Category: Author

In response to Sammi Cox’s Weekend Writing Prompt #298 Challenge in 30 Words – Jejune

Girls sprouting curves
boys wearing rolled up tees
mimicking young James Dean
While she just stayed the same
life was not such a boon
for a boring girl named Jejune

In Response to SueW and GC’s Weekly Prompts Word Challenge Weekend Challenge: OLD

Heart aches
broken open anew
after vowing
it wouldn’t be you

That would then
burst through walls
built over time and age
forging scabs unhealed

A tiny spot left untouched
hoping some day
to feel safe and loved
until I was old

That day did come
out came the sun
even the falling rain
danced with joy

That a woman
had found
the one true love
only to have it taken away

In response to Roger Schipp with A Writer’s Community picture prompt above for Flash Fiction For The Purposeful Practitioner:
2023:Week #7

On the bottom again, thank goodness. There’s at least seven old junkards on top of me. I can see myself in the reflection of their broken windows. I can’t believe that’s me.

I was a car salesman’s dream. When I arrived to the showroom from Michigan, I was handled with kid-gloves, literally. Anyone who touched me or worked on me had to wear special gloves so my new paint, Aqua 100, wouldn’t get smudged. scratched or damaged.

A young man sauntered into the showroom during one of the hottest days that summer. He looked at me and we fell in love immediately. He was glorious. He didn’t haggle, hesitate or argue. He asked the salesman how much I cost, pulled out his wallet and paid full price for me on the spot.

We drove all the way to the shore with my windows down and my new age A.R.C. Stereo Tape Deck blaring at the top of my volume knob. He sang along with every song, even the oldies. To say I was in automobile heaven couldn’t describe the wonderful times we had.

That man and I stayed together even after his hair turned all white and he couldn’t sing anymore. My paint had faded to near white too, but he still looked at me with love in his eyes.

Sometimes he’d sit in the drivers seat and pretend we were on the road again, even though neither of us ran at all anymore. Then he was gone and a big yellow truck came and pulled me away. All of my once lovely chrome was yanked away from my body and parts of my motor disemboweled, before I was put on a rickety old flatbed and brought here.

It’s almost my time beneath the crusher. But look, it’s the man and does he ever look dapper and he’s swinging my keys just like the first day he purchased me. I hope we get to put the windows down again.

The End

In response to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ Friday Fictioneers Challenge 02/10/23 to write a complete story in 100 words or less with a Beginning, Middle and End, using the picture prompt above.

He was tired. Frustrated. Angry and now, hopeful. She had left him a message. He didn’t know how she managed, yet each time he was on the very verge of giving up, she wrangled a way to drop a clue, leave a sign that he was on the right track. That she was still alive.

It had only been one night. An accidental meeting that had completely altered his life. They’d danced, eaten unfamiliar foods and tried a myriad of exotic tropical drinks. They had spent an otherworldly night together on his yacht, and then she was gone.

He hunted.

In response to Living Poetry’s February Visual Poetry Prompt posted by Bartholomew Barker

Oh! How wonderful it would be
to float like a balloon in the sky.
So high!

Colorful panels of purple, green
and a splash of brilliant gold.
Too bold!

The skirt to match embroidered so fine,
then carried up and out of the way.
Far away!

Passing by seagulls, herons and planes filled with people flying over the sea.
So free!

Landing once the day is done, happy to get from back there to here on only
Hot Air!

In response to dVerse Poets Pub Quadrille #169: STAR (in 44 words)
Posted by whimsygizmo

There is a star
a most special star
only I know is there

In times of stress or need
or when I have deep doubts
that is when she appears

Though now I am old
I will always know
my Grandma shines for me

In response to bwarren’s The Sunday Whirl Wordle # 591

The strip of paper changed from blood red to neon green the minute the switch was released allowing the air to escape. Vision cleared, the toxic gas disappeared and they were safe.

The bright display on the PCE-PCO 2 RH Data Logger revealed a positive atmospheric status. The Commander lifted his left hand, with a firm thumbs-up show of success and the troops went wild.

