My Great Grandmother Langdon Lived to Nearly 100 by Kerry E.B. Black

To enter her home was to step into a rose-powdered time when she needed no help. She surveyed her tiny kingdom without sight. To maintain the illusion of independence, everything remained in its place. Nothing moved. That way, she found what she needed from a sharp memory rather than vision.

A whiff of synthetic roses conjures her, the way scent summons even the deepest of buried memories. Like magic ingredients, these paint her portrait. Dusting powder conveyed with a plush, pastel puff. Room spray or eau de toilette. Desiccated bouquets. And the rattle from tins of candied petal pastilles.

🥕🥕🥕

Gossiping by Sue Spitulnik

The lady wearing the fancy hat loves to clean.
Says you can eat off her floors.
Maybe that’s true, but standing next to her
The smell of Lysol and bleach gag me.

And that lady’s coat always has an odor.
It’s not totally unpleasant but made me wonder.
I took her some bread and found
She shares her house with ten cats.

How about the man over there?
Doesn’t he smell of an old fashioned pipe?
My goodness, Mom, get a life.
It’s Mary Jane and beer.

Do people know they carry their home odors with them?
Do I?

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Sells Best… by Geoff Le Pard

Curt Chilblains runs Little Tittweaking’s Scent of Home Spirit. Startle your friends with those authentic smells of times past. A flagon of Basement Damp will recall grandma’s badly ventilated Victorian semi; pick up a selection of Moulds of the Forest and be returned to mushroom-infested student digs; hanker for to the excitement of that first Christmas? Then grab a can of Santa Pee; like to tease? Then shock a loved ones as they once again reprise the day their exam results arrived with a plug in miasma of Evac-U-Bowel. Also available: brewed coffee, grilled bacon, baked bread and vanilla.

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Fragrantly Yours by Reena Saxena

Her guest room feels different, though I’ve spent a couple of nights there earlier.

“Have you changed the curtains?”

She nods in the negative before saying goodnight.

I dream of a garden with long stems of tuberoses. Their fragrance is nocturnal, but tonight is different. Winds have stopped and the garden is silent.

I shouldn’t have stayed here, especially since her husband is suffering from mental illness.
I wake up with a start and know what’s missing – the vase of tuberoses she always kept, for I love all things natural.

The fragrance has since gone out of her life.

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Sweet Memory by Liz Husebye Hartmann

American tourists with roots in rolling mountains and cows mooing in Norwegian dialects, they assumed it was fine: drive up to the rural farm, request a tour. They spoke the Norse of their forefathers. Surely they’d be welcome!

Wide-eyed Alice stared. A goat stood, nibbling on the house’s grassy roof. Alice wrinkled her nose: the funky scent of barnyard, cheese, cow shit.

Side-eye notwithstanding, the farmwife welcomed them, in kerchief, heavy work boots, and cautious smile. She’d sat them at her kitchen with a glass of milk, fresh from her cow.

That scent and smile warms Alice, decades later.

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The Smell Was Wrong, But by Duane L Herrmann

My Great Granpa had recently died. He and I were special buddies. Before I had siblings or cousins to play with, there was just me and him. His bedroom was the happy room. We were happy to see each other. I was proof that the family would continue in his new land. One day when I went into his room, it was empty. Granma had cleaned it out. Not only was it empty, but it smelled wrong. It didn’t smell like Great Granpa anymore. The room was never as interesting after that. I didn’t understand, but still miss him.

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Honoree by JulesPaige

The shrine on the far wall from the front door, may not have been labeled as such. Not in that small house as you entered the living room. The one large window in the front barely let in light. That image, the painting of the bride on her wedding day. Almost ghostly in the dim light, in the gown her mother made.

It was a warm loving home, where the cousins played dress up in grandmother’s frilly aprons. Thankfully, the painting was saved. Transferred to the daughter, who ‘lost’ her mother when she was young. Now displayed with pride.

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First Day by Michael Fishman

He walked home, a torrent of thoughts about the first day of middle school fighting for space in his mind. Some too quick to register, others, cunning and artful, burdened his eleven-year-old shoulders into a pronounced slouch.

Thoughts churned as he walked. Am I good enough? I don’t understand? Can I do it? They’re taller, faster, better…

I’m scared.

He opened the door and raised his eyes to the smell of chocolate chip cookies.

“Mom?”

“In the kitchen sweetie.”

He ran to her.

“For me?”

She saw the tears. “You ok, dear?”

He hugged her. Tight.

“I am now.”

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Roses (Part I) by D. Avery

Hope climbed into her parents’ bed, the space where her father had lain still warm.

“Close your eyes, Mommy.”

“The hearing game?”

“Nope! The smelling game.”

Hope breathed deeply through her nose.

“I smell—”

“Coffee!”

“Too easy. I smell coffee and I smell the wood stove. Daddy’s started bacon… I smell Daddy— chainsaw oil and sawdust; cows. What do you smell, Mommy?”

Hope’s mother shook away an acrid memory of her grandparents’ home, and its cold pervasive scent of poverty. She buried her face into her daughter’s long black hair.

“Hope. I smell Hope.”

Hope giggled.

“Breakfast’s ready!”

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Roses (Part II) by D. Avery

Hope and her mother went downstairs where breakfast was on the table.

“What were you two giggling about up there?”

“Hope was naming all the smells that came to her.”

“Our house smells good, Daddy.”

“That’s a relief. Hmm. I remember being a young boy at my great-grandmother’s house, one of those places with wallpaper that couldn’t ever have been new. She said the flowers were cabbage roses.”

“Cabbage roses?”

“Yes, Hope, and it made perfect sense to me because my grandma’s house breathed two scents— the cabbage she always cooked, and the rose scented perfume she always wore.”

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Roses (Part III) by D. Avery

“I don’t like the smell of cabbage.”

“Me either, Hope,” her mom said, wrinkling her nose. “But cabbage roses smell wonderful. My Gran-mère tended some in front of the old farmhouse. The one beautiful thing on that place. Of course, Gran-père always complained about them; the thorns, the smell… But they were Gran-mère’s pride and joy.”

“You were her pride and joy. It’s possible her roses survived the fire.”

“So?”

“So let’s throw a shovel into the truck and go for a ride.”

Smiling, Hope finished her breakfast, eager to bring back a beautiful rose from her mother’s past.

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The Children by Bill Engleson

I was here earlier.

A home visit.

You could tell the mother was trying ― the living room was cluttered, but an organized clutter. The kitchen, however, was a shambles. Dishes several days grime-encrusted, cats on the table, scrounging for crumbs, sour milk.

Whatever they could exhume.

And the stench.

It was more than curdled milk.

Rancid meat festering on the floor, more than even a ravenous semi-feral cat could tolerate.

I’d returned with my partner and two constables.

We’d been through plenty of apprehensions.

Cops steadied nerves.

Ours.

Parents.

Often one beleaguered parent.

The children were rarely unruffled.

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Time Past by D. Avery

The house’s rattly breath
wheezes with weather
Time has scrubbed clapboards clean of forgotten paint
Wild bushes scaffold its
dilapidation

The house holds its stories
in sepia tones
You crack the door open on creaking hinges
At the stroke of eyesight
dust motes blink awake

Memories yawn and stretch
the house stirs to life
Wood range pulses, yeasty bread in the oven
wet boots steam underneath
Time past breezes through

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House Broke by D. Avery

Ilene set the casserole on the crowded counter. Marge handed a beer from the twelve-pack they’d also brought to Nick where he sat with his leg, in a cast, propped on a heap of dirty clothes.

“Jeezus, Nick. Your house smells.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Like putrefaction,” Ilene said, picking her way to a chair. She set its stack of magazines on the floor.

“Shoe’s on the other foot now, Ilene,” Nick said, ignoring her comment. “Wanna know how I broke my leg?”

“No, I don’t, Nick.”

“I slipped. On a banana peel.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. That one there,” he said pointing.

