Tag: Fiction

The Homecoming – A Scary Story

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500 word flash fiction

Photo by the author

This story is one I wrote last year for the NYC Midnight Scary Story contest. The judges liked it enough that I advanced to the second round in that contest. One of the prompts that had to be included was a character that was a nomad. I don’t remember the other prompts. The story also had to be 500 words or less, a real challenge when you have to include specific things.

I’m not entering any NYC Midnight contests this year. They have been a good incentive to stretch my creativity, but I’ve put off writing a novel for too long and now is the time to concentrate on that. For now, I hope you enjoy this little tale. It’s a ghost story of sorts, but not too scary.

The Homecoming

Every October, Evangeline was drawn back to the place she had known as home. No matter how far she traveled, like a bird she returned, drawn to dark mysteries in the East Texas house.

She parked the RV in the weed-filled drive and waited as the witch came outside. The old woman’s name refused to rise in her recollection, but her face was one Evangeline could imagine as her own reflection, twenty years forward.

“You’re here,” the witch said. “Come inside.”

Evangeline left the motor home, with its collage of bumper stickers from places pinned on a map. Never settling, lest she mistake familiarity for forgiveness.

The porch creaked with her steps, the wood gone soft and gray. Beside the house, laundry hung on a line—cotton dresses and sheets that snapped like sails in the wind.

She followed the old woman down a hallway with portraits on the walls. A young man in a soldier’s uniform, a bride in an oval frame, a family of stern-faced folk. Last, a photograph, colors faded to blue-green, of a mother and child. Broken glass hung in the frame. Someone had carved out their faces, taken a sharp edge to the paper. Evangeline trailed her fingers across the clinging shards of glass. A carmine drop of blood bloomed on her thumb.

Inside the bathroom, water dripped into a claw-footed tub. The scent of mold and rain-damp leaves, of things left to rot, drifted out. Evangeline covered her face to hide from the room.

“Sit.” The old woman pointed at the kitchen table. Scattered across the surface were dried herbs, a hen’s egg, a black candle, and a clump of clay molded into the shape of an infant.

After lighting the candle, the woman grabbed Evangeline’s hand and squeezed a drop of blood into the flame. A clock chimed three times.

“Hurry.” The witch pushed a wicker basket at Evangeline.

Outside, dark clouds threatened. She raced to save the wash. When she tried to return the basket, the witch blocked her. “You must face this.”

Evangeline shivered. The bathroom door creaked closed, hiding what waited inside. No giggling play, no splashing. Only drip, drip, drip.

“The spell didn’t work. I don’t remember,” Evangeline lied.

“It was an accident. Forgive yourself.”

Before she climbed into the RV, Evangeline kissed the old woman’s cheek. “I’ll see you next year,” she said. “Goodbye, Mother.”

THE END

A Bouquet of Books Read

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“March is the month of expectation, the things we do not know.” — Emily Dickinson

Photo by Terrye Turpin

March was a good month for reading. I began with The Dog Stars by Peter Heller. I’d read this one before but this time it was for a book club pick and I enjoyed discussing it with other readers. Every time I pick up a book I try to focus on the skill behind the story, but it’s also nice to just read for enjoyment.

The Dog Stars is written in first person. Hig, the point of view character, is a pilot who owns a 1956 Cessna that he flies on reconnaissance missions with his dog Jasper as copilot. The author captures the sensation of flying with such details you feel as though you are in the plane with them.

Peter Heller’s writing style is unique and fits with the type of books he writes. The sentences are mostly short and fit perfectly with Hig’s character. Like Cormac McCarthy, Heller doesn’t use dialogue tags or different punctuation for dialogue. I thought at first this would be jarring, but instead it made me feel like I was inside the character’s head and feeling the things he felt.

Woven within this post-apocalyptic story are vivid descriptions of nature, making the loss of some species heartbreaking in this dystopian world. The overall theme, however, is hopeful as Hig searches for community and fellowship despite the struggle to survive.

