Indira was mesmerized by the leaves. Perhaps more taken by them than with Michael, her coffee date. Continue reading
I awoke feeling surprisingly well-rested. Heading to the kitchen, I smiled for the first time since the hellish ordeal with Max started. I had won. The kids were mine.
But the items on the table stopped me short. They were in Max’s habitual morning arrangement. Then, I noticed the silence.
She watched him fill the bird feeder, wanting to tell him not to bother. What was his name again? Bob? Bill? Tom? Tom. Yes, that seemed familiar. But it didn’t matter–he’d never understand her even if she was able to get the words out. And the effort was just too much. Continue reading
Pedro and I crept closer. The boat was the most beautiful thing we’d ever seen. It was like something out of the magical stories our Abuela loved to tell us, making us long for something more than our small house with its two rooms and dirt floors and view that never changed.
I’m experimenting with Deep 1st POV this week. Please let me know if it works! I used some lines from “In Flanders Fields” by John McCrae – a great WWI poem. I’m a bit over the 175-word limit this week. Sorry about that!
In Flanders fields the poppies blow, between the crosses…whose to know?
“Grandpa, this way.”
“Dad, are you okay? Continue reading
Time is irrelevant; place is everything.
That had been the first, and most important, lesson my father had taught me. “Wanderers, or what other people call spirits, transcend time. Instead, they haunt a place–a specific location–even if it changes as the years go forward. Or backward.” Continue reading
This week’s Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers: Photo prompt with story to be 100-175 words.
I’d always imagined the End of Days as bleaker, blacker, somewhat more desolate. Well, okay, I’ve never really imagined the End at all. But in the movies, it was not nearly this serene. So maybe they’d got it wrong. Or have I? Continue reading
Written for a creative writing prompt on Earliest Childhood Memory:
Inseparable as twins,
now I stand pressed;
the screen door is not
the only thing between us.
Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers, #19: Limit of 175 words, max
The mere act of stepping out of the airport taxi in front of her childhood home was so difficult that the driver came around and opened her door, offering his extended hand.
“You sure this is the right place?” he asked.
“Oh yes, I’m sure.” Continue reading
Prison time doesn’t follow the rules. Looking up, I’m convinced that the clock on the goddamn tower hasn’t moved a hand although it feels like hours have passed. Nobody else has moved a hand either. Not the clock, not the other inmates, and not the goddamn prison guards. In fact, where the hell are they? Continue reading