July 25, 2017 – Prompt – It was like the grain in a slab of wood or like the crash of waves.

Zuri held the worn piece of driftwood tight in one hand. Around her, the other exiles held mementos of their past: a rubber ball, a diamond ring, a fountain pen. From her seat on the rocky hill, she could look over the sand dunes below, forming rows like the grain in a slab of wood or waves nearing the shore of her hometown. She could almost pretend that she was home, waiting on the pier with her sister or exploring tidal pools with her brothers. She would be safe, secure, with her family around her, her parents alive, her friends close and her subjects adoring. But she would miss her new friends, the exiles from other kingdoms. She would miss the new experiences, new books, new training and learning and growth… and she would miss Glen. He was worth it–at least, he was when he was present when she hadn’t made an instant decision to watch after his wild sister. In times like this, without him, she just had to remember.

Christie Powell

*****

I had that headache again the one proceeding every encounter with a dead person’s spirit. It hit me like the crash of a tidal wave, a tsunami of torment and it left me feeling like I was drowning.

I struggled to get out of bed the pain intensified. I couldn’t focus my vision, the room blurred and a wavery figure appeared.

“Please,” she said. The voice was that of a young girl. The presence became a more distinct silhouette. I realized this spirit was a very young woman maybe even a teen. She had long hair worn in a French braid that fell to her waist, and she wore a dotted sundress.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Alison. I’m Alison Sharp.”

“How old are you Alison?”

She gave me a strange look as if she was searching her mind trying to remember.

“Seventeen.” She finally murmured. “I just turned seventeen. I’ll be a senior in high school this fall.” She smiled then frowned.

There’s more to this story I thought.

Christine Howard

(This week’s prompt from Robin Christensen)

 

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July 18,2017 – Prompt – At the end of my life I considered my most significant accomplishment ?

At the end of my life, I considered my most significant accomplishment to be simply me——a woman.

It didn’t matter that I shouted my angst against the war in Vietnam.

It didn’t matter that I had protested, vehemently, Monsanto and Ford’s three-time bailout.

It didn’t matter that I had sold more lipstick than the other gals, and it didn’t even matter that I had won a car.

What mattered was that I built a home, wrote poetry, found refuge in my garden. I shared my wealth.

What really mattered is that I accepted the life he chose for himself–the way he wanted to live–and who he was meant to be.

Robin Christensen

*****

I woke to another dull day as usual.

Same daily routine, but I am nothing if not predictable.

Home, train, work, sometimes a stop at the store for necessities, on Payday’s, I sometimes grab a Pizza. Then of course it’s back home.

However, a startling interruption of reality as one of my neighbor’s was being attacked. I didn’t think, I just charged in, a mad rush of noise that made no real sense, the sharp smell of a brisk winter evening, but no real sense of anything else.

I can’t say how long it took, but the thug ran off.

My neighbor tells me the ambulance is coming.

I can only think, I am happy for the one day I lived.

J. Graymayne

(This weeks prompt contributed by Jeannie Browning)

July 11, 2017 – Prompt -A retired superhero returns to the workforce after her grandson goes missing…

It was strange to be back at work, strange and sad. Nedra would have been happy to never be at this office again. She had been happy in her short retirement, three years of catching up on family time. She’d been able to pretend she didn’t have the gift that had gotten her labeled a superhero.

But now, after the worst call she’d ever received, she had to start again. Her six-year-old grandson, Gregory, was missing. Nedra had called all her old contacts, with no satisfaction. The reason soon became clear. The kidnappers wanted her. The terrorist group that had taken her grandson wanted to exploit her ability to speak with the dead in order to find out the wishes of their recently dead leader.

She intended to convey the message that they better return her grandson alive and soon, or else she would arrange a face-to-face meeting between what was left of their group and their departed demented dictator.

Karen Hydock

(This week’s prompt contributed by Christie Powell)

June 27, 2017 – Prompt – Write about your 1st Birthday

God I hate birthdays.

Both my parents died when I was young, and my various guardians were uninterested in such childish things as birthdays.  Thus, the first birthday I have any real recollection of was my twenty-first.

The guys took me out for a beer, my first legal alcoholic drink. I really wasn’t looking forward to it because I never took to alcohol a whole lot anyway.  Nevertheless, I nursed the beer until my “friends” began to get irritated with me and started chiding me with, “Chugalug it.  Chugalug it. Chugalug it.”

And so, fool that I was, I did it.  All 12 ounces went down like a shot — and then all 12 ounces came right back up in a horizontal, six-foot-long projectile laced with bile and several implanted hors d’œuvres which spattered over most of my very surprised associates. That was when I discovered that I was allergic to beer, and most other alcoholic beverages.  I knew there was a reason that I had shied away from booze most of my teens and now I had irrefutable proof.

That was 57 years ago. And surprise, surprise; none of those friends have ever again asked me to chugalug anything, not even a glass of milk.

And whenever a birthday rolls around, I hide in a closet.

Lloyd Rain