One of the hardest things I find about writing is coming up with titles. I’m always interested in the meanings behind them, and I learned that Sirius, the dog star, is the brightest star in the sky, and has been used for navigation by ancient societies. Fitting then to use that as the title for a book about searching for home.

The next five books I read last month were chosen because they are similar in theme and plot to the contemporary fantasy novel that I am writing. I’ve heard it many times and it’s great advice – write the book that you want to read, and read the books that are in the genre you want to write.

I picked up Gallant by V.E. Schwab, Broken Ghosts by J.D. Oswald, The Astonishing Color of After, by Emily X.R. Pan, The Hazel Wood by Melissa Albert, and The Ocean at the End of the Lane by Neil Gaiman.

All the above had excellent examples of a well-developed magic system. I also tried to find books where the main character was dealing with loss, grief, and family secrets.

I had read The Hazel Wood years ago when it first came out, so this time around I outlined the plot structure as I read, noting the turning points in the story and where they fell in the book. This is a useful exercise. I’m used to writing short stories, and it’s taken me some adjustment to the longer form of a novel. I tried outlining my story, but that felt too much like homework. Instead, I’ve adopted an approach halfway between discovery writing and strict outlining. I know where the major plot points have to fall, and I’m writing to those as I go. Reading with a focus on how other authors have structured their books is a pleasant way to learn plotting.

One note about the Neil Gaiman book. I know he is a problematic author considering the revelations of his sexual assault accusations. Although it looks like there won’t be any charges brought against him, I don’t feel right supporting his work by buying any new work he produces. The same thing with other authors who turn out to be horrible people despite their storytelling talent – J.K. Rowling for example.

Can we appreciate the work separate from those who produced it? For me the answer is it depends. The books I have on my shelf were bought and paid for before the truth came out on these authors. Throwing out those books won’t make any difference in the world. I’ll keep them and enjoy the stories for their own merits, but I won’t spend any more money supporting those authors. There are plenty of other books to buy, plenty of deserving writers to support.

I always listen to at least one audiobook each month, and in March it was How to Sell a Haunted House. I love Grady Hendrix’s blend of humor and horror. This book had themes of grief, personal loss, family drama, and haunted puppets.

My just-for-fun book this month was book four in the Dungeon Crawler Carl series – The Gate of the Feral Gods by Matt Dinniman. I’m hooked on these books and I also bought the audiobook versions so I can enjoy the wonderful narration. My husband has started reading them, so now I have to wait for him to catch up before we can talk about them. He’s on book two, so I will probably have to read the first three again while I’m waiting for him to get to book four. It’s a struggle but I’m prepared for the sacrifice. (wink)

Counting Dead Flowers

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A 500 word flash fiction story

Photo by the author

The story below is one I wrote last year for the NYC Midnight 500 word contest. I’ve held onto it, thinking maybe I would expand it and put it into a book of short stories, but the longer I put that off, the less interest I have in editing. There are folders on my computer filled with half-finished stories. At least this one is complete, although it could have used a few more words. But it’s enough for now and it gives me something to post on the weekly blog.

One of these days I’ll pull those other stories together into a book. I don’t feel too guilty letting them sit. I’ve started work on a novel, and I’ll use that as an excuse for now.

This one is a horror story and it’s a bit dark, so be warned.

Counting Dead Flowers

On my fourth trip to the cellar, the rotten step collapsed. Luckily, most of my weight had shifted, my foot planted on the next tread. Cursing, I gripped the handrail, glancing over my shoulder at the gap where the middle board had been. Much of the stairs lay in shadows due to the burned-out bulb at the top.

I could imagine my sister Ivy chiding me for not replacing it. She’d be angry enough that I was here alone. “Don’t go without me. I’ll be there by Thursday at the latest,” she’d said.

Three days had passed since our father’s death. Eager to begin the search, I had sorted through the mounds of newspapers, broken dishes, empty takeout containers, and discarded electronics that filled the home like barnacles on a ship.

I’d arranged our father’s cremation. There was no point in a funeral—the man had no one other than Ivy and me. He had lived alone in this house for twenty years.

