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Bats eat mosquitoes and pollinate many crucial plants, including bananas and agave (a plant used for making tequila). They also occupy the belfries of imaginative minds.
Taking to the bat caves this week, writers emerged with batty stories and stories about bats. This collection promises to be crazy-good.
The following stories are based on April 12, 2018, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story that includes a bat. A bat denotes “extra points” for including a cave. 🦇
PART I (10-minute read)
Bats by Irene Waters 🦇
I came too; lying on the ground, my eyes shut tight. I don’t know if I could have opened them. I didn’t want to. The bright purple light made me feel at peace and the forest that was drawn on this backdrop was calming. Verdant green. Mystical. My breathing slowed. My pulse dropped lower and lower.
Bats. Hordes of black spots alighting from the forest. ‘No! My mouth is not a bat cave,’ I wanted to shout but the words froze on my lips.
‘Lyssivirus’ I thought before a shake penetrated my consciousness. Eyes opened. Yoga meditation embarrassment.
Pride & Prejudice by D. Avery
“Eew they are so gross.”
“It’s hard to believe they’re mammals like us. They’re so creepy looking.”
“Remember when one got in here? We kept swatting at it trying to get it to leave. Mom, you totally freaked out.”
“They’re dirty and dangerous; they spread disease. Don’t go near them.”
“Oh, come on, they can’t all be all bad, they must serve a purpose.”
“You’d think. But can you think of any good that has come of those hairless apes and their opposable thumbs?”
“Some of them have been putting up bat houses for our kind.”
“It’s not enough.”
Na Na Na Na Na Na Na Na: Bad Date! by Chelsea Owens 🦇
“Good morning, sir.”
“You seem out of sorts. There is, however, a pressing issue which may require your attention.”
“Errr -what? Attention?” Sploosh! ….Why am I wet?”
“Well, sir, the cave seems to be experiencing an excess amount of water.”
“It’s a cave, Alfred. It has water. …Probably not this much.”
“We’ve got to get out! What happened?”
“Do you recall that female companion you entertained last week?
“I believe, after the young lady stayed the night, that she left the faucet running.”
5am Paper-route Interruption by Dan Julian
I had just pedaled past the house of that kid who looked like a pint-sized John Cougar Mellencamp when the bat landed on my face. It was about a face-sized bat. I couldn’t see crap. To my credit, I did not freak out – much. Nor, funnily enough, did I slow down at all. Just kept one hand on the handlebars while peeling the bat off of me with the other. Little did I know at the time that this experience was to prove to be metaphorically relevant to the rest of my life. Right up to this very day.
Flash Fiction by Frank Hubeny 🦇
“You look like someone kicked you out of your bat cave.”
“Me?” Brian was used to it.
“You look like you’d make sense if you had a brain in your bat head.”
Brian repositioned George to avoid bed sores. George was tired of making points that didn’t matter.
“Could you open the window and let in some bats?”
“Sure.” Brian went to the window and opened it wide enough for some imaginary bats to get through.
Talking to one of the them, George observed, “Brian isn’t as bad as he thinks he is.”
“You’re not half bad yourself, Georgie.”
Batty Shirley by Gloria McBreen 🦇
Conversations with Snooty Shirley are frustrating since she misplaced her hearing aid.
‘I’ve just seen several bats flying around my house,’ she shrieked. ‘Nasty little creatures! Where do you suppose they live?’
Stephano sighed. ‘With an old bat in a nearby cave.’
‘Don’t be silly. There’s no cave around here,’ she retorted.
‘There’s one a few doors away,’ he smirked.
‘I can’t hear you. Speak up,’ Shirley demanded.
‘THERE’S ONE FAR AWAY.’
Her eyes bored into him.
Stephano has known for ages that Shirley has furry little tenants in her attic!
He’s not quite ready to tell her yet!
Revenge of the Old Bat by Molly Stevens
“Mum’s gone batty,” said Ron, “telling us she sees birds flying all over the house at night.”
“I know,” said Marion, turning out the light. “She stays awake for hours waiting to catch them with a net. She says she needs them for her ‘magic spells.’”
“We’ll have to make an appointment for her to see Dr. Johnson. Maybe her confusion is a medical problem. You know, something treatable.”
“Or it may be time to reconsider a nursing home.”
“What is that fluttering sound I hear?”
Marion screamed, “Something bit my neck!”
From the next room, they heard cackling.
Mysterious Tales by Reena Saxena 🦇
He was impressed by the depth of her intellect. An exquisitely beautiful face and haunting eyes framed by dark hair, made her look like a princess from a bygone era. Or was she a saint or nun? He was unable to make up his mind, in the besotted mental frame.
Her sartorial taste was rather quaint. Dresses in dark colors with dolman sleeves just added to the allure of her mysterious beauty.
Disheartened by her non-committal detachment, he followed her one evening ….
“A young man found unconscious outside a cave in the old fortress…” screamed news headlines today.
Bat by Kim Blades
Flies buzzed around the pooling blood. The air was pungent with the sticky fluid’s raw, sweet smell.
Detective Norris stared down at the body. The corpse’s facial features were obliterated. Only the ears identified the bloody fragments as belonging to a head.
Norris looked up from the macabre spectacle as his superior, DCI Mowbray, entered.
He also stared down at the corpse; his face impassive as he asked, ‘Any sign of the murder weapon?’
‘Yes, Sir, the Forensic guys have just taken a bloodied baseball bat with them to the lab. It was lying right next to the victim.’
Batty by FloridaBorne
“Coke bottle glasses,” Jessica giggled. “You look like a bat! No one wants you on their team!”
Plagued with double vision, and legally blind without glasses, I eagerly took the bench. A sunny day, what a magnificent scent coming on the north winds from a climbing rose. I closed my eyes to enjoy the beauty of it.
“Laura,” the coach said.
“Not another substitute,” I mumbled. “Their compassion is misplaced.”
“Why don’t you try to hit the ball?”
Dutifully, I went up to bat. The ball looked like several moving toward me. Swinging, I missed, and endured the laughter.
You Said It Was Ok… by Caitlin Gramley
“No! How could you?”
“What? It’s just a bat.”
“Why would you kill it though? Bats are wonderful, mysterious creatures”
“No they are not. They are disgusting.”
“That’s your justification?”
“They are also annoying and ugly.”
“They are pests. They come into your house unwanted. They make noise.”
“So all those reasons make it ok to kill?”
“Yes. I just can’t stand to be around them. Killing them is just a public service.”
“Oh. Ok. Good to know”
“Hey, what are you doing with that shovel?”
“The way I see it, I’m…..doing a public service.”
Bat Out Of Hell by Sherri Matthews
‘I heard it…fly in through the open window, so fast, wall to wall…it touched my hair and I screamed. I…’ Emma bit her lip.
‘You’re doing fine. What happened next?’
‘Well…he heard me scream and came into my room, annoyed. I told him about the bat, asked him to help get it out safely.’ Emma stared down at her hands, then looked up. ‘But he got my tennis racket and killed it. I hated him, for the bat and for me. I wanted to take the racket and beat that bastard dead.’
‘Now we’re getting somewhere,’ nodded Dr Harper.
Batty for Summer by A. R. Clayton 🦇
It was official: I had gone batty. Bats in the belfry, Alfred in the Batcave serving lemonade and bats in the dugout, collecting summer rays and warming their metal handles for the next gloved batter contender. It was summer, the splendid season where sundresses, popsicles and grass stains abound. Need I say more? Summer in America, simplistic and beautiful, trailing on the dresses of fireflies, a brilliant schooner floating off of a child’s eager fingers. We hide the pickle jars with pierced lids back under the kitchen cupboard.
Let beauty transgress just a little longer, young one.
Bat by Michael Grogan
In Australia, the word bat is synonymous with cricket. We use a bat to play the game. Two teams play, one-team bats with each batter batting and wearing batting gloves until they get out and when one team has finished batting the other side then bats.
We talk about going in to bat for a friend, to offer them help and support.
We do have tiny furry bats hanging in trees and being in some places a nuisance.
We refer to eccentric relatives as going batty, but overall it’s a word with many meanings we love to bat around.
Belfries (Other Boxes Are Available) by Geoff Le Pard
‘Logan, explain cricket, will you? It’s driving me bats.’
‘My boss is taking me, ok.’
‘Right, you have two teams, ok?’
‘Uh huh. Got it.’
‘The team tosses a coin to see who bats…’
‘Bats? They’re the flying ones?’
‘No, moron, they’re wooden. So, one team bats. The batsman goes out to bat. He’s in until he’s out when he comes in until everyone’s out, and then they all go in to try and get the others out. You ok, Morgan. You look pale…’
‘It’s… someone mentioned ducks? Is that as well as bats or instead of ?’
Howzat by Ritu Bhathal 🦇
Parker readied himself, bat in hand, waiting for the bowler to release the ball.
He was a top spinner, and a fast one at that; tricky to handle, but he’d been practicing.
Here it came… Parker lifted his bat and slogged it!
It flew over the heads of the fielders, sailing over the boundary.
Parker started to celebrate his first ever sixer, when it landed, with a crash, through the window of the newly refurbished club bar, aptly named The Bat Cave.
Celebration turned to commiseration – he’d have to pay for that.
So much for this month’s bonus.
Night of the Dark Knight by Anurag Bakhshi
“Mom, I can’t find my bat,” I cried out exasperatedly. It was the night of the Little League World Series Finals, and the hopes of my team depended solely on me…and my bat.
“It’s outside in the lawn Jamie,” my mom replied from her favorite spot in the house, the bathroom.
Aghast at this outrage, I shouted, “Outside? But it was raining the entire day!”
And without waiting for a response, I rushed outside to bring it in. Our team did not stand a chance in hell without my pet bat to distract the opposition during the game.
Born Champion by Christina Coster
He was fearless in the ring. Everyone wanted to endorse him; he was the face of Pepsi in his heyday. He was swift. Opponents didn’t see his left hook coming. He was light on his feet; surprising for his size.
It was his last entrance though, that everyone remembers; the crowd were eating out the palm of his hand. His final 12 bouts, a career spanning nine years. Striding into the ring to Meat Loaf’s Bat out of Hell, he was confident. He had no reason not to be. He captured the moment poetically. His rival had no chance.
PART II (10-minute read)
Lullaby of Bats (from Rock Creek) by Charli Mills
Logs of cottonwood crackled and threw flames toward the night-sky. Most of the travelers had left the bonfire to bed down beneath their wagons. The baby Sarah heard crying earlier had stopped. Night insects chirped, and somewhere near the wagons a horse stomped. Night sounds of camp. Sarah relaxed on a log stool while Cobb played a slow fiddle tune. Back and forth he rubbed the bow. Bats darted in and out of the visible light, bobbing to the gentle lullaby with wings spread. Sarah sighed, looked toward the stars and watched the last of the evening’s dancers fly.
Flight of the Fruit Bats by Norah Colvin
All day they hang upside-down like blackened fruit left too long in the hot sun. Only an occasional stretch shows them capable of independent movement. Passers-by sometimes stop to wonder and photograph. Other keen observers travel greater distances to marvel at the spectacle.
Locals grow to abide their noisy, smelly presence and accommodate their daily activities.
Every evening at dusk, the colony flaps and stretches, then rises in unison like a cloud of dust shaken into the darkening sky. High above, their silent wings carry them away for night-time foraging. Others screech and squawk their joy in closer feasts.
Flight by Kay Kingsley
It was dusk as I drove over the delta causeway. The sun had set, a grey haze developed while the heat hung in place. The once vibrant colors quickly muted their glow as darkness encroached.
I drove a steady pace, the rhythmic sound of tires bumping the sections of the causeway drifted my mind towards sunset.
The smoke in the distance was changing shape, rising and falling in a moving circle. As I neared, my focus sharpened. Bats, thousands of them. They flew from their cave below the causeway into the darkness, predators in flight, a sight to behold.
Summer, Early ‘80’s by Liz Husebye Hartmann
Indiana Summer, in cheap housing with no a.c., a mixed neighborhood of blue collar, elderly, and our houseful of assorted grad students, temporary sublets like me.
We students don’t know each other yet. We will by summer’s end. They’ll return to their dorms and I’ll peel off North, searching for something more real than school. But at present, we have a family of sorts, and music.
The neighbors strike up their guitars, fiddle and banjo, singing sweet country tunes. I’m drawn outside, to the back steps, to the night, barelegged and barefooted.
Grateful for the insect-eating bats, dancing overhead.
Bats by Luccia Gray
‘Granny, what do bats eat?’
I sighed wishing my daughter was here to answer her son’s question. ‘I have no idea, Jimmy.’
‘We need to find out.’
‘Why is that, sweetie?’
‘We’re doing a class project about what animals eat and I got the bat.’
‘Let’s ask Google.’
‘Someone who knows everything.’
I nodded and tapped the microphone. ‘Ask your question.’
‘What do bats eat?’ Jimmy asked.
A woman’s voice replied. ‘Most bats eat insects and are called insectivores…’
‘Mrs Google is a really clever lady, granny. Can we ask her when mummy is coming back?’
Batgirl by Juliet Nubel
James swore he wouldn’t let her do it again. But deep down he knew he didn’t stand a chance.
She batted at him day in, day out.
Sometimes her batting made him wash up the dinner dishes alone. Sometimes it dragged him into town on a busy Saturday afternoon. Often it made him change channels in the middle of a match.
His beer buddies warned him endlessly.
“You need to make her stop, James. She’ll be the ruin of you one day.”
He knew they were right, but how could he resist the bat of those perfect black eyelashes?
The Three Walters by Anthony Amore
Their bat removal plan was solid.
Big Walter, Little Walter and Old Walter would rush the door behind Memere’s thick and ancient quilt. Big Walter would go left with the tennis racket, Old Walter would break right with the goalie stick and Little Walter would attack forward holding the quilt
They were boldly confident; Little Walter wasn’t. Witnesses agreed Miller Lite was likely the source of their profound assurance.
The bat in the upstairs bedroom, however, fled sometime before the battle. Two Walters toasted victory, while the third shook his head muttering, “Grown ups are stupid.”
Mating Right by Miriam Hurdle
“Hey, Bat Boy, you’re in my territory. Out!”
“No way, Bat Kid, my girlfriend is coming here to look for me. Off you go.”
“Nonsense, Bat Boy. Did you see the mark I left last year? I have been living here for the last 20 years. You’re the invader.”
“Who cares?” He whacked Bat Kid left and right, left and right.
Bat Boy wasted in no time to smack him back faster and faster.
They banged each other fiercely until their wings got punched and fingers were broken.
They were lucky to be rescued by the Bat World Sanctuary.
Uninvited but not Unwelcome by Wallie the Imp and Friend 🦇
Bats are whispering, fluttering creatures. Their furry bodies, their reptilian wings, are such a contrast of the charming and repulsive that they catch the unready mind off guard. For dragons as much as humans, bats are a surprise.
“You’re not a little dragon,” said Smoak, “and you’re not a mouse. What are you?”
“Bats! Bats! Bats!” came the answer from the eager, whirling masses. “Home! Home! Home!”
The dragon watched the little creatures snap the mosquitos and gnats that loved her damp cave.
“Well, it’s my home,” said the dragon. “But if you eat the bugs you can stay.”
Flash Fiction by Paula Moyer
Jean was five months pregnant with the baby that would become Lydia. Halfway there, nausea going away. Starting to love the kicks from the inside out.
Then Moira, their roommate, came down the attic stairs. Eyes bugging out like Groucho Marx.
“A bat.” Her words eked out, toneless. “It. …” She stopped and gulped. “It flew into my hair. Got stuck in my hair before it got out.”
Jean and Sam looked at each other, then at Moira, and then at each other again.
Jean started. “What should we –”
The creature, looking for home, swooped down the stairs.
Flash Fiction by Shalom Galve Aranas 🦇
At the edge of the night, Manika wrote stories inside a bat cave. She wrote about a young Indian poet whom she had fallen in love with. Each night, her bat drone flew towards a tree and perched downwards to spy on the lovely young man write his poetries for publication.
One night, she blew the tapers and dared come out of her bat cave. She went to his home and knocked. It was brownout. By the candlelight he saw the most lovely young woman with succulent red lips. He smiled but when the lights went on he frowned.
Time of the Season by D. Avery 🦇
The steady snowfall created a classic Christmas card scene.
“No!” Myrtle complained, “Christmas cards don’t have sap buckets hangin’ off the trees. This isn’t even a damn Easter card, that was two weeks ago!”
Her husband, whose hobbies had only been enhanced by nature’s disregard for the calendar, took a swig of his drink. Without taking his eyes from the TV, he shared his recurring thought that Myrtle might be going batty.
“Hey,” he continued, “Does summer fall on a weekend this year?”
“I’m leaving this bat cave.” He didn’t look up when Myrtle trudged out to her garden.
Bats by Susan Sleggs
“Lady, you’ve got bats in your belfry.”
“I’m not batty. I know I saw your signed bats in the attic.”
“Those bats better be in my gun safe; they’re worth money. Any bats in the attic better be the furry kind.”
“If there are, I’m out’a here.”
“For how long?”
“Don’t get excited, only until the exterminator is successful.”
“Darn, I thought I could tell my friends my old bat left.”
“Buddy, you’re cruisin'”
“Just kidding darling, you know I love you. You’ll always be my Robin.”
“Goody, first a bat and now a boy. Where’s my furry cape?”
Emma on Bats by Nicole
I’m an optimist. Emma prefers pessimism. When I’m wrong reality is rough; when she’s wrong the news is not so bad.
I was planning to write about beneficial bats. Emma said, “Bats? Oh yeah, spring’s here. The bats will be coming out to harass people and cows.”
I was certain she was wrong. I consulted National Geographic.
“During the darkest part of the night, common vampire bats emerge to hunt. Sleeping cattle and horses are their usual victims, but they have been known to feed on people as well.”
Next, I’m writing optimistically about politics.
I’m not consulting Emma.
Writer at Bat by Bill Engleson
“Why do you ask?”
“Cause you’re watching softball instead of writing.”
“Yup. Indiana at Purdue.”
“And that helps? What’s the prompt?”
“Ah! So, being a couch potato watching sports works for you?”
“Hey, its softball. Women with bats. Bound to shake up the muse.”
“I want to watch CNN. Comey is driving the Donald batty. There! Better then baseball.”
“I’m watching softball.”
“Don’t they both use bats.”
“So, it doesn’t matter. Anyways, let’s watch the news. I want to know what Trump is tweeting from his bat cave.”
“Fine. I’m overthinking this anyways.”
The Bat Fight by papershots
He got a punch in the face because he said to his friend he was a bat, at recession in the courtyard. The animal impulse in this (un)usual kid fight, the species gathered round to witness. And now mom is trying her best in discipline-&-living-together parenting, although, well, it’s funny because “why a bat?”, the 5-year-old replies that she used it, to dad, once. “Really?” Surely no adult would… “Yes, in the car, to the airport.” “Sweety, I probably said rat.” “Daddy a rat?” “It’s a long story. Forget it.” Pause. “Rats are cute. Jamie is a bat.”
Batting in the Batty Place by Anne Godwin
Henry wasn’t a batsman, but he didn’t mind donning his whites when they were a man short. In fact, he was pleased to be asked. Until he discovered Saturday’s fixture was at St Luke’s.
Fortunately, they played the staff team. They let the inmates out to watch but kept them away from the pavilion. They weren’t invited for tea.
Standing before the stumps, Henry hoped he wouldn’t disgrace himself. The ball hurtling towards him, a familiar voice called his name. Tilly? Here?
He heard the willow smack, but not against his bat. Blame the batty woman. Henry was out.
That Night We Learned She Can Sing by Elliott Lyngreen
Indescribable patterns flutter through until Eleanore Fairview unravels a roll of toilet paper up soaring to the twilight.
Near the muddled shadows of forestry two bats sharply twist from, disarray swiftly and smoothly encircles the uncoiling roll.
Believe you me we did not want, yet had to do which these things made us do.
She scattered silent screams before the white stream misconstrued the irregular scene from this dystopian future.
She’s 100 neons beyond, instantly.
A hologram jukebox performing ages ago and more than ears can handle, she sings ever determined they will follow us. She reveals some talent.
Death Comes With Wings by Kerry E.B. Black
Sadness draped Carole. Medical charts and inconclusive connections conspired against her until dread deadened her thinking. She lit a candle and said a prayer. “Will she be okay?”
As though in answer, a strange, irregular flapping and pounding echoed from the chimney. Carole’s heartbeat altered. She squeezed her eyes against the inevitable.
Something burst from beneath the confines of the mantle. It buffeted her hair, pandemonium on leathery wings. The bat turned, dove, beat an unsteady dance through her living room. It bumped the candle against her friend’s photo.
Carole groaned. She knew the portents. Death comes with wings.
Sermon Bat-tles by Sarah Whiley 🦇
I tried to focus on the priest’s sermon, but the light fixture behind the altar, kept drawing my attention. How realistically it flickered; shadows dancing behind the coloured glass even though it wasn’t turned on! I craned my neck and squinted my eyes, trying to see what was moving. Suddenly, there was a high-pitched shriek. The congregation looked, confused, but I knew from where the sound had emitted. A black wing unfolded over the edge of the light fitting, as the creature found a more comfortable position. A bat who’s found himself a new bat cave! I thought incredulously.
PART III (5-minute read)
Foolish Follower (Part 1) by JulesPaige 🦇
Phillip Ratsbane knew the Lady’s aversion to all things night. So it was with staged gravitas, his asset that he made her make an incredible Pit Friend Promise. Phillip had already convinced her to bribe the bellman for him… so he could easily escape over the horizon as easy as pie.
Fog had made the night blurry. There was no margin for error on the Lady’s part. She’d have to go into the batcave and find his next clue in order to escape his clutches.
Would she be lost without Ratsbane? A gentle rustle, the bats were leaving.
Liberated in Loss (Part 2) by JulesPaige 🦇
Lady sat down on a rock by the opening. Temporarily lost in the mystic of the flight of the bats. She momentarily seemed to become one of them – once the disorientation faded and her sonar vision cleared. Lady saw Ratsbane enter the cab – with his leather bag. He was leaving, not waiting for her to return. Was there even any clue in the cave for her to find.
Detective Collins had convinced her to place a tracking device in Ratsbane’s bag. Then Lady remembered she had a similar device in her shoe. Someone would be coming to rescue her!
Gilding the Lily (Part 3) by JulesPaige
Lily had nothing left to fear. Having been relocated and given a new name. She had told Detective Collins any location without rats, but bats were just fine. Perhaps she’d even study them. Help in some way to discover how to prevent the White Nose-syndrome that was driving some of them insane.
After all the bats, at least one of them had saved her, had let her exchange souls just to let her see that one horrid man was a true snake in the grass. She didn’t want remember any of her time with Ratsbane. Maybe that would happen?
“I Curse You!” by Colleen Chesebro ~ The Fairy Whisperer
The hourglass sand ticked off the minutes. If she didn’t figure out how to reverse the revenge magic spell, she would have to live out her life as a bat. Esmerelda spread her wings and circled the cauldron careful to avoid the searing steam.
“Where is that eye of newt?” Her tiny bat voice squeaked as she landed on the table with a thud. The spell against her ex-best friend had backfired.
She scrambled toward the bejeweled bottles holding her witchy potions. The special decanter she desired was empty.
Karma was turning out to be a real bitch.
The Ghost Bat by Anita Dawes 🦇
It is said that an old hermit lived in the old bat cave many moons ago. Children called him the batman, chanting behind him as he roamed the woods for herbs to make his potions.
The villagers never worried about the old hermit, leaving food by the cave for him and children would often watch the hermit make his potions.
He had once been a doctor and he still travelled through the village caring for those who needed his potions. On one of those trips, the children noticed the white ghost bat fly from the folds of Henry’s sleeve…
Flash Fiction by Robbie Cheadle 🦇
The change in temperature made the boys shiver as they entered the cave.
Their flashlights made dancing shadows on the floor and walls as they made their way towards the far corner, dragging their spades behind them.
