First blog post

Well! I took a deep breath and jumped.

This is my very first blog. I’m kind of nervous and excited to get this started.

I’ve been writing stories on the Writer’s Digest Creative Writing Prompts forum every week for the past two years. It’s been a wonderful learning experience to take their prompts, no matter how weird or specific, and turn them into two or three completely different stories. I’ve written stories on there that I normally wouldn’t have considered writing – science fiction stories, vampire stories, and so on. My fellow forumites, who are awesome writers, have helped me with their suggestions and comments to grow as a writer.

So, after much mental fidgeting and nail biting, I finally decided to create this blog to give my prompt stories a proper home.

Hope you enjoy them!



A Phantom Of The Opera Thanksgiving Disaster

Yes, this is a rerun from 2016. But I felt like sharing it again.


Author’s  Note: I realize that these are French characters and there is no reason why they’d be celebrating an American holiday. But I did this just for the fun of it.

Christine Da’ae hummed an intricate snippet of an aria as she made herself a turkey sandwich.

It was Thanksgiving and she had chosen to celebrate it simply.

No turkey to unstuff and stuff back up.

No preserved egg coleslaw.

No mashed potatoes and gravy.

No pie of any sort.

Just a clean and simple turkey sandwich.

“Nice.” She plated the sandwich and carried it to the table.

The doorbell rang.

She gave her sandwich a wistful look before getting up to answer the door.

“Raoul! What are you…”

He grinned wildly from the other side of a large uncooked turkey.

“oh. turkey. uhhh…”

“Happy Thanksgiving, darling!”

She thought about her simple sandwich. “Uh, happy Thanksgiving, but that turkey is…

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The Daily Spur Presents….Death Is A Pretty Woman In Sneakers.

Death walked down the street. But this was no skeleton king in a shroud.


This time Death wore a pretty woman’s face, a knee-length cape and gown, and high-top sneakers. Death’s scythe was tucked out of sight. She would pull it out when needed.

Death walked down the street, carrying a lit match between her thumb and index finger. She held it horizontally. The flame seemed to have consumed the whole top half of the match already. But Death knew that it was safe. The flame would never reach the opposite end, for it was an eternal match.

She walked down the street, unseen and unnoticed until it was too late. But that was the way that Death always operated. People believed that they were invulnerable. They were young. They ate and drank and did all of the healthy things. They were beautiful. They were famous. They were so amazingly talented. They were indestructible forces of life.

They were all, of course, very wrong.

Death didn’t play favorites.

Death didn’t take away only the obscure and plain and ugly and unwanteds.

Death came for all, all in good time. But Death did not get any joy or amusement or any sense of victory when she took a soul. Nor did she get sad or angry about it, no matter the age of the person. All she felt was peaceful acceptance.

She knew that all that lives must inevitably die. For immortality did not exist in this world.

Immortality could only be gained by those who had died.

Death walked down the street in the guise of a pretty woman in a caped dress and high-top sneakers. She held a lit match in between her fingers.

Several people would leave with her by the end of the night.


The Daily Spur Presents….The Milky Way

Do you see me?
Can you see me?
Or is it too bright?
Is it all too dark?

Is it like trying to see
The Milky Way Galaxy
On the moon?

Is the atmosphere too thin?
Is the sun too bright?
Is the night too dark?

When you see me,
Am I just small dots of white
Spread across a black canvas?

Or do you see me?
Can you see me as I am?

A hundred thousand million
Grains of light.
So close together.
Stretched across the night sky
And touching the morning light.

Do you see me?
Am I the Milky Way Galaxy
And are you on Earth
Looking up at me?

Do you see me as me?


The Black Angel

The black angel walked on top of the ocean’s waves and it walked alone.

Its wings jutted straight out from the back of its head, making the angel look rather like a particularly large black moth. They were nothing flashy. They were plain and almost rubbery in appearance.

Yet, they held their own beauty.

In their lines.

In their symmetry.

In their perfection.

The ocean’s cold waves lapped at the angel’s feet and splashed up on its black robe. But the angel did not tremble. The angel did not doubt. It kept its head raised and its face to the horizon.