At the bottom of the stairs, I weaved through the cardboard boxes I’d moved to clear a path to the back. The place stank of mildew and the damp earth of the cellar’s dirt floor. My shadow, cast by the pale light of the bare bulb on the ceiling, hovered over the old chest that I had uncovered. Made of cheap particleboard, one end had rotted out, spilling the contents. A child’s jump rope lay coiled on top of the chest. Lifting the rope, I recalled the rhyming song we had chanted.

I know a secret. Can you guess?

which little flower he likes best?

Setting aside the rope, I scooped out folded sheets of paper, yellowed and dotted with black and green mold. Childish handwriting covered the pages that could still be read. I shivered, remembering the scratch of pencil against paper as I created a list of names.

Daisy, Rosy, Violet, Belle,

hide in the cellar, and don’t you tell.

Upstairs, the front door creaked open, followed by my sister’s voice. “Lily?”

Frantic, I tried to stuff the papers back into the chest, but they slid out, along with a stack of Polaroid photos.

Sister doesn’t care, sister doesn’t mind.

How many petals will you find?

Her heels tapped along the wood floors. I turned over the first photo. A pale face stared at me. One of the missing girls we’d planted in the cellar dirt. How many were there? I kept getting the number confused with the count at the end of our jump rope rhyme. One, two, three, four—we stopped when he had the first stroke, when I was twelve, Ivy fourteen.

“Where are you?” Ivy’s steps halted.

“Down here.”

She wanted to confess, to set the past right. Would a jury forgive our acting as lures for the innocent? No. We clipped them, gardeners deadheading blooms.

Counting the steps as Ivy descended, I picked up the rope. If the broken tread didn’t do the job, I would finish it.

THE END

Someday All This Will be Yours

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An inheritance of creepy things

Photo by the author – (Squirrel baby does reside in our home)

I’ve been listening to the audiobook for Grady Hendrix’s novel How to Sell a Haunted House. I have a signed copy of this book somewhere on my bookcase, but I hadn’t gotten around to reading the physical copy. In order to reduce my To Be Read list, I’ve resorted to audiobooks.

The story is about a brother and sister – Louise and Mark – who have to clear out their parent’s home after their death. “Gee Terrye, that sounds like a depressing read.” Yes, it could be, but the parents were sort of hoarders and the mom left behind a huge collection of dolls and puppets. And the puppets and dolls are haunted.

Somehow Louise and Mark must reconcile their past and clear out the house in order to sell it.

Reading the story I can’t help but picture the hundreds of books and movies my husband and I have accumulated. Add in the puzzles, board games, closets full of clothing, and two china cabinets full of pottery and it will make for a hell of an estate sale when we kick off. I also have dolls, but none of them are haunted. Yet.

Photo by the author

I don’t own the doll above, or any of these pictured below, although there are a couple that I do regret not buying. Can you guess which ones?

I do love encountering these creepy dolls in the stores we visit. Taking their picture is almost as satisfying as buying them and bringing them home.

Photo by the author

Not just one potentially possessed toy, but a whole suitcase. Who could resist? Me, that’s who.

Photo by the author

Even Saint Nick has an evil side. Maybe he just needs some love, or someone to murder. Don’t leave out cookies for this guy.

Photo by the author

This fellow looks like he’s climbing over that pile so he can jump right in your arms. He also looks like he’s been to one to many raves.

Photo by the author

No. Just no. I can’t even look at this photo for longer than a minute.

Photo by the author

Here’s a story waiting to be written – revenge of the abandoned bride (doll).

Photo by the author

Not a doll but pretty cool. Goodnight Irene.

Photo by the author

It’s difficult but not impossible to be frightened by Captain Kangaroo.

Photo by the author

This one is life-sized. Bwa ha ha ha ha.

Photo by the author

What is going on here? This child-size wheelchair is spooky enough, it reminds me of the 1980 movie The Changeling. Add in this life-sized toddler and her baby brother/sister and there’s a plot twist.

