The Moon –

I run.  A staggered path weaves between rock, trees and cactus.  My enemy is above.  I feel the eyes scanning the landscape. 

“Shadows are my friend.” I whisper to my fellow creatures of the night. “I will sleep on safety beneath your own nose!”

I want to laugh.  But sound travels to easily here.  Its bad enough I see my quarry.  But it’s myself dug in the hole hunted.   He can’t get what he can’t see.   The plan is working so far.

The clouds thin.  Moonbeams stretch out.  Rays of silver like nails in my coffin.  I hide with my back finding an uncomfortable Saguaro.  I watch the light chase the darkness.   Hope is a thin shadow.

My pulse rises to match a deep thumping heart.  If heartbeats slow maybe I can breath.  But for how long?

I turn my head to look.  

His face smiles back.  An oblivious look or game over expression.  If I could hear him.  I hate the distance between us.  Only in moving do I get to find out who wins this night.

“I would stab at you.  You hide too far away.” I look away from him. “There has always been a man within the Moon.  He stalks us all.   He had always been death. He will always be death.  Tonight, better be someone else’s turn.”

I curl into a ball and wait. 

Written as part of a challenge called Tale Weaver, details available  at

Tale Weaver #105: The Dark Side 02.02.17 – Our Song

I wake suddenly.   My arms and shoulders stiff.  A pale moon lights a room of familiar but tainted things.  Eyes search for what I know.  I expect you.  But no such luck.  A single thing is there for me.  

Whoosh, whoosh, Whoosh…. the wobbly fan pushes the stale air around.  

Our bed, a twisted mass of tired sheets.  Two flat pillows and a headboard.  If I could turn there would be dresser and a couple of nightstands.  The lights are all gone. They left out the window with the alarm clock. 

My restless ear listen for any trace of you.  The shuffling feet always give you away.  I wait.  I’ll manage to pull on the wires that hold me in place.  I reflect upon the splitting pain from the cocktail last served.  Something special…. you called it.

My dark home… Our dark home filled with divides from our own divides.  Its cold but wasn’t it always..  

I beg my brain to engage in the memory that ended here.   It refuses.  Instead, it amplifies the cracking of the house frame.  The clicking on of a furnace.  Traffic outside.  The branch against the house.  The one, I was supposed to cut..

The thought tatters and falls.  I sense you at the door.  You turned me away from it.   But we know you are there…

“What are you waiting for…. just get it over with! ” I break the silence with a terse stab.

“Baby, we can talk all night… But that ain’t getting us nowhere.” Her deadpan words hang in the darkness. 
*The last line borrowed from…

“Two outta three ain’t bad” preformed by Meatloaf, Written by John Steinman linked here

Written as part of a challenge Tale weaver, details at

Dragon’s Liar

“It’s right there.  Come on! Come on look!” Alex yells at Jackie.  His arms thrusting violently toward the tree.

“Alex, there’s nothing there.  It’s an old tree.  You are stupid.  Dragons don’t love here it’s not ugly enough.  My dad says so.  He had one as a kid!” Jackie tugs on his ball cap.  His mind is on throwing a ball around.  Big kid stuff.  

“Your dad was going to build you a tree house.   You said.  I bet he knows the dragon lives here.” Alex kicks the trunk of the tree. “I saw him.  The dragon is green.  Shiny green, kinda dark like.  Sparkly. He is shy dragon.” 

“Did you hear it roar?  Everyone knows a dragon roars to tell you it’s there.  If you scare a dragon they torch you with their breath.  But I told you.  They live in ugly places.  They need mist and something called gloom.  We ain’t got that.”  Jackie throws the ball on the air.  He missing it and it bounces toward the tree.

“The dragon did that.  He wants you to go see him.” Alex flashes a smile at Jackie.  His little heart jumping out of his chest. 

“They can’t do that!”  Jackie stands his ground.

“You are scared!  Jackie is scared! He is so scared.”  Alex spins around telling the world.

“AM not!  I’ll show you.  I’ll show you! ” Jackie doesn’t move.

“Chicken!  Or do they need gloom too!” Alex crosses his arms.  His stiff body  says ‘I dare you’. 

“Ok. I’ll do it…” Jackie slowly walks over to the tree.

The ball rolls closer to the tree.  One green flash comes from the tree.  An eye clear as day blinks twice.

“Little Jackie Paper?”  something in the tree speaks.

Two boys run.

Tale Weaver #94 – Alien Fairy Tales

” Great many parsecs away.  A minor civilization rose.  They sent out all kinds of crazy thoughts.  Images of their daily lives. I was probably your age…. maybe  younger.” Delbar pauses to look at his eldest progeny.  Then back at the sinvet. “We must  keep ourselves worthy of visitations.  Never can say who is watching us.”

He turns toward Ixlili her face smiles but the eyes tell another tale.

