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.

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Writing 201 – Elegy/Enumeratio – Farmer’s Market


I use to walk through downtown and adore the complex flavours,

But now I’m cold and wearing boots, winter comes to ruin our fun,

I could purchase so many organic items, at summer markets we would savour.

Winter steals our fruit, vegetables, baking, and wine –for there is no more summer sun.

I would live my Saturday’s with joy down the venue lanes,

Sipping on real lemonaid and smelling baking bread in the air, and I could buy,

Cherries in July so dark and red, bleeding sweetness on my lips and into my veins;

Apricots, pited, fuzzy orange, and devoured with a sigh.

Apple pies, the old fashioned kind; for that I’ll pay my money.

Baby carrots, little stubs, add some butter, after boiling some.

Rhubarb wine, bitter sweet, a drink, I swallow and it tastes like honey;

Or you could buy the real deal, natural honey from bees that hum.

I make my way to other venues with jewelry and clothes, trying on a designer dress —

From Cinder & Smoke, and I buy a baby quilt all pink and white, for a little niece.

That market had everything, food, spices, necklaces, dog treats, items I’ve failed to impress. 

But now the wind sweeps through these empty streets with no market, may it rest in peace (until next year).