In Dreams

Today’s work is a challenge response to many challenges, and I think it turned out better than I expected overall. This is the story of a person who wants to get away from it all, and dreams about their ideal home. I don’t want to spoil it, but if you have read any of my other work, like usual, there is more than meets the eyes here.


In my dreams I own a log cabin in the woods, secluded and peaceful, where there are no nosy neighbors with prying eyes, and eavesdropping ears.
It wouldn’t be that big, a single room with an old fashioned wood stove, and kerosene lamps, no ever present buzz of electricity to ruin the moment.
I wouldn’t need a bedroom here, no closets, nothing to hide, just me, the land, and whomever I might bring here when the mood strikes.
No more pretending to want to spend nights in overpriced restaurants or overcrowded theaters, with girls that have more air in their heads than brains.
In my perfect little cabin in the middle of nowhere, I could paint my own soliloquy in red, and no one would ever have to know that this is who I am beneath it all, because here I would be free to be me.
I breathe in the rich scent of coffee wafting from my cup, pulled from my reverie by the muffled screams coming from my closet, and I sigh, knowing that for now this is as close as I am going to get to that kind of serenity.


If you want to make it creepier, read it again while listening to “In Dreams” by Roy Orbison which has creeped my out since I watched blue velvet in a college class.

Third Time, Not the Charm!

The word of the week is STRIKE for the six-sentence story prompt by girlontheedge.  This week we will see the story of Conrad, an ex-con with really bad luck, who agreed to take his cousin to the corner store, and has come to seriously regret this decision.  It’s one of those, people see what they want kind of situations, and while I believe most of the “I was just there” defences are crap, some of them  are probably on the level…

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Conrad was standing in line at a seven-eleven, trying desperately not to break down in tears as his cousin held a gun to the cashier’s head, demanding all the money in the till.

He had no idea that this was what Joey had in mind when asking him for a ride, and since Joey had been the only one in his family to give him a shot after his second stint in prison, he hadn’t really been in a place to say no.

He wouldn’t have said no if he could though, his cousin was a good guy, clean cut, working class, and he was letting Conrad sleep on his couch until he got a job that paid enough to get a place on his own.

Of all the people in Conrad’s family, Joey was the last person he would have suspected to pull this kind of shit, but now he was here and there was a gun, and the sounds of sirens in the distance.

If it had been after his first arrest he would have been trying to talk Joey down, after all, murder in the commission of felony fell on all participants, and while he was not participating, Conrad had been around the block a few times now, he knew there wasn’t a snowballs chance in hell people would believe that he was just an innocent bystander.

It didn’t matter if Joey got away, or if he killed everyone here, this would be counted at Conrad’s third strike, he would be in for life, so he stood clutching a bag of chips and a chocolate bar, closed his eyes, and waited for it all to be over.

Forget-Me-Not

Sorry for the delay, I thought I had scheduled this for release….but apparently not. The response to this weeks six-sentence story prompt and a continuation of last weeks story, this was written for the word prompt of CANVAS. I worked it a few times, but it still isn’t quite what I wanted. Tell me what you think?


She hadn’t lost hope, but it was starting to stretch a little, wear thin in places, as she had given her book to a contact heading to the city a month prior, and she hadn’t heard a word since.

She feared the worst had come to pass, not that the book had been seized, or hadn’t made it’s way to the clothier, or even that someone else had bought the fated garment, but that Elsa had not received her message, because Elsa was no longer alive to receive it.

It was improbable, as Elsa was quite well placed due to her family and job, but in these times it was alway a possibility, one far more likely than Elsa getting her message and choosing to ignore it, or of course, having moved on from a wretch like her.

It was another six weeks before the courier arrived again, and Jocelyn’s heart sank when the bag of ill gotten goods was finally emptied and not a single thing had come her way. She turned to leave, drown her sorrows in the near lethal rotgut that passed for a drink here, but before she made it to the door she was stopped by a hand on her arm, and was confused as the couriers empty bag was pushed into her hands.

Jocelyn’s heart leapt as she rushed back to her room with her prize, which she had to turn almost inside out before she found it, the small scrap of canvas bearing an oil painting of a pair of forget-me-nots, done in Elsa’s style, and she began to weep with the relief of it, Elsa still loved her.


Part 1

Eye of the Beholder

This is my response to the six sentence word prompt of MUNDANE, by girlontheedge. We have returned to Faerie this week, where the fickle nature of the Fae is shown, when they choose to give Casey exactly what she wants. Poor Casey.


When Casey stepped into the ring of mushrooms and demanded visitations, she crossed into another world where she had experienced wonders beyond compare; she seen the greenest of all grasses, waterfalls that ran in rainbows, and flowers so beautiful that there were not words to describe them.

When she returned, finding only seconds had passed, she had believed that she had been given the gift she had so rightly deserved. Her art went from average, to extraordinary, as buyers lined up for a chance to bid on her glimpses into the strange new world she nonsensically called “Otherland”. They called her a visionary, and her contemporaries wondered how she could so easily let go of such extraordinary work, as it was said she didn’t keep a single one for herself.

No one saw the toll it was taking, as she frantically filled canvas after canvas, trying to recreate something that hovered just out of reach at the very edges of her memories. She mixed palate after palate, but could never quite recreate the colors she had seen, this world lacking the pigmentation required, and each time she finished and saw the pale imitation she had created, she wanted it out of her sight immediately, it’s very presence mocking her in her failure.

What at first had seemed a gift, now seemed a curse, torturing her for her arrogance, leaving her longing for a place she could not return to, and now unable to see anything but dull lifelessness in the mundane world that surrounded her.