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…….


JSW Prompt 3-5-2017


Lucky for him, they couldn’t, though the gun in her hand was problematic.

“I should kill you right here.”

“I would never hurt you, Lisa.”

“Shut up, Stephen.” Her eyes were red, dark circles underneath. “I should have staked you when I had the chance.

“I was protecting you,” he pointed out unnecessarily, but women were women no matter what the century.

“Shut up. Just shut up!”

He raised his hands. He wanted things over, but forced himself to remain calm and slow. Sometimes, overwhelming force worked. Other times, not so much. He didn’t want to have to hurt her, too.

“You killed Bobby,” she said, voice raw. “Marty. Mary Jeana.”

Well, he hadn’t killed them all, but he knew better than to argue. She was just worn out enough to circle back around to staking and re-staking.

“Why,” she asked.

He was directly in front of her then, one hand closed around the gun, turning the barrel away from them both.

She smelled deliciously of the life he’d lost a thousand years ago. “Because,” he said softly, “You are my home.”



Sunday Photo Fiction 2-24-2017

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 around 200 words.

Sunday Photo Fiction


© A Mixed Bag

“Make him dance again, Grandpa. Pleeeease!”

The old man smiled, warmth flowing through him, banishing the cold of winter. “Later,” he told the little boy. “Grandma will be calling for dinner soon.”

Danny pouted.  “I want to see the dragon dance. I’m not hungry.”

“Your Grandma’s special Mac and Cheese? Are you sure.”

Danny glanced from the dragon back towards the dining room. “But,” he said softer, “I want to see the dragon dance!”

“Scoot along, Danny. I’ll bring him to the table.”

Dragon ate with them, charmingly alive as Grandpa worked the strings of the puppet. Dragon dipped his nose into Danny’s dinner (to Grandma’s frown). Played with the boy’s napkin. Sniffed his nose. And the dragon danced, feet tapping the table in time to music no one heard but Danny.

In the morning, Grandpa laid the dragon in Danny’s small coffin so the two could dance forever.

Sunday Photo Fiction – June 5th 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.

To learn more, Click Here


The hills hunched green and lush, quiet in the greying sky. I hadn’t seen any indication of the enemy, but one didn’t live 500 years by being stupid. Nor impatient. One against 5,000 gave one patience. Or death, and I wasn’t particularly fond of that idea.

Something shifted near the covered mounds. The shift became a man, then a group, moving towards the smaller mound. I tensed, drawing up my bow and taking careful aim.

The gatherers formed a circle around the first man. Their voices carried to where I crouched.

“Why are we here? A hike is fine but this is a walkabout?”

I loosed the arrow. It flew straight and true, twacking into the target on the side of the ancient mound.

A piece of paper flew off the arrow and landed near the circled man’s feet. Slowly, he looked around, suspicion starting to frame his face. Bent to pick up the paper. The gathers’ hands were behind their backs.

Unfolding the paper, the he read – “Happy Birthday!” –  as his friends pulled out noise-makers and streamers.



JSW Prompt 2-13-2016 Response


I pushed through racks of clothing, searching for the fabled treasure of Grandma’s closet. The back. The smell tasted of mothballs and old, dresses clinging to their last memories of wear; velvet and satin and lace. Softness against wood brushed my fingers, and I began the journey back, stumbling over scattered shoe roots, bumping hatboxes stumps. Smell overwhelming.

I held a woman’s cloak, black and shimmery, seemingly made from lace and velvet and gauze. I no longer felt the material against my fingers, as if the substance of it had vanished in the harsh light of sun through windows. It was beautiful, like mist after dawn. I wrapped overlong material about my shoulders, clipping it at my throat; imagined myself a fancy lady preparing for the ball. A Cinderella not yet twelve.

A chill breeze kissed my face. I stared into a long, dark, tunnel, faint light shining from some distant end.