It’s been a minute

So, what have I been up to? Well, I have been writing. I decided that I wasn’t going to wait any longer on following my dreams. I’ve wrote several books, but this children’s book is my latest.


This is Marvin. He’s a Bearded Reedling


And he’s sooooo hungry!


And these beautiful boys right here were the inspiration for Marvin. They are always hungry.

And that’s what I’ve been up to. It’s really been a lot more complicated than that, but I’ll save that for another day. Hopefully, I’ll be posting more often.

© J. W. Nicholson

Time Stand Still (Friday Fictioneers)

It’s time for Friday Fictioneers.  Thank you Rochelle Wisoff Fields for providing the prompt.  It’s a great way to get to meet other bloggers.  If you would like to participate please click here. Thanks to Dee Lovering for the Photo. Hope you enjoy my spin on the prompt below.

© Dee Lovering

Time Stand Still

Phillippe’s blue eyes never waver from me. I listen to him talk in his thick, Spanish accent as we stroll through the crowd. After a month of intimate talks and stolen kisses, time is slipping away.

“What are you thinking?” Phillippe says.

“I’m thinking I’m going to miss this.”

“Then stay.”

“You know I can’t. The boys have already called wanting to know when I’m coming home. I think my mother-in-law is suspicious. It’s been three years since David’s accident, but I think she expects me to mourn forever.”

“Come, let me love you while there’s still time.” Phillippe says.

*100 words

Just Between Friends

Mondays Finish the Story prompt for this week is, “Are you laughing at me?”

Below is the picture prompt.  If you would like to participate click the link here.

Thanks to Babso2you for the Monday Finish the Story challenge.

© 2015, Barbara W. Beacham

Just Among Friends

“Are you laughing at me?”

“Well, you are the one swooning like a school girl over yellow orchids. They are not even roses.” Juanita says as she sits at the table drinking her coffee, and watching her best friend, Vernice, place the orchids in a vase.

“Roses are overrated.  I’d rather have an orchid any day.”

“Umm… Hmmm…..” Juanita says peering over her mug.

“You’re enjoying this aren’t you?” Vernice says as she eyes her friend while arranging the flowers.

“I’m enjoying watching you squirm. Ms. We’re just friends. I’m too old for a serious relationship, you said. You made it sound like you had one foot in the grave. And now you are sprinting around like a teenager”

“I am not.” Vernice’s cell phone rings. She answers in a high pitch voice, and her face lights up.

“Hello Henry. Yes, I love the orchids.”

Juanita bursts out laughing.

*149 words


Heading Home-FFfAW Writing Challenge

Dawn M Miller

“What are you doing Giselle? He’ll kill you if he finds you.”

“Natasha, This life is killing me. Pietro’s popping pills in us like their candy. . Men touch us like we’re their property.’

“You don’t think we all feel that way? But, I’ve been here three years, and no one has escaped Pietro, and lived to tell about it.”

I continued curling my black hair. Pietro would collect me in five minutes

Kielo, the FBI agent, had paid to have me. We had been planning this for three weeks. I snatched up the passport, and placed it in my purse.

As Pietro drove me to what I hoped to be my last job, I beheld the lake by the house. A year and a half had passed since Mr. Palmer kidnapped me. I couldn’t lose it now. I had to keep it together a little while longer.



If you would like to read the rest of this series click on the category Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers Series to the right.

If you would like to participate in FFfAW click here.

Thank you so much Priceless Joy for providing this wonderful outlet for all of us writers. You have been such an encouragement!

Thank you Dawn M Miller for the photo prompt.

© 2015 All Rights Reserved @Silverstein Potter and Other Fictitious Ramblings

A Performance of a Lifetime

It’s time for Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers again.  I didn’t intend to, but it looks like I have a series going on.  It is about a girl who has found herself kidnapped, and thrown into human trafficking. Human trafficking knows no age limit, gender, or socioeconomic boundaries.  It is modern day slavery.

I am thinking about expanding these stories, but haven’t decided yet.  Let me know what you think.  I love your comments.  Having a blog has been such a positive experience for me. I have enjoyed each, and everyone of you.

If you would like to participate please click here.

If you would like to read the first story in this series, click here.

You will find the second story in the series here.

