Three Line Tales: Expanded – Fiction – All Doors Lead to Wonderland #amwriting #fiction #3LineTales


Thanks to Sonya of Only 100 Words for hosting #3LineTales.


Credit: Luis Alfonso Orellana via Unsplash


“Alice, is that you? Well, what door will you enter, the red door or the blue? The up or the down; it doesn’t matter you know, both are the same.” She fluffed her pony tale and straightened the lapels of her sky-blue blazer.

“Can’t Wonderland find another Alice? It’s a common name, you know. Just because my grandmother was, and my mother was, and somehow great-Grandpa Wren’s magical blood flows in my veins along with the first, Alice — doesn’t mean I have to follow in their footsteps. I left that world. I chose to leave. Why won’t you let me be?”

A grin appeared between the doors. “Dear girl, it’s you who can’t forget us; you found the doors home. That’s why you’re our guardian, but you as any Alice, must choose your path. Thus, you have before you two doors. Which door, dear Alice? You do have to decide. Time won’t wait.”

Alice trembled, and without thinking her hand turned the knob on the red door. Then, she was falling as the Cheshire cat laughed and Destiny caught up with Alice.

She’d tried to disappear, to become another young woman. But as her predecessors, including her dear mother, she was a guardian of Wonderland. The land of magic wouldn’t have it another way. She fell, and when she woke up, she sighed as brilliant flowers hovered over her whispering.

They beamed at her, brimming with questions. “Oh, Alice is it true? Have you come home. You’re the new guardian now, and your mother been waiting; her time is at an end. Five-hundred years is a long time not too see one’s daughter. Your time to serve has come. The white queen has decreed, as do your grandfather Wren’s people.”

Alice blew her hair from her face. “What’s the point of free will if your choices all lead you back to one path?”

The flowers shrugged. “Tulips and Marigolds don’t think of such things; we simply are.”


©Mandibelle16. (2018) All Rights Reserved.

Saturday Mix/ Photo Challenge: Fiction – Dear Moose #amwriting #fiction #SaturdayMix #PhotoChallenge


Thanks to Sarah of MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie’s Double Take. Also, combining with NEKNEERAJ of MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie’s Photo Challenge. Sarah’s homophone sets this week are: mail – postal delivery and male – masculine person. Also, moose – a large elk and mousse – dessert of whipped cream and eggs.


Credit: Brooke Shaden


It began with a letter. The clunk of the mailman’s shoes as he delivered a letter sealed with scarlet. Genevieve snatched the letter from her mailbox. Her hands trembled. The writing of the address seemed masculine. It curved without order or neatness. The fact that a male could handwrite these days surprised her.

“Perhaps he’s an older man?” She shrugged and slit the letter. The name on the envelope wasn’t one Genevieve recognized. She did not believe its sender was ‘actually’ ‘John Smith.’ She rolled her eyes.

Genevieve slid three folded cream pages from the envelope and straightened them. The first page had a tiny emblem in the corner. She wasn’t sure what it meant. A ‘J’ with a squiggle looped over and down from the top of the ‘J’ to form a tiny ‘S’ beneath it. The third letter was a ‘T’ that she realized matched the wax seal.

‘John Smith’s’ writing began without greetings. Genevieve read a few sentences and discovered the letter was penned to someone called Moose.

“I’m not Moose, and I don’t know anyone with that nickname.” She struggled to read ‘John’s’ handwriting. After a bit, she set down the first page. Moose was involved in serious business.

She threw her coat and purse on the floor. She’d only returned from work a minute before the envelope arrived. She groaned. “Why C/O Genevieve O’Connor?” But no one answered, as she knew they wouldn’t.

Genevieve pinched the bridge of her nose. “Shower and food. Then, I’ll read more.” She gathered clean clothes and pondered the letter under the shower’s spray. After a half hour, she dressed and heated left-over Ravioli.

She grabbed a cozy blanket from a linen closet and flipped over page one of the letter Genevieve swore under her breath. Damn illegible handwriting. Can’t you print like a normal person?

She padded back to her room to towel dry her hair and to comb through some mousse. Then, she reclined on her sofa, gathering her blanket as she deciphered ‘John’s’ letter. She shivered despite her hot shower, and couldn’t help the feeling that something about this letter was amiss.

