Tag Archives: Fiction

Blade #writephoto


Photo by Sue Vincent

Givere’s footfalls echoed down the corridor despite his careful steps and the soft leather of his boots. TAP-Tap-tap-tap-ap-p-p. TAP-Tap-tap-tap-ap-p-p. TAP-Tap-tap-tap-ap-p-p. He clung to the walls as he tried to tiptoe, occasionally glancing over his shoulder. TAP-Tap-tap-tap-ap-p-p. The walls were an ancient, rough-hewn rock fitted together with no mortar.  The stones glisten red in the torchlight with sweat from the moist air, giving the illusion that the walls were oozing blood. Even without the sweat, he would know by the chill that he was far underground.

Gevere was nearing the end of his quest.  If all indications were correct, the Sword of Nature was down in the deepest dungeon, a place that hadn’t been seen by human eye in millennia. The 14-year-old had braved many trials to make it this far and so was cautious – the rough-rock-hallway seemed too easy! Continue reading


No Longer Fun


PHOTO PROMPT © Anshu Bhojnagarwala

“I got it, let’s tell scary stories, the way we did when we were kids!”

Sue gave Derek a dirty look while Bob just stared into the fire.

“Come on guys, you are just so boring.”

“What are you going to do, tell the one about the Claw?” Sue spit the words out.

“I’m sorry, I’m just so tired of sitting here doing nothing I thought you might want to try something different.”

“Those stories were more fun when we were kids, back in ’52,” Sue said.

Bob looked up, “Yeah, before the Claw killed us, before we were ghosts.”


Word count = 100

Friday Fictioneers is hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.  This week’s prompt is here and uses a photo PHOTO PROMPT © Anshu Bhojnagarwala.  Read more or join in by following the InLinkz “linky“.

When the Elephant Bumps the Mouse House – Chapter 1


Pixabay image by Marianne Sopala

Jesk took a deep breath of the fragrant breeze.  It smelled of nature, of unspoiled forests. He sighed and continued the call to tie up loose ends.

“That means that the Margeson Contact is complete and watertight, right?” Jesk asked, seemingly to the air.

A crow flew down, landed a few feet in front of him. It turned its head and watched him for a minute with a shiny eye, cawed and flew off.

“Yes sir,” his assistant and lawyer Merl’s voice came from came from slightly to the left and in front, towards the meadow and slightly downhill.

“Good.  I left the office early today. Lock it all up on your way out.” A vulture was making lazy circles in the cloudless sky, but was soon gone.

“Yes sir.  Have a good weekend.” A deer walked into the meadow near were the voice was coming from.


Jesk leaned back in his chair and only half paid attention to the pleasant landscape around him.

Ignoring Jesk, the deer moved deeper into the field. Beyond the meadow the shadow of a deeper forest has half guessed in the green haze and perhaps even some higher hills off in the far distance. Facing forward, the trees grew a little thicker to the right, away from the little glen, and sloped downhill away from him, where it was possible to make out distant tall mountains through the trees.  To the right the ground sloped down even more to a small, fast flowing brook only a dozen feet from where Jesk was sitting.  It seemed the ideal spot for trout, with a tree shading the bend in the stream. Although the sun was bright, it was a perfect 72 degrees with just a hint of a fresh breeze. The deer continued to graze in the field to his left while a red tailed hawk flew overhead.

Jesk leaned back even more and half dozed. A fly could be heard buzzing by him, but he ignored it, letting the noise fade into the background as he relaxed and let the week melt away.

A large bump jolted Jesk. He jerked up, suddenly wide awake. Continue reading

Mr. Brown


Note – this is now Chapter 15 of the story Of Wind and Wings, a story inspired by Sue Vincent’s prompts.

Note 2 – this chapter is not based on one of Sue’s prompts.  It is an “in between” chapter that was needed to fill in detail.


The room was dim, lit only by a large fire in one corner and candles on the tables.  It was a step back into another time, perhaps the fifteenth century.  Well, at least until the observer noticed all of the 21st century trappings.  Most of the candles were actually LED lights.  A lot of the people were using mobile devices.

As Ed’s eyes acclimated to the dark he saw a hand waving and a friendly face.  He led The Grubb over to Mr. Brown’s table and sat down.

“Hello, Mr. Pulman.  Fine day, is it not?”  The man’s bushy jumped up his face.

“It is great, Mr. Brown.  How are you?”

“Fine, fine.”  Mr. Brown’s cheerful voice did not convince Ed.  The eyebrows told the real story that the man was anything but fine. Continue reading

Indian Summer – Short Story

Note – This was the first story I wrote as part of my rediscovery of writing.  I originally wrote it in November of 2009, almost exactly 9 years ago.  I wasn’t very happy with the end, but I had thought about expanding it to novel, or perhaps just novella, length.  I never did and haven’t touched it since February of 2010.  I hope you enjoy!


Mitch Longing was up early, well before 6, and witnessed the golden rays of sunlight as a new day unfolded across the crisp, stark November landscape. A whiff of Indian Summer was in the air.  It will be a beautiful day.

The little nook on the second floor of Mitch’s house was a perfect spot for breakfast, a perch that overlooked the whole village, letting him see the people, following the sun’s invitation, start to stir and buzz around town.

