Wednesday/Friday has rolled around again. It took some time to come up with an idea to go with the photo our Fairy Blog Mother, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, posted this a.m. but here is my 99-word stab at a story.

“Oh, Anne, you know Samuel’s dead.”
“No, he’s still alive. I feel it, here, in my heart.”
“Two years . . .”
“A mother knows if her son is dead. Mine isn’t.”
“But we found his camera. Shoes. And horse bones. All wrapped in vines and decay.”
“No matter! My Samuel doesn’t need those things to live! My Samuel is strong and smart.”
“But he knew nothing about the Amazon. Snakes, gnats, mosquitos can drive a man insane!”
“This was his third expedition. He knew! He did!”

Glassy-eyed Samuel walks silently along the Xingu River. Ten shrunken heads dangling from his belt.


Today Pegman took us to Abaco, Bahamas. Thanks, Karen and Josh for transporting us to such a beautiful place.

Bahama Beach Club

She will say there’s no specific reason
why she returns year after year after year.
But you know she just can’t admit there’s no letting go.
Truth be told, you can tell she welcomes the pain of seeing that chair, their chair,
where they sat each and every night.

He’s been gone for ten years, four days and an hour.
And, honestly, they hadn’t been together that long.
A week? Two?
You watched her fall in love.
And she fell so hard.

Even you had a difficult time resisting his blue eyes,
the wisps of blond hair that seemed to float up toward the ceiling,
his melt-your-heart smile.
And those dimples.
Oh, those dimples.

But from the beginning, you knew there was something wrong.
Something off-kilter.
His lack of focus.
The way he cried.

You want to tell her it’s the way of things.
Babies die.
Instead, you walk away.

Father is smiling today and I feel like a prince inside his gaze.
Yesterday, his frown made me scurry like an ant beneath his feet.
It is hard to predict when his heart will be made of stone
and the entire day promises to be rocky
or his heart will blossom with the warmth of a hundred loving fires.
Those days are so smooth and calm I wish they would last forever
but the hours click by too quickly and another morning
arrives and I am once more challenged to decipher
which Father I will meet when I rise from my bed.


Posted: March 3, 2018 in What Pegman Saw
Tags: , ,

Today Pegman transported us to Clinton Road, West Milford, New Jersey where ghosts seem to hang out in droves. I chose the town of Clinton for the backdrop of my story. Thanks, Josh and Karen for keeping the Pegman ball rolling, and thanks to everyone who reads my 151-word story.

We dream in colors: denim-blue skies, copper-penny bricks, sulfur-yellow hedges, bone-white clouds and the cardinal-red of happiness.
We smell ash, fish spawning in decaying mud, diesel fuel, and lost love.

Your laughter sounds like clattering coins in our ears.
Your sorrow does not touch our hearts for we see your tears as nothing more than shards of crystalline glass rattling down your cheeks.

Our job is to watch and wait for you to make one error, that’s all it will take. Big or small, we don’t care. We wait.
We follow you through town. We swim with you. Our arms hold your children, and our hands steal your thoughts.
You run when you feel us near. You squeal when we brush your arm or blow gently on your neck.

Oh, yes, we are here. Waiting and watching for that one mistake.
And then we will gladly welcome you into our ranks.


Today is Wednesday-Friday! Thanks, Rochelle, for posting this picture of a boxing gym. We at Friday Fictioneers only know that because there are about a half-dozen signs telling us so. Thanks, J. Hardy Carroll for providing the picture. Now, for my 100-word story. Thanks to all who read and comment on my submissions.

Photo by J Hardy Carroll

The background music to Tessa’s life was filled with squealing tires, shouting men and boxing gloves thump, thump, thumping skin.
The characters who peopled her world were drunk, bruised and mean.
Helmets, ropes, mats, and bags provided the never-changing scene work.
Only when it snowed did she feel safe for the men couldn’t drive the unplowed streets nor navigate the sidewalks.
They couldn’t come upstairs and tease her mother nor play Tessa’s violin so violently the strings snapped.
And she felt secure in the knowledge that no one would grab her wheelchair and shove her across the room.

Edita’s Gift

Posted: February 24, 2018 in Uncategorized

Pegman took us on a trip to Karlovy Vary, Czech Republic. Thanks! Pegman for getting our collective minds set to create a 150-word story.

As a child, Edita wanted not just a single dollhouse, but an entire village.
Having wealthy parents helped and through the years, Edita collected house after house, painted them in colors that made her happy.
Through time, Edita put trees beside the houses, cherry trees with delicate pink blossoms in spring and maples with fiery red leaves in fall.
She added spruce trees in parks, merry-go-rounds and a river littered with sailboats and swans.
By the time she was twenty, tiny birds floated in the air above her village and fox prowled the forests.
When she was forty, Edita’s parents died, leaving her millions.
She added a school and churches of every denomination, stores, and two hospitals.
Clothing stores popped up after Edita turned seventy and she was becoming tired.
Ten years later, Edita passed away, leaving her village to people arriving from foreign shores
so they could have a home of their own.


Posted: February 21, 2018 in Friday Fictioneers
Tags: , , ,

After staring at this picture for awhile a story finally came to mind. Sorry, it turned a bit bleak in the end. As always, thanks to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting our Friday Fictioneers’ party each week, and thanks to my fellow attnedees for reading and leaving comments.

Photo by Marie Gail Stratford

Just like the yarn in Grandma’s weaving basket, the threads of Lilliana’s life were all tangled up.
Used to be she knew precisely where she was headed and what waited at the end.
Used to be nothing, nothing could get in her way.
Yeah, used to be.
But now she couldn’t see beyond the thin, grey line of her new life.
Sure, people tried to help, said reassuring words, promised the moon.
She listened, straight-backed and graceful.
Even smiled – sometimes.
But Lilliana knew, absolutely, that women without feet were never asked to join the ballet.