© Vanessa Rodriquez

A Performance of a Lifetime

Women and men dressed in business attire rush past me. At the train station, everyone is rushing to make their commute. I’m walking with our caravan clad in the finest fashion has to offer.

Our cover is, we are models headed to a shoot. My name is Giselle (it’s really Olivia). Every day it is instilled in me to walk like a model, and talk Italian. I watch as Pietro, my John, takes care of transportation for us.

He purchased me for $10,000.00 on the island. The other girls tell me that’s the rate for a virgin.

During the day I am tutored in Italian, and at night I am mauled by businessmen, and celebrities. I am always at someone’s apartment. Most of the girls are at shanty brothels.

“You are fortunate.” Natalie, my roommate, said.

“Being home is fortunate. This is hell.”

I board the train, and take my place beside Pietro.

“Take this.” Pietro hands me a pill. I don’t know what it is, but I know better than to say no.

I don’t remember the train ride. Later, Pietro hands me another pill, and I begin my night.

*191(I went over a little.)

© 2015 All Rights Reserved @Silverstein Potter and Other Fictitious Ramblings

Never Trust a Writer


*It’s time for Monday’s Finish the Story. If you would like to participate in Monday’s finish the story click on the picture above.

Thanks to Barbara W. Beacham for hosting it.

The prompt beginning sentence is-” They followed the buffaloes and their babies along the trail heading into the woods.”  The picture prompt is below.  Here is my story.

© 2015, Barbara W. Beacham

They followed the buffaloes and their babies along the trail heading into the woods. The writer wrote in the next scene.

“Whoa. I’m not following buffaloes and their babies. I know what happens in stories to people who follow buffalos.” Henry, the writer’s character, said.

“Is that so? What happens?”

“They get attacked by Indians.”

“It’s my story.”

“I lost everything I had in Chapter One. I had a gunshot wound in Chapter Four, and now I’m following buffaloes in Chapter Eight. Let me write the next scene.” Henry said.

“Absolutely not.” The writer said.

“What’s the matter? Scared you’ll get attacked by Indians?”

“Why don’t you just follow the buffaloes like the rest of the characters?”

“Why don’t you just write a scene without buffaloes?” Henry said.

“Very Well.”

They couldn’t follow the buffaloes because their beloved cowboy, Henry, was stricken with Cholera.

“Note to self, never trust a writer.”


Today’s a Good Day

*I have decided that I am going to title Sundays on my blog, “Simple Sundays”.  Yes, I want to reach my goal of a post every day, but I realize that it is a big undertaking.  I am still trying to figure out how those that post two or three postings a day do it.

I am convinced they have little elves that work all night and day to help them accomplish the goal or that is all that they have to do.  I am not one of those people at this point in my life.

The plan is on Sunday to keep it simple.

Below is a simple little poem that I wrote titled, “Today’s a Good Day”.


“Today’s a Good Day “

Today’s a good day to bask in the sun.

I might swim in the lake or

take off and run.

Today’s a good day to wear a hat.

I might sit on the roof

or pet my friend’s cat.

Today’s a good day to read a book

I might go to the zoo.

or sit by a brook.

Today’s a good day to do whatever I choose.

I might just sit down

and take off my shoes.

Smooth Criminal

Have you ever had a song that wouldn’t get out of your head? That’s what has happened to me the last couple of days.

I have had the song, “Smooth Criminal” by Michael Jackson stuck in my head. I thought why in the world do I have this song infiltrated in my brain. It occurred to me to make it a prompt for a story before I went to sleep the other night, but then I forgot about it when I woke up.

I was perusing the Facebook newsfeed and guess what song I saw on a video. You guessed it. So, I got the computer out last night and started typing this up.

I read somewhere that Michael was inspired by the fact that medical personal were taught to say in CPR classes, “Annie, are you okay?” Even though paramedics are supposed to call the person by name sometimes out of habit they would call the patient Annie. Below is my story inspired by the song “Smooth Criminal”


Annie glared at her stalker through the long pane window. He was shouting at her, but she just saw his arms flailing up and down as he screamed. She could see the crow bar in his hand. Tap.Tap.Tap.

“Oh Lawd. He’s going to break the window.” Annie said as she bolted to the dining room.

The sound of  the shattering glass filled her ears.

“Annie.” He hollered.

