First Date Jitters

Jessica could always tell when seafood wasn’t fresh. It had a distinctly sour smell to it, like it’d spent the last three days thawing on ice in a warm cooler with a broken seal. Jessica wrinkled her nose as soon as they entered the restaurant and plastered a phony smile when Whitmore turned to her for validation. He’d said it was his favorite restaurant to eat, had the best fried catfish in town, and she didn’t want to disappoint him on their first date, despite hating catfish, but the place was rank—like Bradford pear tree blossoms, rank; like wet mutt, rank; like a trash heap that missed garbage collection, rank; like dirty panties tossed in the hamper, rank; like an unclean crotch, rank; like a common area bathroom in an all girls dorm after the residents’ menstrual cycles synced, rank.

Whoever had decorated the interior was obviously an ex-employee of Red Lobster and didn’t give a damn about his job. The walls were covered in a tacky nautical wall paper—complete with images of anchors, sailor hats, compasses, telescopes, and steering helms—and was peeling at corners. There was an eight-foot long fish tank sitting in the middle of lobby, right next to the hostess stand, and it looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in weeks. The water was a murky dark green, and Jessica could barely see the brown shells of the crabs moving around inside, if they were moving at all—they looked dead. She made a note not to order the crab legs—probably best to avoid all shellfish, and she damn sure won’t eat the catfish. She wondered what non-seafood options were on the menu. Every eatery had to have at least two, for those stubborn patrons like her who refused to order seafood at a seafood restaurant. She flipped to land entrees. Fried pork chop with garlic mash, and chicken Alfredo. The only setback about ordering “turf” at a restaurant that served mostly “surf,” the food still tasted like “surf,” because the chicken was cooked in the same pan with the seared fish fillets, the pork chop battered and fried in the same grease as the trout, flounder, and whiting. She settled on the popcorn shrimp, accepting her inevitable fate of mercury poisoning, while Whitmore ordered the catfish.

Unfortunately, it took over an hour for their food to arrive. The kitchen couldn’t have possibly been backed up, but the reality was the restaurant was crowded, overcrowded even; there were people packed in the lobby like sardines waiting on a table. Whitmore had actually called ahead to make reservations. Reservations, for a place like this, which couldn’t have had more that a B+ sanitation rating. But he’d gotten them a good table, despite sitting directly underneath a vent that was blasting cold air, giving her goosebumps across her shoulders. However, they were away from most of the chatter of the larger parties, and thank God out of sight of that horrendous fish tank, where she would certainly lose her appetite.

They used the extended wait time to get to know each other more, though Jessica did most of the talking, babbling on and on about herself while Whitmore listened intently, nodding and laughing at all the right pause points. He was a good listener, which made him even more attractive—that he was intrigued to know every detail about her—but then she started to think he couldn’t hear her, because the couple at the table behind them had three young boys who were kicking, squealing, and rough housing in the booth while the parents ate absently as if they didn’t notice or care. In the few moments when Whitmore spoke, it was as if he were whispering. She asked him more than once to speak up, they weren’t in a library, but he still spoke in a low voice, and she leaned in closer to get a least a fragment of his words.

When the food finally came out, Whitmore dove into his plate, and Jessica hesitated. Her French fries where soggy and a burnt gold color, as if they’d been fried in old grease, or possibly fish grease. No coating of ketchup could save them, but even the ketchup was acidic and watered down. The hushpuppies were fried hard, and the shrimp was more breading than meat and extremely salty. She’d had better meals at Libby Hill.

“How’s your food?” she asked Whitmore when his plate was nearly empty.

She thought he might have said good, but truly she couldn’t hear a thing, and before he could mumble anything else, his mouth full of the last bites of what looked to be dry, overcooked catfish, there was a loud crash and shattering of dishes by the kitchen. A waitress had just dropped her entire ticket on the floor, right at the feet of the six-top she was about to serve, and was on the brink of tears.

Jessica sighed. There was too much chaos in this restaurant, and for the subpar food, it wasn’t worth the trouble. She’d had better dates with worse men, but she wanted to give Whitmore the benefit of the doubt. At least he was trying.

“How about I chose the where for our next date,” she suggested.

Whitmore smiled and nodded, but Jessica suspected he had no idea what she’d just said.