Photo by the author

Why did the antique shop pose this guy with the Chemistry Lab? And what is he wearing? Why is his hand so tiny? His expression says he has been disappointed by everything in life.

Photo by the author

Whoever invented those doll eyes and that open and close, please know you have inspired so many nightmares.

Photo by the author

Another monkey. This one has shoes and a shirt but no pants. His half-naked state makes that grin so ominous. Also, why is half-dressed so much weirder than being completely unclothed? Is he naked if he’s covered in fur?

Photo by the author

Here’s some friends just hanging out.

Photo by the author

She looks like she’s rather be anywhere but here, with that screaming baby next to her.

I wonder about the people who owned these things. Did they have a special place in their home? How did they end up in dusty antique stores, next to framed portraits of someone’s grandmother? Were they there at the end, when the people who loved them were no longer around?

Imagine the horror inspired when the relatives gather round the patriarchs and matriarchs and hear them say, “Someday all this will be yours.”

Die Hungry

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A flash fiction short story

Photo by the author

The story I’m sharing tonight was my entry for the second round in the NYC Midnight Scary Story contest. I didn’t advance to the finals and I’m a choosing to look on that as okay news as this means I now have the weekend free to work on the novel that I’ve started.

I received some good feedback from the judges, and I considered whether I wanted to go in and re-work the story to submit somewhere. But I then decided that it would just be one way of putting off the hard work of novel writing.

The prompts for this story were: burial, skipping a meal, and a couponer. I do love the prompt based writing contests, as they are always a challenge to creativity. And now, here is the story in all its unedited glory. Enjoy! (or not – this one’s a bit dark)

Die Hungry

The line of people wound through the cemetery. At the edge of the graveyard, a backhoe idled. Hayla shuffled forward, clasping her vouchers. Armed guards strode beside them, like wolves stalking prey.

“It’s fine weather for Parting Day,” the bearded man in front of her said. He grinned, revealing rotten teeth.

Shrinking back, Hayla nodded. Was this his mandatory age of disposition? She had signed up on her fiftieth birthday, five years early, to gift the unused time to her daughter.

The man leaned close enough she could smell the onion stink of his body odor. “I heard they don’t embalm or cremate folks so they can test whether the virus is still around.”

“Don’t care,” Hayla said. “Better to be buried with a full stomach than die hungry and rise as a ghoul.”

“You think this is enough?” The man held a single orange ticket, the color of the free government vouchers. Hayla had five meal coupons, one in each color, collected in preparation for today. A full digestive system halted the disease.

She turned, eager to glimpse the feast table. The scent of roasted chicken drifted through the air. Her stomach rumbled. She shouldn’t have fasted yesterday, but she wanted to gorge today. She swallowed, her mouth slick with saliva.  

“Get back!” One of the armed men shouted. Across from the queue, a dozen people, men and women, fought against the ropes binding them. The unfed. Hayla shivered. Buried under concrete, unable to claw your way out. The group struggled toward the feast line.

“Go!” A guard pushed Hayla into the bearded man.

Screaming, the bound group surged into the queue. Hayla tripped, falling hard on her side. A large man landed on her, crushing her breath. She rolled, pushing the man away.

Gunfire thundered, bullets thudding into victims. Hayla crawled across the grass, shuddering as people fell wailing around her. Within seconds it was over. Hayla staggered to her feet. She ran trembling hands down her body. Her meal coupons were gone.

She grabbed a guard. “I’ve lost my tickets!”

“Sure. And I’m the pope.” He pulled her toward a pile of bodies.

A bulldozer roared, scooping up the fallen. The guard raised his gun.

Hayla woke, lying cold in absolute darkness. Something soft and wet pressed her cheek. Someone moaned. She grasped their arm and pulled it to her mouth. Hungry. She was so hungry.

