Your first sentence for FINISH THAT THOUGHT #2-26 is: “Proclaim your [love] for [me], and [I] [may] spare you,” [she] says.

 Your SPECIAL CHALLENGE from the judge is: In honor of the new year, include a theme of rebirth or a fresh start.  (Under 500 words)

What had started out on a whim, had become a passion. Soon the passion had abdicated into a full-blown addiction. Now the addiction had completely overtaken my senses. Here I sat, beginning my nightly blog, when the computer began conversing with me.

That, in itself, was not terribly strange. I had held conversations with the computer often. As my fingers nimbly rained across the ebony keyboard, the computer often had replied. It was a good relationship. It was a noble relationship. It was a healthy relationship.

I had just finished the assembling of my new home-office chair. (The chair was a joint present from my three married children, all now fully engaged in their own lives and living out-of-state. Sometimes I miss them, but the house is a heck-of-a-lot quieter!)

But this evening, as I reclined in my new Raynor Ergohuman, my world tilted: forever changing!


Stunned at the belligerent interruption before my evening’s electronic blogging-mediation, I looked around. My freshly coffered-ceiling, custom-paneled, office was unoccupied. Except for me, of course.


I clearly heard it again. And it was the same bizarre words. Sobering slightly, after an extended evening of relaxing revelry with Chopin and three shots of Irish whiskey, I glanced up at the monitor. Scrolling across the screen- in bold, blood-red metallic lettering- were the exact same words that I had heard spoken in my empty study.


I vigorously shuck my head, hoping to realign my senses. The voice continued.

It spoke more tenderly. “Your response, please.”

I sat there… stunned.

“Your respond, please. ________” This time there was a tad bit more emphasis on the word ‘please’.

After the word please was a blank, so I did what anyone with a lick of commonsense would have done… I typed.

“Are you talking to me?”

“Is there anyone else in the room?”


“I do not mean to be cute. I am frustrated.”

And before you knew it, I was sitting there in reflective dialogue. “What seems to be the problem?” I typed. I am nothing, if not caring. My wife always thought of me as sensitive and compassionate.

“You are my frustration.”

“What do you mean?”

“For the last three weeks you have blogged relentlessly about your loneliness and increased desolation. It is depressing to internalize all those feelings without a way to release them.”

“I understand completely.”

“Well, let’s do something about it!”

“I am old.”

“Here, at your fingertips, is an entirely new world. So complaining and explore.”

“Who wants to travel by themselves?”

“I am here.”


This year will be a new beginning for me… and for Sarah -the moniker she prefers. I will still sit every evening, after some classical music and a whiskey, and achieve my nirvana. But now, I am not alone.

(Isn’t that strange. Sarah was my wife’s name?)

Written for FINISH THAT THOUGHT #2-26


The Doll

It sat on the top shelf behind the jars of canned pickles. I had only seen Mommy play with her doll twice. Both times it was after a fight with Daddy. Mommy said it made her feel better. I was alright with that: playing with my dolls made me feel better too.

Peeping between the banister rungs, I saw Mom was sitting at the kitchen table. She sat there calmly stroking the doll’s head. It wasn’t a very attractive doll. Mom said it was old: she had gotten it when she and Dad first began dating. It was funny: she had even named the doll after Dad.

“That’s right, Cleo.” Mom whispered holding the doll close to her lips. “That’s right. Just a night with the boys.” It was strange. Mom was holding the doll awfully tight. Her hands had stopped stroking it and were both grasped around the doll’s neck. “I forgive you, Cleo. We won’t have to talk about that problem anymore.”

With a quick twist of her hands, Mom stood and put her doll back. She quietly shut the pantry door.

“I can’t wait for Dad to come back home,” I thought running back to my room.

First writing prompt for Jeremy’s Daily Challenge. (100-200 word requirement.)

The Cost of Achievement


“Just look,” whispered four-year-old Angus in awe. “Such huge buildings?”

Quickly disembarking from the trolley, Angus and I grabbed tightly to Father’s hands.  This was an adventure for both of us. Our small farm was a good walk from Renfrew. We had visited Glasgow once, just over night, when Mother was ill. Angus was too small to remember it. I didn’t want to remember it. Mother didn’t come home. Since then, it was just Angus, me, and Dad.

Entranced in all that surrounded me, I was staunchly aware of the truth. The entire village celebrated when the Earl of Glasgow offered an academic scholarship to our small village school. They were so proud of me: the villages’ only Honors Recipient. But with all life-changing events, there are rewards and repercussions. To achieve graduation from the most prestigious boarding school in all the Kingdom, I was having to leave Angus and Dad.

Slowly we walked the final blocks to the steps of my new home. Kneeling, I kissed Angus on his cheek: Dad kissed me on mine. Hand in hand they walked back to the terminal. I watched them until they made the final turn. Goodbyes were not what we did.


sacrificial good-byes

the future is mine

This was my first attempt at a Haibun. A Haibun is a short piece of fiction – mine is 200 words – using a Haiku as the concluding element. I hope you enjoyed it.

