Saturday, January 26, 2019

The Scene of the Crime

The scene seems ordinary: an upholstered chair beside the little table, a lamp perched on top.  What more can be told? There are a few crumbs, a used napkin, the remote control for the television. The sunlight would hit the area in the morning if the blinds are not drawn.

There is a notebook, pen, pencil, thumb drive and a small computer that is plugged in to recharge. A stack of books, ‘Writing as a Sacred Path,’ ‘Word Savvy,’ and ‘The Elements of Style’ by Strunk and White, provide telling clues.

This is a writer.

What have they written?

Nothing today.

Saturday, January 19, 2019

Dog Owner

Mimi tugs on Folger’s leash but the dog resists. The leash slants in a taunt line as he tries to get away.  
She should find the bootie by retracing her steps. It can’t be lost, she checks his feet often; but there is nothing red on the path.
Folger yips. Mimi stops. He lifts his bare paw as a stream of urine drills a hole in the snow. He’s done.
“Come on.” She yanks Folger’s leash.
Why did she get a pet? The bootie is somewhere on the path, right beside her patience and the daydream of a companion dog. Lost.    

Saturday, January 12, 2019

The Plan

Number 8. I will attend spin classes.

Number 9. Every day I will read one chapter from my self-help library. I will change.

She pauses as her teeth worry at her bottom lip. Then in bold stroke capital letters she adds something.


She felt like phoning someone to share her good news. This is a good plan and it is going to work. 1 to 10 in black and white. Black and white? Frick, that’s boring. Not creative like she is.

“I’m buying colored papers and pens.” She said. “To do this right.”

Saturday, January 5, 2019

Published Here - Odor

This is something new for me in two ways. First I have been having some fun with very short flash fiction projects. Second I don't intend to seek publication for them in the marketplace. I thought I would just share them here. New year equals a new idea. Hope you like it.



The manor is cramped and Catherine’s husband often stumbles on the strategically placed furniture. He doesn’t like anyone, and unhappily isn’t interested in any of the provided activities. 

He complains he can’t even fart in private; not that it mattered before.  But he’s extremely gassy and when he dies two months later at 77, Catherine believes she should have known.   

It is said he had a good run even if he wasn’t a ripe old age.   

Riper than you would believe. Catherine collapses in laughter that leaves her wiping her eyes. 
If the end can be smelled…she sniffs the air.