Flash Fiction – Boots

“No, thank you,” the scullery maid said in frustration.

“Come on,” the fairy godmother wheedled. “You need me!”

“I have everything I need here. Now leave me be.”

“I can’t do that. You’re my charge, and it’s my duty to do whatever will make you happier.”

“You want me to be happy? Then go away!”

“Nope, not an option. I have to give you things and find a way to change your life for the better. I’m not leaving until I figure out what it will take to do just that.” The fairy crossed her arms and stared down the girl.

“Hmm, well I could use a sturdy pair of boots that actually don’t pinch.”

The godmother’s mouth dropped open. “Boots,” she said in a dead voice.

“Yes, preferably brown so they go with more outfits.”

“Boots. You have access to nearly unlimited power, and you ask for boots.”

Cindy nodded. “That’s all I need.”

“Wouldn’t you like a pretty dress and an invitation to the ball?

“I already have those things.”

“How about some friendly animal friends?”

“I’m allergic to pet dander.”

“Glass slippers?”

“I’d only break them or lose one. Besides, those are not as useful as boots.”

“Magic apple?”

“I’m don’t like fruit.”

“What? What kind of person doesn’t like fruit?”

“This kind obviously.”

“I could make you a beautiful carriage, complete with driver and footmen.”

“I have no use for things that disappear at midnight, fairy!”

“I could make something permanent. Want a magic horse?”

“Can you make it not have dander?”

“Well, no.”

“Then no thank you.”

“What do you want then? I can’t leave until I do something that will improve your life.”

“I really could use those boots.”

“Ugh, fine. I’ll make your stupid footwear. But, they are going to be magic boots!”

“I don’t need…”

“Shut it! This is what we call compromise.”

Cindy closed her mouth and sat down in her dressing chair. The fairy concentrated a moment, then waved her wand, perhaps a little harder than necessary, and the air around the woman’s feet shimmered.

“Take off your shoes.”

The girl complied. The shimmering changed to a glow. It grew slowly brighter until both women had to look away. When the light finally faded the scullery maid wore a beautiful pair of brown boots, well cut and perfectly fitted.

“You are the bane of my existence, and I’m glad my obligation to you is fulfilled. I think I’ll let you figure out the magic of these damn boots. I will NEVER see you again; you ungrateful wretch.”

With that, the fairy vanished. The girl immediately took off the boots. She pulled up several floorboards, revealing a large stash full of strange, glowing objects. Digging around a moment, she found a shining cloth and quickly used it to wrap the boots tightly before putting both into the hole. She secured the boards in place again and pulled a rug over them.


“You can come in now,” she called.

Her husband peeked into the room. “Is she gone?”

“Yes, it was a close one this time.”

“What did you ask for?”


The man stared a moment, then started laughing. “I bet she didn’t like that.”

“Not at all. Maybe I made her mad enough to remove me from her list. She said she was never coming back.”

“I doubt it.”

“Me too. It sucks having a forgetful fairy godmother.”

“It goes beyond forgetful. She is very old, poor thing. It’s very kind of you to keep this room and wear those old clothes for her.”

“I don’t like tricking her, but she gets so upset when I wear my nice dresses. Making her happy is the least I can do after all she’s done for us.”

“I’m sorry, my love. Shall I send for your chambermaid? The ball starts in an hour.”

“Yes please.”


He crossed to the door and called to the servant.

“Are you curious about what the boots can do?”

“No! If her gifts weren’t meant to change my life, I would use them. Remember that time I took the magic sword and ran off for a month chasing dragons?”

They shared a laugh at the memory.

“No, I’m never using anything she gives me again. I like my life just the way it is.”

The door opened. “I have your gown ready, your Majesty,” the chambermaid announced.

Cindy’s husband, the king, kissed her hand and turned to leave. “See you at the ball. You should wear the glass slippers for old times sake.” He ducked to avoid her thrown hairbrush. “Happy fiftieth anniversary,” he said, quickly closing the door behind him.

Sometimes I like to write stories that are almost entirely dialog, that can be read without being confused by who is talking. I didn’t quite succeed, but I’m happy with the result, though it’s a rough draft.

This piece was written in Firehouse Subs one Sunday as I ate lunch before heading to my writing group. The place was packed and loud, but somehow I had a random Cinderella idea pop into my head, and I grabbed my spiral and started writing.

