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April 19: Flash Fiction Challenge

I’m riding high in the dentist’s chair. This is not where I expected to be after fighting a cold-turned-sinus-infection since January. Two weeks ago, facial nerve pain drove me to find something stronger than my arsenal of herbs. That’s how I met Dr. Bob, local dentist.

Now, I’m sucking down nitrous oxide, preparing for the crack and pull of a tooth the dentist can’t save. If the sequence of age for a woman is maiden, mother, crone, I must be working on my crone’s smile now. Yet, I don’t want to be thinking about what Dr. Bob is setting up to do. As beautiful as the falling snow can be, neither do I want to be thinking about what’s falling outside the office window.

Instead, I turn my thoughts to the characters of Rock Creek. I wonder which one of them I’m going to torture with a toothache. Cobb came to mind first, maybe because I wanted to sit in this chair with my toughest character. I imagine that his wife, Mary, would try folk remedies first to ease the agony of tooth pain. But once such remedies fail, people seek the torture of extraction in desperation.

George Washington felt such desperation. History records that he had one tooth a year pulled from the time he was 22 until he had none left to pull. As children in the US, we learn early on in school that our first president wore wooden teeth. And yet this is false. Washington wore dentures of human teeth. I suppose those who extracted teeth had a side gig for creating dental wear.

Cobb would likely liquor up before letting someone yank his troublesome tooth. I’m lucky to be sitting in a near trance, daydreaming about my characters as my own procedure progresses. I wonder how much corn whiskey it would take to equal novocaine shots and laughing gas. I’m not going to test any theories. I also wonder who would pull the tooth? Likely a blacksmith who had pliers.

My thoughts drift to gentler musings, and I realize how ready I am to return to my forest trail at McLain State Park. I’m not even craving the rock-hunting, just the healing vibes of the forest. I can picture the trail as it winds through the pine trees on a ridge overlooking Lake Superior. Its scent hangs sharply in the air I imagine as warmed by afternoon sun.

Arms outstretched, feet rooted above roots, ground solid, air clean and the roar of waves crash in the distance. Now, stepping forward not in a sprint but a relaxed walk. This is Shinrin Yoku — forest bathing. First developed in Japan during the 1980s, JulesPaige introduced it to Carrot Ranch in a flash fiction. It’s healing, restorative and rejuvenating. No wonder I recline and bathe in my imagined forest.

An interesting purpose of Shinrin Yoku is

“To transform our cultural relationship to forests through fostering deeper relationships and positive experiences with forested areas.”

Two years ago, I wrote an article about the push to create a wilderness area out of a mountain range in North Idaho. The idea is that we need wild spaces, even those that might be difficult to access. The leader of the project told me that it’s enough to know wild spaces still exist.

This also makes me think of Aldo Leopold, and his essay from A Sand County Almanac called, “Land Ethic.” He argues for humans to see the land as something more than a commodity; to see it as a community to which we all belong.  He sees that we are not separate from the environment. Along with the idea of transforming our relationships to forests, or preserving wild spaces, so they exist, he acknowledges that we won’t succeed. But it remains important that we try. Leopold writes:

“We shall never achieve harmony with the land, anymore than we shall achieve absolute justice or liberty for people. In these higher aspirations the important thing is not to achieve but to strive.”

From this single dentist’s chair, I’m connected to the past and future, to the Lake Superior pines not yet free of snow, to the wilderness I’ve seen and not seen, to forests on distant shores. For a time of healing, I’m going to imagine forest bathing.

April 19, 2018, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story about forest bathing. You can use the Japanese term, Shinrin Yoku, or you can make up your own ideas about the phrase. Go where the prompt leads.

Respond by April 24, 2018. Use the comment section below to share, read and be social. You may leave a link, pingback or story in the comments.

If you want your story published in the weekly collection, please use this form. If you want to interact with other writers, do so in the comments (yes, that means sharing your story TWICE — once for interaction and once for publication). Rules are here.

***

Free Among the Trees by Charli Mills

Gabriella tapped the last spigot. She caught the trickle of clear sap in a wooden bucket. Daughter of a French trader and an Ottawan mother, she belonged to no one. She kept to the forests outside the ports and mining towns, trading maple syrup with the Black Robes at L’Anse. The forest kept her company, bathed her in its healing embrace. The Black Robes enticed she could become a neophyte, and claimed gospels in her native tongue. They didn’t know she could read her father’s books and already chose her classic path – she was happy as a forest nymph.