In response to Cellpick Sunday 02/05/23 Hosted by John Steiner @ Journeys With Johnbo

💜 Tala and Koda after a hard day of running, playing, eating. getting brushed, getting kisses and digging up my backyard little hole after little hole at a time, did I mention eating? 💜

How is it that a day
filled with brightness and sunlight
Is followed by a night
mired in lonely chilly darkness

How is it that a soul
soaring high above the clouds
Falls tumbling back down to Earth
wrapped in barbed coils of despair

How is it that a smile
well practiced and performed
So easily turns when all alone
into a long sorrowful frown

How is it that couples
find everlasting enduring love
While others flail along the way
searching, waiting, hoping every day

How is it that the north wind blows
a storm laced with bitter cold
And those south of the hemisphere
enjoy heat on the longest wintery day

How is it that life goes on
regardless of humanity’s plight
I suppose it’s with goodwill and faith
I wish you all a goodnight

It was over. We had made it through it. The affair. Make no mistake, it hurt. No, hurt is a word too weak to describe what had happened inside me. In my chest, in my gut. It was devastating, it was humiliating, it was debilitating. I was totally and completely debilitated by the betrayal. The broken trust was, in its own way, worse than the heart pain. I was humiliated, it had happened. It was only six months before our wedding. My dress was ordered, only a couple more payments to go. The bridesmaids colors were all picked out, the only groomsman had been measured for his tuxedo, the vest, bow tie and kerchief all in matching shades of ocean blue, my favorite.

My fiancé was wearing a straight white tuxedo with flared out tails. It had been ordered too.

Of course, none of that had made any difference and had complicated everything exponentially. So, it was nearly Thanksgiving, and I was headed back to the beach where we could spend the long holiday weekend together. I despise cooking except on Thanksgiving and Christmas when the kitchen is filled with too many cooks, the house is teeming with running, screaming children and snoring dads, or moms, grand-mom’s and grand-dad’s.

This year it would just be the two of us, one of our last holidays as single entities. I was supposed to drive down Wednesday evening, slotted to get to my fiancé’s place around seven o’clock. I finished packing up the food and clothes I was taking, and had even wrapped a gift or two, when I realized it was just barely past nine o’clock in the morning.

I had a sudden, wonderfully devious and erotic thought. I’d drive down early and get there while my fiancé was still at work. I was so excited, I was shaking with anticipation imagining the surprise on my fiancé’s face to find me home, with a nice dinner cooking and a glass of red wine in my hand.

The drive takes about three hours, a little less without traffic and oddly, there was very little. Although, it was a little early in the day for the holiday rush to descend upon the small beach town. I was going to get there even sooner. Better and better.

Not better, in retrospect of course. Something felt off when I entered our apartment. The one I had found. The one I had put the deposit on. The one I decorated myself. Something didn’t smell right. A different fragrance. Not perfume but something soapy with a scent. Shampoo maybe? Didn’t smell like something my fiancé would use. Too light. Too flowery. I wrinkled my nose as I walked past the closed door of the guest bath, the smell came from deeper into the apartment. The odd scent was stronger here near our bedroom door, closed. Odd, again. I think I heard the muffled noises coming from our bedroom long before I allowed my brain to process the meaning. Just as I placed my hand on the bedroom door, my brain decided to decode the onerous sounds. I nearly doubled over when the full realization punched me in the gut.

I hesitated. Did I go on in or turn and flee? If I fled, my fiancé could and would convince me I had heard wrong. I would believe the words and consciously subdue what I thought I had heard. That would be the easiest. The most sane. The safest.

I turned the knob and walked in. Our huge king sized bed was positioned very close to the door. The sickly light fragrance assailed my nostrils. The explosion that hit my mid-section now attacked my eyes. The sight forever burned into the fragile lens of my cornea. My bridesmaid and my fiancé were mouth to mouth, chest to chest, mound to mound. So involved they didn’t hear the door latch. Bridesmaid must have heard me gasp, though I didn’t know I had, because she turned her head and screamed.

That was almost a year ago to the day. My fiancé texted, called, begged, sent flowers, wrote letters and periodically showed up on the deck of my home; begging forgiveness, promising fidelity, pleading for the return of my love and devotion. It took a year but I acquiesced. I know, I know. Once bitten and all that, but there’s also forgive they neighbor and that whole line. So, my fiancé is not my neighbor, but it still holds true. Everyone can make a mistake once, right? Last fling. Loss of independence. New challenges and all that crap. I know, because I heard every excuse and explanation possible during the year of our estrangement.

It’s been rough, touch and go on my part. Less go then touch until I was touched again, held in the arms of the person I loved above all others. That scent that was only my fiancé’s scent enveloped me. The long, endless nights, days, weeks, months disappeared when lips met and claimed mine again. All is good. All is right in our world. The wedding is back on; minus one bridesmaid of course.