Tears were pelting down her face. There was nowhere to hide. She slid under the dining room tablecloth. Praying he didn’t look for her there.

“Annie, you got nowhere to run. It’s just you and me. You shouldn’t have changed the locks Annie. Did you really think that I would leave you alone? That a restraining order would stop me. You are mine and the law ain’t going to tell me any different.”

Her hands were trembling as she covered her mouth to muffle her cries. She could hear the glass crunching beneath his boots.

He paid no attention to the shards of glass imbedded in his skin. He patiently made his way to the dining room. He could hear her breathing and the muffled cries.

“Annie, Come out, Come out wherever you are. “

He turned into the dining room. Whimpers came from under the table.

“Annie you shouldn’t have ran from me.” She could see his boots as he circled around the table.

“I thought you loved me. You promised to love me and cherish me. I pay your bills. I buy your food, and this is how you repay me. Annie, Annie, Annie. Didn’t your momma teach you better?”

He stopped circling the table. Annie clutched her arms around her legs and laid her head on her knees. She was shaking uncontrollably now.

“Please, don’t hurt me, Dexter. I won’t run again. I won’t lock you out. I’m promise,” she said crawling out from under the table.

“Why should I believe that? No, I think we are long past that. See, I think if I can’t have you. I’m not going to let anyone have you.”

Dexter grabbed Annie’s black hair and rubbed his hands across her face. He pulled her up to his chest while her hair remained in his hand.

“I’ve never killed somebody before. You’ll be my first. You’ve been a first for me in many ways Annie. “


The policeman walked through the broken remains of the window.

“Annie. Annie are you okay? The officer didn’t miss the bloody footsteps that ensued out of the dining room. When he reached the dining room, he discovered Annie laid on the floor with a gunshot wound to her chest.”

“Annie are you okay?”

Annie didn’t respond.


He watched from the woods as they covered Annie on the gurney. Dexter didn’t see the young man watching him as he fled through the woods, but the young man would never forget him.

The weeks that followed Annie’s death Dexter told the tale to anyone that would listen. The police didn’t come looking for him . He had paid them off. His brothers didn’t snitch on him either. They knew what would happen if they did.

“Hey Smooth Criminal.” That’s how they greeted him.

Dexter would stop and see Annie’s boy at his grandmother’s from time to time. He always made it a point to inform the boy that if there was anything he ever needed not to hesitate to contact him.

Annie Miller’s case like so many others went untouched and Dexter grew bolder in his crimes.


Fifteen years later a new police chief took over the Anaheim Police Department. He instructed them to open up the cold case of Annie Miller.   He was so sure of who the murderer was that he called him the Smooth Criminal. He had been planning for this moment since he was sixteen years old.

He was there when the judge read Dexter Clement the verdict. He walked up to his mother’s convicted killer and looked him in the eye.

“I made a promise to myself that I would apprehend you if it was the last thing I do. It looks like I made good on my promise Smooth Criminal. My mother can finally rest in peace.”

First Friday Fictioneers Post is my Twenty-First Post (Woo-Hoo)

This makes my twenty-first post.  I am having so much fun taking part in the flash fiction challenges.  It is has been great being able to interact with many other like-minded bloggers.  I look forward to interacting with many more of you while continuing to grow as a writer.  My goal is to compose 365 post this year.  If I continue at this pace I will have shelled out many more than that goal.  No matter what,  I want to make it enjoyable and continue to meet many other wonderful bloggers.

Below is the photo prompt for Friday Fictioneers.  Rochelle Wisoff-Fields is the creator of the group as many of you know better than me.  Much thanks to her for continuing to provide prompts and assemble this group of writers.  I look forward to interacting with the Fictioneers in the future.

If you would like to take part in this Flash Fiction Challenge, you can click here for more information.  Below is my contribution to this challenge

PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot


She tripped running up the stairs. She had to reach him. He took a nap every afternoon when he arrived home. It didn’t matter that he was fifteen. He was her blue-eyed baby boy.

The smoke was suffocating. When she reached the apartment, it was fully enflamed.

“Mam, you have to come with me.” The firefighter said as he grabbed her trembling arm.

“My baby is in there.” She screamed.

“Let me do my job.”

She didn’t remember the firefighter carrying her down the stairs. All she remembered was the sound of her baby’s voice.

“Momma, I made it out.”

99 words