The Job

photo is provided by (free to use photos).


The car appears in front of Cartwright’s Mercantile as planned.


On cue, Mr. Cartwright opens his shop door in his bathrobe and steps out on the sidewalk to examine the car. We overhear Mr. Cartwright saying, “What the….” He then circles the auto twice, kneeling to touch the colored paint (We assume he wanted to know if the paint was still wet. He wipes his fingers on his bathrobe.). He reaches up to check if potted plants on the roof of the auto were real (Again he wipes his fingers on his bathrobe. All going as planned.).


A few onlookers stop to look at Mr. Cartwright in his bathrobe standing in front of the car. Some shake their heads and move away. However (and this is a big however,), our old woman stops and peers into the passenger side window, something Mr. Cartwright failed to do (How did he miss this? Check notes.). Our old woman turns to scream at Mr. Cartwright. He does not see her gun (Perfect!).


Wait for it…. Yes, Mr. Cartwright is down. Job Done.

Written for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers Week of 11-10 through 11-16-2015. Link to other contributions.


Writing Prompt #132 “Collage 10” 

(Bottom Left: Rossatty)

Because blue is how I feel

Under this canopy of stars without you.

I want to feel

Your breath, a staccato of skipping stones, against my neck

I want to feel

a carnival of desires binding us as one.

I want to

 Set my heart upon yours,

Because you will surely be mine.

Written for: Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie 

Back Then

photo is provided by

We lived in Hollywood then, on a quiet, tree-lined street in the early nineteen fifties. It was a time when cars and people moved slower, a time of subtle changes. Back then, it was just the three of us. My father was trying to be a writer. He wrote in the early morning reliving the war, the keys of his typewriter snapping down on paper for three or four hours, then he drank all afternoon trying to forget the war, my mother, and me. My mother served drinks at the Interlude Club on Hollywood Boulevard five nights a week. “My one chance,” she told me, “to do something.”

After school I waited for her backstage, did my homework, and watched. I was watching that night when Mr. Rosenberg took my mother’s arm in a familiar way. I looked at him and I looked at my mother in her new red dress, how beautiful she looked, so happy. That night Mr. Rosenberg winked at me with a broad smile before leading my mother away.




via Find a

He should have stayed away for good. Instead, Asa set his traveling bag down and resumed life as though he had never traveled half way around the world, spending the last three months living in a thatched hut on a beach along the Andaman Sea skin diving, fishing, eating, and entertaining lonely female travelers on their way to other places.

On his first day back, Asa found the three chords of firewood he cut and bucked last spring more than half gone. “Someone helping themselves I see. And they parked right in front for easy loading.”  The tire tracks were fresh; the tread pattern rigid in the mud along with tiny boot prints.  “At least she left me some kindling and an ax.”

It was a silent give and take between them, but mostly it was her taking what she wanted and him making up the loss. Neighborly with an edge he put there when he took what she was offering not bargaining for the price he’d pay.

Asa discovered the empty water tank on his second day back. He gathered his tools and hiked up the narrow canyon to the spring two miles away  Water, like a road, will turn neighbor against neighbor and turn and honest neighbor into a thief.

Clearing away rocks and sediment at the spring box, Asa walked the waterline through the brush watching the weight of water pull the line down.  He looked for signs of rats; he looked for the line pinned beneath a fallen tree or rocks. For three days Asa hiked the canyon uncoupling and coupling the water line.

On the fifth day, Asa uncouple the waterline to clear it of debris at the pump-house, and that’s when he saw it. So simple it made him laugh out loud as he push the valve open and watched water gush beneath the pump-house door. Someone had unbolted the pump leaving a note: “Thanks!”

“Life’s a bitch,” he said as he closed the valve.


The Trifecta Challenge: Write 333 words using the word and this meaning– something that is extremely difficult, objectionable, or unpleasant. Add your link here.

Green Nova

via How Stuff Works
via How Stuff Works

A rebel came-a-courting and he did drive
a green Chevy Nova all black inside.
A rebel came a-courting and Mama said, “No.”
but in I slid beside my beau.


The Decemberist Revolt took place during the month of December in 19th century Russia when 3,000 soldiers protested Nicholas I’s assumption of the throne on the first day of his reign.  He quickly squashed the revolt, but it impacted his regime as he went on to rule with an iron fist.

For the Trifextra weekend challenge, we’re asking you to write exactly 33 words about rebellion and/or revolt.  Interpret it as you will, just keep it to 33 words.

A Hollow Victory

My father was a player in his day, but you wouldn’t know it now. He’s got all the nurses conned. I saw him push ten dollars into the hand of the male nurse who takes him into the bathroom to do his business. My father is dying. We both know this, but we’re not talking about it. For a laugh, my father pulls on his skin and shouts, “Hey, look what happens when you get old.”  His skin droops, flaccid and pendulous.  He looks like he belongs in a wax museum.  His face is gray, all angles and points, but he still talks like a player, still telling his stories. The guy in the bed next to my father has the TV turned up so loud  I have to lean over my father’s bed to hear him.


Death may be the elephant in the room, but we’re still playing dominoes every week because we’ve always played dominoes, and because we both know this may be our last game. When I was a kid I use to imagine this day, our last game together, me old and him older.  I imagined my pin looping around the cribbage board while he contemplated his next move. “5 for one,” he’d say and draw six dominoes from the bone-yard before laying an insignificant dom on the table. I would come back with, “25 for five, 30 for six, and I’m out.”  He’d lay his doms out flat for me to count, all fours, fives, and sixes. My horse would be racing down the cribbage board to the finish line while his horse was still left at the gate.

“Set ‘em up,” my father said. I rolled a table between us. My father is shrewd. He knows his game. He use to play for money. I mix. We each pull a domino. He plays first. His hand shakes with the effort. He lays down a blank five and reaches for the bone-yard.


Trifecta’s  weekly challenge: HOLLOW (adjective): lacking in real value, sincerity, or substance : false,meaningless  ishollow and without triumph — Ernest Beaglehole>


My offering uses the challenge word in its title. I suppose that it might disqualify the piece, but I’m playing just the same.