It originated with watching an elderly woman and thinking about dementia. It’s a serious subject, but what-if questions started popping up. What if the fairy godmother became forgetful? So a story was born. I hope it doesn’t offend anyone dealing with a friend or family member with dementia.

Word Count 774 words
Sidenote: Pardon the terrible formatting. Between this theme hating tab and copy and pasting from Word, well, you see the result.

Flash Fiction – Never Again

Jen’s finger hovered over the trigger while she nervously waited. Her breath came in hard bursts, so loud she thought it would give away her location too soon. Eventually, Nathan would find her hiding spot anyway, he always did. This time would be different, she told herself.

If he found her before she was ready, she would be forced to do whatever he wanted, usually something sexual. All the other times she never had a chance. Even now, she wouldn’t stay hidden for long. Still, it would be different now, because she was prepared.

The first time, she’d tried running, but he caught her within minutes. Hiding seemed the better option, but he still found her quickly. So today she would try something new.

She barricaded herself in what she liked to think of as a nest. It wasn’t the first time she’d tried this tactic, but it would be the best. To get to her, Nathan would have to enter through the only opening she left him. When he did, revenge would be hers.

A sound startled her out of her thoughts, the tiniest of scrapes. From long experience, she knew he was testing her defenses. She hoped he would assume she was burrowed in tight. Instead, she stood in plain view, slightly to the side of the doorway, gun raised.

He burst in and reached for a box to start digging her out. She pressed her trigger three times, hitting him in the chest. The ‘oof’ sound he made with each hit was satisfying. She knew exactly how much it hurt being struck with a paintball. When he fell to the ground, she laughed.

She stood over him as he gingerly rubbed his chest, spreading paint everywhere. He grinned. Of course, the idiot would be proud she finally beat him. She’d have to do something about that.

“Since I got three shots on you, you have to do anything I want that many times,” she stated.

“Yep, that’s the rules,” he answered with a smirk. “What will it be?”

“Laundry, dishes, and dusting.” Your least favorite things to do, she thought.

Nathan’s smile disappeared. “What? Of all the things you could make me do, you choose cleaning?”

“Yes. That was fun. We should do this more often.” It was her turn to smile. Jen had a feeling they would never play paintball again.


Rough Draft 395

This story was inspired by a one word writing prompt: trigger. I wrote the draft months ago but didn’t type it up until last week. I never planned to show anyone because I worried it would be a ‘trigger’ for some people. Violence against women is a serious problem, and I certainly didn’t want to make light of it.

So I put it away and felt guilty for a while. Then I remembered something. I’m a writer. I write stories, whether they are provocative, serious, light, funny, weird, scary, ridiculous, or something else. Or all of the above. It’s my job to write and stifling myself is not something I’m willing to do.

I’ve had a severe case of writer’s funk/block for quite some time. Telling myself I can’t write a story because of how others might react isn’t going to help. So I can’t restrict my muse this way.

If I have offended anyone, then I am sorry, but I have to do what I do.

Flash Fiction – A Useless Friend

Karen always gave me cigarettes when I needed one. And she was always there if I needed to vent or tell her about my accomplishments. I can’t tell you how many times she did things for me when we worked together. Still, she was pretty useless as far as friends went.

I never could get her to babysit. I know she only met my kids once but come on. Nor would she run my errands for me, as if she were actually always busy writing. Everyone knows writers spend most of their time on Twitter. Likewise, she refused to help me get my cousin’s car from another city, giving me some nonsense about how driving for two hours would hurt her back. I mean, didn’t she have surgery to get that crap fixed? Her excuses were nauseating.

It’s not like I asked for favors very often, only once every four-six months. We didn’t even talk very often so I don’t know how she could say I was always trying to take advantage of her friendship. Okay, those weren’t her exact words, but that’s how I heard it, and she hurt my feelings. I’m still angry at her for making me feel guilty. Of course, I don’t only call her when I want something!

I did everything Karen ever asked of me, although at the moment I can’t seem to recall any of those things. Odd, now that I think about it, she never really did talk about herself. How inconsiderate she was. You know, I don’t believe she even told me her birthday. The nerve of that woman! We were friends for almost ten years. You’d think she would have shared more of herself. After all, she knew everything about me.

Anyway, this time she’s done the last and shittiest thing she’s ever done to me. I tried to call her to ask her to take my Grandmother to get a pedicure, and her phone was disconnected. My message on Facebook went unanswered. I finally contacted her brother only to find out Karen had passed away, a year ago! She didn’t even tell me she was sick, at least, I don’t think she did.