Although the water was wide and seemed to touch the sky, even though the angel was completely alone, it did not fear.

For it knew beyond all doubting that it was not alone. No matter where its travels led it to, even into the darkest of places, the angel was never fully alone.

Beams of soft, gentle light spilled through the overcast sky. It warmed the water and took away the chill in the angel’s feet. Joy, peace, and love filled the angel’s entire being.

Another angel, one with pure white wings, flew towards the black angel. It called out to the black angel in unearthly words, in a language no man had ever heard nor spoken.

The black angel responded in kind and flew up into the beautifully warm and comforting sky.

It was going home.


The Daily Spur Presents……Surprises!

Alice hadn’t seen the White Rabbit in years. So, she was quite surprised to see him now.

He was in a dither. Hardly a surprise there. The White Rabbit was always in a dither. Always muttering about “being late”. But he wasn’t muttering about that now. He was verbally fussing about “a wooden gown and wooden shoes and oh my dear blessed whiskers she’ll be furious”.

Of course, Alice simply had to find out what was going on. “Excuse me! Mr. Rabbit?”

He ignored her voice as he always did and hopped into a hole in a tree.

Well! This was a novel and most curious event. The White Rabbit never hopped into trees. Whatever was he about?

She ran to the tree, took a deep breath, and crawled into the hole. Much to her continuing surprise, there was no expected fall. But it was quite dark inside.

The darkness didn’t stop her, however. She crawled forward.

All at once, the hole lit up in black and white stripes. It was quite disorienting. The lines seemed to gyre and gimble on their own. They seemed quite stationary. It seemed to be a painting on a wall. It seemed to be a winding hole.

“Well!” she said to herself. “How am I to know which it is? Surely, it can’t be all of them at once!” She sighed. “I suppose there really is only one way to find out.”

Alice continued to crawl forward. “I can only hope that I will not collide into the wall. That would be most mortifying. I suppose I would simply turn around and leave, if there is no way to continue on.”

Despite her fears, she did not collide into a wall.

She continued on down the hole optical illusion.

Alice wondered what she would encounter at the end.

She fully expected to be surprised.


“Chain of Iron” —- The Alternate Endings!

Author’s Note: Soooo, I just finished reading “Chain of Iron” by Cassandra Clare. 

I have thoughts.

I have thoughts and so many feelings about the ending.

On the one hand, it makes sense. I would probably end it the same way, more or less, because drama. And drama’s gotta drama. 

Besides, if the whole James and Cordelia tension was resolved in Book 2, it would be anti-climatic or something. That sort of thing calls for a Book 3 resolution. So, yeah. I get it.

STILL! I couldn’t help thinking about what an alternative ending would be like. And, of course, I had some ideas…..

(Some spoilers ahead. Please consider yourself warned.)


James had reached the entryway. He flung open the front door, letting in a blast of cold air—and found himself staring into Grace’s ice-blue eyes. He stood frozen in shock as she threw herself into his arms.

“James,” Grace drew back a little, though her fingers were still laced behind his neck. “I came as soon as I got the message. I had to tell you, darling,” she went on, her gray eyes wide and earnest. “I am going to end it with Charles. I cannot bear it anymore, James. I will not marry him. There was never anyone for me but you.”

He pried her arms off his neck. “Uhhh. That’s nice for you. But you are talking to the King Of Disinterest.” He put his hand on her face and shoved her out the door. “Bye.” He promptly closed it.

Grace stared at the closed door, flummoxed and in shock. This was not the response she’d been expecting.



James had reached the entryway. He flung open the front door, letting in a blast of cold air—-and found himself staring into Grace’s ice-blue eyes. “Nope. Nope. Nuh-uh. Nope.”

He closed the door in her face and went back upstairs to proclaim his love to his wife.


OR…(to back up a little…)

Cordelia’s brow furrowed; she looked enchantingly puzzled. “I know you would do anything to help your friends. But I cannot rely on you so completely, cannot behave as if this were a real marriage. It is not. We both must remember that.”

“It is real.” he said roughly. “What we have is a real marriage.”

