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!


Oops! I Think I Forgot Something Important.

All right! Today’s the day I escape and stay escaped.

Okay, let’s see. I have fifteen white shoelaces, a bunch of wires I found inside a tv set, forty-nine shiny candy wrappers, sixty-five pieces of sugarfree gum, one dozen chicken eggs, a bowl of sparkling rice candy, and a tofu proton pack.


I am going to create a transporter from scratch and escape this Area 51.


Well. I created the transporter without any problems, but I may have forgotten a small detail.

Unfortunately, I can’t recall what.

The device transported itself to points unknown.

And I’m still here.


Back to the drawing board.

I will get out of here yet.


The Bad Ending That No One Wants To Read

Author’s Note:  On June 16, I posted a story where Elsie rides off into a thunderstorm with Ambrose.  I decided to top it with the most unlikely of scenarios.  Just because the thought of it was way too WHAT THE HECK? GAH! PLEASE NO! to pass up.  Fair warning: This is not for the faint of heart.  😀

Elsie walked up the long, winding drive.

Ambrose had moved to Seattle with Barbara for unknowable reasons.

Hildreth had joined a Tibetan monastery in Toronto.

And Elsie’s mother had married Barbara’s father. They were currently on their honeymoon somewhere in North Dakota.

Elsie was alone.

She reached the top of the cliff.

A mansion stretched before her, all ablaze with light.

She smiled.

“I won’t be alone for long.”

She marched up to the front door and kicked it open.

“No point in knocking nicely.”

She headed into the living room.

And he was there.

Mark Caten sat in a comfortably-sized wingback chair, reading the newspaper.

Her smile grew.

She walked over to him and swipped the newspaper out of his hands.

“Hey! I was reading about a delicious calamity in South America. Oh. Hello, Elsie.”

“Mark.” She dropped the newspaper on the floor and admired the man sitting before her. Why did it take me so long to see how gorgeous he is? “You have always been the worst person on the planet. I’ve never liked you, even when I worked under you. I hated you. But…” She brushed the back of her hand against his face.

He smirked.

“They say that hate is simply love in another form.”

“Huh? Who says that?”

“Mmm. I don’t know. People.” She kissed him and he took it very well.

As she pulled back, he smirked. “It’s about time you saw how magnificent I am.”

She laughed whole-heartedly. “We’re going to be so happy together.”

“Of course. You’ll be a lucky bride. Married to the epitome of manly perfection. No. Better than that. Married to the epitome of godly perfection. There. Much more accurate.”

She kissed him again and again. “Mmm. Mrs. Elsie Caten. I love the sound of that.”

“Yes. Yes. Of course you do, cupcake.”

Writing About….Suspicious Behavior

Whenever I have to wait at the doctor’s office or at the grocery store, I pull out my notebook and do some secretive writing on one of my off-line stories.  I’ll even do it when I’m having lunch at work. I sit in my corner and write and sometimes snigger suspiciously.

I always wonder what I look like to the people around me. Maybe they think I’m recording their conversations for posterity. Maybe they think I’m drawing satirical pictures of them.

Most likely, they don’t even notice.

All the same, I always feel like I’m being super suspicious. Especially when I chuckle at what I’ve written.

But the writing secretively isn’t as bad as me doing my zoning out thing. If I’m trying to find the right way to phrase a certain part or action or what have you, I’ll sit back in my chair and fold my arms across my chest and stare long and hard at the nearest blank wall.  I’m especially guilty of doing that in my doctor’s waiting room.

In that case, I’m sure I look like I’m in a bad sulk about having to wait, which isn’t true. I’m actually having fun, figuring details out.

So, if you catch me in public writing furiously or staring fixedly at the wall, don’t worry. It isn’t about you. It’s just me having fun.  😀

I Have Problems

You think you have problems? Ha! You’ve got it easy.

Yeah, you heard me. Eeeeeassssy.

Now, you want someone with problems? Well. Just look at me. I have problems.

I mean, it’s bad enough my dad’s Harry Potter. That’s a lot to live up to. But then he had the “genius” idea to name me Albus.


As in Albus Dumbledore.

So, yeah. The whole wizarding world is expecting big things from me.

Tough on them. They’re gonna be disappointed.

After all, I wasn’t born under a lucky star, a malevolent moon, no one Avra Kadavra’d my parents, and to top it off — Get this: There is no prophecy stapled to my wee little kid head.

Oh, yeah. No magic powers too.

I should be able to lead a perfectly normal muggle life without any interference from ghosts, goblins, specters, werewolves, witches, or what have you.

That would be nice.

But I’m Harry Potter’s kid with Albus Dumbledore’s first name.


I have a bad feeling my life is NOT going to be perfect or normal.

So, go on. Feel bad for me and my problems.

I need the pity.

So bad.

Peter Is Dying

“I’m sorry, Peter. You’re dying.”

Everyone is doomed to die. Some will be old. Some will be young. Some will never take their first breath. Yet, despite that fact, I never expected to hear those words said right to my face.

“I’m so sorry. There’s nothing I can do.”

And, just like that, I’m dying. Suddenly, everything seems so frivolous and inconsequential. Arguments. Road rage. My hatred of the Pittsburgh Pirates.

Peter looked down at the diamond pattern on his hospital gown.

What should I say? I guess I should be upset. This is one of those moments where being upset is not only understandable but also acceptable. And expected. I could wail, “Why me?” fifty-five hundred times and not be called a drama queen.