It is Short Story A Day May, and  today’s prompt, “Sumptuous Settings,” asks us to get descriptive, very descriptive, using all five senses…

Peace in Trials

“They keep killing our boys. It’s like a genocide out there!” Stella was saying. Behind her the tea kettle whistled, clouds of steam shooting from its spout. She took the kettle by the handle and poured the boiling water into two mugs already prepped with a teabag, two packets of Splenda, and a lemon wedge.

“Did you hear about the last shooting? He was only seventeen years old. A child!” She slammed her fist down on the table and the water in the mugs rippled.

“Mama, please,” Leslie said. She covered her mug with a saucer to allow the tea to steep.

“I just don’t understand this shoot first ask questions later mentality. You see a black man walking down the street, and you automatically assume he’s dangerous—his presence is life-threatening.” Stella dropped a spoon in her “World’s #1 Grandma” mug and stirred the ingredients together. Leslie remembered the year Tony and Gregory pulled their allowances together to buy the mug for Stella. They were young, around nine and seven. Having just learned there was such thing as a Grandparents Day, they wanted to surprise Stella, the only living grandparent they had left, with a special gift.

Now Tony barely paid rent to his grandmother, and Gregory hadn’t been home in weeks since moving in with Tammi. Leslie wished they were boys again, who still honored and eagerly showed their appreciation for the women who raised them, not like the entitled children of this generation, who lacked any type of respect for authority. Even if the cops did abuse their power, most of those kids deserved a few slaps upside the head.

Stella ladled some of the tea onto her spoon, blew on it, puckered her lips and slurped. She quickly wiped her mouth from the heat, then stood and took another Splenda packet from the spice cabinet. She sprinkled it into her mug and continued with her tirade. “You shoot a boy nine times in the back as he’s running away from you and then try to say you feared for your life. You? Really? While another baby is lying dead in the street? I thought the police were here to protect and serve the people, not execute them.”

“Mama!” Leslie pleaded. She massaged her temples with her middle and index fingers. She didn’t want to hear about any more cop killings. Not with Gregory MIA, not with Tony and his anger issues. Her family was at risk as it was, and with Gregory living in Pleasant’s Edge, where the police could murder without consequence—no one would miss a dead body in Pleasant’s Edge; it was the South Side Chicago of Leiland—Leslie spent most nights wide awake, deep in prayer, chanting in her prayer language for the Lord to keep His angels encamped around her sons for protection.

“You can’t expect an old woman not to worry about these things,” Stella grumbled. She took her mug and walked to the living room, where she sat on the couch by the window, leaving Leslie alone in the kitchen.

Leslie traced the tip of her finger around the rim of her mug. We all worry, she thought, we can’t help but to. Even Stella, who had witnessed the atrocities of Jim Crow and of the Civil Rights era, worries, even more now with a president in office who encourages hate speech. Each day, we become more and more endangered. When will it end? When will the killings, the injustice, the fear and worry all end? She hadn’t had a night of sweet sleep in a long time. It would be nice to get one now, assurance from God that everything happens for a purpose, despite all the uncertainty in their lives. “Jesus, give us peace,” Leslie prayed, “peace from all the troubles of this world. We need it. We need You.” She sipped her tea.


It is Short Story A Day May, and  all this week the prompts are geared toward novelists! Today’s prompt asks us to continue in world-building but from a societal aspect. It was hard to get a story out for this prompt, and I’m not totally in love with this scene, but hey, at least I wrote something. Hopefully this is the end of the novel prompts, because I feel I’ve written all I can write about these characters. If you must know more about my novel in progress, check out my 2017 A to Z Challenge from the beginning here.

On the Other Side

Leslie loved the fresh greenery of Leiland’s street corners. A few years ago, the mayor began a “Beautify Our City” initiative. Every weekend, citizens from all walks of life—the seniors who still had enough pep in their movement to walk and bend without suffering, to the middle-aged and working class, to the high school students looking for extra volunteer hours—they all joined together as one body on assignment, Mayor Richardson heading the brigade, to plant grass, small trees and shrubs, and flowers, including daffodils, lilies, chrysanthemums, lilacs, azaleas, and daisies, along the roadways and on the medians throughout town.

The goal was to make Leiland feel more welcoming to those outside of town, especially travelers coming off Highway 87, where they would often endure miles and miles of gray road, overgrown weeds just off the shoulder, and the noise blocking walls built up behind them—hardly any appealing sight to witness at all apart from the occasional billboard advertising fast food at the next exit. Mayor Richardson had hoped the new vegetation would invite visitors to stay awhile, get to know this quiet, quaint little town, and maybe even decide to make it their permanent place of residence.