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Sense of Well At Home on the Range (Part I) by D. Avery

“Pal! Ya gotta hep me!”

“Jeez, Kid, why’re ya stumblin roun like thet?”

“Cain’t see. Was readin the latest collection. All them flashes was so dazzlin, it blinded me.”

“Least ya smell, Kid.”

“This ain’t a time ta be pickin on me Pal.”

“Mean ta say this prompt’s bout smellin, not seein.”

“I see.”

“Thought ya said ya couldn’t.”

“I cain’t, but with a little hep, mebbe I kin sniff out a story.”

“Ya got a nose fer it. Here, hang onta this leash. I harnessed Curly, yer seein-eye hog. Go where the hog leads. Smell ya later, Kid.”

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Sense of Well At Home on the Range (Part II) by D. Avery

Reckon you folks is thinkin Curly’ll lead Kid ta the cookhouse, full a good cookin smells. Or ta Ernie’s cabin, permeated by the sickly-sweet smell a his hemp harvest. Mebbe out ta the LeGumes’ ta sniff out a story. But Curly led Kid ta a high meadow overlookin the ranch, not thet Kid could look it over. No, Kid jist breathed deeply, smelled the grass, the aspen an pine… ya could say Kid stopped ta smell the roses. Then Kid fell asleep. Thet nap restored Kid’s sight! But from now on, Kid’ll wear shades whilst readin these brilliant collections.

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Pomegranate by Liz Husebye Hartmann

The Huntress’ narrow prow cuts through darkness
The only sound a plashing single paddle.
Destination known, she’s grateful to see nothing
Below the river’s surface.
Prepared, yes, but she wants to go slowly,
Like seepage down a cell wall.

***

The boat jerks, grabbed from beneath
By those who would steer her elsewhere.
She keeps her course.
Hours pass.

***

At last the shore,
A pale line of sun that never rises here.
The Huntress scrapes on black pebbles.
A skeletal hand holds out a red, tufted fruit,
Torn open, revealing its dripping scarlet interior.

***

Her mouth reaches, accepts its finality.

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The Journey by Dianne Borowski

They came with guns during the night. We were shackled and sold to the highest bidder. I was young. They took us to a ship. It was large with six sails.

“It’s the Huntress,” mumbled an older man. It’s a slave ship.”

We were chained at the ankles to one another. Water and food were scarce. Many did not survive. Their bodies were thrown into the ocean like trash. We arrived at our destination, Jamestown, in 1619. I was purchased by a wealthy landowner and worked for many years. I still remember the Huntress and my heart’s still broken.

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The Huntress by Joanne Fisher

Anne looked through her spyglass. The ship was definitely following them.

“It’s another pirate ship, and it’s stalking us.” Anne told her bosun. “I’ve seen it before in Port Royal. I think it’s The Huntress.”

“Good name for a pirate ship. Do you think they intend to attack?” The Bosun asked.

“Yes. They must have watched us attack that Spanish galleon and know our hold is now full of booty.” Anne replied.

“So what do we do, Captain?”

“Let them come and try to take it off us. I’m sure we can give them a few surprises.”

“Aye, Captain!”

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Huntress at Sea by Duane L Herrmann

Huntress found her prey, a pirate, rogue, and plague of the seas. This rogue flew no flag of anyone but itself. It had no honor, no scruples recognizable to civilized persons. It took galleon Huntress years of searching and vexations before finally cornering the pirate in its lair, a secluded, hidden cove of an uninhabited island where no one sailed. Hidden beyond and inland from the bay was their place, the one they thought impenetrable and secure, but with satellite imagery and a drone the secrets were found. The intel was broadcast back centuries to the Huntress for success.

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Escaping the Rat Race by Sue Spitulnik

The handsome couple took ownership of the forty-five-foot sailboat. The salesman asked, “Have you picked a name.”

The husband responded, “The Huntress.”

The wife raised an eyebrow. “I know a sailboat is a chick magnet. You better not be hunting babes with this.”

“Considering neither one of us can handle our baby alone and the decision to leave the life of schedules and live on her was a mutual dream, my sweet, I don’t think you have a thing to worry about.”

“Then what are we hunting?”

“Peace, good food, and drink at any port we dock in.”

“Excellent.”

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Captain Miller by Michael Fishman

Dusk was Captain Miller’s favorite time of day. Soil and atmosphere testing completed, maintenance logged, and Earth transmissions finalized. The bridge was quiet. Gilbert was off doing whatever he did, leaving Miller alone at the Huntress’ conn watching the hypnotic, green-swirling horizon.

“What the—” Miller leaned forward focusing on the black smudge on the horizon. He increased the magnification and the smudge crystallized into what looked like a military battalion speeding toward the Huntress.

The explosion rocked the ship.

A breathless Gilbert was at his side and Miller began the launch sequence.

“Captain?”

“Johnny? Dinnertime!”

“Be right there, mom!”

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The Missing Huntress by Charli Mills

“Jim, go see about the Huntress.”

Young Jim abandoned the tally marks on his slate. “Yes, Uncle Zeb.” Grabbing his wool coat and cap, he didn’t need to be asked twice to exchange inventory in a dim cellar for the bustling activity outside. Trade had returned to Portland, Maine following the Napoleonic Wars. Excitement stirred, but a vessel was overdue.

“And, Jim, take your time. Listen.”

Jim nodded. Uncle Zeb often said a successful merchant let others do the talking. Most folks ignored nine-year-old boys. They’d be talking at the wharves. One day, Jim vowed he’d be successful, too.

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The Huntress by Ann Edall-Robson

“Gran.”

“Yes Mazie.”

“You know those books you have, to find out stuff, because you don’t have a computer.”

“The encyclopedias are in the living room. Help yourself.”

“Umm. Lexie and I are wondering if you can help us.”
​
A look of excitement and mischief danced in their eyes. Pulling Gran with them into the other room, they explained about the flag and name the boys had for their raft. They wanted a girl flag and name for theirs. Their squeals said it all. The flag would have an arrow. The ship’s name, Huntress, because they were girl hunters.

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Njord and Skadi by Kerry E.B. Black

Though their divergent personalities doomed their marriage, Njord held his one-time giantess bride Skadi in esteem. He couldn’t melt her cold determination and stony resolve to remain in the mountains with her craggy kin.

On a sunny shoreline, Njord encouraged his followers to craft dragon-prowed ships. He braided gold into his beard to reflect his lofty intentions. He’d lead a raiding party from his ship named for his huntress bride.

They fought and returned home, laden with riches and thrilling tales. At feasts, Vikings raised horns of mead, but Njord listened for Skadi’s wolves and longed for the impossible.

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Black Friday by Hugh W. Roberts

Amidst the chaos of Black Friday, a different kind of frenzy unfolded at the bustling harbour.

The “Huntress,” a magnificent ship, emerged as the ultimate deal. Legend whispered of hidden bargains aboard, drawing crowds like magnets.

At midday, eager shoppers transformed into intrepid adventurers, storming the gangplank in pursuit of discounts and the allure of maritime mystery.

The ship creaked and groaned, a vessel caught between commerce and legend.

Black Friday bargains blended with the salty sea breeze, creating unforgettable chapters in retail history as the Huntress sailed into what remained of Black Friday, laden with goods and dreams.

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Images as a Child by Mario Milizia

Growing up, Kurt had a fascination with pirate ships, building elaborate models complete with sails.

After serving on a sail training vessel the previous summer, an opening appeared for a Tall Ship named the Huntress. He applied. The ship was chartered to search the Caribbean Sea floor for ship wrecks.

The fourth day out of port, three speedboats approached firing AK-47 machineguns. With no Coast Guard around, they were boarded.

They tied up the crew and escaped with $11,000 from the ship’s safe. The Huntress returned to port. Disillusioned, Kurt quit and threw all the model pirate ships away.