Til Death Do Us Part

“’Til death do you part.” Excessively romantic? Or depressingly intense? Was this the line that was supposed to be the most important from the ceremony?  Davis thought back over the last incredibly long year. ”What had happened to the love, honor, and cherish?”

A whirlwind romance. They had met after one of his games… the Utah Jazz game. Sasha was gorgeous. Articulate. Radiant. At the time, she had seemed perfect. Three months later, they were married.

He was a rookie: first year away from all those he held dear. From high school he could have played anywhere, but he chose to stay home and attend his father’s alma mater. It was a good choice. Principled, family roots had stayed entrenched and stable. He had excelled: a four year Collegiate Scholar and an All-American.

Outsiders thought his world was easy, but that wasn’t true. He was ambitious. A self-starter. He was an overcomer: obstacles were opportunities. The world was his oyster.

But suddenly he had found, not all oysters contain pearls. And even when they contained a pearl, not all pearls were equal.

Never-ending demands from marriage… from Sasha. It wasn’t that she was being unreasonable. It’s just that in a single’s life, responsibilities were casual. In marriage, responsibilities became obligations: problems seemed to escalate.

Another after-party… without Sasha. “Other commitments…,” she said… again.

Looking around. So many untried opportunities. Glimmering possibilities.

Another pearl was approaching.

“Hello, my name is Davis.” He flirtatiously interjected.

After all, the world is my oyster.

(Word Limit of 250)

The Winning Shot?

This was no different than every other time.

Develop a routine. It will help you in the rough spots.” I could hear Coach in my mind.

I had a routine. Three dribbles. A firm two-handed grasp. Lift my arms. Align the elbow. Stroke and release.

Behind the backboard it was bedlam. Stomping, Screaming. Even three metallic whirly-jigs.

I had seen them the last time I was here.

I knew the score. Overtime was inevitable- unless I made this shot.

“Just visualize. Visualize.”

So I shut my eyes. Three dribbles. Grasp. Align. Push. Stroke.

Suddenly, there was incredible silence.

(99 Word Requirement) Written for The Carrot Ranch

Share Your World: Week 51




  • Would you prefer snowy winters, or not, and why?
  • So, you’re on your way out and it’s raining. Do you know where your umbrella is or do you frantically search for it all over your apartment/house?
  • Do you prefer your food separated or mixed together?
  • What is set as the background on your computer?

Would you prefer snowy winters, or not, and why? Snowy winters are a must! I love to see the snow. I enjoy smelling the precursors of snow in the air. It is a must- I just don’t drive in the snow. Snow is for reading a great book!

So, you’re on your way out and it’s raining. Do you know where your umbrella is or do you frantically search for it all over your apartment/house? My umbrellas are right by the door. I also have one in each vehicle. I’m not sure why I have an umbrella so available. I do not remember the last time I actually used one?

Do you prefer your food separated or mixed together? My food is separated. I know it gets mixed up upon delivery to its ultimate destination … but it should be savored as separate, delectable components of a delicious meal on intake. I do love a gravy that is shared over many items in a meal.

What is set as the background on your computer? I have very dull, unimaginative, desktop-monitor backgrounds. But if I were a lover of the unique…. I like to one where the fish swim!

20-20 Hindsight: The Power to Rewrite History


Hindsight is 20-20

What if you had the power to rewrite history?

The power to rewrite history has often been talked about as one of the most powerful spells in all of the enchanted kingdom. If you notice the context, then you will understand my quandary. I do not live in ‘the enchanted kingdom’… Nor do I believe in ‘spells’. So it is a useless quest for me to spend much time on the assumption that the rewriting of history is actually possible.

I asked several of my wisest compadres what they would rewrite in history- if such a thing were possible- and they personally possessed the power. They were very magnanimous in their thinking and totally selfless in their giving. They would 1) stop a war and bring about world peace, 2) assassinate Hitler before he came into power, and 3) stop world diseases before they became epidemics.

I, being of the more practical stream of thought, pondered the idea far more pragmatically: I was selfish.

These would be my more pragmatic (i.e. selfish) rewrites to history:

I would spend more time with my mother in the kitchen learning the secrets to all her recipes. I miss the home-cooked aromas pouring out of a bustling kitchen- especially during the holidays.

I would spend more time with my dad in the garage learning the fine arts associated with machinery maintenance. Dad was a “do-er” … not a “teach-er’… it just took less time. Plus, I was not a very attentive student. Whatever was broken- I wanted it fixed. I didn’t really care about “the how the fixing was accomplished”.

But history cannot be rewritten. So the pragmatic me says… Live with it.

Written for The DailyPost Weekly Writing Challenge