Photo Credit Lakshmi Bhat

Matilda was all angles and elbows.

By the time she was eighteen she stood every bit of the six feet two inches she had clearly inherited from her Nordic father, and that was with with her shoulders slumped slightly forward in an attempt to hide some of her height.

Many a night alone in her room, perched awkwardly on the little pink tufted bench that sat in front of her dear departed mothers vanity, she would sit, back arched over knobby knees leaning forward in an attempt to fit all of herself into it’s etched oval mirror, and look into her own bright green eyes as they peered back at her.

Whereas there was no question she had inherited her height from her father, her eyes were indeed her mothers eyes. Her smooth alabaster skin. The rosy glow in her cheeks. The perfect cupids bow of her lips, all mirrored her the memory of her sainted Irish mother.

And there, in that moment, she would feel a swell of pride, seeing herself as the rare beauty she really was.

“My sweet Irish rose”, she would hear, in her mothers soft brogue, “all softness and beauty atop a tall Nordic stem.”

Inspired by Susan’s Sunday Photo Fiction June 16, 2019 although to late for the party, I like where the prompt took me enough to post it….



CCC #32

Her whole life she had been surrounded by people who depended on her.

Her mother died when she was eight, leaving Arelia, the eldest, to care for her seven siblings.

She married at sixteen, already pregnant with her own first child, and went on to have five more children, all of which she cared for dutifully as she had her own siblings.

When she lost her husband, and the last of her children had moved on to live lives of their own, Arelia just wanted to be alone.

She took her husband’s meager savings, and bought herself a little cottage in the woods.

There she wrote stories. Stories rich in fantasy. The fantasies of a little girl on whom had been thrust a great deal of responsibility at a very young age.

A girl much like herself, had she been allowed the luxury of a fantasy world, in which to escape.

Written in response to Crimson’s Creative Challenge photo prompt.

English as a first language

Photo Courtesy of Crimson’s Creative Challenge

“De boat. Let oehs begin abooeht de time ye descahvered de boat.” Detective Barrett implored, his thick brogue disguising the question just enough that I had to rely on Ryan for a nudge of interpretation before I could answer.

“The boat,” Ryan reiterated, “he wants to know about when you first discovered the boat.”

“Ah, well okay then. That would have been this morning just about sunrise. Although I thought I heard commotion on the pebbles in the middle of the night, but well frankly I was a bit under the weather, and couldn’t be bothered at the time to find out what it was.”

The Detective gave Ryan the flustered look I imagine I had given him a moment before, so I paused briefly for Ryan to clarify.

“T’was dere at soehnrise. Cooehld have ‘ave ‘eard sahmeone abooeht in de night, langered dooehgh she was, ‘erself is oehnsure.”

Written in response to Crispina’s Crimson’s Creative Challenge Photo Prompt.

Out Rigger

Steampunk Photo Courtesy of D Wallace Peach’s Speculative Fiction Challenge

Although best known for not having enough sense to keep his nose out of the bottle- Otto Rigger, when he’s not soused, is to put it bluntly, freaking brilliant.

A somewhat defrocked Biochemical Physicist by credentials, Rigger has spent his every waking moment since his accreditation, slaving to create the ultimate killing machine- a ‘manchine’ that will kill a man, as casually an ordinary man might eat a sandwich.

Out Rigger, as Rigger so lovingly refers to his creation, is in reality not only half man, half machine- but an extension of man. A perfect specimen of the human male form, reinforced by virtually indestructible hardware where musculature and skeletal structure used to be.

Out Riggers only flaw, is arrogance, in that he finds himself a thing of beauty, a defect passed down to him from his human side. This self idolization has unfortunately run off into the mechanics of his usefulness, as it has become evident- he plans on making a name for himself.

Written for Six Sentence Stories, prompt word this week: Extension. With a special nod to D Wallace Peach, as her may Speculative Fiction Challenge provided the photo that inspired the story.


Half-way through Mr. A’s lecture, Evie grabbed the bathroom pass and dashed into the hall.

Without even securing the stall door, she flung herself to the floor in front of the commode. Her empty stomach writhing and heaving against itself. She retched violently, producing only a thick strand of greenish spittle that clung precariously to her lip for what seemed like forever, before splashing silently into the placid waters below.

Just then, the bathroom door swung open.

“Did you see Evie last night? She heard Jocelyn Medgar exclaim. “She was hammered!”

“God I wish I could drink like that!”

Written for Carrot Ranch’s flash fiction challenge: Splash, in exactly 99 words.