It’s Flash Fiction time again on the Romance Writers Weekly Blog Hop! Leslie Hachtel has set the challenge: 500 words or less using the words herbs, hair and heaven. If you joined me from A.S. Fenichel, welcome! Here’s my story snippet today. The rich, loamy soil blackened her fingernails and stained her palms. Lifting a handful to her nose, she breathed in the intoxicating scent of spring before patting the dirt into place at the base of the small rosemary shrub she’d just planted. Using the back of her wrist to brush a strand of hair off her face—and unknowingly leaving a dark streak across her cheek—she sat back on her heels and surveyed her garden with satisfaction. It looked like little more than a neatly rowed square of earth right now, but in her mind’s eye she already saw the pea vines heavy with pods, the feather tops of carrots, the abundance of herbs she would preserve. The long winter had been cold and stormy. Not just the weather, but her life. “Never break up in the fall,” she muttered to herself. Not that there was ever a good time to separate from the man you thought you’d live the rest of your life with. But if Hal had left her in the spring, she would have had her garden to keep her company. Instead, she’d been forced to suffer the barren and empty season trapped indoors by frigid temperatures unrelieved by the barest hint of sunshine. Lifting her face to the sky, she let the soft breeze tease her skin and sighed. Spending the last few days in her garden hadn’t just been digging and weeding and planting. It had been the first steps in putting her life back together, in rebuilding that wreckage of her soul. It had been heaven. Short but (hopefully) sweet! I’d love to hear what you think. Then be sure to hop over to Jenna Da Sie https://jennadasie.com and see what that busy mom of two little ones has come up with!
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I have a love/hate relationship with Flash Fiction. It is both fun and difficult to do. My mind starts whirling with all sorts of ideas when I see the words, but when it comes down to writing something coherent it is not a ‘flash’ to write! This week on the Romance Writers Weekly Blog Hop, Leslie Hachtel says it’s… Flash Fiction Time! 500 words using rosebush, knees and mascara. Here goes! Judith was on her knees, scrabbling around under the rosebush for the contents of her purse. The bag had gone flying, vomiting its cargo in a looping arc, after she’d collided with a solid wall in her haste to escape the wedding reception. “I’m so sorry,” a deep voice said, “let me help.” Judith froze. The wall was talking. A large hand entered her field of vision. It was lightly tanned with a dusting of dark hairs on the back of the wrist, and it was holding a bright pink tube of mascara. She lifted her eyes, following the line of muscular forearm, bicep hidden by a bright white fabric with a rolled cuff, and strong neck rising from a crisp collar to a face that stopped her in her tracks. “I think there’s something else under here,” the wall said. She was mesmerized by his lips—thin but not too thin, with a hint of an upward curl at the corners. The face vanished from view, but before she could move, reappeared. “Here.” Dark blue eyes framed with black lashes and heavy brows gleamed. She tore her gaze away from the fascinating face and looked down. In his palm lay a paper-wrapped cylinder with the word Tampax in a feminine script stamped on it. She snatched it from him and stuffed it back in her bag. “Are you okay?” the wall said. “You were in a real hurry there.” “I’m fine,” she muttered, finally finding her voice. Well, she would be fine, once a hole opened at her feet and swallowed her. It was bad enough she’d just watched the man she’d once loved marry her best friend. Now she’d humiliated herself with her usual klutz routine in front of the most gorgeous man she’d ever seen in real life. “I’m Quentin,” the wall said. “I am sorry I got in your way. Let me buy you a drink as an apology.” “I don’t drink.” Keeping her face averted, she closed her eyes in despair. Now she sounded rude and ungrateful. Her surly words bounced off Quentin, much as she had done earlier. “Not even a soft drink?” he asked. She could hear the amusement in his voice. “Tomato juice? Water?” Amazed she hadn’t chased him away like she did all other men, she took a deep breath. Gathering her courage, she raised her head and looked him in the eye. “A sparkling water would be great,” she said. And when he stretched out his hand, let him help her to her feet. Maybe there was hope for a happy ever after for her yet. I’d love to hear your comments on this little scene. Then, hop over to read what Clair Brett has come up with! If flash fiction wasn’t challenging enough, this week Jenna Da Sie has tasked us with writing MICRO flash fiction! Write 250 words with a genre of your choice. The location is a tunnel and the object is a flower. Here's my contribution. 😊 I yawn and stretch, scratching my belly as I blink the sleep out of my eyes. The space around me is warm and cozy, but I’ve spent way too much time here lately. Spring is stirring in my blood, sparking energy in my nerve cells, burning the dullness of winter from my brain. A faint glow catches my eye, and I move toward it. Peering around the corner, I see a round circle of brightness—the sun at the end of a tunnel. I am drawn irresistibly to the warmth, and my notice twitches with the scent of newborn flowers. I poke my head out of my burrow cautiously, wary of hawks, coyotes and other vicious marauders. Green sprigs of grass form a waving hedge around the entrance to my home, and for a moment I just savour the end of the long dark. Then I scurry out for the first feast of the new gopher year. Maybe it’s the onset of winter here in Northern BC that has me thinking of spring already. What do you think of my furry little story? I’d love to hear from you in the comments. Then be sure to hop over to Leslie Hachtel and see what she came up with for Jenna’s challenge. Want to get swept up in a dashing adventure? Check out Leslie Hachtel's BOUND TO MOROCCO!
