Ivy League School

This post is written for Sunday Photo Fiction.

Brian had always dreamed of going to an Ivy League school. He loved books. His mom used to tell her friends that when he was young he had read a particular story so many times that he could put the book upside down on his knees and could read it because he had it memorized.

He had to settle for a land grant state college because his grades did not meet the level of acceptance for an Ivy League school. But then just two years after graduation an opportunity came up at Harvard and he was accepted after a series of interviews that lasted almost two full days.

He, as expected, excelled at his position. He continued his career with advancement after advancement until he reached the position he held today. He felt satisfied and immensely thankful for what this great university had provided him. He looked down the hall and saw some of his staff members busy at work. The majority of his staff were busy outside this time of day.

As he left his office he looked back at the name plate on his door. He felt proud. “Brian Holiday” maintenance supervisor. He loved his work.



A Good Room

This post submitted to Sunday Photo Fiction.

188-01-january-1st-2017It was probably the best room she had spent the night in a long time. At least she would have a warm room with a real bed and some palatable food to keep her nourished.

Just graduating from high school had been an achievement. After that the boys had started to take advantage of her mental condition. She wasn’t a prize for them just an easy notch on their belt of manhood.

Booze became her best friend. A friend she needed daily. The buzz made the boys attention tolerable. Her drab apartment, in the worst part of town, became a hangout for the tough and not so tough hoods. An apartment where she rented a refrigerator, the only furniture a couch that one of the boys had found at the side of the road and had made a present of it to her, torn down cardboard boxes used as her bed, a toilet that overflowed constantly the water actually freezing on the floor in the winter.

Her address was well know at the local police station. She knew some of the officers by their first name they had responded so often to her apartment.

She wonders if her police friends will miss her.

Desert Storm


My short story, below the picture prompt below, is written for Sunday Photo Fiction.








He heard the soft “puff” as the M4 rifle launched its grapnel. He knew then that the  combat engineers were beginning their mission.

The desert sand was hot even in the dark of the night. He knew he did not have much time before he lost consciousness. He felt nothing below his knees. His legs were in all probability gone. He knew he had stepped on a land mine. A quick look to his left revealed his buddy Hector or at least what remained of Hector.

“More to the right”  he shouted to his invisible fellow soldiers. He heard the grapnel hit behind his head and could see the trailing cable begin its journey back.  They had tried to talk him out of performing such a suicide mission. But he was in command and they would follow. The grappling hook dragged backwards was used to detonate trip-wire fused land mines. It was 99 per cent effective.



It’s Over There

This post is written for Sunday Photo Fiction.


“I can’t find my cell phone.”

“Where to you last use it?” Danny asked.

“I was face timing with Betty last while I was on my nightly walk around the bay. I think that was the last time I used it. We talked for a long time about “girl things”.

Sunday Photo FictionDanny just hated hearing those words. “Girl things” just meant they were talking about him. “Jeeze Louise Carole, we just purchased these new iPhones last week. You just had to have the new 6 Plus and now you have lost the damn thing. I know, let’s use the “find my iPhone feature” on your laptop.”

Carole, firing up her laptop and tapping the find my app feature, shouted “I’ve found it!”

“Great”, replied Danny now relived he would not have to spend mucho bucks to replace the damn thing,”where is it?”

“Somewhere over there” Carole laughed, pointing toward the container ships docked at the bay.




The Walking Stick

This post is written for Sunday Photo Fiction.

He had attended the hiking course just last week. It was part of his plan to get more active this year. The instructor had supplied maps of some nearby trails. Along with the maps he was told he should buy a compass, a walking stick, and a small light backpack.159-06-june-5th-2016

He had dressed warmly for his early morning walk. It was still quite cold when he began his walk at around 8 a.m. The rolling hills around this part of the state were still wet from some overnight rain showers.

He slipped his new backpack on which contained a small tube of insect repellant, some lip balm, and breakfast bars. He slipped the leather band on his brand new walking stick around his wrist.

He found the first trail making, which was a blue painted arrow on a tree after about a half mile.

For the next forty-five minutes the ground covering became very thick and even using his new walking stick he still stumble a few times. Twenty minutes later in deep brush and not ever finding another trail marking he admitted to himself he was in deep trouble.

Turing around he pushed his walking stick in the ground and he felt it hit something that felt unusual. Looking down he saw that his walking stick had gone right through the right eye socket of a half buried skull.



This post submitted for Sunday Photo Fiction.




“Harold, that’s the fourth time you have hit the curb this trip. And we just left Heathrow and have another 120 Kilometers to go before we get to Bath.”

“I’ve never driven on the wrong side of the road before. I’m afraid if I cross the center line I’ll probably over correct. And that roundabout back there, that was something else. Pretty good idea for us Americans. If you can’t decide which road to take you just keep going around and around until you figure it out.”

“I have to hand it to you Harold, you really did a fantastic job in planning this trip. Fifteen days touring England, Wales, Ireland, Northern Ireland and Scotland. We are going to have a ball. It’s a lot to see in such a short time but I know we can do it.”

“Honey, it may take a little longer than we expected.”

“Why is that Harold?’

“See that traffic sign ahead?”


“What does it say?

“Heathrow, 5 Kilometers.”

“I hate the English already!”








Mrs. Crowder Was Wrong

This post is written for Sunday Photo FictionMy story follows the picture prompt below.


The brick apartment building stands by itself, surrounded by snow-covered fields and cars that are covered with the heavy stuff, in a sparsely populated area of the decaying city. Inside one of the run down apartments a stubby young white man sits in a cluttered desk reading a book.

His long shoulder length hair falls nearly to the table as he bends down to read from the book. The man’s name is George and the volume he is reading is “Making Bombs for Dummies.” He reads over the list of “ingredients” and is lacking just one item. He knows where to find this special item.

Crossing the hallway to Mrs. Crowder’s apartment he knocks gently on the door. He knows she will look through the peep hole and recognize him. He has a reputation as a “kook” anyway  so nothing should surprise her anyway. She will be one of the people who would later say “he was the nicest man around, and I can’t think of him doing anything like that.”

As she opens the door he says, “Mrs. Crowder, may I please borrow your pressure cooker.”