THE END

The Evolution of a Story

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From inspiration to publication

A sign on the trail at the old Cisco zoo. Photo by the author

One of the most common questions that authors get asked is some variation of “Where do you get your ideas?” For most writers, the answer is that we find them in our everyday experiences. This includes people who pen tales about ghosts, demons, and dragons. We don’t encounter those in real life, but we run across settings or objects that spur stories. Stephen King was inspired to write his novel The Shining after a winter stay at the Stanley Hotel in Estes, Colorado. The hotel’s isolated setting and a nightmare about his son gave rise to the plot of the horror story. And a very good one it is.

Not a ghost, but a ghostly garment for sure. Photo by the author.

A couple of years back, my husband Andrew and I visited the abandoned zoo trail in Cisco, Texas. I’ve got a separate post about that visit – you can find it on the Road Trip tab and read about it if you’d like. Strolling through that place I felt it would make a great setting. I filed away the memories and images to recall at some later date. They came to life in the Spring 2025 Writing Battle writing contest. I received the prompts “Small Town Secrets”, “Zoo”, and “Rich Aunt.” The minute I saw “Zoo” I knew where to set my story. Once I placed the characters in that abandoned zoo I found the secret that they were keeping.

There’s a story waiting inside this room. Photo by the author.

Getting words on the page is the hardest step for me, but the contest had a deadline so that gave me motivation. I ran my first draft through the ProWritingAid app to polish the grammar and eliminate most of the passive voice. After one last edit, I finished the story and submitted it to the contest. It didn’t win any prizes. However, I received some useful feedback from the other contestants. The trick to a good story is that it’s not the writing but the rewriting that makes it stand out. After editing the draft that I had submitted to the contest, I took my pages to my writing group and got their feedback. Then, I submitted the story to the Flash Fiction Magazine’s contest. It didn’t win there either, but one of the editors emailed me afterwards and offered to publish it in the magazine. With some edits, of course. I said yes and off we went on the last round of revisions.

When we encounter haunted objects, there’s story waiting. Photo by the author.

My story, All We Have Abandoned, went through at least six rounds of editing before finally being published. Here is a list of some things that were changed through that process.

  1. The title went from Forsaken but not Forgotten to the current one – All We Have Abandoned. I think the second title brings out the emotions felt in my trip to the old zoo and also fits the plot of the fiction piece better than the first title.
  2. Some of the early readers mentioned that they couldn’t picture the point of view character. I realized that I hadn’t mentioned a gender or even a name for this character until past the halfway point in the story. Way too late – if you don’t introduce the main character early, readers will form their own idea of who that person should be. This can be jarring if they get the wrong picture of them and have to adjust later. I moved the narrator’s name up to the first word in the first sentence and added the phrase “no longer a little boy” as a second reminder of his gender.
  3. I got rid of most of the “rich aunt” details that I had to include in the contest story but kept a couple of things about her character. She wears rhinestone-studded sunglasses and carries a cane with a silver handle. Those details I think will allow the reader to imagine her and also no a little bit about her personality.
  4. My original draft included a full paragraph of back story about the zoo history. Fascinating stuff to me, the author, but not so interesting to readers who just wanted to get into the story. Cutting those lines allowed me room to add a scene where the main character encounters someone in the past.
  5. Speaking of the past, I had a problem with tenses. There’s a flashback while the characters stroll through the zoo, but I wrote almost everything in present tense. Some of my early readers were confused about the timeline until I fixed that problem.
  6. I made a small change to the ending, substituting one word for two in the last sentence. In general, I think it is always a good idea to cut words and this one change gave the story more impact and an ending that will stay with the reader.

Now, if you’d like to read the final, published story, here’s the link to the post on the Flash Fiction Magazine page: All We Have Abandoned

As always, thank you for reading!

Reading the Room

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My plan for completing my to-be-read list

My home library – photo edited with the Waterlogue app

I’ve always felt like there’s no such thing as too many books. I reassure myself that it isn’t the number of books I own, instead the problem is the limited amount of shelf space in our house. I haven’t set a resolution or any reading goals – that is a sure path to failure in my opinion (and based on prior experience). Instead, I’m rewarding myself with reading time instead of doom-scrolling social media. Also, I’m trying to read with a focus on the writing and come away from each novel with something useful I can apply to my own work.

