“Hi Barry, what’s new?”  Kate answered the phone with an optimistic lilt in her voice.

“Hey!  Katie!  How’s my favorite client?”

Kate rolled her eyes.  “What do you have for me, Barry?”  She persisted.

“Well, there’s a role I think you’d be perfect for.  It’s a drama about a woman who takes revenge on an evil, secretive corporation…”

“Sounds intriguing.  Who else is interested?’

“Well…errr…Katie, let’s be clear, Jennifer Lawrence is already a lock for the lead.  They want you for the role of her best friend…”

“I see.  And let me guess, I say a lot of things like ‘you go girl,’ and ‘ain’t nobody got time for that?’  Plus I’m wacky and over-the-top and have absolutely no life or personality of my own?”


“I’m not interested, Barry…”

“Okay, okay, well, there is a lead role you may be interested in.  It’s a film set on a plantation in the deep south, early 19th century…”

“Gotta go, Barry.”

She typed a quick text to her partner.  Go time.

The women were waiting for her. They formed a straight line, with her at the lead.  Big Movie Studio’s imposing buildings loomed ahead of them.  It was time to send a message.  They weren’t interested in playing maids, or sassy best friends, or slaves any longer.  It was time for change, and they were sick to death of waiting.

For Sunday Photo Fiction 

P.S. – I love Jennifer Lawrence!  She’s my spirit animal!  Just making a point about diversity in Hollywood.




“Nothing is ever as easy as it looks on TV.  Losing weight is hard.”

“Well,  Heather-236, that’s because you’re lazy,” Maura typed in response, her fingers slamming into the keys so violently her elbow accidentally knocked a stack of children’s books from her desk to the floor.  “You hamplanets disgust me!”  All of these losers, commenting on an article about a plus-size model’s struggles in the industry. This one in particular, Heather-236, was so effusive in her support it was disgusting.

Most people who knew Maura in real life would be shocked if they read the things she wrote online, under a veil of anonymity.  Maybe that was why she did it.  It was how she kept calm at work.  Her job was basically managing one meltdown after the other.  Teaching preschool wasn’t for the faint of heart.  Thankfully, the little darlings were at recess at the moment.

“Maura, I think we need to talk.”

She looked up, startled.  She hadn’t heard Sarah, her boss, enter the room.  Sarah slid a print-out of all Maura’s online activity for the past few days across the desk and something flashed in Maura’s mind.  The nameplate on Sarah’s desk.  Sarah H. Murray.

“Sarah, what’s your middle name?”

She pursed her lips.  “I think you already know.”

For Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner

Kinda Sorta


“Amie – do you promise to cleave to Michael, forsaking all others, for as long as you both shall live?”

The officiant’s icy glare frightened Amie, causing her eyes to scan the room.  She caught the eye of someone in the audience – a friend of Micheal’s perhaps?  He was gorgeous, soulful brown eyes, broad shoulders, and those lips, wow…he was one of those guys you could look at and just know they would be a great kisser…but, Michael, and a secure, happy future, were staring at her in expectation.

She crossed her toes. “I do.”


The cue for the six sentence story challenge this week was cleave.

Thursday Thriller – Regret


“The boys miss you so much,” I say, twisting the edge of my shirt sleeve.

“I miss them too,” he says as he returns to the table holding two steaming cups of coffee. My palms are warm and damp.  My arms shiver.  No turning back now.  I have to make this right.  I look at the man sitting across for me and can’t imagine today how in love I was with him a few short years ago.  That love had quickly turned to a consuming hatred during out contentious divorce.  Now all that was left was fear.

“I realize, that I was wrong…so wrong…to keep you from them…”

“The things you said about me to the judge…”

“I know!  I was awful.  There’s no excuse.  I know you would never lay a finger on either of the boys.  You’re a wonderful father.  They cry for you every night, you know.  It breaks my heart.”  I dab at my eyes with a napkin as my voice breaks.  It was the boys that had convinced me to come today, to grovel to my ex, to beg his forgiveness.  I couldn’t stand it any longer, watching them suffer, wondering if their father had abandoned them.  I never thought the judge would order him to stay away from the boys.  I thought he’d at least get supervised visitation.  All I wanted was to hurt him a little.  Or a lot.  The same way he’d hurt me.  “I want you to be a part of their lives.  I’m so sorry, for everything.”

