Leaving Him Hanging – Flash Fiction – Day No. 9

This is a piece of fiction I started about two years ago and haven’t finished. The book June is reading is Persuasion by Jane Austen.  I actually quite a bit more to this, but well, this is what was actually typed up. I had several topics I could have written about today, but I was feeling a little ‘jet lagged’ as I like to call running on only 5 hours of sleep.  I hope you enjoy.

June’s voice sighed out in pleasure as she stopped reading.  

“Is that it?” Craig asked glancing over at her.

” No, but that’s the end of the chapter and I can’t read anymore.”  Her fingers replaced the crimson ribbon into the book and she closed the cover.

“What happens?  Or have you never read it before?”

“Oh, lots of things happen.  And yes, I have read it.  I won’t spoil it for you,” June teased and nudged his shoulder.

“I am going to assume by the happy sigh that this is a good part?”

“Yes,” June replied, a smile gracing her lips and a devilish form of delight lighting up her eyes.  She caught Craig watching her with undisguised fascination.

“What?” she asked, self consciously brushing a lock of her hair out of her face.

“I can’t believe you would leave me hanging with that.  A simple ‘yes’ and nothing more.  It’s not polite.”

“You’ll have to wait until next time to find out what happens.  I can’t read anymore,” she protested.

“Mmm,” Craig’s noncommittal tone had her looking at him.  “I guess I’ll have to find something else to entertain you with then.”



Death By Chocolate Pudding – Flash Fiction

He was found floating; face up with a telltale smear on his cheek. He would have been fine

Jell-O brand chocolate pudding

Jell-O brand chocolate pudding (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

had he not tried to eat the whole vat.


Sometimes flash fiction comes from collaboration. Surprisingly this came from Mr. B and DB last week when I made chocolate pudding for breakfast. (it was on top of a dutch pastry. Don’t judge…)


Dutch Pancake – Flash Fiction

Updated 4/26/15, for Sunday breakfast

Updated 4/26/15, for Sunday breakfast

“Can I get you something to drink? Coffee, tea, water, beer….” Phil trailed off as he watched Emma inspect his bookshelf.

“You drink tea?” she asked as she looked back at him over her shoulder.

He shrugged.  “Sometimes.”

“I’d love some coffee,” Emma answered and pulled out a book with a red spine.  “Do you happen to have eggs, milk, flour, and a skillet?” she asked as if inspired by something.

“Uh…. What?” Phil stared at her dumbfounded as he pulled coffee from the freezer.

“Do you have all of those things?” Emma asked again, enunciating each word carefully as if he was a child.

“Yeah. I do. Why?”

“Excellent.  How long does your coffee take to make?”  Then she noticed he had set out a stove-top percolator.  “Oh, at least fifteen minutes, yes?”

“Um. Yes.”  She was worrying him a bit with her cavalier manner and random questions.

“Good. Pull out the skillet and let me work.”  She seemed all business as she pushed up her sleeves, metaphorically since she was wearing a sleeveless top over tan chinos.

He fixed the coffee, putting it on his gas range to perk while he watched her rummage in his fridge pulling out eggs, milk and butter. Then she was pulling out bowls, a whisk and mixing flour and sugar while beating eggs and milk in another bowl. The butter went into the skillet which in turn ended up in the oven turned up high.

She found his small bottle of vanilla hiding amongst the salt and pepper in his ‘spice’ cabinet.  He ignored her muttered comment about ‘men and their lack of proper cooking spices’.  He was rather mystified by her mixing.

When everything was combined, she yanked the skillet out of the oven and poured the batter into the pan, popped it back into the oven and set a timer.

“That’ll be ready in no time. Do you have jam or powdered sugar?” at his negative shake she frowned.  “Maple syrup?”


“That’ll do.”  She rinsed everything then wandered back to his bookshelves.

She was rather a conundrum in his mind.  She worked outside most of her day in dirt and soil, but she wore diamond drop earrings.

“Just rhinestones,” she corrected.

She wore sturdy pants and a chambray sleeveless top; riding boots.  But he caught a hint of lace hiding beneath the shirt.  Why would someone getting dirty outside wear lacy lingerie underneath?

She was prim and proper with her attitude and spoke without cursing, though she did let a swear word out as she commented about something she hated.  She read naughty books but liked to write clean and elegant poetry.  She admired his Varga paintings, and liked some of his more ‘risque’ books, but she looked like she stepped out of a Norman Rockwell.  Or something that would be considered ladylike.  A study in contradiction.

She was gleeful when the timer rang and she opened the door to the oven, shielding the contents from him.  Then he was utterly surprised at the giant puffed up pastry, or whatever she had made, that was practically escaping from the pan.

