybody makes them. I do. You do. We all do. Some say even God does. Whites. Blacks. Reds. Yellow. Some think killing is right; others wrong. I don’t know if its right or not right. I’ve never been religious enough to know the mind of God. Didn’t need no god to fill my blood with pain and sorrow. The Devil’s done enough of that already.

Interviewer: Did you feel you had a right to kill that man?

Right? I can kill a deer, can’t I?

Interviewer: In season, sure. But a man isn’t a deer.

Same as a deer ain’t a man. You think men got the right to kill that deer, but that deer don’t have no right to kill the man trying to kill him?

Interviewer: Well, I don’t know that. It seems like that would be another issue altogether.

Then you’re wrong.

Interviewer: All right, so tell me why I am wrong?

You don’t know, mister, I can’t tell you.

Interviewer: Why can’t you tell me?

If I killed a man because he broke into my house, you’d say I acted in self-defense. I wouldn’t be found guilty. I wouldn’t go to jail.

Interviewer: That’s true.

Then how come I can’t kill a man who comes on my property and kills my deer? Seems to be this worlds got right and wrong mixed.

Interviewer: But you weren’t defending yourself, but rather a deer.

Deer got just as much right to live as me. You. Anybody at all.

Interviewer: Maybe so, okay I’ll grant you that. But you let the deer attack that hunter. Then you shot him, the hunter, I mean, in the head.

Gotta put him down. Wouldn’t the hunter have done the same to the deer?

Interviewer: I have to say you have a unique view of the world, Mr Ringer, but I dare say it doesn’t fit in with the current laws of the world. A man is more important than a deer. A deer is just a creature. Men are meant to have domination over the animals of the land.

Gods supposed to have domination over the earth, yet men die all the time. That’s where the mistakes started.

Interviewer: So you are saying God makes mistakes? What about free will?

Don’t know. Don’t know God. Yet. But seems to me whats right for one is right for another. Deers got free will, too. Right to protect himself in his own home.

Interviewer: But instead of calling an ambulance, instead of helping the man, you killed him. He was still alive. He could have been saved.

Man puts down a horse with a broken leg. Seems the broken leg probably came from some fool thing man asked the horse to do.

Interviewer: But….

No buts. Gotta be one way or the other. Not right to keep making the same mistakes.

Interviewer: But…..

I ain’t afraid. Mayhaps, I’ll meet God. Ask him some questions. Understand why he let the first mistake stand.

The prisoner stood, shackles around his wrists, tethered to the chain about his waist.

“Thank you,” the Interviewer said, standing also..

The prisoner looked at him. Gave a small smile. “I’m passing the torch to you. Keep fighting the mistakes. Not just deer and men, but all of them. Somebodys got to, and that must be you, you came to talk to me.”

Then he was gone.

The reporter stood motionless, staring into the distance, following the execution in his mind.  The table. The straps. Drugs and going the sleep. Funny, how sleep and death were sometimes the same. Like deer and men? Maybe?

The prisoner had looked at his notebook when he’d said he was passing the torch and now the Interviewer looked at that notebook. Inside were only words, but words which could make or break a man? Maybe a world.

Once he heard the prisoner pronounced dead, he packed up his notebook and went home.