Innocence, Lost–Crispina’s Creative Challenge #48

This is the first time I’ve been able to link to Crispina’s Creative Challenge. I’ve penned a bit of Flash Fiction–a wee bit dark:

Innocence, LostFlash Fiction—67 Words

They found the body halfway in the tunnel, halfway out.

He was afraid to return to the scene until the investigators had finished their thing. At night, under the new moon, he stood by the bank and tossed in a few rose petals that were quickly covered with slime. So symbolic of his no-longer innocent childhood.

Bye, Dad, he whispered, before moving on to a new life. After all, no one even knew he existed.


Silence–Flash Fiction

death bed

death bed (Photo credit: Damian Bere)

Today, while working my poetry comments I happened upon a site that offers Five Sentence Flash Fiction Prompts using a one-word prompt. As I’ve been so consumed in the world of poetry and the business side of publishing my novels, my fiction writing has taken a back seat to poetry. And so, I thought I’d hop on in and take a few moments to participate in this challenge. This week’s word prompt offered by hostess, Lilie McFerrin, is Silence. Here’s mine:


For weeks after she died, oppressive silence filled her room, creeping like fog into every aspect of my life. I didn’t miss the curses or abuse she handed out, day-after-day, year-after-year. Nor did I mind the aloneness of it all. Even the hospice nurse, when she visited to reclaim left-over supplies and medications, said nothing when she saw the empty morphine bottle. But in my mind, silence screams its verdict: “Guilty; guilty as charged.”

I’d like to invite you to check out my blog and website for information on my Novel, Winter is Past, published by Lucky Bat Books and available in print form on and, as well as in most e-book formats.

If you’re here to visit my poem for dVerse Poetics, it’s the previous post.

Freedom: Response to Monday Morning Writing Prompt

Sunrise in the fog, near Horicon, Wisconsin.

Image via Wikipedia


The sunrise that morning was especially brilliant. Such an odd day for them to find his mother hanging by a rope and his father’s brains spattered on the wall. They’d wonder who’d done what.

It hardly mattered, he decided.

He stuffed his clothes in a worn valise. In his hands, Shaun clutched the birthday card grandma sent him twelve years ago, when he was five – her address scribbled in pencil on the back. He slipped it into the pocket of his plaid flannel shirt.

No one could suspect him. Shit, they didn’t even know he existed.

Thus began the first day of his freedom.

Submitted in response to Monday Morning Writing Prompt:  I invite you to return to the original post to view other writer’s contributions.