Now who’s going to take Grammy to her appointment? What a useless friend she was.


Rough draft 379 words

This story was inspired by a phone conversation I had today. Someone made me very angry (enough to use the word ‘very’ when I’m trying to remove it from all my writing). When I get upset I tend to vent by turning bits of the situation into fiction. If the person who I’m unhappy with reads this post they will know they were the catalyst so it’s safe to say the story is only about 50% fiction.

Still, I owe that person my gratitude. It took them pissing me off before my muse put in an appearance for the first time in too long. It’s not much of a story and the situation half wrote it but I did the rest so I’m claiming this one!

So, from a useless friend to my current antagonist, have a mental middle finger of thankfulness from me to you!




Flash Fiction – Custody Arrangement

Soleil wiped the last remnants of sleep from her eyes as she sat up. She would see her daughter soon, which always filled her with joy. It was strange how much she missed the child when they were separated.

Zemyna had spent the night with her father again. As much as Soleil hated the cheating bastard, she had to admit Menulis was a good father. He never complained about watching their child. In fact, judging by the ugly and long custody battle, he actually wanted to take care of her.

In her more honest moments, Soleil admitted she dragged out the battle too long out of anger and bitterness. The rest of the time she lied to herself, saying she only did what was best for her kid.

It no longer mattered. She and her ex-husband had finally agreed to a plan, and they stuck to it, with only rare alterations. A few times a year they each intruded on the other’s time for several hours on special occasions, but so far, they were both tolerant of these interruptions. It was good both of them wanted to spend as much time with Zemyna as possible.

Soleil put a halt to her ruminations and got out of bed and dressed for the day. As always, it would be a beautiful one. At least from her perspective. The silly humans didn’t always agree, but they were only an afterthought.

Time for work. She went to the sunroom and placed her hands on both sides of the blazing ball, then lifted it slowly. For the rest of the day she moved her burden through the sky, lighting her daughter, the earth.

Her ex kept the moon out for as long as he could, somehow knowing exactly how long she would tolerate his presence, before disappearing. Greedy fool, she thought. Oh well, at least she would have most of the day to gaze down upon her greatest creation, and admittedly, her favorite child.

Her mood boosted, Soleil, Goddess of the sun, decided she might even answer a few prayers.


*Rough draft 345 words.

This idea for this story came from a picture prompt (not the picture I used today) in my writing group. We take turns picking a prompt then whoever wants to write a story using it can do so. The picture showed a woman with her hands raised above her head forming a globe of bright light. I’m pretty sure it was a representation of healing magic but my mind saw it as a goddess holding the sun.

I don’t know how I feel about the actual story, but I’m particularly proud of myself for writing this.

I jotted down ideas last Sunday and a couple of times during the week I tried to work on it, but the magic didn’t happen. I did some research on solar goddesses and came across Balkan mythology. I got so into reading about it that I wasn’t writing, except the notes. However, I knew I was going to use what I found.

Then the pain started. I had a root canal on Tuesday. Wednesday afternoon I was sore, and by that evening I was miserable.

The dentist fit me in Thursday morning and told me everything was so inflamed it pushed the tooth up (eruption). What does that mean you ask? It means the pain I felt was exactly the same as the abscess I had before the root canal. He proceeded to drill on two of my teeth to fix it a bit because every time I bit down, or talked, or sang along to a song in my car it would hurt so much I almost cried out (which is a rarity for me).

So the bite problem is mostly fixed but now there is pain all over. The dentist told me there would be and gave me mega ibuprofen. I haven’t slept in days and as a result, I’m pretty out of it.

Still, I sat down at the computer and wrote this story Friday evening. It took forever because I was alternating between holding an ice pack to my face while I thought out what I wanted to say, then typing it all up. I can hardly believe my muse was willing to play! Of course, afterward, I had to lay down and was about as miserable as possible.

If I have some good moments today I’ll write another short story I have notes for and post it tomorrow or Monday. Until then, I’m going to go back to feeling sorry for myself.



Flash Fiction – The Map

Eleanor recoiled when her trowel hit metal while tending to her garden. The urge to push dirt back over the object overwhelmed her. Telling herself she was foolish, she set about freeing it from the ground.

She lifted a long cylindrical case of finely worked metal. As she examined it, she was surprised to find she knew how to open it. Warnings flooded through her mind. Why was she so nervous? At ninety-five years old, her memory wasn’t what it once was, but she didn’t think she would forget something like this.

