Photo credit: Pixabay

I peer into your world

My eyes outline the form

My mind fills the right shadows

Memories take shape throughout you

False thoughts or beliefs

What matters not, always did

High tide of your emotion led me in

Low tide of despondency, scuttled hope

Empty fireplace of love awaits 

Cold ash hides history of embers 

Torrent of passion stripping everything 

No warning about flame’s brutal hunger

I peer into your world

Forms make my hurt grow

Shadows haunt my mind with love

Never knew the you that you really are 


Dear Mildred

Photo credit: Louise at The Storytellers Abode

“You have an admirer, Miss Mildred!” Auntie Dot produces a letter.  It’s sunshine yellow parchment sealed with green wax.

“Auntie, it’s just Charles.  He writes me these once a week.  Tells me of great adventure.  My hand will be his and when it happens. .. All the dreadful things we will embark on.  And children.  Seven… with four boys and three girls.” Mildred looks hopelessly bored of it all. 

Auntie looks her over.   “You could do much worse.  The young man has the wherewithal to travel by good means too!”

Auntie’s shadow barely clears the door before it’s snapped open. 

Dear Mildred,

I have come to the conclusion you are a wax figure.  I thought your long pause and quiet nature was odd.  But a lady has that privilege.  It’s the rather touch of your skin isn’t like other people.  I have had second thoughts since I have never seen you physically move.  I shall be by in a few days.   If you don’t have a pulse, I’m not sure on how this whole thing can work out. 


“He thinks I’m a wax figure!   This is a joke!   He’s toying with me.  Oooohhh, you had me Mr Charles!  Ha ha ha.  Yes, I didn’t see that coming.”  Mildred realizes the joke.

Auntie pops her head around the corner.”Everything ok?”

” He asked if I was a wax figure!” Mildred laughs through the line. 

“Well, you are.  Ain’t never left that chair in twenty years.   You never ate.  I don’t understand how you talk.” Auntie Dot brings the feather duster to clean her up. 

Written as part of a challenge called Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers , details are available at

Wordle #131 – Fading

1. Grip

2. Wave

3. Penny Dreadful (a cheap, sensational novel ofadventure, crime, or violence; dime novel.)

4. Sedate

5. Stelliferous (Having or abounding with stars.)

6. Episode

7. Plasma

8. Slight

9. Reference

10. Moribund (In a dying state; near death. On theverge of extinction or termination. Notprogressing or advancing; stagnant)

11. Famous

12. Fend

Use at least 10 of the words to create a story or poem

The words can appear in an alternate form

Use the words in any order that you like.

Tag: Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie and Wordle

Her best days past.  Her stelliforous episodes slighted. The famous, now sedate.  Penny Dreadful fends off references to grip her very soul.  A wave fills her with a moribund fears.

“Dear God,they kill me with Plasma!”  She pauses and throw the script.

Offending Party – Three Line Tales 

 “This was in my yard and you have the only golden maple on the block!” Her high pitched witchy voice cracks my eardrums.

“Uh, they kind of fall  of the tree this time of year.” I’m perplexed by the poisonous tone of a snake of a person.

“It is your responsibility to remove them from my property right away or I’ll go to the authorities!!” Her seriousness is unmistakable.
Written as part of a challenge called Three Line Tales , details are available at 

Three Line Tales, Week Forty-Three

Last Sunset

“The Sun make break out before it sets”  Father sits in his his back chair looking across the aged apartments and warehouses.

“You’ll get a good view of it yet.”  I’m not even looking at the scene.   The clock is stuck on 4:44.  I’m due down the street for a different setting.

“Come! Hurry with that scotch…  It won’t do me any good, if I’m dead before I get it!   Hell, doctor says it’ll kill me if I don’t stop drinking.  But I’ve only got months to live anyway.   You gonna make it over here before then.”  Father’s old bony hands grip both curved wood arm of the chair.  He pulls himself a few inches up to see what I’m doing. 

“Can I make myself one too ?   Really, I’ll be right there.   You’ll have a heart attack acting that way.   I put down the phone as I see him move. 

“She must be important.” He snatches the drink from my hands with remarkable speed.  In a flash it’s gone. “Another, I’m thirsty and my pain pills need help.”

I smile and go make the third drink for the suddenly lively dying man.

“You know they all come back to bite you in the ass.  Those women of yours.   It’s a shame.  I think your Mother and I raised you to be a door mat.  It was important to be respectful but I think you need a back bone.  Tell her the old man will die quickly.   Then she can have these two hours everyday too.” He stares out at the glowing orange ball diving toward the edge of the world.

“You know there’s no way I could ever be as ornery as the old man!  I told her I have slivers from you spitting glass at me. Here’s the next one.” I rush back.  I need to be there at the exact moment the Sun sets.

“I think this is the best one in awhile.” His voice fades quickly.  He raised the glass to toast the Sun. “My last one. l’m going now.  The world is best suited for those who can still get around.  I trust you’ll be alright finding the door.  I’ll be here in the chair tomorrow.  Can’t say I’ll be breathing.”

“Father, every night you say that, and tomorrow you are just as feisty.  Can I get you anything? Besides the glass of water.”  I turn to complete the daily ritual.  Walking in circles it seems.  I check the phone.  She’s waiting and sending a picture to hurry me along.

I carry the glass of water over to him.   His eyes are closed.   The scotch is gone.  I pry the glass from his hand.  He’s cold.  I shake him a bit.  I shake him a lot.  Both arms grab him and with a rush to see him wake up.  

It was the last sunset.  I’ve been going through motions.  I lost track of things.   I call 911.  They won’t do anything. He made sure noone would make him suffer longer. 
Written as part of a challenge called Sunday Photo Fiction, details at available

It’s Never Too Late

The thought of what happened 

Scars crave in stone, once flesh 

We hold these truths self evident 

My mind knows why but hides it. 

Amusing but accusing the theme

Slander is the soft side of bitterness 

Some day the collection of apology

Will make it all worthwhile 

But the lose of the other never shows

I’ll look back and know my place

You can reach back to meet in middle

It’s never too late to start again



    James was never seen again after setting off down the rutted, puddled road.  The voices were very specific. ‘Go alone.  Noone will find what you lost’

    The mist laid heavy across the gate.  Distorted images twisted as the light began to fade away.  Twilight approached with a suddein emphasis.  His shadow lost in stirring breezes

    Her form lead him to places he would never go alone.  The tangle of flesh excedes the want in being irreplaceable.  He suffered from the belief he meant something .   No narcotic, no aphrodisiac, no pain killer offers this high.

    James stared at the mist. Why must love  be this complex. He stepped forth.  The Netherworld awaited.  His smile temporary .   But souls becomes one with fate.

    wRitten as part of a challenge called  Finish off Friday detailsare available at

      Half Hearted 

      I mill about in mind

      Questions of why and when

      Grindstones crush kernels of logic

      Time and emotion don’t dance together

      Illusions make reality 

      Only from great depths we see

      Ashes bare little resemblance to wood

      Time and fate rarely share the same tune

      Viewpoints of sand shift

      Hourglasses laughing at sundials

      We are sandcastles waiting for the tide

      Fate and emotion watching the other act