Field Trip to Space

“5…4…3…2…1…blast off!” The children sung along with the bus as it hissed and pulled away from the stop. They all cheered too. Adrian was not amused.

Adrian liked Field Trip Day like any other kindergartener but he hated the bus. It was loud and they had to sit with three students crammed in a seat, so close that Lianna could pick her nose and place the boogers on his chin. He knew this, because it had just happened.

“We’ve still have twenty minutes to go, kids.” Mrs. Jenkins hollered from the very front of the DC public bus. Adrian groaned, Lianna squealed and then poked a wet finger in his ear.

“Stop it!” Adrian whined but it was lost in the sound of another hiss. So, he pulled Lianna’s beaded braid instead.

She screamed, interrupting the next “blast off” as they pulled away from another bus stop. Her eyes watered as she cradled her thin braid in her hands.

“If you tell Mrs. Jenkins or Mr. P, I’ll tell them about the boogers.” Adrian declared.

A stare-off began between the two five year olds. Lianna lost.

“You’re such a meanie!” She screeched, arms crossing. “We’re on a spaceship and you’re being a meanie. You’re stupid.”

“We are not on a spaceship, we’re on a bus.”

“A bus to the Space Museum is like a spaceship.”

“That’s stupid. You’re wrong. This is the same bus that takes my mom to work and me to my Gramma’s apartment. Is it a spaceship then?” It was also the same bus where his older sister flirted with boys and his parents yelled at each other, but he didn’t want to think about that – especially in front of Lianna.

“No,” she said slowly, thinking, “it’s only a spaceship when it’s going to the Space Museum.”

As much as he hated Lianna and her booger fingers, her logic made sense to Adrian.

Yes, he had seen his sister kiss one of her boyfriends right where Mrs. Jenkins stood, but now he tried to imagine his teacher in a spacesuit instead, like the one from the book they read before the Field Trip. Instead of imagining his parents sitting in the row in front of him fighting, he imagined the people in that seat floating. Then, he almost felt himself floating.

The bus pulled to another stop. People shuffled off and on. The door closed, the driver pulled a lever and hisssss. The bus lurched forward and the countdown began all around him “5…4…3…2…1!”Adrian shouted “blast off” with the rest of his class and laughed as their spaceship sped through the city.

Morning Solitude

He chases the sun.

The light breeze drifts along his skin, not another person in sight.

The sun is his alone.

It breaks through the horizon, casting an orange glow over the mountains.

He greets the morning.

Out on the water, the sounds of his waking town hum in the distance.

Solitude brings peace.

Here he can forget the words of his employer, the crying of his child.

Only he and the sun exist.

The bells ring, the time to return is near, and he closes his eye to hold on to the moment.

He savors it until tomorrow’s sun.

Inspired by Warmup Wednesday – 100 word story

A boatman (माझी दाई) with his boat. (Phewa lake, Pokhara, Nepal). CC2.0 photo by Dhilung Kirat.

A boatman with his boat. (Phewa Lake, Pokhara, Nepal). CC2.0 photo by Dhilung Kirat.

Every City Has a Heart

Her feet move her forward through another unknown land – though, this one carries the same familiarity of most, with a city square (or centro or plaza or piazza) at its heart, a place for locals to gather.

She sits and watches the people pass her by. Sometimes the clothing is different, more colorful or dark black; sometimes they saunter by leisurely, friendly, and other times they keep their eyes on their feet.

It all depends on where she ends up.

But she knows one thing: sitting in a café, having a conversation with the person behind the counter, is the only travel guide she needs.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “The Happy Wanderer.”

Jack and Jill

For twenty-nine days of the month, I am Jill. I know Jill; I can predict how Jill will react. Jill backs away from confrontation and dives into gossip, Jill smokes a pack a day and drinks more coffee than necessary because I like to feel the jittering down my veins. My long blonde hair is my pride and joy; I flirt my way into clubs and out of trouble. I am Jill.

Until, I’m not. Every full moon I transform. I become Jack.

Jack is unpredictable. Jack butchers my hair and talks with his fists. Jack forces Jill to wake up in the bed of some random man or woman. Jack tattoos our shared skin and poisons us with hard drugs. Jack remembers the confrontations Jill backed away from, seeks them out, and administers his own form of justice. He remembers the gossip and exploits it.

I sometimes envy Jack, I almost always hate him.

In one night he burns it all down. Everything Jill can predict and plan, Jack brings to the ground.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “The Full Moon.”


My knees ached something fierce. The walk home from the park used to be easy when Paws was a puppy but that was almost a decade ago. The years show on one of us and it isn’t the energetic American Bulldog by my side.

He, on the other hand, is in perfect health, no joint aches or muscle sores, just excitement and adventure. He’s smart, though, and senses my struggle. My kindhearted Bully slows down and allows our pace to turn to something more leisurely.

Later, once we get back home, he’ll spend a solid fifteen minutes licking the park off my legs and hands. Then he’ll jump up next to me on the couch, turn in a circle a few times, before collapsing next to me for a nap. I may nod off too, with my legs up on the coffee table, petting his fur.

He is my companion, my friend, the reason I go to the park every weekend and the snuggle-buddy in my bed. Even if my husband wants to get in on the snuggles, Paws will reluctantly make room, but only if he’s in the middle of us both.

In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Menagerie.”

Hair Curler and Key Rings

She was already late, despite setting her alarm two hours early and planning her outfit the night before. She was already late because sometimes Anne got a little too caught up in the mirror, fixing the way her hair fell down her neck in perfect curls – caring more about the way she looks than punctuality. She knows it about herself (and hates it) but does little to fix it despite the consequences.

