A Book for Me, The Shelf for You

Three Line Tales, Week Five:

A Book for Me, The Shelf for You

photo by: Glen Noble


We met in the forest of books, kindred spirits of ink bled onto paper. Or so I thought until I saw you with her that day. There were more soul and honesty to be found in the pages than in your body, so I shelved you and returned to my ink stained world.



Thank you for reading.



Symphony for Lost Souls

Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers; FFfAW – Week of 03-01-2016

TITLE: Symphony for Lost Souls

WORD COUNT: 172 Words



I wander the night, searching for the wind that will take me to a place that I belong. But there is no wind. There never is. Just the dark sky and looming clouds—a perfect mirror of my future.

Several drunken calls and whistles follow me as I go by, heels clicking on concrete. I pay them no heed. My wind will not come from there, of that I am certain.

My feet keep walking, destination still unknown—just like every other night. But then the unexpected happens. From the park a few feet ahead, the sound of a guitar reaches my ears.

Hastening over I found him sitting before a blaze, head bent and fingers dancing. The melody strikes my heart, twining with my own sense of loss. I gasp and he looks up, eyes like hellfire. The trees rustles and I take a seat opposite of him, staring at each other. Whatever he saw brings a wry smile to his lips and he resumes playing the symphony of lost souls.


Thank you for reading.


A Rainbow for You

Three Line Tales, Week Four:

A Rainbow for You

photo by Alyssa Smith


She painted happiness across the canvas of their lives, even as the clouds threatened to blot it all out. He gathered courage from her to rise above the oppression and shoot for the stars. She smiled, playing her part as his rainbow while carefully hiding her own brewing thunderstorm.



a/n: Thank you for reading.

— N

La Fin



PHOTO PROMPT - © ceayr


A chill creeps up her spine. From somewhere, the sounds of crying touch her ears. Her brain wonders why and her heart wants to give solace.

But there is none to give as there is none for her.

She keeps her eyes tightly shut. Delusion’s embrace is easier to accept, to let the mind go—to let it wander to the days without labels and hatred. Or fear.

As she fades, her mind unlocks a memory of laugher and sunshine, of people embracing and dancing.

And of her son’s first and last sand castle.

“I’m coming, mon ange. Maman’s coming.”


A/N: Thank you for reading.

— N

Rest In Peace

Tears rained on translucent cheeks—your eyes an emotional spectrum.

“Won’t have found her without you. With this we’re even,” I pressed the jade flower into your hands. “It’s time for you to rest.”

Clutching it, you transcended to peace at last.

Exploration Target: Île Mort

Mondays Finish the Story – October 5th, 2015

TITLE: Exploration Target: Île Mort

WORD COUNT: 150 words

“Few knew about the castle hidden inside the island.” Jehan said, staring at the old map before him. “And even fewer knew of its location map.”

Melisande peered over his shoulder, frowning as she spied the words written atop the aged, delicate parchment.

“Castle for the Doomed?”

Melisande hailed from a dying clan that taught the old letters. Armed with this knowledge, the map discovery was easy. However, she never thought Jehan would seriously try to reach the place.

Now here they were on his shiny boat heading for Île Mort—Death Island.

“Doesn’t sound like someplace we should go exploring, Jehan,” She added.

“Sounds exactly like somewhere we should explore.” Jehan insisted.

She couldn’t comprehend his feverish excitement. They were, undoubtedly, heading towards certain death.

Before she could press her case further, the announcement came that they had reached.

“We’re doomed.” Melisande grabbed her head.

She had also been taught the old history. None who entered came out.


Thank you for reading.

— N

Flying Free

Sunday Photo Fiction – October 4th 2015

TITLE: Flying Free

WORD COUNT: 200 words

I drift along this cobblestone path, directionless as the auburn leaves resting there and dancing around me. They move according to the whims of the wind and I to the whims of everyone. How I envy those leaves.

