With his trademark silence, Church Mouse finished polishing the last of the marble. He hadn’t said more than a word since his wife passed, but he kept the place clean. This had been her job, once—the sweeping and polishing. A job that had allowed them to keep the tiny apartment in the rectory.

She had always been the provider, really, and always let him know it. She never shut up.

The fall had been a tragic accident, they said.

Her poor husband, they said.

He picked up the mop and kept his mouth shut.

“Quiet as a church mouse!”


Trying out the Friday Fictioneers, hosted by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields.

Walk with you

I like to look along the ocean,
to find the place where blue meets blue;
If I could just swim far enough,
perhaps that’s where I’d find you.

Or walking through a garden, too,
while marveling at the blooms,
I inspect a gentle petal
in case it bears a note from you.

Standing outside in early Autumn
when a cold wind chills my bones,
I look to the sky and pray you’re there,
I’m so weary of being alone.

Some believe another world lies beyond our own–
but I know naught will wake the dead.
You loved to be in nature, though, so
I’m content to walk with you, instead.

My goal for this year’s NaPoWriMo is to 1) actually write a poem a day, and 2) work more on rhymes. I’m a huge fan of free verse, but I like the idea of forcing myself to treat this more like an exercise in writing.


His family once visited an old castle. He was unimpressed at the time, never suspecting he might one day long for the softness of moss under his feet.

There are certain things one expects of prison: lumpy cots, unpredictable tempers. Others have to be experienced firsthand: the stench of body odor mixed with bleach, the boredom, and the sore feet. Virtually every step taken since the verdict had been on concrete, and damn, those feet hurt like hell. He massaged them at night while dreaming of the castle, and could almost feel the blades of grass scratching his bare ankles.


Photo prompt @ Roger Bultot

Written for the Friday Fictioneers, hosted as always by the wonderful Rochelle. Disclaimer: I have never been to prison, so forgive me if the descriptors are inaccurate.


There’s this book that says get rid of things that don’t make you happy, which was damn near everything in my house. Except for these hiking boots that are nearly as old as me. Gran and I used to camp all the time when we were young, but then just sort of stopped. Life got too busy, I guess. Makes more sense to hike now, anyway; the way I see it, when Death comes, I’ll be ready to go the hell to sleep.

My daughter looked up from the letter and snorted. “He isn’t missing, Mama. He’s taking a hike.”

jan wayne fields
@jan wayne fields

 Friday Fictioneers! (Although it is Wednesday. Forgive me!) Thank you, Rochelle, for the prompt, and the fun opportunity to tell a story in 100 words!

[NOTE: Ending was slightly altered to incorporate helpful feedback from a reader.]


Fire and Stars

It is all on fire, she said matter-of-factly,
smoothing the blanket over her thin legs.

What’s on fire, Granny,
I asked, as I searched for flames.

The world, my love;
The whole world is on fire.
Passion, good or bad, is a fuse.
If it is lit, it will explode;
that is what it was made to do.
The fuse has been lit.

I don’t see it, Granny;
I don’t see the fire.

You don’t see it yet, my love,
You don’t see it yet, but you will.
You will feel the heat and the anger.
The smoke will burn your eyes and
steal your breath.

Don’t scare the child, Mama,
there’s no fire.

Granny leaned closer to whisper,
“But behind the clouds, my love,
behind the clouds are billions of
beautiful stars.
Look for the stars.
You will see those one day, too.”

first draft

The Dollhouse

Janey shoved her newest doll into the small case provided to her at the residence. She owned so many that the ruffle-lined limbs hung over the shelves, giving the appearance of drunk whores balanced precariously on somebody’s balcony.

She hated dolls. Always had. Couldn’t decide if her mother thought she loved them, or presented them as some sick sort of joke–a reminder to her disfigured daughter of the beauty she could never attain.

But they were gifts from her mother, nonetheless.

Janey kept them displayed near her tiny shower–the dust mingling with the smell of mildew and lavender.


PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Not my first time with the Friday Fictioneers, but my first time with this blog. Thank you, Rochelle, for the prompt, and the fun opportunity to tell a story in 100 words!