Cautiously, she broke the seal. Light flared for a moment, making Eleanor feel somehow threatened, and she hesitated. Her father always told her she was too curious for her own good. He was right, but it never stopped her from jumping in feet first. Odd, she reflected, how she could remember his words but not his face. Being old sucked she thought and laughed.

Death wasn’t too far off, she knew. A strange longing for that day gripped her often in recent weeks. She’d been in the world too long.

If this unusual case provided one last adventure, she would take it. Pushing the ill portents aside, she pushed the cap all the way open and found a rolled piece of parchment inside. She slowly unrolled it, unsurprised it was a map, complete with a large red X. It showed the town she lived in, but it was old, with none of the newer landmarks in the area. She could have sworn she had never seen it before but knew she must be wrong because she knew exactly where it led.

It ended in the woods on the outskirts of town. People rarely went there. She didn’t know why, but every time she went near it, she felt repulsed.

Though worn out from her gardening, Eleanor determined she would go. Trowel in hand, she set out. Twenty minutes later she was there, with no assistance from the map. From the moment she entered the tree line, everything became unsettlingly familiar, yet she couldn’t remember ever being there.

After several minutes of walking, she found the marked site in the middle of a small clearing. Though there was nothing exceptional about the spot, she knew where to dig. It took her an hour to find the chest. Reverently, she pulled it up and set it next to the hole.

She was too exhausted from her efforts to open it right away. As she lay on the grass, she could almost remember doing this previously. Déjà vu?  I’m too old for this shit, she thought.

After resting for a while, she sat up and studied the chest. It was covered in strange symbols which almost glowed. Knowing it was right, she waved one hand in front of the lock. It released and fell away.  She opened the lid and peered inside.

A gasp escaped her when she saw it was filled with gold coins, glittering jewelry, and a scarred wooden bowl. Without knowing why she lifted the bowl and watched as it filled with water. A part of her said what she was seeing was impossible, but she ignored it as the moment imbued her with wonder.

Eleanor remembered her wish to die. She’d lived a long and blessedly boring life. Death was a welcome thing. Her longing for it was deep but wavering. She glanced at the water, then the shining contents of the chest. With a shrug, she drank from the bowl. When every drop was gone, she took several handfuls of gold and a few pieces of the jewelry out and placed them beside her. She set the bowl back on top of the rest.

She laid back on the grass and closed her eyes. The change was uncomfortable but brief. When she rolled to her side and pushed herself up, long black hair covered her face. Black, not gray!

Damn, she thought as she took in the scene before her. She did it again. Her memories returned to her, she recalled how she promised herself the previous cycle would be the final one. She’d been ready for death but now had to live her life again, for the thirteenth time. Oh well, thirteen was her lucky number.

She rolled up the map, sealed it in its case, and cast it into the chest, which she reburied. Eleanor hoped she would forget the location by the end of this lifetime.

Since it was an odd-numbered cycle, she had access to her magic. Maybe she would be an evil witch like her third and seventh time then go out with a bang! As she picked up her loot, she decided there were only two things she knew for sure she wanted this go round. Forever death at the end and no more gardening.

Rough draft 805 words

I have a book of writing prompts called A Year of Creative Writing Prompts. Each page represents a day with three prompts. There is a five-minute prompt meant to be a warmup. These are one word and most of the stories I’ve written recently came from this type.

Then there is a midday and a dinner prompt. These are longer and until now I haven’t used any of them.

Today’s story came from a midday one. I’d seen it before but it did nothing for me. Then a few days ago when I skimmed over it, I got an idea. I jotted down whatever came to me and a story was born.

The prompt is:

An elderly woman is gardening when she discovers what appears to be a treasure map buried in her back yard. It seems to lead to a spot on the outskirts of town. What does she find where X marks the spot.

The first time I saw this I found it boring. Even when I first started putting ideas to paper I didn’t think it would go anywhere, but you never know. It’s what you do with an idea that matters I suppose.

Flash Fiction – The Wind

Clouds rushed to rest over the fresh gravesite of the wizard Clavius. Duncan found it appropriate and thanked the wind as he cast the last handful of dirt onto the pile. Only a brief rustling of leaves near his feet answered, but he knew the wind appreciated his words.

When taking control of the elements he was always careful to show the proper respect. He liked to think he learned from others’ mistakes. Too many weather wizards died because of their indifferent arrogance. He refused to be like the ones who came before him, like the one lying in the grave at his feet.