*****

That’s how it Genevieve became lost in the forest, and ended up at a summer cottage closed for the fall. Her body trembled and she couldn’t stand the dirt, blood, and other forest offerings on her skin. The only place to wash was a large kitchen sink. There was no shower, so Genevieve stuffed the cabin’s broken window pane with a blanket and stripped.

She couldn’t get rid of the tang of blood or acrid dirt. It made her nauseous. She scrubbed her skin raw, and poured more dish soap on her hair. She stepped out of the sink careful not to slip. As she rinsed her hair, evidence of the past few days whirled down the drain.

She was tired of being alone. She yelled at the absent John Smith. He’d helped her only once before. “You’ve a lot of explaining, John.”His name was a sneer. “I’m tired of this game. I never knew Moose. I don’t know why I’m his contact: let me be, and tell your gun-totting buddies too.”

Her voice echoed in the cottage, and she was alone except for the howling mountain’s winds; its paradoxical breezes made her headache throb. Gentle winds mixed with gusts causing the windows to clammer.

Genevieve scrambled through kitchen drawers until she found the Advil. Swallowing two pills, she fell into bed. The sheets were lavender-scented and the duvet warm. Who lived here? She didn’t know. Then, a hand swept across her forehead, and she mumbled thinking it was a dream.

“John?” Her voice was hoarse, and her hands reached, and gripped a muscled arm in flannel. Genevieve groaned as his fingers combed through her wet hair. His hand rested on her forehead.

“It is you.” The room was dark and only John’s outline was visible. She knew it was him by his scent. Fresh and masculine.

“You’ve a fever.” She rolled her eyes. Genevieve was mad.

“Drink this?” A red mug lowered to her mouth.

“What is it?”

“I’m not here to hurt you, Genevieve.”

“Such a liar.” He insisted she drink it, so she did. In-between sips she grumbled and tried to sit up. He pushed her down.

“It’s Neocitran. You’re sick and you need sleep.”

“I’m sick? Whose fault is that? After everything, now you show up?” Genevieve’s eyes closed as lethargy overcame her.

“Go away, John. I’ll figure this out alone. You complicate everything.”

He sighed. She opened her eyes as he rubbed his hands over watched his face, and through his two-day stubble.

“I didn’t mean to handle it this way. I didn’t know you’d never met your brother.” He combed through her hair once more.

It bothered Genevieve that things seemed less hopeless with John beside her. She wanted him to stay but knew he’d be gone by morning.

“Just leave, John.”

“Not a chance, Genna.” She thought she imagined his last words.


©Mandibelle16.(2018) All Rights Reserved.

Sunday Photo Fiction: A Gory Death Becomes #amwriting #fiction #SPF


Thanks to Susan for hosting SPF.


Credit: C.E.Ayer


Dust rose thick in the air, and the August sun scorched. The foreman and his workmen dripped sweat, and Natasha Roberts supervised her redesign.

The home’s white-washed stucco matched an aqua-tiled and white kitchen with ice-blue tones carrying into the great room. Glints of multi-colored metal, and a 1920’s inspired bar created a unique entertaining space.

The master-bedroom’s giant windows combined with simplified Art-Decl luxury. In contrast, original barn-doors with glass panes to the balcony, matched the ones downstairs that opened to an outdoor living space.

Natasha admired her creation; she was excited to make the house stylish, and to skim extra profit unbeknown to her clients.

The foreman yelled to her and she scoffed. “I’m coming.” What a hick.

She turned in red stilettos, her ruby dress swirling with its bell-sleeves. She teetered, and her heel caught on the sand-stone patio. Natasha screeched and her body lunged; her ankle and heel snapped. She crushed into white-washed walls, raven hair fanning as she fell.

The foreman witnessed Natasha’s death. He swore as her blood gushed, and crossed himself when he perceived she had no pulse.

Years later, he dreamed of Natasha’s mouth in a daily spitting-rage towards his skilled-workers. He remembered her scream as her ankle twisted at the same awkward angle as her neck. Nightmares haunted him; he believed Natasha deserved her gory end.


©Mandibelle16.(2018) All Rights Reserved.

