Why hast thou forsaken me?

…and Namrah spread his wings as I clung tightly to his undulating spine. He took me to the place last inhabited by my kind.

He landed on dry encrusted earth; trails of criss-crossed steel nearby. His massive head nodded to the open door and he watched as I ventured in. Rows and rows of emptiness. Benches of once polished oak, gathering the dust of ages. A transport station. Hope long since depleted.

Tears streamed from my eyes as I sought Namrah’s fold. With a keening guttural dirge, his one tear joined mine. And he lifted me, soaring, into the clouds.


Word Count:  100.  Written for Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ Friday Fictioneers. Rochelle is the master of flash fiction (a story of 100 words or less) and challenges writers each week with a photo, posted on Wednesdays. Photo credit: J Hardy Carroll.  Stop by and see some of the tales garnered from this photo!

For Tohi

Born into a mystical place of she-wolves, Tohi was granted one wish from her sungod.

And so it was that she arrived in a New World. She watched humanoids thrash in cold waters, struggling to reach land. Found walls with no doors. Saw fences and miles of barbed wire, shredding dreams to shards of despair.

Tohi wept, tears that grew from soft rains to rivers of grief. Graveyard plots grew in numbers and the ground was sodden until it could hold no more. And she became the final witness, as this New World became the Last.

Weep for your children
for they see the hatred sown
and will reap its fruit.


The first three paragraphs are written for Friday Fictioneers, hosted each week by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields. She provides a photo prompt and asks that folks create a story, flash fiction, in 100 words or less (word count: 96).  The haiku that concludes the post is written for NaPoWriMo day 23.  Taken together, prose + haiku, they become a haibun.  Tohi is the Cherokee word for peace. Photo Credit: Madison Woods.

Color-less World

We didn’t notice at first. She’d misplace keys. Or forget to call.

Once the diagnosis came, I used to take her in the back yard with a coloring book and a box of sixty-four crayons emptied into a bowl. She used the crayons gaily. To color and for digging in the dirt. Always the brightest colors. Lines were immaterial. She colored with sheer exhuberance.

Slowly, the colors changed. Two-fisted brown sharp edged lines filled page after page. And then I found her, staring straight ahead. Coloring book upon a rock, no sign of her upon its pages. And I knew.


Flash Fiction (100 words) written for Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ Friday Fictioneers. Photo prompt from Kent Bonham. For a recent poem I’ve written on the subject, read Dementia.

Watch Me!

I am in my eighty-seventh life on this earth. I’ve always been a feminist. Female, beautiful, and independently sufficient at the same time. I loved my can-can ruffle life in the Parisian bordello. And I donned a bright sash when I pounded my suffragette drum.

But this narcisstic genius body? It’s perfect!

I am bright, erect, and wear my sunny ruffles well. I stand above those two-lip characters, dutch men all of them. Short-lived though I shall be, there is nothing daffy about me! I am JonQuil the magnificent. And I out shine every bloomin’ thing!


Word Count: 96. Written for Friday Fictioneers. Rochelle Wiseoff-Fields provides the photo prompt and a myriad of folks work their words into what is known as “flash fiction.” Must be a complete story about the photo, in 100 words or less.  FYI:  the jonquil, as well as the daffodil, are members of the Narcissus genus. Photo Credit: The Reclining Gentleman.



Chateau de Sable/Castle in the Sand

“Ou est le bibliotheque?” She grinned, listened like she understood, then ducked into the first café she saw. “Un croissant. Donnez moi le beurre.” She’d had so many croissants, butter, le boeuf and les oeufs in the past two days, she’d probably gained five pounds. But she loved using her old high school French.

She ate quickly then followed the map to finally meet The Earl of the Castle de Sable! They’d met on the internet. His English was remarkably good. So she’d flown to Paris!

“Um, really? This is a . . . house! And your name is Earl????”


