Sunday Photo Fiction 4-18-2018

156 05 May 15th 2016


“Skylark, come in Skylark.”

“Bluesky. Skylark.”

“Intelligence says the Grounders have…..” Awkward pause.  “Gone to ground.”

Joshua chuckled; keyed his mike.  “Understood, Bluesky.”

At the first junction of the Skylift, Skylark veered right, out of the city. The other patrol cars spread out in different directions, heading for their beats, radio chatter fading.

“Think we’ll see them today?”

“Better,” Josh replied. “Four more cars hit last night.”

Ten miles out, a figure stood out against the snow. Tall. Dark. Covered in mangy fur.

Josh headed diagonally left.  Heard Randy jack a round into the shotgun. Open the port window.

Some said the Grounders were once human, some said they were older than humans, but it didn’t matter. They were Grounders; they hunted and killed Skyfolk.

‘Back at ya!’ was the new slogan of The Force.

Randy fired and the creature fell. At the same moment, the snowscape exploded with Grounders, shooting up at their car. Randy screamed.

“Holy shit!” Joshua cried, reversing as fast as possible. “10-24! 10-24!”

The car exploded.

Back at ya, indeed.





























































































































































































































































Sunday Photo Fiction 4-9-2018

March 31st 2013



Ridiculous, Perry grumbled around a beak-full of paper. Ridiculous!

I am a gull. A majestic gull. Distantly related to Jonathon Livingston. How dare they command me to deliver a message?

He squawked around paper, dipping close to the waves, thinking about dropping the message in the water, but didn’t. It was never wise to upset the Owl King.

Instead, he caught an updraft and soared high above the waves, dipping and darting through the wind currents, mind and heart dancing.

This, he knew, was living. Jonathon has been right. There was so much more to life than dipping and skimming for tidbits; fighting on the beach for scraps. Seagulls were so much more!

Winging away from the ocean, he flew over the forest, dropping the message down into the hollow tree in which the Owl King lived.

Message delivered and done. Squawking for joy, he soared upwards, free once more to be a seagull.





























































































































































































































































Sunday Photo Fiction 4-1-2018

227 04 April 1st 2018

Sunday Photo Fiction


“All right, so he’s cute. But the clock… A little kitsch isn’t it?”

“She likes things like that,” she replied. “And she collects clocks.”



“Ok, but…”

“What?” Flat.

“Nothing.” Wasn’t worth provoking a fight just to get out of having his name attached to the clock. Gods, the thing was….. ugly.

They left the shop, heading back to their hotel. Later, while he was  down in the weight room, she called her sister.

“Yeah, I got the ugliest one I could find.”

“I bet he hated it!”

They both laughed.

“Oh, he did!”

“Do you think it will work?”

“I hope so.”

“Me, too.” Like so many sisters, they often thought alike.

“At least, while he is worrying about the clock, I can get my work done.”

“I hope so. Annie needs to come home.”

“I know, sister. I’ll bring her home. Don’t worry.”



































































































































































































































































Sunday Photo Fiction 3-26-2018

Sunday Photo Fiction

226 03 March 25th 2018

He waited, as he always waited;  days, months, maybe years. He couldn’t remember anymore. So much he couldn’t remember.

And yet, he remembered the street. So much had changed in the time he’d sat on his bench, through rain and snow, winter and spring, hot and cold. Days blurred together into one endless, continuous, Monday.

Mike’s Sub Shoppe. Long gone. Mike died, he’d heard, left nobody who wanted his business. MacLaree’s. Burned up inside, but none of the surrounding building had caught flame. Now abandoned.

Pete’s Newstand, on the end of the block, sold. Seven times until the final owner ran it into the ground. Didn’t much need papers or magazines these days. Everything was online.

Everything but Mike and his sign. He’d never changed, not his orange vest or black hat, relics from another age.

He lifted his sign as a crowd of daily walkers neared.

‘Peggy, come home.’

Watched as the carefully penned letters faded and ran, cardboard crumbling in the sudden onslaught of rain.

Sunday Photo Fiction 2-28-2018

 225 03 March 18th 2018

Sunday Photo Fiction

“I didn’t know the Boy King was that short!”

Jeff glanced at his assistant.  “The smaller sarcophagi is symbolic, not correct to size. Tut was about 5’11, average for the time.”

“Wasn’t he deformed?”

“He had a club foot, probably as a result of incest. He was also infected with various strains of malaria and, overall, not a healthy guy.”


“Indeed. Which is why we need to learn as much as possible about his life and times.”

“Yeah. You want this little guy in the front case?”

“That would be fine.” As his assistant walked away with the tiny replica, Jeff glanced down at the mummified face of the boy king. “We’ll have you some new DNA just as soon as you’re settled,” he promised with a pat. “Once the miracles of  medical science have their say, you’ll be as good as new.”




Sunday Photo Fiction 3-8-2018

26 Jade Wong March 4th 2018

© Jade Wong

Sunday Photo Fiction

The snowman stood, smiling his silver smile, silver bow tie stuck to his neck with a small twig.  Nobody noticed him. One thing about being made of snow, he always blended in.

Behind him, kids played, shreeking with laughter. If only he could laugh, but no throat, no laugh. Just another deterrent of snowman life.

