Night Time Conversations and Stolen Hearts

The Great Train Robbery; public domain screen shot from 1903 film.

The Great Train Robbery; public domain screen shot from 1903 film.



“Tell me ’bout my Papa again.”

“Again, Tourmaline?”


“OK. One more time.” Opal held her daughter tight in front of the fire.

“Your papa stole my heart the day he walked into the market, drenched from head to toe.  He looked right into my eyes and said I’d like to buy a towel. When he took the towel he winked at me.”


“And we were married that summer. He was the love of my life, your father. I was a train wreck when he died.”

“Do you think you’ll marry again?”

“Only the Lord can know that, child.”



Written for WarmUp Wednesday!

 “This week’s Warmup Wednesday challenge: Include a reference to your birthstone.”  (I included both birthstones for October.)




Truth Silences Lies – Flash Fiction (WIN!)

I entered a 110 word story in Micro Bookends 1.31 last Thursday and, to my surprise, I won first place! This is my first win in a flash fiction contest! There were a lot of great stories and I feel blessed and honored that my story spoke to him. Click here to see the other amazing stories and click here to see the stories that placed. I want to give special thanks to Dave for hosting the Micro Bookends and for judging this round. I have enjoyed entering stories over the past few months. His contest, among a few others, helps me keep up a writing habit as I try hard to improve my craft.

The prompt this week was to write a 100 word story (+/- 10) that starts with the word face and ends with book and incorporates the photo. Here is my winning story! (Sorry for the gloat, I’m just so excited!)

Photo Credit: Maurizio Costanzo via CC.

Photo Credit: Maurizio Costanzo via CC.

 Truth Silences Lies

“Face yourself,” The voice said. Cynthia looked in the mirror, “You’re hideous.”

She believed it. Her swollen eyes glared back at her, puffy from sobbing. Her hair, frayed yarn, looked as though it had been dragged through wet sand.

“No one could love you,” the loud voice hissed.

“I love you.” A still small voice whispered in the distance. Cynthia didn’t hear it.

“What did you eat today?” The loud voice filled her mind, gaining volume to attack the truth.

“You are beautiful,” the small voice sang.

Cynthia shook her head.


“Beauty. Precious. DAUGHTER.”

Cynthia wept.

“Fear not my child, for I have written your name in my book.”


Here is what Dave had to say about my story.

“A figurative sword fight between the voice that tells you you are worthless and the voice that tells you you are everything. So often the former is dominant and we hear about too many young people who have ended up in trouble, or worse, after failing to live up to what is perceived as an acceptable body-type. The conflict between the voices is maintained throughout the story and I found myself willing Cynthia to hear the little voice. I love the description early in the piece: “her hair, frayed yarn, looked as though it had been dragged through wet sand.” On first reading I assumed that the quiet voice had won and Cynthia had been rescued with her name in the book. On subsequent readings I began to wonder. What is the truth and what is the lie? To us the truth is that Cynthia is beautiful, but to her it is that she is hideous. The final line says to me that body image issues are difficult to beat, and once your name is in the book, you have a long battle ahead of you.”

The Last One- Flash Fiction

They came in broad daylight. The rumbling of their huge machines resonated through the quiet morning air. We could see them charging for us, but there was nothing we could do. We were utterly defenseless. I did not quite understand what was happening at first. The men were intimidating, but there was no direct indication that they meant us any harm. Maybe they were just passing through, interrupting our serene morning for only a short time.

That was not the case at all.

I watched as some of the men got out of their big yellow metal monsters, carrying large weapons. Loud grinding sounds all of a sudden came from the weapons as if they were alive. Fear struck me, as I saw one man heading towards my brother, weapon out.

“NO!” I shouted, but to no avail.

Screams from my brother filled the air reverberating every part of me, but the men seemed as though they could not hear them.

To my horror, the other men started in on the rest of my family. I stood and watched. There was nothing I could do. I was a statue among this massacre. My brothers and sisters fell one by one. The breaking of their bodies pierced my core. Once on the ground, the men started chopping at their limbs, dismembering them. My family lay, torn and tattered, every last one.

I didn’t want to see anymore, didn’t want to hear anymore. Their screams still lingered in my soul.

My home.

My family.


I looked down and saw that I was their next target.

I braced myself. I no longer wanted to live. I couldn’t bare the heavy weight of the loss of all those I loved. I welcomed what was coming. The largest man came slowly towards me, yelling something to his pack. They backed away from me as though they wanted to be as far from me as possible. The weapon roared to life, the blade bit into my flesh, ripping and chipping away. I wailed and moaned, mourning the loss of my kin. The man’s face, with his hungry eyes full of greed and lust, was the last image I saw. I fell with a loud crack thump.

I, the last tree in the forest, welcomed the sweet silence of death.


Word count: 384