I missed the last time we did Flash Fiction on the Romance Writer’s Weekly Blog Hop, so when it was my turn to decide a topic I assigned it again. Write no more than 500 words using these three words: grandmother, freckle, giant. I just finished reading "Madam, Will You Talk" by Mary Stewart, which is set in the south of France. Maybe that was a partial inspiration for this little story. The giant sunflower waved and bobbed in the breeze. The stalk supporting it was almost a thick as my wrist. Even in this field full of its siblings it stood out from the rest. My grandmother stopped beside it and peered up at the enormous blossom. “My,” she said in her soft, accented voice, “aren’t you a tall fellow.” She reached out and patted the fuzzy stem, her age-freckled hand trembling with the Parkinson’s that ravaged her body. “Do you want to go any further?” I asked. “Or are you tired?” She answered with a dismissive snort and continued up the row of flowers. We had had to leave her walker in the rental car so she was using her cane, and we walked slowly, but given the heat of the Provençal sun that was just fine by me. When I was a child, Grand-mère hold told stories of her own childhood growing up in the south of France. It had seemed a fairy tale land, haunted by the ghosts of Roman soldiers and renegade Popes. We would pour over maps, planning our travels while she spoke to me in French, insisting I would only fully appreciate the experience if I immersed myself in the language. As I grew older, we still talked about the trip, but it got lost in the anxiety of high school, the flurry of university applications, the drama of boyfriends, the minutia of life as an adult. Then Grand-père passed away, and Grand-mère was diagnosed with Parkinson’s, and I broke up with the man I thought would be my forever love, and in a fit of rebellion and rage against life I bought us two tickets to Paris and presented them to Grand-mère as a fait accompli. She’d demurred at first, but when I’d told her the tickets were non-refundable and I couldn’t afford to not take the trip, she lifted her chin and said, “D'accord, let’s go.” So here we were, wandering in a field full of sunny flowers, my grandmother lost in memories, myself making them. I’d love to hear what you think of this scene. Then, hop over to visit Leslie Hachtel to see what she dreamed up.
Flash Fiction is back on Romance Writers Weekly! Jenna Da Sie set the challenge this week: Write a 500 word or less flash fiction using the words TURKEY, RAIN, and TRAMPOLINE. If you joined me from A.S. Fenichel, welcome! Here’s my contribution. Enjoy! Ella stepped back and surveyed the tiny kitchen. Everything was ready. A ham was in the oven, the potatoes were boiling, the broccoli casserole warmed up and waiting in the slow cooker. Serving bowls and platters were lined up with military precision on the counter, labeled with their purpose—devilled eggs, pickles, ham, potatoes, salad. She washed all her prep dishes and put them away, and the table was covered in a festive orange cloth and set with her favourite dishes. The handprint turkey her nephew, Ethan, had given her hung in pride of place on the fridge. Soon he and her sister, Sara, would arrive. It would be their first Thanksgiving without Ian, and Ella’s emotions bounced like ping-pong balls on a trampoline. One moment she was glad the abusive jerk was finally out of Sara’s life, the next she was angry at how Sara was mourning his loss, an instant later guilty that she couldn’t sympathize with her sister’s grief. Too much to drink and a rain-slick road had taken that monster out of her life. It had seemed like providence to Ella. It was a nightmare for Sara. The phone rang, indicating someone at the main door of her apartment building. She took a deep breath and went to let Sara and Ethan in. I’d love to hear your thoughts! Then, be sure to hop over to Leslie Hachtel to read her story! It seemed like a good idea at the time…. It was my turn to set the topic for Romance Writers Weekly, and I chose this: Pick a day or event in your life (ordinary or unusual) and describe it from a different point of view. This could be another person who was there, a stranger watching from a far, a pet - whatever you like. If you joined me from Leslie Hachtel, welcome. It was a lot harder than I thought to figure out how to do this. It’s difficult to see yourself from the ‘outside!' But I had to give it a shot, of course. She is not a tall woman. When she pushes the grocery cart her hands are at chest-level. In the produce section she weaves back and