I step into our apartment, folding my luxurious satin wedding gown draped several times over my arm, wrapped within its protective covering compliments of the bridal boutique. Everything is set and everything is ready.

I try to hang my gown in the closet, my side; but, I have to make more room. Turning to place my gown across the bed, I notice for the first time, it’s unmade. My fiancé is a tad fastidious, so I’m a little surprised, but like me, my fiancé is stretched to the limit with wedding plans, wedding soirée’s, as well as a ten hour work day. Turning around, I carefully fold my gown on top of our sock chair. Yes, we have a designated sock chair. Neither of us can remember where we got it or whose it was at first. It’s the God-awful ugliest chair you’ve ever seen. Faded gold-like paint smeared over dinged and scratched arms of some undetermined wood from some long-ago dining set. Circa late 50’s maybe, but what do I know about furniture. Echo’s of gold embroidery are only evident by the tattered strings and filigree outline visible on the baby-puke green damask cushions. It’s sturdy and fits in the corner by the bed perfectly. It’s where we sit to take our socks off and put clean ones on the next day. It’s where one of us sits while the other reclines on the bed, and we talk. It’s our coming-together-at-the-end-of-the-day-chair. It’s our sock chair.

Stretch. Shake out my aching left arm. God, my dress is heavy! I can’t wait to wear it. I know I will hate taking it off. Will want to wear it for days and days on end. It’s so very beautiful. I’ve never had anything so magnificent, so majestic, and so expensive. I’m going to cherish it always, this I know in my heart.

I squeeze the big foam bed pillows back into shape. My fiancé insists these are much better for us. I push two pillows up against the headboard and pull up the sheets, then the light blanket and finally the lovely bedspread; a present this past year. Gorgeous. The white background is covered with embroidered sea creatures; crustaceans, birds, shells, turtles, and dolphins on a backdrop of transparent hibiscus flowers in water-colored teal. It’s exquisite.

Going to the other side of the bed, half the length of the bedroom; I pick up one pillow. Squeeze. Place it against the headboard. Second pillow. Squeeze. That’s odd. Something on the other side of the stark white pillowcase gets caught in my engagement ring. Turning the big pillow over, I expected to find a loose thread , I stop. Look away. Look back. Drop the pillow and freeze. I can’t breathe. I can’t physically take a breath. My entire body has seized. Frozen. Completely and utterly frozen. Burning heat now. Starting in my ears. I feel the heat wash down the back of my neck into my spine. This massive flow of burning emotion drops to my toes, back up through my legs, into my stomach. I feel it pool in my arms, run into my hands before taking a direct route into my eyes. Red. All I can see is red. The room is red. The bed is red. My dress is, red.

I look down to see paring shears in my hand. You know, the ones with those huge chunks of jagged-sharp edges that my grand-mom used when sewing. There’s bits of cut and torn cloth clogging the nut and bolt holding the blades together. There’s red dripping from its blades too. Blood? My blood. Must’ve accidentally cut myself. The room is a chaotic blend of foam, bits of cloth, layer upon layer of tulle and satin resides over the top of the destruction. Looks like a Christmas gift, all wrapped up with a beautiful bow on top. Yes, a gift.

A gift needs a card, yes? I rummage through the drawers I had dumped out then flattened to the ground, I think I may have jumped on them, I can’t find what I’m looking forward. Then through a mound of foam, I find it. THE pillowcase. Yes, this will do. Using the old scissors, digesting it of the rooms ruination; I neatly and meticulously cut out in a precise square, the tightly embroidered name. Her name. On my bed. In our bed. I feel the heat again, take deep breaths to keep the rage contained. Dear God, don’t let my fiancé come home now. I can’t even think the words, yet I feel them. I know I’ll do it if my fiancé walks through that door.

Embroidered pillow case in hand, at least the part I didn’t shred, I head for the front door. Turn around and go back into the bedroom. Kicking the remnants of what-was-to-be onto the floor; I pick up my ugly sock chair and carry it out the door with me. Oh yes, the gift card. Turning, I place the lovely, embroidered name of my ex-bridesmaid under the mail clip. Tug on it to make sure it’s stable, not going anywhere and walk serenely to my car, sock chair wrapped in the cradle of my arms.