In the dead wizard’s case, angry fire killed him. The man should have known better. One can only force an elemental for a short time before it would turn on you. If you asked politely and thanked it, there was a good chance you would survive.

Duncan rarely forced nature to do his bidding. In the few emergencies when he’d taken control of an elemental without asking permission, he apologized profusely and made the proper sacrifices to appease them. Most knew he wouldn’t abuse them and were understanding As long as he didn’t do it often, he would be safe.

Clavius hadn’t bothered. He forced the same fire elemental to kill thieves in the poor district several times. Fire cannot be contained for long and many had died. The wizard hadn’t cared but the fire did. The last time he tried to use it, along with help from the wind, the elemental broke his control and turned on the man. Duncan wasn’t present but heard the man’s cries from across the village.


As Duncan stood over the grave of his biggest rival at the Conclave, he smiled in satisfaction. Unlike the dead man, he had asked permission before he sent the wind to help the fire. Clavius, like all wizards, had been an evil bastard, but Duncan was the worst. He would continue to be courteous to the elements so he could take out the rest of his rivals and rule the Conclave.

When he left the cemetery, he noted the wind elemental followed. He smiled grimly and headed back to his rooms to make his plans.

Rough draft 362 words

It’s not much of a story but I think it will be if I ever sit down and fix it. For now, I want to get ideas out of my head and on paper.

I’m trying to get back into writing most days. Not writing for an entire week, and losing my favorite aunt, took its toll on my habits. I’m still grieving but time is starting to do its job.

Flash fiction, and a lot of it is my goal right now. However, wizard Duncan (who needs a name change), fascinates me. He can control the elements/elementals but prefers wind. He’s not a nice guy, but he’s polite to the forces he controls. He needs a good protagonist and a goal. I feel a longer story brewing.

Oh, and this story is not the result of a writing prompt. I sat down to write and thought about the wind and ideas started flowing out of my fingers. Like I said, it’s not much of a story but writing it made me feel like me again.

Flash Fiction – It’s Not the Fire That Kills You

The smell of smoke woke him. For a moment he thought he must be dreaming. His recurring nightmare of dying in a fire flashed through his mind. His first cough assured him he was awake. He threw the blanket off and jumped out of bed.
In the dark, he groped for the ever present clothes on the floor. They were not there. Cursing himself for not only going to bed drunk but also sleeping nude, he made his way to the closet.
It only took two steps for the coughing to stop him. Remembering that smoke rose, he crouched and made his way to the door. He grabbed the handle. It wasn’t hot but neither would it turn. He coughed again as the smoke coming in from under the door filled his lungs.
He turned and crawled to the window. It wouldn’t budge. He grabbed his desk chair and swung it at the glass but it he was too weak to break it.
Not knowing what else to do, he lay on the floor and waited to die. He thought of all the things he wished he’d said and done. All his regrets crowded his mind. Topmost was his decision to cheat on the love of his life. Sure she was crazy but he’d promised he would never hurt her. Before he lost consciousness he voiced his apology, one he knew she would never hear.
The smoke coalesced over his body. He opened one eye and almost thought he could see a face. I forgive you, he heard before the air in the room cleared. A dream then, he realized as he drifted off to sleep again.
When his alarm went off at seven he was surprised to find himself naked on the floor. His girlfriend wouldn’t take his calls and he never cheated another lover ever again.
Rough draft 313 words

This story is the result of a picture prompt that I wasn’t sure I could post. It showed a woman’s face mostly obscured by smoke or fog.

Flash Fiction(s) – Forest Fire & The Witch

Forest Fire

She saw the blazing inferno creeping toward her. Smoke filled the air so she could barely see the forest animals racing past her to escape. She couldn’t move, the flames already surrounded her.

Fire seared her skin and she spared a moment of worry for the treasured tattoo she’d worn for the last fifty years: K + J. It was a reminder of a gentler time.

As the heat rose she released her children, hundreds per cone. They had waited twenty years for this fire to free them. The flames were painful but the joy she felt as she watched the seeds spread in all directions sustained her. She would survive as she always did.

It would be many years before her offspring were tall enough to touch the sky but the forest would grow stronger because of her momentary suffering.

Rough draft 141 words


The Witch


“But Gregor, she’s a redhead!” Thalen complained and lowered his short throwing knife.

