Antigonish Revisited

Yesterday, upon the stair,
I met a man who wasn’t there.
So I grabbed a stick and then
I chased him up the stair again.

Why am I so hostile to,
A guy who’s only passing through?
It was quite a night, you see,
I’d been drinking, out ‘til three.
If he was only in my head,
Then I could stagger off to bed.
Try to get some sleep and pray,
My pounding headache goes away.

Yesterday, upon the stair,
I met a man who wasn’t there.
So I grabbed a stick and then
I chased him up the stair again.

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101 words, for this week’s FFfAW prompt:

Aplogies to Hughes Mearns, and demonstration of why I should be barred from verse.


Wandering the Garage

The tribe was lost in the desert for a long time. Mickey kept them moving and did what he could to keep their spirits up, but the echoing darkness was vast. So long without food, his tribe teetered on the brink. The littlest ones cried and their mothers glared at Mickey in anger.

Dancing Mickey only laughed and kept dancing. “Keep going, the Promised Land is near.”

Out of the darkness arose a tiny, blinking light. As prophesied—“The LED will show you the way”—the way to an entire container of AA batteries; food for the chosen people at last.

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100 words, for this week’s Friday Fictioneers prompt:

PHOTO PROMPT © Sean Fallon

Dragon Slayer

“Malarkey, prepare to engage the enemy!”

Gunner’s mate second class Highjinks Malarkey was the only dwarf in the war fleet because his father owned the ironworks, and certainly not due to any latent sailing ability. His assignment was keeping the guns aboard HMS Spunky well oiled (to prevent rust) and well supplied with cannon balls (for obvious reasons).

For motivation, he drew upon more than 2000 fathoms of ocean water beneath his feet and the Dwarven race’s legendary negative buoyancy.

“Defeat the enemy or swim like a brick,” per his father’s salient marine advice.

The master gunner bellowed, “Dragons to starboard!”

Naturally, the swooping aerial handbags were difficult to fight with cannons. Malarkey gave his favorite gun Matilda an affectionate hug and elevated for every degree the gun ports would allow.

Malarkey held the friction primer cord and waited for a good target. The biggest flying lizard would only present a single clean shot at the right altitude…


“Mason, get downstairs right now.”

“But mom, there are dragons coming! They’ll burn the ship up.”

“Those are only seagulls; and we live in a lighthouse, not a warship. Now put down that slingshot right now and come to dinner. ”

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200 words, for this week’s Sunday Photo Fiction prompt:

Nasty Little Problem

The tiny knife hissed by Anastasia’s right eye and tinked off her headset. She swore softly and backhanded the malicious doll into the cockpit glass. The meurtre effigy sprang up and resumed threatening with its sickle arms.

“It can’t harm us as long as the sun’s up,” she reassured her pilot.

Her private Citation X thundered west of NOLA at 618 knots.

“Ease a few points north. Every degree of latitude reduces the necessary airspeed and buys us more time. This little bastard is weakening, it should lose animation soon.”

“Damn my Aunt Cassy and her hostile voodoo takeovers. I’m gratified she’s never learned to anticipate a technological response.”

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110 words, for this week’s Microcosms (10) prompt: billionaire/plane/horror

Selected co-winner of Microcosms (10). There’s probably a badge involved, once I figure out where to get it.

For my second read though of this week’s stories, this was the one I kept comparing all others too. This piece screamed Twilight Zone and the writing was detailed, yet tight. So much in so few words. In fact, I had to check the word count because it felt three or four times longer than it’s 110. That’s good writing.

–Brian S. Creek

Well, I realized this morning where my little murder-doll idea got into my subconscious. A little Karen Black picture (from 1975, I haven’t seen it in 40 years!) “Trilogy of Terror”. All three segments of this film–including the cool segment with the Zuni Fetish doll that chases a screaming Karen Black around her apartment with sharp things–are based on short stories written by Richard Matheson.

It was the very first Chuckie film, essentially.

It feels Twilight Zone because Matheson wrote sixteen Twilight Zone episodes, also “I Am Legend” (a.k.a. “The Omega Man”).

Takes a Licking and Keeps On Ticking

“Whatta you boys wanna rent this crappy old track for, anyhow?”