“It’s a Dutch pancake,” she answered his minor shock.  She directed him to get plates and forks while she cut the pastry and the whole thing collapsed.  The doused their halves of the pancake with the fake syrup in his cupboard and carried their plates and cups of coffee out to the deck, sitting in the mid-afternoon sun overlooking the mountain lake.

His first mouthful was pure decadence. Not too rich or sweet, but oh so satisfying.  He caught her grin as she bit into a dainty bite of hers.

“I moaned, didn’t I?” he asked.

She giggled.  “You did, but I’m glad you like it.  It’s my specialty.”

“Well you do a damn fine job of it.”

“Thank you.”

“I may have to keep you around,” he said as he devoured his piece.

“I may let you,” she teased.

The thing was, he wasn’t teasing……………

Ah, flash fiction…. sometimes it comes out perfectly.  This was inspired by a recent thought and my new love of Dutch pancakes that I make almost daily for my family. There is something so magical about eggs, milk, flour, sugar and butter that puff up to something so ooey gooey yumminess.  For those interested, I highly recommend King Arthur Flour’s recipe but up the sugar. I don’t use lemon, but it’s a personal thing. I really suggest you try it.

Lemon Puff Pancake with Fresh Berries

Or try this one that I think might be better.

Dutch Baby Recipe

As of 4/26/15, I have modified the recipe using both of the links I shared and so, play around with it. You want it to climb and not sink, like my image above.  So much goodness in such a simple thing.(I should add, I do gluten free, so even better)


Unrequited Letters – Flash Fiction

He poured his heart and passion into the letters he wrote her. Long, romantic missives. Short, tiny notes folded into secret notes. He told her of his hopes and dreams. Of his delight in her newest dress or the remark she made as she conversed with the grocer. 

He had mounts of letters. Piled so high a slight breeze might disturb and send the snowy sheets into a cascade of drifts and eddies around his small study.

For he never sent her the letters. Always afraid of how she would respond to his devotion, he wrote letters till he died, always pining for her.


Letters, and specifically love letters, have been in my mind lately. I have been thinking about writing letters to lovers

Bright Star (film)

Bright Star (film) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

(not that I have any at this moment… and note the use of the plural. I’m laughing at that) Writing letters to friends and families. I love how John Keats and Fanny Brawne wrote letters, though that whole thing is rather tragic. We won’t go there.


I love letters. Have I mentioned that a time or two? *said with tongue in cheek* I’m sure you could search my posts for just letters and find all kinds.


I long to write a lover a love letter. Pull out my red wine ink and pen something that is romantic. And this bit of flash fiction made me think of that and unrequited love, which has hit me a time or two.


Duke du Gare and Captain Awesome – Flash Fiction

via Bing © Frans Lanting/Mint

“Mwuaahhh haa ha!” The evil villain gave a maniacal laugh as his plane soared over the jagged looking rocks.  “You will never make it out of this alive, Captain Awesome,” Duke du Gare said evilly. He glared at Captain Awesome who was tied up in a neat package near the open hatch of the plane.  

Down below were the needle-like formations of rock that could pierce a man through and through.  Duke du Gare was certain his nemesis would finally be out of his way. The do-gooder that he was.  How was the Duke to take over the world with Captain Awesome always getting in his way and stopping him?

The Duke gave Captain Awesome a little shove with his boot and the gagged Captain made a muffled cry. The Duke loved toying with his victims.  

“Die, Captain Awesome!” he shouted and shoved the Captain out of the hatch…

Dum dum dum…..  What will happen to Captain Awesome? Has the Duke won this time? Tune in next week as we continue the Amazing Adventures of Captain Awesome….


Ah, sometimes the best image sparks a marvelous piece of flash fiction. I was looking at the Bing picture of the day, which is Tsingy de Bemaraha, and my first thought was how a villain in all the James Bond-y type films has to tell his evil plan then do something drastic…. like throw the hero out of a plane over nasty rocks… Of course the hero always survives…. But I always love how the villain has to tell his evil plan. Mwuuaaahh ha ha!




He Carried Her Shoes – Flash Fiction

tumblr_n9c28myQXb1rj31pmo1_500He carried her shoes. Like a true gentleman, he had slid them off her feet when she had sat down and mentioned she was tired. She hadn’t said the  no-no of the female world; “my feet hurt,” but he had still known what the problem was. Down on bended knee, like the prince in Cinderella, he had unbuckled the strap and slid the shoes off. Well, then he had been the devil himself when he had kissed her calf and skated his fingers up under her skirt.  She had giggled and tugged his hand back out. The naughty man.

Now they walked to his car, her feet padding while he carried her shoes.