Leslie couldn’t say if the population of Leiland actually grew as a result, but she could testify to the initiative being a definite success, at least for her. For she often resolved to walk to places rather than drive just to enjoy the peace and tranquility of the city’s flora, smelling the blossoming azaleas in the cool, early Spring breeze, just in time for annual azalea festival in Wilmington every April.

But today was different. She drove on the outskirts of town and watched out the window as the precious green vegetation of Leiland transitioned to the cool dankness of concrete and red clay, and then she passed the sign: “Welcome to Pleasant’s Edge”; it was anything but pleasant.

She turned to Gregory, who sat next to her in the passenger’s seat. He was quiet most of the ride, only speaking up to direct her where to turn. Leslie tried not to worry about him—what was going on in his personal life, why he had dropped out of college after finishing just one semester—she wanted him to know that no matter what he did, she would always support him; he was her son after all. She only wished he would speak to her more and try not to take Tony’s abuses so personally; his brother’s unfiltered mouth being the only reason Leslie could think of for why Gregory never wanted to stay home.

“You know Tony and Kerry will be moving out soon,” Leslie said. “Your grandmother’s giving them one of her rental homes.”

He said nothing, only rested his elbow on the door handle, put his chin in his hand and continued to look through the window. What was he thinking? Would he even tell her?

Leslie sighed. She’d thought the news would at least get a reaction from him. To know that all the noise of Tony and Kerry arguing, and Tony taking all of his anger and frustrations out on his quiet and reserved little brother would finally cease. Then it would only be Leslie and Gregory left in the house, and they could seize the opportunity to repair their relationship, restore that tightly weaved mother-son bond they once shared when Gregory was a child, before his father passed.

“It’s just up here.” Gregory pointed right of the intersection just ahead, and Leslie turned into a dilapidated trailer park, where the siding on the houses cracked in places and the roofs either slanted or sunk in. On one home she even spotted the clean entry point of a bullet hole in one of windows, the glass cracked in a spider web-like pattern surrounding it. To her right, on the other side of the street, a barbed wire fence stood at about seven feet tall and extended down to just beyond where she could see an end. Posted on the front of the fence, every twenty feet or so, were “No Trespassing—Authorized Personnel Only ” signs. Behind the fence, a mound of gray rubble, just as wide as the fence itself, towered over the neighborhood.

“Please don’t tell me she lives here,” Leslie said as she put the gear in park. She regretted making this drive without first considering where she was taking him. She had been so desperate to get Gregory to trust her again and open up to her that she had been willing to take him to the home of a girlfriend she’d never even met, and it had to be in the worst part of Cumberland county, to further worry her. Pleasant’s Edge wasn’t known for its herbaceous greenery like Leiland, or for its friendly neighbors exchanging pleasantries. Pleasant’s Edge was infested with crime and rampant drug use. More people were dying of gang violence and heroin overdoses in Pleasant’s Edge than in anywhere else in North Carolina, and Leslie had just dropped her youngest son off at its front step. Was he in any of those things also?

“At least tell me this girl’s name,” Leslie said as Gregory opened the door to get out.

“Tammi,” he said. No details on who Tammi was, how they met, how long they’d been seeing each other, if she was a sweet and respectful young lady—though her environment warned that she was anything but. Nothing to give Leslie a clear indication of who she’d just handed her son over to, other than a single name: Tammi.

“Will you call me to come pick you up later?” Leslie asked, but she wanted “later” to be now. She wanted for Gregory to get back in the car and they speed off back to Leiland, back to safety, back to the cover of precious trees and flowers and herbs, symbolizing a city that cared, before he got into any more trouble, which he would surely find here.

“Nah, I’ll have Tammi’s mom take me home.” Gregory slammed the door behind him and crossed in front of the car to the yard of the trailer Leslie had parked in front off.

Leslie started to roll down her window to ask when he thought that would be. She feared it would be another week before she saw him again. Granted he was old enough to make his own decisions now, she wanted to remind him that he still had a home to come back to. He shouldn’t feel obligated to shack up with this girl in poverty as if he had lost everything, including all hope and all dignity.

As he walked up the driveway, she heard something shatter underneath his foot, and he briefly stepped with a limp before regaining his stamina and continuing to the house at a quicker pace to disappear in the darkness behind the open door.

