Category Archives: fiction


Eyes blaze bored, scrutinizing her latest meal stumbling in drunken shock.

Hundreds of years lacking companionship tugs her mind.

Floating soundless, debating her dilemma:  mortal or immortal.

He screams.

Irritation fuels his silence.

On to the weekend challenge.  This week we’re again asking you to stand on the shoulders of another writer.  But this time that other writer is you.  Take one of your former Trifecta or Trifextra 33 word entries and build upon it with another 33 words.  If you are new to the challenge you can use a Trifextra entry from one of the other community members, with their permission of course.

These are the first two weekend challenges from which I continued this segment: Crimson Liquid and Survive To Exist


Posted by on September 29, 2012 in fiction, horror, Trifecta



Survive To Exist

Scents delightful, tantalizing, tempting 

Lead to a wondrous detection of life.

Aphrodisiac twist of lust, hormones, desire

Spin a natural hunter’s instinct.

Absorb, puncture, relief.

Metallic liquid, sliding, oozing, fueling nourishment for existence.

The Rule of Three is a writing principle
that asserts that, in writing,
groups of three have the most impact.
This week’s challenge is to write
33 words using the Rule of Three
somewhere among them.
It is up to you to interpret the rule, just make sure to use exactly 33 words.


Posted by on September 16, 2012 in fiction, horror, Trifecta, Uncategorized, writing prompts


Life’s Crimson Liquid

For this weekend’s challenge, we’d like you to read the 33 words below and then add 33 of your own words to move the story along.  Have a great weekend and good luck!

The last strains of sunlight lingered in the corners, grasping every available point of refraction.  She slid her fingertips along the glass wondering if this was all there ever was. Or could be.

The last strains of sunlight lingered in the corners, grasping every available point of refraction.  She slid her fingertips along the glass wondering if this was all there ever was. Or could be. She’d spent far too much time draining life’s liquid from human prey to be convinced there wasn’t a piece of the puzzle she was missing. She had an eternity to bring it together.


Turning Back The Clock

When I first started this story, it was in response to a prompt. Read here for the first part.

Corey Eisner, is the new, up and coming prosecuting attorney who has been assigned to send us to death row. He’s made plenty of statements to the media stressing how he will not rest until he knows we meet with the fate of having a needle put into our arms. He has also assured Kevin’s family and friends it won’t be a twenty year process of constant appeals.

I believe him.

Mr. Eisner is preparing to give his opening statement to the twelve strangers seated in the jury box. I’m not quite sure how these twelve people are my peers. What do they know about us? They’ve never spoken to us. They’ve never asked, ‘How did it get to this point? Would you change it if you could?’ I don’t believe they haven’t been exposed to the headlines in some manner or another. The entire jail of inmates knew who we were before we were even arrested and booked.

I remember reading somewhere once our brains aren’t capable of creating faces as we dream. You think your mind conjures up a stranger’s face, but the reality is at one point, even if it was just a second, you’ve seen that face somewhere. Maybe the jurors didn’t know it was our case being discussed but I’d lay money down they’ve heard something about us.

My attorney keeps telling me I need to quit coming across like I don’t care about what’s going on around me. It’s not that I don’t care, it’s that I already know I will be sent to death row. I don’t see the point of carrying on a trial when we could just plead guilty. Presenting all that evidence isn’t going to change a damn thing. It won’t clean the blood from our hands. It won’t bring Kevin back. It won’t make all of our lives go back in time and back to normal.

Studio30+ offered two prompts this week. I chose ‘Back To Normal’

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Posted by on September 7, 2012 in book, fiction, Studio30Plus, WIP, writing prompts


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Things You Can’t Hide

Angela and I do an awkward step, clank, shuffle, clank as we’re escorted into the musty smelling courtroom. I follow behind her frail, trembling form. I wonder how she is able to carry her weak body. I couldn’t tell you how long we’ve been holed up in jail. Time has taken on a strange dimension of simultaneously hurtling through space while frozen in limbo. Whatever the length of time, it’s taken its toll on Angela. The officer escorting her gently hovers a hand underneath her elbow as she sits down. The officer escorting me takes his meaty hand and shoves me down, hard, onto the wooden chair. Pain shoots up my tailbone but I show no reaction.