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Portland POV, His by D. Avery

I don’t read, but I hear this ship is called Huntress. I call my wife Huntress sometimes, our private joke. She isn’t one of the white folks in town called Huntress. She’s Penobscot, and can hunt up something to eat better than anyone.
As I roll cask after cask of molasses from the ship to the wharf my thoughts are constant as the waves lapping the pilings. I wonder What does this Huntress prey on? The auction house in Kittery is closed now. Slavery has been outlawed here. Naked Africans aren’t in the hold.

But the rum trade continues.

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Portland POV, Hers by D. Avery

Neither of us had many options in this town, but he’s a good man. Though I shake my head when he says his family’s been here longer than most of the whites because his grandfather, a Cape Verdean, came with the cod fishermen; shake my head when he says he’s a free man.

Who is free when the blood and bodies of trees choke the rivers?

The trees become barrel staves, shipped to where our ancestors, his and mine, were taken, where our people are still enslaved.

His “Huntress” makes maple sugar, the cost of molasses being too dear.

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Clara’s Visions (Part I) by JulesPaige

The geese that migrate could not see the haunted Huntress. Clara had inherited her Gram’s sensitivity to seeing what others could not. From the top of the lighthouse the young teen watched as the Huntress came closer to the rocky shore. And then just vanished when there should have been a horrid crash. Ever since she could walk Clara herself hunted the shoreline for artifacts. She had a secret corner in the old Victorian’s home’s basement where her grandfather had stored several empty chests. Clara had slowly filled them with her finds. Which she believed came from the ship.

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Clara’s Visions (Part II) by JulesPaige

Even after the Coast Guard took over most of the lighthouse duties, Clara visited the lighthouse so often that she became a volunteer docent at 16. Being a trusted local she was given her own key and was able to visit off season pretty much whenever she wanted.

Clara searched the coast for clues. The best times were after storms. Without the gaggles of tourists that came to visit the lighthouse. Only when she had solid proof would she take her collection to the local maritime museum. The internet and local maritime museum had limited information about the Huntress.

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Clara’s Visions (Part III) by JulesPaige

Clara hoped to find some remnant with initials that belonged to Edward T. Shearman who had mastered the Huntress. Or even something from one of the owners George Shearman who was killed by a whale on June 22, 1845. Clara imagined meeting up with George… walking in the sand and having his ghost point out where to dig. That would really be helpful. Just give up one pocket watch, would you please; ocean!

keeping their distance
the ghosts of the Huntress were
still drawn to the light

that beacon from the lighthouse
tried to guide those lost souls home

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Planning For Growth by Geoff Le Pard

Little Tittweaking is the only place in the UK currently without planning laws. This is not to stimulate growth but to encourage eccentricity. Abe Elsemen, for instance has recently finished his conversion of 24 Railway Cuttings from a two up, two down mid-terrace peddle-dash, into a fully rigged three masted Man o’war. The chatterati wonder why Abe has named his house-warship ‘Huntress’. The reason becomes clear when Abe reveals the figurehead – a blonde, be-pigtailed Brunhild – and changes the name to Hun-Tress.

Little Tittweaking’s Prussian Embassy has launched a protest; as the figure has two plaits, it should be Hun-Tressess.

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Depth of Wisdom by Reena Saxena

Unusual is the ship without a destination. But her name is Huntress, and her tracks will change along with her prey.

The treasures that lie in unreachable depths of the ocean mock her bravado.

You are only imagining what lies here. You know nothing about underwater life.

“I’m on a mission to know”.

Brace yourself for unfathomable secrets, for parallels do not exist in your world. If you are an aspiring visitor, not willing to migrate -I urge you to go back. The depths of wisdom have swallowed intellectuals on a quest, for it made their starting point irrelevant.

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What The Squirrel and I Witnessed by Bill Engleson

The park trail leads to a pond.

As usual I am deep in thought.

Worldly thoughts.

I live on the other side of the park ― the twenty-second floor.

No balcony.

The windows do not open

The park is my salvation.

My bench is empty.

A squirrel is hunkered down on one end.

My squirrel.

He seems to be watching the boy.

Five, maybe six.

There’s an adult eagle-eyed on the child.

The boy pushes his replica ship away from shore.

“Don’t let the Huntress slip away, Willie. I’m not getting wet.”

Unfortunately, that small, tall ship has sailed.

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H&H’s Bounty by D. Avery

“Hundred? Shorty fin’ly give us one more word?”

“Pal, ya gotta git yer hearin looked at.”

“Whut?”

“Said, Huntress! Not hundred.”

“Jeez. Ain’t gotta yell, Kid.”

“An it’s gotta have a ship!”

“Now yer swearin? Course I give a sh*t, Kid, but figger ya could use better language.”

“See ya, Pal. I’d slam the door but ya wouldn’t hear it.

“Why, who’s that a-kayakin on the beaver pond? Helga and Hess!

“Hey! Haw ya doin?”

“We set sail!”

“For Carrot Ranch!”

“In our double kayak.”

“Called The Huntress.”

“Watcha huntin?”

“Stories!”

“Reckon they’s plenny here ta float yer boat.”

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When the Moon Grows Full by Reena Saxena

When the moon grows full, a story howls from deep precincts of the psyche. It wants to remain in the dark, yet bask in moonlight. It was asked to stay incognito, out of bounds for the civilized world.

I feel it growing inside me like an expectant mother, knowing that eventually, it will see lights of the world. I may nurse it or dream about it, but it will take its own predetermined shape.

On a New Moon night, it kicks imposed walls. I don’t know how many more phases it will wax and wane, and finally be seen.

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We Were Dust Once by Charli Mills

When diamonds shattered, stardust compressed to form a spherical skeleton we call earth. Molten blood surged beneath layers of geological skin that degraded and renewed. Earth can obtrude an island one day and subduct California the next. Yet the planet sustains life despite broken bones, organ transplants, and blood loss. Life arrived with stardust — the first sneeze, the first inhale, breath. Ever since, life has covered Earth like the murmuration of starlings, shifting direction to adapt, extinguish, renew. Nature does not exist because humans do. Life needs no technology. The dinosaurs never died; they took flight as birds.

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A Place Where Stories Begin: 1. Nope, Nu-uh by Liz Husebye Hartmann

Once upon a time, in the before times when tigers smoked, and fish farted unicorns on black sandy beaches, before Noah built his ark and the Wright brothers flew their plane, an egg hatched.

Slowly, it pecked out of its shell with its crystal-tipped tail, then increased in speed as the scent of musky cigar smoke, and perfume sweet as cotton candy permeated its tight world.

Finally, it lay free of its shell, panting on black sands and looking up at dark figures against the warm sun.

“Are you my Mommy?” it peeped with a spurt of dragon fire.

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A Place Where Stories Begin: 2. What’s a Bandersnatch to Do? by Liz Husebye Hartmann

Twas brillig, long ago, and the slithy toves had just about had enough. It wasn’t so bad that the mome raths constantly outgrabe without so much as a by your leave (it was pretty much their culture), or that the Tumtum tree didn’t bother to give me a head’s up about what was going down.

It was that this uffish kid with Alice-blond hair stood under that damn tree, wielding that vorpal sword and snicker-snack, took off with the poor Jabberwock’s head.

Jabby was our best friend, and now I’m doubly frumious.

Nobody’s gonna live happily ever after, now!

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A Place Where Stories Begin: 3. Do Over, Please by Liz Husebye Hartmann

In the After Times, that came before the last time the world was restarted, trees had lips to susurrate, rain wore tiny shoes to dance on water, and stars twinkled in ever-present darkness. Humans were unnecessary because everyone knew their own names, and recognition went beyond what words could ever tell.

But not all worlds are like this. Not even ours, Little One.

Sometimes worlds and cultures collide. Sometimes damage is done, and what looks like an ending may be a beginning: not everyone agrees, not everyone knows.

Patience and forgiveness, humor and do-overs are what restart the world.

