Sunday Photo Fiction — Student Depression

This post is in response to the Sunday Photo Fiction Challenge.


54-04-april-6th-2014I just received a “C” as my final grade in advanced Chemistry. A frigging “C”. My parents are going to  go ballistic.

My father told me I should have gone to State. But no, I had to show  how brilliant I was by choosing Harvard. Harrrrvard, as the locals pronounce it. After all I was the Valedictorian of my high school class. I perfect 4.0 out of 4.0. I applied at seven different universities and was accepted at all seven. My father’s advice was to attend our state university. He thought I would have an easier time adjusting to the rigorous environment of a pre-med school at a small university rather than at an Ivy League School. His advice was to be a big fish at a small university than be a small fish in a large one. I wanted to be able to say I graduated from an Ivy League School so I choose Harvard.

I am smart but now I find myself with many other smart people. Everybody here was a valedictorian of their it seems. I find myself unable to compete at this level. Looking at the tombstone of this university’s founders I can’t help but think that this university will be the death of me.


Picture It & Write — Never Again

This post is in response to Ermilia and her  Picture It & Write  Prompt.




Somewhere along the road, at exactly what hour into the road trip I’m not sure, I began to realize how little I needed him in my life. It was fun for the first few months but then things began to go terribly wrong. What I thought was a loving and caring  man turned into a monster who demanded everything from me and giving nothing in return. We agreed to a vacation in the mountains to work out our differences.

Halfway to our destination he decided that the run down motel on this lonely road would do for our  purposes. After checking in we went to our room and he  slammed  the door. That was the beginning of my hell. The last thing I remembered was being slammed into the  wall with such force that I passed out.

Waking up this morning, without him, suddenly filled me with a  sense  of a new beginning in my life. Raising myself  to the window ledge I  vowed never again. This too shall pass. From now  on it will be one  day at a time.


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Friday Fictioneers — He’s Crazy

Copyright-John Nixon

This post is in response to Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers prompt.

His mind was all knotted. The synapses of his brain were truncated. What used to be a free-flowing stream of information, ideas, thoughts, feelings, were being hampered by something the doctors could not diagnose. There was a break between branches of the tree of his mind.

He looked at his wife and did not recognize her. Wait, wait, yes he does. Or did. He sees things but can’t act. She calls him by a strange name. How weird he thinks. And then in a nano of a second he just snapped. He did love her, whoever she was.



Sunday Photo Fiction — Lucky

It’s time for Sunday Photo Fiction. Here is my submission.

Fog lingering around Dover Western (Cruise) Docks. [Image has been adjusted so it can be seen properly]

The “Carrie” wasn’t my first choice of boats. I had showed up late at the dock for the days assignments and by the time they called my name “Carrie” was the only boat that needed any crew. I had been on the boat before and found her to be adequate. She wasn’t big by any standard but she was a seaworthy vessel. She was old enough to test my mechanical skills as a second engineer.

I knew I was just one small cog with some unique responsibilities which were integral to the successful operation of the seafaring vessel. I never liked being on the bridge which was filled with all the sophisticated equipment which required far different skills than those I possess. I did like my role on the deck, which houses berthing and the cargo gear.

This would be a simple two-day run, down and back, transporting iron ore pellets from Duluth Minnesota to Detroit Michigan. Still, I wished I had gotten up earlier and got my first choice of boats. The “Fitz” was scheduled to leave on the same morning. Now that would be a ride worth getting up for.

Friday Fictioneers

These 100 words are my entry to the weekly Friday Fictioneers Challenge.

Copyright -Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Then, suddenly, the move went wrong. Paul  had planned the murder with meticulous care. He had set up a “meet” with his main drug cartel rival on the fifth floor of an abandoned building.  The meet was to divide up the city into two separate regions. As his rival and  bodyguard arrived two more of Paul’s gang appeared and using their automatic weapons shot them dead. Now the whole city drug trade was his. Trying to hasten their getaway he decided to use the old elevator instead of the stairs. Halfway down to freedom the elevator came to a screeching halt.

Speakeasy #153 — The Loser


Looks Can Be Deceiving

“Looks can be deceiving.”

What the hell does that mean? Is she talking about me? Or is it in response to a comment  I made about her? She took the  seat next to me at the  bar about thirty minutes ago. Why next to me? There were at least four other  unoccupied bar stools nearby. She was a knockout  with  her flowing red  hair and the silky red dress split up to  her upper thighs. I quickly planned the whole evening in my head. Confident in my strategy I  leaned over, ops spilled the beer, and slurred to my future  acquisition:

“Looks can be deceiving sweetheart but seeing is believing.”

Damn, that bar stool  is slippery.

When I Awoke

When I awoke there were strangers all around me. I had waken up in a white room and a bright light shining in my eyes. In my foggy vision I could see people in gauze masks and blue plastic caps standing over me. I looked to my  right side and saw what looked like a bank of little computer screens all with  yellow lines  running  either up and down or making loops as they ran left to right across the black background. I thought there was a person beside me breathing very deep breaths and exhaling with a swoosh sound. On closer inspection this too was some type of machine.

On my left  was a tray with strange utensils that  were neither  knifes or  forks. One looked  like the tool that my father  used to pry the last piece out of a walnut. I must be at a party as there appeared to be a table set for twelve.

Suddenly a loud pinging came from the machines on my right. Now there was a flurry of activity around me. Just as suddenly as the pinging started the colorful lines of the machine became very straight. Not even the slightest little uptick. The people who were standing above me shared the strangest look. I could not hear them talking but their eyes seem to be communicating with each other.

The strangers started to slowly leave my room. Not all at once but almost on a set schedule until there were just two left. They took the sheet at the end of my bed and pulled it over my head. I always hated to sleep with anything pulled over my head.

I shouted for them to lower the sheet but they appeared not to here. They also then left the room.

It’s awful quite right now.


People walking through house saying “What do you want for this?”

Wife following with pen and pad.

Emptying drawers of accumulated junk.

“Wait, I’ll give you $3 for that.”

“Anything in the garage?”

“Is  that a double or queen size?”

“I’ll give you $25 for all five!”

The last nineteen years of your life is spread out across the tile and carpeting. That’s what it’s worth? My treasures must be undervalued. What no interest in that!

Used book store says I give you $65 for all 238 books. Antique dealer says not enough value for him to be interested.

Most of the furniture gone. Given away for next to nothing. Eating dinner on old rugs that are destined for the dump.

Old house looks almost new. Ready for someone else to make memories.

Good by old friend. Hope your new owners take good care of  you. We’ll send you a postcard of  our new digs.

The Long Walk

These 101 words form my submission to Friday Fictioneers.


She had forgotten her name, but not her feelings. She was feeling sad. They had been mean to her, that she could remember. There had been more than one and they passed her around like a jug of wine each taking a sip. She remembered the hard concrete as her head hit it. They told her that her father would pick her up at the end of the dock. As she looked down the wooden walk she realized it would take all of her will power to reach the end. Then she realized her father passed away five years ago.

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