But today, Anne had been ready. Even with the extra five minutes on her hairdo, she would have been out the door and on her way. Except, she had not factored in the now ninety-seven seconds she’d spent trying to find her keys.

An app on her phone that shows the train schedule blinks red, if she doesn’t leave in the next three minutes she’ll miss her way into the city. She’ll miss her interview, all because of a hair curler and a ring of keys.

Anne presses her hands along her suit pants straightening the fabric and looks over her apartment in havoc – overturned couch cushions, desk drawers open and nearly falling to the floor. Her hair had stayed perfectly in place during the expedition; she knew this because she had spared the half second to look in the mirror that hangs in her foyer… twice.

Right now though, she wanted to pull at the curled strands. She would not find the keys in time. Her feet made the decision for her as she headed out of the apartment, to her interview. She left her front door unlocked with a quick prayer that all her stuff would be there when she returned. Except the curling iron, the burglars could take that.

Inspired by:

Monday Writing Prompt-Lost Keys

Here’s another prompt taken from upcoming and third book in my Writing Genre Fiction series and this one is from the chapter on scenarios-

Your character loses their car keys.

Have fun and happy writing.

Writing Prompt #25

I’ve been training my humans.

They are fickle beasts, these bipedal mammals, but they are slowly learning my ways. They now easily greet me with the prerequisite belly rub and purr session before filling my bowls with water and food.

They come with donations and adoration – what more could a royal feline want?

But of course, every supplicant can be improved and these human’s of mine are no different. They often stare blankly at the big screen for hours even if I meow incessantly between their ankles. They also tend to spend a solid eight to ten hours everyday playing this horrible game where they go completely still and don’t respond to my head rubbing their chin.

But they are good humans and despite these pitfalls, I think I’ll keep them.

Tyto Books

Write about your day…from the perspective of a cat.

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Embraced Intoxications

Another inhale and it settled in her lungs, tingles running down her arms. She loved this cloudy feeling of languid existence. The pungent smell of weed dissipating in the air, as the kitchen timer goes off.

“Let High Kitchen begin.” Franklin spun away from the oven and waved the spatula in the air like a composer leading an orchestra.

Her smile formed lazily, sitting on her face with familiarity. She’d only been coming to Franklin’s apartment since last semester but the couch already carried a well-worn press of her body. The way he winked at her over the meal sparked warmth at the base of her spine, even when they were both sober. It wasn’t the only reason she kept coming back but it was one of them.

Most people find the “munchies” aspect of this particular intoxicant annoying but Franklin embraced it. In fact, he chased it. Loved the need to mix hunger with lowered-inhibition creativity. Or maybe it’s just that the high… highlights. Two ingredients that seem incompatible are suddenly mixed in a new light.

It wasn’t hard for her to get off the couch with Franklin. Especially when he reached a hand out to help her, but missed, intentionally, to run it through her hair first -the pulled strands causing ripples of pleasure down the back of her head to settle deliciously in her neck- before helping her off the couch.

In the kitchen is a concoction. A casserole of leftovers and condiments. Despite its sordid beginnings, it smelled good. So did Franklin, when he stood this close.

“Care to taste?” He asked.

She automatically read innuendo into the question and he noticed her blush. It turned his grin into something smaller, shy yet inviting.

She loved coming over here. She rubbed his shoulders, scrapped her nails across the soft skin of his neck. This cloudy feeling of languid existence, she pressed in closer to him and embraced it.

Man v. Man

“Daddy said yes!” She throws her arms around my neck, reaching for a kiss but I plant my hand on her waist to still the movement; I will not kiss a gal in front of her father.

As it is, his eyes are watching the shrinking space between us. “Thank you, sir.”

He huffs. “I didn’t do this for you.”

“Of course, sir.”

I step back so my body separates from his daughter’s. I like Lucy, but I don’t want a shotgun in my face and if she was my daughter, the weapon would already be loaded. Possibly, hidden somewhere in this room.

“I’ll go get my coat.” Lucy presses in again and I grit my teeth as her lips brush the flesh of my ear. “Be right back.”

Cool air replaces her warm body. Her father watched the entire interaction. “My girl knows what she wants.”

I nod, unsure.

“I don’t want to hear about you two at Necker’s Point.”

My face warms. “Never, sir.”

The man grunts. “I was a lad not that long ago. I know –“


Lucy comes back into the room, kisses her father’s cheek. His hard eyes hold mine, like he can see every night I spent fantasized about his daughter.

“Let’s go.”

My submission for the Flash!Friday contest. Word count 190-210. The prompt must include a Man v. Man conflict and incorporate this photo:

Scene from the Hungarian film

No Way to Keep a Man

The anger snaps within her -blinding reason, blurring vision- and it takes the crash of breaking glass for her to even realize she’s thrown the plate across the room.

A needling voice, deep inside the caverns of her mind, a voice that sounds familiarly like her mother tisks: that is no way to keep a man.

The words make her teeth clench, curl her fist so nails dig into her palm.

“Look, I’m sorry –“ His words are cut off by the thrumming of blood in her ears. She turns to the sink so he won’t see the tears that are soon to follow, that always follow, any burst of emotion.

“I shouldn’t have thrown the plate.” She forces the words out. They are the right words, the respectful words, but they turn her stomach like sour grapes.

“I shouldn’t have expected you to clean it…” He replies, cautiously, as if unsure of his words. She feels his hand on her shoulder now, trying to sooth her; instead it clamps down like the walls of a cage.

“I overreacted.” She tells the sponge in her hands.


Now he’ll laugh it off and she will too. It will end like every argument between them does: her trying to make it better and him confused about what the problem even was.

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