Archive for May, 2011

I could barely wait for the new prompts. I checked before flopping into my bed for the evening. The new suggestions fill me with great stories.  I have chosen “SIDEWAYS IN TIME” .  You can find a prompt that suits you from the 5 listed at BE KIND RE-WRITE  I wanted to try this in DRABBLE form. I like writing in minimalist form. Time to shut up and let ya read.




“There’s always time.”

“Time? Time for what?”

“For the things we forget.”

That’s how the conversation started. I didn’t understand the calligraphy of his speech.                                                   I’m not sure of my indentured perceptions today.  Did he know? Was he acquainted with the sinister depths of trickery hidden by the dreamers?  

Could the behavior have been breed within the milky translucence of dreamscape? Are there answers without
questions? Do dreamers die spiritless if left un-awakened? The labyrinth of right is left in the wake of slumber.  Dreams: Vivid, hypnotic perceptions. Forgotten moments slipped sideways in time.   Better left unremembered, lost in ambiguity.



My friends, I’ve discovered another wonderful opportunity to write.  This is given to the fans of Indigo Spider whose link is posted below.  Indigo Spider provides her readers with a choice of photos to use as muse for the next story.  I’ve chosen the 2nd prompted visual.  Oh, very important rule. 500 word limit.


There she is.  Aunt Loretta. The one woman in the Greene family who is able to cause any kid she looks down at to pee his pants.  I experienced this same withering gaze from her in the summer of ’60.  I was 5 years old.

Aunt Loretta’s thumb was universally acknowledged as the greenest in town.  Her flower garden bloomed at the edge of her seemingly palatial lawn alongside the crumbling and frost heaved public sidewalk of Aztec Street in Hometown, Iowa USA. The immaculate white picket fencing discreetly kept the admirers from her garden.  It also lent to the beholding eye the air of hominess and oven baked bread.  That’s just how I heard a neighbor’s mom describe the property.  I knew what she was talking about because my Grandma could bake the best potato bread.  Now, 45 years later I have sensory flashbacks to Grandma’s kitchen with the fresh baked aromas of yeast wafting into the crooks and crannies of my brain: flowing around the crevices of gray matter like butter did as it melted into the warm yeasty body of the Hot Cross Buns and fluffy breads  from Grandma’s kitchen.

One Saturday afternoon, after the girls I was playing with in the neighborhood had drifted away, I wandered into the garden of my Aunt Loretta. I was allowed there. She never tried to keep me from admiring her Peonies, Chrysanthemum, Asters, Echinacea, Primrose, Verbena and Black Eyed Susan.  Yes, the proper English Garden is what my Aunt Loretta had striven for. I was strolling through the small avenues of Auntie’s garden and I can remember looking UP to see many of the flower heads!  Today, I know I felt like “ALICE”. The garden was bright with colors, alive with honey bees and buzzing insects that came to nibble or pollinate the greens of the garden.  The feelings I experienced were extraordinary.   I felt I were a princess who idled among her gardens.  I imagined myself in stiff crinolines and hooped skirts strolling along the garden paths with a woven basket to capture the clipped flowers I’d chosen to fill the vase in the entryway of our home.

A large veined hand roughly grabbed my right shoulder. “Oh lord, Aunt Loretta.”  I was spun neatly (if not smartly) around to face the woman.  She sputtered and flurried, I was so scared I couldn’t hear what she was carrying on about. The only noise I could make out was the sound of an ocean crashing in my ears. We lived in Iowa. There was no ocean, but I sure could hear it.  I could see her face redden in her vehemence.  I was dragged to the veranda of the little cottage she shared with Uncle Harry. They stared down at me and I felt the warm wetness dribble down my legs into my shoes.  I looked down to see the forgotten flowers I had plucked. My wool socks itched.  I had just endured “THE LOOK” and lost.

The following entry is for

Perhaps you will enjoy this. It’s written for a word prompt website requiring the writer to write 100 words around the prompted word of the week:


“For what? Time?”

“No, attention. Look at them.”

“It’s a flash-mob, silly.”

“What’s a flash mob?”

“It’s what you’re looking at right now! Folks who get together putting on a public performance in a place the public are unaware of; at a time the public will notice it best…”

“It’s creepy is what it is!”

“No, it’s fun! Aren’t you enjoying the song? The dance?”

“It’s too weird for me. It seems  spontaneous, yet how could it be? It’s creepy.”

“You’re creepy, this is just plain fun. I’d like to do this.”

“Be quiet, It’s too creepy, skin crawly .”


Scribbler has introduced me to a website with weekly story prompts. The site is

I’m very glad to start writing here with the inspirations of the guys and dolls who work at their craft of writing.


Injected plastic, green, posed in crouches, sights drawn on targets. Sabers reaching toward the azure sky, little boys issuing the battle cry: “FOLLOW ME, MEN! TO GLORY!”

The battle ensues. Giant hands reach for the fighting force. Moving each soldier forward. The lines of battle have blurred. A dog stands over the dusty ground, tongue lolling, drool, sliding, down. A waterfall upon the JADED combatants frozen forever in combat stance.

“HEY TIMMY! DALTON! DINNER’S READY!” A young mom stands at the doorway, flour on the tip of her nose, a dull checkerboard red apron hugging her waist while she wipes her damp hands dry with the right side corner of the cloth.

Up fly the boys: quickly forgetting their game of “WAR” and the molded fighting men. The bugler, the infantry men, oh yes, even the brave Calvary solider scatter about the feet of the masters of doom as the boys dance through the very lines of battle drawn earlier. The men disperse: fallen, forgotten, lost. Rex, the dog snags one in his mouth. The vestiges of this poor emerald colored fighting man will appear tomorrow after running the course of intestines and fecal matter. As with most armies, these are the “DISPOSABLE MEN” of the nation of boys.