“You don’t believe others see us!  Really.  We have ten planets we monitor.  But noone can see us, right?”  Delbar smiles and his eyes lie as well. 

“Ok, get on with it.  Really they watch us.   They can’t tell on me, so I don’t understand.” Ixlili pouts as much as a Denebian Solstem can.

“Ixlili, You will be just like the Earth girl Lucy.  Everyone will laugh at everything you do. Really, they are backwards society.  But society is the same everywhere.”  Nrasde chides her young one.

“Ixlili, noone will visit them for the good parts of the galaxy. Do you really want to have the greys come probe one of us?  No you must be respectable to be seen as visit worhy.  Civilization counts on every one of us.  You’re an example to the sinvet!” Delbar tries reason with a brain starting to sense hormones.

Nectar of the God’s –  Tale Weaver #94

Written as part of a challenge called Tale weaver details are available at

“Taz W!  Bearer of formulations.  Extracts, excursions in botanical paradise of extreme definition!!  Parabolic simplicity in lliquid  form!”  His Black tux and flowing black hair are equally out of place in a farmer market. ” I ain’t talking  organic crap. Give me a sad tired mother.  A man whose labor build hard durable goods at the cost of joints and muscles!  Two sips my good people.  My bottles are $25 but you’ll give me $$0 after you have it for a week!”

“You givin’ samples?!  My money stays tight on the purse strings unless it works !”  Jerry wipes his mug of tobacco juice. “I mean you want someone to buy it.   I reckon someone needs a taste..”

“Right you are!   My good man, what endeavors do you invest your time in sir?” Taz W tips his hat in his direction.

“Save it !  or Pour it!”  He looks besmirch by the niceties.

“I like a man who speaks without filters.”   Taz pulls a cork from a vase shaped bottle. He watches dark amber potion chug into a small cup. “Sir, you’re first words will be….. Why oh!” 

Jerry glares harder than broken glass schattered on cold concrete on bare feet..  He lifts the double shot to his lips.  The eyes never leave the source.  Strangers are poison oozes toward Taz W

“Why riteous Jesus!  The burn is alcohol but I feel a freedom in my hips aad back.  You some damn witch! I can feel my toes.  First time… in years.  How do I know that next bottle is this one!” Jerry  funnels belief through a straw.

“Good sir! Allow me to top from what you drank from. My pleasure.  As stated folks… buy it now.  Before someone takes the last one!”  He turns his back to the crowd filling the bottle back up from a flask.

The crowd rushes him.   Jerry files out the side.  Noone sees him before or after.

“Nectar of the God’s!  People orderly line please.  I want to help you all! ”  Taz laughs. The bourbon heals all eventually.

Ransom – Tale Weaver 

It’s with great horror I open the door.

A note!

Unique characters. Beautifully crafted work.  Such style and grace!  Uhh…

“No! Oh,no!” My eyes bulge from their sockets. “What does it mean?! What did they take? Who are they?  Why do these evil people have such good taste in crafting a note?”

I’m horrified.   Still drawn to the pretty letters.  I’m sad.  I’m feeling a lose.  How could someone just take my most precious thing?

“What’s missing?” My mind crafts pictures

“My Commander Ren and Stimpy action figures!  These are sick people! Twisted! Deplorable!  No, they are still here on fireplace mantel.  Next to Grandfather’s mantel clock from 1896.” The pain of being lost on thought decries my voice.

“Oh snap!  It’s my leather bound set of the Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy! Oh these are ruthless sickest.  They probably parked in front of the fire hydrant too.  Or the Handicapped space.” My feet pick up the pace.

“Oh it’s still there!  What the hell did they take?!” Anger surfaces within me “Where’s my wife?  They took Collen! Oh,they’ll return her in about two hours.  Unless she’s bound and gagged.  Then I have the afternoon free.”

“Who are you talking too!” A voice comes through a door.

“Oh, I thought you were kidnapped.  I had this note.  My most precious is gone.  I can’t figure out what it is?  Isn’t this crazy?”  I try to reason with her

“You idiot!  The dog!  They took the dog!”  She reminds me in a very hostile way.

“Oh that’s what’s missing?  Well, they get in touch.  It says so right here on the note.” I’m relieved.

Voices – Tale Weaver #87

“ The dasherber ran like a freigers. Horfwers stood and fuxxated. There were coitnty swredtz and koilpy brisheners all over just quopiry to the tuggerry all about the frrummlllop.”

Olphy wakes shaken.  It’s the third time the voices call.  The message is clear.  He nervously consults the globe.  Fingers find their places.  Fingers fall like rain tore free from quopiry skies.  Words tie as ribbons.  Stanza reveal in frrummlllop. 

The voices of the Freigers fluently dictate the song.  Their prose raises and scythe the shammblicals from the Devanwe!   To the faithy, it’s divine.