Angela turns in her chair, eyes eagerly searching for her parents. I know the second she spots them. Tears run fast, furious down her sunken cheeks. Bottom lip quivering, she stares at them, silently pleading for help. I don’t bother to look for my parents. My real dad split long before I was out of diapers. Mom’s new husband made it clear, in his one and only visit, I was dead to them. I showed him the same lack of reaction.

I also know, without turning around, there are several reporters from newspapers and television stations ready to report our moment in the courtroom spotlight. I know what words will spill from their keyboards and flow from glossed lips. They will show our pictures taken a mere few hours before Kevin’s death. Angela’s blonde hair curled around her pixie face, beaming into the camera. Me standing next to her, my hair an unruly version of her style and a tight, uncomfortable smile on my face. Next, they’ll pan to our mug shots, not looking much different, outside of the wide-eyed looks of confusion. Following that, they will show, side by side, the drastic change in Angela’s appearance. Prom girl to concentration camp victim. I still look the same, minus the mug shot look of fear and confusion.

We’ve been dubbed the Ice Princess and Little Girl Lost. It doesn’t bother me to know the media has painted me in the role of the devious leader and decider of Kevin’s murder. There is much speculation Angela unwillingly went along, easily influenced by my masterful manipulation. I decided after hearing the first news report portraying us as such that I wouldn’t protest or scream my innocence. Not that I am innocent. I did help in the death of Kevin.

Our court-appointed lawyers rush in, ties twisting from the rapid movement. My attorney slams his briefcase on the table, pushes the sleeves from his cheap black suit up and sits down next to me. He flips the latches open without saying a word to me. As he turns to say something to Angela’s attorney, the bailiff makes his baritone announcement of the judge entering the courtroom.

Standing, I am more than aware we are about to embark on a mere formality of fate already decided.

This week’s prompt I choose from Inspiration Monday.


Posted by on August 4, 2012 in fiction, InMon, writing prompts


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Fleeting Wishes

“You just left,” Craig stated simply, no trace of anger or accusation in his baritone voice. I watch as he wiggles out of his heavy winter coat. The waitress, a tired woman whose face maps out her life’s hardships, gives a smile as she pours coffee in his cup. He waves her away, irritated, when she attempts to ask if we want anything else. For the briefest of moments, I see hurt wash over her features. Anger surges in my heart at him. My eyes follow her as she turns towards the counter. I wonder what her story is and if she’d be willing to trade lives for just one day.

There aren’t many of us in the run down diner. The cook, sitting at the counter, stares into space, a cigarette burning dangerously close to his yellowed fingers. In the corner, away from any possibility of human interaction, sits a young man, focused, a pen in hand trying to keep up with his flurry of thoughts.

I look at Craig. I think about his rude gesture to the waitress. He looks at me as if to say he knows what I’m thinking. How many times have we argued over his rudeness to people who wait on us, I wonder. It’s not as if he were born with a silver spoon in his mouth or privileged in some capacity the rest of us mere ‘commoners’ aren’t. I strongly suspect it is Craig’s own fear of being inferior which makes him target those he thinks might be a little beneath him.

“I turned around to pay and you were gone.” Again, his voice holds no accusations or anger at my trademark disappearance from the line at the movie theater.

I sigh, take a sip of my coffee. I have nothing to say to Craig. We’ve spent the last few weeks arguing the way a couple does as a relationship is on its deathbed. We’ve slung ugliness and immaturity at one another, creating places of contempt, leaving no room for true forgiveness. At least on my part. Craig seems to let painful words and arguments roll from his back without much problem. I, on the other hand, take the words to heart much as if they were delivered on a dagger.