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Once Upon a Time by Kerry E.B. Black

You hear the words and lean close, cuddled in the comfort they produce. They connect you to your childhood, when stories told by a comforting voice rocked you to dreamland. They opened magic passageways into a shared history with ancestors and lands never visited. They twisted the fabric of time until it looped in luxurious ribbons around the essential presence of life, when a hard working scullery maid could change her life with magical assistance and virtue always won the day. Simpler understandings and intuitive wisdom encircled your brain like a golden crown, gathered by “Once Upon a Time.”

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It Is Said by Ann Edall-Robson

It is said Homestead Creek carries stories to rivers far away.
The overgrown trail to the mossy covered rocks along its banks might overhear voices across the meadow, in the berry patch.

The day a fork in the trail leading to a knoll was discovered, the spirit stories changed.

People were seen in the abandoned log buildings below. An occasional sighting for those who patiently watched atop the hill.

Once during a storm, riders were seen, and life below the knoll changed forever.

The knoll trail on a stormy day is not for the meek; or so it’s said.

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When I Was a Little Boy by Duane L Herrmann

When I was a little boy there were giants: giants who roamed the land going, doing as they willed, inscrutable to my little self. I had no idea what their motivations, goals, aims or purpose might have been. Strange sounds they made, too, which I did not understand. Emotions though, were obvious and unavoidable, despite my tries and cries. They simply commanded and I had to comply, there was no reason why. I wish this story had a nice, happy middle, but it doth not. The end is miracle, though: I, strangely, became a giant too, with little ones.

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Nick Fishes for the Truth by D. Avery

“Today’s your day, Nick.”

“You’ll finally tell me about your leg, Ilene?”

“Once upon a time I fished. Probably more than Marge.”

“A fish story? I’m not biting.”

“Nick. Tsk.

“I especially loved ice-fishing. It’d been cold and was getting colder by the minute, so I went out. The ice seemed solid.

Then my left leg went right through.”

“And a giant pike ate it.”

“Really, Nick?

“The temperature dropped so fast ice formed immediately around my leg. I was trapped. I yanked desperately. I escaped, but my leg remained icebound until spring.”

“Really?”

“Then a pike ate it.”

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Old Wise Mothers by JulesPaige

Once upon a time
There was that first month with sleet
Desert dwellers gasped
Used to cold blood being warmed
By the brightest sky day star

Late winter garden
Of blooming cacti lost life
Spines, needles shivered
Scorpions danced to keep warm
Their frenzy not for mating

