Wednesday, October 24, 2012

Putter (100 words)

I straightened the couch cushions in the living room…for the second time, wiped down the kitchen counter…again, and watched the news for an hour.
(no news is good news)

I put clean towels in the bathroom and washed the two coffee cups in the sink then put them away.
(wasting time)

Was this procrastination?  No.  Avoidance?  Yes.  The outcome would be no different no matter how long I lingered before I turned to the last page.

(finish it)

I zipped my coveralls and, box of garbage bags in hand, clicked the switch to illuminate the basement stairs and headed down.  

Monday, October 22, 2012

Unapproachable (100 words)

We were scared of her.  Her name was Amy - like amiable.  She was anything but.  She wore her hair in a tight bun and her mouth in an even tighter scowl.  She came to the office, did her job, and left without speaking to many.
One night at closing, as I set the alarm, I heard a whimper.  It was Amy.  I found her still huddled at her desk holding a small teddy bear.  She smiled at me through her tears, “It was Jamie’s.”
I knelt by her side, slipped my arm around her shoulders, and let her cry.

Wednesday, October 10, 2012

Body of Work

A few weeks ago, I sent my 65,000 word novel off to an independent publisher in Seattle. 

And, now I wait.
When I was writing the story, I often thought of it as a human being.  I built the skeleton first, and one by one added the muscles and essential organs.  Then I put the nervous and circulatory systems into place to ensure all the parts of the story were connected.  Lastly I added the skin and facial features to encapsulate my words and make the finished product more appealing to the eyes/mind.
One of the hardest things about building my story was discovering many, many benign tumors that needed excised.  While they apparently did no damage to the body as a whole, I had to admit that the story was much healthier when they were gone.

Like the proud parent that I am in real life, I was ecstatic when “Rebecca” could stand on two feet and eventually even began to think for herself.
Like the anxious parent that I am in real life, I hesitated for months before sending my finished work out into the real world.  I wanted to make sure that Rebecca was perfectly prepared to live by herself without my guidance and tutorage.  I would think she was ready to go and find her shirt needed ironed, or hair needed trimmed, or she had a smudge of food on her face.  Finally, I knew it was time to let her go and see if she would be accepted by society.

And now I wait.
Funny, I don’t really think of the story as my child (I picture myself more as a mad scientist) but those correlations are endless.  For instance, now that I gave the first one my all – put in my very best effort to raise it right – I am starting all over again with number two.  And, just as different as two children can be, these two stories are nothing alike – other than the fact that they come from the same lineage. (The first is an introspective military/survival/murder thriller and the second is a more humorous but still dark take on vigilante society women...)

Will my creation be accepted by this publisher or will I need to have her come back home for more preparation before driving her back to the bus station to try yet again?  I do not know.  But patience is a virtue…one I do not have, so while I wait, I write.  "Justice Mae Applebaum" needs a femur.  

Thursday, August 23, 2012

Flash Fiction #30

In the gray, I hear freighters as they traverse the narrow channel en route to the Pacific.  I stand on the porch and listen as they call to each other warning of a proximity made even more treacherous by the fog.

The dividing horizon is a blur.  The mist hides all traces of the sky, the water, the earth.
But, these twelve-thousand ton vessels voyage on trusting in their inner navigation to lead them to distant shores. 

I too am unable to see my destination.  I can only pray that I am plotting my course in a direction that’s true.

Photo by the lovely Maggie Duncan.  And who could forget our Friday Fictioneer Femme Fatale...Madison Woods!

Thursday, August 9, 2012

Flash Fiction #29

Poseidon’s temper was legendary, but his wrath would be second to none if he learned of her betrayal. 

When the time came, only her handmaiden, Miryam, was present.  Amphitrite nuzzled the baby’s neck to memorize his scent then wrapped the tiny boy in her gossamer shawl.

“Take him and go,” she said to Miryam.  “I cannot bear to look upon him any longer.”  

Miryam placed the seashell and its precious cargo into the currents of the Aegean and watched as it washed away to some distant shore.
What became of the boy would not be known for generations to come.  

After you read my writing, leave a link to your blog in the comments, because I look forward to reading your story as well…especially if you happen to be a FridayFictioneer!!  (Thank you to Madison for using my picture.) 

Thursday, August 2, 2012

Flash Fiction #28

Another bout of violent hacking echoed down the hall from the den-turned-sickroom.  His father was getting worse with each progressing hour, yet Carl found it near impossible to scrape together even the smallest iota of sympathy for the man.