forth, wasting no time on choosing the lettuce and peppers and fruit from the bins. The list she consults every couple minutes is illegible to anyone else, but she has no problem deciphering it. In the international foods aisle, she takes her time selecting the soya sauce. You can hear her muttering to herself as she reads the labels closely and discards those with higher sodium. “As if any soya sauce is low in sodium,” she can be heard to say. She continues talking to herself as she strides up and down the aisles, filling her green bins methodically. In front of the shelves holding popcorn and popcorn toppings, she must stand on the bottom shelf, cling to one of the middle shelves, and strain to reach the Ketchup flavour. It’s always on the very highest shelf and always almost gone, so the last small containers are barely within fingertip reach. At the till she unloads quickly, and as the items are scanned through by the cashier she refills her bins, tapping her fingers impatiently as she waits for the conveyor belt to bring them to her. She is done loading before the till finishes compiling the final total and whisks out the door, not to be seen until the following Saturday. I’m not sure how successful this experiment was, but there you go. I’d love to hear your comments – and then be sure to hop on over to A.S. Fenichel who is next in line! This week on Romance Writers Weekly, we’re back to an old favourite. Dani Jace set this week’s topic: Flash Fiction: 500 words or less using dog, fire & rain If you joined me from Leslie Hachtel, welcome! Here is my contribution this week. The smell of wet dog permeates the cab of the truck. “Get back,” I say as a cold, damp muzzle is thrust in my face. Argos whimpers and wags his tail. “I know you don’t like storms, but stop being such a big baby.” I sit behind the steering wheel, Argos taking up the remainder of the bench seat beside me. He’s fifty percent Bernese Mountain Dog, fifty percent Newfoundland and one hundred percent yellow coward. A few minutes ago, we’d been sitting around the campfire, both of us quiet and content after sharing a steak dinner, when he’d bolted to his feet and attempted to leap into my lap. Moments later I heard the deep rumbling roll of thunder, and before I could even think to react, slashing wind and pelting rain assaulted us. Leaving the fire to fend for itself, we dove for the truck, a much more secure refuge than the tiny two-man tent I’d erected earlier that day. Argos is too nervous to lay down. He stands on the seat, switching positions constantly. One minute I have a sopping wet tail slapping me in the face, the next I am battling dog breath and drool. Through the windshield I keep a wary eye on my tent. Its fragile fabric is billowing and collapsing violently in the wind, and I pray that the pegs hold. The rain bulleting on the roof is so loud I can barely hear myself think. When I see headlights appear in my rearview mirror I am not surprised I didn’t hear the vehicle approach. I am surprised when someone jumps out of the cab and dashes to my window. The figure is tall and broad and his—I assume his from the way he moves and his size—his face is shrouded by the hood of the dark slicker he is wearing. He taps on the window and motions for me to roll it down. Argus starts barking, just about blowing out my eardrums. “Quiet,” I command, and he stops, but a rolling growl continues to escape. Surreptitiously I press the lock button, barricading Argus and myself in the truck. I’ve set up camp in a forestry site just off a well-used logging road. There is no one else here, which is its main appeal. But its isolation is also the reason there’s no way in hell I’m opening my window to a stranger. When I don’t do as he asks, he gestures again. One hand holds the brim of his hood so it doesn’t whip off in the wind. I don’t know how well he can see me, but I shake my head and shout through the cacophony of rain. “What do you want?” He either hears me or figures out what I want on his own. With no regard for how drenched he will get—the rain is driving down so hard it is rolling in sheets down the windshield—he pushes back his hood. Using the torch on my cell phone, I illuminate his face. Well, that’s just over 500 words, so I guess I have to stop there. What do you think happens next? Does she (I know the narrator is a woman, not that I gave you any clues to that) recognize the man outside her window? Is he really a stranger? Does she open her window? Let me know in the comments, then be sure to hop on over to Jenna Da Sie and see what she came up with!