Old mother held tight
Her horse blanket by the fire
Desert should have sun
She unwove some threads and tossed
Threads skyward melting the frost
~~~
“Winter sky go north
where you belong,” she pleaded
last lone tear melted
another generation
granted safety for a spell

Ever since… our Mothers, they protect us.

🥕🥕🥕

My Networking Reality by Sue Spitulnik

As a girl, I dreamed of being an author.

But, after high school, I became a military wife writing letters home instead of a novel.

Years later, I started a blog. An avid reader from South Africa discovered it and led me to Carrot Ranch.

I enjoyed a Charli-led retreat in Vermont and became friends with another author who introduced me to Women Writing the West.

After a WWW conference where I heard Sarah Elisabeth Sawyer speak, I met an artist on the Big Easy Cruise whose eyes lit up because I knew about Houma and Choctaw Native Americans.

🥕🥕🥕

The Boy Who Loved Books by Melissa Lemay

Once upon a time, there was a sad little boy who lived in a castle. His father loved war. The boy detested violence, and loved books. He had a library and he’d read every book.

One day, he noticed a well-loved book he’d never seen. Upon opening it, he read its title: The Greatest Story Ever Told.

He read of a story-writing book that came to people in need; and about a boy turned king, filling the world with books. He smiled as he closed the book, knowing that he had just read the most beautiful story ever written.

🥕🥕🥕

And the Story…of the Fall of Humans by Sadje

Once upon a time….humans lived together as one big family. There was no fighting, wars, or animosity between them.

Then they became greedy. They wanted more. More of what others, their brothers and sisters had. More money, more land, and most unfortunately- more power.

They started killing each other for gain, forgetting that they were born of same parents. Their lust grew so much that they developed weapons that could kill millions in a blink. They called it progress and safeguarding their interests.

Now humans live divided, fearful, and distrusting each other, in an environment of hate.

Why?

🥕🥕🥕

A Limp Fairytale by Doug Jacquier

Once upon a time, all the guns in the world went limp. Monty Python-like, armies were reduced to yelling insults at each other. When they tried to throw hand grenades they found blancmanges in their hands. When they fixed bayonets, they found their swords were only drawn, not real.

Gangsters became a laughing stock when they had to resort to ‘bang, bang, you’re dead’.

Lions fell about when all that popped out of the end of hunters’ rifles were corks on strings. Ducks danced on the hats of men camouflaged in the marshes.

And everyone lived happily ever after.

🥕🥕🥕

Mara and the Infinite Darkness by Joanne Fisher

Once upon a time there was a girl named Mara everyone ignored. No one knew that inside her there was a darkness steadily growing larger. As her loneliness and sadness grew, so did this darkness. She knew it was there, but when anyone showed her kindness it diminished in size. That’s all they had to do, just show some kindness, yet that was so infrequent the darkness kept growing.

One day she died alone of a broken heart and the darkness was finally released. Now unfettered, it continued to grow until it consumed the world and everyone living in it.

🥕🥕🥕

Once Upon a Time, There Was Petal of Pages and Poetry by Rockstar Girl

Once upon a time, I was looking through the archives and I found the pages of you I used to write my love letters and poems in, but it all now became blank pages and I hardly have any petals of words or letters to the pages I held close to my heart where if I had a handclasp on time I would have written our story through a lifetime.
I was looking back and trying to piece together all the final clues, but the reality does not seem to hold the keys to this never ending mystery ink.

🥕🥕🥕

When the Past Predicts the Future by Dianne Borowski

At first I thought it was a bad dream. I found myself hovering near what looked like a planet. Upon closer investigation I noticed it was so hot steam rose from its surface. There was no water anywhere.

Eventually I looked around to discover I was really sitting on the grass gazing at stars.

What had happened, I wondered. Was I gifted with a close view of our planet earth millions of years ago or was it a warning to future generations? I had to laugh but then thought maybe the whole world is in our hands! Who knows?

🥕🥕🥕

Time to Rethink by Mario Milizia

Once upon a time, Adam was a very successful but lonely businessman. He wanted to know his future so, over the next few years, working with scientists and engineers, he financed a time machine.

He went forward sixty years and found his tombstone. No future wife’s name. Not even surrounding flowers. A plain, desolate tombstone describing his desolate life. It scared him. “Is this all there was to my life?”

He came back in time, put the machine in storage, and changed his priorities. He worked to always be surrounded by family and friends. He looked forward to tomorrows.

🥕🥕🥕

The Ballad of the Last Hanging Tree by Bill Engleson

Once upon a time,
the old west sung,
a song of time,
a man was hung

And every day,
a woman mourned
in every way,
a man falsely scorned.

Until one day,
truth appeared.
Her lover was lost,
his name was cleared,

Because of that,
the fierce desert sun,
lies roast to a crisp,
the sin of the gun.

Because of that,
left dangling high,
bones in the wind,
skin leather dry.

Because of that
hanging tree lie,
he was the last
left there to die.

And ever since,
the tree’s a grave
memory cries
for love so brave.

🥕🥕🥕

Allies an Cow Pies (Part I) by D. Avery

“How ya doin with thet story spine prompt, Kid?”

“Still thinkin on my openin line, Pal. Might jist go with:

Long ago, an far away…”

“If ya went with the secon half a thet, I’d be much obliged.”

“Shush, Pal.

“Long ago an far away, but closer’n ya kin imagine, there was a virtual ranch. An ever day writers an readers showed up ta play an ta learn. An ever since, it’s been a peaceful easy place ta hang out an practice writin.”

“Ya missed yer ‘until one day’s an all yer ‘because’s.”

“Because they don’t fit.”

“Why?”

“99!”

🥕🥕🥕

Allies an Cow Pies (Part II) by D. Avery

“Not too long ago an no where near far ‘nough away, Pal kept yappin. Cuz a all that yappin an inneruptin, Kid, writer extraordinaire, couldn’t hardly git a story out.”

“Strordinaire? Hmmff.”

“Til one day when a helper come along.

“Ow! Kid yer dang hog jist headbutted me!”

“Yep, an cuz Pal got headbutted, Pal fell, face-plantin in a cow pie, which ain’t really pie. So Pal had ta go git cleaned up. Curly sat near the intrepid storyteller ta keep Pal away. Finally Pal learned an stayed away. An now there’s a beginnin, middle an endin.
“Good Curly.”

🥕🥕🥕

Waiting by D. Avery

Elsewhere innocuous, here its round face is cruel, returning furtive glances with a cold unblinking stare. The constant television, flickering noise and light, cannot compete with the steady heartbeat of this clock on the wall. It is this metronomic ticking that gives it authority even over their phones, talismans clutched tight in each worried pair of fidgeting hands while its steady hands mark time. In a waiting room full of people, they each wait alone, uncertain, wishing to turn the clock ahead, wishing to turn it back.
Autumned grass tufts sweep
Circular tracks in the snow
Roots remember spring

🥕🥕🥕

Waiting for Godot by Reena Saxena

“Peace will descend tonight from Heaven, and all will be well with the world.”

“Are you sure of those spirits up there – can they even hear our voices?”

“Well, we need to ask the clouds and the sky about how much permeability they offer….”

“Then what gives you that confidence of tonight?”

“Actually, confidence is viewed as moronic up there. But they want us to hold on to another sublime thing – Hope.”

“Waiting for Godot, huh?”

“I don’t mind really, do you? It gives us time to peep within to discover other realities.”

“Start acting on this one first.”

🥕🥕🥕

Problems as a Kid by Mario Milizia

Emily was trying to stay awake for Santa

“Mama. When is Santa coming?” Emily asked falling asleep on the couch.

“I’m sorry, dear. He checks if all kids are asleep before he delivers presents. I’ll help you up to bed.”

“So if I stay awake waiting for him, he won’t come,” she asks as she’s walking up the stairs.

“Yes. Those are his rules.”

“What if he brings me the wrong present? What if I change my mind?”

“You’ll just have to trust him or wait until next year.”

“Santa needs a phone number so we can call him.”

🥕🥕🥕

Waiting for Tod Ogden by Bill Engleson

“Stop looking at your watch.”

“That’s what it’s for.”

“Fine. I know, but it’s irritating. Read a book.”

“Too anxious. Tod should’ve been here hours ago.”

“Could have picked him up.”

“I offered. Said he likes to take his own good time. Always been that way. You know that.”

“Too damned independent. Been on the road too long. What kind of life is that? It’s not like he’s Willie Nelson.”

“Sings pretty good, though. Least wise, used to.”

“Play some Willie…

“Good idea…how about The Party’s Over?”

“Sure, though it won’t begin until he gets here.”

“Play it anyways.”

🥕🥕🥕

The Waiting Game by Anne Goodwin

While I wait I peel and chop an onion. While I wait my baby learns to roll over, learns to crawl. A superstitious streak calls me to cook my grandma’s weekday staple. My daughter learns to walk, to hop, to run.