Dark shapes fluttered past them heading upwards into the darkness. Tom felt something like spiderwebs brush his face and he yelled out in fright.
“Come on, Tom,” said Paul. “They’re only bats. Think of the gold.”
Tom thought of the legendary Kruger Millions that were thought to be hidden in this corner. He started digging into the deep bat guano with enthusiasm.
Flash Fiction by Pensitivity 🦇
‘I tell you I’m not going out there!’
‘Don’t be so silly. You’ll be fine.’
‘No! I like it here. It’s safe.’
‘It is for now, but sooner rather than later you’re going to have to trust yourself and take the plunge with the rest.’
‘I said no, and I mean no. I’m staying here.’
‘OK. I’ve tried being nice. Now, as your mother, I’m going to have to lay the law down. YOU ARE LEAVING!’
‘You pups think you know it all. We all have to go before the cave floods, otherwise we’ll die. Your choice. Coming?’
Transitioning Wings by Jo/The Creative PTSD Gal
Every night the winged beast hung from the trim outside my window. One night he flew into my room instead. I screamed, ‘DADDY!’ and topped that off ear-piercing whaling. My dad comes storming into the room and finds me crying under the blankets.
‘Honey, what’s wrong?’
‘Dad, the bat flew into my room. He’s going to give me rabies!’
‘Shh, no baby. They are actually a symbol of transition and rebirth. It doesn’t mean death or demon nights. Wait, something will change for the better in your life.’ Two weeks later I received my scholarship to the art academy.
Sue & Chiroptera by Lisa Rey
The day Sue met Chiroptera she was sitting in the park eating her sandwiches. 72 and in early retirement, she felt there was not much purpose to her life anymore. Then a gust of wind blew and a bat flew off the tree landing on the ground beside her. She rushed to him and was glad that he was safe apart from a broken arm. She nursed Chiroptera back to health and visited him each day when she had released him back into his habitat. Sue made a friend and regained a purpose in her life. Her little star.
Have you ever thought about how silly our planet is? When it’s spring in one hemisphere, it’s fall in another. And yet, we can share stories of sun sillies across the world. We all experience the elation of sunshine and how we can respond.
Some writers found serious topics, such as melanoma. Some simply discovered seriously silly stories or crafted sheer wordplay.
The following are based on the April 5, 2018, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a silly sun story.
PART I (5-minute read)
Sun of a Gun by Bill Engleson
“Voorhees. The Killer.”
“You’ve never seen it?”
“Gimme a break. LED.”
“Fine. FOLLOW. Fanatic.”
Sponge Cake Petit Fours by Kerry E.B. Black
Cali hummed as she spread a thick layer of buttercream icing over the pink sponge, creating perfect petit fours. She dotted each with stripes of dark chocolate and the first initial of each of her four children’s names. Proud of the accomplishment, she set the completed deserts on a paper doily. She washed the bowl and spatula, put away scissors and discarded tell-tale plastic wrappers.
When each kid came home from school, starting with the eldest, they eagerly grabbed their treats. When they bit into them, though, the cake rejected their bites. “Hey, these aren’t sponge cake! They’re sponges!”
Family Portrait by Heather Gonzalez
The Parkers were already posed and ready to go. As the photographer was about to take the shot, the sun hid behind a cloud.The Parkers tried hard to hold their perfect smiles as they waited.
The longer they waited, the more their smiles faded. Little Bobby started poking Suzie. Grandpa began to yawn and scratch himself. Grandma even began to fall asleep. Mr. Parker kept his smile as if he noticed nothing. Mrs. Parker visibly showed her disappointment.
After seeing the photos, Mrs. Parker chose a photo of a dog in a Santa’s hat for their Christmas card.
Missing Winter by Liz Husebye Hartmann
Outside my window is a dour study in black and gray and soggy white. No wind, no blue sky, even the evergreens are evergray. Twenty degrees below what we’re supposed to have in April, looking at another tiresome visit from the Abominable Snowman next weekend. So many reasons to whinge.
Yet months ago…
Deep snow, lovingly scratching the long bellies of my skis.
Thighs burning from herring-bone stomps uphill.
Butt-ache from sitzmarks and sliding sideways.
Boots clomping down grocery aisles, grabbing salad and oranges,
Feeling strong as Skadi.
Driving with windows wide open.
Mouth howling wide, joyful Classic Rock.
Sunny Spring Weather? by Patrick M. O’Connor
Yay! It’s Spring!
I’ve been waiting for the trees to start budding, flowers to bloom, and all the sensory feelings of spring.
I wake up and get dressed. Shorts, Flip-Flops and a T-shirt. It’s going to be a great day.
Moving to the kitchen, I eat a hasty breakfast.
A game of soccer to kick off the day. Kick off the day. Ha! I crack myself up.
Grabbing the keys, I open the door. Brr! A frigid cold chills me right to the bone.
I check my phone. 30 degrees. Ugh!
So much for spring in Upstate New York.
Sun Sillies by Deborah Lee
Torrey steps out the front door and into full spring. Azure sky tops the budding trees, home to birds gone mad with singing, still-ragged yard blooming. Happy to be out of bulky sweaters and boots, Torrey knows she is a vision in cream slacks and shell, draped cardigan in petal pink, neutral pumps, her favorite pink-and-gold-chain envelope bag barely still fashionable. Sunshine. Spring, finally!
Thirty minutes later she emerges from the parking garage on Pike Street into a downpour. Of course, she left her umbrella at home. Of course, she’s wearing cashmere and suede.
Spring? April Fool’s, silly girl.
Unconvinced by D. Avery
We don’t believe you, they cried. That is a preposterous story!
It’s true, you insist. It has an incredible mass, which keeps our spinning planet orbiting around it. As our planet rotates, you explain, it appears to ‘rise,’ bringing light and warmth- day.
Prove it, they demand.
Again you pull out the globe, the flashlight, begin to demonstrate. That’s not proof they groan, and disperse to the gym, the greenhouses, to the light therapy reading rooms.
You sigh. How silly, you muse, that there are still windows. Outside the gray is sprinkled with snow. You struggle to remember otherwise.
Sun Silly Preschoolers! by Ritu Bhathal
Billy hung precariously from the climbing frame.
Jane was running round and round the playground like a crazed lunatic.
Another group was taking great pleasure in pulling the flowers off the line of shrubs in the planter.
And there was more…
Mrs Jackson sighed.
She’d heard of the full moon doing something to the children’s behavior in school. Not just heard, but experienced many times over the years.
But after a long winter and delayed spring, this was the first time she had seen the effect of the long awaited sun on her charges – truly sun silly, they were!
The Exam by Luccia Gray
“Come outside and watch our dance!” Beth called waving her arms in the air.
Sister Mary looked out of her open, classroom window, squinting at the blaring midday sun. “Play in the shade, the sun will make you frisky.”
“We’ve been rehearsing a dance!” They shouted in unison, twisting and turning rhythmically.
“You’d better study for this afternoon’s biology exam.”
“Please, sister, just five minutes!”
She sighed. “Very well, but then you’ll sit in the shade and revise.” They nodded.
As their teacher walked out, Susan crept inside, opened her drawer, snapped a photo of the exam and grinned.
Running in the Sunshine, Dancing in Shadows y Norah Colvin
Dad was working and didn’t look up.
“Can we play outside?” the children asked.
“It’s very hot,” said Dad. “Wait until it cools down.”
“We’ll stay in the shade.”
“We’ve got sunscreen on.”
“I’ve got my hat.”
“There won’t be much shade,” said Dad.
“There is a little bit.”
The deadline loomed.
“Well, stay in the shade,” he conceded.
When finished, Dad sought the children.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Dancing in each other’s shadows,” they laughed.
“But you’re in the sun.”
“We have to be. We don’t have shadows without the sun, silly.”
Overturning David Harum by Irene Waters
“Jazzy ain’t spring grand.” The dog scratched. “Yep. Blue sky, melted snow, blooming daffodils and tonight romance. Just fantastic. A glorious day my boy.”
If only you’d develop a different philosophy and treat the fleas, I’d be happy. Bugger the sky, the melting snow, and romance.
“A nightcap?” Winston invited the girl. “Come meet Jazzy.”
Jazzy scratched. “He’s got fleas.”
“David Harum says its essential for a dog to have fleas. Keeps ’em from brooding over the fact they’re a dog.”
“Treat that dog, or you’re getting no romance.” Winston produced a can of insecticide.
Thank you lust.
Sun Silly by Frank Hubney
“Wake up, kid! It’s that time of year when spring fever makes them run. They’ll soon all be sun silly. We don’t want to miss it.”
“Why do they run, Pa? There must be some scientific explanation for it. Don’t they have brains in their heads?”
“I don’t know why they run. They run. They’re stupid.”
“Yeah, but if we knew why they ran maybe we could encourage them to run more often?”
“Why would we want to do that?”
“So we don’t have to get up so early? So we can harvest them more than once a year?”
Sun Hat by Sherri Matthews
Bob couldn’t get out of the house fast enough.
‘Pick up the milk on your way home and don’t forget to put out the rubbish before you go,’ screeched Vera.
At the allotment, Bob hoped the only screech might come from an owl in the woods.
Sunlight escaped through the grey clouds, despite the weather forecast predicting rain.
Darn, left my hat at home. Never mind.
Bob set out his tea flask and sandwiches for later and turned on his radio. He started digging as he whistled along…the sun has got his hat on…coming out to play…
The Silly Sun by Michael Grogan
It was such a silly event. We all laughed, oh how we laughed. Winter had arrived with its long dark days. But we awoke to a sunny morning, and it was simply ridiculous because we realised it was the sun playing its silly tricks once again.
Sure enough within a half hour of being fooled into thinking it was a sunny day it disappeared behind dark wet clouds, and the cold descended, as it is want to.
We giggled to one another as we packed away our shorts and t-shirts, thinking that silly old sun was giggling with us.
No Laughing in Church (from Rock Creek) by Charli Mills
Reverend Smith’ voice rose to heaven and plunged to hell, persuading his brethren to choose the higher path. It was the first sermon before wagon trains broke winter camp.
Nancy Jane had promised to make “holy garbage” for supper. She and Sarah stood behind the crowd. The venison stew required horseradish and a priest’s blessing, but a circuit preacher would do. Sarah remained skeptical of both the sermon and her friend’s recipe. Breathing deep, she fought back the giggles.
When Sarah saw Cobb switch out Reverend’s water for what was probably moonshine, she succumbed to full out sun sillies.
Sun Sillies by Susan Sleggs
The new pastor was determined to bring some energy into the rural church. The week after Easter, with snow flurries still happening on a daily basis, he announced, “Next week, services will be in our barn at 3pm. I’ve heard a lot of you worked on parade floats there in years past so you know what a fine space it is. We’ll have a potluck after and music to do a little dancing like we have the sun sillies.”
The following week attendance doubled, everyone forgot their winter blues and baby goats antics were the hit of the event.
Man Down by Eric Pone
I was down wondering how the hell I got here. “Sorry LT you are going home.” I had prepared for Ranger qualifying school or Q School for months. I had sacrificed everything girlfriend, friends, my family thought I was at church camp. But here I was flushing my dream down the toilet.
As I laid on the cool Earth having collapsed on a company run, I looked up at the sky. The Sun — like a coy little bitch breathed above the tree line at me. “I guess it’s time for plan b,” I said to it, and everything went black.
The Awakening of the Fey by Colleen Chesebro
The hibernating Rusalki fey dangled from cocoons attached to the rafters. They stirred when the rays of father sun streamed in through the window. One by one, they hatched. The tiny creatures floated on newly formed wings.
Lada was not amused. “Not in my tea,” she sputtered placing her hand over her cup. “Sister Serafima, are they like this every year? How do you put up with it?”
A chuckle escaped Serafima’s lips. “They’ve hibernated with me for years. Do you know what this means, sisters?” Lada and Vasilisa shook their heads. “The silly sun of Ostara has arrived.
Call Me Madame by Juliet Nubel
She was out early in the long-awaited rays of sunshine. The others would arrive soon, but she longed to be the first to feel the gentle warmth waken the bright colours she wore.
She moved between the new blossom and the virgin daisies, drinking in their springtime scents.
The sun made her feel silly and daring, so she tried an aerial cartwheel then backward flip, landing effortlessly on the wooden garden table where a man sat watching her in admiration.
“The first Red Admiral of the season. He’s a beauty!”
He? Could he not see? She was Madame Butterfly.
The Ringmaster by Robbie Cheadle
The sun is the ringmaster. He introduces the clandestine night circus with a great show of fiery splendor and then disappears. The stars sparkle and shine in their flashy tutus as they dance and twirl, walking the tightrope and riding bareback across the night sky is all part of their show. The pale moon enchants the crowd with her fantastic control of the oceans. The tides rise and fall at her beckoning. An array of thrilling creatures and heroes make guest appearances before the ringmaster reappears and closes the show with a splash of yellow, pink and orange light.
PART II (5-minute read)
Boys of Summer by Christina Coster
We were heading down the Pacific Coast Highway cruising with the top down; hair dancing in the breeze. Tank top and shades on; Mr. Sunshine had his hat on and was out to play. Not a cloud in the sky.
We didn’t have a care in the world on those blissful summer afternoons. Just me and my four girls: young, beautiful, free. The radio blared the tunes of the day. We laughed turning it up as the voice of Don Henley came through the speaker. We sang until our voices were hoarse, ‘after the boys of summer have gone’…
Sun Citation by Molly Stevens
“I can explain, officer,” said Myra.
“I doubt that,” he said.
“I’ve endured harsh Maine winters my whole life. For decades I’ve seen this atrocity dangling in the sun on the first warm spring day. It traumatizes me more than finding a spider hulking in the bathroom sink.”
“Every fifty-degree day this disgusting visual stains the beauty of budding trees and melting snow.
“Get to the point.”
“I knew mine was more splendid, more befitting the season.”
“So you’re saying I should give you a pass because your bosom is better looking than your neighbor, Chester’s?
Don’t Blame the Sun by Miriam Hurdle
“It’s the sun’s fault when people get melanoma, the visible kind, Erica.”
“Why do people choose to sunbathe long hours just to get tan? Don’t they know that they ask for cancer?”
“Are you saying people don’t get skin cancer if the sun hides behind the clouds?”
“I didn’t say that, Joyce. The ray is powerful that it penetrates through thick clouds.”
“I get it. You’re saying the sun is at fault to impose cancer on people even when the clouds try to protect them, right?”
Hey, look, don’t blame me, just wear suntan lotion wherever you are, okay!
Seasoned by FloridaBorne
This is Florida,” The ancient man with a white beard and grimy baseball cap chuckled. “We have three seasons.”
“Three?” The Midwestern tourist asked.
The way she said her “a” sounded like fingernails down a chalkboard to him. His southern drawl made her skin crawl.
Idiot, he thought; while she was thinking, moron.
“Wanna know what they are?” He asked.
“Sure,” she sighed.
“Pollen season, flea season, and tourist season,” He grinned.
“That is ridiculous!”
“Y’all have two. Silly season and winter.”
“We also have a lovely fall,” She said, with umbrage.
“So that’s what y’all call ski season?”
A Straw Cap for Spring? by JulesPaige
Winds whipping the lake waters at twenty one miles an hour
made them look like ocean waves. And I was fool enough
to try and walk into town. Only because the sun still shone.
I’ll not attempt a nature walk on Lake William’s trail this day –
with a high of twenty seven Fahrenheit even without wind.
Since snow is supposed to fall mixing with freezing rain.
(Alice was fooled by a bump on her head. I wonder if I’m in
a snow globe …that the March Hare is shaking.)
New England in spring
as unpredictable as
Wonderlands Heart Queen
Spring Fever by Chelsea Owens
Nature whispers warming tones
“No,” the pessimistic minds reply.
Determined of a White Witch winter, they grumble in groundhog shadows.
Shaking snowflake buds unfurl
To chirping, flitting birdsong
Pushing, pulsing, happy faces open;
Drinking deeply from dew-warmed sundrops
– Springing –
“Six more weeks,” the cynics warn,
Waking in the pre-dawn cold;
Shivering over cold, black cups of darkness.
Nature laughs and paints the sky
In God’s finest pastel shades:
Pink, yellow, grey, but
blue Blue BLUE
Blossoms turn to watch;
And we, caught in Springtime’s lively song,
Can’t help but laugh,
And sing along
Flash Fiction by Pete Fanning
The sun was on the backswing when Lia led me to the parquet dance floor. The bridesmaids oohed and awed as she set her arms around my neck.
I stumbled along, breathing in the sweet smell of flowers, a hint of sweat. My best friend had lived in a cocoon of long sleeves and coats, but now, in a haze of pollen…poof!
“Hey,” she said. A tiny speck of icing on her lips. I swallowed, trying to figure out where in the heck to put my hands. Lia rolled her eyes, giggled, and moved them to her waist. “There.”
No Laughing Matter by Anne Goodwin
“The sun’s out,” says Flora. “Let’s away!”
A threadbare shawl cloaks my shoulders. I’d been saving my coin for a new one, but this will suffice until November’s snow.
The queue snakes around the close, jigging and joshing as if at the Highland Games. Sobering as our turn approaches, as if for Kirk.
Mr Hill seats each individual, helps us adopt the most appealing pose. On checking the light, Mr Adamson dips beneath the camera hood. “Hold!”
I avert my gaze from Flora’s gurning. But when the calotype is printed, you can see the laughter leaching from my eyes.
Shorty’s Sun Sized Heart by D. Avery
“Pal, what ever happened ta Shorty’s big heart?”
“Still big, near as I know, Kid.”
“No, I mean a certain someone was offrin’ prizes fer similes in the March 15th roundup.”
“Oh. Yeah, the undisclosed amount fer that one was a picture book fer Shorty, on behalf of Aussie, Jules, Still Waters, Susan an’ Liz.”
“Ya jist disclosed it.”
“Oh well. Don’tcha agree a book amounts ta more’n money? Money cain’t bring happiness, books do.”
“Some do fer sure. Like the Anthology.”
“Yep, that book rocks. But this ‘uns about rocks.”
“Perfect. Ever’body needs a rock book.”
Fingers fly fast in activity. Speed hints of passion and ability. Pianists trip fingers over keys, authors type to the speed of imagination, and tricksters ply nimble fingers.
Writers followed the lead of fast fingers and contemplated the characters attached to such digits. Each story flies with creativity.
The following are based on the March 29, 2018, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story about fingers that fly.
PART I (10-minute read)
Lifetime Savings by Ritu Bhathal
Nervously, Frank handed the package over to the girl.
“Now, be careful with that—” He paused to look at her name tag “—Jennifer. I worked hard for those dollars. Now they tell me I gotta keep it in a bank, and not under my mattress. Safety, they say. It was plenty safe with me – until they got that new cleaner in. I don’t like her. Always tidying. I know she knows where I keep my money…”
Frank watched as Jennifer’s fingers flew, deftly lifting and counting the bills, like a seasoned pro.
“You will keep it safe, won’t you?”
Showdown: Nickel Man vs. the Ballerina by njoyslife
It wasn’t a fair fight, that Halloween night. He was a towering fifty-something; she was five, standing below him in her tutu. He offered nickels, not candy, for correct answers to three questions:
“Who was the first president?”
She took her nickel.
“Who’s president now?”
She took another.
“Who discovered America?”
“No!” She stomped her foot.
“Christopher Columbus!” he said, withholding her reward.
“He was a murderer and a thief!” Her tiny fingers flew between them as punctuation, “they were already here!”
She left him red-faced, three nickels clutched in her fist.
I Love Garlic by Anony Mole
“Drop your spoon!”
My grandma’s favorite spoon clacked to the floor, batter spraying her shoes.”
“What in God’s name are you making?”
I popped the tupperware lid and showed her.
“And what are you going to do with those?”
I shrugged my shoulders.
“Well, I expect the best.”
Arrayed like a fan I delivered them to the table.
Grandma took one bite and spit it out. “These are awful.” Picking up a handful she threw them toward my face.
I ducked and grinned mischievously as the squadron of Lady Fingers flew across the room and exploded against the wall.
Flying Fingers by Irene Waters
The girl giggled. The babysitter’s fingers acted the songs he sang, flying before landing suddenly on the bed beside the child. They tweaked her nose before flying upwards. Rosalind laughed, clapping her hands. Down came the fingers landing on the rabbit adorning her nightdress. They lingered, tracing the bunny’s outline on Rosalind’s chest before flying into the air to dance. Down they came touching her arms lightly before flying up to the sky again. Rosalind shrieked gleefully. Quickly the fingers pounced, on her tummy, walking lower and lower.
“John. We’re home.”
“Next time sweetie.” John promised Rosalind before leaving.
Innocence of a Child by Heather Gonzalez
“Am I a princess, mommy?” Emma looked up at her mother with big innocent eyes.
“Of course you are.”
Emma twirled with glee in her new glittery dress. Her hands soared through the air as if she could fly away. She imagined she was a magical princess who could fly.
As she felt the air move through her fingers, her father entered the room. Emma was so excited that she didn’t notice the smell on daddy’s breathe or the scary look in his eyes. She never noticed the way he touched mommy. Instead, she was a princess flying away.
A Memory Truer Than Not by Bill Engleson
I don’t think I really noticed my father’s hands until I was eight or nine.
They were always big.
I knew that for sure.
When he wielded the straps, one rubber, one canvas, his nose would flare, motley red, drizzling sweat.
Strapping was a rare occurrence.
But always a possibility.
At some point, I saw the space where he should have had a whole finger.
One day I worked up the gumption to ask.
“Haying,” he said. “Stupid.”
I wanted to ask if it had hurt.
I wanted it to have hurt.
Sometimes, I was a selfish angry kid.
pound the pavement (haibun with renga series) by JulesPaige
At the end of my hands my fingers are flying. I get…
my holiday meal started, belonging to an interfaith
family presents its challenges. We will prevail!
morning – time to pound
the pavement; work before play –
before all arrive
prep work done to ease days’ load;
always last minute details
dueling crock pots up,
eggs to boil, soup to brew,
table welcomes you…
smaller compliment around
town as holidays collide
the present hearts will
expand to fill the places
may each day bring abundant
joy-filled memories to share
be set aside, so we can
accommodate – love
Just Close Your Eyes by floatinggold
A woman with long, gold hair, wearing a white, floor-length dress enters the stage and sits by the majestic, wooden harp. She starts pulling on the strings, and the room goes quiet. Everyone is enchanted by the sound that is now surrounding us.
I close my eyes, and I turn into a cloud, carelessly floating in the sky. Light and free.
Peace and serenity all around.
My Mom always wanted to play the harp. I am sure that now she sits in Heaven, overlooking my apartment, and letting her fingers gently fly over the strings, humming a lullaby.
Detached by papershots
Key turns into keyhole, door opens, door closes, keys end up in a bowl on the sill on top of the radiator. The heat goes on. The light goes on. Laces untied, shoes in their compartment. Slippers are found, put on, as well as music, wine poured, glass taken, on a tray beside the couch. “Sorry about…” Like, like, ha ha, like, sad, sad, ha ha, wow. Hold on, interesting, go back up a bit. “… the loss of…” Freezer, bag, content, pan, oven, program 3. “… your friend.” Ha ha, wow. “Can’t make it tonight.” “Congrats on your new job.”
Reluctant Reader? by Anne Goodwin
Ma made me read ten pages. Every. Single. Night. At first I tried. Really. But with shape shifting letters, disappearing words and baffling sentences, I preferred to watch cartoons. Still, she made me. I learnt to screen a soccer game in my head while staring at the text until it blurred. Flying fingers flicked through pages one to ten. Done!
Books, magazines, how I hated them. Until Miss asked me to show her a football programme. Explain how my team won the match. Print still jumped about and disguised itself. But now I want to discover what it says.
Cart Before the Horse by Reena Saxena
“I need to enroll for that class. Finger speed matters in whatever we do.” My son was taken in the by the fancy ad placed on the front page of newspapers.
“Sure, you must join. I just want you to develop other faculties alongside.”