Mitch’s across the street neighbor, Jim Hawton, who looked as if he had been lost trying to navigate through his mid 30s and had only recently been found wondering about in the territory between his late 50s and early 60s, was standing looking at the remnants of his garden.  You would be excused if at first you mistook him for an old scarecrow waiting patiently for its owner to take it down for the winter, his back arched up as if on a pole, dark eyes staring across the garden.  He stood unmoving, hoping somebody would come by to ask him what he was doing.  He so much wanted to say, “Watching the frost sublimate”, but nobody asked, so Jim continued to stand and stare, his 20 foot shadow slowly shrinking down to 12 feet.

It’s not that Mitch could read Jim’s actual thoughts; it’s just that Jim’s thoughts were very predictable.  If he wasn’t watching the frost sublimate, he’d be watching the pumpkins oxidize or be thinking of aerating his garden’s soil, though on a day like this Mitch bet on the sublimation of frost. Continue reading

Skull (Bone) – #writephoto


Photo by Sue Vincent

“I thought you British ate small breakfasts.”  Hungry as he was, Ed wasn’t sure if he could finish the heaping plate full of eggs, bacon, sausage, some type of hash brown or potato cake and other assorted food-stuff.  He looked closely at one of the objects.  Tomatoes?  For breakfast?  And mushrooms?  He wasn’t sure about the black thing.

“Now where on Earth did you ever get that idea?  Every good day begins with a good breakfast.  Eat up.  It looks like you haven’t had a proper meal in days.”

Ed shrugged and started in on the huge meal.  He had to admit that it was very good.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Pulman, that we haven’t been properly introduced,” the woman said.  “I’m Elisabeth Smyth, but you can call me Liza.  And before you ask, yes, the good Dr. Smyth was my Bob’s younger brother.  Marv has been keeping an eye on me since I lost poor Bob.  Not that he needs to.  Sometimes I feel Marv needs more looking after than I do, but what do I know?”

Ed, mouth full of toast, nodded.  Continue reading

Faraway – #writephoto


Photo by Sue Vincent

Ed walked over a small rise and was surprised to find himself at the water’s edge.  Wasn’t he walking through the moors far from the seaside?  Yes, far, far away.  Where was he?  He turned around, but heavy fog covered the land.

A sound filled the air.  There was the soft churning of the waves, but something else. He imagined the sound from the ocean as a carrier wave for a more complex noise.

Ed turned and walked down towards the point of land in front of him, drawn by the sound, which was resolving itself into an unearthly music.

The land went out to a point in the water.  Waves came in from two directions, meeting in a line off of the point. Continue reading

Abigail Bradford nee Hawkins – The Halley Branch


Abigail Bradford (1725 – 1827) was the youngest child of the great patriarch of the Hawkins clan, and some would say the founder of its cult, Miles Hawkins.

After her father passed away in 1745, the young Abigail found herself in the strange position as the leader of the extended family.  Her oldest sibling, the beloved yet increasingly infuriating sister Mary, and her husband Gustav Halley, had started a feud with her brother, Ebenezer, over the inheritance of Miles’ vast estate.  The Halley’s argued that society would not accept the children of Ebenezer and Phebe, called Faith, as the head of an important family.  The problem was that Phebe was a former slave descended from African parents.  People would only see their children as dark skinned ex-slaves.  Or so the Halley’s said.

The Halley’s did win the lawsuit and the inheritance, but always assumed that the Hawkins Branch were plotting to bring them down out of vengeance.  Although this was not true, the Hawkins did not have the resolve to try to heal all of the wounds in the extended family. Continue reading

Fall – #writephoto


Photo by Sue Vincent

“No.  Nope.  No.  No.  No, no, no.  Uhmmm, no.”  The man had arched one eyebrow and then the other.  He twisted them both up as he pushed the drawing farther away and then scrunched them down as he drew it closer.  The eyebrows were giant and bushy.  Ed watched them in fascination as they danced around the old man’s face.

“No.  This is not around here and never was.”

“Are you sure?” Ed asked.  He took out another sheet of paper and pointed at a spot.  “It should be right here.”

The man twisted his face, one huge eyebrow going up onto his forehead while the other smashed into his cheek.

“Fascinating.  Where did you get this?”

“My great uncle made it.”

“I take it that your great uncle’s name was Jackson Pollock.”  Both eyebrows went up in a large, bushy arch.


“Exactly.  What.  My guess is nothing.  Abstract Expressionism at its best.”  The historian looked pleased with himself, his grin curled up almost to the great bush of fur over each eye. Continue reading

Pillars – #writephoto


Photo by Sue Vincent

Ed walked through the arch and glanced around.

“Pillars,” he said out loud.

He was in a giant room, seeming to stretch to infinity in every direction.  The unseen ceiling was support by row after row of Doric columns.  Periodically a free standing arch was placed in the middle of the avenues created by the columns.

Ed took a few steps deeper into the room and took his bearings.  The room was very dimly lit, a perpetual twilight.  Uniformity that disappeared in the misty distance.  But what was that?  A faint light from one direction?

Ed followed the imagined light.  Imagined?  Maybe not, for as he went it did grow brighter. Continue reading