Friday Fictioneers 8-4-2021

PHOTO PROMPT© Jennifer Pendergast

“Poor Harold.”

“Who’s Harold?” the children asked.

“The giant who lived across the lake.”

“Was he a real giant?”

“All one hundred and ten feet of him.”

“What happened to him?”

“He was crossing the lake one winter day, early in the morning, when he fell into a hole.”

“How big of a hole?”

“One hundred and ten feet deep hole!”

“What happened?”

“Before he could climb out, the lake froze and all that was left on the surface were his eyes.”


“Could he still blink?”

The speaker looked at the children. Kid’s asked the darndest things.

Friday Fictioneers 7-9-2021

PHOTO PROMPT © Sandra Crook

He remembered the tree from when it was alive, two branching trunks – perfect for climbing! Shade in summer and stark angles against a winter sky. Pink cotton-ball flowers like fourth of July sparklers. Climbing to the top, tree swaying in the wind. Strong trunks and branches which never broke no matter how carelessly he climbed.

He remembered the day he’d come home from college to find nothing but a stump. She’d hated the tree when he climbed to the tippy-top though he’d never been hurt beyond skinned knees and elbows.

He sat on the stump, remembering.

Response JSW 5-3-2021

The JSW Challenge is open to anybody who wishes to participate. Using the writing prompt, write a flash fiction no longer than 500 words and post to your page. The Challenge starts on Monday and runs through Sunday each week. Please remember to link your story back to this post so everyone can read your entry.

The main characters are told that something they have been searching for does not exist.


“That blows.”

“Are you sure it’s not there?”

“Positive, baby. Look for yourself.”

She scrutinized the paper, turning it over and over as if that might make the thing magically appear.

“But I know I saw it. I know I did!”

“Well. apparently not in this lifetime.”

She tossed down the paper. “That is wrong. I know it. I’ve read it a hundred times, both when I was little and then to the kids.”

“Honey, it’s okay. So the name is different.”

“No the name isn’t different. Why would I remember it wrong?”

“A thousand different reasons, hon. You know how tired you always were at night, getting the kids to bed.”

“I wasn’t that tired.”

“Okay, it doesn’t really matter. It’s the same anyway.”

“No it’s not. Why would my brain remember the wrong name?”

“Why do brains do anything?”

“Don’t give me the runaround, Dan. I’m really worried now about my brain.”

“There is nothing wrong with your brain,” he told her again, gently. “Just because you remember Bereinstein Bears and it’s Bereinstain Bears….”

Response to JSW Prompt 1-29-2018

Feel free to join in and respond to the prompt. Please try to keep your response under 300 words(a suggestion, not a rule:). If you reply, I will re-blog your post to my site.

Better late (really late) than never!



Waterfall studied with dogged determination,

Wary of water not in a bowl.

Warm fuzzy heart in a pink sweater.






Response to JSW Prompt 1-31-2018

Feel free to join in and respond to the prompt. Please try to keep your response under 300 words(a suggestion, not a rule:). If you reply, I will re-blog your post to my site.


And they thought it’d really kill me. Twenty-three years. Bah. A heartbeat in my world. Should have cut off my head or put a spike through my heart. But wait… neither of those would have killed me either. As if I was a vampire.

Stupid humans and their stupid superstitions.

Wasn’t easy to crawl out. Soil gets packed down in 23 years, grass has time to dig in roots. Not to mention the coffin and the vault. Those were the easiest to bypass. Finally, shaking roots and dirt from my hair, I pushed through to the surface and rose, looking grandly around me.

The folks at the graveside service two graves over didn’t take to my appearance so grandly. Typically, they screamed and ran, flowers and dirt flying everywhere. The minister held ground for a moment longer, looking as if he wanted to be brave, save his flock from the demon.

As if. Nor was I a demon, but I guess one can’t expect humanity to know the different. But ghee, my skin isn’t even red! Don’t demons have red skin? Glowing eyes.? Horns? That sort of thing?

Anyway, I  waved as the minister ran, heels flying, then kicked up some heels of my own.

The sun was shining. Clouds drifted lazy. Green grass except around the dug grave.

A beautiful day to be alive!

Welcome back to the world, Loki! Welcome home!

Response to JSW Prompt 1-15-2018

Feel free to join in and respond to the prompt. Please try to keep your response under 300 words(a suggestion, not a rule:). If you reply, I will re-blog your post to my site.


pix by csk2017

The fireplace sat cold and alone, nursing memories of warmth and life, the smell of meat and biscuits. Standing there was like coming home, looking at the collage of stone and mortar, tiny green of life struggling at its foot.

It had been a long time since he’d felt the struggle of life.

He never should have left. That was clear enough now, but hindsight was always better and hindsight wasn’t a gift for the young.

He remembered Mama sitting by the hearth, stirring stew made from his catch, slow and steady, darning forgotten in her lap.

No, not forgotten. Mama never forgot anything. She’d never forgotten him, even when he’d never come home again. Soldiers didn’t always go home. They both known that at the time and he knew it still.

Soldiers don’t always go home.