Leslie remained parked in front of the trailer, wondering if anyone from the household would come out to greet her. Was it just Tammi who lived there, or were there others? Did she have roommates? Were her parents the actual homeowners? Leslie knew she couldn’t linger any longer, the indigenous folk would start to suspect something wrong. Already she could see through her rearview mirror, two men in all black, wearing black du-rags tied around their heads, approaching the car. She looked back to the trailer, where the door was now closed, and her eyes fell to the shattered glass on the sidewalk. She floored the gas without thinking, without realizing what she’d just left her son to. She wanted to erase it from her mind, but there was no way she’d be able to rest that night knowing that a broken crack pipe lay just outside the home she had allowed her son to enter.


It is Short Story A Day May, and  all this week the prompts are geared toward novelists! Today’s prompt asks us to shape our characters’ physical world. For this one, we switch back to Leslie and “Lost Boy” to take a glimpse into the stark contrasts between the towns of Leiland and Pleasant’s Edge just next door. To learn more about my novel in progress, “Lost Boy,” read my 2017 A to Z Challenge from the beginning here.

P is for… [P]lace #AtoZChallenge

I come to you with the letter “P” a day late . . . again, but as I said in the last post, procrastination works!

. . . as long as you eventually write something.

Last night at around 11PM, the clock winding down, I finally gave up on the post I originally had planned for yesterday. The creative river just wasn’t flowing as it was in O is for Outline. I spent more time looking ahead to the harder letters at the end of the alphabet, wondering how on earth I would be able to pull those off when I couldn’t even finish “P”!

I thought maybe if I shortened it, I would have a sharper, clearer vision of how I wanted the scene to go (since these posts are technically supposed to be only 300 words and I’ve been hitting 1000 most days—hey, I’ve been dealing with writer’s block for the past year; be happy I’m able to write at all). No such luck. So I tabled it and went to bed with the hope to return to the unfinished post in the morning, my mind refreshed.

Well, I’m back, I’m refreshed, and I have a totally new idea. In my post about location, I mentioned that I would set the events of Lost Boy in a fictional town. While using a real city probably isn’t as hard as I’m obviously making it out to be, I like the creative freedom of a made-up city. Of course, that would mean I’d have to think of a name, and you already know how hard that is for me.

I actually had to come up with two places: The town where Leslie, Stella, Tony, and the majority of the characters reside, and the the outer (or “inner”) city where Gregory lives with Tammi.

So let’s get into naming them.

In school, I read a lot of Nathaniel Hawthorne. The Scarlet Letter and “Young Goodman Brown” are the first titles that come to mind. If you’re unfamiliar with Nathaniel Hawthorne and his work, he was a Puritan novelist in the 1800s, and his fiction often featured moral and religious allegory. An allegory is a literary device used to suggest a specific meaning through metaphors, usually in names of places or characters.

Hawthorne’s use of allegory has definitely had an effect on my writing. Rarely do I create a title or name a place or character without first having some kind of symbolism behind that name. It’s why Tanisha’s name was changed to Tammi, why Lost Boy is still a temporary title, and why it has taken me up to letter “P” in the A to Z Challenge to think of a setting for the novel.

So I’ve done a lot of talking and still haven’t told you anything. Let’s cut to the chase, shall we?

Lost Boy will take place in Leiland, North Carolina.

Originally it was Leiland Brier, but it sounded too much like it belonged in a fairytale (thinking of Briar Rose, the pseudonym or mother of Sleeping Beauty depending on which version you read), so I shortened it to Leiland.

No research or special selection process went into coming up with this name. I spent more time than I wanted to Googling common city names, and nothing jump out at me. Then, like a light bulb going off in my head, the name Leiland came to me, and I ran with it.

Funny thing is, there is a Leland, North Carolina (pronounced the same, but mine is spelled with an “i”). It’s located on the southeastern coast of the state (where I also wanted to put my Leiland, but a little further inland, like around Fayetteville). It’s very close to Wilmington, NC, where my family is from, which is puzzling why I’ve never heard of this town before today. Nevertheless, let us not confuse the two Le(i)lands; mine is completely made up.

Because I’m so obsessed with symbolism in names, I decided to look up the name Leiland to see what it meant and if it would even work as a town name in this novel. Because it’s typically used as a boy’s name, I looked at a lot of baby name and websites. One website says it means “protective” or “protected land.” Another website says it is derived from a place name meaning “fallow land.” Of course, then I had to look up “fallow,” which means  “left unplowed and unseeded during a growing season,” referring to farmland.