April 12: Flash Fiction Challenge

Sloppy snow pools like white slush and I realize this so-called return to winter barks but doesn’t bite. It can’t hide the push of life from the exposed patches of earth. In fact, the heavy moisture feeds the burgeoning life. Yellow-green shoots of new grass blades poke up like stubble from the grit the city snowplows left behind on curbside lawns. Most yards still house sagging snow drifts, pocked and dirty. At least the spring snow adds a dash of freshness.

This week, I have two new friends — one a neighbor and the other a long-lost cousin.

I’ll call my neighbor Cranky as long as you realize that’s not her disposition. Cranky is delightful. She’s an antique Singer Sewing Machine shop owner and seamstress who specializes in the same era for which I write historical fiction. How is that for neighborhood serendipity? We met right before winter when a stray cat turned up at her house. She stopped by to see if the cat belonged to us. Then, last week she stopped by to see if I’d go walking with her.

It’s thrilling to get asked to walk with a neighbor. Except for the walking part! Since winter closed off the rock beaches to me, I’ve not walked much or far. My glutes and calves are feeling the burn from the hilly roads we live on, but it feels good to get outside and observe spring. We spotted two red robins on our walk last night and located the neighborhood murder of crows. We even saw two nuthatches and heard a few unidentified birds.

Along one house where the southern exposure to sun melted the snow, we marveled over the spears of daffodils. We plan to walk three days a week and even talked about field trips. Cranky is a real birder, meaning she has expertise in identifying birds whereas I have lots of curiosity. As you can imagine, we have much to discuss about 1860 as we walk.

My second friend found me through Ancestry. We connected when he sent a message regarding errors in my tree. It’s a working tree, thus I appreciate any corrections from others. Then he asked about a lost cousin who had red hair and disappeared when she was seven. I realized he was asking about me. It’s stunning that we have found each other all these decades later. I feel more like I’ve found a long-lost brother. Already, he knows me too well which has made me laugh. He’s got a great sense of humor and a big heart. He’s creative and witty and I’m so pleased to get to know him again.

With ongoing VA appointments, I’m feeling batty this week. How we can be back to square one with the Hub’s knee is mind-boggling, but here we are asking for yet another orthopedic referral. His primary care doctor is lighting fires, but the system is practiced at snuffing them out. While we don’t have complete answers to the memory tests, we did conclude the Hub has an extraordinary memory. It’s his focus and attention that is suffering. With the onset, we are not ruling out traumatic brain injury. At least we have some validation that there is indeed something screwy with his brain.

Considering the ignorance of the military 30 years back, the way Rangers train is similar to American football players. Tough blows made the young man. We are learning more about TBI as these men age.  The Hub’s unit never had medical physicals after combat. Instead, they deployed to another hot spot. Today, or at least beginning with the Iraq War, soldiers are examined, and they deploy with psychiatric units. Let me tell you, that makes a difference. Hopefully, the Hub will get what he needs for a better quality of life.

With all these scattered thoughts beneath sloppy white stuff, I have one more to add — white-nose syndrome. This deadly disease impacts bats and often they become unseasonably active and die in winter instead of hibernating. In Iron Mountain, where we frequently travel to go to the VA hospital, scientists study the bats at Bat Mine, which is considered one of the most significant hibernating and breeding concentrations in the world. They begin to emerge in late April.

Last fall, 47 North Belly Dance Troupe, dedicated a dance to the bats. Before the dance began, they played this creative video as a public service announcement. It includes several of the dancers, and my SIL lends his voice to the narration. The second video shows part of the bat dance.

As we move through life, we become aware of those around us — neighbors, environment, family. Awareness opens us up to curiosity and possibility. The more we learn, the more we grow. We are all part of the web of life, a fitting idea as we connect through the playful activity of literary art in constrained form. Each week, I appreciate how diverse the individual stories are, and how they express a deeper meaning in a collection.

Yes, we are going to get batty this week.

April 12, 2018, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story that includes a bat. You can use an association to the winged, cave-dwelling critter, or you can explore the word for other meanings. Bonus points for including a bat cave. Go where the prompt leads.

Respond by April 17, 2018. Use the comment section below to share, read and be social. You may leave a link, pingback or story in the comments.

If you want your story published in the weekly collection, please use this form. If you want to interact with other writers, do so in the comments (yes, that means sharing your story TWICE — once for interaction and once for publication). Rules are here.