My girl devours grandma’s peas and mashed potatoes, but she pushes the offal around her plate. I won’t scold her for wasting food – eating pig’s liver won’t fortify hers. She can’t understand why I can’t chase her around the garden. She doesn’t know I’m waiting for a stranger to die and bequeath their healthy human liver to me.

🥕🥕🥕

Vigilance by JulesPaige

It is a strange phenomenon to board a plane by oneself. Normally not a solo traveler. So much hurry up and waiting while attempting to quickly get to the end of a destination. Especially when where you’re going is not to some sunny beach. But to a hospital; the deplaning, cab ride to, entry, all forgotten as the vision of your loved one lays silent. Unresponsive to your presence.

You want to lose yourself in suspended time reliving good memories. A sated family reunion. yet there cries the newest haloed member.

so precious
all life old and new
angelic…

🥕🥕🥕

The Scent of Rain by Doug Jacquier

The water bore’s gone dry and Adam stares at the grey-black clouds that cluster like a bunch of stuck-up girls at a school dance turning him down every time.

He flicks on his solar batteries, powers up his Hendrix-like stack of Marshall amps, loads his player with Classic Hits, turns the volume up to 11, hits play, picks up the microphone and in synchronicity with the soaring guitars and the drums, screams “God, make them dance with me!”

An apocalyptic lightning flash is followed by raindrops like bullets and, as they hit the dust, Adam’s nostrils fill with petrichor.

🥕🥕🥕

Defined by Dark Deeds by Kerry E.B. Black

Situated in the deepest shadow, he hunkered, ignoring muscle cramps and anxious aches. From this vantage, he scouted. His quarry capered beneath campus streetlights, oblivious of potential dangers. Their youth, good health, and privilige glowed from their skin like beacons while he stalked from within the gloom of their absence. They relied on university police, local law enforcement, and the goodwill of their fellows, never recognizing malice mounting from an unlikely source. He sharpened hidden blades with resentment, using imagined slights as the whetstone. Soon, he’d leap from obscurity. Be defined by dark deeds. Until then, he impatiently waited.

🥕🥕🥕

Intoxicated by Meredith Caine

They never even know I am here. This position gives me the vantage I need to focus, to plan. It is a precise timing. I worship the rush of adrenaline that comes as the time grows closer. My heart rate ascends so high I can hear it echo off my rib cage. It’s a fast methodical strum. My body temperature gradually rises while I wait and watch. Small beads of sweat start to assemble across my temples. I know the perfect time is here. I feel powerful, like a God. Blood floods my veins as I take a life.

🥕🥕🥕

Waiting For Who by Hugh W. Roberts

I’d been waiting for hours. Why was I here?

‘You’ll soon find out,’ said a voice in my head.

I’d sat on every chair. All were uncomfortable. I paced up and down, breathing in the heavy air of dread.

“Mr Roberts?” a voice whispered. “Follow me.”

I had no idea where the handsome nurse had come from, but I followed him.

“This is it,” he said, ushering me into a room.

A dim light lit up a figure in the bed, covered in a white sheet.

I approached and pulled back the sheet.

My face stared back at me.

🥕🥕🥕

Waiting by ladyleemanilla

There’s a little girl who waits and waits
Her friend borrowed her skates, not back for ages
Mummy will be worried sick
If she’s not back in a tick
Friend not back yet, not anymore playmates

They’re playing hide and seek, she’s the “it”
She can’t find them, they hide well, she’s to admit
It’s getting late
Should be home by eight
She gave up looking, shouted she has to quit

She can’t sleep, something’s bothering her
She kept on tossing and turning
Husband’s fast asleep
Also hear the sheep
And the cat came to the room and purr

🥕🥕🥕

I’m Bored by Norah Colvin

“For Christmas,” said Mum.

“But it’s a looooong time,” said Jamie.

“Not long enough,” said Dad. “Only three more pay days.”

“Wait till you’re my age,” said Grandpa. “It’ll be gone in a blink.”

“But there’s nothing to do,” said Jamie.

“When I was your age,” said Grandpa. “we’d be out all day, playing until dark.”

“Mum won’t let me go anywhere. Dad says no screens until after dinner. It’s boring.”

“Tell you what, kiddo. How’s about you and me take a walk and do some exploring. What d’you say?”

“Can I, Mum?”

“Sure. It’ll do us all good.”

🥕🥕🥕

Are the Results Out, Yet? by Ruchira Khanna

I shouted, “Are the results out yet?” while quickly pulling on my pants and zipping them up, then pushed the door open. 

Mom was busy knitting, and she shook her head no.

“Mom!” I shrieked, refreshed the screen, and exhaled deeply. 

Our eyes met. 

She was calm, wearing a gentle smile despite my reaction. 

The results had not yet been released, so I sat beside her. “I can’t take this waiting game!” I lamented.

“Sing a song!” Mom said. 

“Huh?” I responded. 

“Keep your mind busy, Sara. Time will tick away! Besides, the results are not in your hand.” 

🥕🥕🥕

The Adventures of Aloysius by Nancy Brady

It felt like forever; the waiting seemed to go on and on.

Frankly, I never thought that anything would come of my writing. It started with one prompt that sparked my imagination. Subsequent prompts allowed the story to be finished.

Now, I had to find an illustrator for the stories. My first artist didn’t work out. After waiting months, I discovered a teen with artistic talent; she made drawings for each story.

There was more waiting; the editor worked on the book, putting it all together. Finally, the waiting is over; the book is out: The Adventures of Aloysius.

🥕🥕🥕

The Brothers Understand by Sue Spitulnik

Michael and Tessa moved with the line snaking toward the cruise ship. The slow pace was difficult for Michael, yet he smiled at every set of eyes that met his. When an older man came opposite them in the cue, he said, “Welcome home, brother.”

Tessa burst into tears watching Michael and his brother-for-life shake hands, and exchange understanding nods. The man’s companion touched Tessa’s arm and handed her a tissue. “It hurts my soul that our servicemen wait to hear that from their brothers. I admire your man for sharing his legs.”
Tessa mumbled, “Me too. Thank you.”

🥕🥕🥕

Wishing by Liz Husebye Hartmann

They sat on the carpet, knee to knee. Two, sometimes three rows of them, hands in laps, breathing light, shallow breaths. Good as gold, these little ones.
She knew better than to push her luck.
Raising the book, she announced the title and splayed it open.
The protagonist, Curious George, was always a favorite because he was so relatable. Well meaning, a burning desire to explore and learn, but not sure of all the rules, so more often than not, chaos. And then the regret!
Someone rights the wrong, George is saved, and loved again.
A promise for all.

🥕🥕🥕

Balancing Life by Sadje

Waiting was not easy knowing that he had to reach home by four.

Anxiously, he looked at his watch and he drew a deep breath, trying to calm himself.

He needed to balance his own work and the desire to help out his friends, otherwise both would suffer.

Finally, when his friend arrived, he spoke irritatedly; why are you so late? you know I have to be home before my sister arrives and only I have the key!

Hurriedly, he went over the project with his friend pointing out some mistakes.

He then sprinted home to his waiting sister.

🥕🥕🥕

It’s The Waiting Game by Rockstar Girl

It’s the waiting game until we can press play and restart the story of where we left off in the last chapter but things have changed since the last time we saw each other

Even though within ourselves may have stayed the same but the outside is a completely different story from the person you saw on the inside and sometimes not everything is the same as when you left it

It can either change or become an entirely different story than what you presumed the story was going to be about from the beginning to the very end.

🥕🥕🥕

Encounter on the Road by Joanne Fisher

Jess and Cindy heard the sound of hooves. They both waited, until they saw a rider approach them on a white horse with silver bells on it’s mane. The rider shone with light.

“It’s a fey noble, we also call them High Elves.” Cindy remarked. The rider stopped and examined them.

“Mortals on the Queen’s Road.” She stated.

“I have fey blood.” Cindy told her.

“Be that as it may, what made you think you had leave to be here?” Cindy’s heart sank. She always thought she could wander around Faerie at will, but maybe this wasn’t the case…

🥕🥕🥕

Going Gently by D. Avery

Glasses empty, they sat back on the sofa.

“Well.” He tried a smile. “Now we wait.”

“Yes. Together.” Her smile came easily. He relaxed, happy to see her happy. He took her hand in his.

“You were right all along, Dear. All we’ve been doing, really, is wait.”

She leaned against him. After two years of adamant refusal, he’d surprised her. “No more waiting,” he’d declared. He’d helped plan and prepare. He hadn’t let on to anyone, not even the kids.

“I won’t need help off the sofa today,” he teased.

They laughed together until they no longer could.

🥕🥕🥕

Quick Snax by Geoff Le Pard

When Wei Ting escaped a forced Taoist marriage to philosopher Winnie Pooh, he sought asylum in Little Tittweaking. Catering was his trade. He began designing menus, starting with a series of Chow Mains before adding Chow Staters, Chow Puddings and Chow Coffee and Mints. After success with his Fowl Expressions selection: Peeking Duck, Squinting Pigeon and Staring Ptarmigan, he surprised everyone by joining with Ho Hum, Lee Wards and Fook’s Sake to open a new restaurant that had people were quite prepared to queue round several blocks to enjoy. Wei Ting at Ho Lee Fook was a tremendous success.

