House For Sale

So this is another Jimmie prompt that I wrote some time back, but got pushed in posting due to camp nanowrimo, and then my August event. It was based on the picture below, and once again my microfiction is horror, is it just me or does the genre call for it?


She stepped into the empty Victorian house, and remembered what Savannah had said. “Perfect restoration except the bathrooms and kitchen. Compromise is necessary for convenience.”   

It was lovely, but it felt wrong walking through alone like this. Could she really live here? It was supposed to be her sister’s fresh start.  Savannah who had lived a few hard years moved in here two months prior. It seemed like everything was looking up, and then…

She shook her head to clear it as she stepped into the kitchen and saw the bulletin board.  The movers must have missed it.   It was covered in blank post-it notes except one in the center. It said “Make things happen” in her sister’s handwriting. 

She stifled a sob as she ran her fingers over it, and as her finger brushed the next note she realized it wasn’t blank at all. 

In a flash she remembered Savie’s love of mystery novels, specifically the invisible ink.  She fumbled in her purse, hoping she still had a spare blacklight from work. She did.

She turned off the lights, and flipped on the flashlight.  The post-ts all had the same message “Help Me”. 

It was on the walls too. Dozens of different types of writing, most of which looked finger painted. Then she realized that it wasn’t paint splattered, and smeared on the walls.  The black light went dead.

She stumbled blindly to the door and flung herself out onto the porch gasping. She was selling the house.

The Calling

So I mess this post up a little today, and forgot that it was set to go out automatically. This is based on girlontheedge’s weekly six sentence story prompt: Island. I was thinking mythological when I wrote it, but you could interpret it more than one way.

I don’t need a shell to hear the ocean because is always there for me, in the back of my mind, in every silence.  

The haunting melody of the sea calls to me, and as I look around at my daily grind I wonder why I ever left the island. I took the trip to find myself, but I was found by something far greater.

I wondered why they let me leave, when they were so adamant that I needed to stay.  Now I knew, it was because I didn’t really leave, not all of me at least.

It took three more months to cleave the ties to my old life and settle my affairs, but as I stepped into the water I felt alive for the first time since I had left and knew I was home.

Infinite Regrets

Ok, so after some evaluation I decided to keep this a little more vague. It’s what I would call an urban fantasy, with something very old looking back to how it got to where it is now, downtown in a major city people watching. Its a little sad, and a bit depressing, but kind of how I imagine immortality of a sort would turn out eventually. See the end of the piece for more notes


I watch the humans walk by. They are all in such a hurry. So much to do, so little time. I can barely remember having that sense of urgency, it was such a long time ago.

There were many of us then, we shifted shape and became like the others of the time. The great, so-called terrible lizards. When they faltered, our magic saw us through the disaster. It was not the first such disaster my kind had seen, but it was the first I had borne witness to. I saw friends fall, and though I have made many since, I never again let myself care so deeply for another that was not my own kind.

As I see the humans scurry, I remember the first of them.

I personally wrote them off early. Of all those that rose up from the ashes these were not what I had expected to inherit the earth. They were far too self centered, I had supposed, but they were craftier than I had given them credit for. I decided to do as many of my kind did when there when change was unpalatable, and so I slept.

When I finally returned from my long nap in the north, I found that they had changed the very landscape to their will. While they did not bear magic, they made up for it with ingenuity that I could only dream of. It took me months to find another of my kind, and they had nothing but horror to tell me. While I had been sleeping it seemed that our kind had dwindled rather than flourished.

We had gone from thousands, not to hundreds, but straight to tens. Less than 100 of us left in all, maybe more slumbering, and then the road builders fell. The land plunged into darkness, and we became the villain, rather than the adviser. They hunted us, and though we had magic, we had our weaknesses, and they used them well. They killed us as we slept in our caves. They skulked in at night, and put spears in the softness of our bellies, the one place we could not protect no matter how much we shifted. They used a powder, made from flowers that makes us sneeze, to reveal those who were pretending to be human. It was a massacre, justified as self defense and the recovery of stolen wealth. As if any of us would have hoarded the low quality wares that the humans called treasure.

My greatest regret is my own cowardice in the face of the attacks. I begged the others to make the same flight, as I myself returned to the north to sleep again. The humans lived such short lives, and so had such short memories. If we slept, when we awoke we would become myth, like the old gods they once worshipped. If they were even still around when we awoke.

In the end it worked. Well it did not entirely, as the humans still existed. They were the ones that awoke me further north than I had expected them to be able to survive. I shifted to their form, and pretended to have gotten separated from my own party. Feigning sickness from the cold got me out of answering questions until I knew what I should say.

When the thing they called a helicopter came to evacuate me, I knew that things were going to be very different. We flew to what they called an airport, then they transported me to a plane, and then we were landing in what they were calling a city. There were more people here than I had ever seen before, and they called this one small.

I feigned memory loss, and was diagnosed with “amnesia”. I learned of the world, technology, and the internet. I spent years searching, but I have long suspected I am the last of my kind. They call us legends, myths, and I wonder what I should do. While they lived four times longer than they once did, humans are to my kind, as the mayfly is to them.

So now I sit in a cafe, with this delight they call coffee watching them live out their lives. I pass my days trying to decide what appeals life holds for me. Do I let myself surrender to the ravages of time, try and live a life here and help them, or do I simply sleep again?

Eventually I tried to help, but they did not want to be helped. And I could not allow myself to succumb to time, apparently I didn’t have it in me to let go so easily. Thus, my  decision was made for me, and now I am back in the north, deeper in a cavern than I have ever been. I let myself sleep and I dream of a better world to greet me when I awaken.


This is based on a random prompt I saw once on the internet asking about the life of the last surviving dragon. It’s a little strange, and not super happy, given that the dragon’s entire species has died out, but its a look on how that could have happened. Has a little info on the life of dragons, and kind of teases at a greater overall world, and if you are a fan of dinosaurs teases them at the beginning. May develop it more later. Would love to hear any feedback on it.

Mr. Right

This was another Jimmie prompt inspired by the picture below. I took this, and of course, made it dark and twisted. Please note this contains descriptions of an abusive relationship and may be triggering to some.


On the surface he was perfect. Tall, strong, handsome, with money and personality to spare.  He was a catch by any standard, and I knew he was too good to be true.

My friends brushed my concerns aside.  They told me I was being overly critical.  That I could find the fault in  anyone.  That no one could up to that kind of scrutiny.  That I wouldn’t do any better than this.

  He gave me the courage to quit my job and pursue my art.  I would move into his house, and he would cover for everything. He supported me, and my dreams, where my friends would not. He encouraged me to let them go, and told me I could do better.

 In a matter of months he went from being one person in my life to my whole world.  I started to doubt my misgivings. He was the best friend I had ever had.  The kind of guy I had always dreamed of.

 The facade fell in layers, as he went from compliments, to suggestions for improvements,  to criticisms.  We stopped going on dates, then we stopped going out, and then he locked me in the basement. 

He told me if I wanted to I could go. Then he showed me a wall of tens of thousands of seemingly identical keys. All I had to do was find the right one.  He told me to trust my instincts, and locked the door.  I laughed until I cried.