He’d never seen play before, or kids. Were they little snow beings with little silver bow ties and silver eyes? Or were they something else, something stolen from snowmen myths?

Ruing the lack of feet, scraping snowman butt, he inched around. Somebody in the Snowman Bureau of Affairs needed to do something, pass some law, issue an edict. Snowmen must have feet. Anything else was gross discrimination.

The shapes called kids flashed in his side vision, but they didn’t look like little snowmen. What could they be? Maybe he would be the one ….

A bat smashed into his head, snow flying, eyes and nose and mouth scattering like snowflakes in rain.

“One more down. Let’s find another one!”



Sunday Photo Fiction 2-28-2018

25 Mike Vore February 25th 2018
© Mike Vor

Sunday Photo Fiction

He liked to be alone. Walking through the woods, loafers loud on the plank walkway, the peace of the forest surrounded him. He’d grown up in a house surrounded by woods; had always felt just as home outside as he had in.

Life was different now. He existed in a concrete maze, nary a slash of green anywhere. There were parks, man-made, allowing just enough ‘wild’ to show through the smooth veneer of their civilized mask.

He had money, the fancy house, cars, a lovely wife, but none of it made him happy. Not even his wife and he’d thought he’d loved her long ago.

This wasn’t the way he wanted to live his life. This wasn’t who he was or who he was meant to be.

He stopped at the curve of the walkway, staring off into the woods, listening to the scamper of a squirrel in dead leaves, the rub of branches, the distant call of a hawk. His suit coat dropped to the ground, followed by his watch, wedding ring and wallet. He didn’t need them anymore. Wasn’t that person anymore.

Stepping off into the leaves, he walked away, disappearing into the distant line of trees.


Sunday Photo Fiction 2-28-2018

24 Sascha Darlington February 18th 2018
© Sascha Darlington
Sunday Photo Fiction

The space between the gates was not wide enough for her to slip through so she dropped belly down, squirming under the fence, chain links catching at her hair and hoodie.

Once inside, she took off at a run, reaching the kennels moments later, glancing in each as she trotted down the walkway. Momma and the babies huddled in the last run, puppies protected by Momma’s thin body.

“It’s okay, Momma,” she assured the bitch as she slipped inside. “I won’t hurt you or your pups.”

Rubbing Momma’s neck, she lifted the puppies one by one, cradling them in the lifted front of her sweatshirt.

Carefully, she trotted back to the gate, Momma beside. Placed the puppies one by one on the other side, then slid back beneath the gate, Momma still at her side.

Gathering the tiny balls of fur, she ran to the path leading away from the Institute and back towards town.

“No one is going to hurt your pups,” she promised Momma. “Ever.”

Ever, ever, ever, she promised as she ran.

Not sure how I feel about this story. Something is off, but since I can’t figure it out right now and I’m already late posting, I decided to just take the plunge.

Sunday Photo Fiction 2-5-2018

 22 Dawn Miller February 4th 2018
© Dawn Miller

Sunday Photo Fiction

A Clearing in the Woods

“Ah, hell no,”Kerry groaned, staring at the wheelbarrow then down the grassy path towards the house site. “Really?”

Jay grinned, tee-shirt sleeve pushed up past his elbows. “Really.”

Kerry muttered something, pulling off his jacket and tossing it over a log.

“At least it’s not raining.”

“That’s a miracle.” He paused. “I thought barn-building went out with the old west.”

With a shrug, Jay lifted up the handles of the wheelbarrow.  “Shows how much you Welsh know about American history.”

“At least Chris is happy.”

They started walking deeper into the woods, following the path, hoping that this house would finally make the lead singer happy.

“Not likely,” Kerry opined to their unspoken thoughts.

“Maybe. Maybe not. But I’ll frame a dozen houses if that’s what it takes.”

“Yeah,” Kerry said, pausing a moment to think about life and jobs and friends.

“Yeah. Me, too.”







Sunday Photo Fiction 1-31-2018

20 Eric Wicklund January 28th 2018
Sunday Photo Fiction

One Day In The Garden

“Hey, Chris,” Jay called, “They’ve got you memorialized!”

Chris wandered over. “Damn, my butt looks good.”

“Don’t let your head get bigger.”

“No chance. Look at that leg. Nice.”

“Only you could find a statue sexy.”

“What? You’ve never seen David? Aphrodite and Eros? Venus de Milo? Good god, Jay, what swamp did you crawl out from?”

“Ass. No wait, you think David is sexy?”

“Not in a ‘gotta-have-him’ way, but he is considered rather risque.”

“Newest headlines on National Enquirer! ‘Rock Star Chris Crenshaw in love with statue of David! Begging Italy… Let me take him home!'”

Chris rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I’ll put him right in my bedroom, gaze lovingly at him at night.”

“Wait, you’re never in your bedroom, at least your home bedroom.”

Chris shrugged. “So he’ll get lonely.”

“We could take him on tour. Work him into the opening number.”

“You tell the roadies they have to move his ass cause I won’t.”

“I guess he’ll have to stay in Italy.”

“We’ll visit him when the tour gets there.”

“Hey, that’s right.” Jay grinned. “A night with David. What a great photo op!”

Chris punched him in the arm and walked away.