The fugue lasts for 158,537 characters. The precise number to the Pinnacles of Barratouse.  The form of terrible cataclysmic event.  The Epic struggle between two dark sources.  It’s meant to sell.  The world will see in print the message. 

The higher powers were dissatisfied as it was labeled fiction.   It begins…

The fear coursed through the Creators.  Peasants were hostile and frustrated.  Their leaders were Facist and Deception.  Belief in their differences clouded judgements.  Both would lead to destruction, they convince they were pursuing paradise.


Magic Fruit -Tale Weaver #81

Written as part of a challenge called tale weaver. I’m breaking the rule (shock to some of you, I’m sure) but Sleeping Beauty had an easy life.  Make here cast the spell on someone else. Just a thought.  😎
Madame Curry sat at the local County Fair.  Downwind from the Elephant Ear stand made her apples a little less appealing for some reason.   

Warm red sign with rose colored letters made it clear these were different.  Not your typical apples or oranges thing. The offered love.  Love Apples!  Her old family receipt offered the sure chance at love.  All you had to do is get someone to eat your apple.

Darla pokes her head under the flip top of Mrs Curry’s trailer.  “So do they work really?  I’d pay $10 if it works.”

“Yeah, they work!  You got a hair, piece of clothing, business card, something of that person you want to love you forever?” The old woman stares at her crossword puzzle.  Number 32 Across is killing her.

“Oh, I didn’t know to bring any of that stuff!” Darla drops her shoulders.   She appears like a human banana popsicle.  Pale yellow top and shorts and straight as a board.

“I’m a witch not a miracle worker,  child!  If he’s here. Go to a hair out of his head! He notice you,  and give him the sole to make up for it.   Men are really that stupid. I’ve been married four times I know what gets them to notice you! Damn it any way! Nine letter word “needs sleep”, forth letter is one, eighth letter an a…” She starts talking to herself instead.

“Insomniac! That’s your word! Insomniac!  You really know your stuff!  I’ll rip out a handful of hair! I want him to love me forever! ” Darla spins and runs Brown hair flying as she goes. 

“How the hell should I know that word! I sleep fine. I never got to explain the orange to break the spell is $50. Well see if she comes back.  Let’s see 16 down, he finds glass slipper Prince… , 8 letters begins with c.”  She keeps her diligent work going.


“There are seven things you can’t live without. I can’t sell you oxygen and water is too heavy to ship.  I can work with the other five.”  Henry Gumpsion hands out a plain card.

I’m forced to look at it.  I look up at the silver hair flowing out of a stetson hat from another century. The old guy could be as old.  Hard to say.  His black eyes are shiny obsidian orbs.  His smile disarming.  His silver eagle came like a sector.

“What ills do need a cure for?  I have them in this black bag! Yep.  You name it.”  His confidence is brimming.

I’m dumbfounded 

“I’m not sure….that I need cured at all…” I struggle to put words together.

“Here is a,sample of Fossimax.  It’ll make you decisive.  Help with the no problem of relating to people you don’t have.”  He smiles and hands over a tiny vial of white powder. 

With a tip of the hat, he is gone.

Writing Prompt #167 – Wooden Guy


The road to Broomfield is a haphazard affair.   The river stays hidden.  Lost houses are reclaimed by nature.  Sad trees part revealing the docks.

The yellow and green boat left with the flotsam and jetsom.  It shares a backwater with tires, plastic bottles and enough paper to build a tree.  The precious cargo stares out the window.   A fifty dollar boat with a half million dollar statue.  

“At least, the wooden man is sea worthy.” I talk to Noone.   I’m here for the wooden man.

The door fails to open with the key.   It’s locks tumblers haven’t budged in years.  The wooden man laughs at me from inside.  Actually, a note lays next to him. “I am weary of my wisdom, like the bee that hath gathered too much honey.”

I marvel at the why.  I slam the door hard enough to hurt my shoulder.   The boat groans.  But eases the door loose from its rusty trim.  

“My friend, we are going to auction.   You have a world awaiting your presence.”  I stare at him like an adversary.

A loud creak sounds from behind me.   The door closes itself.  It rattles me a bit.   But my prize is at hand.   I wrap the wooden guy in a drop cloth.   Can’t damage the goods.

The boat groans again.  This time the boat lists to the right.   The windows angle down toward the water.  

My phone buzzes.  I shake the sinking boat for a second. 

“Is it real?  Do you have possession?” The text reads.

“Yes, it’s prefect.   Worth half a million.  I’ll certify it now.”  I text back.

The water creeps into the bottom of the door.  I pull on the door.   It refuses to budge.  I grab the wooden guy and run upstairs to find a window to break out.   Us land lubbers fail to realize what capsized means until to late. 

The bee is stuck in a web of gold.

I flail in water stuffed in a boat.  

“Insurance money beats an auction.”  I should have known.