“And which ones are those?”
“Feet fly either to achieve something, or in response to danger. The first is planned, while the other is a reflex. Fingers will fly to write, type, dance or paint but what needs to fly first is the mind.”
“Hmmm…. I guess I was putting the cart before the horse.”
Piano by Sarah Whiley
I lifted the lid of the piano, running my fingers over the keys, tinkling a jumble of notes.
It had been ages since I’d practiced and I was filled with trepidation as I sat down to play. I leafed through sheet music, and found Beethoven’s ‘Moonlight Sonata’.
Resting my gaze upon the familiar notes, I poised my hands and began, cringing as I stumbled over the notes. My fingers clumsy; getting it all wrong.
I stopped, took a deep breath and tried again. Giving over to muscle memory, I smiled as my fingers started to fly over the keys.
Lady Luck by Matt Copping
“Action is to you.”
The words cut through the constant slosh-slosh of the paddle wheels and several sets of eyes turn to you. A waft of smoke burns your lungs as the wind shifts across the open-aired deck of the S.S Katrina.
You turn your head, burying a fit of coughs into your fist; wiping the spittle from your palm against your chest when the fire subsides. You suppress a smirk as good fortune finds your hand dramatically improved.
A click by your ear precedes the metallic pressure against skull.
“Those fingers really do fly, don’t they?”
Twenty-one by Christina Coster
I watched the croupier manipulate the deck; the overhand, hindu and riffle shuffle demonstrated with ease as her fingers flew.
I heard Twenty-one was a game of probability. The way she mixed them cards had me unconvinced. All players were transfixed.
Hand dealt: Four of Clubs, Nine of Diamonds. House: Queen of Hearts on display.
“Player has thirteen, your move?” she encouraged.
“Six of Hearts. Player has nineteen.”
Confidently she turned over the Hole Card: Ace of Spades.
Should have listened to Papa, “ain’t no way of winning Snapper, House always comes out on top.”
Perched by D. Avery
Plumes of paper rooster-tailed from the adding machine, the cocky accountant’s fingers like frenzied birds swooping and diving at the keys.
She held her pencil thoughtfully, carefully examining the numbers, pecked and scratched at the paper. She didn’t want to ruffle any feathers, but something didn’t add up. Her fingers tapped out a message on her computer keyboard.
The investigation had barely begun when he flew the coop, though he was unable to line his nest as planned.
She got a feather in her cap. The promotion would help her grow her nest egg, which she tended prudently.
The People You Meet by FloridaBorne
I noticed the “look” first, pity followed by disgust, and chuckled at a T-shirt that said, “Hillary won.”
“Do you need medication?” She asked, with feigned concern.
“I have Tourette’s,” I replied. “My fingers fly across a piano, and my intelligence is above average. Unfortunately, intolerant people don’t understand when my arm flies outward. I grimace and I sniff, too.”
“That must be embarrassing.”
Just what I needed, fake tolerance. “My husband doesn’t mind.”
I sighed. “Did you know that Mozart, Samuel Johnson, and Howard Hughes had Tourette’s?”
“Who?” She asked.
“That explains a lot,” I snickered.
Blink And You’ll Miss It by Geoff Le Pard
‘Blimey Logan, where’d you learn to type so fast?’
‘Self-taught, Morgan. Back in the day.’
‘That’s a stupid expression.’
‘Like your fingers.’
‘Fingers aren’t stupid.’
‘Yours are slow and clumsy. Isn’t that the definition of stupid?’
‘But you really mean me. You can’t anthropomorphise fingers.’
‘So learn how to speed up your fingers.’
‘Why? They do what I need, when I need them. I don’t see the point of speed for speed’s sake.’
‘Get with the programme.’
‘That’s stupid too. And my digits are quick enough.’
‘Ouch! That was my bloody eye.’
‘Blink faster then.’
Flying Fingers by Jan Malique
The dancer’s hands unfurled like the wings of a bird, speaking in a tongue so easily understood by the true sight of the heart.
The music beat out a rhythm that enveloped the onlookers like a lover’s embrace, full of gentleness and grace.
They gazed entranced at the dancer’s figure, watched her hands weave a hypnotic spell, watched them perform a feat of extraordinary flight.
They spoke so eloquently, more than the voice could ever, ever express.
Her body overflowed with passion sublime, crowned by the delicacy of her hands, reminiscent of the dance of the Bird of Paradise.
Her Fingers Flew by sarahsouthwest
Nobody was coming.
Her fingers flew over the keyboard. She’d accepted that there was no escape, but she wanted to tell their story, so that if anyone came here, they would know not to go into the lava tunnels, not to disturb what was down there.
She wondered if there was anyone else left, now. There had been screams from the infirmary, but they had quietened now. She might be the only person alive on this world.
Not for long, though. The creatures would find her eventually, might be outside the door even now. She typed on, frantically.
Scarlet Strings by Juliet Nubel
She wondered if anyone ever noticed the scarlet drops running down the strings onto her long black skirt.
Perhaps if she wore the white of angels they would see the abstract red splashes of blood and scream at her to stop.
And if she wiped off her painted smile they may see the pain beneath.
But every night she forced her lips wide as she hugged her harp, fingers flying deftly over the nylon, plucking sweet notes from its lengths and scattering them over the hushed auditorium.
They would applaud loudly when the lights dimmed.
She would cry silently.
PART II (10-minute read)
All Fingers by Lady Lee Manilla
Him Indoors plays the piano well
Be it a Chopin or a Beethoven
Like he’s always serenading me
He also has a green finger
He plants seeds, mostly chilli and impatiens
Our garden full of dahlias, lavender, sweet peas
He doesn’t mind getting his fingers muddy
As for me, I like typing my blog
I may not use all my fingers, just the two
But I can type fast and hope the words come
That all’s well that ends well
I hold my mother’s hands
old and wrinkled, years of experience
they used to caress me when I’m upset
Hands of Age by Ann Edall-Robson
Hands resting gently against the frail body. Every so often fingers come to life. Flitting in the air mimicking thoughts of birds, butterflies and making a point. Settling once more in the aged lap until the story needs their tiny bit of exuberance. No more are they raw and ripped from the daily chores of scrubbing floors, wringing out the laundry and pulling weeds. These hands of time have experienced many lives and now they spend their days reminiscing and playing out the memories. They have become props for the mind of one who remembers but does not see.
Watch Your Words by D. Avery
It was hard for him to catch everything she said, she talked so fast. When angry she talked even faster, emphatically, replete with innovative swear words. Just now she was on a creative streak. She was swearing mad. At him.
“Slow down”, he pleaded. “I can’t hear a word you’re saying.”
That got him an eye roll. He didn’t need to catch every word. He knew what he had said was wrong and was hurtful. They’d been talking about having a baby. He had signed that he hoped their baby wouldn’t be born deaf.
That’s when her fingers flew.
Contention by Deb Whittam
The exchange was growing heated, tempers growing frayed, the point in contention – whose duty it was to organize the vehicles to transport the bride to the chapel. She assured him that he had insisted on completing the task for he could get the best deal, he argued that it was outside his jurisdiction – he was the best man, she was the matron of honor. In silence the bride watched on, frowning as she watched the fingers fly before turning perplexed to her deaf brother seeking enlightenment. The insincere smile pinned to his lips did little to inspire confidence.
Winter Bride by Kerry E.B. Black
Opal frowned. “Do I dress first, or you do my hair and makeup before I dress?”
Her granddaughter Heather took the simple ivory wedding gown from its hanger and helped Opal into it. “I’ll drape a towel over it while I fix your hair and makeup. Sound good?”
Opal patted Heather’s hand. “You’re a dear girl.”
Heather kissed her Grandmother. “I love you! Now let’s get you ready.” Her fingers felt like a massage as they twisted Opal’s pearly hair into an elegant up-do.
Opal took Heather’s elbow. Harps announced her march as joined her husband at the altar.
Fading Squares by Allison Maruska
When I was a little girl, I watched Grandma crochet. The hook and yarn moved through her flying fingers with such ease she could hold a conversation as she worked. She connected the squares into blankets or placemats, or single ones became coasters. As I grew up and she grew older, her squares took more effort, until one day, they weren’t squares at all. Her mind wouldn’t let her fingers fly any longer. So I sit with her now, her hook and yarn in my hands, creating the squares she once made. Her smile tells me I’m doing well.
Floaters Not Sinkers by Susan Sleggs
As the only non-Jew in the house, I cringed when my new husband’s father demanded to know at the dinner table, “Who made these matzoh balls? They aren’t round.”
A female cousin said, “I tried to show her, but she said I was taking all the air out of them by rolling them in my palms. She barely touched them with her fast fingers and dropped them into the boiling pot of broth. They floated.”
“Well that’s it then. When it comes to matzoh balls, floaters are much better than sinkers. She is to make them from now on.”
In Praise of Flighty Logic by Molly Stevens
The server waited with pen poised to take the order. “I want turkey hands pwease,” Kyle said.
“He means chicken fingers,” his weary mother explained while swabbing the baby’s drool.
“What a remarkable mind he has!” said his grandmother.
“Is a chicken a birdie?” he asked.
“Yes,” grandma said, “it is a birdie.”
When the food arrived, Kyle grabbed a strip of chicken, hurled it high into the air, and watched it plop into grandma’s water glass.
“Kyle, why did you do that?” Asked his mother, exasperated.
“I wanted to see if chicken fingers could fwy.”
“Brilliant!” said grandma.
Spring Seeker by Liz Husebye Hartmann
“Where is it?” she lifted her face, seeking a clue in the morning breeze. So many possibilities; the winter had been too long. She clawed at the ground furiously, dirt embedding itself under her nails.
A dog barked in the near distance. Annoyed, she abandoned her spot for another nearer the oak. Sun ribboned through naked branches, leaving the false light of morning frost in shadow.
Again she plunged her paws into the earth, seeking treasure.
Her pups stirred in her belly as she scampered and scrabbled. Finally, fluffy gray tail flagged in victory, she withdrew a shiny acorn.
Swings in Spring by Chelsea Owens
Bright, springtime rays smiled upon the two children as they ran down the Tonaquint Park path. Nature wrapped them in a warm blanket, exulting in her final release from winter’s grip.
“Can’t catch me!” Jack teased. He giggled -downright, giddy giggling– as his sister tore after him through the desert foliage.
She was laughing as well; couldn’t help laughing, beneath a cobalt sky and chirping birds.
They discovered the just-emptied swings. Jack scooted right on and Jill followed suit. Their toes found sendoff grips, their legs pumped them heavenward, and their outstretched fingers flew aerodynamic arcs through blue.
Fingering Automacity by Miriam Hurdle
“Shirley, why didn’t you take the exam for Piano Performance Certificate from Royal School of Music?”
“I’m not good enough.”
“Thanks, Sara. My friend started piano lessons before 5. See, the brain neurons connected to finger movements must be tapped on before 5 years old. With learning, practice, and repetition, the fingering becomes automaticity.”
“When did you start?”
“I started piano lesson from my mom at 8 years old. I had other piano teachers when my skills were advanced.”
“You’re my best accompanist.”
“Thanks. I’m happy to teach piano and accompany singers like you and my husband.”
Once He Moved the World with Flying Fingers by Anne Goodwin
The fingers of his left hand dance across the piano keys. The fingers of his right just dance. And jerk. Spasm. Fly. A dance without pattern to the movement. Or not one his brain can predict or control. If he weren’t consumed with self-pity, he’d laugh. The day will come when he’ll remember this as freedom. Nostalgic for his flying fingers whether making music or senseless noise. As one by one his motor neurones cease firing, leaving him a drooling mannequin in a wheelchair. The man whose virtuoso playing moved the world, unable to move himself beyond a blink.
My Friend Majda by Faith Colburn
I type at 100+ wpm—until I broke my hand.That’s not my story. Let me tell you about Majda. Majda had barely escaped Bosnia with what she could carry. From the plane, she rushed to the hospital with an angina. I was supposed train her in American journalism. English was her fifth language. In Bosnia, she’d been arts and entertainment editor for Oslobodenje, a major newspaper in Sarajevo. Her fingers flew over keys as her mind flew over paintings and sculpture she’d seen; music she’d heard. Now, like me with my broken finger, she speaks and writes more slowly.
Flying Fingers by Kim Blades
Rachel had had writer’s block for days. Why now, just six days before her completed, edited, polished manuscript was due at the publisher? She went for a long walk. This time deeper into the forest. It was very quiet. But then she heard whisperings coming from behind a large pile of fallen branches. Rachel crept closer, her eyes widening in wonder at what she overheard. She tiptoed away and then ran home. A short while later her fingers were flying over the keyboard of her laptop; as she hurried to translate the pictures in her mind into written words.
Flying Fingers by Robbie Cheadle
It was incredible to watch the story taking shape on the pages as the ideas leapt from her mind and chased her fingers across the keyboard. It was like watching puppies play as the words and phrases tumbled across the screen, chasing each other and sometimes almost rolling over each other in their eagerness. He had never experienced energy like this before, never seen fingers flying, eyes sparkling, and cheeks flushed with enthusiasm. He looked at his own long, thin fingers and his brow furrowed as he tried to comprehend and understand this strange and moody female-child of his.
Donning by D.Avery
Once upon a time there was a time that all wished there never was; for this was not a forwarding time, but a time when the world went backwards. In that time there was an Emperor, which there was not supposed to be in that time. His hands, never having known good work, were known to be small and soft. He was fast with his fingers, his trigger finger itchy, always pointing at someone else, never at himself. Sociopath, he poked the keys to provoke through social media, stirred unrest with his jabbing digits. The world was thoroughly shaken.
Camaflouge Crazy Quilt by Susan Sleggs
The famous quilt designer greeted me, “Good morning. I’ll let you know if I need help.”
She perused the solid section then moved to the Batiks and inspected the color options. She pulled out bolt after bolt visualizing the array, then brought the pile of multiple shades of very drab greens, browns, and greys to the counter. She ran her fingers up and down the stack. “A half yard each please.”
I wasn’t surprised when I saw an award-winning quilt entitled “Camouflage Crazy Quilt” in a magazine the following year that had multiple kinds of black floss embroidery stitches.
The Burden of Brilliance by Anurag Bakhshi
“I had heard that your fingers fly when you chop, cut, or carve, but this…You truly are a genius,” my latest apprentice Jonathan exclaimed wide-eyed as he saw me in action on the slab.
“Awww, it’s nothing,” I replied with exaggerated humility, “anyone can learn to do it with sufficient experience, even you.”
“I don’t think so,” said Jonathan weakly, and then, he threw up royally as a finger came flying and hit him on the nose.
What a pity! I’ll now have to look for another apprentice to help me dispose of the bodies of my victims.
The Ring by Michael B. Fishman
One final look in the mirror on his way downstairs and the waiting limousine. Hair combed: check. Tie straight: check. Looking like a man about to get married: check. Gary picks up his keys and reaches for the ring.
“Where the hell’s the ring?”
Nothing behind the dresser.
The limousine honks.
Drawers open, fingers flying, he rifles through underwear, socks and shirts.
The flicker under the bed catches his eye and when he bends down to pick up the ring from where it had rolled is when his pants tear.
“Jeanine is going to kill me.”
PART III (10-minute read)
Rumors of Quick Draws (from Rock Creek) by Charli Mills
“Grab the mochila, boy!” Dock wasn’t any older than the new crippled stock handler, but he oversaw the mail exchange.
Sarah watched from the barn. The new handler grabbed the leather cover from the panting horse and draped it over the saddle of the waiting mount. The rider clambered up and sat on the mochila containing US mail.
“Haw!” The Central Overland California & Pikes Peak Express Company rider departed Rock Creek.
Hickok’s fingers flew, grabbling leather straps, unsaddling the weary mount. His injured arm did nothing to hamper his agility. Rumors had it, the boy was a gunman.
Flying Fingers by Frank Hubney
Faster than drawing a gun his fingers peppered the keyboard and hit “Enter”. Later he will wish he thought more, but now, oh, the rush! It was the perfect point, typos and grammar and all, and he wanted to make it before someone else did.
Later, second thoughts like snail mail arrived. Then third-thought packages containing arguments he should have considered punched him It occurred to him maybe someone else should have made that idiotic point.
Then it happened. Just when he thought it wouldn’t ever be over, it was over. No one cared anymore and neither did he.
Dancing Fingers by Michael Grogan
As he aged he found the only part of him that resembled flight were his fingers and the advent of arthritis was threatening that.
It was the pleasure he derived from his morning sojourn into his blog and the generous fellow bloggers commenting on his humble writing and who allowed him to venture into their respective blog worlds.
He loved it when his fingers danced across the keyboard composing a response to the latest prompt that came his way.
His fingers were what kept him alive and wanting to be part of the wide and wonderful world of words.
Idling by D. Avery
Fingers cracking the pod and rolling the peas out into the pot in one deft move. Had that favorite paring knife, remember, always got the thinnest peel off a potato, all in one piece. She taught us all to knit, though none of us have ever gotten our needles clacking as fast as hers. She even tickled trout, would go down to the brook and get all she wanted and not a line or a net. Now she just lies in bed, her papery hands fluttering to her face over and over, like she can’t believe she’s still here.
Counting on Fingers by Norah Colvin
Everyone said she had a way with numbers. Even when still in nappies she was counting effortlessly to large numbers in multiples of twos, fives and tens as well as ones. The parents didn’t dare think they’d bred a genius, an outlier. They wished for an ordinary child who fitted in, unnoticed, like them. They strove to inhibit her talent and discourage her enthusiasm. She tried to hide her ability by delaying responses with finger actions resembling calculation aids. But they slowed her none and flew too fast, earning her the nickname “Flying fingers” and ridicule instead of appreciation.
Flying Fingers On Keys by Lisa Rey
Maria sat down to type the next part of her book. For a few moments she looked at the blank computer screen deep in thought, characters having conversations in her head. Then she began to type. Her fingers flew along the keys as her heart kept telling her head what to say. Writing wasn’t just her job. It was a joy, a passion. It never felt like a chore. Before she knew it, her third chapter was in the bag barring that demon editing. Spellcheck, Grammarly and the gang. Her fingers wouldn’t fly when it came to those enemies!
Money is Sweet Honey by Neel Anil Panicker
Professor Amritanand had done his job — he had prepared the years’ Matriculation Mathematics paper.
Now, all he had to do was seal it in an envelope and lock it in the strong room.
He was about to do so when his mind sprang alive with the conversation of the previous evening.
The man over the telephone had said “Please hand over a duplicate question paper”.
‘That’s cheating’, he had retorted, adding, ‘I won’t do it.’
“For Rs 30 lakhs you definitely would, Sir.”
Professor Anand let his fingers fly.
He never was one to say no to money.
The Piano by Luccia Gray
Ada’s hands flew wildly over the table as her head swayed rhythmically. Alistair stepped closer, curious to see what she was doing. She had drawn black and white symmetrical rectangles along the edge of the table. His wife had been unfortunate enough to have become mute at an early age, and now after their forced relocation she had obviously lost her mind, too. ‘Mummy can’t live without her piano, daddy,’ said Flora. Alistair shook his head. ‘We had to sell it. We all had to make sacrifices when we lost everything.’ ‘But daddy, we can speak about our feelings.’
Study Hall by Krisgo
His fingers were lightly tapping on the table as he sat close. The pads making a noise that sounded like distant rain drops, yet they were right there next to my arm. I wondered if he was leaving fingerprints on the slick surface of the table. I wanted him to lift up his hand so I could check for the lingering prints. No, what I really wanted was to feel him lightly tapping on my skin. The hair on my arm rose, as I thought of how feeling his fingers flying up and down on my arm would feel.
The Drum and the Harp by Wallie & Friend
The whole city was in the city hall, I swear, to hear Bob and Kevin face off. Those two had been at each other’s throats since they were first neighbors, and it was time something was done. Bob brought his drum and Kevin brought his harp. “That’s a girl’s toy,” said Bob. “Alright then,” said Kevin. “Any old baby can beat a drum.” How we were going to settle who was the best I don’t know. But there never was such fun and by the end of it, Kevin and Bob were exhausted, sore-fingered, breathless and the fastest friends.
Piano by Paula Moyer
Jean watched her mother play the piano, watched Liberace slide his fingers in an upward glissando. When she got to be seven years old, Jean got to play the high C of her mother’s cross-hands piece. Finally she asked her mother. “Can you teach me how to play?” Her mother called around and ordered beginner’s piano music. While she waited, Jean could just see herself playing requests, improvising wildly. Her fingers would fly. Then the music came, lessons began. Oh, so hard. This stuff on paper, the piano keys. It was three months before Jean graduated to “hands together.”
Island Escape by Kay Kingsley
He was born on the island. Trapped as it were by the beauty that surrounded him. So many people came here to vacation, break free from the outside world, unwind in paradise. Yet here he sits on the sprawling beach, sand occupies his entire vision, 180 degrees. The water is breathtaking. An almost dreamlike mix of Turquoise, Sea Spray and tan. Above the horizon the planes fly in the distance. Lifting his hand eye level, he stretches out his arm and extends his finger pacing the plane. Flying fingers is the closest he is to an escape, for now.
Equal Knocks by D. Avery
“Where ya been, Kid?”
“Jest made the perfect vegie-tarian Easter dinner.”
“Nope. Bacon and brussel sprouts.”
“Kid, bacon ain’t vegie-tarian.”
“Whoa, Pal, thought we’d all agreed this was a culturally inclusive place. Don’t tell me how ta be a vegie-tarian. My people like ta include bacon.”
“Well, what’ve you been up to? Got yer fingers in ever’one’s pot I s’pose.”
“Na. I been stayin’ outta the way. Ridin’ fence mostly, lookin’ out fer signs a spring.”
“Lookin’ fer greener pastures, Pal?”
“Don’t go pointin’ any fingers, Kid. No, there’s plenty a range here at the ranch.”
Many have followed their dreams to Carrot Ranch. It’s an imaginary place for real people who bring with them a thousand different writing dreams. Each person has their own sack of stories sprinkled with star dust.
Readers will notice a new format, including carrots. As our Ranch grows, so does the collection of weekly flash fiction. The stories will be divided into parts of 20 (or less for the final part). It takes 10 minutes to read 20 flash fiction, according to the average reading time of 200 words per minute. Each collection is artfully arranged, so look for connections or contrasts that might surprise you.
The following is based on the March 22, 2018, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story using the theme “follow your dreams.” Bonus points for throwing a badge into the tale.
PART I (10-minute read)
Badge of Courage by Ann Edall-Robson
It takes courage to share your words with the world. Nothing is written in stone saying you have to go any further than letting family and friends read your work. But, let’s say you decide to throw caution to the wind. Climbing that hill to see what’s on the other side. Wouldn’t it be fun knowing there are places waiting for you that don’t judge your words? Places that welcome you, encouraging you in your journey to follow your dreams. Where you can wear your badge of courage with pride. Such a place exists. Welcome to the Carrot Ranch.
Follow Your Dreams by Lady Lee Manilla
sleep tight my poet
for in your dream world you go
colouring your sphere
whose fleeting tenure not break
with wild realm of reality
the kiss of the muse
and so inspiration comes
a slumbering thought
curdles long life in short time
pleasure, pain, faith, hope and love
I never believe in dreams
they were just for kids, they seem
like one of their childish games
but you came and I’m in flames
I’m still smiling with that beam
now I believe in daydreams
hoping you are my mainstream
my heart you have inflamed
dreams to be with you
The Daydreamer by Nicole Grant
At three Joy dreamed awake, sitting on her grandmother’s lap, listening to stories about brave little girls. She spent hours on Alpine cliffs with Heidi; in Mary’s secret garden; in Jo’s cozy New England cottage. When she grew older she learned to read, escaping home often. Some said she daydreamed too much. Her mother sometimes startled her home yelling, “Snap out of it!” She came back, but never stayed long. Joy would not relive the hopelessly fettered life that made her mother mad. She promised herself: to read, to forever follow her dreams, and to write her own story.
Follow Your Dream by Irene Waters
“Granny what’d you do when you were younger?”
