One More Cup Of Guzzling Gary?

Jeb sat at the bar counter as he had done many a time before.

This time, however, was different.

He looked at the faceted glass of Guzzling Gary rum in his hand. The clear glass was beautiful. The rum a warm blanket of color. He felt like he could curl up under it and fall asleep.

That was his normal.

It had been his normal for years.

For too many years.

He raised the glass.

The bronze liquor swished and swirled from his hand’s tremor.

That was something new.

That was far from his normal.

He set the glass down.

His mouth yearned for a sip. One more sip. Always one more sip followed by always one more one more one more one more.

He licked his dry lips.

Just one sip to wet his whistle and that would be the last one. Just like he promised her.

“I’ll never do it again.”

How many times had he made that promise?

How many times had she come to rescue him from one predicament or another?

How many times did it take before she grew sick of the worries and the uncertainties and the rescues?


Now, he was alone.

He was alone and his hands wouldn’t stop shaking. Why were they shaking so bad?

I need to get out of here.

I need some fresh air in my lungs and head and hair.

I need…

I need.

He looked down at the glass waiting for him.

He licked his lips again and they seemed to be a whole lot dryer.

If I have a sip, just one sip, my mouth won’t be so dry anymore.

But his hands continued to tremble.

And that wasn’t right. That wasn’t normal.

Something was broken.

Something was wrong.

I need help.

I need to get out of here and get some help.

I need…

I need.

Maybe one last sip.

What harm could it do?

Just enough to wet my whistle.

Barely enough to spit back out.

His hand embraced the faceted glass.

Just a last…

He raised the glass.

One last….

His hand tremor pitched the glass out of his grip.

The glass flew out of his grip.

It spun out of his grip.

It hit the counter.

It shattered on the counter.

The rum splattered and spread like blood.

Jeb smiled.

“I guess that settles that.”

He grabbed his hat and coat.

I should order one more.

One last one.

For the road.

For the memories.

For old times sake.

He looked down at his trembling hands.

I’ll get one after I find out what’s wrong.

He smiled at the promise.

Maybe he would break it this time.

Maybe he could make things right.

Or maybe he would fall all over again.

He pulled his coat on and jammed his hat onto his head.

He turned his back to the bar counter and all of its beautiful alluring bottles.

He didn’t look back.

Jeb didn’t look back.

He walked to the front door and left.


March Writing Prompts


Stitches Of Glitches

The old woman sat in her shop.
It was an old shop
with worm-trailed wood doors
and floors that creaked like cracking ice.

People didn’t come there too often, if even at all.

The old woman didn’t mind.

She sat in her shop.
She sat behind her counter
with its empty register
with its dusty keys
with its bell that didn’t ding anymore.

She sat behind her counter
and smiled.

She sat behind her counter
with her needle
and her thread
and her 12th century loom.

She sat behind her counter
and sang Gaelic war ballads
as she pounded
and shuttered her loom.

And with her loom
she created
stitches of glitches
that she intended to release
into the world some day.

She was proud of her work.
But it wasn’t time
to release it.
Not yet.

She smiled
as she knew
that day
would eventually come.

Until then
she would sit in her shop
behind her counter
with her 12th century loom
pounding and shuttering
new stitches of glitches into existence.

March Writing Prompts



Billowy Breeze

Billowy breezes softly blow
Across the field.
Across the yard.

Floofing away dandelion hair.
Floating kites into the blue.
Fluffing my hair into a mess.

Shaking out sheets.
Stealing hats.
Sending balloons into the sky.

Billowy breezes softly blow.
They blow on by.


March Writing Prompts


Happy St. Patrick’s Day!!

Author’s Note:  This story was based on a photo prompt over on Daily Flash Writing Prompts on Facebook. I shared it there and liked it too much not to share it with you guys over here.  😀  Enjoy!

“I can make a rainbow appear with my bare hands.” said Patty.

Pete scoffed. “What a malarker you are.”

“I can!”

“No. No, you can’t.”

“I can too!”

“Oh, look. Ladies and gentlemen, look! Lads and lassies, take a gander! It’s a malarker speaking malarkey.”

Patty stomped his green-stockinged foot. “I am not a malarker and this is not malarkey.”

“Whatever you say, me boy-oh.”

“Fine.” Patty unclenched his hands. “Fine. Fine. Fine. Call me a malarker, will ye? Call ME a boy-oh, will ye? Well, Mr. Doubting Peter McIver-Doubterson—”

“Who are you calling a Doubter’s Son? That’s what I would like to know.”


“Pah! Ye hear me all right there, Patty me boy? I said PAH!”

