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“So this is the last place you saw her? Was that last night? Was anyone with her? That’s her door at the end, right?”

Joe just shook his head, so many questions he had answers to, but after the accident, he was in shock. Now he can’t seem to remember any details.

“What’s that fire extinguisher doing down there, aren’t they supposed to be hanging on the wall? Was there a fire here? Is that what happened?” The inspector walked over to check the device, “yep, it’s been used”.

Joe was desperately trying to think of something to say, without trying to remember her face. Yes there was a fire, on her stove. She never could cook, and the gas stove was always burning something. Last night it was clothing. Why was she so careless?

“I’ll need the key to check inside.”

Joe thought he should run away as fast as he could. Would they believe it was an accident, will they blame him? He was beginning to regret calling the authorities.

Her blouse went up in a moment, suffocating smoke and flame taking her life before he could reach her.

The inspector returned. Joe just kept repeating, “her face”.

200 words

https://sundayphotofictioner.wordpress.com/2018/02/11/sunday-photo-fiiction-february-11th-2018/

I remembered the Every Good Boy Does Fine during piano lessons. I still do, but haven’t touched a piano in a million years. I never had the talent of knowing names, even when I practiced repeating their names when shaking their hand. Faces I remember, along with landmarks rather than street names. Maybe this says something about my brain….egads! 😂 Funny how I can tell you the letters on a typewriter without looking, which probably means I had an excellent teacher back in the day–I have typed a lot of words! I always enjoy it.

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/mnemonic/

It was their castle. A humble abode when viewed by the outside world, but every stone, mortar and glass piece was holding their love inside. The years had gone by quickly and even though some of the exterior had crumbled through time, the inside was acceptably complete. The interior was warmed by a small stone fireplace, and wooden floors. A kitchen that held only the required number of pots for a good meal, and an ancient icebox, made into a refrigerator. The fireplace had an iron rig to hold pots, but they also had a small gas stove. The bedroom held a featherbed adorned by homemade quilts and soft pillows. The windows were placed to observe the rising and setting sun. A garden with necessary ingredients was well maintained with flowers decorating the edges.

The castle was built by the two of them, bit by bit over a few years on a meager income. “Hard work and dedication is all it takes” he remembered his father saying. And so it was. But the emphasis on structure didn’t come from his parents. It came as a result of seeing the dream, the first vision of his soon to be wife, that it all fell into place.

He saw her at the edge of a lake. He was riding by on his bicycle, when a sunny glint on the water caught his attention. It was then he saw her, framed by the sunlight. He looked again, as if he couldn’t believe what he saw. From that day on, he took that bicycle path to work everyday, hoping to see her again.

She noticed him, but didn’t think too much of it until she saw him going by repeatedly, and decided to return his smile. That was the beginning of her dream. After a time, their dreams blended and they decided to live and build a home together. It was modest, but sound. The great amount of love inside the structure kept it so.

http://rachelpoli.com/2018/02/09/time-to-write-set-the-scene-7-creative-writing-prompt/

Perusing the Elvis sites today, it was like he insisted I put one of his songs here, dedicated to Fireweed. What a voice!❤️

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/insist/

The “book” was titled Fireweed. I have read it many times. It offered steamy romance, indicative of you at first glance. I first enjoyed this reading three years ago, as I was searching for something, anything, to take me away from reality. I found it there.

A love–witty, sensual, erotic at times. Now, well worn pages are tear stained with dried coffee drips. Crumbs reside in the leaves. Many pages have corners turned reminding to read again. The “book” had been used, cast aside, but I found new life within its pages. I found the love of my life.

February 8: Flash Fiction Challenge

Elvis lives…..😂

https://rugby843.blog

This tale is short but just like a tail, it can be any length at all. I am a curious cat, never had a tail, but I use curiosity to make up tales to tell. So if you’re going to tally tales or tails, please be kind and generous in your critique.

http://lindaghill.com/2018/02/09/the-friday-reminder-and-prompt-for-socs-feb-10-18/

It’s complicated, this heart full of beauty:

Why would you ever want to simplify it and end up with this:

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/simplify/

I used to be beautiful, sleek, modern. I was among the pride of the neighborhood, surrounded by bright green grass and proud tall trees. In autumn, their leafy splendor overshadowed my dark brown roof. I had five spacious rooms and a white painted veranda which supported a rocking chair, and a double seated swing. Pots of geraniums hung from the rafters and many a neighbor spent long lazy afternoons on this porch. Friendly stories, lemonade and sugar cookie crumbs were present even on the warmest of days.

Today you see an overgrown yard full of weeds, scraggly tree roots, and broken beams. This appearance doesn’t tell you my story, my history, or the love these walls shared.

https://mindlovemiserysmenagerie.wordpress.com/2018/02/08/tale-weaver-158-february-8-abandonment/

This is a letter posted on FB written by a friend. We hear of teen suicide every day, but her plea is important not just in this small town, but everywhere.

https://rugby843.blog