Photo by the Terrye T.

I started off the year with The Lost Story by Meg Shaffer. This is a portal fantasy that features a cozy queer (M/M) romance. The author captured the characters so well I became invested in the love story between Rafe and Jeremy.

Although I did enjoy this book, it fell short in some places. It is a portal fantasy, and there are chapters written in the point of view of an omniscient “storyteller” that give the novel the feel of a fairy tale, but at times this feels a bit intrusive and like an unnecessary explanation of events and how we as readers should interpret things.
There are three main characters – Emilie, Jeremy, and Rafe. Emilie is searching for her sister who went missing years ago, and she enlists Jeremy to help in the search. He, in turn, gets Rafe to lead them to the portal.
The world building is fair, but for this length of a novel it seemed to take too long for them to get to Shanandoah, the fantasy land where most of the action takes place.
Although Emilie’s search is the reason they venture to Shanandoah, not very much of the story is given to develop either Emilie or her sister.
The romance portion is very well done and the characters of Jeremy and Rafe are both well drawn, but so much of the story is given over to them and not enough, in my opinion, to the fantasy portion of the story. This makes the ending feel a little too convenient and easy.
Overall though I’d recommend this book because the style of writing drew me in and I was invested in the characters and wanted them to succeed.

What I learned from this book: I think if you go to the trouble to create a character, that character deserves time on the page. And I really don’t like the omniscient narrator.

Photo by Terrye T.

This is the second fantasy book I read last month. I enjoyed the characters and in general I love overall vibe of TJ Klune’s books. The story centers around an orphanage for magical children and the adults who care for them. There are themes of found family, overcoming prejudice, and being true to oneself.

My takeaway: Good example of close third person point of view, giving the reader an intimate look into the emotions and perceptions of the POV characters.

Photo by Terrye T.

This is the first book in a series. I bought the second book, The Rookery, at Dollar Tree, without realizing until later that I needed to read The Nightjar first. Oh woe! Tragedy! I had to buy another book in order to read the one I bought.

This is another portal fantasy, with a magical world existing alongside the real world London. I love that concept, that there might be a secret, alternate universe existing right alongside ours. (I’m still looking for the entrance)

The magic system in this story is one I haven’t seen before – every person has an invisible bird guarding their soul. The main character, Alice, has the ability to see those birds, and an evil faction wants to make her use that ability to hunt down the people with magical talent. There’s a romance subplot that doesn’t get very far in this book, but maybe the characters get together in the sequel.

The lesson here: Nail down the details of any magic system in your writing. Try a new spin on the old tropes.

Photo by Terrye T.

This was almost my first DNF (did not finish) for 2026. I ended up skimming through the chapters to get to the end. And I still don’t know what happened to everyone at the conclusion. It was a confusing and slow read, probably because the main viewpoint character had lost most of her childhood memories around being on the show Mr. Magic. She had only a vague understanding of the events in the past and the details about the weird and ominous show were revealed through the perception of other characters. I felt this isolated me from the tension and horror. This book could be enjoyed by readers who liked House of Leaves or Head Full of Ghosts, another two books I just couldn’t get into.

Photo by Terrye T.

I loved this book. The cover is deceptive – I went into it thinking it might be a mild mystery story and instead got full blown horror with demon possession. Nice! Parts were so scary I had to put the book aside after dark. Plus there was an ending so messed up it made me smile with appreciation. This is toxic family drama to the ninth degree.

Lessons: Build up the characters first, and then let really horrible things happen to them. Drop hints about the ending long before the last chapter, so that when everything wraps up the reader is left smiling because it all makes sense.

Photos by Terrye T.

I finished up the month with another two books in the Dungeon Crawler Carl series by Matt Dinniman. These books are the perfect escape from the craziness going on in the outside world. I’d much rather experience the trials of Carl and Princess Donut as they fight their way through the alien dungeon, battling monsters and dodging deadly traps. However, in the midst of the escapism there are lessons on perseverance.

