Sunday Photo Fiction 8-29-2017

13 Dawn Miller 27 August 2017

© Dawn Miller

 “Tea for three?” she asked, fluffing her skirts, giving him a shy smile.

He looked at the three teacups perched on the spindled legs from a table. “What type of tea shall we be having?”

“Earl Grey, of course.”

He watched her dance around, pretending to make tea and pour it into the cups. Done, she handed him a straw with which he pretended to sip at the pretend tea.

“Do you like it here?”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “There is tea and sometimes Mother gives me crumpets.”

“You like crumpets?”

“Oh yes, with butter and raspberry jam!”

“I love raspberry jam.”

She squealed. “I wish Mother had given me some today.”

“I’ll bring some next time I come to visit.”

“Will you come again?”

“Of course. Tea for three is my favorite time of day.”

She began searching for flowers. “I must put them on Mum’s grave this evening. She shall be ever so sorry if I forget.”

He watched for a moment before walking back into the house.

“What do you think, Doc?” Jamison asked.

He looked out the window, at the woman dancing in the field, flowers in her arms. “I think,” he said, “we should all wish to be as happy as her.”



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.

Friday Fictioneers 7-1-2017

I’d greatly appreciate some feedback on this one.

PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields


The street was cobbled, narrow, splashed with sun and shadow. I heard the distant tolling of St. Andrews ricocheting through blood and bone and marrow, sea songs deep where I had no control.

It was death I heard calling.

I stepped into the shadows, walking to the land of bones. Sun. Shadow. Sun. Shadow. Sun. Sea salt and brine. Nowhere else to run.

Drowning in air.

I felt the pain before I heard the shot.

Sand. Fish-rough hands. A hand grasping my shoulder.

The sea always calls home its own.


Falling, drifting, far out beyond land. The land of bones.


Sunday Photo Fiction 6-11-2017

Each week a photo is used, donated by one of the participants of Sunday Photo Fiction, and the idea is to write a story with the photo as a prompt in 200 words or less.

Sunday Photo Fiction 6-11-2017

SPF - June 11th 2017

He stared at the confusion of chess pieces scattered across the floor like the somethings broken inside him. Wished he knew what the broken bits were, where they had come from, why they had invaded his life. No, that wasn’t true. They had always been broken, ever since he could remember.

They’d had another fight; she’d screamed how fucked up he was, how stupid, how hurtful. Didn’t she know that stupid and hurtful could be turned against himself as well?

No, she couldn’t know. He’d never told, never let her that far inside.

She wasn’t coming back. She was as free to forget as he wasn’t. Not every moment they’d spent together, every word, every touch, every damn thing about her. Alone with his fears and pains and failures.

At dusk, he walk to the sea, shards of brokenness cutting him with every step. One by one, he took the chess pieces from his pockets, throwing them far out beyond the thundering waves. Out to where she was now.

Pockets empty, he walked home.


Sunday Photo Fiction – January 1st 2017

The idea of Sunday Photo Fiction is to create a story/poem or something using around about 200 words with the photo as a guide. Please try to keep it as close to the 200 words as possible.

He stood in the shadows of the balcony, watching the lights above radiating out like stars, welcoming the nights chill to keep him focused, keep back the mounting depression sweeping through his body. He’d meant to call Jay, but he hadn’t. Deep down, he hadn’t wanted to call. Deep down, he wondered if this time would be THE time. Would he? Could he?

Rock Gods died young, but he hadn’t. Not yet. His cell lay on the wrought-iron table nearby.

Call, he told himself. Call. Pick up the fucking phone and call!

The night lay silent. Still. Nothing around to stop him from doing it. Slit his wrists. How many times had he tried in the past?

Beside his cell lay the knife. He could feel the solidness of the handle in his hand, the sharpness of the blade against skin.

Call! Call! Fucking call!

Let go. Find peace. Let go.

He slid down the cold stone, coming to rest on his haunches, hands over his face. Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!

Why wouldn’t the voices leave him alone?

Clumsy, he knocked the phone off the table.

Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! 

Pushed speed dial.

“Jay, it’s… Chris.”


Sunday Photo Fiction – December 25th 2016

The idea of Sunday Photo Fiction is to create a story / poem or something using around about 200 words with the photo as a guide. Please try to keep it as close to the 200 words as possible.


The items stood on the white table like discarded chess pieces, forlorn each in their own way. He knew enough to link these objects to similar chess pieces, the houses as Rooks, for example, but not much more. He’d just started learning to play, his new obsession. These days, everything was chess-related.

“See anything you like?” Sally asked as she came up beside him.

Uncertain, he started to point to the snowman then stopped, moving his finger to the tree. He loved trees almost as much as he now loved chess.

“How much?”

For a moment, he froze, then fumbled the price tag with clumsy fingers. “Tw-tw…” He licked his lips, forehead wrinkled in concentration.

“Tw – enty….. five.”


He leaned closer, eyes squinting. “Cents,” he said hesitatingly, then with more confidence. “Twenty-five cents.”

She handed him a quarter, watching as he bounded away to pay. He ran like a baby giraffe, galumphing awkwardly. Unlike the baby giraffe, however, he would never grow into his body.

Before handing over his quarter, he turned, hands waving like flags in a rippling southern wind.