I stare into his grey eyes and my heart bursts into a million pieces as I accept, after tonight, I’ll never see him again.

He stares at me, searching for a sign. He knows me better than I know myself at times. He knows my silence isn’t a good thing. He can handle me disappearing because it’s what I do. He struggles to find the words to a conversation he hopes will place us on even ground again. He looks sad as he reaches for the menu. The waitress glances our way. I give her a smile, discreetly hold one finger up to allow Craig time to make his decision. She nods and turns to say something to the cook, who looks our way.

Craig clears his throat. “I think I’ll have some pancakes. It’s been awhile since I’ve had breakfast for dinner,” he says. He sips from his cup, keeping his eyes on my face.

I nod and smile in the direction of the waitress and cook. She reluctantly pushes herself from the stool and heads our way. Craig reaches into his charm bag, as if to make up for the earlier discretion and places his order. I shake my head when her eyes turn swing my way. I glance at the clock behind Craig; my heart speeds a little in anticipation. Soon, I will need to slip out the door and head to the bus station.

Endings are a funny thing, I think. We both know it’s been over for weeks. Yet, we still fought, as if to save the love we once had. I think of the quote, ‘Don’t worry when I argue with you, worry when I stop because it means there’s nothing left to fight for.’

I think of all the couples we’ve known throughout our relationship. Some, still together, others not. Arrogantly confident in the beginning of creating our history together, late nights whispering how we were different. We wouldn’t travel down the same roads as the fools before us. I struggle to pinpoint the exact moment we became the fools we once judged. My mind is blank. There is no one certain event. It is a mesh of time, words, and broken promises.

As his food arrives, I excuse myself saying I need to use the restroom. I give him a quick kiss on his stubbly cheek. I make the pretense of heading to the restroom, slipping out through the exit door next to it, almost wishing things could have been different.

This week, at The Lightning and the Lightning Bug, Flicker of inspiration #59: Wishing  prompt fit in great with a random story that sprang into my mind.


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Whistle While You Work

Dawson pulled up in front of the old theater, his old truck idling roughly. He stared at the building responsible for the course of his life. He still savored the irony of the townspeople asking him to fix the old building, returning it to its former state of glory. He knew their dreams of breathing life into Avery were pipe dreams but he’d allow them to dream, just as he had once.

He turned off the engine, tossing his cigarette butt out the window and stepped out of the truck. He gave a friendly wave to the mayor walking towards the diner. Dawson could picture the scene. The usual group meeting for their ritual breakfast of coffee and gossip. Not that there was much to gossip about in Avery. Outside of Carolyn’s unexpected pregnancy, rumors flying fast and furious about who the father really was. Dawson felt a little sorry for Carolyn, knowing she lived in a private hell, much like he did.

Stifling a yawn, he grabbed the box of trash bags from the bed of his truck. He’d decided to start with the bulk of the work which would be inside. Over the years, the bored teens of Avery had snuck into the old theater to make it a place of partying and release of pent-up hormones. He supposed it was a natural course of action given there wasn’t much to do in the sleepy town.

Making his way into the building, his eyes momentarily hurt as he left the glare of the morning sun. Slowly, his eyes adjusted to the darkness. The shadows turned into visions of peeling paint, piles of trash, and smatterings of graffiti. He could make out the faint scent of urine as he kicked a path through the piles.

Yes, he’d have plenty to keep him busy and his mind occupied as he settled the score accomplishing his life’s mission. A wicked grin in place, he whistled as he began collecting debris.

This week I’m taking part in my first prompt with Studio30+ , a picture prompt. We had a choice of two: Peeling Paint or Kool Aid. When I saw the picture for the ‘Peeling Paint’, I knew it was perfect for Dawson’s Story.


Posted by on June 28, 2012 in fiction, Studio30Plus, WIP, writing prompts


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