Three Line Tales: Fiction – Unreachable #3LineTales #amwriting #fiction


Thanks to Sonya of Only 100 Words for hosting #3LineTales.


Credit: Marc Olivier Jodoin via Unsplash


An ominous sky opened-up last night, but today we dodged puddles and laughed; we ambled as the bakeries opened teasing or senses. The city was vibrant, thousands of people dodging each other with determined steps, bumping without pausing to apologize; no one noticing budding trees or the verdant grass glistening — all was white-noise. Even the quake of a jet flying low effected no one, and I tripped inside a puddle, lost in my thoughts; my hand was strangely empty of yours — you stared from the pot-hole, unreachable.


©Mandibelle16. (2018) All Rights Reserved.

Sunday Photo Fiction: The Guide Dog #amwriting #fiction


Thanks to Susan Spaulding for hosting SPF.


Credit: Susan Spaulding


“Benny, you’ve a purpose holding this lamp. You won’t grow old, hungry, become tired or sore.” I whimpered. It was difficult to understand why Beau was leaving.

“You see, Benny, everyone needs hope. Sometimes we all go through times wretched and dark. We forget that these times end, and you’ll know when and who needs your aid.” I wagged my tale and stretched myself on Beau’s wooden stump.

He scratched my ears. “I’ve lived a long life. It’s time for your master to go home. Guns and fighting plague my dreams. My brittle bones and ragged breathe can’t handle another day. Tonight help me towards the afterlife.”

I licked Beau’s face, and nuzzled into his neck. He held my head. “When I’m gone, take those such as I home. But give those who still have a chance a choice; not everyone who wants to die is at the end their life.” I woofed, but I obeyed. Beau never returned after our last walk, but I listen well.

“Oh, but you’re here now? Maybe, it’s not time for you to quit, yet? Which path do you want to take? Ah, back to your family. I knew you could do it. Here, I’ll walk you home.”


©Mandibelle16. (2018) All Rights Reserved.

Sunday Photo Fiction: A Place to Fall #amwriting #fiction #SPFo


Thanks to Susan Spaulding for hosting SPF.


Credit: Susan Spaulding


The catacomb walls were thick and confining. Iris let out a lungful of pent up breath as sunlight filtered through a doorway. The tunnels with so many bones of the same type stacked on other bones, frightened her.

She wondered why in such an ancient country, human remains were not given the respect of a grave for more than a year or two — or at least cremation.

Iris wheezed as Don, rubbed her back. “You having an attack?”

“No.”

He rolled his eyes. “You say that every time we visit tight spaces. You’re claustrophobic.”

“I’m fine. Don’t worry.” Iris was close to the exit, but the air she breathed was too stale; there wasn’t enough fresh air in the Catacombs. Her body collapsed and she couldn’t control the darkness that overcame her.

Then, Don was lifting her. Her eyes opened as he carried her into blinding daylight. A tiny ‘V’ furrowed between his gray ones.

He stroked her hair. “I got you.”

“Always?” Her voice was faint.

“Always. I know you better than you think.”

She inhaled cool air and let Don cradle her weight.


©Mandibelle16. (2018) All Rights Reserved.

Tale Weavers/Saturday Mix: Poem – Free Verse – “Snuffed Out” #amwriting #poetry #TaleWeavers #SaturdayMix


Thanks to Michael of MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie for hosting TaleWeavers and a prompt/theme where light is the focus. Also, combining with Sarah from MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie May 12, 2018 Double Take Saturday Mix Prompt on the homophone words: cedar – an evergreen tree with seeder – one who broadcasts seeds, and days – more than one day with daze – to bewilder.


Credit: Samantha Lynch via Unsplash


I’ll never trace the curve of your lips,

Where it dips, and lick my thumb;

Your nip, a playful bite.

Your brows wiggle; eyes sapphire.

While we slide past maybes,

Sleek condos and greenery;

Cedar trees that sway,

A seed in my heart nourished.

Sharp grass intoxicating —

You claiming my mouth;

Sweeping of lips,

Slow and exquisite.

Sweat makes us stick.

I ache as I’ve never.

Your hand rests ‘neath my throat,

My pulse rapid and wild.

You’ve etched my heart,

I’ll never forget.

