The Costs of Love — #writephoto

A sweet maiden frolicked in the fairy glen by its flowing waters swatting mosquitoes.

A brave knight saw her and halted his steed. “Fair maiden, you wander in the enchanted glen. Did mosquitoes bite you?”

“Many have tasted my innocent blood. Many have I dispatched to their fiendish hell. I trust, sir knight, you have returned with glorious kills from the Draconis Mountains?”

“That is true, fair maiden. The dragons who haunt those heights have breaths so foul they have long addled the souls of many a woeful warrior but I have succeeded where others have failed.” The knight dismounted. He reached into his bag and produced a bottle of Fairy Godmother’s Feisty Mosquito Repellent. “It’s the best on the market and it’s only $3.49 today.”

The maiden carefully scanned the many reviews on her phone. “Almost five stars and a better price. I’ll take two bottles.” She opened her bag and produced a bottle of Merlin’s Dragon Breath Neutralizer. “It’s only $6.98 today.”

The knight eagerly bought a bottle and they lived happily ever after.


I’m linking this to Sue Vincent’s Flow #writephoto. She provided the photo for the prompt.
I am also grateful to Christopher Fielden for accepting this as Story 158 of Lesley’s Nifty Nib-Nibbling Nonsensical Narrative Writing Challenge.

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I’m Rooting for the Ghost — #writephoto

After Michael saw the ghost he understood. What he understood he would not say. True knowledge should not be made so literal that any monkey could understand it.

Anne sympathized with him but she thought his deranged prefrontal whatchamacallit generated the ghost. Otherwise why was he locked up with her?

Michael told her she could escape with him through the skylight of the cell. Anne said she would consider it. That was the only reason Michael told the ghost to wait.


Text: Linked to Sue Vincent’s #writephoto .
It is now also Story 100 in Christopher Fielden’s 81 Words, a project attempting to “set a Guinness World Record for the most contributing authors published in an anthology”. They have 102 stories so far and need 898 more as of 8:38 AM CST today.

Photo: Sue Vincent provided the photo for the prompt.

Sue Vincent's #writephoto icon

Rain — #writephoto

Rain is wet like water,
Not so hard as ice,
Not so hot my hand gets hot,
Messy, mostly nice.

The Sun thinks clouds are funny.
They block the warmth of day
Making fantasies up high–
Carousels turn in the sky–
Friendly, flowing play.


Text: Linked to dVerse Poetics. Lillian is hosting and the theme is to put a positive spin on “rain”, “rein” or “reign”.  I am also linking this to Sue Vincent’s #writephoto prompt.  Come join us in writing for these prompts.

Photo: Sue Vincent provided the photo for the #writephoto prompt.

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The Opening — #writephoto Sight

Even a thick, stone wall can have an opening letting light through like a window with a rock-hard frame. Outside our window two cars stopped. The front car was undamaged. The front bumper of the rear car, however, hung almost to the ground which made the accident look worse than it was.

Standing on the grass a sixteen-year-old girl watched an older woman, the driver of the front car, examine the damages. Her brother stood by her side ready to act if there was anything he needed to do, but there wasn’t much he could do.

A third car arrived. A second woman stepped out and the two adults talked. The second woman gave the first her insurance information and then she walked to her daughter. One could sense the daughter’s tears hiding behind her eyes and deepening frown. I imagine she wanted to know what was so wrong with her that she could have unintentionally and unexpectedly damaged her family.

Her mother’s arms opened and wrapped themselves around her daughter. Now we all have these openings, if we want to use them, but sometimes, perhaps because the fairy tales we tell ourselves aren’t real, we do not think we do. Anyway, without demanding an explanation, the mother emptied the tears hiding in her daughter’s heart through the opening of her own.


Linked to Sue Vincent’s #writephoto Sight.  She provided the photo for the prompt.

Sue Vincent's #writephoto icon
Sue Vincent’s #writephoto icon

Lost Wings — #writephoto

A fairy, Christine, lost her wings on top of a hill overlooking the glen while watching the orange sky accept the setting sun. She did not think she was so old. She picked up her wings sighing “Oh!” and stumbled down to the glen on foot aided by moonlight. The other fairies greeted her with relieved laughter since she was gone so long and then tears when they saw her wings. Her transformation had begun.