He says nothing as he watches me take a long sip of my coffee.  I feel it immediately.  It all slipping away.  I stand and try and get to the door, but my legs give way underneath me.  I crumple to the floor, struggling to take a breath.

“I’m sorry too,” he says as he stands over me, watching.

Inspired by last week’s Story A Day prompt – Regret.


MWC-Emails from the Edge


Dear Jane,

I hate the suburbs.  All the people, wandering around with brainless smiles on their faces like they’ve been lobotomized.  I miss the anonymity of living in a big city.  I loved never knowing, or caring, who my neighbors were.  Here, people know you’ve closed on your house before you’ve even moved in, and are outside waiting with baskets of muffins as soon as the U-Haul pulls up. I feel like I’m slowly being driven insane.  Maybe this is some Truman Show-esque experiment?

Right now I’m lying on the floor of my generic but spotless master suite, drinking chardonnay straight out of the bottle.  How am I supposed to smile while I make vapid small talk with Muffy and Buffy or whatever-their-names-are this afternoon if I’m not a little  bit drunk?   Don’t judge me.  Anyway, gotta go.  Time to pick up the girls from school.

Miss you,


The prompt for the Miniature Writing Challenge this week is foreigner.



It had rained all day yesterday.  The torrential downpour had virtually flooded the route she usually took when she ran, so she decided to take a detour.  She ran everyday, rain or shine.   It was how she’d lost 70 pounds.

The rains had made the day humid.  She pulled off her jacket and tied the sleeves around her waist.  She relished the feeling of the fresh air on her arms and the tiny sliver of taut belly that peeked out from underneath her athletic top.  She felt powerful and sexy and beautiful.

“Oh yeah, baby!” A crude voice yelled from above her.  She looked up and saw construction workers standing on the scaffolding of a high-rise building.

“Take the rest of it off!”

“What a body!”

She kept her face stoic until she turned the corner, out of their sight, then pulled the jacket back over her shoulders.  As she tried to catch her breath, she found a stray chocolate candy in her pocket and popped it into her mouth, waiting for her body to relax.


For Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers


Sandra Crook

“Incredible,” says a woman to her companion, staring at the structure before them.  They are at a garden party celebrating the work of their favorite local artist.

“I agree,” says the man.  “It’s so powerful.  I think this might be her best yet.”

“Indeed.  A reminder of the fleeting nature of time.”

“Excuse me,” says one of the caterers, wearing a white smock and holding a sharp knife in her hand.  The couple gasps as she cuts into the structure delicately, removing a slice and sliding it onto a small, crystal plate and offering it to the woman.  “Cake?”

For Friday Fictioneers




“Nell!  Nell!”  The reporters yelled from the crowd.  Press conferences weren’t her favorite.  But, the USA Women’s Soccer Team were big celebrities.  They had a legitimate chance of winning the championship this year.  And Nell was their biggest star.

“Okay, one more question, guys.” She hoped one of the millions of cameras in the room didn’t capture an image of her dour expression. “Allison – what ya got?”  Nell pointed to a young reporter in the front row and tried to smile.

“Nell – who inspired you to become an athlete?’

“That’s a great question, but there are so many great female athletes out there.  It would be hard to name just one.”

An hour later, Nell returned to her hotel room to find To Kill A Mockingbird sitting on the nightstand where she’d left it. She could see the corner of the folded yellowed note sticking out of the torn lining of the battered book.  She opened the book and the note fluttered to the floor.  It was from her mother, written over 20 years ago.

Nell – I have a feeling you’ll find a kindred spirit in these pages.  Love, Mom.

Nell opened the  book to her favorite passage and settled under the covers to read all about the adventures of Jean Louise “Scout” Finch, her favorite tomboy.

For Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner

I was saddened to read of the death of Harper Lee today.  I was a little girl with perpetually skinned knees and elbows, pigtails with ribbons that were always coming undone, and grass stains down the front of all of my outfits.  I was most at home climbing fences, digging in the dirt and playing imaginary games outdoors with my friends.  Scout was the first girl character I’d encountered who liked all those things too, which meant the world to me at a time when I felt the most misunderstood.  Ms. Lee may be gone but Scout, Jem and Atticus will live forever.