The octogenarians examined the dirt oval near Odum. The track itself was in terrible shape, deeply rutted from decades of hosting racing events and eventual abandonment.

“Our fathers drove here in the thirties. They were bitter rivals when endurance racing was the rage. Their final contest was stopped 190 laps in by the Labor Day hurricane of 1935—the only race ever canceled here due to inclement weather.”

“There’s a wager to settle. We’ll finish when one of the vintage Fords or one of the antique men stops running.”

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100 words. For this week’s Friday Fictioneers prompt:

Old School Methods

Dan finally worked up the nerve to stop one of the passing angels and ask.

“Excuse me, sir, could you spare a moment?”

“Of course, blessed one, how may I help?”

“Well, we’ve all been patiently shuffling along in this queue, and we were just wondering how long it might be?”

“You all have infinite time to spare. What do you folks know about the Pearly Gates, exactly?”

“Just what everyone knows, I guess. There’s a description of New Jerusalem in Revelations, and some pop culture mythology. Not that much.”

“I’m Geburatiel, associate angel third class, pleasure. Well, Saint Peter is up by the Gate, and he looks souls up in the Book of Judgments to determine their final disposition, into Heaven or elsewhere. Peter has a massive angelic corps employed just to handle the addendum pages, new souls always being born and adding onto the Book at the modern end. Are you with me so far?”

“Think so. That’s pretty big.”

“Friends, you may rejoice when you advance far enough in the queue to see the nearest end of the Book of Judgments. At one soul per page side, the Book is currently just over 1500 miles thick.”

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199 words, for this week’s Sunday Photo Fiction prompt:

(The number of deceased homo sapiens is estimated at about 100 billion–with lots of margin for error, obviously. At 500 pages per inch… that’s one BIG book. Dead Tree Editions, tsk tsk so wasteful.)

Puss in Fins

“King Tigershark,” said Carabas, “I thank you for your most generous offer, which is far more reward than a simple cat of my humble origins could ever expect.”

“As for the lovely Princess Catshark, I’m so sorry, but I cannot accept. For my heart belongs to another, your majesty.”

“To whom?” the king inquired.

“Your majesty, my heart belongs to cleverest cat in the seven seas.” Carabas swam a sophisticated adiago and tour en l’eau, striking a pose. “It belongs to me, of course.”

Thereafter, Puss in Fins retired to his previous life, swimming only after whatever fish he desired.

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100 words, for this week’s Microcosms (9). Key words: cat/under the sea/romance.

So obvious, who could a cat possibly love more?

And the Hunter Home From the Hill

After several prototypes, I’d finally perfected a motorized gizmo for feline entertainment. I found the broken offering by my pillow this morning and Smokey looked smug.

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26 words, for this week’s Shapeshifting 13 assignment (“feline”, “gizmo”).

(Personally, I prefer the word “widget.”)

The title is from Requiem, the poem on Robert Louis Stevenson’s headstone:

Under the wide and starry sky
Dig the grave and let me lie.
Glad did I live and gladly die,
And I laid me down with a will.    
This be the verse you ‘grave for me:
Here he lies where he long’d to be,
Home is the sailor, home from the sea,
And the hunter home from the hill.

I thought it appropriate for both mouse-widget and kitteh.

Trumped Again

The workers climbed in the scaffolding, attempting to bridge over a small section of the construction north of Matamoros. They lacked the marvelous tools and technology of the previous century, and the wall resisted their simple hammers and chisels. Without explosives, the current plan called for going over the top, but progress was slow and food supplies short.

The Monsanto plague wiped out the breadbasket crops and worked its way into the soil and ecosystem. The dust clouds made the construction effort more difficult.

All of the remaining arable land on the continent lay south of the Folly, in Mexico.

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100 words. For this week’s Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers prompt:

See also: Trumped

Finally got semi-organized

And worked out what/where I’m going to write in terms of these challenges, like a good spreadsheet geek, to spread out a more organized flash working habit.

Not sure why I kept missing them (“doh, closed two days ago”) before now, guess I’m dense.

Now, if someone could work up a challenge that launches on Thursday…it’s an under-utilized day of the week.


Now, while I’m basking in productive mood, I do believe its time for that hair cut.

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