Ah, men, sometimes when they are gallant…(stop, just stop, I can’t help myself tonight, because Galavant is on right now! And the words are too similar…Never mind, I’m stopping)

Whew, got to get a hold of myself. Anyways, I love this image. And flash fiction! Finally!


Her Reading Room – Flash Fiction

LQ4d15U-9780She had a reading room all her own, filled with books she collected over the years. Dusty old tombs from the library book sales. Discarded books that she wanted to give a home to. Unloved books that needed the warmth of a loving soul that would give them new life.

She had new books. Crisp pages and unmarked paper. Stiff spines and smelling of glue and wood pulp.  The old books smelled of time and dust and people. The new held the smell of adventure.

She had picture books and encyclopedias. Fiction, non fiction, how to books. She had books on gardening and sewing. Books on Asian culture and mythology; Greek and Nordic mythology. Fairytales ruled a top shelf that was colorful and arranged like a child would.

Some of her shelves held neat rows of books from a series, while others were arranged by her favorites. One shelf was devoted to books she had plans to read. That shelf was getting more and more full as time went on and she visited more book sales. This book thing was an affliction in some ways.

She had her big open windows to let the gorgeous sun in with a comfortable chairs set so that whatever her mood, the light was just right for reading. The shelves themselves were big and filled one whole wall. In the back corner she had her writing desk and a big bulletin board she frequently had filled with thumbtacked pages of some idea she was writing. The cork board was always cluttered with notes and ideas.  However having the books around her and the dark corner, made writing so much more simple since she couldn’t get distracted.

An up to date sound system, with speakers that were tucked away, filled the room with music from Debussy to One Republic. It all depended on the mood. Sometimes you need a bit of pop music to read by.

And since there was nothing like having tea or coffee while reading, she always kept an electric kettle filled on a small table with cups and tea and instant coffee. Granted, most of the time her drink of choice was cold by the time she actually finished it. When one met the man of their dreams on page 150, tea became unimportant.

Yes, this room was magical, opening worlds she could only dream, or read, about visiting. Her room became the 10351141_814052365327874_232371573355012167_nTardis.


Okay, I was inspired by the image of the personal library, to write a bit of flash fiction about it. And as for the last line, I saw this marvelous picture and it has stuck with me. I get shivers looking at this picture.

Enjoy my rambles, dearies.



Eve and Noel – Flash Fiction

green-velvet-bow-long-sleeves-1950s-vintage-dress blue-velvet-short-sleeves-1950s-vintage-dressEve and Noel, identical twins in almost every way. Born only a couple minutes apart, Eve on the 24th, and Noel on the 25th, they were named after the holiest of days. Serene and elegant, both women were lovely to look at and calming to be around.

They both attended the Christmas Eve service with their parents. Eve wore a forest green, velvet dress, the skirt full from layers upon layers of tulle, with one of the layers edged in delicate silver, giving a glint as she walked. Her heels were matching velvet, with silver glitter on the four inch heels, twinkling as she walked. She kept with the theme of forest green on her nails, and a huge emerald and silver ring on her middle finger. Silver and green like a diamond Christmas tree, said her father. She had giggled in delight. Every year a specific color stood out for the holiday season. Last year it had been cranberry red, the year before, silver, black, and red.

churchatchristmas_2772351b 6332648515_fbf297138e_zWhile Eve was resplendent in green, Noel was in shades of sapphire blue. They set each other off perfectly with their red gold hair, similar to Rosemary Clooney’s in White Christmas. They were a statement as they walked into the little chapel, arms linked as they made their way to their favorite pew to the delicate strains of “It Came Upon A Midnight Clear.”

Heads turned as watched the two women. Neither of them were proud, but it was impossible to ignore the stir they made.

“Our girls look like models,” their father remarked as he and his lovely wife followed behind their daughters; and it was true.


Okay, I wrote this piece of flash fiction last year on Christmas Eve. There wasn’t much of a plot other than velvet dresses and Rosemary Clooney. Enjoy


I Need A Drink – Flash Fiction
















“Gah, I need a drink!” the blonde said as she swept into her best friend’s house.

“I have the tea on,” her friend replied rolling her eyes at the dramatics on display.

“Tea, dahling won’t do me a bit of good. Got anything stronger?” the blonde said, slumping into the chintz covered chair.

The friend just laughed and picked up the two teacups on the table.  Pretty little things with violets and gilt edging.

“Tequila or vodka? Take your pick,” the friend said showing the words painted on the cups.

The friend got a good laugh as the blonde’s mouth dropped open. When she finally recovered she chose the tequila cup, since a good margarita was in her mind. The tea was bracing, and hey, with the right mental image, anything is possible.


Signing off