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.


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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.







“He’s the meanest, ugliest, rooster I’ve ever met.”

She looked over. “How many roosters have your met?”

He cleared his throat, embarrassed. She had to ask the single question guaranteed to make him feel a fool. “One.”

Raised eyebrow. Smug look. “His name is Roofus. He likes to get on the roof and crow until he wakes us.”

“Isn’t that what roosters do?”

Another look, the same as before.

“Guess I’d better head out. Work and stuff.”  He headed back to his truck, hand scrubbing his hair. One minute she seemed to like him; the next those moments.

“Wait!” she called, running to catch up.

He turned, braced for more rooster smugness.

“I’m…. sorry, I…” Her eyes traveled over the ramshackled farm. The house needed painting. The barns repairs. Mud driveway. Weeds. Sagging fences.

“I….didn’t want you to… think less of me.”

“Why would I do that?”

“The farm….” She waved an arm. “You’re so…. smart and…well-off… have a nice condo. I’m just… this country girl…. living here.”

He opened his arms. “Come here you. I love you. Where you live doesn’t matter.”

Held her as she silently cried.

God, he loved this girl, rooster and all!


Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner 6-18-2017


The challenge for Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner will open early Wednesday morning, June 14th. 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, June 23rd, 2017.



“Never let it be said,” he said, “that I never set foot in a library.”

“Yeah, but in order to be in the library you have to put in more than just your toes.”

“I don’t like libraries.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Why not?”

“They scare me.”


He peered inside at the endless line of packed shelves. “All those smart people in there just…. just waiting.”

“Not everybody in there is uber smart.”

“Not them! The books.”

“The books are smart so you are scared of them?”


“I’m missing something here.”

“No, no, listen. It’s like all those smart little folk are just crouching there on the shelves. Waiting.” Voice dropping to a whisper.

“Waiting? For what?” She whispered back.

“For me to go by.”


“So they can whisper behind my back about how stupid I am.”

“You have a complex.” Her voice rose back to normal.

“They’ll suck me into library hell!”

“You have a serious complex.”

“Little teeth. Whispering little voices.” Shivering, he backed up, hurried away.

“Idiot.” But then she hesitated. Were hundreds of little eyes glaring at her from each and every shelves?

“Aahhh…maybe I’ll study tomorrow.”




The challenge for Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner will open early Wednesday morning, May 31st. 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, June 9th, 2017.


Running In Circles




She frowned.  “Why am I doing this again?” Last time she’d gone on one of Michael’s pre-dawn runs, she’d collapsed half-way through. He’d had to stop and limp her home. Em-barrassing.

“Come on, we’ll take it slower.”

“Than what?  A zillion miles an hour?”

He knelt down and tied her shoes, pulling her running pants down around her ankles. “Don’t you want to fit into that beautiful wedding dress?”

“How do you know its beautiful? You’ve never seen it?” Frowned.  “Have you?”

“No, but anything on you is beautiful.” He held up the boy scout pledge. “What do you really want, Liz?”

“I want to go back to bed, but then I’ll be fat and you’ll think bad of me cause I won’t ft into my dress and I won’t run.”

He pulled her up. “Liz, I will never think bad of you just because you don’t enjoy something I enjoy.”  He kissed her.  “Even if you don’t like running.”

“However,” he held up a finger.  “You eat my Reese’s Cup and all bets are off.”

“Beast!” She looked at him for a moment. “So are we making the full circle today?”


The challenge for Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner will open early Wednesday morning, May 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, June 2nd, 2017.

Flash Fiction for the Practical Practitioner



“It isn’t right,” he cried, frustration welling up in his words.

Tamereon grasped his arm, holding him back. “I know that and you know that, but saying that isn’t going to help anybody now.”

He looked at her and then away.  Deep breath. “It’s not right.”

“Agreed, but there is nothing you can do. Now.”

“They’re saying he was stupid, he shouldn’t have gone into the house, that he made a mistake.”

“He didn’t,” she said, voice softening.

“He went in because that was his job. To help people.”

“I know.” She didn’t dare show him how much it hurt.

“They shouldn’t have called it a mistake,” he said again, turning to walk away from the memorial. “They should have called him a hero.”