Archive for April, 2012

The prompt for this week’s #FridayFictioneers was the following photo:


Here is my 100-word story based upon the prompt:

“What happened?  They’re all gone?  All that’s left are some bits and pieces.”

“Okay, mate, let me see if I’ve got this right: you released all the animals into ‘ere, last night, because you wanted to keep ‘em safe?”

“Yes.  That’s right.”

“And today the lot of ‘em ‘ave been destroyed, though you believed you ‘ad kept ‘em away from any possible ‘arm?”

“Yes.  How could anyone or anything possibly get at them without also getting injured?”

“Well, mate, just as you shouldn’t ‘ave a fox guard an ‘en ‘ouse, you shouldn’t ‘ave barbed wire protect a balloon-animal collection!”


Read Full Post »

Although #ThursThreads entries are usually posted on Siobhan Muir’s blog, I had so much fun with this week’s prompt that I felt like posting it here, as well, with a little more information.

#ThursThreads is a weekly, flash-fiction challenge, of 100-250 words, that uses a line from the previous week’s winning story as the prompt.  In this case, the prompt was “Vines climbed over and through the wrecks” and it could be used anywhere within the story.

That prompt immediately brought Percy Bysshe Shelley’s poem “Ozymandias” to my mind.  Since that’s one of my favourite poems of all time, I decided to craft my own version of it, containing the prompt line.

For those of you who may not be familiar with the original poem, here it is:


by Percy Bysshe Shelley

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: `Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear —
“My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!”
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.’


Here, then, is my version for #ThursThreads

A Pirate’s “Ozymandias”

A tourist visited a distant isle
and said: “Two ships lay broken on that shore,
their hulls and timbers rotting in a pile
as wind and waves cause them to crumble more.

For many years they were a deadly team
that terrorised the merchants on the main.
One blocked the bow, one fired upon the beam
with cannonballs that split the masts in twain.

They bore their names on dulling, brazen plaques,
proclaiming that they ruled the seven seas
and all should live in fear of their attacks,
but what I saw looked more like gutted trees.

While sand and seaweed covered once-proud decks,
gulls and vines climbed over and through the wrecks.”

Read Full Post »

The prompt for this week’s #FridayFictioneers was the following photo:


Here is my 100-word story based upon the prompt:

With his back broken from the fall, Ben could do nothing but stare at the cool, clear water that trickled down from above.

“Ron can’t help me now,” he thought, “and I sure as hell can’t help him.  He’ll probably be down here soon, too.”

The deal had gone horribly wrong.  It had never even been a deal to start with, but a trap.  Ben and his brother had fallen for it.

“What will happen to Olivia and Ginnie?  What about Bernice and Ron’s son?”

The droplets changed from clear to crimson.  Ron would not be joining him.  Not here.


Read Full Post »

The prompt for this week’s #FlashFictionFaction revolved around the phrase “I heard it, too.”  For the rest of the prompt instructions, click HERE.

Here is what I wrote:


The mother and her son met in the upstairs hallway.

“Mom!  What are YOU doing here?  I just heard you call me from the living room.”

“I heard it, too, Ricky, but I was in the bathroom and I heard Grandma calling me.”

“Grandma?  Which one?”

“MY mother.”

The father stepped out of the master bedroom.

“Honey?  Rick?  Did you hear that?  I thought I just heard my mother calling my name.”

“Bill, I heard MY mother calling MY name and she just died last week.”

“And MY mother died two years ago.”

“Mommy, you aren’t dying, are you?”

“No, Ricky, I’m fine.”

“But I heard YOU calling MY name.”

A younger boy stepped out of his room.

“Hey!  Who is that lady downstairs?”

“Eddie,” asked Ricky, “you didn’t hear Mom calling you?”

“No.  Mom, did YOU call me?”

“No, Eddie, but we’ve all heard something.”


They all looked at each other.

“Mommy, I’m scared,” said Ricky.  “If that wasn’t you calling me from the living room, who was it?  You’re right here.”

“I know, dear, but didn’t you hear Grandma calling me?”

“No.  There was only one voice.  It sounded like you and it said ‘Ricky!'”

“But I heard only one voice, too, and it said ‘Carla!'”

“Same here,” added Bill, “but mine said ‘William!'”

“Well, mine said ‘Eddie!'” said the younger brother, starting to cry, “but it wasn’t your voice, Mommy.  Mommy, who was it?  Why didn’t it sound like you?”

“Eddie,” began Bill.

“Dear, let me tell him,” interrupted Carla, kneeling down and hugging Eddie, “Baby, it’s like this: Daddy and I really wanted a little brother for Ricky, but we couldn’t have any more children.  Your real parents died in a car crash when they were taking you home from the hospital.  You almost died, too, but you didn’t and Daddy and I adopted you.”

Tears began to overflow Eddie’s eyes.  They were tears of sorrow mixed with tears of fear and mingled with tears of disbelief.

“THAT’S NOT TRUE!” He shouted, stomping his feet.


They all stopped and looked down the stairs.

“MOMMY!” screamed Eddie, at once sounding excited, defiant and resolute as he broke free from Carla’s embrace and ran down the stairs.

“Wait!  Eddie!  No!” yelled Bill.  He reached forward, but Eddie was already too far ahead.  He took off after him.

“Bill!” Carla ran after Bill, leaving Ricky alone on the landing.

“Mom?  Dad?  Eddie?” Not wanting to be the only one there with everyone else rushing to the living room, he followed them.


Ricky entered the living room.  The others were already there: his brother and his father, but TWO mothers.

“M-m-m-mommy?” Eddie stepped slowly toward one of the women.  Bill and Carla walked toward her, too, as though held captive by a siren’s song.


“Nooooooooooooo!” Ricky grabbed the poker from next to the fireplace and ran toward the counterfeit mother at full speed, stabbing her squarely in the gut.

The falseling collapsed in upon the wound, then vanished in a flash of light and a puff of smoke.

“Ricky!” shouted Carla, “Put that poker back by the fireplace!  That is NOT a toy.  Someone could get hurt.”

“Yes, Mom.”

Read Full Post »