“Same as I do now Clive. I Follow my dreams. Like when I was a girl guide. I did all these badges. Cooking…”
“But Granny you can’t cook.”
“I know but I was following my dream. I did other badges too – hiking and astronomy, and first aid and sewing…”
“But Granny you don’t hike and I knows you don’t sew.”
“Oh but I was following my dream. Once I got my Queen’s Guide, the biggest badge of all, I could go after the next dream. Clive, you gotta follow your dream.”
Deferment by D. Avery
All schoolmates, they were drinking, again. Billy was talking again about how he was going to go out west, see the sights, settle down in California and grow grapes, run a vineyard.
“Jeezus, Billy, you still on that? You and Stevie- ‘We’re gonna have a vineyard, get rich farmin’ wine’-”
“Whatever happened to Stevie?”
The bartender, their former coach, laughed, showed them a bottle. “Look at the label.”
“I’ll be damned.”
“Shit.” Billy guzzled the rest of his beer, grunting as he stiffly got to his feet. “Gotta get back to the wife and kids.”
“See ya tomorrow, Billy.”
Follow Your Dreams by Kim Blades
Violet’s heart had turned to rubble and her thoughts dwelt on fear and loss. She had grown up
and stayed in streets filled with doubts and litter and had thus always been angry and bitter. Her son was different. He chose diligence and knowledge over greed and ignorance. He faced down the bullies and the corrupt and moved out of the sewers.
Now Violet’s two grandchildren have seen orchards and apple blossom. Skies unfurled blue every morning of their youth.
Like their grandmother, what they saw moulded them into what they are.
But they can now follow their dreams.
Moongazer by Juliet Nubel
Its silver beams had lit up his room in Wapakoneta for as long as he could remember.
First crossing his small wooden crib, they now wandered over the checkered quilt made especially for his new Big Boy bed.
He was intrigued by the sphere, struck by its capacity to change shape every single night.
He wouldn’t close his eyes until he had gazed at it long enough for the shadowy patterns to imprint themselves on his young, bright brain.
“Come on, honey. It’s time for bed. Stop looking at the moon now. You know you’ll never go there, Neil.”
Personal Pronouns by Anne Goodwin
The girls talked shoes and shopping, so I ran with the boys. Till they obsessed on cricket and football, and I walked alone. Why did girls paint their faces and fuss with their hair? Why did boys get drunk on swagger, beer and playful punches? Neither camp suited me.
“I’m changing my name to Alex, Chris or Charlie.”
Sis clocks my breasts, my knee-high boots, my beard. “Looks like that’s not all you’re changing.”
“I’m following my dream to shake off the shackles of gender.” Gonna get me a badge: I’m Sam and my pronouns are they and their.
Flash Fiction by Pete Fanning
Josefina ran home after school, her thoughts bouncing with her bookbag against her back. The whole class was abuzz. They were planning a field trip to go see the monuments in Washington.
Josefina knocked. She admired her new honor roll badge. Her mother opened the door.
“Mom, we’re going on—”
“Silencio! Your sisters are napping.”
Josefina whispered, but the excitement roared back as she broke the news. “I just need my social security number, and—”
Her mother took a sharp breath. He shoulders slumped. “No. I’m sorry.”
“Mom, what do you mean?”
Josefina’s sisters began to cry.
Dreams by Ritu Bhathal
I did it mum. I took your advice.
“Follow your dreams, love,” you’d say to me. “Don’t let anyone stop you. I’d hate for your life to mirror mine.”
Born at a time where a good Indian wife and mother was nothing but that, my mum had dreams of being a doctor. Instead she was married off early, and, well, no one was going to encourage their daughter in law to study more, or, God forbid, work.
As I stand here, with my degree in my hand, my only wish is that you were here to see it too…
Gotta’ Follow My Own Dreams by Susan Sleggs
Angry white caps filled the Puget Sound waterway I could see. The wind howled and rain was going sideways. The fury matched what I expected from my father when I told him I had decided to follow my own dream of becoming a pilot in the Air Force. Especially since he expected me to become a doctor like family tradition deemed. The storm also matched my own emotions how my decision would affect my mother. In no way did I want to hurt her but I felt she would understand and accept what was best for me. Sorry Mom.
The Pretend Sheriff of Butternut Island by Bill Engleson
That summer, gosh, it must have been ’81 or ’82, we were tossing back some brew on the deck of the Sparkling Water Tavern, looking out on the sea.
The sun was sizzling, slapping off the ocean like bright stones spinning.
Darius wandered in, gold Roy Rogers deputy sheriffs badge pinned to his red plaid shirt.
I suppose there was always a chance that crime would break out on Butternut.
“Streets quiet, Deputy?” some wise-ass weekender asked.
Darius held it together. “Long as folks respect the law,” he answered.
Wise-ass wanted to say more.
Thing was, he’d been bested.
Follow Your Dreams by Frank Hubeny
Scorn them with your thoughts. It’s safe. No one knows.
No one believes thoughts can kill. No one believes empaths exist. No one thinks they can know another’s hate. If their hearts break, it’s their own hearts’ failure. If they can no longer forgive, that’s better.
Janet’s dream guardians told her to follow them, “Smile. Sit tall. Take deep, slow breaths. Play your dream songs.”
Janet put on her headphones. She set the player to keep repeating the sacred love songs.
When the hate came, the empath and her dreams were ready. Until they fell, they mirrored love back.
Follow your Dreams by Judy Martin
The applause carried her right through the week. She recalled the cheeks flushed with pleasure, and eyes although bright with tears in some faces, shone with delight. Tears appeared in her own eyes now, bittersweet. She had followed her dreams and studied hard to become the dedicated nurse she aspired to be. Yet, she ached to fulfil another need. Playing with words had always been a favourite pastime, and the poem she had written to cheer up her cancer patients brought the house down. Laughter certainly is the best medicine!
Follow Your Dreams by Pensitivity
He heard them calling.
They invaded his waking thoughts, tormented him as he slept.
Follow us, follow us.
He didn’t understand, couldn’t fathom what he was supposed to do, where he was supposed to go.
Come to us, come to us.
He tried to question them, ask them how, when and why.
You will know, you will know.
Then he met her.
She too had heard the calling to follow.
He had been in her dreams, was her dream.
Their ideas intertwined and enhanced each individual thought.
They recognised their destiny as each other, and together became their dream.
Man of My Dreams by Susan Zutautas
Looking across the bar that night, I saw him. The man of my dreams. He was tall, gorgeous, and he was looking at me. I just had to find a way to meet him, but I wasn’t quite sure how to go about it.
He was with a bunch of people and left the group to go to the washroom. It hit me, I’d go talk to one of his friends.
I introduced myself and asked, hey is your friend single and can you introduce him to me?
That was 32 years ago, and we’re still happily married today.
Dreams by CalmKate
Terry had met his match, Louise was everything he wanted in a partner but she had never been sailing. Would she support his dream to build a boat and sail the high seas.
She was wobbly on the hired catamaran but could see his passion so agreed to spending their savings and spare time building the boat of his dreams. Frankly she thought he would tire of the task and they could soon settle to an ordinary life.
Two children later they’d sailed to Barbados and had lived on board for a year collecting a badge in every port.
Conception by Sarah Whiley
It had been the perfect honeymoon. We enjoyed endless days swimming, relaxing and drinking cocktails. Barry announced that on our last morning, my dream of diving the reef, would finally be actualised. We were going scuba diving!
I plunged into the water, closely following the directions from our devastatingly gorgeous instructor. I became lost in the magic of the world underwater when I suddenly found myself alone and my tank empty.
Barry and the instructor were gone!
As I succumbed to the lack of oxygen, my puce coloured face realised the fiction on which our marriage was truly conceived.
Blind Love by Anurag Bhakhshi
She’d fallen for him, hook, line and sinker.
She faintly remembered her mother’s warning about mixing with the wrong sort, but she’d been dreaming of his alluring, bewitching beauty ever since she’d set eyes on him, and if you don’t follow your dreams, are you even alive?
Unable to resist his magnetic pull any longer, she rushed to become one with him.
And as soon as her lips touched his, she felt a fierce tug….as the hook sank into her mouth, and the fisherman quickly reeled her in, along with the crayfish that he was using as bait.
Eleanor by Matthew Copping
I lowered the binoculars. A sip of coffee did nothing to wash down the taste of my failed past, nor did it dissolve the knuckle-like mass growing in my stomach.
Eleanor Strand. . .
The name had meant nothing, uttered from the brown suede chair in my Brooklyn office; just another unfaithful spouse of the rich and famous. The customary exchange of yellow envelope and stale cigarette smoke on hand had followed.
Married name. It seemed obvious now as the thought whirled through my head. Follow your dreams, I thought bitterly and settled in to spy on my ex-fiance.
PART II (10-minute read)
Follow Your Dreams (Cat Edition) by FloridaBorne
Once upon a time there was a rather bright cat with a rather dull brother.
One day, Mr. Bright announced, “I hate city living!”
Vowing to follow his dreams, he began an epic journey, until he detected the pitter-patter of cat feet behind him.
“Go home!” he meowed at Mr. Dull.
Mr. Bright shuddered at a wind growing colder as night drew near. “I don’t know.”
“MeeeeRrrrAAARRRRRRR,” Mr. Dull shouted.
A kind human heard his cries. Now they live in a mansion, have a cat door, and wear badges on their collars.
Sometimes loud triumphs over brilliance.
Following the Dream by Molly Stevens
Ron’s head pounded and his hands trembled recalling last night’s combative email exchange. He knew the client and manufacturer would need someone to blame and he was a convenient target.
He crept out of the house without disturbing his wife and boys, leaving two hours before morning chaos erupted.
He tailgated the gray Kia, distracted by attempts to read the vanity license plate.
Brake lights. The crunch of metal. And a close-up view.
The badge was at eye level when he opened his window.
“Where are you going in such a hurry, mister?”
“Just following the dream, officer.”
Inconceivable Dream by Miriam Hurdle
“I had the same dream twice, Eric.”
“What dream was that?”
“I was flapping my arms flying higher and higher.”
“Some people fly in their dreams.”
“Well, Gorge, last night IN my dream I woke up, talking about my first dream with my sis.”
“That was your second level of inconceivable, deepest desire in your subconsciousness. What do you want to do when you grow up?”
“I don’t know.”
“Close your eyes. Take a deep breath and breathe out slowly. What do you feel you want to do?”
“Follow your dream. You’ll see breadcrumbs along the road.”
One Day, Many Days by Lisa Rey
Michael stood in the middle of the grounds of Dublin Castle. Around him there was a sea of rainbow flags, gay couples kissing and allies smiling. The date was May 22nd 2015 and though Michael had never been in a relationship, today ensured that he could follow his dream of marrying in his country and having his marriage recognised someday. As a young gay man, he never thought it was possible. He just imagined the closest he’d come to marriages and all that jam was as his straight brother’s Best Man. But today, that changed and it was wonderful.
Honourable Discharge by Christina Coster
She observed the monarchy presenting her boy the Victoria Cross. Corporal Trigg-Ashworth had served 12 years: 3 months: 4 tours. He had seen things only dreamed up in the darkest of nightmares; regrettably had done worse. He stood to attention as the bronze emblem was pinned to the right of his uniform.
He’d trailed in his father’s footprints; he would have been proud. Honourably discharged, it was time for her son to now follow his own dreams. Keeping head held high, walking stick in hand, he’d earned his badge of honour; for valour, for country, for both of them.
Lotta at 22 by Liz Husebye Hartmann
Lotta Du Charms relished the feel of canvas around her legs, leather and horseflesh between her thighs.
She’d spent her orphaned youth working in Lula’s saloon. When she’d traded her downstairs housekeeping badge for a “bed-making” badge upstairs, it was under Lula’s protection and loving ear. Her choices were respected, any door opened never permanently closed.
Lula was wise that way.
Lotta’d left after midnight, Goddess Moon hanging full-bellied in the Oklahoma sky. Her purse was heavy, her shotgun loaded, knife glinting in her boot.
“Onward, Artemis,” Lotta whispered to her horse. They set off to the next horizon.
Her Dream’s Edge by Kay Kingsley
She followed this dream to the edge, one she never thought existed and couldn’t comprehend, like the vastness of the cosmos, and yet after such a long journey of total transformation, she stands at its precipice.
Every end is a beginning and the sadness of perpetual change walks silently beside her, nudging her towards the cliffs edge. Comforted by its inevitability yet frustrated at her lack of choice, she approaches with fatigued enthusiasm.
Is this the beginning of greatness or the end of the best of her, a moment she will forever chase like a dream fading at dawn?
Following Dreams by Chelsea Owens
I wake after little sleep. Only hours ago, I walked the lonely aisles populated by night dwellers. “You look how I feel,” the cashier had said, voicing my thoughts before I’d worked out how to speak.
Today’s my child’s birthday. Mentally, I list what needs completion: cleaning, baking, decorating, dinner, church, children.
Husband stretches and wraps an arm around me. “I’ve got to go,” he coos. “Choir rehearsal this morning.” Surprised, I check my calendar.
Someone has posted a quote about making life what you will. Follow your dreams.
I rise groggily from the bed. A busy day awaits.
Living the Dream by Paula Moyer
Sam was baffled. With his scientific brain, it made no sense that doulas didn’t do cervical exams. The code phrase: “We don’t go downtown.”
“But why not?” he pressed on. “How do you know it’s time?”
Jean was stumped. Finally, her words came.
“My whole being is locked in with the mom,” Jean said. “That room is the world. I know in my bones when to head to the hospital, the birth center, when to call the midwife. It’s time to push because I’m pushing.”
So Jean professed her calling, her dream.
“This is what I was made for.”
To Be Proud of Yourself by Heather Gonzalez
“Follow your dreams…”
The voice on tv seemed to be talking directly to Tim. He really needed a reason to keep going.
“Even you can be whatever you want. You just have to believe in yourself. Stop wasting your time waiting. Get up and seize the day.”
This woke up something inside of him. He ran to the closet that still held some of his ex-wife’s clothes. He put on a dress and high heels. Then he put on his grandmother’s brooch and wore it like a badge of honor. For the first time, he felt whole and complete.
Follow Your Dreams by Deborah Lee
Jane jerks awake, the dream still strong. She’s scraped her fingertips against the rough concrete floor before she remembers there is no lamp. No bed, no matching nightstand, no electricity at all. Just her sleeping bag on the cold floor of the abandoned house she squats in.
The dream had felt so real. Safe in her bed. Her roses outside the window. Her house.
Follow your dreams, they said; it makes life rich. Except when you end up losing it all. She’d moved here with such high hopes. Now she knows that sometimes what’s over the horizon should stay there.
Of Dreams and Nightmares by Norah Colvin
Marnie snuck into the back row. The ceremony was underway. “Follow your dream” and “What is your dream?” were displayed on the large screen above the stage. As each graduating student took the microphone to share their dreams for the future, images of past achievements were projected onto the screen. Marnie should have been there too: but what could she share? Who would listen or even care? Only Miss R. Marnie craned her neck for a farewell glimpse, then left as quietly as she had entered. Once she had escaped her nightmare, perhaps then she could begin to dream.
Render by D. Avery
“It’s too tight”, Marlie complained as her mother hurriedly strapped her into her car seat. Today she’d made her mother late because she’d been absorbed watching a moth ensnared in a spider web, hopelessly struggling, its wings rendered useless.
Craft time was underway when Marlie arrived. Though unsure what the others were making she quickly got herself some sticks and yarn too. Her thoughts swam in the colorful weave of her careful work.
“Nice Dream Catcher, Marlie. It looks just like a colorful spider web.”
Marlie paused, then loosened the yarn, undid each wrap and weave, dismantling her creation.
Royal Bengal Tigress by Neel Anil Panicker
At a time when kids her age where scratching their heads and biting their nails trying to solve simple additions and subtractions, Sheena Bora had moved onto asking probing questions on higher order trigonometry and suggesting ‘out of the box’ answers to complex albegriac equations that stumped her teachers including her father, an acclaimed Professor of Mathematics, no less.
It was another matter that with the onset of puberty, her interests spilled over and soon, aided by an increased hormonal overdrive, she found herself spending equal time nourishing both her mind and body.
It came as no surprise when her top cat status helped her in bagging a prized seat at Cambridge and by the time she moved onto to greener pastures she had a panting bunch of heaving, panting, salivating Lotharios.
Valuable Vagary by JulesPaige
Do writers lean towards mendacity? Lunging with vocabulary, imagining everyone will fill in the gaps, while they blush in the shadows at their cleverness? Do writers call the unattainable goals they follow dreams? And yet some dreams do come true. Words end up in print. Others spy through internet glasses and peak at the peacock preening. It really isn’t that way is it? Fiction isn’t fact, though there might be some threads of truth. And even a peacock needs to eat, and showing off does get some attention. Writers are people too. Please show em some love, won’t you?
Follow Your Dreams by Michael Grogan
From an early age, he started drawing things. He showed a liking for patterns.
As he grew, he played more and more with line and form.
When his schooling was over, he had decided to become an artist.
He worked on his craft, he was invited to exhibit his work. He found a market, a worldwide one.
He discovered his choice of colour, his blue and white.
Today he follows his dream, lives off his art when he doesn’t need to borrow from his dad.
Soon he will travel the world, firstly to Singapore to display his beautiful work.
It’s not exactly a badge but a sample of his work.
The Dream Rock by Colleen Chesebro
Abby followed her dream to the edge of a field filled with thorny weeds that twisted like ivy. Dead animals lay scattered, their bloated carcasses rotting beneath the blistering sun. An apocalyptic scent of death hung in the air. A boulder filled with glittery quartz striations moved closer.
“This is our world without the bees,” said the rock. “The effects of climate change ravage the earth, disrupting the growth patterns. Animals die because their forage can’t mature without pollination.”
Abby swallowed the hard knot of truth. “What can I do?”
“You must save the bees.”
Dream Stalker by odysseyofhappiness
“Follow your dreamsss……that’s what he doesss” it rasped.
“…Who?” I queried, a chill running down my spine.
“The Dreamstalker…..he hunts in dreamsss…”
“Never heard of him……. anyway… I must be onward” I said, trying to sound determined but instead letting more than a small quiver into my voice.
“YOU CANNOT HIDE FROM THE DREAMSTALKER!” The thing roared in anger and warning.
I swallowed dryly. “What happens if he gets in your dreams?”
A frighteningly cruel smile curled across its repulsive face. “thisss….. is my favorite part”.
Terrified, I asked “what is?”
“The part where I wake you”…
Why You Should Always Just Follow Your Dreams by Hugh Roberts
“Follow your dreams,” they told me. “Follow your dreams, and you’ll always experience something amazing.”
“But where do dreams go?” I asked. “Nobody ever finds a dream, do they?”
“Follow your dreams and experience something amazing,” came the reply.
Try as I might, I was unable to catch or stop following my dreams. A few weeks ago, I almost caught one, but it slipped through my fingers and got away from me. Then, last night, I caught a lovely dream I’d been having about badges, marshmallows and Easter bunnies.
“Got you!” were my final words.
I never woke up.
[netherworld] by Deb Whittam
As the cat strutted along the rooftop he followed close in its wake for while the other was quick and sure footed, gliding across the rooftop with an expertise which bespoke of years of experience, he was not.
He had followed this rooftop acrobat out of curiosity, but the high wire was not his home; he craved the warmth of his cot and his teddy bear.
As if sensing his thoughts the cat sat down, considered him in silence before it said, “Time to wake up sleepy head … I have mice to chase.”
His eyelids fluttered then opened.
PART III (5-minute read)
Deep Thinking by Patrick M. O’Connor
“What do you want to do when you grow up?” she said.
He shrugged and continued eating his cereal without looking up.
“You can’t just sit around complaining about what you don’t have.”
He stopped mid shovel and looked up at her. Then, shrugging again, he went back to his feeding frenzy.
He knew she was right. He needed to follow his dreams if he was going to make something of himself.
“I can’t do this anymore! Get work that you’re passionate about or I’m leaving. Damn it! Your 40 years old.”
He stopped again and said, “You’re right.”
Breakfast in America by Sherri Matthews
Paula shuffled over to the counter. ‘How d’ya want yer eggs honey, easy over, sunny side up?’
‘Scrambled and a side of pancakes, and make it snappy, will ya?’
Paula sniffed as she poured his coffee. ‘Kinda grumpy today ain’t yer?’
Detective Johnny Johnson lit a Marlboro and sighed. ‘Sorry Paula, some broad got me on the run, that’s all…’
‘Aww…and I there thought I was yer broad…you know, the one of yer dreams.’
Johnny smiled, the first time in days. ‘Yeah, you’re my broad…’
I closed my book and dreamed of waking up to pancakes and maple syrup.
Following My Dreams by Michael Fishman
Follow your dreams she tells me.
That Nadine, she always knows what someone else should be doing: I should mow the lawn; the Bishop’s shouldn’t stay up so late; the Porter’s should get a new car; the Schulte’s should put their daughter on a diet; I should get a haircut.
Yes, she has a way, Nadine.
I finally took her advice and filed for divorce. Now I live quietly by myself in a small apartment and right now I’m going to roll over and pull the covers up and take some of her oft-offered advice and follow my dreams.
Tea, Biscuits, and Trolls by Wallie & Friend
“Why are we doing this?”
Pommie ignored her husband, pinning cobwebs across the door of their cave.
Griddur sneezed. “But Pommie,” he pleaded, “you know I’m allergic to dust.”
She paused and gave him a sympathetic pat. “It’s only for today,” she said. “Will you help me scatter the bones?”
Her husband groaned. “Do we have to?”
“That young knight is coming tomorrow and he’s expecting a haunted cave, not two elderly trolls. I’d like to help him. He looked so excited.”
“But what if he hurts us?”
“That,” said Pommie, “is what the tea and biscuits are for.”
The Key Holder’s Quest by Jan Malique
She dreamed worlds into being, each word unlocking door after door, and offering new vistas to her bedazzled eyes.
Her heart unfolded its wings, stirring the breath of the Eastern Wind, petitioning it to carry her heartfelt desires to the outermost regions of the world.
The Key Holder’s hands gently touched the covers of this most special book. She infused it with love and magic of the deepest kind. It was to be a manual for all aspiring dream weavers.
For to truly live is to follow your dreams. Such a simple truth but so hard to live by.
Reach for a Dream by Robbie Cheadle
Karen looked at her daughter sitting on the deck of the large passenger liner. She looked so sweet in her lacy dress and matching sun bonnet. The sudden death of her husband from a massive coronary had been a terrible shock. She had been left to raise this tiny dependent on her own. Her sister, Sandra, who lived in faraway South Africa, had offered to have them live with her. Sandra would look after her daughter during the day while she worked. It was an opportunity. She could reach for her dream of a better life for them both.
Art of Following Dreams by PTSD Gal
‘She’ll NEVER make money as an artist! It’s a hobby, not a career that can sustain her! Plus I’m not wasting the money for her to just lose interest!’ My mother yelled at my father after I asked to join an art class. ‘You can be anything you want in this life. If you want to draw and paint then I’ll go and get what you need. You have real talent Jo. I believe in you,’ my dad gave me a hug and walked away. Years later I’m now a graphic artist, painter, writer because my father supported me.
Follow Your Dreams by Rugby 843
Follow your dreams they said. Go west young man they said. Step out from the crowd. Don’t be afraid, you’re young and strong!
All good advice I thought. I was excited and anxious to begin my journey, fulfill my expectations. I left school, my boring job, the comfort of living at home with my parents.
I sold my car to buy a bus ticket to California. I packed my duffle bag with the bare necessities. I kept my headphones and cell phone, sold the rest. I boarded the bus with hopeful thoughts, and fell asleep listening to “California Dreamin”.
Follow Your Dreams by Geoff Le Pard
‘Do you dream, Logan?’
‘Everyone dreams, Morgan. It’s the brain processing stuff.’
‘Clearing out the crap?’
‘If you like.’
‘Like the bowels?’
‘I only ask because I was asked today if I wanted to follow my dreams.’
