Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner 9-27-2017

The challenge for Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner opens early Thursday morning, September 21st. 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, September 29th, 2017.

Flash Fiction for the Practical Practitioner


He leaned back in the taxi, ignoring the glitterati of the city around him.  It had been a long day, dawn to dusk, full of horns and exhaust and the low, steady, rumble in the heart of the city.

Beethoven sounded loud in the cab – Dun Dun Dun Da – and he pulled out his cell.


“The vote came in about fifteen minutes ago, Mr. Dunbar.”


“Sandy Thompson won.”

“I see.”

There was a long pause. “What did you wish me to do, sir?”

“Nothing at all.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, Mrs. Jones, I am.”

He clicked off the phone.  “Nothing at all,” he repeated to himself. He had Ms. Thompson right where he wanted her.

The sounds of the city were music to his ears.


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.”


“Like Jack the Ripper!”

Tom’s eyes widened. “Truth?”


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?”



Another clatter.

“Someones coming!”



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.




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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.


“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!”



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

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






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Flash Fiction for the Practical Practitioner


“Do you think it would be good to eat?”

She cuffed him. “Birds aren’t for eating!”

“Of course they are! I know they are!”

“You are nothing but a silly boy. You just wanting to kill everything.”

The bird’s tail feathers twitched and both were instantly mesmerized, eyes taking in every detail. Bo-Bo flicked his tail, making silent meowing sounds.

Princess curled her tail, cuffing him again on the ear with one paw. “Stop that. You’ll scare it away. It’s pretty.”

“Pretty? Pretty? Who cares about pretty?”

She sniffed, just enough to show her disdain.  “Killer.”


“Take that back!” she hissed.

“You take it back!”

They tumbled together, teeth and claws. Neither realized the bird was gone until too late.

Both hissed, glaring at each other.

“What mother would name her kitten Bo Bo?”

“Better than Princess.”

“No it’s not! Princess is a great name.”

“Is not!”



Another bird settled on the fence.



“Good to eat.”




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.


blue chair


Flash Fiction for the Practical Practitioner

The Lost Moment

He lingered at the entrance to the small cafe, transfixed by the grey-blue chair. She’d been sitting there the last time he’d seen her. Dark hair. Grey eyes. Slim neck. Long legs.

His heart jumped at the memory, the feel of her hand in his. They’d spent so many magical days together, exploring the nooks and crannies of the city. Picnics on the Seine. Crying at Notre Dame. Sneaking up the Eiffel Tower. The Louvre. The Pere Lachaise Cemetery, searching for the distant possibility of ancestors..

They’d met in a quaint little town in the west of France, each reaching for the same item in the market. Had ended up laughing and having dinner. A year later they married. Three children, a dog, and several houses later, retiring, looking forward  to peaceful days and romantic nights.

With a sigh, he moved on. If only he’d had the courage to talk to her that first day.




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.