This is the last Carrot Ranch flash fiction challenge until November 1. (Then it’s NaNoWriMo, yikes!)
As I’ve mentioned, I’ve been struggling a bit with the writing and getting organized, however, that has been going on for around a year 😉 . Perhaps it has something to do with mars being in retrograde? (I’m kidding, it has everything to do with me and my own orbiting around the sun.)
So we were supposed to write about a parade of nations. Here is my effort. Continue reading
Set the Night on Fire
July 31, 2018
St. Martin’s Paperbacks
Blurb: From award winning author Laura Trentham comes Set the Night on Fire, a novel about starting over, finding your way back home―and falling head over heels. . .
Ella Boudreaux has a lot to prove to her family, friends, and foes―and to herself. So when her marriage ends she decides to invest her Continue reading
The Aunt Dancing is deep dream generated by Sascha Darlington
The Aunt assembles phyllo shells filled with fig preserves and brie while sipping her Manhattan. Needing another jar of preserves, she slips behind the kitchen to the pantry where her niece’s voice reverberates. Continue reading
for dVerse, where we are to write about opposites.
Deep Dream Generated by Sascha Darlington
The Opposite of Love
with roles reversing
love to hate to love
to something else again
and maybe not all are like this. Continue reading
Thanks to Rochelle for providing Friday Fictioneers!
Today is dad’s 50th birthday. Mother cooks food to feed 100, invites not nearly that many, and pours alcohol like it’s flowing free from faucets. Continue reading
My mother has a quilt
made by hands
gnarled yet able
for a lost brother
I barely knew.
On sick days
she’d wrap me in the quilt
tell me the blanket
to keep me warm
each square of fabric
something of his
bound by thread
like family threads
When I was tiny, I would sit in my gran’s kitchen and listen to her coffee percolator. Like my mum’s Mr. Coffee, gran’s percolator made incredible sounds, burping and hissing, and I could close my eyes and dance in this aural world.
My gran would be on the phone talking to someone and I could hear her voice rise and fall, her accent a lullaby.
When I visited, she always had a can of tuna fish for me. I sound like a cat, but I loved it. She would drink her robust Colombian coffee and talk to me while I forked tuna from the can.
Her lips were dark red from lipstick, her hair henna reddened. She always wore pencil skirts, never once did I see her wear pants.
There was no doubt I was closer to my gran than my mum, but my mum, for some reason always jealous of her mum, wrecked that. When you’re a child and the adults around you are dysfunctional, you have to pick your battles and sometimes you must choose the wrong one to survive.
It’s only after the passage of years that regrets fill a book.
Sanctuary dissolves like yellowed paper
Fragile to touch
Decaying to dust
Skimming the air
Solitary thoughts insistent
Reminding of child times
Rhymes, swinging feet kicked out
Soaring, pout gone, lips upward curved
Playing ball, tennis serve, camping
Ponies, kittens, soft purr, whiskers tickling
Prickling knowledge, all gone
Family like (distant) friends
Friends like family
Brambly path thorns catch skin
Spot of blood
end 7/26/2016 (2)