‘I’m not sure I want to.’
‘Take my cousin Killick. His dream involved a dwarf and fourteen bananas.’
‘He had a Snow White fixation.’
‘Moving on, following you dreams is meant to be a positive.’
‘So’s having a good crap.’
‘There you go. No one said every pot of gold was full of chocolate.’
Badgered by D. Avery
“Kid, I kin hear yer dang harrumphin’ halfway ta the corral.”
“I ain’t goin’ ta the corral, not via no dang Face Book.”
“Well, don’t then, use the contact form. Look, Kid, I bunk with ya, so I kin smell ya don’t like change, but this here’s good. The Ranch is growin’, Kid, Shorty’s dreams are growin’. Ain’t that some change ya kin pocket?”
“Well, if’n it helps Shorty. T’ain’t much of a chore, really.”
“Many ranch hands make light work. Maybe ya kin even git a badge.”
“Git deputized? I ain’t inta badges.”
“Ya sure do badger me.”
No matter how you slice it, cake has much to say. At Carrot Ranch, of course, it would be carrot cake. As some have pondered, when did we start putting vegetables in cake? Perhaps the addition fortified a treat with additional nutrients; perhaps kitchen cooks long ago used carrots to add moisture and texture.
Writers chased the trail of carrots in cake and returned with a tasty batch of stories. Just as each baker adds a signature touch, you can expect each writer to add their own flair to flash.
The following are based on the March 16, 2018, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story about carrot cake.
Cake for Tomorrow by Denise Aileen DeVries
When Bitty Johnson invited Myra Jean to spend the day making carrot cake, she envisioned some kind of mass production. To her surprise, Mrs. Johnson picked her up in an old Ford and drove outside the town limits. “Nuts from Mr. Whittaker first,” she explained, “then eggs from the Browns.” Each ingredient involved a visit to a different home, a glass of sweet tea, a homemade treat, some conversation, and then Bitty’s anecdotes in between. It was nearly sunset when the baking began.
Although it was only one cake, it was delicious because of all that went into it.
Strawberry Moon by D. Avery
Marge sat at the table poring over a seed catalog, one of the balloons a strawberry moon overhead.
“I want carrot cake, Earnest, that’s what.”
“There’s some at the store.”
“I want to make it.”
“We can buy carrots.”
“No, I wanna grow the carrots.”
“Well gee Marge, it’s gonna take a long while to get that cake.”
“Yes, well into summer.”
“Why wait so long? Why work so hard?”
“It’s to celebrate. Us. You like balloons, I like cake.”
Earnest grinned. Marge would be baking, here, come summer.
“I’ll dig the garden patch, Marge.”
“That’s what I figured.”
My Roots by Bill Engleson
“Really…we’ve got the ingredients. Mostly its flour and carrots. Quite easy.”
“Hmm, okay, but…” and here I dig deep, “if it was me, I’d go with chocolate.”
I can see I’ve touched a culinary nerve. She also digs deep. With tongue and feet. “Plain and simple, I don’t like chocolate, or pie, or cake…any of the chocolate spinoffs.”
“But its my birthday,” I go for the jugular. “That should count for something.”
Have I won this round?
“Okay,” she says, touching my lips. “A compromise. How about chocolate carrot turnip cake?”
Inevitably, love is compromise.
Cake-Off! by Ritu Bhathal
Lifting the last box from her bag, Ritu sighed with satisfaction.
The pastries, bites and cakes had all reached the venue intact: Nutella puff pastry twists, Rocky Road bites, and her favourite, carrot cake cupcakes.
Nothing else was laid on the table… until he turned up.
Armed with gluten-free, sugar-free fare, His Geoffleship laid his plates across the other table half.
The competition had arrived.
Soon the room began to fill with the attendees of the Bloggers Bash, ready for the Blog Awards…
But for these two bakers, the real winner would be who won the Great Bash Bake-off!
Shifting Preferences by Reena Saxena
We are proud of your accomplishments, dear son! Good to know that you have bought a house in UK, with that well-paying job! What pains us is that you do not respond to your wife’s calls or mails. It is high time, that you took her with you. We would like to see a grandchild, before we die. Sending some Indian sweets for you….
And so on, continued my mother’s rants on email.
How do I tell her that my preferences have shifted from carrot halwa to carrot cake? The family will soon see a divorce petition from me.
Carat Cake by Kay Kingsley
From the moment he met her his heart was hers. He devours her details, locking them in his memory to surprise her when she least expects it, showing he cares.
She loves horses, the beach, and the color purple. She wants to be a doctor, travel to Egypt and swim with dolphins.
He adores her and she him and on their anniversary he will bake her a version of her favorite cake only this version will contain a different kind of carat. And trying to steady his voice and his knee, he will ask her to be his forever.
Carrot Cake by Frank Hubney
He reminded her of the strudel she used to make. He wanted to make it himself, but he didn’t know how. Could she teach him?
She asked him about that girl he liked. He said her name was Shirley. “What happened to her?”
“There she is.”
“Ah! She’s grown!”
“And we have children. Look.” He pointed to two girls too old for innocence, too young to be on their own in the doorway.
“How beautiful! I don’t know if I remember how to make that carrot cake.”
“What was that girl’s name again?”
Grandma’s Carrot Cake by Faith A. Colburn
For Grandma’s 100th birthday, we ordered a cake, a carrot cake, her favorite. It was a big sheet cake decorated with a replica of my cousin’s painting of the farm in frosting. Grandma had lived on that farm for 70 years and her eyes filled with tears for just a moment. We invited everybody—cousins from California and Alaska and neighbors from next door. It was the last time all the grandkids and greats got together in one place.
With an evil gleam in her eye, Grandma looked around and said, “You didn’t think I’d make it, did you?”
Carrot Cake? by Sarah Whiley
Jake’s eyes sparkled as he slid the plate towards me.
The sliver of cake was moist; loaded with carrots. Ground walnuts, covered the rich cream cheese icing. I picked up my fork, mouth watering in anticipation.
“Where’s yours? I don’t want to consume all these calories on my own!” I teased.
“This one’s especially for you,” he replied.
Shrugging, I dug the fork into the cake, feeling metal hit metal.
Breaking it apart, I gasped. In the middle lay a cushion-cut, diamond ring.
“It’s a carat cake,” Jake joked, locking his eyes on mine. “Will you marry me Isabel?”
She Said Yes by Joe Owens
Sydney marveled at the flawless carrot cake on the picnic table. For the first time in her seventeen years she had one to be proud of. She cocked her head at the odd droning sound above, but the bright sun made it difficult to see. There was a myriad of colors and then a sickening thud as something dropped into the center of her cake.
“What’s that?” triplet Macey asked pointing at the pyramid shaped photo block.
Sydney’s heart leapt at the photo of Marcus on one knee holding a sign that said only “PROM?”
“Finally!” she said. “Finally!”
Let Them Eat Cake! by Juliet Nubel
“You can’t give them carrot cake, ma chérie. This is France, remember?
How could she forget? Born with a supercilious culinary chauvinism, the French believed that everything they cooked was good, better, the best.
“They’ll love it.” The look in Joanna’s eyes warned him to drop the subject.
His father had looked intrigued. His mother had looked appalled. But neither had dared refuse the dark, moist, glistening slice.
Later, as the Gallic goodbyes finally ended, Joanna leaned against the door. A small, satisfied smile landed on her lips.
“Your mother just asked me for something, Jean-Paul.”
Carrot Cake is the Way to a Man’s Heart by Sarah Southwest
Look at him. He’s gorgeous. And now, look at her – slim, blonde, elegant – and he’s all over her, begging eyes, like a dog that wants a biscuit. Makes me sick.
Cappuccino and carrot cake for him? Black coffee for her? Worried about her figure, obviously. It’s all right – I’ll serve them, I say.
“Two coffees, and one cake”.
I set it down in front of him. He doesn’t even look at me. Not until the first mouthful, and then he looks around, and meets my eyes.
She doesn’t stand a chance.
A Mother Always Knows by Colleen Chesebro
The train clickety-clacked across the rails while rolling hills flashed outside the windows with the speed of an old movie reel. I swayed my way into a mindful moment, breathing in peace.
A loud sniff interrupted my reverie. Across from me, the woman’s red eyes blared out her secrets. Tears streamed down her face and sobs wracked her body. Our eyes met, and she shook her head, silence her shield.
Mothers recognize pain. When the throbbing ache subsides, hunger sets in. I opened the box and drew out the carrot cake, a gift for a friend. Sweets always heal.
Carrot Cake by Lisa Rey
Michael set about making his carrot cake for the pending agricultural show. He had lost five years running. He was determined that this would be his year. He knew why he had lost each year and he was fuming. In this small town, they were all friends and he was the only man who entered. And there was a worldwide vendetta.
The world seems to hate white, cisgender, conservative, heterosexual males.
Across town, head judge Loreen looked at the list of competitors. She smiled at Michael’s name and thought,
That poor man can’t cook and he’s into so himself.
Carrot Cake (Jane Doe Flash Fiction) by Deborah Lee
The mindless chatter of two dozen people washes over Jane’s head, normally a wall of sound to hide behind but today, something to navigate. She balances her paper plate of cake – carrot, with cream cheese frosting, a favorite – careful not to jostle as she makes her way to where Barbara sits, queenlike, amid bona fide paralegals.
“I’m so sorry to hear Marianne is leaving,” Jane plunges in as Barbara glances up. “Are you accepting applications for her position?” She smiles brightly even as Becca’s eyes shoot daggers from across the room.
One woman’s going-away cake is another woman’s chance.
Over Indulging by Heather Gonzalez
“Cut me another slice of cake. One with a frosting carrot on top.” Jerry said, shoveling the last bite of cake.
“Are you sure?” Ariana hesitated.
“It is my right as an American.”
She sighed and enabled her husband’s habit of drowning himself in food. This was not what she imagined would happen when she agreed to marry him.
“I should have stayed in my country.” Ariana spoke under her breathe as she handed him the cake.
“I am glad you brought me to this country.”
“Best money I ever spent. You are even better than your ad.”
American Tastes by Sherri Matthews
Sponge pudding and custard. Definitely. But cheesecake? No way.
‘Go on Helen, try it, it’s really nice,’ coaxed her brother.
No way. Cheese and cake…together? Whoever heard of that?
When she told her school friends the next morning about the latest awful thing her stepfather had brought home, they all agreed it sounded revolting.
Years later for her birthday, Helen’s American friends made her a carrot cake.
The laughed together as she recounted her cheesecake moment. Was she more daring now, they teased?
‘Go on Helen…’ they chorused.
Helen took a forkful and smiled. Life had never tasted better.
Gram’s Peculiar Taste by Kerry E.B. Black
Constance frowned and poked her piece of cake, leaving four tine-marks as evidence of her displeasure.
Carrot cake? What kind of trick was this? Her mother didn’t disguise the vegetable’s presence. She proclaimed it in orange and green icing atop the sea of ivory.
Not like the time she served squash and pretended it was spaghetti.
Who knew what other things she slipped into meals?
“Mo-om, why can’t we have chocolate?”
Mom bustled about, polishing the silver. “Because carrot is your Gram’s favorite.”
Gram sure had peculiar taste.
At least Mom made chocolate chip scones.
Or were they current?
Health Nut by njoyslife
Traffic is frustrating. I’ve had a bad day at work. It’s been a miserable day according to the news, social injustice and senseless violence everywhere. Stress tightens my brow, back, shoulders, my clenched jaw. I push the button to turn the car radio off, inanely telling it to ‘shut up!’ I want to get home, make myself a healthy meal. Self-care, I remind myself, is so important when you’re stressed. I pull into a bakery parking lot. “I’ll take the carrot cake” I tell the surly clerk. In no mood to cook, I take my sweet vegetarian meal home.
Blow My Candles Out by Rowena Newton
“Happy Birthday, Honey. I’ve checked all the ingredients. Even your cardiologist says it’s fine…gluten free, sugar free, fat free.” Sue tried hard to smile. “So, you can have your cake and eat it too.”
“So, what IS in it?” Richard growled, longing for Nigella’s Nutella Cake instead. As much as he loved his wife and family, he wasn’t sure it was worth coming back for this new life with all its restrictions. He couldn’t even breathe without asking for permission first.
“Carrot cake? I am NOT a horse! I’m off to the pub. You can blow my candles out!”
Easter Bunny Carrot Cake by Hugh Roberts
It was carrot pudding in 1591. Then, in 1783, the Easter Bunny, while on its way to do some early Christmas shopping, watched George Washington eat the first Carrot cake at the Fraunces Tavern in lower Manhattan. As George ate the carrot cake, the Easter Bunny drooled over the thought of carrots in a cake.
These humans were clever. Why had nobody in the bunny world invented carrot cake? However, on Easter Day 2019, carrot cake became so sixteenth century when the first human cake was served in the bunny world. Now, the Easter Bunny had a naughty list.
Liberated by Unconditional Love by Molly Stevens
When she was a child, she tested her mother by asking, “If I killed someone, would you still love me?” Her mother reassured her, “I’d hate what you did, but I would always love you.”
She clung to this conversation, replaying it a thousand times a day while languishing in her cell. Eroding her faith was an echoing rebuttal: You are not worthy of love.
When she received notice of a visitor, she lifted her shackled spirit and trudged to the visiting area. There stood her mother, holding a homemade carrot cake. Smiling she said, “Happy Birthday, baby girl.”
Just Desserts by Patrick M. O’Conner
“Eh – What’s Up Doc?”
You could just hear the sarcasm dripping in his voice.
I had just lost a job I had been doing for over twenty years and was in no mood, but it made me laugh anyway.
I needed some humor to relieve the stress I was under. It’s tough getting downsized.
I smiled and said, “How about a piece of that carrot cake you got there?”
“No problem sir. I’ll get that right away. Need a drink with that?” he said.
“How about some ice cold milk?”
Somehow, I knew things were going to be ok.
Carrot Cake Debate by Ann Edall-Robson
“It’s carrot cake.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Yes, it is. I can’t for the life of me see why you can’t accept that IT IS CARROT CAKE!”
“BECAUSE IT’S NOT! You don’t make it like my Gran did, so it can’t be carrot cake.”
“Just because I don’t spend hours grating carrots and I ice mine with cream cheese icing, doesn’t mean it’s not carrot cake.”
“Well, it’s not. She didn’t spend hours and hours making her cake.”
“Just taste mine. I think you’ll see what I mean.”
“I won’t like it.”
“Maybe it’s not bad, I guess.”
A Reluctant Upgrade by Paula Moyer
Jean never made carrot cake. It sounded too – next generation. No, Jean was proudly retro.
Her go-to was the Duchess Spice Cake from the Betty Crocker cookbook, the first edition of 1950. For her cake, made with buttermilk, Jean doubled the spices in the recipe. The result: dark, aromatic batter that sweetened the air as it baked.
The icing was pretty retro, too: buttercream frosting. Lots of butter.
She really couldn’t see how carrots would improve it. Why pretend it was health food?
Then: the neighbor’s party. The cute orange squiggles on top. The carrots, walnuts, raisins.
Dangling the Carrot by Geoff Le Pard
‘One more step, Logan.’
‘This had better be worth it.’
‘Open your eyes.’
‘Morgan, it’s a cave.’
‘No, it’s what you wanted.’
‘You said, “Give me something never before see in the history of rock”… Tada!’
‘I meant bringing Lynyrd Skynyrd back to life.’
‘It’s also a cake. Carrot cake. Your favourite.’
‘You made a carrot cake the size of Snowdon? How do you expect me to eat that?’
‘That’s the other surprise. See, Logan, all you classmates from Pratt’s Bottom Primary, including Angela Clummbits.’
‘I will kill you, Morgan.’
‘Just bow out your candles first, Logan.’
Carrot Cake? by FloridaBorne
Do you want the lusciously smooth dark chocolate cake with the melty buttercream and dark chocolate icing, or would you rather have stubbly carrots and nuts with the possibility of (shudder) pineapple thrown into it?
The last time I tried carrot cake, the first bite ended up inside a napkin. It took a cup of coffee and a slice of chocolate pie to get rid of the taste.
I’ve had good carrot cakes made with quality ingredients, but nothing screams “comfort food” like chocolate.
Soggy Cake by Jack Schuyler
A cake. What a sight to see on a rainy day. Sitting there, a soggy wet cake. The raindrops hit my rain slicker and roll off, but when they hit the cake, they pool, ripping cracks in the cream frosting and turning the khaki sponge a sadder brown. A soggy wet carrot cake sitting there, on the picnic table, in the rain.
Perhaps it was left by a forgetful baker, sent for shelter by the sudden deluge. Or maybe it’s the sole remnant of a child’s party, cut short by the sudden storm. Whatever the story, it’s no use now.
Carrot Cake by Rebecca Glaessner
“Scanning; water, sand. Beach?”
“Turbine engines, winged structures. Aircraft?”
“Two humans. Arms around eachother. Content. Hugging?”
“What else?” The human watched the Android ponder.
“Unable to ascertain without further details.”
“Scenarios with highest probabilities are a need for warmth, or pressure to ease physical discomfort.”
“Physical exhaustion; a need for postural support.”
The human glanced up at a surveillance camera.
The human paused.
“Physical contact creates a bond, a feeling of worth. Like ingredients in the carrot cake we made. Individual ingredients gained deeper worth through bonding.”
The human grinned, “exactly.”
An Unexpected Exchange (from Rock Creek) by Charli Mills
Mary McCanles set the carrot cake in the window sill to cool. Several Otoe boys hunkered beneath the window, and Sarah watched them from the shade of the horse-barn. One boy reached toward the cake. From inside the house, a man’s large hand grasped the boy’s wrist. Instead of squeals of terror, they all laughed at the one who got caught. A flour sack of carrots passed from the man’s hands to the boy’s and the Otoe ran off toward their family holdings. Sarah shook her head. Leave it to Cobb to be generous to those others feared.
Truth in Cake by PTSD Girl
Call it sibling rivalry but I hated having a sister. They start out taking toys, then clothes and even dare I say, boyfriends. Birthdays were always special for the youngest of us girls and I despised carrot cake just because it was her favorite. Each year without fail the sickly sweet aroma of her favorite treat wafted through the house.
Over time we became friends but I still hated that cake and I refused to eat it. Ever since my sister passed away we haven’t had carrot cake. I miss the smell and vibrant sweet taste of the carrot.
A Carrot Cake for Easter by Norah Colvin
“What will we cook today?” asked Mum.
“Carrot cake!” chimed the twins.
“But you don’t like carrot cake.”
“Carrot cake. Carrot cake.”
“Well, it’s going to be—”
“—Easter soon, and we want—”
“—to give the Easter Bunny—”
The twins smiled at each other.
“Okay,” smiled Mum. “Carrot cake it is.”
“First, we need the carrots.”
The children raced ahead to the veggie patch.
Their eyes opened wide. The carrot patch was devastated; not one carrot left.
“Carrot cake’s off,” said Mum. “That old rabbit can’t have carrot cake and eat them too.”
Icing on the Cake by Jan Malique
White Rabbit, White Rabbit, where is my cake? I can taste it now, senses inflaming and mouth salivating.
The Red and White Queens meet on the next Full Moon. Will dine off porcelain ethereal, even savour cakes galore, but yours will be missing. Robust Darjeeling and subtle Lapsang will flow, what a tea-totaller’s dream. But not one for me.
You’ve reneged on our deal, the Mad Hatter isn’t happy, his reputation’s on the line. You know what this means? The contract states no room for error, no room for escape. So watch your foot. You know what I mean.
Occupational Therapy at St Luke’s by Anne Goodwin
Flaying the first carrot, Matty recites to help the work along:
Beautiful Soup, so rich and green,
Waiting in a hot tureen!
No, that will not do! This soup will be the colour of sand. But hopefully not the texture. Chuckling, a more appropriate rhyme comes through to her:
Run rabbit, run rabbit, run, run, run
Don’t give the farmer his fun, fun, fun
Nearby, the chimp-woman creams butter and sugar with a wooden spoon. Far too much of either for soup. And now the artist adds flour! Carrots in a cake? Has she landed in the funny farm?
To Catch a Thief? by JulesPaige
The horde of rabbits whored the garden and hoarded all the
carrots. It was odd that Madame Coniglio told me that all she
could see in her crystal ball was the auricle of bunny ears as
they scurried deep into their warrens.
I thought it was peculiar that she saw a bakery in my future.
Madame C didn’t charge for the first oracle session. She
handed me a double sided business card. Her side said
“I am always hare for you”… I thought it was a misspelling.
The reverse advertised Coniglio’s Confectioners.
With a photo of a carrot cake…
Carrot Cake by Irene Waters
“We have to have cake. Bailey’s four today. We have to celebrate.” Candy stared defiantly at her mother.
Marion sighed. “Okay. You choose. Grain or carrot cake?”
“Grain. It’s got carrots in it anyway.”
Candy quickly gathered the ingredients. Grain, molasses, sugar cubes, crushed peppermint, cinnamon and sugar and two diced carrots which she combined in the huge mixing bowl. With difficulty she stirred the sticky mass until well mixed then she poured the gloop onto a paper plate.
Taking a slice Candy ran to the stable. Bailey’s pricked ears heard, Happy Birthday to you before receiving his treat.
Your Pet Rules by Ruchira Khanna
“It’s Leo’s b’day, and he would like to invite your Boston terrier, Ginni.”
Similar texts were sent for Pomeranian Coco, the Beagle Yogi.
“Let’s get a cake.” The mom declared with joy as she went shopping with her Labrador.
Soon Leo’s woofs were beyond control since his mates joined for his celebration.
The canines wore party caps and had a slice of carrot cake in front of them. They waited patiently for the command, ‘eat.’
However, as soon as the birthday song ended.
Leo gobbled the slices from all the plates leaving his friends puzzled.
Carrot Cake by Rugby 843
These are good!
Yes, the carrots are especially fine this year. Sweet, long, slim and hardly a bump in the lot!
Well they are our favorite delicacy. We are so lucky to have an abundance of them in this year’s crop.
Yes, Mother Nature has been good to us.
Crunching on the whole carrots, they tossed aside the tops for a later treat. After shredding was done they spit the contents into a mound in the middle of the dirt. The little ones gathered round and mom and dad needed no candles.
Happy Birthday dear kittens, Happy Birthday to….
Carrot Cake by Gordon Le Pard
“People lost so much money with those Tulips, no one is going to want to invest in a plant again.”
“But this is different.”
“Forget it, you can’t have your cake and eat it, as the English say.”
“But you can eat it, it’s delicious.”
The banker looked up, the gardener continued.
“What’s the full name of our king?”
“William of Orange.” The banker replied, puzzled.
He pulled a cloth off his basket, inside were carrots, not white or purple, but orange.
“A patriotic vegetable – we will certainly have our cake and eat it, we will make a fortune!”
Space by JulesPaige
(a poetic haibun)
Is there space in cake for carrots
Or any vegetable like zucchini?
Is it just the shape makes a cake…
Round, Square… A loaf?
Is there a reason to hide roots,
Or that which grows in rows?
To save fingers from the sharp teeth
Of a grater… I’ve used carrots in a jar
Specifically junior baby food
That’s got some texture
No added sugar – sweetness –
Comes from the applesauce
That’s in place of water that a box mix calls
For…to add flavor along with my love
fresh baked anything
there’s always space for good food,
family and friends
Carrot Cake by Robbie Cheadle
My nephews came for a “sleep over” this weekend and, after I saw Charli’s flash fiction prompt words of carrot cake, I decided to make this treat with them. The cakes didn’t come out quite as expected but they still tasted delicious.
“Why is my cake sunken in the middle, Auntie Robbie?”
“Well, Ben, did you follow the recipe properly? Tell me what you put into the cake.”
“I put all the things on the list in, and I measured them carefully just like you said I should. Oh, and I put an extra teaspoon of baking powder in so that it would be sure to rise nicely.”
“You have answered your own question, Ben. An extra spoon of a raising agent will make your cake sink in the middle. Baking is a science. You have to follow the recipe exactly.”