A gust of wind rustles through, lifting the scattered ones into the air and snatching others from their attachments. I look up, wondering when my wind will blow to lift me up and away from my chains. Surely there must be one out there for me.

I keep moving, dragging my hefty baggage, when a particularly raucous wind shoves at me from behind. I stumble forward but my ties pull me in the opposite direction. That constant tug-o-war I have grown accustomed to.

A song dances upon the wind, inviting my freedom — or maybe it’s just a blaring horn. I turn to greet the player, my shackles giving a frightful clamor. My wind has come at last. The burdens are put down and my soul bleeds free. At last! At long last, I am free to swim among the leaves in this formless, colorless ocean.

The wind rises up with a roar, taking the autumn leaves and I on a whimsical ride.


Thank you for reading,

— N


Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie

Photo Challenge# 79, September 22, 2015

TITLE: Ariel

– flashuser.net

Ariel loved the water. Of that there was no question. It was where she was happiest. She loved the purity of it, she was often overheard as saying, the way it caressed her without any intention and cloaked her like a second skin.

In the water, all of her worries float away with the random tangles of seaweeds. There was no discrimination there. The water accepted her, embraced her with welcoming arms. In the water she was not Ariel the introvert, the geek—or worse Ursula (a nickname the kids took great pleasure in inflicting upon her because of her real name).

The water allowed her to be whoever she wanted to be and so she likened herself to her namesake, the little mermaid. Only in her case, she was curious as to what lay deep in the water. What gems did it hide? What would it be like to swim among the schools of fishes?—All of them glistening like fine jewels in the sunlight.

One afternoon while bathing in the rays of the setting sun shimmering beneath the lake, Ariel caught the faint whispers of her impending doom. Surfacing she found a young lad sitting beneath a weeping willow. The sweet tune that had lured her from her beloved water came from a harp. She frowned as her feet carried her closer towards the lad, a desire to hear him clearer blossoming within her.

What am I doing? She wondered.

She wasn’t one to approach others but yet she couldn’t stop her feet. It was as if the music was wrapping itself around her, tugging her towards the harp in a slow seduction.

The lad never stopped playing, even when she paused before him. He kept his eyes closed, spinning the end of her tale with elegantly nimble fingers. She fell into a trance, her eyes unable to disengage themselves from those fingers that seemed to be sucking her very soul into the harp.

The music changed and Ariel gasped as the sounds of the seas and oceans crashed around her. She swayed, closing her eyes as she listened and saw the many tales of the vessels of water being weaved for her ears—beautiful scenery painting themselves on the back of her eyelids. She didn’t want it to stop. Her mind reached out, wanting to dance among the fishes and her soul lifted free from her meat suit; from confinement and she soared into the sky before plunging into cool, crystalline Blue Ocean.

The music stopped and the lad stood with a smile and said, “Thank you for the meal.”

Ariel’s body was discovered a few days later in the lake she last swam. The ocean had claimed her, they said not knowing how true that was.

The lad was never seen in those parts again but sometimes when the sunset was particularly surreal you can see a ginger haired mermaid, in the ocean faraway, bathing in the last rays while listening to the music from a lad’s harp.


Thank you for reading,


Flower of Paradise

Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers; FFfAW – Week of 09-22-2015

TITLE: Flower of Paradise

WORD COUNT: 148 Words

photo prompt is provided by Graham Lawrence

She came often to this little garden she called her slice of paradise; flourishing with bright colors and life.

Sometimes she brought her easel and replicated Mother Nature’s serenity. Other times, she came with her hose and lovingly tended to us. On those good days, she was always happy as she mothered us and painted.

There were also dark, frightening days. Either she spent excessive amounts of time away or just sat on the ground with thunderstorms looming over her head. On those days she bared her soul to us and we attempted to console her with our perfume.

During one of those days, she struck a deal with Mother Nature to become a flower when she died. And so upon her death bed, Mother Nature gave her a new home among us in her beloved garden where she paints and laughs with us in this unchanging paradise.


Thank you for reading.