One last convulsive cough was followed by a wheeze…and then silence.  

Carl rose slowly from his lounger to go check on the elder Morris.

Philip was sitting up in the hospital bed and grinned when his son appeared.  He removed the lit cigarette from the stoma in his neck, plugged the hole with his forefinger, and hissed, "I ain’t dead yet." 

Thank you to Madison for this exceptionally gross picture!  I love it but didn't know whether to go the alien route, write about fungus and rot, or reminisce about toasted marshmallows.  I finally decided it looked like something that might be growing in the lungs of a die-hard smoker.  Enjoy!  

Don't forget, if you want to join the Friday Fictioneers,  stop by Madison's Blog and join the gang!

Thursday, July 26, 2012

Flash Fiction #27

Each year bits of knowledge leaked from her mind.  Drip by drip, she forgot first where she set down her keys or her cup of coffee.  Next it was the pan on the stove unnoticed by all but the smoke detector.  Then, the way to the post office where she had a box for near thirty years.  Finally it was her son’s name and eventually her own.

But she never forgot him, for he was her first and best love. 

In the last days she sometimes would pat her leg and call to him, “Buddy, come here buddy boy.  Buddy…”

Leave a comment here or on any of my older posts…I still check them and enjoy reading your feedback.  Please include a link to your blog as well, so I can see what you have to say.  And, whether or not you are a #FridayFictioneer, be sure and check out the website of our fearless leader and hundred word wizard, Madison Woods!

Thursday, July 19, 2012

Flash Fiction #26

While the human body could only go three days without water, it was capable of surviving for upwards of three weeks without food. Those extreme measures were not yet necessary, so Christine inventoried her stores and opted to eat half of the peanut butter sandwich and the baggie of seedless green grapes. The sandwich would provide fuel through carbs and protein. The juicy sugars of the grapes would give her strength and hydrate her body. She savored every last morsel including the tiniest tart globes and then carefully pocketed her garbage to avoid leaving a telltale sign of her travels.

Above is another hundred word chunk from my *finished* 59,286 word novel.  Read and enjoy.  (I added a tag if you care to read the previous offerings. Click on "Next Steps," the tentative title, to see more).  

While you're here, fellow Fictioneers, post a comment or two and leave a tron trail to your blog.  PS -  If you are not a Fictioneer, check out Madison's blog to get the scoop on how you too can play!

Thursday, July 12, 2012

Flash Fiction #25

The parched Arizona highway was void of life less Död and his familiar resting high upon a charred branch.  When Jager took flight, Död followed.  It had been too long and his hunger raged.
Through the windshield of his flat-black Vandenbrink GTO, he spied her.  Worn weary by the road or life...or both, she walked, thumb out, pleading for rescue.  She was young and fresh and perfect for his needs.

Duivel commissioned harvest of the kidneys, heart, and other marketable organs.

Död would get the rest.

His lips smoothed into a tender smile as he halted the thrumming engine. 

I hope you enjoyed my twenty-fifth installment of flash fiction.  Thank you to Madison for manning the helm. Check out her blog to play with the #FridayFictioneers and don't forget to join the Facebook page for additional updates and information.  

Thursday, June 28, 2012

Flash Fiction #24

This country life is growing on me.  I am becoming the literal Susie Homemaker.  Yesterday I bought a canning set at the hardware store in town; by this afternoon I planned to be up to my armpits in jam.
My bucket was half full of plump, juicy blackcaps, my fingers and mouth stained with the same, when I heard the snuffling.  The sound of a rutting hog came from the other side of the briar patch.  I peered through the twisted brambles and froze.  It was a sow indeed, but not of the porcine persuasion.
Yes, in a jam indeed…

I missed playing with the #FridayFictioneers the last few weeks.  School, blah blah, life, blah blah, kids on summer vacation, blah blah.  But, I am back this week!  I hope you enjoy my stab at light humor.  And, by the way, I really did buy a jar sterilizer and some pectin yesterday...and noticed that the wild salmonberries are this close to being next week, I probably won't post...again...and my excuse will be, jam, blah blah...

Want to play #100words?  Check out and join in the weekly fun!

Friday, June 1, 2012

Flash Fiction #23

I'm not losing steam, fellow Fictioneers, I've been rerouting my energies toward my schooling at University of Washington (I have a final today) and my novel - which I'm proud to say, I completed last night.  (Now...on to the editing and final smoothing...then the search for an agent/publisher.)  In the meantime, I could not resist Doug McIlroy's beautiful picture of Hawaii (Land that I love).  Aloha!

