Friday Fictioneers 8-18-2017

If she hadn’t been able to see past the door, she might have imagined there another world in there. A deep forest or an endless horizon of sand. Might have imagined a dark knight on a white horse, a cackling witch or a castle looming in the distance.

She could, however, see beyond to the shower curtain and her purple poof. Just her boring bathroom. Her boring life.

A thump sounded in the bathroom.

She stilled.



No reply.

Took two steps.



Two more steps.

A peek inside.


The scent of wet leaves…….


Sunday Photo Fiction 8-16-2017

208 08 August 13th 2017


“Wow! Look at that!” Arny exclaimed, pointing at the painting on the wall.

“A phone booth. English.”

“No, I meant Dr. Who.”

“Who?” Mike asked. “What’s a Doctor have to do with it?”

“Dr. Who!”

“It’s a police call box. 1928ish. Had nothing to do with any Doctor.”

“NO! Dr. Who! The British show!”

“Right. A British Call Box. I don’t think they have them any more. No need really,” Mike shrugged. “Phones and all.”

Arny rolled his eyes. “It’s Tardis, Dr Who’s time machine.”

“The police used them. Not Doctors.”

“For crying out loud!” Arny cried. “Dr. Who. A British TV show! He travels through space and time in a call box named Tardis.”

Mike sighed, shook his head. “You and your funny imagination.”

Arny threw up his hands. “Hopeless!”  He walked away.

“Hey,” Mike called, hurrying after him. “Speaking of TV shows….. did you hear about that sci-fi show where some weird Timelord roams the Universe?”

Arny stopped, turned slowly.  “No,” he said flatly, “never heard of that one.”

Paused. “Why don’t you tell me about it?”





Friday Fictioneers 8-12-2017


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.


“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.



Flash Fiction for the Practical Practitioner 8-12-2017


JulyMorgueFile file6681324364046

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.

Sunday Photo Fiction 8-6-2017

12 J Hardy Carroll 06 August 2017

© J Hardy Carroll

“What the….”

“Don’t start,” she glared, shifting around in the passenger’s seat to check the kids. Both were buckled snug in their car-seats, sound asleep.

“Why do they do this crap during vacation time?”

“Not everybody goes on vacation at the same time.”

He snorted, mumbling something unkindly towards the street workers.

Why hadn’t they flown? Right, the expense, but with his salary they should have been able to fly round the world.

Oh, yeah, right, he used those miles and monies to treat his girlfriends, not his family. He’d taken one of the many to Paris last month. His family got to go to Myrtle Beach. She loved the beach, but…. Paris?

Ignoring his grumbling, she dozed off and on, relieved to feel the final turn towards home. She couldn’t bear one more moment in his presence.

The car turned into the driveway. He was out before the engine stopped tickling, leaving her with the kids and the unloading.

Hesitating by the back passenger door, she fiddled with the baby’s seat buckle. A moment later, a shot.

The front door slammed open. A man ran out, waving a gun.

Their eyes met. Held.

The killer winked and ran away.




Sunday Photo Fiction 8-1-2017

207 07 July 30th 2017

© A Mixed Bag 2009
[Synthetic Alien Head from the National Space Centre,  Leicester, UK]


“Do you think that’s how they really look?” Rose asked, studying the fake head in the display case.

“Some people think so.” Though he’d give the average human an IQ of about, or below, 79. Generously. Mike sighed.

“I thought they were all huge shiny heads with huge silver eyes.”

Both boys looked at her.

“Huge shiny heads,” Peter questioned, eyebrow raised.

Rose shrugged. “It’s on the internet.”

“Well then, it’s true,” Mike snorted, rolling his eyes.

“I bet you don’t even believe in aliens!”

Both boys shook their heads; watched Rose storm away.

“You’re going to pay tonight.” Peter laughed.

“Got to take one for the team sometimes.”

“Better you than me, bro.”

They both looked over to where Rose stood in front of another exhibit.

“You think she knows?” Peter asked.

“No chance, otherwise she’d of argued.”

“True. That is one of her more charming…attributes.”

Mike hit him in the arm, a gesture still baffling and unfamiliar to him. He started over towards her, Peter following.

“Huge shiny eyes,” Peter muttered, laughing to himself.