Posted in Word Prompt

Evanescent History

I am 100% sure they do this on purpose.

FOWC: History, RDP: Evanescent

How funny it is that these words seem so different yet so intertwined. 

I’ve been posting less lately but, for once, it’s not bad news. I want to focus this year on publishing. While I’ve been writing, I’ve been more reserved with what I post on the blog. I’ve been revisiting old pieces and working on them more also. If anyone has tips for publishing on amazon let me know! 

Darlene, in all her 108 years, didn’t think she had ever seen anything like it.

There were rockets to the moon, scandals and those who said all of it was fake.

There were plenty of misunderstandings, plenty of things faded from memory only to reappear in the strangest of ways. 

Isn’t history funny?

Now she watched the news slip in and out of existence on continuous feeds. Omnipresent, it seemed, but always fading.

Between videos of freaked out, tear-stained faces and breaking news bulletins Darlene’s memory hummed to life. She remembered this. Before TV, a man and radio, dramatizing a Martian landing. 

A few articles exposing the truth slid away as quickly as they came, but still, hysteria ensued.

Posted in Word Prompt

Escalator To Heaven

“Excuse me.” The hollow sound of my voice is surprising. Brilliantly glowing arches of gold should echo, giving life to the thin words. 

Robed figures slowly ascend the clunky escalator, seemingly unaware I spoke at all.

I can feel the anger pulsing in my temple.

“There should be a golden stairway!” 

All these years I slaved over designing a breathtaking entrance only to have the project overtaken by last-second grand ideas.

‘Make it worth the journey to see that pearly gate.’ Of course, you don’t say no to the divine. 

“Really sorry Jared. It’s a more economical choice.”

Word Count: 99
For Friday Fictioneers
PHOTO PROMPT © Ulrika Undén

Posted in Word Prompt

Moscow Mule

“Get me a Dublin Donkey!” 

“It’s Moscow Mule you dumbass!”

“Amaretto Ass!” 

Lara crouched behind the bar searching for notes on how to live a better life. She was tired of night after night of red-faced, smoked laced patrons. She was tired of having her ass pinched and her tips written out as “meet me in my room”. 

She tried side jobs, formal interviews, even a stint as a bartender at a more prestigious joint. It never worked.

Lara was made to sling cheap booze in sticky holes in the wall. She was born to salvage societal trash, even if it was with alcohol. 

She dreamed of turning them into something more. She longed to fix the broken things.

A pair of hazel eyes peered over the bar, down Lara’s shirt. 

“Hey gorgeous …” Slurred words morphed into exotic sounds, like waves on an island or the calls of southern birds. “The wife left me. Be a doll and make me something strong.”

Those eyes, brimming with tears, brightened when Lara returned his gaze. 

Her heart lightened. A new project. Broken but not shattered. Hopeful. 

“Meet me in my room.” She scribbled on a stained napkin. “I can fix you up.”

Word Count: 200
For Sunday Photo Fiction
Photo Credit: Morguefile

Posted in Word Prompt

Pen and Paper

As long as I don’t move I pretend no one can see me. I’m a statue, gathering snow. Birds traipse across my table, eyeing my lone piece of banana bread. They examine then flit off to inform their friends. 

It won’t be long before they descend, all for too sweet artificially flavored bread. 

My pen stares stoically at my notebook. It needs to bleed. It needs release. 

My notebook is having none of it, a lovers quarrel I’m sure. It remains steadfastly shut against the longing notes my pen wishes to deposit. 

Quiet conversations erupt into laughter. Engines spurn to life. A world of constant din and none of it can be composed until the notebook forgives the pen. 

I force them together, apologies be damned, but the pens strike is fatal; leaving an ink lined hole where a word should be.

I try again, gently this time. The paper shreds beneath the pen’s flow. Total refusal to cooperate. Ink won’t flow over paper, not while they’re not speaking this way.

All the world’s deadlines building unending pressure. Surely that’s enough to squash any relationship but pen and paper? I thought for sure they were stronger.

Word Count: 196
For Sunday Photo Fiction
Photo Credit Morguefile

Posted in Word Prompt

What Really Happened to the Dinosaurs

We came here on the backs of our ancestors greatest invention. The ability to cross among the paths of time has been an integral part of society but, as with any great discoveries, it was coveted.

Facing extinction we gathered our prized possessions, animals, science … and sent them across realms.

We would have returned for them sooner but …

George didn’t write down the coordinates of where he sent them.

Right, we would have returned sooner but … were unable to.

We believed our ideas, our species, our discoveries were safe. We believed there would be reprieve from a world too far gone. We’ve been driven nearly to extinction in the name of progress.

But this, this is not what our people left behind. Where are the animals? The science?

Maybe they ate it.

Perhaps they are far more advanced than we think? Did they somehow find the exact coordinates before we could recover them?

Hear me out. Maybe they are our science, our discoveries. We did save a number of cellular organisms. Perhaps they ‘evolved’. This proves their significance at least.

Significant? They are killing themselves. This is not what our ancestors wanted. A planet of intruders? No. 

Theus, you’re getting a little worked up.

Millenia of progress has been bastardized.

It rarely goes any other way. Perhaps this is for the best. Remember, change is the very essence of everything we know.

