Posted in flash fiction

False Horizons

Our community is small and tight knit, everybody knows everything.

It would be utopia except none of it is real. 

The day I became aware of it I was too small to understand. The Sun blinked, serving up a wink to the community below. Except I was the only one who seemed to notice. I stored the memory away until we learned in school how truly large and permanent the Sun is. 

I thrust my hand into the air, “But the Sun isn’t always steady, right? It can flicker.” Mrs. Goodman stared at me in silence. Then she laughed, almost robotically, while my classmates joined in. 

“Oh, what an imagination you have Hana.” 

A few weeks later I was lectured about never staring at the Sun. 

When I decided to run away I didn’t believe I would get far. I only wanted a taste of the world outside.

I slipped from my bedroom window in the middle of the night and pointed myself east. It was the next evening before the search parties caught up with me but by then I had noticed the way the horizon was unending. It always seemed to be two steps ahead of me. A vast expanse of nothingness to swallow any images I held of a great unknown. 

As I got closer something loomed but not the horizon I believed I would find. 

A wall, smooth and towering stretched far into the sky and back towards the community. It surrounded me, us … It surrounded everything.

I reached out to place my hand against it, to feel the deception we lived our lives under. As my fingers pressed against it the horizon faded away revealing a landscape haunted by a grey-green fog. Trees, nothing but spindles, were silhouetted against dark skies. 

I didn’t realize the longer I held my fingers on the wall the image continued fading all around me, stretching back towards the search parties and the community. An orb glowered in red beyond the thick gray-green fog. Could it be the Sun?

Suddenly I was off my feet. A man in police gear landed on top of me. Instantly the wall returned to its false horizon. 

“What are you doing?” He seethed. His eyes were grey-green, just like the fog and cloaked by red-brown curls. “You can’t just let the dream fade away like that.”

That’s the last thing I remember before waking up in my bed. The sky, lit by tiny pin pricks of light, glows a deep purple outside my windows. 

I feel my father’s hand on mine before I truly see him. 

“It’s ok Hana, you were just having a bad dream.”

Something I’m brewing, feedback welcome.

Posted in What Pegman Saw

The Art of Dying

There’s a certain beauty to life alone.
A certain finesse to the fine art of dying in no ones arms but your own.
I’ve lost count of the seconds slowly rolling into days.
Those things were never ours anyway.
It’s funny …
The noises your mind will come up with to keep time floating in oceans with little salt.
At first you know it’s just the children in your head playing.
Then you begin to doubt as shadows creep out.
Humans can die from any number of ailments …
A common cold to a lightening strike,
Historic rejection or morbid curiosity,
It’s what makes us the same.
At least that’s what they say.
Maybe I relied too much on silence in those days.

My shadows frolic through the roaring break.
They toss their hands to the wind
And dance the steps to heaven.
I don’t imagine they’ll let me live.


Word Count: 147

A write for
What Pegman Saw. This weeks location is St. Helena island. For more information and rules visit the link. To read more stories click the blue froggy below.

Art of Dying is also a song by George Harrison, not really much in common with this piece but still nice to listen to.

Posted in friday fictioneers

One Good Rebellion

PHOTO PROMPT © Russell Gayer

“It’s soldiers; marching …” Liza stomped in place.
“I don’t know. What about a mass influx of downtrodden people?”
“Hannibal’s army rumbling over the Alps?”
“Liza, you’re always thinking war. What about the devastation left behind?” 
“Bea, those rocks are strong! Why shouldn’t they be troops marching to victory?”
“One good quake and they’d fall.”
“One good rebellion from your influx?”

A group of high-pitched voices chimed in, “There they are! Ready or not here we come!”
Liza tried to run but found herself face down in the dirt thanks to a stray rock. 
“One good rebellion.” Bea laughed.

Word count: 99

A write for
Friday Fictioneers wrangled in by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.

To read more click the blue froggy below


Posted in Word Prompt

Of Dreams

The sight of him sends heat pulsing through my veins. My skin grows warm. Sheer will pushes me forward. What’s worse, my throat dries and heart hammers, I can feel his energy fixating on me. There’s a thousand women in this room; a thousand men too. He’s misdirected. He’s confused. Why would anyone pursue? 

Doesn’t he see? People like me … We exist in the shadow. There for your amusement, or bemusement, but never serious inquiry. We slip in the cracks, stay behind a crowd’s back. His aim’s amiss. That must be it. 

He must know I’m just a play thing, just the monster free of chains.

Ragtag Daily Prompt – Dream

I haven’t done this prompt in a while but I’m trying to get back to writing regularly and want to incorporate it.