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.

April 5: Flash Fiction

Spring in the Keweenaw, I’m discovering, is like having a mood disorder. Blizzards, squalls, and gray skies make me feel lethargic. My fingers plod to tap keys. My shoulders hunker, and my eyelids droop. I realize it’s not me; it’s the cloud cover.

By afternoon, Lady Lake parts the snow clouds like she’s our local Moses, and I can see blue so deep it must be heaven’s direct gaze. A choir of angels hums in my ears. My shoulders straighten. My fingers quicken their pace, and I feel wide awake. I take another swig of water and feel energized enough to think of rocks on the beach. So close!

We’re headed to the VA hospital in Iron Mountain, a five-hour roundtrip in good weather. It’s the first no-snow day since spring equinox. On Easter Sunday I sat clustered with families in a small dark chapel on the tip of the Keweenaw while a full-blown blizzard raged outside the windows. The Son may have risen, but the sun did not. Today, the cerulean sky over white snow stirs spring in my blood.

We turn a corner following the curves of the Portage Canal to Keweenaw Bay and instead of an expanse of white sea ice through the stands of naked white birch, azure beams back at us. Open water! Back in Hancock, the canal remains froze over, but local gossips spread rumors of the Coast Guard ice-breakers opening the shipping channels. Nothing says spring in a northern climate more than blue.

Blue beckons robins and hastens snowmelt. Open water calls to migrators braving a journey north to mate and nest. Just around another corner, a mass of iridescent green heads catches sunlight where mallard males sleep on a snow bank above another opening in the bay. The white surrounds the blue like crown jewels of diamonds and sapphires. The duck heads glimmer like little emeralds.

VA visits increase, yet they all hedge around what to do with the knee. At the hospital, the Hub hustles down a corridor outpacing me as if we’re on a road march. His gait rolls and dips like a pirate with a peg-leg. The last orthopedic we saw two weeks ago claimed the Hub had no limp after asking him to take three steps around the tiny examination room. I’ve followed this limping gait for years and know the effort it takes to muster through it.

Limp or no limp, the last ortho didn’t even have the MRI that took us three years to get. They sent the left knee image instead. The last ortho before last saw it and said it was pointless to view because the Hub has no meniscus left to examine and she said she’ll monitor the degradation of the knee as bone wears down bone.

Other appointments don’t require my advocacy because they are the actual care the Hub needs. After years of asking, doctors referring, Iron Mountain has approved much — acupuncture, physical therapy, and chiropractic. Next up, the Hub has several medical tests and memory tests to get a better idea of what is happening above the orthopedic system within the matter between the ears. Whatever the results, we will make a plan, continue to push for a knee replacement 30 years overdue, and take moments to appreciate the blue.

It’s now evening, and the sun still sits above the wooded hills of Hancock. As the solar orb sinks toward the western horizon, the abandoned Quincy Mine reflects a copper light as if to say, “Here they dug copper.” Sky ablaze, I walk into the local co-op to grab pecans and dried cranberries for my morning cottage cheese, feeling energized by a full day of sunlight. It’s nearly 8 p.m. and still light.

The cashier laughs with me as we joke and dream about it nearly being grilling season. She then tells me, “You have the sun sillies!”

Turns out, sun sillies is what she calls the energetic high people up north experience after the return of light following a long dark winter. I laugh. I do feel silly and full of spring fever. I feel hopeful. I feel like I’m on extended holiday full of Nowruz, Easter and Solstice celebrations. Is it no wonder we play April Fool’s jokes on April 1? We’re full of sun sillies!

Speaking of April Fool’s Day, my favorite toilet paper company, Who Gives a Crap, pulled a fast one and I fell for it. They sent me an email announcing the release of Crappy Coffee. I thought it brilliant. I wanted eco-friendly, small-batch roasted Crappy Coffee, so I signed up to receive it. Instead, they emailed me, “Aprils Fools!”

Time to get silly.

April 5, 2018, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a silly sun story. Up north, “sun silly” is the energetic and playful response to returning sunlight. It could also be an April Fool’s jest, a silly story, or a reaction to spring fever. Be silly and write playfully! Go where the prompt leads.

Respond by April 10, 2018. Use the comment section below to share, read and be social. You may leave a link, pingback or story in the comments.