“Oh! Oh! Oh! Pah, you say? Well! Take a look at this and may your ever-lovin’ green eyes fall out of your head and collect dust.” Patty put his hands together as if he were a priest about to pray. He separated them in an arching gesture.

Sure enough, a small rainbow appeared in between his hands.

“Well, I’ll be beggorrahed.” said Pete.


Jelly Jars

I shouldn’t have gone in.
I should have stayed out.
But the challenge rang in
And through my ears.

“Run into the witches’ cottage
And steal one jelly jar.
Then, bring it to me
Or else I’ll wreck your dad’s car.”

I didn’t know how they’d wreck it.
But I thought about all of the ways
All of the way

The witches cottage was
Less cottage
More shack.
Much more ramshackle
Than just shack.

The whole building
In a graying
In the clearing.

The roof was gray
And messy
And frizzy
And anyone’s guess
As to what
It was made out of.

It might have been
Shredded wood
Shreds of Shredded Wheat.
It was hard to tell.
But it carried a bad strong smell.

The square windows
Held no glass.
I wonder if they ever did.

The square windows
Were empty.
No glass.
No curtains.
No light.

The open windows
Showed nothing.
Nothing but darkness.
As thick as oil.
As dense as mud.
As certain as an approaching storm.

I didn’t want to go inside.
I didn’t want my dad’s car wrecked.
But I didn’t want to go inside.
But I didn’t want our only car wrecked.

There was no porch.
No wooden stairs.
The house sat
And there was nothing to do

The door
The floor
And it was so dark

I turned on my flashlight.
I was so glad I brought my flashlight.
The beam was a dulled yellow pity party.
But at least it was a flashlight.

The floor
In the foyer.
Down the hall.
All the way
Into the kitchen.

I shined the light
The flashlight.
My flashlight.
My sickly yellow beamed flashlight
Into the room.

A person sat
In the
Middle of
The room.
Its back
To me.

I took

“You want one of
My jelly jars.
Don’t you?”

She straightened
Her back.

I couldn’t deny it.
I also couldn’t speak.
Fear held my vocal cords

“Well, then.”

She raised her head.
She turned.


Her eyes were sharp
Like razors.
Her mouth dripped red
With blood.
Her hair

Her matted hair

And I
Could not

She opened
Her jagged
Clawed hand.

An empty
Jelly jar
Sat in the middle
Of her palm.

“It’s all yours.”

Out of it

I couldn’t run.
I couldn’t speak.

Suddenly, everything became light.





The witch screwed the cap back on the jelly jar and smiled at the dingy yellow light inside. She walked over to her pantry and opened the door.

Hundreds of jelly jars lined the shelves.
Each one held its own special light.

She put the new jelly jar on the middle shelf and smiled a little wider.
She closed the pantry door and walked away.

March Writing Prompts



Powdered Blue Dress

The powdered blue dress danced as it once did.

Closed up zipper.

Close fitted bodice.

And a skirt that twirled and spun in powdered blue ripples.

It danced out in the courtyard out on the memory of a long distant waltz.



Laughter and sparkle.

She had hummed along to the waltz while black tuxedo arms held her safe and close.

But that tuxedo was gone and packed away.

Packed away in a box.

Somewhere cool and dry.

His black shoes had held a mirrored shine when she danced with him.

She wondered where those shoes were now.

But she closed her eyes and lost herself in the memory of his arms, his cologne, and the dance. She bummed softly as she waltzed.

Her powdered blue dress spun and twirled as it once did a long time ago.


March Writing Prompts


A Tisket For A Tasket

I want to exchange
This tisket for a tasket
So I can buy myself
Some brand new shoes.

I’ll go to this store here.
They don’t deal in tiskets.
Only taskets.

It doesn’t matter much.
I’ll go to another store.
They’re all out of taskets.
Only have tiskets.

Is there no one there?
Who will exchange
My tiskets for taskets?
My shoes are all worn out.
My toes stick out of the seams.

Is there no one out there?
No one who will exchange
My tiskets for taskets?
My heels flip and flop
In ways they weren’t meant to.

Will no one out there
Exchange my tiskets
For taskets?
I need new shoes
And I need them bad.

Excuse me.
Can you help me?
Can you exchange my tiskets
For taskets?

For taskets?
What about you?
Oh, good sir?
Could you help me?
I need you to help me!

See my shoes.
Oh, look at my shoes.
They’re barely shoes.
They’re not even sandals.

Could you exchange my
Tiskets for taskets?
Tiskets for taskets?
Taskets for shoes.
I need shoes so bad.


March Writing Prompts