In the early days before the things that crept and crawled on its surface, before the things that soared in its heights and swam in its depths, before man was born to soil its beauty, The Earth knew only water.

Then, there was a rumble deep within its core and The Earth trembled.  A crack split its surface and glowing magma spewed forth.  The Earth healed this wound, but soon more broke open and grew higher into the sea. 
And Pele saw this and said it was good.  

But she did not rest, for there was much more to do.    

Friday, May 25, 2012

Flash Fiction #22

She was becoming. 

She wasn’t what she had been but had yet to develop into what she would be.  All she was before ceased to exist; all she had done faded away.  The scents, tastes, and memories long departed.   She exhausted the present, and soon she would be what was next. 

She would be spectacular.  All would change because she had transformed. 

The sepia casing chafed away with the winds of time and she was left naked, exposed, raw.  She had grown.  She was new…and different.  She tested her wings in the wind and found them strong. 

She had become.

#FridayFictioneers is a fun way to express yourself with #100words or less using the weekly photo prompt on Madison’s blog.  Check us out on Facebook too. 

Friday, May 18, 2012

Flash Fiction #21

“This house is perfect,” said Kami.

“Pshhh…that’s what you said about the last seven places, Honey,” Marc replied.


“Look, I don’t even think I got the job,” said Marc.  “When I walked out, they said, ‘Don’t call us. We’ll call you.’ That’s not a good sign.  Maybe this whole trip to Hilo was a huge waste of time.”

“Oh, Marc.  You and your signs,” chuckled Kami. 

Marc turned away pretending to inspect a crack in the lanai, so she wouldn’t see the defeat in his face.


A luminous swath of colors arced across the sky.  Marc’s phone rang. 

I miss Hawaii.  I miss the people, the flowers, the music, and the food...and the rainbows.  I used to see them daily.  They spoke of promise, and peacefulness...and they were damn pretty.  Someday I will live there again.  

Someday I will return to the land of sweet breezes...and rainbows.  

(Pardon the coo-coo flying through the video - I LOVE the footage of Iz in this version though.  He was the best...)

Monday, May 7, 2012

Oh dear...

It’s no secret that I love Stephen King’s work.  On Writing is my new bible, and I waited (and waited and waited and waited) with breathless anticipation for each new installment of the Dark Tower Series to be released. 

It’s also no secret that I am writing a thriller/novel/really long story about a woman lost in the woods.

On Thursday I was at the library and decided to look for Under the Dome – a novel of King's I have started to read twice but just couldn’t get in to.  The only King on the shelf was The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon.  I picked it up and started thumbing through the pages.  Now, it’s been years since I had a copy of The Girl in my hot little hands.  It was printed in 1999, and I suppose that’s about when I read it too – I usually grab them when they are fresh off the press (less 11/22/63 and the aforementioned Dome).

All I really remembered about this story was that a little girl (Trisha) got lost in the woods and that flying, biting insects tormented her throughout the entire story.  That angle was so real that I itched for weeks after turning over the last page.  I also recalled this to be one of my favorites, so I checked it out and started reading that night.  About two chapters in, I said, “Uh oh.”  The story was sounding familiar.  As I turned the final page, I felt a sense of shock.

My own story is very, very similar…too similar in some parts.  

One could argue that being lost in the woods is the same – or at least comparable – regardless of the person, place, or time.  Trees are trees and terror is terror, right?

My question is one of plagiarism.  That ugly word popped into my head when I read an almost identical sentence only a few pages into the book.  Then another, and another, then more.  

If...ok, ok...When my story gets published, who’s to say my ideas are really mine.  Does the love of a particular author's writing style sink into the subconscious of another or merely influence them?  How close it too close?  How does one prove that an idea really is original?  Or, just as Hollywood remakes nearly every one of my favorite movies (and usually ruins them – Clash of the Titans, anyone?), are there no New Ideas anymore?

I guess I will crack open On Writing and see what the King has to say about it.  

Wednesday, May 2, 2012

Flash Fiction #20

#FridayFictioneers is a fun way to express yourself with #100words or less using the weekly photo prompt on Madison’s blog.  Check us out on Facebook too.  In the meantime, here is my 20th installment of Flash Fiction...

“My Dearest Rebecca, Although we cannot be together now, please know my heart will forever...”

Someone was coming up the attic stairs.  I jammed the ribbon-tied stack of letters back inside the hole in the wall and scurried over to the cardboard boxes.

It was Mother. 

“How are you coming along with those clothes?” she asked. “Find anything interesting?”