If you want your story published in the weekly collection, please use this form. If you want to interact with other writers, do so in the comments (yes, that means sharing your story TWICE — once for interaction and once for publication). Rules are here.

***

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.

###

Flying Fingers

INTRO

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?”

“George Washington.”

She took her nickel.

“Who’s president now?”

“Bill Clinton.”

She took another.

“Who discovered America?”

“Native Americans.”

“Wrong!”

“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
keeping traditions

may each day bring abundant
joy-filled memories to share

let differences
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.

“Hit me.”

“Six of Hearts. Player has nineteen.”

“Hold.”

Confidently she turned over the Hole Card: Ace of Spades.

“Blackjack.”

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.”

“You’re married?”

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.’

‘Really.’

‘Yeah. There.’

‘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.”

“You’re perfect.”

“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.

Nothing.

Another honk.

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.”

“Eggplant?”

“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.”

“Hmmph.”

“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.”

“Alleluia.”

🥕🥕🥕

March 29: Flash Fiction Challenge

At first sniff, the clear liquid smells sour. The menu reads: grape leaf vinegar, mint and rose water. The concoction does not evoke the subtleties of pink petals or the promise of a fresh taste. Above the richly dressed crowd, lights beam geometric shapes across the ceiling in red, green, pink and blue. Digital flat screens display a New Year countdown that moves to the beat of electronic dance music. The pulse dares me to sip.

And I do.

To my surprise, the liquid glides sweetly across my tongue. Never judge a drink by its smell? Perhaps. But the aromas emanating from the buffet tables raise my expectations — grilled meats, heavy-handed spices, and frittered vegetables. Last, I grab a cup of dessert pudding with more rose water. Food infused with romance settles on my plate, and I weave my way back to the reserved table. I’m a guest tonight.

It is March 25, and we are celebrating the New Year. Tables packed with guests, many with families, form a horseshoe around a central stage. Even if you can’t see the stage directly, the digital flatscreens are mounted for clear viewing from any angle. Men are dressed in suits and women in evening dresses. I don’t mind that my outfit is simple. No one here is judging a book by its cover. Everyone smiles, welcoming.

Accouterments scatter across a table on the stage. Goldfish swim in a glass bowl surrounded by apples, garlic, sweetgrass and a bowl of painted eggs. Each item symbolizes health, prosperity, and happiness. Traditionally, all the guests wear new clothes. It’s spring, if not the exact equinox, then merely a few days later. The days are lengthening in the northern hemisphere, and no one can deny the renewal of life the season heralds.

Outside, snowbanks sag like swayed-back horses. Their geological record of snowfalls dips around the objects hidden beneath — boulders, park benches, small sheds. Spring can be dirty business. The south-facing bank of Quincy hill exposes bare ground as plain as the skin on a potato. Everywhere grit covers streets and sidewalks. Dog pellets slowly emerge day by day as the sun erodes their icy receptacle. We can only dream of freshness in the Keweenaw as dirty snow gives way to dirt.

We hold on for blades of grass.

Inside, the countdown ends, and we cheer in the New Year. A pianist flies his fingers across the keys and dinner tastes all the more succulent. It feels like renewal in this banquet hall at Michigan Tech University. Photos flash on the screen of places I’ve never before seen — moss on rocks, rivers, mountains, trees, cities, and deserts. Thes images connect many in the room to home. The celebration will suffice while they are away in a foreign land, studying engineering and technological sciences.

I’m an American celebrating an Iranian holiday among people my nation’s president would call enemies. How can I possibly view a culture whose writing reminds me of teacups and black olives as hostile? Laughter, rose water, and artistic performances tell me another story. People are not the enemy. Our fears and hatred cling to cultures like cancer. When we fight cancer, we don’t malign the person. To stand up for humanity, we must call out injustices, not cultures.

Tonight, I’m in love with Iranians.

Midway through the performances, a trio of musicians takes the stage. One plays the sitar, another a violin, and the third drums. I recognize the doumbek because my SIL, Solar Man, plays one as a drummer for my daughter’s belly-dance troupe. When the drummer plays his large frame drum, his fingers fly. I’m mesmerized. And so is he — eyes closed, frame tipped back, fingers dancing across tightened skin.

Next, my daughter and her fellow dancers take the stage in tribal influenced garb and dance to a Persian song. Radio Geek has recently cut her hair — it’s part classic bob, part shaved-head punk. By day in the office, the bob covers the undershaved sections. Tonight, she flaunts her inner punk. The troupe dances with energy to an appreciative crowd, and a delighted mum. This is the Persian New Year — Nowruz.