🥕🥕🥕

Flood by Simon

The night was filled with terror as his world crumbled. The city engulfed by an unexpected downpour. In the midst of despair, he made the decision to end his life by hanging, fearing impending flood. Three times the rope snapped, but a glimmer of hope ignited within. He saw it as a divine sign not to kill himself. So he waited, anxiously watching as the water continued to rise, reaching his neck. He clung to the rope that was once meant to end his life. Then, the rain ceased, the water began to recede. His patience paid off, fortunately.

🥕🥕🥕

Waiting for Bliss by Sassy

She’d been waiting for this moment so long. When they first met, she found him to be charming and sweet and quiet in a way that seemed so… Unbelievable. She wanted to kiss him, to know him, to be vulnerable, but she’d held back, afraid he was putting on a good show.
But now… Now it had been years of friendship and mutual affection, respect, attraction… Now she knew who he was and she ached for his touch, his gaze, the smell of him on her skin.
When he held her face and brought his lips to hers…
Bliss.

🥕🥕🥕

Waiting by Ann Edall-Robson

Waiting for the New Year
​Waiting for the winter’s hiatus, tree buds pop
Waiting for splashing in rain puddles
Waiting for the summer’s heat, flowers in bloom
Waiting for cooler evenings
Waiting for the sunset’s palette, twinkling stars appear
Waiting for the full moon
Waiting for frosty autumn days, leaves turning colour
Waiting for geese to take wing
Waiting for harvest, the start of hunting season
Waiting for winter snow days
Waiting for skating on frozen ponds, sleigh rides
Waiting for Christmas decorations
Waiting for Auld Lang Syne, mistletoe kisses
Waiting for more of the same
Waiting, always waiting

🥕🥕🥕

Without a Paddle by D. Avery

Tell ya Kid, seems ol’ Shorty’s always waitin fer somethin.”

“Reckon waitin’s kinda her curse, Pal.”

“Speakin a, have we been cursed with the bambeano yet?”

“Huh?”

“There a little LeGume joined us?”

“Yep.”

“What? An ya didn’t say nuthin? Have ya seen it?”

“He. Yep.”

“What’s it— he— look like?”

“Hard ta say. He was swaddled.”

“Swaddled? They swaddled their baby? Thet ain’t right, Kid. Shouldn’t never swat a child, ‘specially a baby.”

“Not paddled, Pal! Swaddled. He was all wrapped up in white cloth. Looked like a… let’s jist say he’s a chip off the fam’ly block.

🥕🥕🥕

Up Shift Creek by D. Avery

“Cain’t wait ta see ‘im. Where ‘zactly the LeGumes live, Kid?”

“It’s a far ride ta their place, Pal. Cuz Logatha’s kinda reclusive.”

“Yeah, only comes out as necessary. But her sister, Cherie D’Sharte, kin be pretty outgoing.”

“No holdin that one back, that’s fer sure.”

“So, Kid? Directions?

“Ride over 2Hard2 Pass, follow Shift Creek. You’ll find ‘em.”

“How?”

“The answer, my frien, is blowin in the wind.”

“Uh, s’pose so. They name the bambeano yet?”

“Yep.”

“Well?”

“Not Will. Doo.”

“Will do what?”

“Baby’s name’s Doo. Doolittle Zippy LeGume.”

“Reckon he’ll be peppy as his pappy, Pepe.”

🥕🥕🥕

Nom de LeGume by D. Avery

“Pal! An unexpected veezit.”

“Couldn’t wait ta check in LeGume. Missus doin okay?”

“Oui, merci, she ees resteeng but ees finest kind.”

“An how’s the baby?”

“De bébé ees also resteeng. He ees doeeng very well.”

“Doo?”

“Do what, Pal?”

“Baby’s called Doo?”

“Sometimes he ees D.Z.”

“Dizzy? Mebbe we should get him to a doctor, Pepe.”

“No, not deezy, D.Z.; sometimes we call him by hees eenitials.”

“O… K… Y?”

“Dees is a writeeng ranch, Pal. Eet’s a writerly theeng, eenitials names, so eet’s feeting, no?”

“Doolittle seems a fittin name fer a certain writer.”

“Dees I know.”

🥕🥕🥕

A Southern Drop by Nancy Brady

Once upon a time there was a drop from the south. Life was mostly grand for the drop. Sometimes, she would be dew, sometimes a light shower, but all too frequently, a powerful hurricane. The drop wasn’t thrilled with dumping all that water on land time after time, but what could she do?

Returning to a cloud, she overheard a conversation between other drops, who were talking about a different kind of precipitation, snow. It sounded like heaven to her, and she found out she could hop a cloud to Chicago where, over time, she became a fluffy flake.

🥕🥕🥕

Teasing Flakes by Ann Edall-Robson

In the silence of the night, their arrival slowly commences. Drifting past the window without a sound, taking their place with the others. As the dark sky transitions to dawn, they blend with the gray horizon, numbers continue to grow. Each has made an individual journey. All have come for one thing, to accentuate the silent vista and transform it into a new world. Dusted fields become stunning landscapes, orchestrated into fluffed ornaments on branches. The crisp, white, exquisite, filigreed shapes flounce hither and yon in the breeze. Blankets of winter flakes tease and test the days of fall.

🥕🥕🥕

Flakes of Life by Hugh W. Roberts

Flakes of frosty dread drifted through the old, abandoned house I’d taken shelter in. They weren’t ordinary flakes but echoes of lost souls.

I heard tales whispered by those who’d glimpsed the spectral dance, telling me the flakes carried memories of those who perished here, trapped between two worlds.

Icy fingers brushed my skin as the flakes swirled. The past and present merged in an eerie waltz, unveiling secrets and sorrows long ago buried.

I closed my eyes and joined them.

For those who entered after me, the house held chilling promises of both revelation and haunting, forever entwined.

🥕🥕🥕

Joy in the Morning by Liz Husebye Hartmann

Jack heaved a sigh so huge, the box of Corny Ye-Haws slid clear over the counter’s edge, splattering a fan of sugary flakes across the linoleum. He regretted moving on Darla last night, pushing the limits of their childhood friendship too far. She and Chad had not split up, after all.

She’d rushed out of his house like one possessed, her motorcycle tearing up the country road, and his heart.
Scraping a handful of cereal into his best, cracked blue bowl, he resigned himself to a lifetime of lonely breakfasts.
Then he heard the sound of a motorcycle … returning!

🥕🥕🥕

Retro Black Light Disco by Norah Colvin

On their first date, Paul took Josie to the Retro Black Light Disco. She’d heard about it but never been, so was curious. “Wear something white. You’ll really stand out,” her older friends advised. Josie was amused that Paul dressed all in black, as usual, but guessed some habits were hard to break. Josie absolutely glowed under the lights, but Paul virtually disappeared. Until he turned around, looking like he’d brought a glowworm army on his back. Josie started to say, “How beautiful!” when she realised they were flakes of dandruff. “Gross,” she thought. “I’ve seen enough,” she said.

🥕🥕🥕

Skin by Pete Fanning

Skin. That’s what they called him. Okay, me too, sometimes, be it at the park or the bus stop, where he’d stand hunched, clawing away at the tops of his hands, arms bumpy and red, flakes of dry skin falling like saw dust.

He’d endure it, whatever the teasing, while I stood to the side with a dumb smile—relief—happy the attention was off me. But it never lasted.

“Hey, lazy eye.”

The pack would shift. In a blink I’d see that same relief wash over Skin and I’d snarl at him.

“What are you looking at, Skin?”

🥕🥕🥕

Flake News By Bill Engleson

He’s a cute kid. Standing at the window, yelling at the passing parade, the ghoulies, the goblins, the tiny Trumpsters, which scares me more then ghosts and graveyards, demanding his boodle.
Cookies.
Candies.
I had dragged out an old Nixon mask from my childhood.
Don’t know why I’d hung onto it.
Tricky Dick wasn’t always a treat, was he.
We were out for an hour. Must have hit fifty houses.
He wanted to be a snowflake.
I said, “You mean a ghost?”
But no, he meant flake.
So, a huge paper snowflake it was.
Cute kid, but definitely weird.

🥕🥕🥕

A Flaky Man by Geoff Le Pard

Inspired by his dermatological setbacks and Marc Quinn’s Self*, Dan Druff determined on his life’s work. He joined Little Tittweaking’s hermit community, where he remained undercover. On Dan’s thirtieth birthday, he threw open his yurt to the curious visitors. Sadly a misunderstanding of variable air pressures and an incredible lightness of being rendered nineteen years of assiduously collected dead skin to become airborne as they dispersed across the town.

This gratuitous sharing of DNA generated two observations locally: those ingesting Dan-flakes were surprised he tasted of cardamom; and using forensics to solve crime was rendered pointless for two years.

*Marc Quinn used his own blood as the material for a cast of his own head

🥕🥕🥕

Extract from an Interview with Genghis Khan by Doug Jacquier

Interviewer: “Just one last question, Mr. Khan. We’ve covered the unification of the Mongol tribes, developing the Silk Road, controlling huge areas of the world with your conquering armies. However, perhaps history may remember you most for your unmerciful slaughter of millions of innocent people and the annexation of their lands. Tell me, is there a geographical line somewhere in your head where you will stand and be satisfied that you have achieved all of your dreams ?”

Genghis: “You reporters. Snowflake questions to feed your clickbait headlines. That ‘line’ remains what it’s always been for me. The horizon.”

🥕🥕🥕

Cumulus Corn or Frosted Flakes*? by JulesPaige

Like thin crisps or chips; freshly fried
Look up to see these unreachable delights.
Advertised and tempting
Upon the mottled sky page
That attempts to subliminally
Catch your attention, make your mouth water
Urge you to seek to fill your face
With homemade or store packaged goodies.