, Flash Fiction is so much fun to write that we’re doing it back to back! This week it is Leslie Hachtel's turn to set the challenge: Write 500 words or less using the words knuckle, cocktail and eyelashes. I might be cheating a bit. One, my story is more than 500 words (oh, well) and, two, I thought it also might be interesting to continue last week’s story. So if you didn’t read that blog, be sure to check it out. Here goes! In that instant of recognition, the loud, crazy nightclub scene surrounding Laurel vanished. The noise, the crowd—gone, replaced by Hollis. Her ex-boyfriend shifted on the stool, leaning toward her. “I’ve missed you so much,” he said. Flames of fury licked at the edges of the shock still dulling her mind. He’d missed her? He’d broken her heart, and he had the gall to say he missed her? She tossed her cocktail in his face. The frilly umbrella the bartender had placed jauntily in the wide bowl bounced off his forehead, and slushy green crushed ice cascaded into his eyes, down his cheeks. “Damn it!” he shouted, jumping up flailing his arms. “That stings!” “Good,” she muttered in satisfaction. Hollis snatched a pile of napkins from bar and wiped his face. “I said I wanted to explain.” “You’ve already explained. I asked you to explain a month ago when you dumped me, and you told me it 'just wasn’t good timing.' I don’t need to hear any other lame excuses.” “I didn’t handle it well.” Hollis cleared sticky residue from the bar stool and sat back down. He wore a blue polo shirt that matched his eyes and light tan trousers. Both were splattered with margarita mix. He still looked good enough to eat. Laurel chewed nervously on one knuckle to distract herself, her whole body tinglingly aware of him. “Can we go talk somewhere else?” he asked. “It’s too loud in here.” Their entire conversation had been conducted at the top of their lungs, to combat the driving music. Laurel looked for Michaela. Her friend was on the dance floor, glued to the sexy Brazilian who had invited her to learn the Samba. Suddenly it was all too much, and Laurel had to escape. Without saying a word, she slid off the bar stool and hurried through the drunken crowd, dodging her way to the front door. Without looking she knew Hollis was right behind her. He’d obviously taken her actions as consent to talk more. It was the last thing she wanted to do. Tears gathered in her eyes, pooled on her eyelashes. She brushed them away as she stepped onto the sidewalk. The change from the crowded nightclub was like diving into a pool—cool and clean and quiet. She had intended to keep on walking, ignoring Hollis, but he gripped her elbow lightly, stopping her flight mid-motion. “Please, Laurel,” he repeated. “I need to tell you what I couldn’t before.” “I don’t want to hear,” she said, feeling mutinous, refusing to look at him. “I’m an undercover cop.” That had her head jerking up, had her staring at him, searching his expression. All she saw was the truth. “We met while I was part of a major operation. It was supposed to wrap up weeks ago, but things went sideways. I knew I wouldn’t be able to take the time off for this trip, but I couldn’t tell you why.” Laurel felt her mouth open and close, open and close. No words came out. “Maybe I should have handled it differently,” he said. “But I didn’t know how. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do in my life.” She finally found her voice. “You’re a cop?” she squeaked. “I thought you were an accountant!” “I am. I specialize in financial crimes.” He reached out and touched her shoulder. His caress lit tiny fires in her skin, and not because of the sunburn she had. “We made the arrests two days ago. I hopped on a plane as soon as I could.” Reeling from too much information too fast, she rested a hand on his chest, searching for balance. “You came looking for me? How did you know I hadn’t cancelled the trip?” He smiled. “Cop, remember? I made some calls.” He drew her close, wrapping his arms around her, tucking her head under his chin. “I couldn’t wait another day to see you, to explain. Can you forgive me? Can we start again?” His heart thumped rapidly under her cheek and she sensed tension in his body. He didn’t know how she would answer. And it mattered to him. She mattered to him. “Yes,” she sighed, here own heart brimming over. “Let’s start again." I hope you enjoyed Part Two of my flash fiction! Be sure to hop over to Jenna Da Sie and check out her story!