Flash Fiction by Pensitivity
The challenge was which was better, oil, margarine or butter, and which measures, imperial, metric or ‘cups’.
The American team used oil and cups.
The Home team used margarine and metric.
The Boss used imperial and butter.
I made two, one oil and imperial, the other margarine and cups.
The judges were work colleagues and the final tasting was on the Friday.
At 50p a taste, the proceeds went to charity, all efforts identified by a number.
It was unanimous that whilst the cakes were all OK, it was the cream cheese frosting that walked away with the ‘prize’.
Carrot Cake by Michael Grogan
At one point Gran became obsessed with making carrot cake. She’d read that at it might be ‘healthy’ and so took to making them to improve everyone’s health.
She loved to quote the reasons from people she thought knew the ins and outs of these cakes. But the one thing she found hard to justify was the thick layer of icing she’d see on the store bought cakes.
“All that sugar,” she’d say, “ be better saving it for my tea.”
Once Gran started to make anything she became an expert.
Gran’s carrot cakes came icing free.
Carrot CAKE by Miriam Hurdle
“What do you want for dessert, Mimi? Do you like carrot cake?”
“Noop! When I want to have dessert, I have dessert.”
“When do you mean? Carrot cake is dessert!”
“See, Nancy. My mom grows carrots. When she makes carrot cake, she is very generous to put triple portions of grated carrots into the cake mix. The cake tastes just like carrots, you know! When I eat cake, I eat cake. When I eat carrots, I eat carrots. I just don’t eat carrot cake.”
“Oh, no wonder, Mimi! Here, try my carrot CAKE that doesn’t have the carrot taste!”
Carrot Mistake by Chelsea Owens
There it sits, upon a plate:
It may be cake, but it’s cake I hate.
Who was first to see a root
And put it where one should mix a fruit?
Raisins do not count this time
Since they’ve barely made my list of “likes.”
If your cake needs added sweets,
Try not adding dirty veggie treats.
“I see your point,” you might say,
“But my recipe makes doubters sway.”
“I especi’lly aim to please,
“By whipping a frosting of cream cheese.”
Citing that was a mistake;
Carrots, raisins, cream cheese: baked
Are the ingredients that take my cake.
Carrot Heads by CalmKate
The cupboard was bare yet again … two busy ladies who regularly forgot to shop! And in the outback the grocery stores shut early.
So Rita was creating a delicious cake from a few old carrots and a bit of flour for desert tonight. No eggs so the last of our honey went in, she was a whizz at making something out of so little.
A local from a large station and an art teacher she was practical and creative. Dan our handsome gay mate would propose that night and two kids later we realised we had misjudged him!
Carrot Cake by Kim Blades
Jan dashed onto the main road.
Bullets whined through the drowsy sunshine like furious hornets.
He glanced back as his pursuer threw down the empty gun.
Jan raced on, instinctively turning into a side street.
He saw a bakery and stumbled into the shop, hoping for a back entrance through which he might escape.
He leant against the counter, his heart pumping furiously.
Through eyes misted with perspiration, he saw the best looking cake ever.
White, creamy icing covered a huge round cake, bedecked with small, orange fondant carrots.
His mouth watered for a taste of carrot cake.
The Break-In by Anurag Bakhshi
We returned home to find the door ajar.
Fearing the worse, I asked my family to stay behind me, and cautiously opened the door.
The living room looked like a disaster zone.
And then, I noticed the trail of blood, going inside.
We dashed into the bedroom…
….only to find a little girl there, bleeding from her mouth.
And as soon as she saw us, her eyes became red…as she shouted, “That carrot cake was so hard, it broke all my teeth, you brutes. If I don’t put you in prison for this, my name is not Goldilocks!”
Decaff to Follow by Liz Husebye Hartmann
In the sepulchral half-light, behind a fortress of tall paper stacks, the crackling tapping endures: Fast, slow, shuffle, sudden dry slap.
“Found it!” A light clicks on, illumines a circle above. A rectangular shadow appears and shifts amid crisp rustling.
“What the hell is code 2 for box 10b on IRS form 6666?” a heinous curse word erupts, with a paper blizzard as Princess Kittycat launches from the tallest stack. She knows what’s coming–right after the wracking sobs.
A friendly hand offers a plated slice of carrot cake over the wall of the tax-time fortress.
Decaf to follow.
Carrot Cake by TinTins
‘Oooh ye ‘ear aboyt our Mary? Only gone got ‘erself a toyboy ‘asn’t she!’
‘Aye an’ she started dyin’ ‘er ‘air. Oi didn’t recognise ‘er at de bingo. Lookin’ loike de cat got de cream; showin’ ‘imself aff she were. His called Rodrigo.’
‘Rodrigo? Pure continental. ‘Oy auld?’
‘69 oi ‘eard.’
Becki smiled, wondering who they were gossiping about today. With notepad and pen poised, she walked over to the two biddies as they sat at their usual table.
‘What’ll it be the-day ladies?’
‘Tea an’ carrot cake.’
‘Lovely, ye celebratin’ anythin’ speshal?’
‘Mary’s 70th. She’ll be ‘ere soon.’
And Eat it Too by D. Avery
“Shorty sure takes the cake.”
“Yep. Carrot cake.”
“Shorty’s a first responder! She kin really take the reins. Heck, she kin braid her own reins. That wrangler built a ranch, ran a rodeo, an’ published a book all while workin’ on her own books. An’, she sure kin cook. Is there nuthin’ Shorty cain’t do?”
“Jeez, that’s a tough one, but I already know the answer. She cain’t be anything but kind.”
“Got that right Kid, she ain’t never.”
“Yep. That gal’s got broad shoulders and a big heart.”
“Got that right Kid. Why, Shorty’s heart’s as big as….”
“Pal, ya left another sentence unfinished.”
“Yep. Readers kin submit the end of that sentence here as a reply. If they do, an undisclosed amount of money will be donated to Carrot Ranch through that fancy patron button up there in the upper left hand corner.”
“Like last week.”
“Yep. Aussie got an A fer effort fer her subtle submarine subtext.”
“It’s hard for Aussie ta be anything but decent. Don’t unnerstan’ her hangin’ out with you.”
“It’s a wonder.
“From down under. So you want folks ta finish that sentence?”
“Yep. Shorty’s heart is as big as_____________ .”
Balloons beckon us to childhood and celebrations. Red, white and blue they also remind us of the students who staged a mass protest in response to the mass school shootings in America. We release balloons to acknowledge our own fleeting victories and tragedies.
Writers took to the skies, latex and color with balloons this week. You can expect to read the unexpected.
The following are based on the March 8, 2018, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story that features a balloon.
Hope by Kay Kingsley
They knelt at the ocean’s edge determined, pants wet with saltwater, fingers cold and dirty, their hearts mixed fear with excitement. The rock weighted the cord in the sand as small fingers knotted it around a plastic baggie, carefully protecting a written message so clearly hand-printed any teacher would be proud to grade if given the chance. But these words held secrets only the children knew and standing at the edge of their world, they released their hope, a bright red balloon against the blinding blue. Someone would be coming to save them. It’s just a matter of time.
Balloon by Pensitivity
‘It has to be blue Nanny,’ she said. ‘Grampy likes blue, and I promised.’
‘OK love, blue it is.’
‘And it has to be a shiny one, with a long ribbon so that he can see it.’
‘Of course. Do you want anything on it?’
‘Hearts and kisses.’
‘Would you like a heart-shaped one then?’
‘No thank you. Just a big shiny ba-loo bal-loon.’
Just how he always said.
On the day of the funeral, Penny held her balloon tight throughout the service, then afterwards let it drift skyward with its hearts and kisses to her Grampy in Heaven.
Escape by Chelsea Owens
If I had a hundred mathematically-large-enough
I’d cram the strings together
in a woven vest and rise higher
through rain-gilded cloudscape.
I’d subsist on vapors, or maybe on sunrise ambrosia –
till atmospheric pressure (or somesuch scientific phenomenon)
popped just one
Then I’d drop more rapidly than I rose:
the most obsequious, impotent adherent to Gravity and his unalterable law.
But really, I have to admit
-as I revisit clouds and ambrosia rays and treetops drawing nearer-
I was never free
I am right back where I started,
amidst 99 deflated spheres of red.
Boon! by Michael Fishman
Head thrown back, arms raised to the ceiling, fingers extended and wiggling like worms on the hook, Jess reached for the orange balloon bouncing across the dining room ceiling.
I’m not sure how memories are categorized; how they’re filed away in the brain or what hand determines which memories stay and which ones fade, but sitting here now, as old as I am, I still remember Jess’ face on that birthday morning and those eyes, big as the chocolate chip pancakes she just finished eating when I pulled the balloon down and held it out to her.
Uplifted by Lisa Listwa
Winter came again last night.
The wind takes icy bites of my neck. I turn my collar against the chill, seeking help from glittering sunshine that offers no warmth.
The landscape has dressed in delicate white furs for the occasion of what is – hopefully – winter’s final farewell.
Across the snow-laced field sits a generous puddle, used by geese to swim on warmer days. Empty now, ripples of sunlight dance across its surface, reminiscent of morning light skimming across gentle waves by the seashore.
Two robins rise, defiant red balloons above the snowy fields.
I watch. My lightened spirit soars.
Girl in Yellow by Lady Lee Manilla
party was fun, full of tricks
lots of balloons and good news
they were going to increase their wages
thanked them for all their support
hurray, shouted everyone
they threw the balloons down
to the court yard where children are waiting
I saw your face among the crowd
such a small frame but looks brave
you wanted that balloon but can’t join in
other children are having such fun
but you still have to sell the wares
in your mind it’s better to be safe
just watch them than fail to sell
siblings are hungry so better get going
Flash Fiction by Anita Dawes
I am your ghost, your past. I walk before you on thorny pathways so you shall not walk the path of sorrow. You shall not see the things I have.
You are ten years old now, so blow out your candles and let loose those balloons with all their wishes attached.
I have received them now; your wishes made from your past come true, they have come to pass. Soon I shall re-join you when adult paths you reach, until then, I collect every balloon and every wish you make.
I wait in shadows until we are one again …
Balloon by Kim Blades
Judy didn’t believe the moon was made of cheese like nursery rhymes described. She was sure it was a balloon.
Judy liked balloons, especially white ones.
Their movement through the air seemed effortless. She knew this was because they weighed nothing.
She so envied balloons. They were light and agile.
Every Friday night she sat outside in the tiny garden in front of her house and released a round, white balloon.
Watching as it danced skywards, Judy wished that one day she would be able to get up from her wheelchair and walk as effortlessly as the balloon floated.
Project Mogul by Irene Waters
Vernon poked at the colourful wreckage that covered a large area of their paddock in New Mexico. “Dad, whadya reckon this is?”
“Dunno. Gather it up. We’ll take it to the Sheriff.” They bundled the bright rubber strips, tinfoil, sticks and paper and drove them to Roswell.
Sherriff Wilcox scratched his head before passing it to Colonel Blanchard who passed it on to his superior in Texas. Marcel, sent to examine the paddock knew it was their high altitude spy balloon that would warn of Russian nuclear testing.
1947 – a time of paranoia – he said “We have found a UFO.”
A Blot on the Landscape? by Anne Goodwin
My fingers fumble to extricate plastic from heather. Litter louts! I came to walk the moors, not to pick up other people’s mess.
In swoops my long-dead ex-headmistress, academic gown flapping like a raven’s wings. “I’m sending you back in time. We can nip this problem in the bud.”
On Tillotson’s production line, I meet staff grateful for work in lean times. Happy faces at children’s party ensure the failure of my mission. Unless I travel back another century to Faraday. “I know you didn’t mean to, Michael, but you started this. Can’t you invent a fully biodegradable balloon?”
When the Party’s Over by D. Avery
“Hmmph. Shorty an’ her dang celebratin’. With balloons? Ain’t seen this much latex since-
“Come on, Pal. It was a party.”
“Sure, an’ look who’s aroun’ ta clean up. You an’ me Kid, that’s who. Latex skeeves me out. An’ it’s litter, bad fer the critters.”
“Pal, yer fergittin’ we’re fictional. Wanna happy ending? Ok, these balloons are made from corn. They’ll bio degrade, feed the soil.”
“Could be a problem.”
“Jeez, Pal. How now?”
“Remember Ernie? At Wanda’s still?”
“Oh. Well, reuse, recycle, repurpose. Distill ends well.”
“It’s kinda corny, but I’ll drink to it.”
A Trojan Effort by Bill Engleson
The search party had been looking for hours.
Lost in the bush.
We’d found their beater.
Two flat tires.
Young love should be luckier. And smarter.
But they hadn’t been.
They didn’t stay on the old logging road like you’d expect. Course, we saw the tracks, knew why they ‘d made a beeline into the woods.
“Big cat,” Harley said.
“Maybe the copter will spot ‘em?”
“Dense in there.”
Then we heard good news from above.
“Is that a balloon?” And then, “There they are.”
Turns out, safe sex can be a lifesaver.
End of the Honeymoon by Anne Goodwin
When I found the texts on Brian’s phone I assumed our marriage over. Yet, following the tears, slings and arrows, we booked the second honeymoon we couldn’t afford first time. Confirming our vows in a hot-air balloon above the rift valley, a champagne breakfast laid out for us below. Our Massai guide was somewhat clumsy with the camera, but we raised our glasses and beamed.
Brian had been dead a year before I could face the photos. Our joyful innocence made me weep. Distant, but crystal clear, our marriage end was looming: it was breakfast time for lions too.
Ringside by D. Avery
All eyes were on that ring. There was always something, the wrestlers always putting on a show, even whalloping the announcer and referee. But I happened to look just when a wrestler crossed the forgotten dim past the ring, making his way to the locker room; there was just enough light to see that his tights were shabby and dirty, that he was tired, even sad maybe. Seeing that wrestler leaving the lit up ring was like seeing forgotten balloons days after the party, faded and losing air.
Now I knew. Wrestling was fake, but the wrestlers were real.
Surprises for Marnie by Norah Colvin
Brucie loved surprising Marnie on her way to school each day.
Marnie expected that Brucie would meet her, but she never knew where.
On Monday, he jumped from behind a bush screaming at her.
On Tuesday, he stuck out his foot and tripped her.
On Wednesday, he snuck up behind and pulled her hair.
On Thursday, he popped a balloon in her ear.
On Friday, he surprised Marnie by not surprising her at all.
But, after she’d put her bag away, he pulled it out and emptied its contents on the floor.
“Whose mess is this?” demanded Mrs Brown.
The Moon’s a Balloon by Anurag Bakhshi
“My Momma says that the moon’s a balloon.”
“Your Momma is a balloon, full of gas.”
“You take it back right now, or else…”
“Or else what? You will hit us with these tiny hands?”
That night, when a whimpering Timmy narrated the entire incident to his Momma, she calmly gave him a glass of warm milk and said, “Remember, it’s your 3rd birthday tomorrow.”
Timmy’s face lit up and he shouted, “Yes, God will fill the balloon to the full tomorrow, and then…I too will get claws and fangs like you Momma. Then I’ll show those bullies…”
Balloons and Bubbles by calmkate
Billie was a favoured kid who had a plethora of toys, anything money could buy. But his favourite play things were bubbles and balloons … easy cheap and fun. Bubbles he would chase and burst or catch them tenderly on a wand. Balloons he’d blow and let them fart all over the room. Or blow a bunch and pretend they were cars to race about the room or a horse to ride and buck until he collapsed with laughter. Then he liked to burst them all close to his friends’ ear, with the loud bang she would jump [grin]
No Recess for Robby by Roger Shipp
“… and one more word, No Recess. Am I understood?”
That was Ms. Fletcher. “Am I understood? this and Am I understood? that.”
Robby had learned quickly learned the proper answer that followed… “Yes, ma’am.”
Third grade was the worst.
Now there was homework. Snack time was for babies. Recess was earned. (In our class’s case, NEVER EARNED.)
Robby’s mother was sympathetic. “Hang in there. It’ll get better.”
Robby’s brother was the problem-solver. “You’ll never win them all, Robby. But winning one can be worth it”.
Robby walked to school today ‘A Winner’.
Inside his backpack… a whoopee cushion.
Message in Mylar by Kerry E.B. Black
A gold mylar balloon’s string knotted around branch high in a beech tree, secured by a Cub Scout named Stan. It bobbed, a cheerful beacon, a coded message. “Be well,” it said. “You’re not forgotten.”
His pack-mate friend, Bob, got into huge trouble which resulted in suspension from school and a marathon grounding. Nobody under the age of ten had seen Bob since the prank which flooded the the school, and Stan worried about his mischievous friend.
Since he couldn’t visit or phone, Stan sent a message as only he could, a cheerful balloon floating outside his bedroom window.
Flash Fiction by Robbie Cheadle
She had a lovely wide smile and brown eyes that lit up as if fed by a bubbling spring of happiness within her. Her curly brown hair was tied in two bunches on the side of her head with bright yellow ribbons that matched her yellow and white checked dress. Shiny black shoes and delicate white stockings completed her outfit. The most noticeable thing about her though, was the bunch of brightly coloured balloons she held in her left hand. Everything about her was a reminder of parties and good times. She was the prettiest doll in the nursery.
Deflated by tintins
“Muuuuuuum! That’s it! My party is ruined!”
“Sweetie don’t be silly.”
“Ruined I tell you! Ruined!” Patricia yelled stomping upstairs.
Rolling her eyes, Vivian sighed; another temper tantrum. Patricia had always been such a sweet child. Who knew adulthood would be so challenging. She’d hoped this birthday would pass without incident. She blamed her husband; always giving in to their daughter’s every whim. Twenty-five years her daughter had been pulling this stunt.
“Patricia? Come here.”
“Calm down sweetie. We’ll send out Manuel!”
Balloon by Ritu Bhathal
Jenny tied the last of the balloons up. There. The room looked amazing.
Decorations adorned the walls and banners saying Happy 16th Birthday were hung up around the room.
“There you are, Amelia. A party you’d have been proud to host.”
A lone balloon burst.
And with that, Jenny burst into tears.
Was that another sign? That she wasn’t coming back?
It had been 9 years since Amelia went missing, disappeared from the local park whilst playing with her friends.
Yet Jenny had never been able to accept she wasn’t coming back.
Was it time to accept reality?
Balloons by Luccia Gray
We love you.
We miss you.
At sunrise, all the children gathered in the playground to release their helium-filled balloons. Each carried a personalized message begging their classmate to come home.
‘How long will it take for Silvia to get the messages?’ Her best friend asked the teacher.
‘That’s hard to say,’ she replied, ‘but I’m sure she will receive them.’
‘When will she come back?’ Asked another worried child.
‘She may not come back, but she’ll know how much we all love and miss her,’ said the teacher, hoping one of the balloons would soften the kidnapper’s heart.
Mylar by Allison Maruska
Panting, I finally reach the cliffs my brother loved. A cold drizzle pelts my face. Wasn’t the coast supposed to be warm?
I step to the edge overlooking the Pacific. My brain can’t comprehend its enormity. No wonder Andrew wanted to live here.
Gently, I pull the bottle from my coat pocket. As I prepare to scatter Andrew’s ashes, something shiny catches my eye – a deflated Mylar balloon, tangled in a shrub on the side of the cliff. I can see only one word: Grandma.
Someone, somewhere, likely released that in her memory.
At least Andrew won’t be alone.
Wishes by Sue Vincent
The red balloon danced in the apple tree, caught by a ribbon that fluttered in the breeze. She had loved balloons, when she and the world had been much younger. Every balloon had carried a wish… a wish of the heart sent soaring into the sky on bright wings.
She wondered about the child who had released this one. Had they let go by accident, or did this one too carry a wish?
Her old bones protested as she climbed the ladder, carefully untangling the ribbon, setting it free to fly. She was still smiling when they found her.
Lightening the Load by Molly Stevens
“I brought you a balloon. Grandma loved balloons!”
He went through the motions, batting it back and forth with his granddaughter. Then he kissed her giggles goodbye.
Against his will, he played hide and seek with the single balloon. One morning it blocked the dishwasher door, the next day it was under the table. When he found it perched in his wife’s chair, he said, “No one sits in that chair.”
He slapped it up and away. Then he tapped it to keep it afloat. Again and again. Feeling lighter, he abandoned his grief for a moment and laughed.
Deflated by Anna Eplin
A deflated balloon from her twin daughters’ first birthday party languishes on the floor amid the mess of toys she was too tired to pick up last night. Her gaze drifts to the window and the grayness outside. The sky’s been gray for a month.
She must get up and shower before the babies wake up, but her will feels like that deflated balloon.
A groan gathers somewhere deep inside her. She needs a reason to keep going.
She closes her eyes, and a word whispers through her mind. Depression.
But with it comes fresh purpose: to get help.
Moonlit Balloons by Liz Husebye Hartmann
High on the hill, strands of moon drift, catching on the branch-ends of the Prairie Honey Tree. Barren of leaves, she bows under the fullness of her particular progeny, tight dark nuggets slowly rotating, gathering moonlight.
After a brutal summer endured and a lean winter to come, we are mindful of abundance promised, Nature’s sacred bond. What effort remains must come from us; She suffers, as well.
Together we offer a song in the old language, stored in our hearts and beyond our consciousness.
Moonlit silver nuggets bell, balloon, break free and float. Joyful first frost swirls them away.
My Last Memory of Her by Heather Gonzalez
I remember that day clearly, although I wasn’t old enough to know what was really happening. We went for a walk in the park with dad pushing mom in the wheelchair. Passing a tourist stand, mom bought me a balloon in the shape of a heart. I climbed into her lap, holding tight to my new prized possession, but it slipped through my fingers.
As I began to cry, she whispered, “Just because you can’t see it anymore, doesn’t mean that it isn’t there.”
I didn’t know it, but she was trying to prepare me for her own departure.
Amethyst by Jan Malique
He looked at the stone of higher wisdom and wondered at its marvel.
It was veiled in purple hued eloquence and imbued with knowledge impenetrable.
Beloved Amethyst, resplendent in beauty and power.
How your sonorous heartbeat flows outwards into infinity, transforming all held in abeyance, waiting release from shadows of ignorance.
How could its marvels be gifted upon a world starving for self-insight, thirsting for the waters of life?
Joy. Let it ring out in laughter, sheer wonder, let it pour healing balm upon soul and purpose.
Let it reflect a child’s curiosity. Let it fly like a balloon.
Balloon Children by Shari Marshall
We didn’t object to being sent to her house.
Her front door had a silhouette of a woman holding balloon strings and floating. Her house was pristine, not a child’s environment. She ushered us toward a door that had a silhouette of children holding balloons and floating.
“Off we go,” she said as she opened the door to reveal a hallway with no floor and a ceiling layered with balloons! Beyond the hallway was blue sky and wispy clouds. Startled, we watched her step into the air holding the balloon string. She was floating out to the open sky.
The Silent Bomb by Rowena Newton
It was Henry’s tenth birthday and strangely his big sister, Kate, was only too happy to bake his cake. Indeed, she even suggested Mum took Henry out for a special, birthday milkshake.
Mum was so proud of her thoughtful daughter, that she jumped onto Facebook: “Proudest Mum moment. World’s Best Daughter! Milkshakes with Henry, while Kate’s baking Henry’s Birthday Cake.”
Meanwhile, Kate carefully cut out the middle of the cake. Blew up the balloon, stuck it inside and smothered the lot in chocolate icing. The bulging cake might have looked nine months pregnant, but at least it didn’t tick.
Balloon by Rebecca Glaessner
“Parcels, games, entertainment. Done. Got the coding for decorations? I still couldn’t find it in the system.”
“Found something better. But I’ll need help.”
We finished everything just as guests arrived, entry pad scanning in each individual.
The VIP was en-route, guided by my partner.
We all hid.
When they arrived, the room scanned my partner in first.
VIP in second, “why is it night-time?”
“Surprise!” we said, jumping out.
Atmospheric party lighting activated as our VIP squealed in excitement.
“I’m three now?” our VIP stared, stunned, “are they real balloons?”
