“Mary, what are you trying to catch?”

“Those things!” Mary said, “they have 2 legs and make tons of noise.”

“A human?!” Mary’s husband said. “Are you nuts? They’ll kill us both!”
“No, This’ll work. And then we’ll eat like kings!”

“Mary! When you moved us inside, I thought it was to get out of the cold! Not this! We’re going to be killed, you stupid woman!”

“Here comes one now!” Mary said.

“And he has a shoe! Mary, run!”

Mary’s husband ran up the light and across the ceiling, looking back to see his wife gently placed on the shoe and walked to the outside door.

Once outside, they regrouped. “That was too close, Mary! No more bright ideas, alright?”

“Ok. But hear me out. What about a web across the interstate bridge?”


far side spiders

A Far Side tribute this week.

Friday Fictioneers: 100 word stories inspired by a photo that Rochelle Wisoff-Fields posts every week.  This week’s photo courtesy of Victor and Sarah Potter.


Fire Angel – Friday Fictioneers


She came through fire,
and she will return through fire,
her path is straight
she knows precisely what to do.
All the girls, being used
spit on, hit on, hurt
looked down on,
she will lift up,
and make strong.
These women, who’ve been scarred inside and out,
she will avenge.
She will hunt the oppressors down
and end them
with fire.
Because her heart has known pain
and her mind has known fear
at the hands of one who was meant to love her.
It pushed her through flame
making her see, giving her strength.
And now she will not abide
the abuse
on any of her daughters
Wow, so late this week (last week?) Better late than never, I suppose.

Friday Fictioneers: a story in 100 words prompted by a picture that Rochelle Wisoff-Fields posts every Wednesday.

Here’s a link to the rest of the stories for this week: Friday Fictioneer Stories

Friday Fictioneers – Savior From The Sun


The sky today
is covering
a dark grey blanket
that smothers, hanging low.
And the people in the streets
stoop, afraid to scrape their heads
to scoop out gooey fluff
in their hair from the sky.
So they go back inside
to keep their heads clean
and they whistle
and they wait
for the sun to return
to burn away the grey.
But when the sun comes back
they’re afraid of the heat
and though it’s not so bad
it makes them think of baking buns
so they run back inside
and they whistle
and they wait
for the blanket to return
their savior from the sun.

Friday Fictioneers: a story in 100 words prompted by a picture that Rochelle Wisoff-Fields posts every Wednesday. Here’s the collection link.




Sometimes I get sad, when I think about my old, dented, un-cool car, and my ratty clothes. I feel bad that I only have one child (even though people think I should have two), I get depressed when I think I’ll never be rich, I’ll never be famous, I’ll never drive a ferrari.

And then I see the sprinkler—the one my daughter plays in—and I think of the gallons of clean, drinkable water that I am wasting just so my daughter can play.

And I remember that millions of people haul their water on their backs for miles, I remember that millions of people drink water scraped from muddy, diseased puddles. I remember that factories dump toxic chemicals upstream from untold numbers of human being’s drinking water, that water in some places will kill you, that some children don’t bathe, don’t brush their teeth, don’t drink their water because they know it will make them sick, and millions of others are literally dying for clean water. I remember that even in my own country clean water isn’t abundant everywhere. Clean water is a treasure denied to billions…

…and my daughter has the privilege of running through streams of clean water, just for fun, just for nonsense, just to make her smile.

And then I can’t think of a single thing to be sad about.



And the sound of wind,
thick and harsh
through the trees,
as it blows the storm away
to haunt someone else;
It leaves behind
the smell of earth;
freshly cleansed,
new, toxins seeping deep,
down, filtering.
The trail of dark clouds breaking up
opening for the sun
-like sentries making way for their king,
And the king rains down
polishing the streets in light
so they glisten.
And everything is fresh,
And a rainbow graces his presence
just for a moment
he’s shy – sensitive
things must be just right for him to come out.
But all else is green, even dead grass looks greener
now that the rains have stopped.
And the air that had been bounced around and purified,
during the storm
can slow down – and pick up
the fragrant flowers, the sweet earth
and the magic.
Given to us,
For no other reason
than to enjoy.

Friday Fictioneers – Bobby’s Blood


“Uh-oh, looks like you’ve got quite a mess here, Miss,” the detective said, pointing to the candle. “Shouldn’t let them burn so long.”
She nodded and tried her best to look sad. Good thing the detective couldn’t see what was underneath the wax. Bobby’s blood. But she had done a good job, delicately and intricately drizzling the candle wax over the blood drips stained into the wood.
“Well, you get some sleep, Miss,” the detective said. “We’ll keep looking for Bobby.”
She smiled, trying not to look relieved. Now if only there was a candle big enough to hide the body.


My story this week is in a genre that I call: Just Finished Watching A Twin Peaks Marathon On Netflix In 2 Days (It’s funny how much influence something like that has).

Friday Fictioneers: a story in 100 words prompted by a photo that Rochelle Wisoff-Fields posts every Wednesday. Photo Credit: ©Renee Heath

Hardwired For Blood

He’s hardwired for blood
His body evolved to kill
to kill on land and in water
his teeth, white and jagged, meant to tear
meant to crush bone, meant to rip sinew.
He is a predator, his ancestors still roam and pillage in gangs
and they spark fear in humans.
When they howl, our hearts grow faint
and the hollow returns to our stomachs.
And he is their offspring, though we built him specifically to hunt.
And his natural diet, muscle and eyeballs and liver and skin
and hearts,
he would eat them even if they were still beating.
He stands before me, drool dangling from jowl to floor,
This predator, nature’s killing machine
hardwired for blood
he won’t take his eyes off the food, it is obvious what he wants,
this predator
he whines at me, and growls a little.
Then yawns.
This predator, this hunter, this killer,
whines for what he wants:
the chocolate cake on my plate,
and a nap.