Sylvia came to wish her farewell. She told Christine about the completed transformation of her fairy-child that morning. She cried and Christine comforted her.

Samuel came to wish her farewell. He told Christine about the completed transformation of his fairy-wife that morning. He cried and Christine comforted him.

Rose, another fairy, a teenage one, came to wish her aunt farewell. Her father told her she had to. She looked into Christine’s eyes. “Look deeper,” Christine suggested. To her surprise Rose saw her own eyes gazing back at her. She cried and Christine comforted her.

A fairy without wings can remain only so long. Christine regretted not doing whatever it was she was meant to do but did not have the imagination or the will to realize. “May I look into your eyes?” Rose wiped away the tears. When Christine looked, they both smiled.


Linked to Sue Vincent’s #writephoto prompt.
Photo provided by Sue Vincent for this prompt.

The chain of inspiration comes from Jane Dougherty’s challenge to write folk tales based on Jeren Nazuto’s poem responding to Jilly’s poem based on Jim Harrison’s “fragile wings”.

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The Wind — #writephoto

When harsh winds blow some whine, “How the wicked wind oppresses me!” Others wonder how they could make money off that wind by grinding grain or generating electricity. One turns it into poetry. The other turns a profit.

The Little People dwelt in the windmill. Like everyone they loved good stories. The Big People owned the mill. They tolerated the Little People because they bravely fought the Hungry Mice who wanted the grain as much as they did. “Get your own grain!” the Little People shouted. As a reward the Big People let the Little People have enough for their needs and internet connections.

Everything trended nicely, but the problem with trends is people forget once something goes one way long enough that it could go the other way. So most everyone confidently predicted everything would stay the same and every time it stayed the same their predictions came true. True, there were some who feared the end was always near, but that’s how their minds trended and they were usually wrong.

One day Wicked Wind joined Raging Fire and burnt whatever was dry including the windmill. The Big People were no longer big. They looked little and the Little People had no home. Even the mice were unhappy.

Illnesses popped up out of nowhere. The mice were blamed. The homeless Little People were blamed. The formerly Big People were blamed. The poetry and stories went dark and conflict trended.

The mice, who could not access the windmill, quickly recovered. Meanwhile the wind stirred the People mixing the big with the small as their generations sailed through birth and death until they rewrote their stories and survived.


Linked to Sue Vincent’s #writephoto Sails.
Photo provided by Sue Vincent.

Sue Vincent's #writephoto icon

While looking back at Jilly’s 28 Days of Unreason, I think this post fits Day Six about the “violent wind”.

Message — #writephoto Messenger

If my imaginary friend had more brains I’d trust her advice, but when Alice tells me something I have to examine it from all angles, especially those angles I forget to check. It might be the best advice I’ll get today, but I really should be getting it tomorrow–or yesterday.

I once told her that a neuroscientist would likely think she was some configuration of neurons acting up in my head. She observed, “They don’t know jack. Do you really think I’m a figment of your imagination?” She expected an answer, and silence wouldn’t do, so I tried dodging the question by saying, “I don’t even know what my imagination is!” She didn’t think I had one either.

“What do you think that crow means in the sky?” Alice gazed at some bird.

“What crow?”

“The one in front of your face. And you think I’m in your imagination? You’re too dumb for me to fit in there.”

Then I think I saw what she was referring to: “That bird?”

“You better get your phone out before it’s too late–Ah!! Too bad. It’s too late. It’s gone.”

That saved me from getting out my phone.

“So what do you think it meant?” Her questions are not speculations for someone sitting in a parallel universe or falling through a black hole or bobbing back and forth in some time wormhole to contemplate. She demands real answers in the real world.

“Well, you know, it could mean anything.”

“Come on, brainless! Black crow, blue sky, flying by. What’s the message?”

“Do you know?” I might as well ask the one with brains.

“Nope.”


Linked to Sue Vincent’s Thursday Photo Prompt — Messenger #writephoto.
Photo provided by Sue Vincent for the prompt.

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