“Interesting?  Why yes, Reeeeebecca.  I sure did,” I thought to myself.

Mother and Father had been married for seventeen years.  Why did she have those letters and who was Damian? 

...and why was the last one postmarked only a week ago?

Thursday, April 26, 2012

Flash Fiction #19

For this week, the photo prompt from Madison was a loop of barbed wire.  Coincidentally, this twisted fencing plays a part in my full-length novel (in progress...50K words and counting).  So…I shall share with you another little chunk of the perils of poor Christine.  (PS – I still have no title for my thriller.  I suppose it will come to me in due time.)  By the way, if you missed it, here's a link to the previous posting from the story.

In her frenzied flight, Christine had forgotten about the strand of barbed wire strung across the road.  It caught her mid-shin and she fell forward onto the gravel, her face scrubbing the ground as she skidded to a stop. She clambered to her feet and ran on, her body now screaming with pain.  She could not stop though; the man was only yards behind her. 

Ahead lay the washout.  Christine made a desperate leap across the gap but missed the other side.  She plummeted backwards into the void and disappeared over the side of the cliff with the rushing snowmelt.

Thursday, April 19, 2012

Flash Fiction #18

I didn't use the photo prompt this week, but it doesn't mean YOU can't!
Here's how to play:

1. Take a peek at Madison's blog.
2. Write your own 100 words.
3. Post on her blog and on Twitter using the #FridayFictioneer hash tag.
4. Read what the other Fictioneers have to offer and comment away!

Here's mine (I'm not sure if I've ever written a dialog before.  I hope it works for you.  My husband said it sounds like a soap opera...sigh) 

“I killed him!” Mark screamed and sat upright in his hospital bed.  “I killed Alan!” 

His arms flailed madly, searching for escape, but the metal handcuffs held tight.  “I KILLED HIM!”

The nurse hurried into his room armed with a syringe.  “Mr. Paulson, you need to calm down.  Lie down and rest.”

“I killed my Alan!  I killed him…I,” Mark’s last words were lost in a spasm of sobs.

“Mr. Paulson.  This will help you rest.  Hush now.  You need to rest now,” said the nurse.


The amber liquid mingled with his blood and muffled his words.

“I killed…my…I killed…my brother…” 

Thursday, April 12, 2012

Flash Fiction #17

My heart thumped in my chest when I saw the tunnel.  I was scared of its pee-smelling blackness and the hungry thing that lived inside.  But, I had to get the groceries before Momma woke up.  Or else.  Every other time, my big brother Kyle had been with me.  Today I was on my own.

I ran in fast but slipped on something wet.  I heard gurgled breathing behind me and scrambled to my feet.  I ran and ran.  Then I was back in the sun.  I was safe...  

The list!  Where was it?  I dropped it in the dark...

See for the weekly photo prompt.  Read what the #FridayFictioneers have to offer on her blog and on Twitter!  

Thursday, April 5, 2012

Flash Fiction #16

“Today is the first day of the rest of your life.”  Diane dropped the final congratulatory card and watched it see-saw down to the river’s surface with the others.

Retirement was supposed to be this unlimited, amazing free time to indulge hobbies, travel, and complete long neglected projects.  For a while it had been fun, but now… 

With no family, no job, no friends, no plan, she felt so…so useless. 

What good was a new day…a new life…when one had no purpose?  What was left when one became obsolete?  Diane took a step and followed the cards over the edge.      

Thursday, March 22, 2012

Flash Fiction #15

Below is an adapted hundred word clip from my full length work in progress.  I decided it was time to share it with the world.  It's reaching completion, so the next step would be to send out a few query letters.  Maybe.  We'll see.  

Presenting, this week's Flash Fiction chunked out of my yet to be titled...dare I say it...novel.  Enjoy...or not.  I'd love to hear what you think.

The stench of menthol cigarettes still lingered though Christine knew the man had moved on long ago.  If he found her, she would be dead too.  But he hadn’t.  Yet.  He’d been pursuing her all day, and she had managed to evade him once again. 

Exhausted, she would spend the night here, protected by the thick brush. She needed sleep…and a plan.   He had caught her off-guard earlier today, but now it was time to play her ace – to draw upon all she learned during her time at the military’s elite SERE survival school. 
Tomorrow morning, flight would become fight. 

See for the weekly photo prompt.  Read what the #FridayFictioneers have to offer on her blog and on Twitter!  

Thursday, March 15, 2012

Flash Fiction #14

Bud and I were at the Willow Drive address.  “Sheeet,” he said.  “Look at all this crap!” 