“Sure are!” I said.
Prom by Balloon by Joe Owens
Marcus noisily drummed his fingers while waiting. Theo was thorough, so thorough. But trying to get a helium balloon to drop a prom invite at a precise time and location was quite an engineering feat.
Finally, Theo’s scowl eased into a confident grin.
“You have it?” Marcus asked hopefully.
“Well, as close as can be with all we know. You sure she is there?”
“I incorporated her mom, to make sure she had to watch the triplets.”
“Oh yeah, she’s there,” Theo nodded.
Marcus fixed his eyes on his cell phone as he watched the balloon slowly lift away.
99 Wort Ballons by D. Avery
“Pal, we oughtta have speech balloons.”
“Yer jist sayin’ that ‘cause you an’ you know who are so het up about quotation marks.”
“Says you. Jist sayin’ speech balloons’d be pretty cool.”
“That could lead ta thought balloons. Ya want people readin’ yer thoughts?”
“Wouldn’t be too much of an imposition.”
“Kid, if we spoke an’ thought with those devices, well, we’d be cartoons!”
“What are we now?”
“Well, mebbe… but that’s where I draw the line!”
“Keep drawin’, Pal, mebbe ya can make a cartoon.”
“Druther speak a thousand words.”
“99 at a time Pal.”
Balloons by Robert Kirkendall
Timmy brought the balloon animal to his family. “Look at what I got.”
“Why look at that balloon dog!” his mother said. “How cute!”
“No,” father disagreed, “it’s a horse.”
“You’re both wrong,” grandma interrupted. “It’s a obviously a rhinoceros.”
“Let me look at that,” Uncle Wally requested as he took the balloon animal and inspected it. “Just as I thought, a pelican.”
Aunt Sue grabbed the balloon animal and looked it over. “It’s a lobster.”
“You’re all wrong,” Timmy said as he took it back. “It’s just a bunch of balloons randomly tied together. You people are weird.”
When the Balloon Goes Up by Geof Le Pard
‘You know, Logan, I used to hate balloons.’
‘Tacky to the touch, horrible bang if they popped…’
‘Nervy child were you?’
‘I had one once. Floated.’
‘I was entranced. My dad sucked in the gas and his voice went squeaky. Loved my dad for that.’
‘You know, Logan, that perfectly describes the difference between us. I had flaccid exploding latex and you an other-worldly wonder. It’s a miracle we have anything in common, don’t you think?’
‘We’d be the same today, if we had a balloon.’
‘Both would be full of hot air.’
Balloonatix by Stephen Lodge
“What you doing, Uncle Slim?” I asked as I crossed the backyard.
“Hiding from nephews what ask dumb questions,” was his first reply. “What does it look like I’m doing, you buffoon? I’m blowing up this here balloon. I’m intending to head off in it across vast, undiscovered plains to destinations never before heard of.” With that he coughed.
I guess he didn’t want any company, but I did just say to him as I walked off, “I’m sure they got a machine to blow up those balloons, Uncle Slim. Why, you’ll be there forever just using your mouth.”
Car-Tunes by D. Avery
“She’s got nuthin’, ya know that right? That’s the only reason we’re out an’ about. She has no idea how ta respond ta balloons.”
“Mebbe if you’d shut yer pie-hole…”
“Dang it Kid, what?”
“Know what ya call it when yer driving’ an’ listenin’ ta music? Car-tunes.”
“Know what I’m thinking’, Kid?”
“Yep, yer bubblin’ over. G’night Pal.”
A Balloon Tragedy – The First Air Accident by Gordon Le Pard
“I’m frightened.” She looked up at the strange shaped balloon, rising over Calais.
“Don’t worry, he is the most experienced balloonist in the world.”
“But to risk everything, especially now.” Her hands moved automatically to her swelling belly.
Then above, in terrible silence, the balloon seemed to break apart.
She cried out and collapsed, by the time they found his body she, and her unborn child, had died.
The death of the first man to fly, in the first fatal air accident, had destroyed his entire family.
From now on the pioneers could not dismiss the dangers they faced.
Balloon by NeelAnil Panicker
“You don’t look like you could cook.”
This was their second date and Raj had invited Anjali to his pad.
He smiled at her from across the kitchen table, the same impish curve she had noticed the first time they had ‘bumped’ at the coffee shop.
She noticed it — first, the hands, the hands, the way it disappeared under the drawer and it’s reappearance, in a jiffy. It was then that she saw it — the compact cake — a heart shaped balloon and inscribed on it, in red, “Happy Birthday, Esther.’
How could he…her mouth formed but no sound came forth. She was speechless!
Love Is In The Air by Juliet Nubel
The postcard arrived six weeks later.
Your balloon came to rest at the top of my apple tree. I needed a ladder to take it down and find out who had sent it soaring into the sky, covering many miles before reaching my little village. What a lovely surprise. Please write back.”
Fifty letters later, the Apple Tree Man rang at their doorbell. Lucy ran to answer, her mother hurrying behind her, as excited as a child too.
They now knew love could appear in many different ways. Even on the string of a flying helium balloon.
Hot Air Balloon Ride by Susan Sleggs
My boyfriend glumly watched it storm. Why was he so upset we had to reschedule our hot air balloon ride over Letchworth. We had the whole summer. Even our parents called to commiserate.
Finally, two months later the brilliant sun made spray from the water falls sparkle and bend with rainbow colors visible. The reflection from the gorge rocks glinted so bright we had to shade our eyes. Suddenly others in the basket turned their backs. My boyfriend presented a dazzling diamond ring brighter than the sunshine. Oh my. Yes!
Our parents treated us to dinner after we landed.
Author’s Note: Letchworth State Park in western New York state is known as the Grand Canyon of the east.
Charmed by Jimmy Webb by Paula Moyer
“Would you like to ride in my beautiful balloon …” Jean learned the alto part of “Up, Up, and Away,” dutifully in chorus, but with a different edge. The composer, Jimmy Webb, was from Oklahoma.
“He’s one of us,” the girls whispered in awe. Other hits came later. He seemed golden.
But “Up, Up, and Away” went into Jean’s soul. The idea of a guy offering her not just a ride in a car, even a nice one. But … in a balloon?
“Suspended under a twilight canopy…”
Jean hummed alto as if she could will him into life.
Spring & Everything by D. Avery
“Why were you at the department store, anyway?”
Earnest handed Marge a large box.
“It’s so light.”
Marge lifted the lid off the box. Three red balloons floated out.
“Three months together, a whole season. Winter to spring.”
“Honestly, Earnest, how sweet.”
“Box ain’t empty yet, Marge.”
“Well! This ain’t yer mother’s overalls!”
Turning as red as the tethered helium balloons that squeaked against each other on the ceiling, Earnest explained that the large slinky garment was called a teddy.
Earnest bumped after Marge, balloons bumping behind him, and yes, he had some other latex. He’d thought of everything.
Invisible Balloons by Hugh Roberts
You can’t see me, but I’m watching you. You people interest me. Why are some of you unfaithful to the ones you say you love? Why do some of you murder those of the same kind? Why do some of you allow ‘hate’ to rule your minds?
You don’t know it, but each of you has a balloon. Like me, they are invisible to you but surround each of you. When your balloon bursts, you die.
It won’t be long, now, before my balloon bursts and you will all die. This planet, you all so un-love, will be mine.
Balloon by Frank Hubeny
He held his breath. What he thought would happen did not. The enemy came instead from the rear.
If he were alone he wouldn’t mind so much, but he mispositioned the others.
Were they the good guys he wouldn’t mind so much either, but he doubted if there were any good guys in this battle. This was alien home territory. They weren’t supposed to be there.
The others understood all this, too, as the fighting started.
His world was like a balloon. He wished it were yellow or blue. He wished he had steered it better.
Then it popped.
99 Red Balloons by Sherri Matthews
Jim screeched his truck out of the driveway, sending his trash cans flying.
Mandy winced but said nothing. All she could think about was the red cloud heading their way that news reports said was harmless. But Jim didn’t believe it. ‘Pack up, we’re leaving,’ he said as she begged him not to.
‘But honey, surely the government would know…?’ she had reasoned.
‘Fuck the government, you know we can’t trust a damn thing they say!’
Deserted neighbourhoods zoomed by as they hit the open road. ’99 Red Balloons’ came on the radio, but Mandy didn’t dare sing along.
Hidden Memory by Patrick M. O’Connor
It’s been 74 years since that fateful day.
The day my ship I was on was shot out from under me.
So much death.
Most of my friends disappeared when that beauty of a ship fell beneath the waves. It’s hard being the last survivor.
Today, I saw on the news, some guy found the ship and wants to bring it back to the surface. “It’s a 9200-ton ship!” I thought. It’s been underwater so long it would probably rip apart if they tried to lift it.
Then they said how they were going to bring it up.
The Reiki Session by Deborah A. Bowman
“Hi, Liz, how are you?” I asked.
“Good, Deborah. So happy to do an online session.”
“Thanks, it’s been a tough winter.”
“Okay,” the microphoned voice replied. “Let’s get you feeling better.”
She etched the sacred symbols in the air. We both closed our eyes.
I was floating, flying, with pink globes all around us. For thirty minutes, my pain went away.
When we ended, I said, “I was flying! Liz, you were with me!”
“Yes, I know,” she replied. “Did you see the rainbows?”
“I did, but the globes?”
“Deborah,” she laughed. “Those were balloons keeping us afloat!”
Balloon by Hayley R. Hardman
I walked out to the abandoned train track and blew up the party balloons one by one. I tried string to them when I was done and found a rock to hold them down with. Then as my therapist had suggested; I choice a blue balloon, said one of my worries aloud and let it go. I watched the balloon floating away, my worry with it. Then I selected another one, yellow this time, I said my worry and let the balloon go. I carried on until all the balloons and my worries had gone.
At the Edge of a Long Winter by Charli Mills
Searching the newspaper before I fire up the woodstove, a classified diverts my attention. For Sale: Party Balloon, Never Celebrated. There’s a number, and I recognize the area code for Montana. I’m across the border in North Dakota, trying to keep warm with seven other oil rig guys in a tin-roof modular on some farmer’s north forty. After my housemates rise to the heat of corncobs and newspaper, I finish my coffee and call.
“Hello?” A woman’s voice.
“Um, yeah, calling about your balloon.”
“Cabin fever. I needed to hear another voice.”
“Oil rigger. I’m lonely, too.”
Launch by Denise Aileen DeVries
As Myra Jean sat proofreading, she suddenly noticed Bert Bascombe eyeing her speculatively. “I wonder,” he mused. “Could you write a monthly book column? …favorites at the lending library?”
“Of course,” she answered. Myra Jean visited Hull Crossing’s library in the Episcopal Church annex once a week, but she didn’t really know any of the volunteers who operated it. “Wouldn’t the librarian want to do that?”
“Walter Cates? He’s busy writing his memoirs. Can I count on you?”
“I could start with children’s classics… the Secret Garden, the Wizard of Oz…”
“Perfect,” said Bert. “Sort of a trial balloon.”
Ballooning Career by FloridaBorne
“I ordered yellow roses and a balloon as exposure treatment for her phobia!” The intern said, hands inside his lab coat.
Frowning, Dr. Ellis replied, “Did you read her chart?”
“No need,” The intern said, looking down at a trembling young woman in a fetal position.
“On the first page it says, in bold letters, never to use exposure therapy. On the second page, it details how her husband gave her the same thing and then attempted to stab her to death. Have you considered a specialty that requires less empathy?”
Grumbling, he replied, “I like proctology better anyway.”
Coulrophobia by odysseyofhappiness
I admired the big red balloon tied to my wrist with a sense of love and wonder, as my father led me by the hand through the magic of the circus. It was beautiful!
We passed through a group of clowns. My eyes, filled with awe, darted from clown to clown.
My attention was grabbed by Him.
The painted smile couldn’t mask what lied beneath.
No one noticed but me.
He walked slowly, never breaking his stare. Not blinking.
He pulled a comically oversized needle from his sleeve, leaned over me, not breaking his fierce gaze.
Social Distance by njoyslife
Ballooning over NOLA: the Mississippi, sprawling mansions, Lake Ponchartrain, parades, street fairs, festive crowds, Superdome, sculptured gardens and grand architecture form the picture from aloft. Sounds of jazz float upward as I sail above. Difficult to see below is who sleeps unconscious on Jackson Square, who lies under frayed blankets on filthy city streets, who begs or threatens for a dollar’s worth of trouble, and whose lost child rocks forward and back on a broken corner with a sign that reads ‘hungry homeless please help’. A flood of social neglect rises and does not recede with this political tide.
Full of Hot Air by Michael
He was so full of hot air he could have easily floated off and never be seen again.
For him, it was all about the gusto of being who he was or who he thought he was.
“BS baffles brains,” he would say, as he’d go into another tale where he humiliated some hapless soul unaware of his egotistical motives.
It came as no surprise to anyone when his balloon did bust. It was spectacular, sudden and left him a shadow of his former self. Exposed and vulnerable, his descent and flatulent self becoming a source of embarrassing ridicule.
The Dragon’s Balloon by Wallie & Friend
“But how can it fly without any wings?”
The young dragon looked up into Dhira’s face. Dhira knew the little dragon would never fly, not with its wings. She had found it in the woods, its weak wings fragile and undersized. Since then the old woman had cared for it.
Dhira held the balloon string between her fingers.
“It flies because of what it has inside,” she said. “Maybe you won’t fly like a balloon, little dragon, but you’ll fly in ways you never thought you could. Because you’ve got something inside you, too. You’ve got heart—and fire.”
Second March On by D. Avery
“Kid, guess what happened on the ranch one year ago today?”
“Ya stepped in somethin’?”
“Nope. D. Avery submitted her first ever flash fiction response.”
“Oh. So she stepped in somethin’.”
“Then we showed up couple months later, right Pal?”
“Actually we were here ahead a her.”
“How kin that be? I mean I git that Shorty, Aussie, Still Waters an’ the rest of ‘em were here, but us?”
“Yep, we were here all along. Jest didn’t know it yet.”
“Huh. Guess I don’t git this writin’ thing.”
“Neither does D. Avery, but she ain’t tucked tail yet.”
“Speakin’ a tales, there’s a bunch a new folks writin’ ‘round the ranch.”
“Yep, reckon they come fer the prompt an’ stay for the chomp.”
“Yep. They read, write, an’ repeat.”
“Kid, yer readin’ off the posters.”
“Folks likely come by fer the same reasons we’re here.”
“Ya mean they don’t wanna real job either?”
“No! They jest wanna exchange stories by the campfire.”
“Hang out by the chuck wagon, eat up Shorty’s vittles.”
“All the raw carrots a buckaroo could want.”
“It’s all good, all right. All we want for is bacon.”
Time to Let Go by Sarah Whiley
“Take this balloon,” Nanna began. “Its life begins much like ours. All shrivelled, until it’s filled with air and starts to grow.”
Bringing it to her lips, it slowly inflated. “Sometimes, we push too far and…”
“BANG!” I interrupted.
“Exactly,” she smiled. “Sometimes, we tie a knot, when there’s still room to grow.”
She made a pinching motion with her fingers. “But sometimes, we can hold it just right. Get a balance between the two.”
“And then what?” I asked.
She laughed, “It’s time to let go!”
Together, we watched the balloon empty and fizzle, before coming to rest.
Author’s note: Written for my beautiful nanna, Edie, who finally let go last night. May you Rest In Peace with Bill.
This Carrot Ranch Collection “Balloons” is dedicated to Sarah Whiley’s Nanna. May her lesson remain in all our hearts.
The Raven came to us through the gripping poetry of Edgar Allen Poe, “Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary…” That raven might have cawed “Nevermore,” but that indeed was not the last word from ravens, or about them.
Writers chased black wings for stories this week. Ravens feature in the tales they inspired.
The following are based on the March 1, 2018, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story that includes a raven.
Everlore by Chelsea Owens
Once within a forest clearing, whilst I sought my heart some cheering,
With num’rous sorts of very unhealthy choc’late treats I most adore –
While I wandered, knapsack-snacking, dropping errant candy-wrapping,
I thought I heard a quiet flapping, flapping from the forest floor.
“‘Tis no predator,” I whispered, “wrapping from the forest floor –
Only garbage; an eyesore.”
Then came hum’rous Fate permitting; sending to me, most unwitting,
The view of who had made the flapping, from the littered forest floor:
Eager girl scout sitting, beaming, as I jumped up, scared and screaming –
I’m out of words; there is no more.
Raven by Colleen Chesebro
stealer of souls
when seen in groups of three
Goddess Morrigan’s familiar
Augurs interpret messages
by which way the bird flies
The crone found it hard to dispute the wisdom of the Runes. Her predictions usually rang true. If so, the harbinger of death was on his way.
The corvid flew in from the east landing in an oak tree, chanting, “I’m not here to claim your soul, I’m here to set you free.”
The trappings of age fell away. She rose from the Chrysalis shedding her sheltered state. Then, she began to write…
The Beast from the East by Anne Goodwin
Twirling snowflakes clot the air, a ballet best appreciated from behind a double glazed window. Those who can, remain indoors, muting traffic to a whisper, but some must brave the blizzard. “It’s suicidal,” I said. “I’ve no choice,” he countered.
A raven perches on a bare branch, harbinger of doom. He was due back hours ago. His phone goes to voicemail. No juice, no signal or worse?
Tyres crunch on frozen snow. Did I see a raven, or a smaller cousin? He’s home. He knows: a raven here’s as improbable as this Siberian weather.
Raven by Robbie Cheadle
The raven visited her in a dream again last night. She felt sure it was some sort of prophecy. First came the raven, silently slipping into her mind. Then she found herself in the water maze. She was in a flat bottomed boat, rowing frantically through the dark water. The overgrown foliage was so dense it completely blocked out the light. She tried to follow the shouts. The shouts were her Father’s. She had to find him quickly, she knew time was short. Every night she searched for him. She could never find her way through the sinister maze.
Mine Eyes by Bill Engleson
From my window, I can see the web of wires, stepping stone rooftops of innumerable lives, a distant mountain, a sky, dancing with darkness.
When I say, ‘my window,’ I mean Room 602 of County General.
I’m here temporarily.
Not by choice.
My eyes, worn, tearless, face the window.
I notice them.
They arrive in twos and threes.
They land deftly on the wires.
They land in rows on the rooftops.
They occupy the darkening sky.
Crows. Ravens. Seagulls. Birds of many feathers.
A collusion of ravenous fowl.
A Hitchcockian horror come full circle.
Raven by Nicole
A shadow crosses the windshield. I look up – a raven looks back over its shoulder. “Follow me” it says. I think I want to go back to my tent, forget the world for a few more days. But something makes me follow the raven.
Out of the dark woods men emerge, blood on their hands. Swastikas on their rifles, a Klu they are not shooting for food.
Down the mountain the raven leads, through New York, Pennsylvania, Delaware, Maryland, around the Beltway. It lands atop a white dome.
Below, the streets are full of righteous children chanting “never more.”
Raven by joem18b
A raven adopted me at my cabin in the north woods. I named him Edgar. We had a casual relationship, based on food and togetherness.
Edgar roamed the woods at will. One day, he brought home a crow, whom I named Allan.
Allan generally gave me a wide berth, unlike Edgar, who would perch on my shoulder. Allan and I competed for Edgar’s affections. I sensed that Allan was gradually winning.
When the two birds built a nest together and Allan laid eggs in it, I changed her name to Ellen.
The hybrid babies took me for their godfather.
Raven the Midwife by Paula Moyer
When Jean was pregnant with Lydia, she binge-read the previous decade’s literature on the childbirth reform pioneers Those women raised their fists for things the things that were standard for the next generation.
Jean loved reading about the rebel midwives, daring to help women have their babies at home. Her favorite was Raven, a lay midwife in California. Her hair was as black as the feathers of her bird namesake. At one chapter’s end, Raven, surrounded by sister-midwives, gave birth to her youngest child.
Jean was planning a hospital birth. But when Lydia came, Jean hoped to channel Raven.
Raven by Pensitivity
The pain was excruciating, and she was alone and afraid.
Breathe. Short pants.
With a final push, she delivered her child into the world.
Spent, she looked into her newborn’s face, then wrapped it to her.
The bird was the last thing she saw.
The poacher believed both to be dead until the babe started to cry.
The girl couldn’t have been more than fifteen. Undernourished, she didn’t stand a chance.
A bird circled overhead, dark against the blue sky.
The child had jet black hair and blue eyes.
‘I’ll call you Raven,’ he whispered and took her home.
A Raven’s View by calmkkate
Got a circuit I do most days
farmhouse near the river
pensioner’s balcony in town
park at lunch time is a sure bet!
Basically I cruise where I can get
the juiciest morsels, easier than
hunting for myself if these daft
humans want to provide but
road kill is still my favourite
fresh eyes you can never regret
they beat the packaged meat
These kind folk who feed me
have no real idea of the tasty
joy a fresh kill provides us
No idea why they need such
big nests and it must be awful
not to fly free!
Seeker by Michael Fishman
The fortune-teller extended a bony hand toward me. Thin translucent fingers pressed against my chest sending a chill into me.
She pulled back and raised her hand and was holding an amorphous black glob in her palm. “This,” she said. “Is what lives inside you.”
“This means you need to clean your spirit; your soul.” She explained. The fortune-teller closed her hand and the bubbling image evaporated.
A thin smile spread across her wizened face. “Find your guide.”
Outside, squinting against the sun, I saw the raven, perched on the light pole, looking down at me.
Bran’s Blessings by Jan Malique
He sits on the branch, looking at me with one eye and then the other, looks between two worlds, that of the living and the dead.
A Messenger with preternatural sight and deep wisdom. What news do you bring from the Otherworld Blessed Raven?
The Cauldron of Rebirth appears, invites exploration. Again I ask, what news do you bring from the Otherworld Blessed Raven?
“Their Rebirth” he mutters.
I look in your eyes and only see the unknown and secrets buried within secrets. You give me sight of things only dreamed of and utter legends half forgotten.
A Raven Speaks by Liz Husebye Hartmann
“What did you see at the North Falls, Silas?” Sylvi looked into his dark eye.
He searched for words. His head teemed with questions and sensations. Few people gave him his due, mistaking him for his smaller-brained, raucous cousins. No mind. He and Sylvi understood each other, having traveled many miles together. He shook his feathery black beard.
“Who kidnapped Maeve?” she stroked a finger down his hooked beak, to calm and center him.
Ruffling his wings, he stretched his neck and croaked, “Wyatt!”
Sylvi straightened, laughing in relief. No harm done, then. Wyatt and Maeve were already betrothed.
Raven by EluminoraCreations
Enveloped in disguise, Nathaniel listened. Though he could transform well for an apprentice his age, he was less skilled at ravenspeak. Besides that, the ravens were talking over each other as usual. He had to concentrate hard in order to understand anything. His heart, deep under a thick layer of black feathers, pounded so hard he feared they would notice. But his master had ordered him to get the facts of their conspiracy and to come back alive.
Assasination. War. Three days. He launched himself into the air. He had heard the words that no one wanted to hear.
All’s Well that Ends Well by Anurag Bakhshi
The raven-haired beauty has stolen my heart
And made a hopeless romantic out of a crusty old fart
Too late have I realized this, I squarely blame my ego
If I had even an iota of sense, I wouldn’t have let her go
She came by last night, and fondly bid me adieu
I poured my heart out to her then, hoping she’d say I Do
But just like the inhabitants of Spanish mountains would find a downpour surprising
I was thunderstruck when I found out that my Eliza was now the Fair Lady of my friend Colonel Pickering
Messanger of Doom by Deborah A. Bowman
Tell Me, What Lies You Bring, Raven?
It wasn’t a dark and stormy night
A golden sun was shining
But the color wasn’t right
Too bright, too orange, too blinding
The coarseness of the beast
Not fit to be a craven fowl
His beak open, demanding a feast
Nothing to quench his howl
Not a bird of prey
A large animal, depraved
He does not fly or soar
His voice, a primal roar
He stalks my garden walk
On torn barren legs
No feathers, just tangled dregs
Like a monstrous wild cat
Screaming too loud!
