Back for another Friday Fictioneers! I tend to use the photo prompt as literally as possible. This week’s photo immediately gave me an idea that is not of the place shown (West Bay, Dorset). It’s a bit silly and fan fiction-ish but I couldn’t resist the plot bunny that took up residence in my brain for this. :D


Photo copyright – Sandra Crook


It had been a long journey but I finally made it.

First stop was freezing cold water, lots of ice, and an explosion. When I surfaced, four young men stared in astonishment. I inquired and they pointed me in the right direction. For some reason they seemed familiar.

After many wrong turns, my last mistake brought me to the Bahamas. Sandy beaches and warm water washed me up the shore. Again the four young men though now I realize why they looked familiar. They’re somewhat famous as musicians in England. One last time I ask directions, “White Cliffs of Dover?”


100 words exactly :)

I would’ve included a video clip instead of a still photo but YouTube and Universal Music Group have parked all Beatles videos behind the YouTube Red pay wall. Boo!

I never know where the Muse will take me when I start a Friday Fictioneers story. Mine tend to be less bleak. I guess this one is the product of a less than stellar summer. Or maybe it’s just a story my Muse really wanted to tell. :) On with the words!

Photo prompt – © Jennifer Pendergast

The Last

As I maneuvered the rusty little boat onto the lake I looked back at the makeshift grave stacked with stones. We came so close to making it all the way. We got careless, sure of our invincibility. I’m the only one to see the dream come true. She is gone.

Darkness fell before I reached the shore, lights beckoning. I dug through dwindling supplies for my binoculars. I wanted a glimpse of the new world. All I saw was death. On the shore. In the windows. Bodies ravaged by the mutated flu virus. Only lights remained. I am the last.

How old are the modern Pagan religions? Probably not as old as you think. #thepaganexperience

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!

PHOTO PROMPT - © Claire Fuller

PHOTO PROMPT – © Claire Fuller


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.



PHOTO PROMPT -© Madison Woods

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.


Aku with her buddy Bert the farting hippo.

The Secret of the Haunted Mirror (Alfred Hitchcock and The Three Investigators, #21)The Secret of the Haunted Mirror by M.V. Carey

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).

View all my reviews

Write Your Novel From the Middle: A New Approach for Plotters, Pantsers and Everyone in BetweenWrite Your Novel From the Middle: A New Approach for Plotters, Pantsers and Everyone in Between by James Scott Bell

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.

View all my reviews

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.


Chandelier seen from directly underneath

Photo Prompt – Rochelle Wisoff-Fields



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.

#prayingforcharleston #blacklivesmatter


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:

Don't live on Pagan Standard Time Don’t live on Pagan Standard Time

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…

View original 350 more words

Photo copyright - Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Photo copyright – Rochelle Wisoff-Fields


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.

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