She looked at him squarely. “Can you say you feel the same for me as you have felt about her? About Grace?”

“No!” he said almost savagely. “I do NOT feel about you at all as I feel about Grace. How I ever felt for Grace.”

Cordelia looked stunned. “Well! How about you explain what you mean by that?”

“I think I should, because that came out all wrong.”

There was a knock on the front door.

“Oh.” Cordelia said. “You should go answer that first. It might be your father.”

James thought about it. “My father is Will Herondale. If he wants to get in here that badly, he’ll find a way in. You and I need to have this conversation first.”

Cordelia nodded. “Okay.”

And James never answered the door, much to Grace’s disappointment.

The Ferryman Sits.

The Ferryman sits in his long, narrow canoe.
He sits with a long, narrow paddle in his hands.
The canoe sits still in the unmoving water while soft, sad fog drifts around.

The Ferryman sits there with a wide-brimmed straw hat upon his head.
The straw hat shields his eyes and the back of his head.
But the sun does not shine.

The Ferryman sits and waits for his passengers.
His passengers will come to him.
They will come only one at a time.

The Ferryman’s canoe is long, but it is narrow.
There is room aboard for only two.
The Ferryman and his passenger.

He waits for his passenger to arrive.

He looks to the shore.
He looks to the wooden-plank bridge that stretches over the water.
There are no handrails.

The wooden-plank bridge stretches only so far.
The wooden-plank bridge does not reach the Ferryman’s canoe.
His passenger will have to find their way to him.

Some passengers come willingly.
Some passengers come fearfully.

Some beg to go home.
Some beg to stay.

But the Ferryman sits in his long, narrow canoe.
And he waits, sitting there with his long, narrow paddle in his hands.
He knows that his passenger will come.

One at a time.
One by one.

The Ferryman will take them across the still, silent water.
He will take them beyond the fog and into what lies on the other side.

The Daily Spur Presents…..In Another Life

Rebecca Whitt walked over to the window in her sage-green undergarments. She opened the curtains and knelt.

The sunlight shined on her face and made her red-blonde hair look like fire.

She closed her eyes.

Ambrose muttered something in his sleep.

Rebecca smiled at the sound of his voice.


Ambrose Smith.

He was supposed to be just a fling. Nothing real. Nothing permanent. Just a consolation prize for losing her sister. Just a little bit of something to comfort her in her time of grief and need.

But something had changed that day.

When he came to her house, he was shaky and near nonverbal. Yet, he had made his feelings clear. Oh, not with words. Far from it. It was all in the way he looked at her. The way he could barely speak. The poor boy was smitten and smitten quite hard.

His lack of polish and finesse had charmed her. She had let him into her house…and into her bed. He had comforted her quite well, but it wasn’t supposed to last.

She hadn’t meant for it to last beyond that one time.

Rebecca opened her eyes and turned back to look at him. Her smile became genuine. How many ‘that one time’s had it been by now? How many days? How many months? It hadn’t quite hit a full year yet, but it would be soon.

Rebecca rose. She walked with light steps to the bed, her bare feet barely made a sound.

Ambrose slept face down in his pillow.

His pillow?

Her pillow?

Was there a difference any more? Did it even matter?

She sat on the bed and stroked his deep black hair. “You are the first man to make me feel this way. You are the first and only man I’ve wanted to stay with. So, stay with me, Ambrose. Love just me.” She kissed the back of his head. “Don’t leave me.”


Rebecca Whitt sat on her bed and watched her husband sleep. She smiled tenderly and stroked his dark brown hair.

A memory came to her mind. A distant, long-forgotten memory of Ambrose Smith and the day of her sister’s funeral. “My mother had sent him to fetch me. He arrived, a whole jittering mess and muddle of hormones and nerves. I thought he’d be a good distraction at worst and a good comfort at best. He was nothing.”

She shook her head. “Just a disappointment. Maybe in another life, he was enough for me. Maybe in that other life, he and I stayed together.” She kissed the side of her husband’s face. “I’m so glad this isn’t that life. You are the one and only man I want to be with. You are the only one I love. It’s just you.”