Spume Kisses

Love Haiku #12

Spume kisses on toes—
He drew me out to sea the
summer the sun froze.

#LyricalFictionFriday: Impromptu

“Can I shoot you?”

Not the pickup line I was expecting from the guy who, for the last three drinks, has been eyeing me from the opposite end of the bar.

He raises the Nikon strapped around his neck, aims the lens at me, and before I can take the compact out of my clutch for a last minute lip gloss adjustment, I’m blinded by flashing lights.

In your eyes I’ve found the missing pieces,” he says, and when he pauses long enough for my vision to return, I start to see the missing pieces of my life finally come together between the shutters. He circles me like a predator.

“Are you a photographer for a magazine?” I ask, flipping my short hair frayed by split ends, but he doesn’t seem to notice. An ex once told me I could be a model. I can imagine his face now when he sees me on the cover of Vogue. Bet he’d wish he did more than cook me box mac and cheese like he was some Michelin star chef and make me watch gory slasher films on his roommate’s dirty couch.

“No, no, no!” he says. “You belong on a thirteen-year-old boy’s bedroom wall!”

Not sure how I should take that, but everyone in the club is staring, and it’s not because I’m sloppy drunk for once, so I strut in place like I’m on the catwalk. Poke out my hip, arch my back, pose for the camera, feign a pout—is the duck face still a thing? I smize, smile with my eyes, the way Tyra teaches the girls on ANTM. I could be on ANTM.

“Oh, no. You’re better than them. You can win the whole thing.”

He’s too obvious, stroking my ego. Does he expect a tip? I’ve got none. Does he want me to buy the prints? How ’bout Instagram? Will he invite me to his studio downtown? Nothing inside but the lights and a place for me to take off my clothes. Because you’re not a true model until you pose naked. That’s it, he wants to see me naked. I hike up my thrift store miniskirt a little too high to give him a tease, and his eyes widen. He clicks more frantically now. How far am I willing to go, he’s wondering. As far as he’ll take me. Nothing holding me back. Lead me to your car, and I’ll claim the driver’s seat.


Photo by @SNAPAVELLI from nappy.co


Joining Marquessa’s song lyric challenge for Fiction Fridays. Today’s lyrical prompt is: In your eyes I’ve found the missing pieces…

Remembering Mondays Finish the Story

Last week, we said farewell to a fellow blogger. Barbara Beacham, facilitator of Mondays Finish the Story and owner of My Life in the Foothills, sadly lost her battle with cancer.

My deepest condolences go out to her family. We’ve all been affected in some way by this tragic disease, and it never gets easy. She was a strong woman, continuing to post on her blogs even through the health complications. While I didn’t know her for very long, I’d come to look forward to her Mondays Finish the Story prompts and cherish her sweet comments on each post. Kisses to you in heaven, Barbara!  Be well, my friend. ^..^

I don’t know if anyone will try to continue Mondays Finish the Story, or if this will be the final post, but I’d like to take the time to remember Barbara by sharing two of my favorite stories from the challenge. I welcome everyone to join in and share their favorite stories as well.

Tall Tales From Kitchen Stools


When it came to a challenge, Jim Smiley just had to jump right in!” Grandpa said. He sat on the edge of the stool, and we sat around his feet, crisscross applesauce, elbows on knees, chins in palms, giving him our undivided attention.

Grandma stood over the stove stirring chicken and rice. She snorted. “Don’t go tellin’ ’em chil’ren tales.”

“If I’m lyin’, I’m dyin’,” Grandpa said. “We was down in Mississippi at dis ol’ white bar.”

“How y’all get in? Y’all darker den coal!” Grandma said, her hands on her hips.

“Hush, now!” Grandpa waved her off and continued.

“We just got back from de river. Found a bullfrog along de bank. Jim had it in his pocket, and it was just a wrastlin’. A big gal wit bigger breasts was uncomfortable wit us bein’ dere. Got her ol’ man to make us leave. Now, I was chicken. I ain’t put up no fight, but ol’ Jimmy boy, he toss dat frog in de air and it land right in between her cleavage!” Grandpa guffawed, slapping his knee. “And we ran so fast de soles on our shoes was burnt by de time we got home!”

