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.

Word Of The Day 6-30-2017




‘Incapable of being lost

Not destructible.


Perhaps a night outdoors will teach you who’s master in this house, you imperdent, shameless girl!
“The Story Of Waitstill Baxter” by By Kate Douglas Wiggin
I’d shoot myself for the imperdence of the thing if I was goin’ to get well again, but I ain’t.
“Romance of California Life” by John Habberton
I misplaced my remembrall one too many times, so my mum cast a spell on it so it’s imperdible!! Now if only I could remember what that means.


im- (not) + Latin perdere (to destroy).


Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers 6-12-2017

FFfAW 6-6-2017

This week’s photo prompt is provided by Pamela S. Canepa.

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.



“Looks dangerous.”

“It’s just rocks and slope.”

“And trees. Roots. Snakes…”

“How would you rather proceed?”

“Home for a cold beer and the Red Socks.”

“We’re not going home. I hate beer. And the Red Socks should be the Red Sucks.”

“You may not be going home. You may hate beer. And the Red Socks, but I don’t.  See you on the flip side.” He turned and walked away, disappearing quickly into the trees.

His partner made his way over the rocks and down the slope, sliding the final fifty yards on his butt. He didn’t hate beer. Or the Red Socks. He’d said those things to make Carson leave.

A sliver of sky hung low above him. Silence all around; not even a breeze to rustle the leaves. Parting the brush, he peered down the ravine, eyes settling on the opening at the end. The Lost Shepard Mine!

Now, pulling his flashlight, all his.





Flash Fiction for the Practical Practitioner

The challenge for Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner will open early Wednesday morning, April 19th. Allow the prompt to take you anywhere you want to go! (Limit your stories to 200 words.)

Flash Fiction for the Practical Practitioner



All his life, he’d felt awkward in himself, so unlike his family. Straight hair versus curly. Dark skin versus light. Brown eyes versus blue. Plod-along sameness against the wild need to roam free.

He’d roamed for over a year, following a silent call. Why was he different? Who was he? Was he adopted? Found? Just a throw-back to some earlier, unknown, ancestor?

His gaze now never left the ocean. Somehow this was it. Home. Taking a little-used trail through the rocks and scrub, he stepped onto the sand. On the doorstep.

Tossing his pack down, kicking off his boots, he moved towards the surf, belonging sweeping through him as the waves lapped around his feet. He waded further. Further. Water past his hips, armpits.

I’m coming, he cried silently, I’m coming.

Water rose over shoulders, chin, to his top lip. He paused, uncertain, then continued. The water rose over his head. Filled with fear, he struggled for the surface, no longer knowing what was up. What down. Fought to hold his breath, but he couldn’t. Couldn’t last. Couldn’t …….

A moment later, he drew in a lungful of oxygen, flipped his tail and headed out to the open sea.