In trying to relate the two definitions, I realized fallow land is protected land. It is protected from the damage that comes with farming. Think about it. It would be unwise to farm the same land year after year. You’d be overworking it, and eventually, the once fertile soil will erode away, and the land will become useless for growing crops, or even grass. A successful farmer knows to give his land a rest every so often. It’s even in the Bible. God instructed the children of Israel to work the land for six years, but in the seventh year, the land was to have a year of Sabbath rest to the Lord (Leviticus 25:1-4). When I hear the word Sabbath, the first thing that comes to mind is holy. (“Remember the Sabbath to keep it holy” [Exodus 20:8]). Holy means set apart; dedicated to God. Bringing it back full circle, is fallow land not land that is set apart?


So let’s look at my fictional town of Leiland, North Carolina again. By the above definitions, symbolically Leiland is set apart, protected under God. Leslie, a devout Christian and avid church goer, lives in Leiland. In contrast, her son Gregory moves out (from under the authority and protection of God) to live with Tammi and gets into all kinds of trouble.

I think the name of the city where Gregory and Tammi live will be a little more overt in its symbolism: Pleasant’s Edge. A city right outside of Leiland, Pleasant’s Edge is where the bank robbery takes place, it’s where the landfill and crime infested trailer park are located. Nothing good ever happens in Pleasant’s Edge. As the name suggests, symbolically it is just beyond the edge of (God’s) love, (God’s) forgiveness,  (God’s) peace, and (God’s) protection. It’s just beyond the edge of having faith and pleasing God. This is were Gregory goes, similar to an exile, like the children of Israel, who were exiled from the promised land because they turned away from God.

And so the story will be about bringing Gregory back…


L is for… [L]ocation #AtoZChallenge

Location, location, location…

Location, usually referred to as setting in literature, is the time and place of the events in a story. Basically, it helps to establish when, where, and (if it’s a good story) under what circumstances a story takes place. So let’s take a look at Lost Boy in relation to setting.

The Where

Where will Lost Boy take place? While revisiting previous posts, I realized that without thinking about it, I established the setting as North Carolina.  Tammi (previously Tanisha; read K is for Kindred for the explanation on the name change) is suspected of having a side dude “down in Charlotte,” which would lead the sharp reader to assume that the events of the novel occur in a city north of Charlotte. And, as if to further confirm North Carolina as the state, Frank remembers it being ice cold on the day his father disappeared because of North Carolina’s bipolar weather patterns.

Well, I live in North Carolina. Who better to write and establish North Carolina as the setting for a story than an actual citizen?

So if North Carolina is the state, where’s the city? This is probably the harder question. We already know it has to be north of Charlotte, and relatively close to the Virginia boarder (because Frank drives to Virginia, following a lead on his missing five-year-old case). That would put it in counties like Guilford, Alamance, or Forsyth. Rockingham County, while along the Virginia border, might be a little too redneck for this type of story (we’ll look deeper into that later in this post). I also want to stay away from any city that would cause certain people I know to think the story is about them. I’ve considered the city of Durham. Durham has a very high black population, which would be relevant in this story. A high black population usually means (unfortunately) high poverty and high crime. The trailer park where Tammi’s parents live could easily be located in Durham.

Of course, if I do decide to use an actual city in North Carolina, my biggest concern would be how accurate my portrayal is. For example, a few months ago, I read a novel about a black zombie apocalypse (crazy novel! I’ll have to do a book review on it very soon). The first half of the novel took place in North Carolina, so of course I was reading through those pages with a fine-tooth comb. One part that really made me cringe was that the author put NC Central University in Raleigh. Noooo! NC Central is in Durham! I know Raleigh and Durham are close, but they are not the same! What made it so cringe-worthy was that NC Central, a historically black college, was the epicenter of this black zombie apocalypse. If the black population in Durham isn’t the majority yet, it’s pretty damn close. These three parts weigh huge significance in this type of story, and it’s essential that the author gets them right. Raleigh is too white for this kind of story. On top of that, it’s the state capital! It wouldn’t work. Needless to say, while I liked the book, it was very hard for me to get past that enormous blunder.

I don’t want that to happen with my novel. I don’t want citizens of Durham to stop and think, “Is there a SunTrust bank across the street from a Shell gas station?” “Is there a trailer park next to a shut down landfill?” “Is that street really one way?” etc. Which is why I am not totally against a made up city. Hey, if a fictional town is described well enough in a novel, people will swear out that it’s really. I’ve googled a few cities after reading a good book because I thought they actually existed.