“The bank said get it done today. Quit your bitchin and start loadin,” I told him.

Bud kicked a pile of tires but began heaving busted toys and bags of trash into the truck. 

“Stupid, lazy sons a bitches. Three washers? Who has three washers, Jim?!  I can’t believe they moved and left all their junk!  Nothing but junk,” he griped.

I sighed.  Bud complained a lot, but he was a good worker. 

“Jim,” I heard his voice soften. “Better come see this...”

We have an 11 year-old black lab we rescued this summer.  Her family owned her since she was a pup and decided they wanted to travel and “didn’t have time for a dog anymore” or so it said on her paperwork.  An inside dog, she’d been left out in the backyard for weeks before they finally took her to the pound (better than just letting her loose, I guess).  Her situation broke our hearts, so we recycled her.  Here’s my Mindy with her rescue brother PeeWee:

One man’s trash is another man’s best friend… 

See for the weekly photo prompt.  Read what the #FridayFictioneers have to offer on her blog and on Twitter! 

Thursday, March 8, 2012

Flash Fiction #13

Maggie and her beaux were kissing far away under the willow tree. She told on me cause I spied on them and I got paddled.  I wiped my tears and giggled.  She didn’t know I could still see them from my hidey-hole under the porch.  
These wasps would make Maggie cry when she opened her dresser.
My hands got too excited, and I squished the nest.  They all poured out.  Their stingers got me everywhere.  My skin was fire.  I screamed and screamed but no one heard.  Finally my throat wouldn’t let anymore screams out but it didn’t hurt anymore.       

Thursday, March 1, 2012

Flash Fiction #12

Jacque had been three days without food and a month without bathing.  He could not remember when he’d last slept, nor did he care.  These had ceased to be important.

Finding the first blood-hued ruby had been an accident, the second ecstasy, the third and final had merely stoked the already blazing obsession.
“Hi ho, hi ho, hi ho hum,” he sang to himself.  “Dig dig dig dig, dig dig dig...”

Clothes long turned to rags, pickax to splinters, mind to madness, Jacque painted with red as he scraped at the ground with torn nubs in search of number four. 

Join us!  See for the weekly photo prompt.  Read what the #FridayFictioneers have to offer on her blog and on Twitter!


Sometimes I have a hard time getting into the writing groove and am fascinated at the range of ridiculous things I find myself doing instead of working on my novel.  Yesterday was amazing – I had a full five hours of productive prose.  Today – not so much.  I have the computer on and the document in the forefront but keep finding myself puttering away at this and that – anything and everything but writing.
A few moments ago I was standing at the sink peeling labels off a glass bottle destined for the recycle bin.  This completely pointless task is not even required by the recycle center.  It was then that I realized I must be desperate to avoid sitting down at my desk. 

I’ve been downstairs countless times to check on the fire in the wood burning stove even though it’s been fine every time.  I put all twenty of the dog toys back in the box even though the dogs take them right back out again.  I did an oddball load of laundry – you know, the stuff that lingers at the bottom of the hamper for months, even years.  I put my cookbooks in food style order and cleaned dog nose prints off the picture windows (even though, again, new ones will be back momentarily).

I pacify myself with the knowledge that sometimes the words flow off my fingers with nearly no effort, but when I struggle to put what’s in my mind onto the paper, the end result seems forced.
Maybe today wasn’t supposed to be a writing day.  Maybe I got started too late.  Maybe cleaning the grout around the sink and reorganizing the pantry really was more important. 

How do you stay focused when you’ve lost your focus?

Thursday, February 23, 2012

Flash Fiction #11

The photo prompt this week was so easy, it was hard - for me.  Because of the way I write, I immediately saw monsters, and murderers, and bears.  (Oh my.)  Too many ideas swirled in my head, and they were all far too predictable.  Frustrated, I stepped outside "the box" and wrote something completely different.

As a lover of spicy food and the 2006 Bayou Bugaloo third place pepper eating contest winner, this is what I came up with...a little comedy for you to enjoy.

DING!  DING!  DING!  Justin threw the partially eaten chicken wing onto the heap of tiny bones in front of him and swabbed at the tears streaming from his eyes then blew his nose into the once clean towel.  

A belch rose from the napalm in his gullet and escaped past numb, red-rimmed lips.

Through the buzzing in his ears, he heard his name called.  Cameras flashed as someone handed him the gilded trophy.  2011 Hot Wing Champ! 