We laughed and clapped as Grandpa stood to take a bow.

“Alright,” Grandma said, “Story’s over. Now get on back, chil’ren, ‘fore lightenin’ strike all y’all dead!”

Blue Skies, Bloodshot Eyes


“On March 9th, 2015, three objects were reportedly seen in the skies over the Borracho Todos los Tiempos Vineyards.”

Javier, the town wino, had broken into the winery. He rolled a stolen wine barrel up the hill overlooking the vineyard, pried off the lid, and dunk his head into the wine, lapping it up with his tongue like a dog. When he raised his head for air, that’s when he saw them. Three pairs of stars shining brightly in the hazy, mid-afternoon sky.

He told the winery owners who had him arrested for stealing and contaminating their product. He told the police officers who wrote him off as a babbling, idiot drunkard and threw him behind bars. He told his cellmate, Silvano, who, the minute he was released, went straight to the local news, but it was too late. The town had been infested by a race of drunken aliens who had abandoned their dry planet in search of water, and crash landed on top of a winery instead.


Wedding Portrait

She curls her shoulders every time he nibbles on her ear, pinches her upper arm. I have to capture it— the love and playfulness of this day. I dab light pink smudges across her high cheek bones with my middle finger. I dip the tip of my brush into the brown and black and trace a line around her collarbone to bring out the sharp curve of her bare shoulders.

Then I see it— how she radiates from head to toe.  By the way they bite each other’s bottom lip, they don’t know it yet, but a woman’s intuition is never wrong. I saturate the canvas in scarlet, lavender, and chartreuse. I darken her complexion, kiss it with the sun using maroon and amber. I deepen his onyx tuxedo. The bright colors accent the ivory in her dress, the light around her abdomen.

“No charge,” I tell them I as present the finished product. “My blessings to you and your new family.”

word count: 162


Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers is a weekly challenge where you write a story in 100-150 words (give or take 25 words) using the provided photo prompt as inspiration.


Hot Head

From her small balcony, the witch watched the world go by. At the bus stop, Jake and Donnie played Taps with Donnie’s basketball, jumping in the air to catch the ball and pass it back before their feet touched the ground.

Jasmine sighed audibly. Yesterday had been her last day in a public school after she’d set Mrs. Robertson’s hair on fire. That woman was too sexy to be a teacher, anyway. She’d still have a scalp if she didn’t shove her tits in Jake’s face to “help him with a test question.” It was only a matter of time before she’d be arrested for sex with a student . . . Well, probably not now . . .

The Christmas decorations lit up in flames as Jasmine dug her nails into the banister. Her mother burst onto the balcony, flung a dusting of snow from her hands to extinguish the lights.

“Please don’t burn down the house, honey,” she said, her droopy eyes pleading. “Again.”

word count: 149


Mondays Finish the Story: a flash fiction challenge where we provide you with a new photo each week, and the first sentence of a story. Your challenge is to finish the story using 100-150 words, not including the sentence provided.

Click the froggy icon to read other stories and add your own.


Lovers by Moonlight


Love Tanka #4

Moonlight guides us deep
into countryside where stars
dance above our heads,
lull us to sleep, wrapped in night’s
embrace ’til the rooster crows.


One Last Time

The cemetery spread along the area known as Devils Abode.

The cab stopped in front of the sign, DEAD ZONE AHEAD. Jessie glanced at the meter as it began to glitch. She handed the man two 20s. “You don’t have to wait.” She gathered the bouquet of flowers and slid out onto the curb.

The driver made a sharp U-turn, the tires screeching, and sped back down the mountain.

There’s nothing evil about a place where the dead go to rest, she thought as she hiked toward the cast-iron gate. She looked down at the black screen of her cellphone. So electronics tend to fail here. She pulled her jacket over her shoulders. And the wind has a frozen lick to it.

Her husband’s grave was the first to the left of the entrance. She lay on the freshly shoveled dirt, placed the flowers above her head, waited for his arms to reach up and hold her one last time.

word count: 150


Mondays Finish the Story: a flash fiction challenge where we provide you with a new photo each week, and the first sentence of a story. Your challenge is to finish the story using 100-150 words, not including the sentence provided.

Click the froggy icon to read other stories and add your own.