Visual Dare: Grimalkin on 5th Avenue

Here are exactly 150 words for Angela Goff’s Visual Dare. I couldn’t pass up the photo this week.


“Bubble, bubble, toil and—”

“Can it, Flo!” Margie barked.

“I’m freezing,” whined Sue. “I want to go home.”

“Not any warmer in Scotland, ninny,” said Margie, fumbling in her purse for a stick of gum. “Chew this. We promised we’d meet again, in thunder, lightning or rain.”

Sue huddled under her umbrella, “My new pumps are ruined.”

Flo stared off at the rain-smeared Manhattan skyline, “Fair is foul, foul is fair.”

Margie resisted the urge to slap her. Flo always imagined herself as the poetic one: Flo is short for “flowers”, she used to say.

“Florence, please get in position.” Margie smiled till her teeth ached.

They all took their place at the base of the courthouse steps.

A man in a pinstriped suit with perfect creased pants hurried past them.

Margie raised her voice, “Mr. Macbeth, who shall be king hereafter.”

The lawyer turned and they had him.

Five Sentence Fiction: Flight

This is for Lillie McFerrin’s Five Sentence Fiction.

The word this week is: Flight.

Nicoletta Ceccoli (R)
Nicoletta Ceccoli (R)

“Your hair is such a bird’s nest,” said her mother.

She ran a comb severely through Ellie’s ringlets, neatly dividing the curls from one side to the other.

Ellie wished she wouldn’t say such things. When her mother tugged too hard, the birds always took flight.

The birds did make such a mess.

Mid-Week Blues Buster: The Death of Undine

This was my entry in the Jeff Tsuruoka’s Mid-Week Blues Buster from two weeks ago. I earned a 3rd place mention with it. Feel free to listen along to the song that inspired it.

I have always found this myth especially tragic, the story of a doomed water nymph whose love of a human makes her mortal. I hope you enjoy this retelling.


The Death of Undine

Would the sea be the ink and the sky the paper, could I not write then how deep my love is. – “Ink”, Faun

Thorns tore at her water-laden skirts. These mortal fabrics weighed her down as she stooped at the water’s edge.

She dipped her hand in the water eagerly, but it was brackish and did not caress her skin as it once had. She tasted blood where her lip was cut by a small stone.

Her fingers traced along her leg, where the fishermen’s net still bound her. As the cords dried, they cut cruelly into her pale-washed skin.

She plucked at them hopelessly. They bound her as surely as Hans did. Water lapped at her feet, bringing her an unfamiliar reflection of a woman with dark, empty eyes and hair stiffened to seaweed strands.

She spun at the first twig-crack. “I told you to leave me,” said she, “or they shall see you die too.”

His dear hand, thick-fingered and studded with riding calluses, traced the tear down her cheek. Hans tasted it, “You are the only woman I have met whose tears never taste of salt.”

She closed her eyes and kissed him once more; she couldn’t help it. Every drop of her feelings trickled to her fingertips as she touched his face. When she opened her eyes, her sisters rimmed the far edge of the pool.

“Undine,” the first said.

“Please,” Undine begged, “you take too much. Why can I not suffice?”

“Undine,” said the second.

“Cruel sisters, I implore you…”

It was too late. Hans folded up like a leaf in the current, her tears on his lips.

Undine turned to her final sister, who stepped into the edge of the grey-tinted pool.

“Say it, then,” Undine said.

“Undine,” the third sister whispered.

Undine looked with mild surprise at the man curled at her feet, “Who is this handsome man who lays here?”

Undine’s first sister drew near, taking her hand.

“Sister, can you not heal him?”

The wind through the trees murmured of impossiblities. Her sisters tugged her gently beneath the surface of the water.

“Pity,” thought Undine, just as her mouth filled with water, “how I should have loved him.”