“It doesn’t matter,” his brother replied, hands on his hips. “You gave your word, no more killing.”

“Surely this one is an exception. She’s clearly a witch.”

“Stop it. Remember what we talked about? Not everyone with red hair can use magic.”

“But she’s the prettiest woman I’ve ever seen. Surely it’s to entice us, then murder us!”

“No. Well, yes. She could tempt us, but it’s up to us to resist. She hasn’t shown any signs of having the power. Besides, killing is wrong if it’s not a witch. You know this. We both promised to stop assuming beautiful women with fiery hair are evil.” Gregor gave his brother that superior look Thalen hated so much.

“She has dimples,” the younger man added quietly.

Gregor’s face lost all expression and he handed Thalen his crossbow. “Here, this will work better than your baby knife.”

“I thought you said we couldn’t.”

“Dimples, brother. You’re either going to have to kill her or marry her.”

Thalen smiled and took aim. The witch turned and met his eyes.

The wedding was lovely.

Rough draft 194 words

The one word prompts I used for these two stories were: Sear and Dimples. I wrote a few more stories but need to get them typed up. I’ll post them soon.

Flash Fiction – Morning Chores

Breena loved fetching water every morning. The river called to her. When she was a child, her mother got the daily water, but she developed a limp and the well got fouled.

Momma couldn’t walk the quarter-mile to the river’s edge without pain so Breena took over the chore. She was young and strong so she didn’t mind the extra distance. Besides, once she rounded the first bend no one could see her daily commune with the water spirits.

She didn’t want her mother to know everything she did. Life was hard enough since Poppa died. The older woman didn’t need her oldest daughter’s future worrying her. At least they got by, Breena thought. Life wasn’t full of luxury but in the ways that counted, their lives were far better.

That morning as she gathered mud in the pail she made especially for the job, she thought back to the night they were forced to stop using water from the well. She could remember Momma screaming, nothing new when Poppa came home after drinking with his friends. This time the yells were different. She never knew why, but Breena raced into the kitchen to find her mother unconscious on the floor, with her leg twisted under her.

Uncomfortable with the direction of her thoughts, she shook them off and finished up her first bucket. She filled the second with water and headed back home. She stopped only to dump the mud into the well. Silently thanking the water spirits for the gift, she looked down into the deep hole and reflected on her part in ruining it.

She smiled when she realized Momma never once asked her what happened to Poppa.


Rough draft 281 words


Flash Fiction – Turkey Dinner

Gobble, gobble.

“Look at them, all fattened up and ready to be throttled,” he said to his wife.

“Please honey. I know we eat them but I don’t want to talk about that in front of them,” she replied.

Gobble, gobble.

“Why? It’s not like they understand.”

“I know, but look at them. They are so cute when they’re this fluffy.”

“Cute? Are you crazy? They are the ugliest creatures on the face of the planet.” He shook his head.

Gobble, gobble.

“I know, but we raised them since they were babies. They’ve grown on me. Besides they look better with meat on their bones than when they were scrawny and underfed.”

“Ha! You’re so sentimental. At least all of these will live another year, with Thanksgiving being over.”

Gobble, gobble.

“True. Do you think we should have given one to the new neighbors?” she asked, feeling suddenly guilty.

“Make up your mind woman. I thought you wanted them all to live?”

“That’s not exactly what I said. Being neighborly is more important than my guilt over killing pets. You know they are my favorite food. I just don’t want to think of the live ones as food. Why do you think I always make you choose one and cook it?”

He laughed again and pointed to the large male sitting under a tree reading. The one with the overalls. “Even that one? Can you honestly tell me you enjoy Tom prattling at you day after day?”

Gobble, gobble.

She scowled. “No, that one I don’t mind considering butchering.” Her face brightened. “Want human for Christmas too? Gobble, Gobble.”

The two turkeys turned hungry eyes to next month’s dinner.


Farmer Tom jerked awake from his unintended nap on the porch. He sat forward in his rocking chair as he tried to shake off the dream. He glanced around the yard. The turkeys seemed to be doing fine. He looked to the tree where two of the birds stared at him with dark, glittering eyes.

Gobble, gobble.

He rushed into the house and found his wife. “I’m willing to do a vegetarian Christmas if you still want to.”


I wrote this one sitting in my car. I don’t know what the inspiration was. I just started writing and this disturbing story came out lol. I can tell you I despise turkey. On a club sandwich with ham it’s tolerable but I never eat it by itself.