But all he could say was, “Oh, really?” in a mildly disinterested voice.

The doctor frowned. “Peter. If you want to wail and weep and—-”

“No. I don’t. I’m fine. I guess I’m not fine, but no. I’m good. I’m. Yeah. I’m gonna go home.” He shook the doctor’s hand. “Thank you.”

The doctor gave him a long list of names and numbers, but Peter had no idea who they all were much less why the doctor thought he’d call any of them.

“And if you happen to have a bucket list, this might be the time to start—”

A bucket list? Me? Why would I have a bucket list? That’s for people in their seventies and eighties. That’s for people who are dying.

I’m dying.

I’ve never thought of myself as a dying person. I always thought of myself as vibrant. Alive. Strong heart. Strong head.

But I’m dying.

Peter shivered.

I’m dying.

“Do you have any questions?”


Will it hurt when I take my last breath?

Will I know that it’s my last breath?

Will I be counting them down inside my head?

Will I feel the tug-of-war between death and life?

Will my life really flash before my eyes?

And, most important of all, what comes after that last breath is exhaled? After my heart has stopped beating? When the light leaves my eyes, what will I see?

Peter shook his head. “I just want to go home.”

The doctor reiterated the purpose of the phone list of mystery people and etceteras.

Peter didn’t hear any of it.


By the time Peter came home, night had fallen. There was no moon and the stars were hidden.

He hung up his coat, shluffed of his shoes and went up to bed.

But he didn’t go to bed.

He changed into his sensible, comfortable pajamas and walked out onto his balcony.

I’m dying.

How many nights do I have left?

He looked up at the night sky, searching for a familiar face.

A long forgotten pattern in the blackened sky.

But the stars were hidden and the night was cold.

He sighed.

What am I doing out here? What am I thinking? What was I expecting? It’s been too long. Although I’m not that old, it has been too many years.

He sighed again.

Oh well. Time for bed.

He turned to go back inside.

The balcony doors were shut.

And a yellow ball of vibrant light stood fiercely on the door handle.

A well-sharpened sewing needle shined like gold in her hands.



Peter gasped.


“It’s you!”

She floated up to his face and spoke in her chime-like voice.

“It’s really you. Tink. What? No, I can’t.”

She insisted.

“But…look at me. I’m too old. I’m dying.”

She eye-rolled and called him a derogatory term for a donkey.

He smiled.

Her glow brightened.

“Okay. Let’s give it a try. If I fall, I fall. If I don’t, I fly.”

She blew him a kiss and some of her glow covered him.

He closed his eyes and thought of his happiest memories.

He didn’t think about ifs or tries. He trusted that it would happen. He had faith.

He could no longer feel the ground beneath his feet.

Peter opened his eyes and he saw it.

He smiled as he saw it.

“The second star on the right and straight on till morning.”
















Some Help Here??

“Hi, Gwendolyn. I need you to meet me at a secret location.”

“Hi, Doofus Lord.”

“Hey! That’s not my name and you know it.”

“Yeah, whatever. What do you want?”

“I…just want to see you again.”


“Oh, come on. Don’t say it like that. I really do want to see you again.”

“Before or after you make out with Dentyne Barbie?”

“That’s not her name and you know it.”


“Come on, Gwen. Just one more time. I can make things right. I can do things right this time. I swear I can.”

“Yeah, you can swear all right.”

“Gwen, please.”

“Please what? Give you another chance? Really? Because I don’t see that happening. Do you have any ideas how many of our dates you bailed out on?”

“Well, I had something—-”



“So, no. I don’t want to patch things up with you. I don’t want to give you a second chance. I sure don’t want to meet you at some cheesy secret location. So, yeah. Tough on you, Doofus Lord!” And Gwendolyn hung up the phone.


Dufus Lord looked down at his cell phone.

“Call ended.”

Dentrice Varnon smirked. “Looks like you lose again.”

He frowned at her. “You won’t get away with this.”

“Oh, I will. And no one will come to your rescue.” Dentrice tossed her head back and chortled as her henchmen tied Dufus to the chair. “But really. It’s all your fault. Being too subtle. That always was your problem. Your fatal flaw.” She chortled again. “And in a few minutes, it will be your very fatal flaw.”

He shrugged. “I’ve escaped from more hopeless situations.”

“You won’t escape this one, Dufus. There is no cavalry this time. You are going to die.”

An eerie, hollow laugh illed the air.

Dufus’ hair stood on end.

Dentrice pointed her Abrablaster in all directions. “Who’s there?”

The air next to Dentrice shimmered and shined. “It is I!” A short, overweight man in tight yellow spandex appeared and snatched the gun out of Dentrice’s hands. “Deus ex Machina Guy! Hahaha—” He knocked her out with one punch. “—hahahahahaha—”

Her goons charged at him.


He one punched her goons into unconsciousness.

“—-hahahahahahahahaha! Haha!” He released Dufus from his bonds. “All righty then! Time for you to kiss and make up with Gwen!”

“I don’t know if I can.”

“If all else fails, I’ll step in and make it all right. For I am….Deus ex Machina Guy! Hahaha!”

No Boiling Here

They’re watching me. I can feel them watching me.

I can’t see them, but I can feel their furtive stares.

It happens every day. Every single day.

They stare.  They watch.

I can’t escape their horrible gazes.

They watch me.  Expecting me to do something.

But I can’t. I can’t do anything. Because they’re watching me.

And there is no escape.