It’s been a strange week.  I can’t remember if I wrote a story for INSPIRATION MONDAY XV or not. So what the heck? Here is my submission.  It’s using the word prompt “MIND STORM”.

Upon awaking, Sam’s mind felt hemmed in: heavily fogged by confusion.  This was not where he fell asleep last night. This is not his bed, it is not his room and the atmosphere feels wrong.  Struggling to pull his consciousness and self-awareness into sharper focus, Sam vigorously rubs his temples and pinches the bridge of his nose.   All through the process of swimming up from the blackness of a strange and uneasy sleep, Sam could feel rather than hear the deep mechanized thrumming and hum of a huge engine.  It seeped into his shrouded brain like Maple Syrup as it soaks into a pancake: taking it’s time  absorbing and sopping up the sensory information without Sam realizing it was happening.

Sam began to sort out the thumping noises from inside his head.  The first thumping was actually similar to a severe hangover, though Sam had not drunk more than his usual cocktail after dinner.  The other mechanized thumping came from the twin jet engines affixed to the wing of an aircraft.  The room Sam found himself in was not a room at all, but rather the fuselage of a fancy corporate jet.  “How the hell did I get here?” became the 2nd coherent thought in his head.

Climbing unsteadily to his feet, Sam planted them shoulder width apart, locking his knees to keep the wobbly legs from dropping out from beneath him.  Peering around the cabin, Sam was looking for a human or any information that would help him understand how he got here.  There were no answers to winnow from the plush interior of the jet.  Sam willed his feet to move forward, one foot at a time; a slow motion shuffle toward what he knew was the sealed cockpit door.

Sam tried the steel reinforced door.  Yup, Locked just as one would expect.   He next tried a tentative knock at the door.  Fearing what he’d learn about his condition from the folks on the other side, yet unable to restrain his curiosity.  No answer.  Nothing to indicate he was heard at all.  Sam’s inclination was to bang harder.  He stopped himself from that action.  He hated to feel out of control.  Banging harder only signaled (in his mind,) a lack of control.  Anger, frustration, anxiety, and hell just about all the feelings that accompany the realization one has lost of control of his future simply burst through him at that moment.  “Get a grip” was banging around in the crowded halls of Sam’s indignant mind.  Now if only “GET A GRIP” would actually latch to something firm and take root!  Grow strong and be productive by manufacturing the calming effect of mental stability.

Sam’s mind keeps churning.  Unable to control where it wandered, Sam feels himself being sucked into  a  vortex of pain.   Sam felt  his mind peeling away one layer at a time,  but how and by what?  This couldn’t be answered.  His mind was rotating faster.  Scary fast.  He imagined himself as a soggy sheet of toilet paper rotating around the toilet bowl, sliding down into the depths of a septic tank to the awaiting amoebas with hungry jaws to finish him off.   His mind went black as he endured the iniquitous pain.

Neighbors alerted the landlady to a God awful stench emanating from the apartment rented to an older Koran War veteran.  Everyone knew him as  Sam Duncan.   She opens the door for the police to discover Sam: sitting in his chair, staring blankly with dead eyes at the TV which was looping through an old Cary Grant movie playing through the VCR.  The autopsy revealed Sam had suffered from a brain embolism.  A MIND STORM.


I remember 50 years ago as yesterday.  My sister and I feel repelled by shattered glass. I wonder if our minds had focused our revulsions autonomously or had we talked about the spider glass of the King County Children’s Home” transport van? I don’t remember talking to my sister in the hours following our seizure.  Only fear. I remember numbing fear.  I remember isolation. Crushing loneliness and withering apathy.  I remember malice oozing from the psyches of the child inmates.  I remember the cot my sister and I shared. I remember pain and loss. The spidery glass devouring our lives.

INDIGO SPIDER’S SUNDAY PICTURE PRESS has kindly provided the challenge of writing a story prompted by a photograph.  This week, I’ve chosen: Visual Prompt 1 — Colorado Pop by Elliot Erwitt

Once again, I’ve chosen to write in the DRABBLE format. What do you think? Too little information? Or is the photo with the storyline enough?

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.


Gallery  —  Posted: May 27, 2011 in WEEKLY PROMPT
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