The home was long gone, his life, his world with it. Now, he lived in a world of cell phones and instant communications; 98″ TV’s, airplanes and 100 channels on Cable. Vaccines and penicillin.  Boy, penicillin would have been a help back then.

He might have gone home.

“Coming?” Jeffrey asked from behind, lounging in the diver’s seat of their rented Corvette.

“Yeah,” he replied, turning away from the past.  Slid into the passenger’s seat, closing the door behind him.

“Where to?”

“It’s been a long time since I was in the US,” he mused, wiping his hands on a napkin. “Let’s start at the top and just keep going.”

“Your wish,” Jeffery laughed, driving away from the ruins of the old plantation.

He’d never understood the draw of the past.  If he never saw his old home-place again, that would be fine with him. Daniel was of a different mold, one he didn’t often understand.

Daniel looked over at him, never once looking back. “Thank you for your indulgence, Jeffery. I know the past means little to you.”

Jeffrey replied with a shrug. “That’s true, but what matters to you matters to me.”

“Thank you for lying to make me feel better.”

“Part of the job description.”

Squirrel. That was what he’d shot and his Mama cooked. Squirrel stew.

Looking over at Jeffery, he realized he’d finally come home.

Response 10-15-2017 to JSW Prompt 10-9-2017

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).

I know you might not believe me, but it’s true. Honest.

It was a moose who started the whole damn thing.

Okay, so I was home alone on Saturday night. I woulda been out with my friends, but I’d been grounded.

Grounded? Yeah, I know. So lame, but my folks don’t mess around with punishments. And if I left and they found out….. you don’t want to know.

It was Halloween and I was angry because I was missing all the candy, even with Cindy promising to bring me a bag. Sitting there, trying to figure out if I wanted to watch “Friday the 13th” or “Nightmare on Elm Street.” Freddy or Jason. I missed being too old for “It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown.” But if you ever tell anybody I said that, I’ll call you a liar.

Anyway, back to the moose.

Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever heard a moose, but they sound spooky as hell. They certainly don’t sound like any creature I want to meet in the dark.

About the time I popped “Nightmare on Elm Street” – sorry Freddy – into my computer, I heard it, sounding like it was just outside my window.  I jumped up to look but didn’t see anything and it’s hard to miss a moose.

This happened again and again. Moose call. Jumping up. No moose.

I lost track of the movie. I got pissed at the Moose. I know, like that’d do any good.

Around about midnight, I grabbed my jacket and headed outside, determined to find the damned moose or whoever was pranking me. It’d be just like my friends to do something like that.

Circling the house, I scanned the woods, wishing I’d thought to bring a flashlight. Nothing. Just as I came back around the front of the house, I glimpsed a flash of white in the darkness. At the same moment, the moose sounded.

A white moose? Ghost moose?

Shit. Now, I knew I was being pranked.

Taking off through the woods, I chased them, catching glimpses of white in and among the dark trees. But damn it if I could catch them.

Stumbling out into a clearing, I stopped suddenly.  Right in front of me stood a moose. A heck-of-a-giant moose. A freaking white moose. Glowing eyes.


The next second the moose vanished.  I mean vanished into thin air.  None of that turning and running away. Just gone. Poof!

I looked around, not recognizing the clearing. I must have run further than I’d thought.

Much further.

I couldn’t even remember which way I’d come.

Dad had taught me how to navigate by the stars and so I looked up.

Holy cow of a mother!

Not a single star looked familiar.

Where the hell was I? Not in Kansas anymore.

So, that’s it, I guess. I just walked. Hours. Days. Nights. Forever.

“I don’t understand,” Mrs. Thatcher cried. “Why would he run out into the road with a car coming?”

Her husband just shook his head, staring down at the grave-site where his son lay. Hours. Days. Nights. Forever.

Friday Fictioneers 10-3-2017

He watched the island falling behind, harvest moon rising over the land like an omen.

“I will never come back here,” he said aloud, repeating the words in his mind. Never come back.

That didn’t mean he wouldn’t do his duty. He would. Bravely and proudly, he would serve his country.

But, his eyes remained fixed on the island growing smaller in their wake, smudged to nothing by falling dark.

Soon it was gone.

He turned away, letting go of what he had lost forever.


His mother held the flag from his coffin like she once held her son.

He was home.


Sunday Photo Fiction 10-4-2017

Taxidermy fox at Natural History Museum, London


“Poor little fellow,” Johnny remarked, peering in at the taxidermied fox behind the glass. He wondered how long had been dead; why somebody decided to stuff it and put it in a museum. Wouldn’t it be better to see the fox alive, in the wild?

Dan shrugged. “It’s just a dog.”

“Fox,” Johnny corrected.

“Whatever. Come on, I want to get some chips before we go back to the bus.”

That had been Senior Year, twenty years past, but he still remembered the dead fox. He had no idea if Dan had gotten his chips, but the blank look on the fox’s face had stayed with him all those years.

Putting his binoculars back up to his eyes, he watched the kids tumbling and playing around the den.  Mother fox lay nearby, guarding her kids from that dead fox, twenty years in the past, blank eyes staring into nothing.