Of course, then I would have to think of a name, and as you’ve seen with my title struggle (and also with Tanisha/Tammi’s name change), names aren’t always my forte. Which is why so often I would write a story where the main characters are simply referred to as I, him, or her (the Buried series is one example).

Maybe in a later post, I’ll have a fictional city/town sketched out for you. It would have to begin with the letters M through Z, the second half of the alphabet, so I’d better start brainstorming!

The When

Not much to say here—Lost Boy takes place in present day. We will often be looking back on things that happened in the past (Antonio, Sr.’s death, Gio Maye’s disappearance), and how those events have affected the various characters in their present.

There’s also Aunt Bethel, who’s probably going to be a third or fourth tier character. Her character is not important to the plot of the story; she and her early onset dementia will probably serve only as comedic relief. But she could also be a reminder to Frank of his parents, Gio and Clara, which could create a lot of tension, again, because Gio’s disappearance was never closed. Bethel being there, her mind sometimes getting trapped in the past because of her dementia, wandering around, like Gio might have wandered, could help with necessary character development for Frank.

The Circumstances

Setting doesn’t always have to mean time and place. It could also refer to the atmosphere or circumstances by which a story takes place. That could mean current events or things that have happened that would make characters think and act a certain way. Let’s look back at that zombie apocalypse novel I mentioned earlier. The time and place would be present day and North Carolina. Since the story is about surviving a zombie outbreak of black people, the areas to avoid would obviously be where there is a heavy concentration of black people—the projects, historically black universities like NC Central, which is in Durham! Also, because North Carolina is in the southern United States, racism will be a definite issue. A white person wouldn’t think twice about shooting a nigga in the head in this story. Is it because he’s black or because he could be a zombie? That fine line between killing for survival and killing because of race and prejudice is what I really liked about the novel.

Looking at Lost Boy, one of the circumstances would be poverty, in Gregory’s case. He’s a black man with no degree, he can’t keep a good paying job, he works off the record for his buddy’s landscaping and roofing company, he struggles to provide for his selfish fiancé, her two kids, and her needy family, they live in a poor neighborhood where there is high crime. All of this will play a part in Gregory’s downward spiral.

Then there’s the question of justice for the black man. Gregory robs a bank. And the bank teller, who is assumed to be black also, has pity on him. She fears that if he is caught, he could be shot and killed by police. Will Gregory even make it to trial if he is caught, and if so, how long will the sentence be? He didn’t kill anybody. He didn’t threaten anyone with a gun. He’s just a broke man desperate for money. Unfortunately, broke men desperate for money can often get years in prison. College boys serve less time for rape! It’s ridiculous how fucked up our justice system is.

So is it smart for Leslie to report him missing? Obviously, she doesn’t know that he robbed a bank, neither does Detective Maye, but if or when they find out, then what?

Another circumstance would be fatherhood/manhood, which I talked about in detail in F is for Fathers. Because of Gregory’s situation, it’s hard for him to be that father and that man that Antonio, Sr. had trained him up to be. This inability to pull himself up from the abyss could inadvertently lead to the continuation of the generational curse that has plagued black families since slavery.

We’ll look at another potential circumstance in the next post, which is closely related to fatherhood/manhood. Can you guess it?


Side note: I’m a day behind because I’ve been traveling for the holiday. I can’t guarantee “M” will go up tonight, but I will try my hardest to have it posted by Sunday so I can be back on schedule with “N.” Happy A to Z-ing!

A Seasonal Jog in Carolina

Just last week, this trail was buried under seven inches of snow. As if August wasn’t two months ago, and Fall was only a distant memory. That’s one thing you’ve got to love about living in the Piedmont area of North Carolina. You can experience all four seasons in one week. Tomorrow, it’s forecast to get up to 80 degrees. Our poor trees will be so confused. They’ll think they’ve shed their leaves too soon.

I jog in place to read the sign post. The Nathanael Greene memorial is just ahead. Usually that signifies I’ve run a mile, but since Guilford Courthouse National Military Park was closed all last week—we tend to shut down everything even at the sight of a flurry—I decide to run another lap. That dusting they’re calling for next Tuesday may turn into a blizzard. Of course, anything here is considered a blizzard.

We Carolina folks just ain’t used to all this snow.

word count: 159


Looking at this week’s photo, I wanted to focus more so on setting than developing an actual story. I hope that’s alright.

This is part of Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers, where you write a story in 100-150 (give or take 25) using the provided photo prompt. Click the froggy icon to read other stories and add your own.