Leader of the Pack

She thought her mother was a vampire. It was my fault.

Continue reading

Advertisements

Noir

Crimson splatters line the walls, crime scene tape girds the door. Shattered glass, a single lily, and pristine white shagpile carpet grace the floors.

He lifts the needle, abruptly silencing the Shostakovitch piano concerto.

Tipping back his trilby, he scratches his head. Who still uses a record player?

Image credit: SouthernRebel/pixabay

SaveSave

SaveSave

SaveSave

The Last Thread

My fingers trace the ridges on the back of her hand, puckering the skin. The silken thread of her life pulled too tightly.

“Lack of turgidity. A sign of dehydration,” my doctor-cousin informs me brusquely. But I know better. The Fates await her with sharpened scissors and a single eye.


I didn’t post in this week’s YeahWrite Microprose #312 grid, but I love flash/microprose and wanted to play along with the other YeahWriters. The single word prompt was hand. This piece, about my maternal grandmother, is nonfiction.

SaveSave

SaveSave

SaveSave

SaveSave

Distant Muses

My feet wriggle into the comfort of earth, my soul flies amongst shimmering jewels on a midnight velvet sky. The endless possibilities of distant homes ignite my imagination, sparking poetry, so foreign to my tongue. The stars make poets of us all.