Your brain registers the need to eat… something
And yet you are partaking of atmospheric manna
What spiritual quest can you fulfill?
While your brain tricks your eyes…
Are you enlightened, encouraged, sated?

You stand looking up, mesmerized, hypnotized
Are you alone a single ‘flake’
Or have others followed your captured gaze?

*Frosted Flakes; as in the chilled wisps of high atmospheric clouds

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Walk Out by Reena Saxena

The final walkout was not liberation. It was the realization that she had left doors open for manipulators. She disrespected herself by believing flaky promises and catering to his desire for control.

She felt a surge of relief, a burst of freedom, a spark of joy. She felt like she had reclaimed her life, re-discovered herself, reignited her dreams.

She walked away from him, from his lies, from his pain. She walked towards herself, towards her truth, towards her happiness.

She walked away from flaky promises.

She walked towards liberation, into a world where she held her own life.

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Flakes of Ash by Sweeter Than Nothing

Fluttering gently, like a lover’s sigh
Flakes of ash float high up in the sky
Soft and light, they dance and play
A beautiful dream, a nightmare ballet

Their whispers echo, a gentle breeze
A soft caress, a goodnight kiss
Broken hearts used to yearn
Glowing love can only burn

Flakes of ash, they fall like snow
Softly descending, serene and slow
Gentle whispers of a distant fire
Echoes of a past desire

Their delicate touch, a fleeting dream
A memory of a love so extreme
A fragile beauty, a moment’s grace
A fleeting glimpse of a vanishing place

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Paint Constellations by Kerry E.B. Black

Jenna scraped her fingernail under a bubble of paint, peeling a swath from the countertop. The phone rang in her hand, impatient as a striking serpent, while Jenna sent silvery paint flakes spiraling to the blue linoleum floor. Jenna’s heart pounded, anxious about the call, enlarging the blemish on the kitchen counter. As the growing blotch revealed antique wood enrobed in peeling paint, the call pronounced her fear. The doctor answered. Clipt speech. Businesslike manner. His tenor brought an internal quake, and Jenna felt each weighty word wreck future expectations. She collapsed, sat in blurred constellations of silvery paint.

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Grandpa’s Legacy by Anne Goodwin

Snowflakes cling to the cracked windowpanes. Flecks of dandruff fall from Grandpa’s scalp. “This’ll all be yourn when I’m gone.”

I hunch over my cornflakes. Twenty acres and a farmhouse with crumbling walls can’t compensate for years of slavery.

Grandpa coughs. Gurgles. Crackles. Hands hover at his throat. I spring to my feet and thump him between the shoulder blades. No use.

I was the flakiest student on the First Aid course. Failed the Heimlich manoeuvre on account of my withered arm. Mangled by the machine when Grandpa disabled the failsafe device. When he stops breathing, I’ll call 999.

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Glittering Lights by Duane L Herrmann

Glittering on the edge of light of leaping flames, snowflakes fell in the dark. Mysteriously appearing from black sky, glittering momentarily, then vanishing again. Magical!! The fire was small, but the magic was great. I recall it years later. Snowflakes, those bits of sky falling, floating down, have entranced me since I was little. One winter when I was young I was sick and we had a new baby at home. No one wanted the baby sick. I was sent away – to the paradise of my grandmother’s. While there big fluffly snow flakes, fell. I was entranced and remember.

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Chili Flakes by Sadje

A margarita pizza, with blobs of fresh mozzarella cheese and green rocket ( arugula ) leaves was ordered. When baked in an open fire brick/ clay oven and delivered piping hot to our table, its aroma was hard to resist. They provided us with chili flakes, chili oil, and garlic powder.

This was a genuine Italian restaurant and there was no tomato ketchup in sight. In fact, they didn’t serve tomato sauce with their French fries either. It was considered an affront to the tastebuds to offer ketchup with any food.

I remember that quaint little restaurant, in Washington DC, fondly.

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First Snow by Dianne Borowski

It’s snowing. As I watch the wind swirling snowflakes outside my window I long to be a kid again. The snowflakes begin to accumulate, covering the street and sidewalks. I grab my jacket, move down the stairs and out the door.

I loved the first snowfall of winter long ago, ice skating, snow forts, snowballs and sledding. Now I’m grown. Just this once I want to feel snowflakes on my tongue and in my hair. I want to slip and slide down the drive and dance through snow drifts. I want to feel young and alive once more.

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Priorities by Mario Milizia

As a kid, when the first flakes of snow used to fall, it automatically meant snowball wars in the neighborhood. There were always two groups – the strongest, best throwers versus Jack and every other kid in the neighborhood.

Jack’s team usually didn’t win, but they always had fun and that’s all that mattered to him. Jack married one of the tomboys, Julie, that used to join him.

Now, years later, with kids of their own, Jack is struggling to convince their ten year old son, Adam, why he should consider picking some of the weaker kids when picking teams.

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Snow? by Sue Spitulnik

Tessa was riding shotgun while Lexi drove to Emma’s three-year-old well baby check-up. Tessa said, “My mother has turned into a complete flake?”

Lexi asked for details.

“She can’t seem to make up her mind about anything anymore and she’s so hot and cold about so many subjects I can’t keep track of her opinion. Like I said, flaky.”

The “parrot” in the back seat said, “Where’s snowflakes? I can’t see any. I don’t have my coat.”

Lexi grinned. “On you, Gramma.”

Tessa turned, “It’s not going to snow Emma Blossom. Gramma’s make mistakes sometimes.” The explanation satisfied her.

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TricksnFlake by D. Avery

“Kid! Thet dang hog a yers is makin a mess a the bunkhouse.”

“The shift she is Pal. Curly’s potty trained.”

“Talkin bout her flaky skin. I’m ferever dustin an sweepin.”

“Should git better Pal. I been putting lotion on her. Made from goats’ milk. From those kid goats now growed inta milk goats.”

“Oh yeah, yer kid goats. Haven’t heard mention a them in months.”

“Well, they’re mentioned now cause we need the goat milk lotion. Fer Curly’s flaky skin.”

“Thet’s convenient.”

“Yeah… Tell ya what’s flaky, Pal— our writer’s shifty tricks.”

“Cain’t make this stuff up, Kid.”

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Fakin Flake by D. Avery

“Pal, member how I got Curly bout the same time Shorty got her pup, Mause?”

“Yep.”

“An the LeGumes ‘nnounced their bambeano bout the same time’s Shorty ‘nnounced becomin a Granma. D’ya smell what I’m steppin in, Pal? Total flake, thet writer a ours, imitatin stead a originatin, liftin an shiftin Shorty’s stories.”

“There’s nuggets a truth in thet stream a consciousness.”

“Reckon our writer’s no better’n a claim jumper. Don’t know how this’ll pan out, but we gotta let Shorty know our concerns. Tell her the truth bout D. Avery.”

“Shorty might see things dif’rently, Kid.”

“Mebbe. Shorty?”

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Stormin Off, Not by D. Avery

“Hold up Kid, Frankie jist rode in.” 

“Hey Pal. Kid, don’t be headin off. It’s snowin.”

“It’s jist a few flakes. I gotta git ta Shorty. File a complaint ‘gainst our writer.”

“These few flakes is gonna add up ta a whole lotta snow, I don’t advise ridin in this storm even on that high horse a yers.”

“Well, if anyone knows bout ridin in wild weather, it’s you, Frankie. But don’tcha see, yer anuther example a the problem. You showed up in one a Shorty’s flashes an D. Avery took ya over. Appropriatin characters an stories ain’t appropriate.”

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Steppin Down From the High Horse Ta Step Up, Mebbe by D. Avery

“Kid, no two ways about it, we ain’t seein eye ta eye on this.”

“Listen, Frankie, for one, I—”

“Shut yer pie-hole, Kid. You listen. I’m responsible fer me. Pal’s responsible fer Pal. Yer responsible fer— well, what I mean is, now that we all are outta the pen and onta the page, we have life of our own. Cain’t blame our writer. Steppin forward fer a prompt, that’s our choice. We don’t git forced. You of all characters should know that, Kid. Yer always steppin up, heppin out.”

“Reckon Frankie’s right Kid. Ya ain’t never flaked out.”

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Used, Not Amused by D. Avery

“Okay, but… Sometimes feels like D. Avery uses us, uses the whole ranch jist ta git 99 words. Is that fair ta folks? How come, fer example, she gits ta write a beaver pond inta the ranch? With beavers? Why, we got ranch hands mighta wanted platypuses swimmin in the pond. Mebbe’d perfer kangaroos roun here too, stead a goats.”

“That’d be somethin. Wunner if it’s too late ta git some kanga-roonicorns fer the cryptid prompt.”

“Pal! Don’t ya git it? Now kanga-roonicorns’ll be a thing, jist wait an see!”

“Yep. Ain’t thet a joeyful thing?”

“Flaky, Pal. Flaky.”

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