I fall as my heart shivered
My breath stops … message delivered
The Ravens by Michael Grogan
The Raven family lived two doors up from me. They were an unhappy lot dealing with not only history but mythology as well. Raven’s were a known symbol of bad luck, foretellers of death and had been written about in Shakespeare’s plays in the most disparaging way.
They once took a holiday to the Tower of London where they attempted to release the captive ravens much to the horror of the guards.
Life was a never-ending series of trials for the Ravens, no one liked to rub shoulders with them and you never stood near them at a funeral.
The Raven by Stephen Lodge
We lived in London, close to the Tower. They told us all about it at school. Our parents told us.
If the ravens fly off,
The Tower Of London will crumble and fall,
There will be nothing left,
The Crown Jewels will be gone and all.
We peered over the wall and saw the ravens in the Tower grounds still there. To this day, remain they do, though no carrion keeps them there. Not since the Last Executioner was himself beheaded by Madaxe the Saxon around 1115, although some say it was as late as two in the afternoon.
Raven by Ritu Bhathal
“It is a worry indeed, Your Majesty, yes. We’ve had to sack three of them this year, and getting decent replacements, well that is an increasingly tough task.”
Beefeater Chambers looked out of the window, whilst speaking to the Queen on the Royal telephone.
The requirement was six ravens to be guarding the Tower of London at any one time, or the Tower and Kingdom would fall, and this new generation, well they were useless.
They didn’t have the spunk of their ancestors, calling in sick all the time, too busy posing for the tourists and Instagram selfies.
Giving Him the Bird by Geoff Le Pard
‘Bloody parakeets, Logan. Pushing out our native birds.’
‘They’re pretty, Morgan.’
‘They’re foreign. They’re frightening the sparrows and robins. It ain’t natural.’
‘So what’s the solution?’
‘Stop these foreigners coming in, taking our seeds and nests. Keep the proper British birds. They’ll not fly away once we get rid of the immigrants.’
‘Like the ravens?’
‘The ravens. At the Tower of London. They clip their wings to make sure they stay.’
‘That’s barbaric. Why?’
‘If the ravens leave the Tower, England falls.’
‘Whose idea was that?’
‘The Normans, I think.’
‘Bloody French, coming over here, taking our crown…’
Marry Me, Jane! by Luccia Gray
‘Soon I shall be a bridegroom,’ said Mr. Rochester.
Jane looked down at her plain, governess dress and remembered Blanche Ingram’s extravagant clothes, noble features and glossy, raven hair.
‘I’ll leave at once. Miss Ingram will have plans for Adele.’
Jane refused to witness the man she loved marry a beautiful, yet unworthy gold-digger.
‘You would have me marry that frivolous woman?’ Rochester shook his head. ‘You think so little of me, Jane? I ask you to pass through life at my side as my best earthly companion.’
Rochester kissed her hand. ‘Jane, say Edward I will marry you.’
A Thousand Times…by Anita Dawes & Jay Marie
Blue eyes look back at me from the puddle I drink from, my feathers shimmer as the water moves. I know myself and remember that I have died a thousand times.
If I could speak, I would tell you the tale of my many lives. I come back from the Summerlands, I am the white feather of legend and my coming was foretold. I shall bring back the old magic.
Scavenger they call me. My wings clipped, I guard the Tower lest it should fall.
I am the white RAVEN.
The Dream by Pete Fanning
Dinner was lively with song and laughter. In the spirit, I allowed myself to smile.
“Oney?” Mrs. Wilks’ voice like a lash.
“What has gotten into you?”
I set my eyes down. “A dream, Ma’am.”
Mrs. Wilks’ eyes flared, her mouth tightened. “Of what did you dream, Oney?”
It wasn’t enough for her to own me. She wanted my dreams, too.
I told her I’d dreamed of ravens. Or crows. Anything but the Queen Mother and son—the future ruler of the kingdom.
Mrs. Wilks waved me off, talking birds and primitive culture.
American Royalty by Charli Mills
Cory grabbed bags of Doritos, kissing his wife before she retreated to the mall with their daughter “Drive safe with the princess.”
He grinned, now king of his castle with a tv remote scepter. A few buddies arrived with prerequisite beer to gain entry. Cory illuminated the big-screen. Unfettered cheers rose — no work, no church, no wives. At least for four quarters.
Another shooting. Cory dropped his beer. Obvious as a black raven against white snow, he recognized his wife’s purse and sprawled hair. Pools of ruby and brass surrounded her head like an American crown.
Why? by D. Avery
Cronk! Raven’s call. “Diet is varied and opportunistic”. Cronk!, announcing carrion. Big black bird of varied reputations, mythical, dark. Cronk! Associated with death.
Why? Raven, not hawk nor dove, just a witness, an opportunistic feeder. Raven hears the gunshots, raven flies in, watches, waits.
With each bullet fired
His own soul fading
To himself brings brutal death
Innocence is carrion.
Cronk! Raven calls in her family, teaches them to thrive. They, opportunistic feeders, learn to listen for the gunshots. Carrion eaters do not wonder at the source, do not wonder why there are so many fallen children.
Act of Congress by Molly Stevens
Dorothy abandoned her dishwashing to view the spectacle outside her kitchen window. A bald eagle circled overhead, closing in on a raven’s nest in the crotch of the big pine tree.
There must be babies in that nest.
She shuddered at the vulnerability of the chicks, on the menu for an overwhelming predator. Returning to a stack of pots and pans, she sighed and looked away from the brutal drama.
The clamor of angry birds reclaimed her attention. They waged a riotous protest, and the ravenous eagle retreated.
No mass murder today. Babies saved by an act of congress.
Mr Craven by Juliet Nubel
The whole school knew him as Raven. It was the way his black cloak flew behind him as he stormed along the corridors, screeching as he passed.
“Be quiet!” Don’t run!” Stop laughing!”
Never a smile or a nod. Just those piercing eyes staring down his crooked beak of a nose.
In class he hit us with his ruler, slapping hard on the backs of hands or legs. He brought it down so hard on my head one day that it drew blood. He looked pleased, not ashamed.
His real name was Craven. The extra C stood for Cruel.
Freedom by Kay Kingsley
Paralyzed, I laid in bed, unable to move even to scratch my nose. If I tried hard not to think about it I kept that imminent feeling of insanity at bay. I didn’t look at the calendar to know the date. I didn’t care anymore. Every day was the same. The godawful same. Gazing out the window tugged at my heart. I couldn’t see trees, houses, or even people. Only gray and freedom flying. Black ravens. Carrying the invisible strings to my heart, like dark dreams, my weighted freedom. I was jealous of birds… so I set them free.
Sign From God by Heather Gonzalez
“God, please show me a sign.”
Sam prayed as Katherine attempted to make a fire. They had been lost in the woods for days and hunger was really beginning to set in. Being a former girl scout meant that Katherine felt much more confident of their survival than he did.
“It is summer. Why do we need a fire?” Sam gripped.
Out of nowhere, a raven hit the ground hard in front of Sam. He knew it was a sign from God but was it good or bad? Before we could decide, Katherine picked it up.
“Oh good. Dinner.”
Black-Winged Messenger by Sarah Whiley
“They are the black-winged messengers from beyond,” my friend Bridget decreed, mystically.
I rolled my eyes. “You know they’re a real problem on farms?” I countered.
I remembered my farming mate telling me how the ravens particularly liked his grapes and soft fruits; and even how some of the larger ravens attacked the lambs! I’d seen them frequent Australian roadsides, feasting on the carcasses of the dead. Personally, I thought them altogether, quite opportunistic and horrid.
But I kept my mouth shut, as she continued, “When magic is near, the Raven will appear”.
Each to their own, I thought.
Raven by FloridaBorne
Why had I allowed her behind the wheel of my beloved Isuzu Trooper?
Teeth gritted…I knew it was coming.
“Bird!” My sister yelled out, slamming on the brakes. “Would you look at that raven!”
“Do I have to?” I grumbled.
Driven, she travelled another hundred feet along the lonely dirt road.
While she stared through binoculars at another flock of feathered vermin, I opened the passenger’s door and jumped out.
“As if you didn’t know!” I replied, glaring at her.
“Normal people love birds!”
“I’m tired of flying into the windshield. I’m not a passenger pigeon.”
Feeding the Ravens by Susan Sleggs
When visiting Grandma, I asked, “May I feed your friendly ravens?”
“Boy, you stay away from those evil birds. They’ll peck your eyes out!” my father snapped.
My mother disagreed. “I’ve fed those birds all my life. Only mythology and superstition say they are evil.”
Grandma settled the argument when she handed Dad her I-pad open to a fact page about ravens; they mate for life, use tools, can learn human speech, play in the snow, fly upside down, recognize human faces, voices and kindness.
Dad stomped up the stairs.
Grandma, Mom and I went out the back door.
Quoth the Raven (Jane Doe Flash Fiction) by Deborah Lee
Jane bends to scatter crumbs from her morning muffin. Will Edgar come today?
Ravens. Birds of Apollo and Odin, messengers from these gods of prophecy. Harbingers of death and loss. She can’t lose much more. She’ll feed her raven instead; give him a name.
Flapping heralds Edgar’s arrival. He pecks his breakfast, fixes his unnerving gaze on her. He hops aside and she sees it.
She edges forward but Edgar has already retreated, perching on the fence. She stoops closer, in awe. A ring, gold in color only, plated finish well-scraped.
“Yes, Edgar,” she laughs. “I love you, too.”
Raven Mum by Lisa Rey
The raven knew how she was perceived. As a bird full of venom and darkness, ready to peck your eyes out. She blamed these horror novels that were distributed around. In reality she was just like the other bird Mums out on her travels looking for food for her young: three sons and two daughters. Their father had being a loser but she diplomatically called him a ‘free spirit’. He had left when the babies were young and could literally be anywhere right now. She swooped down in battle with a crow Mum to get the piece of bread.
Winged Memory by PTSD Gal
They sang on the porch, but only for my father. He found them after a summer night’s thunderstorm. One of the few memories I have of him was when he was more of a father to them than me. Or so I thought.
As the Ravens grew stronger they would take their wings out for a test drive. ‘You see my love when they are strong they will leave and not return. It’s easy to let a creature go. You, I truly love and I’m afraid one day your wings will take you away and I can’t let go.’
An Uncommon Raven by JulesPaige
Raven watched her brother sweep the Nintendo villains in the
futuristic shimmering grove. Her father, on the balcony
drinking his Kingfisher beer and kicking off debris with his foot
into the void of the space below, not seeing his wife sighing
into her glass of Burgundy. When had the virtue of her family
turned into a single tonal resonance, lacking real life?
Raven hurried, she’d reach the bridge that spanned the
connection of this bored little town into the city. There the
library awaited. Her sanctuary. There she could read and
perhaps create a plan to save them all.
Naming a Superhero by Joe Owens
The discarded suggestions still hung in the air as the room fell silent. After all, it wasn’t every day you had the opportunity to hang a name on a super hero. This could be the stuff of legends.
“We must dig deeper folks,” Chairman Jim said pounding the table with his fist.
Well, Hawkman is taken!” Louie announced.
“That’s a stupid, bird-brain name anyway,” Linus replied. Linus never needed encouragement to continue, so he laughed as his own joke.
“I know,” Fred began as his face slowly bore a solid grin before he nodded his head in confirmation. “Raven!”
Arrival by John See
We watched from the kitchen window. The creature had wings, arms, and dark, iridescent feathers. Tufts of feathers grew in unlikely places. Ugly and beautiful, awkward and graceful–a misbegotten, overgrown raven.
Standing a few feet from the sycamore tree that dwarfs our backyard, it opened its mouth. Its thunderous caw was so loud it chased sparrows from the sycamore and sent two small boys scurrying away. A shoelace hung from its beak, as though it had just devoured a teenage boy.
All that was when there were just three of us and we still enjoyed each other’s company.
Served by TinTins
Her hair was as opaque as a raven’s jacket. Perched at the bar, her eyes searched, pursuing prey. Her slinky red dress left nothing to the imagination; intentional.
She’d taken payment earlier that morning. Flaxen haired with emerald eyes; not your typical ladies’ man. Still, there was something captivating about him; easy to place.
“What are you drinking?” the smooth operator probed.
“Your wedding band?” she countered.
Bemused, he removed the ring from his finger.
Seemingly satisfied she proffered her cheek and whispered, “I’ve a message for you.”
Intrigued he advanced.
“Your wife will see you in court sir.”
The Conspiracy by Reena Saxena
Her mother believes that ravens bring bad news, and gets rid of them quickly, if they land on the balcony.
Rowena is born with a special ability – to see beyond words. It has been more of a curse than a gift, as she fails to gain acceptance in social and professional circles. Her presence terrifies people, and they find reasons to get rid of her. She may not speak a word, but her overall demeanor gives those scary, all-knowing signals.
The raven has been shot down, and her mother looks relieved. She sees the dark conspiracy finally getting her.
The Grave Watcher by Gloria
Nancy sobbed as her father’s coffin was lowered into the six-foot hole. Her mother wasn’t crying or watching her husband being laid to rest; instead, her eyes were firmly fixed on the raven that perched on a nearby gravestone. Her mother left the cemetery but she never returned home.
Thirty years later, Nancy watched from a distance as a small crowd gathered in the cemetery for the burial of her estranged mother. She didn’t cry, nor did she watch as the coffin was being lowered into the ground. She was distracted by a raven landing on her father’s gravestone.
A Summer Reckoning by JulesPaige
Amber thought the butterfly was born under the sign of Cancer.
Once fairy like, the sun bleached, layogenic colors had turned
into a sideways transparency. Would that be enough to suppress
the hovering raven’s appetite? Warning colors gone.
Amber, while drinking her chamomile tea, watched the insect
rest in the empty granite birdbath. Farfetched to think that by
not filling it, she had given the bug sanctuary. There were no
assurances in regards to her own nature. One moment
gregarious and the next autophobic.
Amber went into the back garden. She’d save the butterfly
from being eaten, at least.
Dear Virginia Clay, by Denise Aileen DeVries
You were hard, unwelcoming,
allowing only the familiar
or the most intrusive to flourish,
then clinging, hanging onto everything.
In the right light, your forest
full of hanging vines, brambles
and poison ivy resembled the banyan
where I played one magical year.
But you were nothing like the rich, red
island soil that nurtured sweet fruit.
And while the sunlit vaults of your pines
recalled my fine old Colorado school,
benevolent ravens roosting above,
attic trusses serving as branches,
your woods offered no haven,
tripping me, ripping flesh at every turn.
Now, Virginia Clay, in a new landscape,
I remember you as a Lothario, full
of broken promises, my inability to mold
or conform to you shaping who I am today.
Mrs. Bird’s Children by JulesPaige
Brân was one of those boys at birth that you wonder how they
fit within the confines of their mother… He was born with a
full head of black hair. Like his father, yet he grew to be a
gentle giant. Very much unlike his father. Who once the lad
grew tall enough to keep the husband from dissing his wife –
Mother and son, lived well enough without him. And grew
their family by a foundling on their doorstep. A girl with
raven hair, loving them both without ever questioning her
origins. No need for any DNA testing.
Ravenous by Kalpana Solsi
It slithered around the rough bark climbing up. Twenty pair of black claws impeded its
progress. However, the scaly creature defied the cacophony of cawing and clawing to
reach the eggs cocooned in the nest on the highest branch. It was a war, a war of one
species versus the other. Nikhil held the pink slip between his fingers and un-spooled in
his mind, the war fought in the boardroom with his own species. The Law of the Jungle
was very much evident in the urban concrete. He had to fight his own battles. The ravens
were still cawing.
Ravens in Reflection by Wallie & Friend
“But it’s just a bird!”
The man shook his finger at the children around him. “You’ll hurt her feelings if you talk like that. Ravens are the soul of wisdom. They are harbingers.”
The girl who had spoken wrinkled her nose and folded her arms. “Don’t look wise to me!”
“And that tells you how useful looks are.” The man took the raven on his wrist. “This bird is very wise. A century or so in Heaven, and this is what we say to critics. When do we let them trouble us, friend?”
The raven stretched her wings. “Nevermore!”
The Raven by Rugby843
I see you there, eyeing me, wondering how long it would take to raise your bow and pierce me with that arrow. I see you, contemplating, but think of this: For my species, I have an unusual memory and you will rue this day for eternity.
My eyes are keen, my feathers swift, and a twitch of your finger and I’ll be off, out of sight.
Then in the night when you think you are safe in your bed, I’ll come calling. Keep your windows locked, for I am a very strong and clever bird. This my final warning.
Raven by Kim Blades
Mark’s gnarled hands tried desperately to dig deeper. But as fast as his crooked fingers dragged the dry grains up and over the rim, so the sides collapsed and the sand slid back downwards.
He stopped digging for water and sat back, exhausted.
The sun was too close in these lonely desert lands
Lands that shimmered like an endless sea in the heat haze.
He knew he was not alone.
It watched him from the sandstone cliffs.
Watched and waited.
It would not be long now.
Mark knew that soon his open, staring eyes would be the raven’s prize.
Raven’s Eyes by Miriam Hurdle
“Do you have any water left, Dave?”
“I still have some. Take a sip. Your lips are badly chapped, Ben.”
“We have been lost in unpaved hiking trail for five days.”
“We only have water enough for two more days! I hope we could locate water soon!”
“Look, Dave! A raven is circling in the air and ready to dive down.”
“It spotted a dead deer and wanted its share. I think.”
“And the deer was drinking water!?”
“That may be our hope for water, Ben.”
“We could reach down by nightfall.”
“I hope this raven saves our lives.”
Raven Haired Women by Eric Pone
Maryann’s raven sat on her windowsill cawing happily. Maryann was so excited as it was the first time in weeks that the girls were going out. The chirp of her phone stopped that excitement. “Go for Maryann.” Ducky cheerfully answered back. “Hey, girl Ginger around?” Maryann nudged Ginger awake. “What Duck?” Ducky sent them the pics of the kings’ mother and his former girlfriend. “Holy shit.” Ginger breathed. “Your guess was right. Eowyn is redirecting the operation you two are to meet me in Lagos.” Maryann and Ginger looked at each other. “Ono?” Ducky replied with a laugh. “Busy.”
Raven Down by Frank Hubeny
There are plenty of explanations for the same data but what Randy wanted was to understand it at all.
He watched a bunch of crows tussling in the air and got out his phone. When he realized that one of the crows was being picked on lethally he switched the app to record video.
Aren’t birds supposed to be peaceful at least toward members of their own kind?
A select handful pecked the target repeatedly making sure its body could no longer move. Others flew about apparently guarding and watching.
Then it was over. Those who remained living departed.
Nothing to Crow About by Norah Colvin
Brucie had to get there first to stake his place at the very top. He didn’t slow on the still-wet grass, and only momentarily to laugh at Jasmine who slipped as he brushed past. From his perch, he smirked at the disappointed faces below.
“Caw!” said a crow, alighting alongside.
It didn’t shoo–more came.
Brucie shouted, waving his arms.
The crows shuffled closer.
Brucie thrashed wildly.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Jasmine banged a cricket bat against the frame.
The crows flew away.
“Are you okay?” asked Jasmine.
Brucie nodded, then let the others play.
The crows never returned.
Wearing by D. Avery
Sighing, Miranda looked through her closet, as if something new might have appeared. She finally took down the tired slacks, blouse and sweater that she usually wore on Wednesday. It would serve, though it’d serve better if she hadn’t packed so many pounds around her middle.
So much besides her weight had changed since she began teaching; changes that were demoralizing and depressing.
Sighing again she adjusted the accessory that now completed her outfit. Her Raven brand concealment holster used to tuck more easily into her waistband. Now the gun she carried, like her dispiritedness, was harder to conceal.
Never So Simple by Roger Shipp
“Mamma… Mamma… The raven is back!” Mika ran breathlessly onto the back porch of the small trailer where her mother was removing the last fleshy remnants from the hides hanging from the rafters.
“Don’t worry child. It’s grown hungry and is raiding the fields just like the other birds.”
“But Grandmamma said…”
“I know what she said.” Mama clutched me close to her bosom. “Unci believes in great meanings from all the forest animals.”
“Does that mean it’s not true?”
“Grandmamma would never lie to you, Mika.”
“So, it is true.”
“The truth is never so simple, my child.”
Dumpster Duck! by odysseyofhappiness
They flew cawing, laughing.
He followed, behind, avoiding attention.
Move dumpster duck!
Bodies slammed him
He struggled to remain in flight, wings trembling with sadness.
The cloud of feathers moved onward through the azure expanse.
He looked downward at the land of the legged, and flew as a falcon.
The boy jumped in his seat by the window.
“Haha what a pussy!” Another boy jeered
“Scared of a birdie, FAGGOT!?” Yelled another, throwing an eraser, hitting the boy.
He turned, tears in his eyes, and looked down upon the lifeless bird.
The Craven Raven by Graeme Sandford
That’s what they called him.
It wasn’t his fault, he’d been frightened by a loud bang and a scary scarecrow when just a fledgling. Since then he’d been a nervous type.
But, it was an unkindness that the other ravens kept on about it; and it didn’t help his confidence that there was a constant conspiracy to keep him from leading a normal raven’s life.
The other ravens mimicked ‘bangs’ and dropped straw on him whilst he slept. He woke to the confusion that his dreams, where he was haunted by marauding scarecrows, had become reality.
Strange Bedfellows by Lisa Listwa
“Everyone thinks you’re ridiculous,” taunted Raven, circling around his companion.
Unicorn drank from the cool, sparkling stream.
“No one laughs about rainbows when I’m around,” Raven prodded.
Silent, Unicorn continued walking along the shore.
“I strike fear in the hearts of men,” he boasted, puffing out his chest feathers.
Finally, Unicorn stopped.
“And what of you?” she asked. “Many believe you bring light and gracious provision, that you usher in transformation. You do not know yourself.”
Uncomfortable, Raven flapped his wings.
“It is you who needs to transform,” he muttered.
Moonlight cast Raven’s shadow over Unicorn’s pure white form.
Raven, Brother Raven…by Raymond Roy
Raven, Brother Raven, Is there a message that you bring? Mysteriously different from other birds, who choose to chirp and sing.
Raven, Brother Raven,
Blue-steeled feathers, ebony-onyx colored eyes,
Curiosity and character,I’m bewildered at your size
Raven, Brother Raven,
Poe did quoeth you “Nevermore”, with his somewhat twisted mind,
Natives legends infer, you created all mankind.
Raven, Brother Raven,
Your caw has my attention, omen of certain revolution, a cleansing kindred spirit,…leading to ascension.
Raven, Brother Raven,
Heed your sacred clan,
Put aside your trickster ways, for the benefit of man.
Raven, Brother Raven…
Raven by Rebecca Glaessner
Departing Earth orbit
Onboard systems reduced
Power rerouted to propulsion system
Destination arrival time: 42,327 Earth years
Asteroid mining drones dispatched
Planetary entry sequence complete
Metamorphosis protocol activated
Generational fleet arrival: 27,424 EY.
Sea levels 62%
Atmospheric composition: 12% oxygen, 81% carbon dioxide
Surface vegetation 77%
Habitation modules 4%
Fleet arrival: 14,679 EY
Habitation modules 100%
Human fleet population 72%
Starship Raven shutdown
“Raven, help, activate.”
Human population 2%
Repair protocols activated
Pal Says by D. Avery
Think his name was Ernie, they called him Ornery. Once had a woman, a whiskey maker. He loves her still. Her name was Wanda and that’s what she did. She wandered away when she found her Will. She and Will got a goat ‘cause she wanted a kid, left ol’ Ornery, but he loves her still.
Wanda and Will, hear they’re livin’ clean. Ol’ Ornery’s up in the hills, livin’ by the rushing still stream. Under the pines he parses corn, he thinks of Wanda, but doesn’t mourn, ‘cause he loves her still. Talks to the ravens, ravin’ drunk.