The Cook in the Kitchen

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A short story

Photo by the author

This story is one I submitted to one of NYC Midnight’s writing contests. I don’t remember the prompts, but they had to be something amusing to result in the following tale.

The Cook in the Kitchen

Betty Norman held the dusty cookbook angled toward the sunlight spilling through the thrift shop’s window. Her husband Eustace tromped up behind her, his arms filled with a dozen mildewed copies of Popular Mechanics magazines and five dull-brass cabinet knobs. He propped his chin on her shoulder as she traced the spidery handwriting in the margins of the cookbook. Betty flipped through the yellowed pages. She tapped a brown stain on the cover, shaped like the state of West Virginia. “I bet there’s good recipes here.”

Smiling, Eustace agreed. “This one might do the trick.”

At home, she stashed her purchase between a worn Fanny Farmer cookbook and a hardcover copy of The Joy of Cooking. The shelves on the bookcase sagged beneath the weight of thousands of recipes. Despite all this instruction, Betty had never grilled a steak she couldn’t burn to bitter charcoal, had never baked a cake that rose above the batter. If she put eggs on to boil, the water would simmer away until the pan ran dry, without so much as firming up a single yolk. When it came to cooking, she was cursed.

Her mother hadn’t meant to put a hex on her. Betty’s mother had never let her help in the kitchen. Two cooks would spoil the broth.

Later that night Betty woke to the clink of silverware, and the hushed whisper of drawers sliding open. In the dark kitchen she discovered the new cookbook on the counter, surrounded by a dusting of flour. A stove burner blazed blue flame. Betty rushed to turn it off. A pale woman wearing an apron stood reaching for the refrigerator door.

“Hey!” called Betty.

Just then, Eustace stepped into the kitchen and flipped on the light. The woman disappeared. “You fixing a late-night snack?” He pointed to the open cookbook.

“Not me.” Betty shook her head. She picked up the cookbook and shook the flour from the pages. “We brought home a ghost.”

Sighing, Betty pulled a thin, cloth-bound volume from the shelf. She opened it and ran her finger across the bold, block letters scrawled across the margins as she said, “Mom. I need your help again.”

Betty stacked her mother’s cookbook atop their latest purchase. She and Eustace went off to bed, certain the ghost would be gone. Betty’s mother never allowed anyone else in the kitchen.

THE END

Short Story or Vignette?

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One needs a plot, the other doesn’t

Moth on Lantana – photo by the author

I’m sharing another piece from a Writing Battle contest. This one had a limit of 250 words. The question I struggle with when writing very short, micro fiction is this: “How do you produce a complete story with characterization, rising and falling action, plot, and resolution when you only have X number of words?” Sometimes I feel like I hit the sweet spot on all those things that make a story a story, and sometimes I just have to be happy writing a vignette.

Vignette: a brief evocative description, account, or episode.

The story below made it to the top 16 in my category, but didn’t win any prizes. My genre was “Summer Fling”, I had to have a character “Bumbling Adventurer” and I had to include the word “Prudent.”

After the contest, I tried to expand the piece and I submitted it to a couple of other contests, only to get it back with the feedback that it wasn’t a complete story. Anyway I like it, so here it is. What do you think? Short story or vignette?

Lantana

Alina rolled through life like a tumbleweed — reckless, never prudent. She wore odd combinations—crimson flowers on an orange shirt and blue striped shorts, as though she dressed in the dark. One summer morning, she braided her sun-gold hair and set off to meet her latest boyfriend, Jay, at the pier. 

She strolled across the sand toward a Ferris wheel outlined against a periwinkle sky. After she lost a shoe in the surf, Alina stopped at the gift shop and bought a pair of rubber sandals.

When she found Jay, he held a paper container of fries. His kiss tasted of salt. Holding hands, they weaved past carnival games and their clanging, ringing, flashing lights. A summer season of popcorn bits and peanut shells crunched underfoot. Alina purchased a souvenir cup topped with a plastic dolphin’s head. They shared a pink puff of cotton candy, the hot-sugar stickiness clinging to their fingers. So sweet, before dissolving to nothing.   