No-Rooz Mobarak! Happy Easter! Happy Spring! Chag Sameach! May peace and joy be with us all.

Before we get to the prompt, a bit of Ranch spring cleaning. Following last week’s deluge of information, you can now find the newly erected Rancher Badge page beneath the tab, Support Literary Art. You’ll find all the badges (plus a few new ones from your suggestions) in a clear and concise format. Now is the time to set goals. June 1 will be the first quarter to claim badges.

You will erase from memory, any mention of Facebook as a way to collect flash fiction. A great idea went downhill. It didn’t work as intended. Interact in the comments as usual — share your links, stories or pingbacks. If you want to be included in the published collection, submit your story via the form. Forget about short links, too! Write, and let your fingers fly across the keys.

March 29, 2018, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story about fingers that fly. Think about the different ways we use our fingers and what happens when we add speed. Go where the prompt leads.

Respond by April 3, 2018. Use the comment section below to share, read and be social. You may leave a link, pingback or story in the comments.

If you want your story published in the weekly collection, please use this form. If you want to interact with other writers, do so in the comments (yes, that means sharing your story TWICE — once for interaction and once for publication). Rules are here.

***

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.

***

Author’s Note: The Central Overland California & Pikes Peak Express Company is a mouthful. No wonder we took to calling it the “Pony Express.”

###

 

Carrot Cake

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.”

She hesitates.

Have I won this round?

“Okay,” she says, touching my lips. “A compromise. How about chocolate carrot turnip cake?”

I’m snookered.

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.”

“That’s alright.”

“What was that girl’s name again?”

“It’s Shirley.”

“How beautiful!”

###

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.”

“What?”

“The recipe!”

###

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.

“What?”

“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.”

“You might.”

“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.

Jean surrendered.

###

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.’

‘Come again?’

‘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?”

“This one?”

“Turbine engines, winged structures. Aircraft?”

“This?”

“Two humans. Arms around eachother. Content. Hugging?”

“What else?” The human watched the Android ponder.

“Unable to ascertain without further details.”

“Guess.”

“Scenarios with highest probabilities are a need for warmth, or pressure to ease physical discomfort.”

“Anything else?”

“Physical exhaustion; a need for postural support.”

The human glanced up at a surveillance camera.

“Emotional comfort?”

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.”

“Why?”

“Well, it’s going to be—”

“—Easter soon, and we want—”

“—to give the Easter Bunny—”

“—a surprise—”

“—present.”

The twins smiled at each other.

“Okay,” smiled Mum. “Carrot cake it is.”

“Yay!”

“First, we need the carrots.”

The children raced ahead to the veggie patch.

“What—”

“—happened?”

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.

Then silence.

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_____________ .”

###

March 15: Flash Fiction Challenge

My son, Runner, always finishes the race.  He’s the kind of man who takes the time to achieve his goal. I like to think he’s a chip off the mom-block, but he’s his own person.

By the time he was ready to apply to college, he only wanted to visit one. He had narrowed down all the possibilities to one. Of course, teachers, coaches, and parents suggested having a few secondary options.

Nope. Runner knew what degree we wanted, the level of college sports he wanted and what region he wanted to further his education. He applied to one school, tried out for one team and graduated with his Bachelors and Masters from one University.

He finished the race.

Next came job seeking. Again, Runner held a laser focus toward the type of job he wanted with his psychology degree in industrial organization. He worked as a bartender and restaurant manager for the interim and then moved to a place called Baraboo when his girlfriend found her dream job. He didn’t give up, and yesterday he texted to tell me he got his first entry-level job with a company that will use his degree.  I texted back my excitement.

Runner has been on my mind this week because of all my three children he was the one to take to the kitchen. In high school, we called him Betty Crocker because every Sunday night he’d get out my cookbook and bake — pies, cookies, quick bread. One pie he’d give to his dad with the instructions to stay out of the remaining desserts. Those were for his cross-country and track friends. While Runner always finishes the race, he also makes sure everyone on his team does, too.

He has a gifted social intelligence; a strength called “woo.”

Perhaps it was his gift of woo that also made him adept at sales when he was still just a teen. He worked as a sales rep for a Minneapolis office supply store and one day he met a customer who returned with an offer for Runner — to sell Cutco Knives. For a year, he did. The knives are gorgeous and high quality, but high priced, too. As a gift, when Runner left for college, he gave me his demo set.

