The ebbing

She had lost everything that night. Her beautiful little baby with his golden ringlets that formed a halo around a cherub face, her husband, once her soulmate, now a cruel reminder of that loss, and with him her vitality and will.

It was all her doing he said. There was no sickness in her body, only in her mind.
He did not understand. Every time she closed her eyes it came. The contractions of birthing, the ripping apart of her body, that beautiful face that neither opened his eyes nor cried, and with that an excruciating pain that splintered her heart into a million pieces and left her hollow.

She knew people mocked her. The foolish woman who had thrown her husband into the arms of another! She heard the music. He would be on the piano, while the woman sang with the legitimacy of the mistress of the manor, their fawning audience looking on.

Tired, she felt so very tired, watching the crimson trickle down her wrists.
As her life ebbed for the very last time, she heard the guests applaud.


Written for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers based on a photo prompt from The Storyteller Abode.


Today it may be a jetty of no importance, but years ago it was the meeting ground of the most sought-after girl gang in town – or so we would have it said.
Six young girls who ran as free as the wind blowing through their hair, whose imaginations soared like the seagulls overhead, and whose laughter bubbled buoyant as the lapping waves. Here we converged every day to discuss vital matters such as school gossip, girlfriend politics and boys. It was here we went to laugh, to cry, to plot or to vent. On this jetty we sat dangling our legs making up silly songs or played girly games like hopscotch until we ran out of time and breath. At dusk, tired and sweaty, we would strip down to our undergarments, run down the jetty like the banshees that we were, and jump into the cool waters, holding hands tightly.
Always together – all for one and one for all.

“Let’s do it,” says Cathy.

“Are you crazy? We are thrice as old and thrice as heavy.”


We look at each other, the six of us, now together again.

“All for one and one for all. Jump.”


Written for the Sunday Photo Fiction prompt based on photo by Jules Paige


She rode down the Centralbron every day, and each day was a reminder of him and what could have been. The towers and spires bore silent testament to their epic romance. But vicious words squelch even blazing passion.
She couldn’t recall what started it. All she knew was that they had reached the point of no return.

Time had not healed wounds and her heart still trembled like the shuddering reflections she passed every day.

She knew she deserved happiness. She deserved to move on free of him.

It was time to take another path.


Written for Bikugurl’s 100 Word Wednesday challenge based on photo by Matias Larhag.

The Specials


That’s today’s special?” he balked, “damn you man, I’m going cold turkey on turkey after this.

But my meats are fresh,” the butcher argued with the health inspector, ignoring the obvious pile of refuse.

Perhaps! But the grime on your chopping boards and the blood splattered on your walls sure isn’t!




Written for Sonya’s Three Line Tales in response to photo prompt by Cathal Mac an Bheatha via Unsplash


Their protests hum in my ears like the rumble of the engines.

Why can’t you stay somewhere close by?… How much freedom do you need?…

I look out the window and wonder, is there such a thing as too much sky?


Written for Three Line Tales with photo prompt by Brian Gaid via Unsplash

The Return

Seven years.

Seven years is a long time. A person can change in seven years. Especially a person who has spent those years in prison.

Jess is excited to finally meet his papa. He’s too jumpy to sit, and I am too nervous to stand. I’ve painted him a picture of a protective hero, a superman straight out of Justice League. I’ve painted him a dream.
Will reality match the dream?

We are waiting for him at the bus stop, beside a giant rusted sculpture of a clock. The irony doesn’t escape me.

The vacuum at the pit of my stomach only grows.

Written for Friday Fictioneers with photo prompt by Jennifer Pendergast


How do they do it?

Put themselves out there, exposed, vulnerable, under the spotlight.
The fearless speaking words the world will hear.


There were some who defined words as mere sounds uttered from a mouth.

But words had power.
The power to arise courage in the hearts of men, to crush confidence, to invoke love, to provoke hate. Words had the power to open minds and initiate dialogues, to start wars, or end them.
Those little things written on thin sheets could make a hurting heart laugh or a complacent heart weep.

According to the playbill, the play was by an anonymous writer.

I prefer to be anonymous.


Written for Bikurgurl’s 100 Word Wednesday photo prompt.


Thirty two stab wounds, made by multiple knives, mutilated genitalia, a body about a week old suggestively posed, and cause of death was excessive bleeding. Going by the amount of overkill, this was personal. Coach Duran had been tortured.
Unfortunately because of the recent rains, coyote bites and maggots, it was going to be very difficult to get any prints or clean DNA.
There was nothing further to be done here.

Nothing like this had ever happened in sleepy Oothu, and despite the obscure location of the crime scene, a large crowd had gathered and the chatter was on.

Detective Sky stayed back to listen. Small town gossip often revealed useful clues.

“Who would want to kill Coach Duran?”

“I don’t know. But remember the old rumours.”

“Surely you don’t believe that!”

“Crap, it’s hardly been ten days since the school honoured him.”

“God, so many of his star athletes came into town for the felicitation.”

“Ya, almost thirty two of them, right?”


Written for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers with photo prompt provided by Tim Livingston with the blog, The ForesterArtist.


Why do we have to go to the museum? It’s boring.

It’s important to learn our lessons from history. We need to know more about the creatures that came before us and the mistakes they made, so that we don’t repeat their mistakes.
Many other creatures have lived amongst us several lifecycles ago. Like us, some were intelligent, could communicate and lived in communities. But unfortunately some of them did not respect the creatures and the flora and fauna around them, and in their hurry to prove themselves the most powerful they ended up destroying the habitat. When this world was spoilt they tried to move to different worlds. But that was not the plan of the creator. Slowly and eventually they disappeared.
No one is very sure about what happened. One theory says that they started a deadly war and everybody disappeared in a cauliflower cloud. Another says that there was a great flood and they were all washed away.

You mean they are gone? Like totally?

Well son, there are rumors that they have been spotted high on the mountains and in some of the deep caverns but we don’t know for sure.

Are they the Big Foot daddy?

No son. They were called Homo Sapiens or Humans. Like that one.

Written for the Sunday Photo Fiction with photo prompt by A Mixed Bag 2012

Picture of apes from poster for movie Planet of the Apes.

Nothing to scale


My lungs are caving in, and even as I inhale I know there is no oxygen to be had.

All around is an infinite expanse with neither doors nor windows to break down, nor walls to scale.

None can get in and none get out, for I am trapped, imprisoned in my own mind.


Written for Sonya’s 3 Line Tales with photo prompt by Jake Oates via Unsplash