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 Writing Prompt: Poem – Free Verse – “Fallen Angel” #poetry #MLMM #amwritingo


Thanks to MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie for hosting Sunday Writing.


Credit: MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie


Sea Angel, transparent wings transport,

With lights of butterscotch dawn.

Your pistils and stamen,

Tangy bright, a heated encounter of self;

A falsehood perverted.

Yet, your wispy grace flutters,

Luminescence lures with —

A cobra’s venom.

Such a strange angel,

No whispered warnings.

Your effervescent petals enchant–

In the dark.

Floral and fluorescent,

A perilous Lilly,

Not one of hope on a casket,

A Lily of spite and survival engrained.

For you are ancient —

As creations dawn and Eden’s loss.

In the depths you’ve continued,

The world changes but you know little of it.

Only of your pincer teeth,

Stings of sunflower razors.

Taking your prey into pitch.

Where you’re the only light,

The only flower.

As coldness numbs, their blood turns blue,

You steal a soul, angel of despair.

You’re the harbinger of evil;

Unrecognized or understood.

Beauty is your survival, your instinct;

And you’ve not the wit or care to know —

You’re a curse, you’re a witch,

You’re without light’s truthfulness.

You’re a ghost transculent;

Your poison, the end.

With vivacious glory,

Enthralling and cursed.

You lead astray,

Such lambs of the water,

To the depths of misery.

To the finality of nothingness.

Woe to you,

Fallen Angel,

Pandemonium’s first stone.


©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 Writing Prompt: Poem – Rictameter – “A Story of Change” #amwriting #poetry #MLMM


Thanks to MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie for hosting the SWP, a collage prompt.


Credit: MindLoveMisery’s Menagerie


Twisted,

Fractured due to —

Difficulties life wrought.

Damage cracked; leather skin, lips torn,

He aches for sleep, to wash, and renew himself.

To slay his hideous demons,

They haunt him, every step.

No rest, he’s too —

Twisted.

*****

Life once,

Satisfied; free —

For him to chose his trails,

To beam in personal glories.

Life’s pinnacle, his wild dreams, finally,

Found fruition; until he fell,

Soul keening in ash.

No desire for —

Life once.

*****

Vivid,

Morado hues;

As yesterday’s wrongs haunt;

No escaping his palled fears.

Thinks he can’t measure up as he once did.

Bitter life’s high-points cost him dear.

Voice silenced, will fading;

Ashamed; his pain,

Vivid.

****

Balance,

Distorted as —

He slurps canned food, silver —

Cutlery from his Nan, most sold to live.

Survival his concern, laughter gone;

He’s wilted, rose petals of dust, a ghost;

No will, no path, hope to —

Restore life’s old,

Balance.

*****

To God,

Man weathered prays,

Forgetting God hears, listens —

To fervent Hail Mary’s, begging for —

A chance, an opportunity.

To find life beyond dusty roads, his bike;

Seeking grand possibilities.

To have life flourish once,

More, reaching to —

To God.

*****

Sweet rain,

Soaks him fast.

A shower well needed,

He’s determined for renewal.

Trims off his wild beard, foam heals;

Now, his plans are clear; he blossoms.

Back home she’s thrilled; he’s here —

Returned; her own —

Sweet rain.

*****


©Mandibelle16.(2018) All Rights Reserved.

Three Line Tales: Fiction – The Runner #amwriting #fiction


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


Credit: Fabio Mangione via Unsplash


I blink awake to the lapping water as its tune resonates splashed against my skin, and when I gulp my protein shake; I breathe in liquid air and run. On the street-way cannel, the slide and slip of the tide is music, a rhythm I hum; I inhale the salt air as my sweat drips in the morning. I’m rounding the corner, acknowledging neighbors revving the engines of their boats for the cafes or market; I dive off the farthest dock and swim home — my morning training complete.


©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.

Three Line Tales: Fiction – When It All Falls Apart #amwriting #fiction #3LineTales


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


Credit: Julian Lozano via Unsplash


“Do you need to hear confirmation from me — what is it you wan’t me to tell you?” Clair refused to meet Theo’s eyes, and slapped at his hands grasping for her arms; once his gaze held promise — not ice-cold loathing.

She lifted her shoulders as her mouth flattened, and her chin raised in defiance: “Leave, Sharon’s waiting; and yes — I know.”


©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.