Written for Rochelle Wisoff-Fields Friday Fictioneers. Each Wednesday she challenges folks to write a 100 word story based on the photo she provides. This one took me back to my high school French (50+ years ago) and the only words (in addition to the first verse of Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer!) that I remember 🙂  Photo Credit: ceayr  


He lived on the streets. His junkie parents couldn’t deal when the infection went to his ears. He could sign though. Well enough that petrified folks gave up their money to the frightening, grunting teen.

Today’s cold was numbing. He entered the church and spied the antique clavier. He found himself sitting, eyes glazed, watching his fingers fly over the keys. What the? And somehow, music filled his head. Loud, crashing crescendos of…

The cop’s shove knocked Ludwig off the stool. The angry gesture sent him sulking back outside. He stopped to listen, straining. Nothing. The mute world stared back.


Word Count: 100   Although it’s Wednesday, this piece of flash fiction is for Rochelle Wisoff-Fields Friday Fictioneers. Photo Credit: Jan W. Fields.  Ludwig van Beethoven (1770 to 1827) was almost totally deaf in the last decade of his life. Many of his most admired pieces were composed in that last decade. Would that a homeless young boy might have his talents and we would never know.

The Kiss

It was all they wanted for their anniversary. They’d traveled every state and hiked so many trails together. They just wanted to go back to the beginning. The old amusement park.

We brought them to the litter strewn vacant lot. We’d heard the story so many times. The Tunnel of Love where the boat rocked in dark water, pulled forward by chains. Their first kiss.

They saw the rusted turnstile; ride long gone. And as is if we weren’t there, embraced. Their kiss, strong, passionate and deep. We blushed. Our father and mother, a man and woman at their core.


Word Count: 100   Photo Credit: Amy Reese. Written for Friday Fictioneers, so deftly organized by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.




I needed to get off!

Tarmack for an hour. The screaming kid in front of me? Don’t get me started on that. And then the kid behind me decided to be Ringo Starr. Rhythmic kicks like a drum roll until someone mercifully said stop.

Grab the carry on and shove like hell.

“Ladies and gentlemen. We have an emergency of sorts.” Of sorts?

“A passenger’s wife is in labor. He’s trying to get there in time. Please remain in your seats until he’s left the plane.”

That’s it. No connection. Good luck buddy, I’ll remember that excuse for next time.


Word Count: 100   Completed for Rochelle Wisoff-Field’s weekly flash fiction challenge: Friday Fictioneers. Photo credit for this week’s challenge: Michelle Greenwood.

Mrs. Ambrose

“I’d like a cup of hot chocolate, please.”

She’d walked out of the nursing home, no interest in the craft for the day. She couldn’t handle origami and hated working with glitter.

So here she sat on Christmas Eve day. Across from a young couple who chatted quietly, packages beside them. She remembered those kind of stolen moments with Ben. Their kids home with the sitter, last minute shopping done.

She sipped the sweetness, eyes closed, remembering.

“Mrs. Ambrose? You need to come back now.” She pulled the old coat closer to her chest and walked back across the street.


Word Count: 100   Photo credit: Jean L Hayes.  Story motivated by Rochelle Wisoff-Field’s Friday Fictioneers photo. Thank you Rochelle, for your work this past year and here’s to an inspirational 2016!

Empty Nest

Coffee cup in hand, she focused on the shapes coming into focus through the morning mist. James said they’d be a family science project. Bat houses. She’d agreed, only if they were a good distance from the house…

A good distance from the house…in-state college would have been nice. She smiled softly, thinking about the “Roots and Wings” adage on the plaque above her bureau. He sure spread his wings…

The telephone startled her. Coffee sloshed as she grabbed the phone. “Hello?”

“Oh, sorry mom. Did I wake you? It’s noon here. Just wanted to touch base. I miss you.”


Word Count: 100.
Photo credit: Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.
Flash Fiction written for Rochelle Wisoff-Fields Friday Fictioneers.
Learn more about bat houses!