Family

First published at Postcard Poems and Prose.

Daddy wore latex under his robe while delivering his rhapsodic sermons to unsuspecting congregants. He preferred Spandex when he and Momma participated in the local circus’ coed mud wrestling league. They were both daft, tromping to their own piper, but we loved them anyway. Wasn’t that how God wanted it?

The Woven Tale Press Publishes Five Stories

I’m thrilled that five of my 55 word stories appear in the current issue of The Woven Tale Press. Here’s a blurb from the zine. "The Woven Tale Press is a monthly culling of the creative Web, exhibiting the artful and innovative." What makes this special is that the editors approached me asking permission to include my pieces. Thanks to Editor-in-Chief Sandra Tyler.

Here’s the link:  http://thewoventalepress.net/2015/06/30/vol-iii-7/

Two Stories Inspired by One Prompt

This week's prompt words inspired two pieces. One is 55 words, the other isn't. :)

***

Miscellaneous cuss words escaped Mary’s mouth as we drove by Chick’s Roadhouse, with its neon girly sign. She took a bite of cucumber, said they were all going to Hell. Sweaty hands on the steering wheel, I watched her take another bite, got excited, briefly, wondered when she’d find out I was a sinner, too. (55 words)

***

Mary’s face lit up like the neon sign over at Chick’s Roadhouse, the one with the pasties flashing in red, white and blue.

“You remembered!”

I waited, hands sweaty.

“It’s shaped like a cucumber but . . .” Mary stared at me, eyes wide. “My sister put you up to this, didn’t she?”

“If you turn the end, it vibrates.”

A mixture of miscellaneous cuss words and giggles spewed from Mary’s mouth. “You know, Frank, I may not need you anymore,” she said, smiling and waving the pink toy in a circle.

Prompt words: roadhouse, cucumber, sweaty, miscellaneous, neon.

Just Another Day

This story first appeared at Microfiction Monday Magazine.

Mom’s black pants are in the trash again. I don’t know why and never will. Her mind functions unattended these days.

I give her the single rose and card. She says it’s not her birthday. I tell her I know. She reads the card and places it on her bed without comment.

I help her walk to the window, and we watch the trees struggle to stay erect in the strong wind. Life hasn’t knocked her over yet, but it will. I think she still knows that.