Source: Pardon Me, Your Age is Showing
This summer has been a bit rough, leaving very little time or energy for much more than going to my “day” job. I hope to get back to more writing. It boosts my confidence and helps me forget evenings in retail for a while. I’ve tried and failed a few attempts to get any serious work done on my cozy mystery. But I’ll get there soon. I’ve slowly gotten together my main cast of small town Texas characters and now need to get on with the details of the homicide and ensuing investigation. :)
This week’s picture for Friday Fictioneers reminds that I’ve let another thing I enjoy immensely (my genealogy research) fall by the wayside with the drama and stress of the last couple of months. Hopefully I can get back to that as well. Enjoy the micro story!
Sally was so close to finding Barbara, the sister she’d not seen since third grade. She thought Barbara died. Mother wouldn’t talk about her. Grown-ups got quiet anytime Sally asked.
It was fifteen years before Sally discovered their father took Barbara when he lost parental rights. It took another year to figure out he’d dumped her at his grandmother’s house. He died shortly afterwards without telling anyone about his wife and other child. Now all Sally had was the grandmother’s name and hometown.
Heading into search Clarksville city records for information, she stared at the clerk with her face.
Back again for Friday Fictioneers! Sorry if the story is a bit sad but it has a bit of reality to it. It wasn’t what I started out to write but I guess it was what I needed to write this time. 100 words exactly.
One of My Familiars
Trying to call the quarters, my energy is as intermittent as the sight of the full moon as it disappears and reappears from the wisps of clouds. Tonight is important and the spell needs to be perfect.
I face North and call to Earth.
I face East and call to Air.
I pause and wait for a larger cloud to move past before continuing.
I face South and call to Fire.
I face West and call to Water.
Now that the circle is created I can call upon Bast. Watch over my lost feline familiar. She’s in your loving arms.
I made a minor change. The last two words (originally capable hands) didn’t feel like it fit the rest of the piece.
This one is for my little old lady, Aku. She was about 16 years old when her kidneys began to fail a few weeks ago.
My rating: 4 of 5 stars
Still as much fun as it was when I was a kid. Anyone who wants to find a good mystery series for kids, skip the Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew and get the Three Investigators. It’ll also be a fun introduction to a time before cell phones and the internet. :D
I reread this as part of my 2015 Reading Challenge (category – book from my childhood).
My rating: 4 of 5 stars
It may be a short book, at just under 80 pages, but it doesn’t need more. He gives helpful information without padding the book with useless tidbits. The examples are clear and concise. I especially love the “suspension bridge” analogy for creating a solid, readable story. It’s a valuable tool I will refer back to on a regular basis to improve my writing skills.
Back after another long hiatus with a new story for Friday Fictioneers. I know this is possibly too soon to write on this incident but the words refused to leave. I couldn’t think of anything else to write for the prompt. All I could think about was a frightened five year old. I apologize if this bothers anyone.
It’s been forty years since the tragedy, since my grandma held me still while people died all around me. Most of what I know of that day comes what I was told, from the stories about Great Aunt Susie, about my brave uncle. All I remember is feeling scared but safe in grandma’s arms, of the certainty that I mustn’t move a muscle or look at what was happening. I remember the ceiling, the first thing I saw when the police showed up.
So much pain. So much loss. And it changed nothing. No justice, no peace. My administration will change that.
I had no idea this was even a thing. It certainly shouldn’t. Self-importance is running rampant these days.
Originally posted on Writings of a Pagan Witch:
There! I’ve said it. I don’t like the whole excuse-ridden idea of “Pagan Standard Time”. We’re all familiar with it. You’re going to a Pagan ritual and the host says to arrive between 7 – 7:15pm for a 7:30 start and you should all be heading home by 10pm.
Only when you arrive at 7, you find you’re the first person there. The host is still running around in bedroom slippers trying to get kids fed and dogs watered and other mundane rituals of daily living sorted, ritual space is no where near being ready to be created, and the whole place just feels chaotic. Finally around 7:30 the next person arrives, and over the next hour the rest trickle in.
“Oh, sorry. We’re running on Pagan Standard Time. Teehee.”
Just when you think things aren’t going to ever actually start, they begin the…
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The photo changed for the last time when Geraldine died. Years ago, it was full of smiling faces lined up on the veranda the day of our big family reunion, the one time we were all together. First we lost Grandpa. I knew the picture was different when his image vanished from it. Then went Uncle Charles. One by one, the family disappeared, the photo more lonely and bare. I’m all that’s left of the group. The only part of the image left now is the family homestead. What will happen to the picture once I, the photographer, am gone?
Here’s a VERY late submission to Friday Fictioneers.
This week’s story started out in my mind as something more melancholy or ethereal. As is usual for me, it didn’t actually come out the way I planned. I never know where my muse will go until she’s already left me behind. :) Hope you like my take on the photo for this week’s Friday Fictioneers. I’m still not sure how I feel about it. Ah, well. There’s always next week.
It seemed like a fun way to spend the day, to lose myself in the beauty of nature. I turned my face to the warmth of the sun, stiff breeze at my back, and entered the maze. I felt an energy the moment I crossed the threshold. No sounds penetrated the green walls. The energy tugged, a faint voice directed me to the center, to the answer to all my questions. As I entered the heart of the maze, the voice said, “Your gift in this life is–”
Awoken from the dream by my stupid cat, now I’ll never know.
Time for another Friday Fictioneers! I’m not sure what I think of this one but I’ll share it anyway.
“Are you sure it didn’t start at one of the power outlets?” Ted pointed at an unplugged switch plate.
“We checked them. No scorching, no residue,” Kurt sighed. “They’re clean. Well, relatively clean.”
“The fire had to start somewhere. And don’t say it was spontaneous human combustion.”
“Of course not. There’s no such thing,” Kurt huffed. “The fire didn’t spread across the body. It consumed everything at once. What could cause that?”
“Hell if I know. You’re the expert.”
Kurt didn’t voice his thoughts. Five strange fires. Victims all child molesters. He knew pyrokinesis sounded crazier than spontaneous combustion.