Flash Fiction is back! Jenna Da Sie has set the challenge. I think she’s taking it easy on us as it’s been a while since we’ve done this. At least the words have a theme! Write a flash fiction in 500 words or less that includes the words: sunscreen, camera, tourist. If you joined me from Leslie Hachtel, welcome! Here is my contribution: “I told you to put on sunscreen,” Michaela scolded as she slathered an after-burn cream on Laurel’s shoulders. “I did,” Laurel said, wincing at her friend’s touch, even though she was being gentle. Her skin was radiating heat an infrared camera would be able to pick up. “But I guess I missed a few places.” “So much for not looking like tourists,” Michaela grumbled. “We're in Rio de Janeiro. I wanted to meet some sexy South Americans, not Joe from Boise. We’ll never pass ourselves off as locals if you’re wandering around lobster-red.” “Sorry.” Laurel could care less about meeting new men. Her heart was still mending from the blow Hollis had struck a month a go. But that didn’t mean she wanted to screw things up for Michaela. “I’ll wear a wrap when we go out tonight. No one will see.” Later that evening, she sat in a crowded bar, watching Michaela’s bright, laughing face. She was dancing with a handsome, dark-skinned man whose Brazilian accent had been charmingly heavy when he’d invited her out onto the floor. Now he was teaching her the complicated steps to a Samba and taking every opportunity to keep his hands on her. Laurel tried not to think of what she’d hoped for this trip when she’d booked it a couple months ago. It was supposed to be her and Hollis on that dancefloor, getting all hot and sweaty and hungry for each other. Instead, he’d broken it off. When she’d asked for a reason, for an explanation, he’d only shaken his head. “It’s not going to work out,” he’d said, looking miserable but determined. “The timing isn’t right for us.” In a fit of mortified pique, she’d invited Michaela to take his place. She wished now she’d just stayed home to lick her wounds. The comparison between what she'd hoped for and what she was getting was a fiery pain that out-burned the one on her shoulders. The bar where she was sitting overlooked the dancefloor. Someone slid onto the stool next to her but she didn't look over. The place was packed, and she wasn’t going to save Laurel’s seat when it didn’t look like she’d be returning anytime soon. “Hello, Laurel,” a deep voice said. She froze. Even over the frantic beat of the music, the conversations surrounding her conducted at screaming level, she recognized that voice. It couldn’t be. She must have imagined it. She took a sip of her drink without turning her head. “I need to talk to you,” the voice continued. “I need to explain.” She closed her eyes briefly. Maybe she was going crazy. That would explain it. Carefully she peeked in the voice’s direction, more than half-hoping that no one was there. She’d rather be crazy than have her suspicions confirmed. She wasn’t crazy. Hollis was on the stool next to her, watching her with his sea-blue eyes. I'd love to hear what you think! Want more of Laurel and Hollis' story? Let me know in the comments. And then hop over to Dani Jace to see what she came up with!
Flash Fiction is one of our favourite challenges here on the Romance Writers Weekly Blog Hop. This week, Leslie Hachtel set this assignment: In 500 words or less using the words trapeze, oranges and sidewalk. Here goes! She stretched out her arms and balanced like a trapeze artist. The curb edging the sidewalk was made of crumbly concrete, and she imagined she was on a rocky ledge, one tiny misstep from plunging hundreds of feet to her death. She felt a little dizzy, even though she knew if she did fall, it would only be a little step into a smoothly paved gutter. “Lizzie, be careful!” her mother scolded. “Come hold my hand.” Obediently she joined her mother. Lizzie wondered what she would say if Lizzie really did climb a mountaintop. Not that she would be allowed to until she was grown up. Her seventh birthday had been a couple of months ago, so she was almost eight. But she wasn’t even allowed to go to the store by herself, even though it was on the corner of their street and she could see it from her house. Mr. Amir, the owner, was a smiling man with dark skin and white teeth. Sometimes he gave her candy from a bin behind the counter. Lizzie knew she shouldn’t take candy from strangers, but Mr. Amir wasn’t a stranger. He had a granddaughter in the grade above Lizzie. She had the most beautiful straight black hair. Lizzie wound a finger in her own pale strands, scowling. Mr. Amir’s store smelled of spices and fruit. Her mother let go of her hand to fill a bag with oranges. Lizzie wandered around the corner, exploring. It wasn’t a big store, but it had lots of nooks and crannies, filled with brightly coloured packages covered in lettering that didn’t look like the alphabet on the wall in her classroom. A few minutes later, she headed to the front of the store, expecting to see her mother at the till. But no one was there. She frowned. “Mommy!” she called. “Mr. Amir?” Her heart started to pound. Where were they? Maybe out front? She pulled the glass door. It didn’t open. She pulled again, as hard as she could, but it didn’t budge. It was locked. “Mommy!” she called again. Her belly felt cold and hard, like the time she’d eaten too much cotton candy. This is an adventure, she told herself, like climbing a mountain. Don’t be afraid. At yet she was more afraid than she’d ever been. A sob punched out of her chest and tears spilled down her cheeks. Then she heard her mother’s voice. “Mommy!” “Lizzie!” Her mother appeared at the end of the aisle, and Lizzie sprinted toward her. “You were gone! You and Mr. Amir were gone!” She clung to her mother’s waist, breathing in the scent of laundry and peanut butter. “The door was locked! I couldn’t get out!” “Mr. Amir locked it because he wanted to show me his garden out back.” “I thought you’d left me.” Lizzie’s shoulders lifted and lowered in a sigh. “Oh, baby. Mommy would never leave you.” She wiped the tears from Lizzie’s face. “Let’s go home.” Lizzie held her mother’s hand all the way home, and didn’t once wish she was older. I'd love to hear what you think. Leave a comment below, and then hop on to the creator of this challenge, Leslie Hachtel!
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