Of course, they are wickedly sharp knives. After a prolific pumpkin harvest in our backyard (to the annoyance of my suburban neighbors, I grew food and pollinator plants all over our lawn and flower beds), Runner nearly cut off his thumb. The bone stopped the knife. After that, we all developed respect for the Cutco set.

Throughout wandering, a few of the Cutco Knives have traveled with me. One is an eight-inch chef knife. I’m not sure how it wrangled its way into my small box of kitchen gear. Perhaps it had been too big to plant safely in a storage box. But it is with us yet, and the Hub likes to use it to cut ham and cheese slices. I avoid the monstrous straight edge.

This past weekend, we received sad news that our cat of 15 years had died. She had gone to a new home after we had lost ours.

Both the Hub and I cried when we received the text. It was early afternoon, and I decided to cook a vegetable stir-fry. Solar Man and Radio Geek had left for Minneapolis to spend the birthday weekend with his mom. After all we’ve been through, it was a vulnerable moment. We were in the kitchen together, me prepping veggies and him slicing ham because I was cooking vegan.

The Hub dropped the knife. The Cutco Chef blade. Stainless steel, heavy duty, forever sharp. Guaranteed.

He was barefooted. The knife — as he has since described — spun a perfect pirouette and fell point-down, bouncing off his bare foot. I didn’t see it happen, so much as I realized he dropped the monstrosity of a knife, and automatically, I grabbed the roll of paper towels with one hand and shut off the gas burner with the other, and sunk to my knees.

The first glimpse was not good. The Hub’s foot split open like a ripe plum. When shock first hits, the body does not bleed. Did you know that? Maybe you didn’t want to know that, but it’s a fascinating scientific fact. No blood is a bad sign. Shock can be fatal. Bleeding out can be fatal, too. And blood arrived in a torrent. He cut a vein.

I was thirteen years old when I signed up for my initial first responder’s class. My father served as volunteer fire captain, and when the Red Cross trained the volunteers, I was one. Growing up in a remote mountain town where the nearest hospital was an hour away in good weather, I not only knew first-aid, I had ample practice. I can shut off any emotions of fear or squeamishness. It’s like going into a soundproof room — everything slows down, noise cancels, and I breathe rhythmically.

That’s what I did, kneeling with paper towels, compressing the Hub’s foot. I became hyper-aware, noting where each dog was, assessing the stove was off, planning our trip to ER. The Hub reacted the same way — his Ranger training kicked in, and without a passing word between us we knew the plan. He slid his foot toward the front door, and I crawled and compressed.

At the edge of the kitchen, I told him to stop. With one hand on the third wad of red-soaked paper towels, I reached with the other to open the junk drawer, hoping to find…packing tape! Grabbing it and a fresh wad of towels, I wrapped the Hub’s foot tight. We grabbed jackets, and I made sure he had his VA card for insurance purposes.

We discovered the Hancock Emergency Room to be a friendly and quiet place. It’s the first time I’ve ever been to an ER where they had to turn on the lights and heat because it the room with all its beds sat empty. Our nurse shared a good sense of humor, and when she asked the Hub if he felt safe at home, she glanced my way and laughed.

The Doc irrigated the wound and delivered the good news that no tendons suffered a slice. But the vein was a concern, and she sewed up the wound. The next day his toes and foot turned purple from bruising. We met with his therapist that day and had a good story for her. She is working with us to get the Hub’s knee fixed, too, recognizing that his mental health issues stem from the crisis this long-overlooked war wound causes him. She told us, “It’s about quality of life.”

I didn’t cry once, seeing all the blood, but I wept for a cat I gave up six years ago, and I sobbed at the thought that someone in the VA system gave a damn about my husband’s quality of life. It’s good to have someone who cares.

So that brings me to cake. Carrot cake, of course. Cake is my all-time favorite celebratory and comfort food. I’m celebrating Runner’s new job, the Hub’s continued care with the VA, sharp knives and sharp wit. With all of you, I’m celebrating four years of literary art we all get to share. I’m passing around the cake.

March 16, 2018, prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story about carrot cake. It can be classic or unusual. Why is there cake? How does it feature in the story. Go where the prompt leads.

Respond by March 20, 2018, to be included in the compilation (published March 21). Rules are here. All writers are welcome!

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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.

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