“You look like you’re in pain,” said the Star-Times News reporter.

“Not half as bad as I’m going to feel tomorrow,” thought Justin. 

(Remember, you too can play!  See look for the #FridayFictioneers on Twitter!) 

Thursday, February 9, 2012

Flash Fiction Friday #10

Kept in the dark and fed bullshit.  Cecily’s eyes blurred with tears as she repeated the old joke.  She had been the last to know about Steven’s affair. 
“I have to work weekends if I want that promotion, honey.”
“It was late, so I slept at the office.”
“Her?  Lisa’s just a friend.”
When Cecily finally had the nerve to look at the photos, she was crushed but knew what she had to do.
She chopped the last of the Death Cap mushrooms picked during her morning walk and added them to the sauce. 
Steven would be eating alone tonight.
This was a hard photo prompt for me - at first.  Suddenly the story just seemed to spew forth, and I finished writing in record time - maybe ten minutes tops.  Funny, when I read this one to my husband of almost 24 years (as I always do), he paled a little and asked where I kept the Syrup of ipecac.  I think I scare him a little…

(Remember, you too can play!  See and look for the #FridayFictioneers on Twitter!)

**NOTE**  I cheated and changed a word after I submitted this piece.  I hadn't noticed that I used "late" in his first two excuses, so I changed the first one to "weekends"...I think it works better and removes the repetition!  Ooops...

Friday, February 3, 2012

Flash Fiction Friday #9

“PEW!  It stinks like animals up here!”
Alerted by the woman’s proclamation of disgust, he scurried to safety only seconds before the hikers appeared.  He felt ashamed, not by his musk, but because he’d been engrossed in the sunset and had not sensed the humans until they were too close. 
Animal?  He was glad to be thought an animal.  Humans were depraved and wasteful. Humans killed without cause and destroyed without purpose.   
Jeremiah sneered.  He no longer missed living among them. 
He waited until they were long gone before gathering his easel and paints and heading back to his cabin. 
(See if you want to play too.  Look for the #FridayFictioneers on Twitter!)

Friday, January 27, 2012

Flash Fiction Friday #8

I call this one, “Waiting.” 
I considered for some time whose perspective to take when I looked at this week’s photo prompt.  The person who just boarded the train?  The cagy looking guy in the ballcap?  The porter?  However, I was repeatedly drawn back to the little boy.  He doesn’t look worried – just oddly trusting and patient as well as a bit curious. 
We never may know why he is in the train station, but this is what I think happened:
James said, “Stay there.  Don’t you move.  Don’t talk to anybody.”  He said he had important business in the city and it was too dangerous for little kids.  He gave me a hug and said he would be back soon.  He never hugged me before. 
Seventeen trains came, but James wasn’t on any of them. 

I had to pee real bad now, but James said don’t move.  A nice lady asked me if I was lost, but I didn’t talk to her.  James said don’t.  It was getting dark, but I didn’t worry.  James said he would be back soon. 
(See if you want to play too)       

Friday, January 20, 2012

Flash Fiction Friday #7

The museum, from the grandeur of the architecture to the collections of brilliant artwork, was my vision of nirvana. Perfect – less the throngs of gabby, babbling self-appointed art aficionados. The profound communiqué of the masters would never be heard by these.
I was engaged in a wordless tête-à-tête with Gauguin’s Te Arii Vahine when I heard yet another imbecile insist, “My third grader can paint better than thaaat!”
My left eye twitched. I ached to argue the precision, the technique, but recognized I needed to be more persuasive.  I aimed low to avoid spattering her viscera on Femmes de Tahiti.

Friday, January 13, 2012

Flash Fiction Friday #6

Reaching, stretching, determined to grow. Maria worried about the chances for this bare start of an oak. Its single root struggled for purchase on gravel instead of the rich soil it needed for nourishment. Pondering its blind faith shifted her mind from the call she received from Dr. Powell only moments ago. She made the appointment because she’d been tired – achingly exhausted – and plagued with daily nausea and headaches for weeks. Blood work pinpointed the exact cause of her illness. Fear and joy now wrestled in her heart. At the age of 45, she was for the first time, pregnant.
P.S. I'm neither 45 nor pregnant (thank God).  This is the first thing that popped into my mind when I saw the photo prompt. 
P.P.S. If you'd like to play 100 word Flash Fiction, check out Madison's blog: 
Be sure and post your work in your own blog (or her's if you don't have one) as well as a link on Madison's blog and Twitter (if you tweet) so the other #FridayFictioneers will be able to read it.  Join us!