The wind rustling, and the flapping of wings,

Our breath in syncopation.

Fighting for air against —

Little deaths.

In a moment, a few minutes,

On a train—

Where we two met.

Potential flared; I turned —

Flustered.

The pain in my chest,

Will it lessen?

Dazed as the days drift,

I didn’t know your name.

Know the flame you kindled,

Would burn me.

My hearts lit with your light,

But the mischief in me,

Craves you both in deepest night,

And the blinding day;

Beneath the Mexican sun,

On tequila beaches.

Daylight to overwhelm,

The throb of pain,

Of possibility snuffed out.


©Mandibelle16.(2018) All Rights Reserved.

Three Line Tales: Fiction – Leave Him Wild #amwriting #3LineTales


Thanks to Sonya of Only 100 Words for hosting #3LineTales.


Credit: David Clode via Unsplash


He flicks his tale and propels through the tank, but he used to swim without stopping in oceans lacking clear-walls; where he stalked his pray as it bled-out and struggled. Hunting once was meaningful, but now his razor teeth clamp down and tear flesh in a passive frenzy; he has rows of the sharpest cutting knives in his mouth.

The curious eyes staring back at him are baffling as pale up-right creatures tap the clear-wall forgetting he’s wild as he rams it; their shrieks cause his blood to roar — somehow he will return home.


©Mandibelle16.(2018) All Rights Reserved.

#NaPoWriMo Day 29/Saturday Mix: Poem- Quadrille – “Apprehensions: Night Tears Through” #amwriting #poetry #SaturdayMix


For NaPoWriMo Day 29 the prompt is: “to write a poem based on the Plath Poetry Project’s calendar. Simply pick a poem from the calendar, and then write a poem that responds or engages with your chosen Plath poem in some way.” I’m combining with Sarah from MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie‘s Saturday Mix Prompt of Opposing Forces and two sets of words suburb and city centre and repair and damage.


Credit: Maximo Valcarce via Unsplash


Plath Poetry Calendar: APPREHENSIONS

“There is this white wall, above which the sky creates itself—

Infinite, green, utterly untouchable.

Angels swim in it, and the stars, in indifference also.

They are my medium.

The sun dissolves on this wall, bleeding its lights.”


No walls to repair, or damage,

Creation’s infinite, sublime.

You tug at my heart —

Buds bursting,

Craving unknowns.

Amidst starlit skys.

Angels swimming,

Chiding indifference —

Knowing white walls,

Can’t entrap.

Not suburbsof children,

Or urbanspeakeasies,

Sparking, neglecting —

The sun’s dissolved,

Bleeding into pitch —

Light tears through.


©Mandibelle16. (2018) All Rights Reserved.

#NaPoWriMo Day 28/ Saturday Mix: Poem – Prose Poetry – “Wish You Were Here” #amwriting #poetry #SaturdayMix #MLMM


For NaPoWriMo Day 28, the Prompt is: “to draft a prose poem in the form/style of a postcard.” Also, I’m combining prompts with Sarah from MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie Saturday Mix Prompt with same but different words. The words are: paint, release, fan, light, and clothes.


Credit: Any Maislon – Google


Dear L,

I’m off on a beach, the honey sand is hot beneath my feet. I’ve slathered in sunscreen every half-hour, but my arms are blushing-red. Finding a swimsuit or two here, that covers is difficult. The waves crash against the shore, but the rhythm is lulling.

I wish you were here, but I needed this time to do nothing, to think about nothing. I feel freed from so much confusion. Today, well this last week, I’ve come to the beach to read and lose myself within a pile of books. I even visited a used bookstore and left my tablet. It’s so hot I was afraid it might melt if in the brushed-orange sun.

This morning I wandered some of the boutiques and shops in this small beach town. It was so nice, many shops had air-conditioning. I’m waving my novel every-few minutes here, as the afternoon heat is intense. But I’ll walk back to my B&B soon to avoid the worst of the sun and apply Aloe Vera. Then, I’ll come back as the gleam of the sunsetting glows in the twilight sky.

We’ll talk soon, and I’ll mail another postcard. Really do wish you were here. You could use the break too.

Love,

A


©️Mandibelle16. (2018) All Rights Reserved.