[Saturday Shorts] 9-30-17

Write 200 words about being lost in the woods. 

Leave or link to your story in the comments by midnight on Sunday and I’ll tweet about it this week. 

[Saturday Shorts] 8-26-17

The Prompt

Tell a 500 word story that begins with the following sentence:

When the world ended, there were fireworks….

Via “Active” – Stock Xchng.

Leave your work or a link to your work in the comments before midnight on Sunday and I’ll tweet about it.

Side Flings

When she finally deigns to look, the signs are glaring at her from every corner of her life. The end of slow, lazy Sunday mornings in bed, of Friday evenings spent together at home; the late nights “at work” and his immediate need to shower when he gets home. The increase in dirty clothes and him doing his own laundry; the constant fatigue and the “not tonight, honey” responses.

One Sunday, she follows him. He drives to the mall one town over. She hides herself in the bright colors of the post-Church shoppers, keeping him just in sight until he makes a sharp right through a colorful shop entrance. 

When she gets there, she stops, blinks twice and re-reads the sign posted in the entryway: Dance Dance Revolution Contest Finals TODAY.

For the Daily Post prompt: Glaring.

[Saturday Shorts] 7-29-17

Your prompt: 

The song hits its climax then fades away. She switches the mp3 player off, pulls the ear buds from her ears, bundles the mess together and drops it on her night table.

Rolling onto her side in the cool, pitch black room, she pulls the covers up to her chin, flops her head on the pillow.

There’s a sudden scratch of sound in the darkness. A voice hissing her name.

 In 200 words, what happens next?

Leave your work or a link to your work in the comments before midnight on Sunday and I’ll tweet about it.


The Last Stall


The tattooed lady is the last stop on the sideshow. Jay finds her in a lone stall, behind a curtain shimmering like nacre. She stands naked, body long and lean and unadorned but for the black-ink snaked winding sinuously from the bird-boned curve of her left ankle to her right shoulder blade.

Jay watches it detach its diamond shaped head from her scapula, ribbon thin tongue tasting the air, the wriggling mouse she holds over her shoulder.

A smooth jaw-snapping lunge and the snake flattens back into ink, the lump of mouse now a strange, wiggling growth beneath her skin.


For this week’s 100 Word Challenge: Snake.

[Saturday Shorts] 6-24-17

Travel is something that’s generally encouraged: gap years, collegiate exchange programs, business trips, vacations. Travel expands our boundaries, provides us with new experiences. And that’s good. At least, within reason.

Once you move from tourist-vacationer to nomad, people start getting a little suspicious. There’s a long running trope, in life and in art, that travelers are running from something. Maybe a bad childhood, a love affair gone sour, a shady job.

I grew up a military brat, so travel was part of my life. During one stretch, I lived in three different states and one different country in a five year period. It didn’t seem like anything at the time. It still doesn’t. But to a lot of people, that’s a strange existence. If I’d been an adult, on my own, I’ve no doubt some people would have been wondering what my deal was.

I’m not as nomadic these days (it’s easier when your parents are shuffling you around or when you’re being sponsored by an employer) but I like to travel.

I like visiting places I’ve never been before, revisiting places that speak to me. I rent, I don’t buy. I’m not really interested in putting down roots; if the opportunity presents itself, I want few obstructions to keep me from packing up everything I own and leaving. (If I owned less, that’d be easier…but that’s another post entirely. See also: George Carlin’s bit on “Stuff.”)



Write a 1,000 word or less story about travel. Nomadism. Is your character running away from something? Or are they running toward something? Maybe both?

Need some extra oomph? Try this song.

I look back then I look away
Way that that blue sky fades
Feels like I’m runnin’ away
And I’m headin’ out to Santa Fe



photo by Joel Filipe – Unsplash

They rise and fall inside the tank, pale bodies cutting through the viscous fluid with the ease of razors through skin, and there’s something familiar in the shape of their heads, the condensed pearly rope where a spine might once have been, the long, translucent limbs that slap against the glass, testing for weakness, seeking escape.

“What are they?” she asks, pushing one sticky tendril that had wrapped itself around her thumb back into the tank.

“Once they were human…after a fashion; now, they are ghosts.”


For Three Line Tales.