He flicked the butt, still glowing, out of the car’s open window. A jogger or dog walker would stamp it out in due course.

He filled his lungs, checking his bank account with a smile. He expected more ceremony, more import to his last ciggie.

He shrugged.

Image credit: El Caminante/Pixabay

This post was written for the YeahWrite #447 Microprose grid.
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Hall of Mirrors (or A Mansplainer’s Just Desserts)

“Well actually…” 

Breathy whistles of calliope music swallowed his words. 

“Come,” a silken voice commanded from the darkness. Swirling, slithering white-gloved hands led him forward. An impuissant marionette, he followed.

Behind him, a closing door’s click ushered a silence so complete his ears ached.

Released, he clawed at slippery surfaces searching for an exit, mocked by grotesque reflections of himself. 

This post was written for the YeahWrite #442 Microprose grid. Click the badge to read and comment on other entries. Don’t forget to vote!


Acacias, adorned in gold, bob heavy heads to a koolbardi’s caroling call. A raven, scratching at freshly turned soil, unearths Marco’s watch. The koolbardi swoops, screeching. A clash of beaks. A storm of feathers.


Gingerly, Gina grabs her shovel.

Click this badge to see other entries to the YeahWrite #434 Microprose grid

Exit, Night

Night enters, rudely awakening fear while light peeks tentatively from other rooms. Fate reaches for the one match still housed within its book, lone survivor of smoking years. Phosphorus flowers into flame, snatching at the candle. Vanquished, darkness slinks away.


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




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.





Rewriting the Past

With the beating of a butterfly’s wings…

In my previous post, I talked about being prompted to write a note to my 13 year old self. I was asked what I would say to 13 year old me, and I responded with as much honesty as I could. But it got me thinking; if I did have the opportunity to speak to my younger self, what would I actually say?

Would younger me even listen to older me?

How would I have changed the trajectory of my own life, my own experiences by having that conversation?

It was a great exercise, an opportunity for catharsis and forgiveness, a chance to treat myself with greater kindness than I did then, or do even now. It’s easier to speak with gentleness to a 13 year old, just starting her journey into womanhood, waking to her nascent sexuality, tentatively exploring the edges of her personality. It’s harder extending that gentleness to myself in each moment now.

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Lest We Forget

Legacy Poppy It’s Remembrance Day in Australia today. A day of Legacy poppies, rosemary sprigs, and a minute’s silence. This day is marked by the playing of the Rouse and the Last Post, by an appropriate sermon, by men and women wearing medals of honour with pride, by flowered wreaths, national anthems and the Ode of Remembrance.

It’s also Veteran’s Day in the US, and Remembrance or Armistice Day throughout the Commonwealth.

Continue reading “Lest We Forget”