WWP#169; Miss Ann Thrope

Now I’m just playing. The word from Sammi is misanthrope, the word count 99.


Miss Ann Thrope was misunderstood.

It wasn’t exactly true that Miss Thrope despised humanity. But she did despair of it and found few members of that species tolerable. She preferred the conversations she had with her animals and plants to any she’d ever had with a person.

“People don’t converse,” she said to the robin on the lawn. “They complain, they judge; they don’t listen even as they nod their empty heads at you.”

She laughed as the robin nodded her head.

“It’s true. A good man is hard to find.”

“What? Who’re you?”

“Your new neighbor. Iza Goodman.”

CRLC Challenge; Molten Lava

square-template92.pngThe sage poet has spoken of fire and ice

admitted that he held with those who favor fire

but he also noted ice for destruction would suffice.

It was ice in soil that heaved his walls

those walls he mended annually with his taciturn neighbor

was ice that carved and carried their building material

A constant cycle of transformation, neither last nor first

to these aged rocks our musings do not matter

between ice or fire neither of them is worse

State changes; rocks formed, transformed by fire and ice

our sage Buckaroo would have us write of lava.

August 6, 2020, Carrot Ranch prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less), write a story about molten lava. It can be real-time, such as a volcanic event or the result of one in the geologic timeline. Or, think about making the prompt into a metaphor of heat. What is so hot? Go where the prompt leads!

I favor ice, but the following is my 99 word response to Charli’s prompt.

Epoch Weekend  by D. Avery

The only one more disgruntled by the arrangement than her was her grandson. Sulking in the bow of the canoe, he showed no interest even in the great blue heron. In a huff she planted the paddle and turned the canoe abruptly. The heron, startled, lifted to flight.


They followed the pterodactyl. It landed in the marsh. There, miniature pterodactyls, light as dragonflies, landed on their knees.

They ate Hershey bars by the fire and turned marshmallows into molten lava. The sun slipped low over the mountain. In the fog draped morning it would be a fire-breathing dragon.


#SixSentenceStory & WWP#169

Impact   by D. Avery

She read about his death in the paper. After twenty years apart she wasn’t notified as a wife would be. After twenty years together she knew that him stepping into the path of a bumper sticker bedecked Subaru was not a random act.

He hadn’t always been a misanthrope and she wasn’t convinced that his time in Viet Nam was entirely to blame for his ongoing issues.

He’d prayed every day for forgiveness for the lives taken and the lives altered and scarred. She wondered, did the activists that’d lined up to spit on returning soldiers lie awake nights?


The Six Sentence Story prompt is “random”. The Weekend Writing prompt is “misanthrope”, in 99 words this week. Thank you Denise and Sammi.six sentence story copy


Uber Possibilities; #SixSentenceStory

six sentence story copy

It’s time again to write a story in six sentences exactly. Link your story through Denise’s GirlieOntheEdge blog, then read, write, repeat. The word of the week is random. (I wonder if Denise chose that word purposely and methodically or….) Oh, despite the rules I am entering with a 12-pack, two sixes.



Uber Possibilities  by D. Avery

Though he could pick his wife’s laugh out from among the others, growing louder now with drink, from his vantage point across the room he noted how alike they all were, himself included; all tan and personal trainer-fit, their cocktail party clothes their uniforms, all of high rank.

Alike in background and ambition he wondered at how they’d paired off in college, speculated that it wouldn’t have made any difference at all if they’d all just been randomly matched. They each would still have ended up with what they thought they wanted, with what they now had; good looking, fit, socially acceptable spouses living in lavish showcase homes, their handsome children choosing the finest colleges to attend.

Not one of his dalliances with his friends’ wives had turned out to be an exciting distraction after all. The affairs that both he and his wife had they’d easily overlooked, understood as much as forgiven, for each could be seen as an honest mistake, an understandable case of mistaken identity.

He watched his wife accept another drink from Biff, laughing and leaning in, and wished he was stirred to jealousy. The caterer, clearing stray glasses and plates, her night almost over, interrupted his thoughts.

“Shouldn’t you be over there with the others?”

“Oh, no, I’m not with them,” he quipped, marveling at the unpainted lips of her bemused smile, the crow’s feet at her green eyes, the wisp of gray at her auburn temples. “I’m just the uber driver, here to give you a ride home.”

“I’ll tell you what, uber-man,” she said laughing, “let’s skip the ride home and even what it is you think might could happen there, and go right to breakfast; meet me at the Eggstraordinary Diner at eight tomorrow morning, and you can tell me all about ubering— or any random topic.”

And he knew he would join this woman for breakfast, would enjoy conversation with her as his wife slept late in their shade-darkened master suite, knew that, finally, things might never be the same.

CRLC Challenge; Her Crowning Glory

square-template89.pngHere ‘s the July 30, 2020, prompt from Carrot Ranch: In 99 words (no more, no less), write a story that uses the phrase “her crowning glory.” (Thanks to Anne Goodwin for the prompt idea.) It can be in the traditional sense of a woman’s hair or applied to any idea of a best attribute. What happens if you play with the meaning or gender? Go where the prompt leads!

I allowed the prompt to go pretty wild. Kid and Pal took three 99-word segments to resolve their conundrum. See that at the Ranch or HERE. Then there is the following strange tale. 

Never Mind   by D. Avery

Never mind what exactly the boys said, the gestures they made. It was rude. It was disrespectful. And how they waited for her response, grinning, still taunting. Who would treat an elder this way?

She calmly unpinned her gray bun, shook loose her long hair. She stood tall, her hair now a high wind whipping and lashing the cowering boys. She watched, impassive, her hair now a frenzied torrential rain that pelted the whimpering boys.

Then she brushed her hair, now a golden sun, a dazzling halo. And she wound it back into a gray bun, her crowning glory.

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