They paused at a giant wooden track. Overhead, cars filled with screaming passengers rattled past. “Last chance, ride it with me?” Alina asked.

“I don’t do roller coasters.”

She thrust the dolphin cup at him and joined the queue for the ride. At the second hill, the coaster froze at the summit. In the moments before the cars resumed their plunge, Alina stretched her arms overhead. The wind carried a hint of coolness, heralding summer’s end. She searched the ground for Jay. Below, he lifted the cup in salute, or farewell.

THE END

Another Contest Story

~ mstturpin ~ 1 Comment

Very short fiction

Photo by the author

The story I’m sharing tonight is from a Writing Battle contest. I like this contest because it is peer judged and each writer gets feedback from other contestants. To make it fair, you read and judge stories that aren’t in the same category as yours. The prompts and genres are always a surprise, and include some crazy combinations. For the story below, my genre was “Military Lampoon” and I had to include the subject of “Justice” and the word “Zealous.” Also, it had to be less than 500 words.

The feedback I received mentioned that the tale didn’t quite meet the justice theme, but I had fun with it.

The War of Roses

Lee Hammond had no quarrel with his neighbor until the crape myrtle incident. He kept silent over the neon dandelions dotting the yard next door, figuring someone who had spent his life at sea wouldn’t understand the complexities of lawn maintenance. Lee’s grass was an immaculate spread of green, like a soft blanket thrown across the ground. Saturdays, at exactly 0800, he zealously attacked the shrubbery, chopping it into uniform rectangles.

He ignored the Navy flag flapping from the man’s porch and ordered a larger version of his own banner—a sparkling white Army flag with gold fringe. 

The morning of the crape myrtle massacre, a landscaping truck parked in front of Lee’s driveway. Workers spilled onto the ten-foot-wide strip of grass separating the two homes. Music throbbed from a boom box, accompanied by the buzz of a chainsaw. 

“Hmph.” Lee dropped the blind he’d been peering behind.

Lee’s wife folded her newspaper. “You should go over. Introduce yourself.” 

He stooped to pet Ike, their English bulldog. “And say what? Why are you cutting down that tree? The one shading my drive?” 

“You two have much in common, being retired military.”

Lee grunted and parted the blinds again. “In common? The man has a cat, Helen. I see it over there, in the window.” An orange tabby pressed against the glass, staring at him. 

At the end of the day, the lawn between the two homes had been transformed. A squat rosebush sported crimson buds, and pink and yellow zinnias were sprinkled throughout the bed. That evening, while he took the dog out, Lee paced off the distance from his drive to the flowers. He smiled when Ike raised a leg to relieve himself against the rosebush. 

Things went on quietly until the morning Ike slipped under the backyard fence. Lee woke to a clamor of shouts, barks, and howls. He raced outside to spot Ike panting in the yard next door. Muddy flower petals littered the driveway and the rose bush tilted half out of the dirt. The orange tabby peered from atop the neighbor’s garage. 

“I’m sorry.” Lee grasped the dog’s collar. “Ike never does this.” 

“Ike? As in Eisenhower? Commander-in-chief?” When Lee nodded, the neighbor waved at the cat. “Meet Admiral Chester Nimitz.” The neighbor held out his hand. “I’m Jack.” 

After securing Ike inside, Lee offered the ladder from his garage. He held it as Jack climbed. 

Once they’d rescued Chester, Lee gestured to the ruined landscaping. “Since my dog did this damage, I’ll pay for replacements. And help you replant.” 

“I suspect it was a joint operation, Army and Navy,” Jack said. “Half is fair. Why don’t you come with me to the nursery?” 

Lee accepted the man’s offer, glad to offer advice on drought and pet tolerant plants. Later, their work finished, he had to admit they made a pleasant view, though he missed the crape myrtle’s shade. Red roses, blue lobelia and white gardenias—a perfectly patriotic compromise. 

THE END