It’s Not You, It’s Me.


“Natalie, why don’t you come over this evening. I’ll put some fresh hickory logs on the flames. I think we need to talk.” His kindly spoken words continued to reverberate through my mind the entire work day.

“I think we need to talk.”

“I think we need to talk.”

“No! We don’t need to talk!” I thought. “I like things just the way they are. I don’t want to hear the next set of dreaded words. ‘It’s not you. It’s me.”

“Why can’t life have a pause button? When you find a season in life where life is good… just press pause.”

I boldly stepped to his door. Smiling at his security cameras as I firmly pressed the call buzzer.

There was a vile rumbling beginning to be birthed in the pit of my stomach. The rest of my body was quaking in nervous trepidation.

“Hi, Alfred. It’s me.”

The door slowly opened. I was confused. The room was filled, foyer to fireplace, with roses from every color of the palette.

Alfred was handsomely dressed in a tuxedo. Suddenly, I saw him on one knee.

“Oh, my?????” I remembered saying.

Written for Flash Fiction for the Practical Practitioner. 


These Aren’t Mom’s Mushrooms

Spider tree

“Did you hear that?”

“Go back to sleep,” whispered Travis to his brother. “It’s just raccoons out hunting.”

“But I can feel ‘em moving about.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Ray-Ray. Roll over. Go to sleep. Hay bailing tomorrow’s gonna come early.”

“I’m serious, Travis. I can feel them walking around.

“You can’t feel raccoons walk.”

“Spiders, Travis. Spiders… All over me!” Ray-Ray was quickly crawling out of the bunk and untangling himself from his sleeping bag.

“Hand me the flashlight. I’ve got to go to the bathroom anyway.”

“No way I’m going out there! They’ll get me!”

“What is wrong with you? Why are you covering your ears with your sleeping bag?”

“The noise! It’s so loud!”

A small baggie fell out of Ray-Ray’s sleeping bag.

Travis picked it up and redirected the small beam of light. “Ray-Ray, you didn’t get these mushrooms from Mom.”

Written for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers. Requirements: Given the accompanying picture prompt, create a flash fiction story of 100-150 words.

Grandpa Amlodd’s Dragon


“He’s not supposed to be green, Jess.”

The six-year-olds gazed high atop the old stone barn. Bedtime stories of Merlin… Arthur… and dragons… filled their heads.

“Grandpa Amlodd smithied the copper dragon to protect our farms. Now look at him.”

“The copper dragon has to be freed.”

Racing to the farmhouse, the boys quickly did what they did at school. They googled.

“Ketchup!” They explained at the same time.

Armed with two ketchup bottles in one hand and the extension ladder from the gardening shed penned under their opposing pits, the boys set off the release Grandpa Amlodd’s dragon.

Written for The Carrot Ranch Flash Fiction Challenge. Requirements: Using the given prompt, create a 99 word flash fiction story. January 4, 2018, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story about Copper Country. It can be any place, fictional, historical, or on another planet. Go where the copper leads.

Anything for Buster



“7:37…. Now, to find the red door.”

I turned to the left… then the right. There was no one.

“Well, that’s good. No one will get hurt. And she can’t hide in the crowds.”

I’m not sure why I thought I was looking for a she? The voice on all three calls had been distorted.

“There it is!” I hadn’t meant to say anything aloud. It just happened. The red door was thee office buildings down and to the right.

Upon reaching the door, I was reluctant to open it. Sure, the instructions said to step inside and place the money on the counter. Leave. Buster would be returned immediately.

“But can you trust the word of a kidnapper? Ok, in this case… a dog napper.”

I stepped outside.

There was really nothing else to do.

Walking back toward the car I heard a door close on the other side of the street.

There was Buster!

I whistled and he came running.

Attached to his collar was a small envelope. A red beam of light was dancing across it.

I quickly opened the envelope.

Enclosed was a small slip of paper and these typed words… Leave Now!

I did.

Written for Sunday Photo Fiction. Requirements: Write a 200 word flash fiction story using ideas form teh photo prompt.

This Is Bliss!



October 13th

The year of 2014…

That was the beginning.

My first blog.

Three years and 63 days later …

A total of 1,158 days…

I now have three short flash pieces published.


Two pieces are flash fiction pieces. The third is a flash essay.

Check it out!

The Congress of Rough Writers: Flash Fiction Anthology Vol. 1 (Congress of the Rough Writers Flash Fiction Anthology) Kindle Edition

This is Bliss!

Written for The Daily Post: Bliss.

To the Victor

Photo by “A Mixed Bag”

“Do you really it’s still there?” Steven removed his peaked hat and wiped his brow. Chad had said to remain in uniform, but this heat was stifling.

“Has to be. The plunder of three Spanish galleons… Can’t just have disappeared without a trace.”

“It was heavily guarded. The entire time. You know the story.”

“Just means it was an inside job. I have researched every known officer and penal colony resident during that time period. Not one family has ‘suddenly’ found great wealth. I know the spoils from that wreckage remain hidden in the fortress somewhere.”

“How can you be so sure we will find it?”

“My new actinic encephalogram. It’s set to resonate on gemstones. Emeralds… Rubies… Diamonds.”

“Your Ph.D. in Nucleonic Geoscience…”

“Yep. I have dreamed of this day since the tour guides told our seventh grade class of the legend. From that day, I knew the treasures would one day be mine.”

“I am honored that you have allowed me to witness your soon to be acclaimed achievements.”

Your presence is imperative. I am sure there was an unscrupulous officer needed for the original concealment. It’s only apropos that we unveil the treasure in a like manner.”

Written for Sunday Photo Fiction. Requirements: Using the photo prompt provided create a 200 word flash fiction story.

Providence Is in My Hands


Providence Is in My Hands

Slowly and steadily Steven maneuvered the one-wheeled cultivator through the freshly tilled earth. After each carefully calculated pass, he methodically removed every stone and pebble the tines had exposed. For this year’s harvest there could be no impediments.

Picking up the malodorous bucket and his father’s haversack from the top of the preceding row, Steven continued to mimic the planting ritual he had seen his father do in years’ past.

Systematically pacing off ten-foot increments, Steven knelt, laid the head of a sun perch, and encircled it with the three sisters.

As new head-of-family, providence was his to command.

Written for The Carrot Ranch Flash Fiction Challenge. Requirements: September 21, 2017 prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story about what it is to gather a harvest. You can use the phrase or show what it means without using the words. Go where the prompt leads.