Smashing Rainbows


Life’s like a prism

Making beauty from ashes

Rainbows through smashed glass

SWC-2: The Watch Human


I looked out the window on the back yard and my heart turned to ice in my chest. The masters were in the back yard where they often took their afternoon bones brookside. Ordinarily it was perfectly safe, our town being accepting of small dogs in spite of the prejudice that ran through our country about them.

The shepherd gang had come into town last night, though, and it was well known they did not like our kind. The masters were surrounded by six large dogs whose fangs were bared. Mercedes our matriarch and alpha had drawn Jacopo and Snug behind her protectively, but I knew they didn’t stand a chance if left to themselves. This is exactly why small dogs purchased attack people.

I sprang to the back door and pulled it open using my opposable thumbs and sprinted out into the midst of the pack. In one hand I wielded my oak club. In the other a sharpened stave.

“Back off!” I hissed.

The Shepherd gang’s alpha circled in front of me twice with ears laid low. Then he spoke to my masters, “Don’t plan on staying long you Maltese scum! This town isn’t big enough for both our breeds. If you’re not gone the next time I come to town, I promise even your watch human won’t be able to protect you from me and my pack.”

As one the pack turned tail and leaping the brook they were gone.

Mercedes was whimpering behind me, “Why can’t they just leave us alone?”


Fandango’s Flash Fiction Challenge # 62

So this post is an exercise in response to Fandango’s Flash Fiction Challenge.

I have been wanting to take up writing challenges like this again, and now I have some time to do it. This challenge involves writing a flash piece (usually under 250 -300 words) inspired by a picture. Here is this week’s photo.


To read all the other submissions click on the underlined link above.

Here is my attempt:

The Bulletin Doorway

For the last week Tom had been drawn to the bulletin board just outside his physics classroom. It started as a tickle in the pit of his stomach on Monday. By Tuesday he was almost forced to stop and gaze at each of the pages stuck helter-skelter across the surface of the board. Wednesday and Thursday the the bulletin board danced through his dreams. With each dream Tom awoke in a cold sweat with the “@” sign strangely burned into his mind’s eye.

Friday came. Tom had all he could do to sit through physics class. When at last the bell rang Tom nearly knocked a girl in a green snow hat over as he barreled through the door to gaze, once again, at the bulletin board. Students jostled him as the mad rush to get to final period came and went.

The last bell rang. The hall grew quiet and then Tom saw the “@” sign stamped at the top of three bulletins tacked to the board. Each bulletin had two words on it. Tom read them aloud in order as he somehow knew he should.

“Now the… Visionary says…Be opened!”

The girl in the green hat whom he had nearly stomped in physics class stood beside him.

“I’ve been waiting for you to figure it out all week. You are the slowest visionary I have ever walked with.” She said.

Then she took his hand and the door opened before them. Without another question Tom stepped through and was gone.

Well That Was NaNoWriMo 2019

Well NaNoWriMo 2019 has come and gone. That was quick! It was just like a dandelion…blooming one day and gone to seed the next. I thought I would have more time to be posting updates about my progress, but then I do tend to overestimate my abilities.

In spite of that, the month did exactly what it was supposed to. It saw me through another reading of the novel I am working to complete. I chopped about 6,000  words most of which were leading the narrative rather than letting the narrative lead. I also began a debate with myself over at least one chapter and its future in the novel….I haven’t decided which side of me wins this fight yet. DO YOU EVER FIGHT WITH YOURSELF LIKE THAT?


I also wrote about five scenes of backstory some of which will (I think) make it into the novel’s final form. Of course they will need to be rewritten. My first drafts are always….well let’s just say not fit for public consumption. My sister would call them “pieces of Drech.”

What I noticed is that as I worked hard to increase my level of writing productivity, my over all productivity level went up. I  started really paying attention to my blog life again. I accomplished a lot more art work than I usually do. My family started a semi regular game night and I got some of the big cleaning projects done  which I had been sitting on for a while. If this keeps up my family is going to want every month to be NaNoWriMo.



The Romans 12 Cycle: Encourager

I sing the summer boys

Home. The clamoring crowds

With strong drink letter

Affirmations that at last

The series is in the bag.



I’ll never say die.

Even when my heroes fall.

I’ll scale the mountains.

I’ll take the skies of midnight

Home in buckets made of clay.



Shovel the neighbor’s 

Drive. Speaking life to the

Winter wind. In the 

Dark journey the truth now brings

A needle’s golden thread.



I call forth the Spring.

A three-strand string binds the shards

Of broken mirrors. 

It makes sense of the damaged homes in

Reality’s tapestry.



I am not a year

Nor a season, month or day

I am but minutes,

An eye for the thread leading

To the finished work, God’s hand.



The Romans 12 Cycle: Teacher


In the lavender

By the lake I write the

Stories. Very few will ever read. Too busy

With the summer sun to learn.


Autumn annotates

The footnotes of falling leaves.

The mountains are my 

Tablet. I write with the ink

Bottled in the midnight skies.wp-image-249808474jpg.jpg

I sip hot coffee

By the fire, a book in hand.

I thread the needle

With my  tinder thoughts in the

Winter land’s cold hard facts.


Speak forth the gentle

Green of reason threaded through

The broken mirrors.

Pieces make sense reflected in

Reality’s tapestry.


I am not the year

Nor a season, month or day.

I am but minutes

Unmasking the threads

To the finished work, God’s hand



The Romans 12 Cycle: Servant

I stir lemonade,

Sigh and wipe my weary brow.

I wax thankful then

As summer solicits for

The seasons’ warrant.

Rake the leaves. I’ll burn

This body to dust, if that

Is what it takes. I’ll

Do it gladly. My heart is

Woven in the mountain skies.

I am winter’s snow.

You will find me in the work.

No matter how dark it

Gets, I will be the finger

Which pulls the thread no one sees.

In Secret Spring’s green

I snip the weak threads. I break

The mirror. I sweep 

The pieces into place. Glimpse

Reality’s tapestry.

I am not the year

Nor a season, month or day.

I am but minutes

Who work the threads leading

To the finished work, God’s hand.

The Romans 12 Cycle: Prophet


A hot summer day,

Once again I read someone

Else’s mail. Sipping

Lemonade as I crochet

Edges of reality.


The leaves fall. As I

Count the dry bones, I breathe forth

The silence of death

Woven from mountains and skies

Which hem in the Beloved.


My breath twines with snow

Yet to come. They rebuke me

For seeing the dark,

But what choice was I given?

The winter is my needle.


Spring’s my thread of green.

New like the shards of broken

Mirrors. Pieces placed

Like manifold wisdom, glimpse

Reality’s tapestry


I am not the year

Nor a season, month or day.

I am but minutes

Who count the threads leading

To the finished work, God’s hand.