I’m going to blow it up. 

Theus …

The command has been activated. We can find another planet to maintain our civilization on.

RDP: Extinct
FOWC: rarely

Posted in Word Prompt

Permit for Hope

Every full moon we’re given permits. On occasion they’ve felt like rocks, weighing down our souls. Sometimes they function as population control. 

The abstract isn’t something we’re terribly familiar with but I remember what it’s like to feel. When I was first brought here sadness compounded fear. Anger settled in next. A long lost cousin staying despite what I insisted. 

They dangle these permits, inspiring us with lust and greed. 

What shall we receive?

The paper melts away in my hand but not before I can read. A permit for hope, emotion I no longer crave.

Ragtag Daily Prompt: Hope
Fandangos One Word Challenge: Permit

Posted in Word Prompt

I Was

This is an actual stream of conciousness type write. With inspiration also drawn from the photo for Fandango’s flash fiction challenge.
Music: All Them Witches – Lost and Found EP (can be found here on youtube if interested)

Victoria_Borodinova at Pixabay

When I was a kid I liked to imagine my life somewhere exotic, in times and places far away.

I was Esmeralda, dancing in the hot breeze. I was Ariel, venturing beyond the realm of known. I was a power ranger, saving the world one swipe and swoosh at a time. 

I was anything and everything: a paper bag carrying Superman’s groceries; a walking stick leading a great adventure. 

I was taught, and well it seems, that I was only an accessory. 

I was a compliment and a burden. 

I was helpless when all I wanted was to be a hero. 

I was worthless, a string of fake pearls snatched from Ms. Scarlett’s neck. 

I was scattered, a faded news piece, irrelevant before my ink dried. 

But all I dreamed was of being a hero, of saving the world one crisis at a time. 

And maybe on the weekends I could still be Esmeralda, dancing under the moon.

Posted in Word Prompt

New Ventures

“Scotty has a new venture.” Dad peered over his paper, clearly reliving nightmares of Scotty’s entrepreneurial spirit. 

“Is it … What is it?” 

I was five when Scotty roped me into a lemonade business. It may have worked but he got the sugar mixed up with salt. His grilled cheese emporium went under after a rare virus ravaged most of his customers. Only the neighbors two dogs escaped but I’ve never been convinced they ate the discarded sandwiches. His t-shirt business never took off. We have t-shirts for days stashed in the garage.

All of this flashed through dad’s mind, I could read it on his face. 

“Honey, should we continue supporting these things? He’s insanely smart, he’s going to go far but …” Mom held her hand up silencing the criticism.

“Do you want to kill his spirit?”

As his snot nosed kid sister, I would call that an ok idea. 

Dad sighed and set his paper to the side. “Fine. Let’s go see.”

Scotty stood proudly in the street, a tugboat with fresh blue letters bleeding down the side sat behind him. 

“Son, you’ve never been on a boat. We don’t live anywhere near water.”

Photo courtesy of DB McNicol, author

Word Count: 197
For Sunday Photo Fiction

Posted in Word Prompt

Tales of A Teenage Wasteland

When I was 18 I got so drunk that my friends thought I was going to die. I went limp, crumpled onto the floor like a discarded shirt.

As you do, in some realms of fantasy when your friend may be dying, they stripped my clothes and tossed me into the shower then set to planning. 

How could they handle this? How could they keep from getting in trouble? After all, I was certainly not supposed to be drinking. 

“I know!” I’m sure one of them said. “Let’s put her on the curb and call 911.” 

Let it be known, my friends weren’t the most brilliant because it was January in a very north eastern state and the curb was a snow bank they could lose me in.

The rising water in the tub nearly choked me as my friends tried to wrangle my wet body. I tried to breathe but at first my lungs just wouldn’t expand. 

“We thought you were dead!” Their gazes passed over my cold naked body. “We were going to leave you outside.” 

“That the best idea you had?”

Drunk and nearly dead I managed to wonder if it was too late to look for new friends.

Posted in Word Prompt

All The Rage

Has anyone ever really thought about how Santa’s fat ass fits down the chimney?

He slaps on some spanx, squeezes his ass down there. The miracle of Christmas. 

It doesn’t feel like Christmas. It feels like rush hour on Monday morning when you’re already late. 

Stop. Go. In and out of traffic. 

Did you just honk at me?! Motherfucker.

I slam the gas until I’m not sure it’ll unstick and ride up beside the only asshole my 20 mph over the speed limit wasn’t fast enough for. 

It’s Christmas and I intend to bestow the gift of a great big F you. 

I swerve in between the lanes. I can see the sweat running down this jerks neck and the veins in his eyes as they go wide. 

Merry Christmas fucker.

My fingers are tingling, a sensation that dances up my arms. 

I pay enough attention to know this is a bad sign. I have to dial in my frustrations. 

Calm. Calm. Relax. 

I take deep breaths, my therapist would be proud.  My doctor probably would be too. The air moves in and out of my lungs, sponges absorbing this cursed city air. 

That’s ok. Just breathe.

The tingling recedes only slightly as I focus on the point between breaths, just like the therapist taught me. 

In … Out

RDP: Chimney
FOWC: Dial