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Mondays Finish the Story


“Wake up everyone! She is finally blooming,” the old Rose bush shouted.

The Lilacs leaned over to examine the bud they had all watched for so long. It was a new species and one they had never seen before.

“I tell you it is just a weed. Blew in off the southern breeze and now we have to share our garden with it,” the Dandelions roared in disgust.

A hanging Wisteria whacked the back of one of the Dandelions, silencing it, and forcing a light dusting of spores to break free.

One by one, small green triangles gently peeled away exposing a white core with purple frosted tips.

Morning dew steamed gently under the rising sun as the first light poured into the garden.

All were silent.

Suddenly, the Rose bush seized, popping off all her thorns. The Lilacs withered down to nearly nothing, desperate to be forgotten. The Dandelions exploded seeking refuge along any willing wind current.

The Wisteria, she recoiled up into her high perch and watched.

She watched the carnage and the reckless mayhem.

The Deer grunted and crushed the young sojourning flower between its flat teeth.

Once there was a flower that was supposed to be, but never was. That flower drifted into a Garden that was to be home, but never was.

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Sunday Photo Fiction – September 20th 2015


September 20th, 2015

Posted In: Short Stories, Sunday Photo Fiction

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The cemetery spread along the area known as Devils Abode.

The Devil’s Abode was special cemetery where only those who were particularly nasty while living could be buried.

I know what you are thinking. It isn’t just criminals that inhabit this hallowed ground.

Some criminals can be down right pleasant in comparison to these monsters.

This Cemetery is for the worst offenders of societal order.

The woman who insists on paying with a written check for a pack of gum, does nothing but infuriate the self righteous road rage maniac next to her plot.

Astral channels buzz to life at night with long debates, between organic anti-vaxxers and a pack of old ‘Right Wingers,’ who have so much passion for their political opinion, they would die twice just to see those hippies wiped from the planet.

I sit here watching it all, leaving notes on the front of their caskets.

No one knows who the passive aggressive one is here, but they ALL hate their dead guts.

Mondays Finish the Story – August 31st, 2015

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© 2015, Barbara W. Beacham

© 2015, Barbara W. Beacham

September 4th, 2015

Posted In: Mondays Finish the Story, Short Stories

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“Leave a glass of red wine for the Fire Elementals,” my Mother would say.

I’d always ask, “Where?” just so she would tell me one of her stories.

Mom was an accomplished leader of a local coven of Witches. They mostly got together in the back yard on Saturday Nights. I always liked it because they would let me roast marshmallows on the fire pit while they danced around.

“Over by the fireplace,” she then went on to explain. “Chimneys, in any form mind you, are the gateways through which we can interact with the Elementals. When I was a girl we just called them, Fe’ Tunnels,” she stared at her own reflection painted on the black glass window of the night. Remaining quiet.

“Funny thing that,” she said looking at herself.

“What?” I went and stood next to her. I discovered she was not transfixed on her reflection at all. There was a full vision of her past life playing out right before us on the black glass.

“Mom,” I whispered.

“Ignis cuniculum,” she whispered.

We watched on as a young Roman girl placed a small clay cup of wine near the open fire pit of a small stone home.

Sunday Photo Fiction – August 30th 2015

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A Room in the Roman Painted House Dover

A Room in the Roman Painted House, Dover

September 2nd, 2015

Posted In: Short Stories, Sunday Photo Fiction

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“Where did they go?”

“I’m not sure Sheriff,” Al said looking at the bowed head of his wife Lenora.

The three of them stood outside some old crumbling ruins in the red rock high desert. This was a popular destination for people staying at their bed and breakfast. Lenora warned against sending their guests up here but Al wasn’t having it.

Lenora heard tales from one of their more ‘eccentric’ guests. An old woman with hand made everything, down to her wicker woven sandals, told her of people going missing up here.

She claimed this was an old military outpost built during the great expansion West. One night some local natives tried to raid the camp but they were severely outmatched. The soldiers left none alive and buried the bodies under the settlement. They swore there never was any raid and so the tale of the vanishing braves was born.

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Mondays Finish the Story – August 10th, 2015

Ruins – © 2015, Barbara W. Beacham

Ruins – © 2015, Barbara W. Beacham


August 12th, 2015

Posted In: Château de Montagne, Mondays Finish the Story, Short Stories

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The music was loud and thumped through every rivet of the hull. A party at sea meant you could make as much noise as you wanted.

“Where are we?” the young party goer shouted as she leaned into the Captain’s ear. Her body bopped and swayed with the music.

“About fifty miles off the coast of San Diego,” he shouted back.

“Cool!” she took a sip of her mixed drink as the Captain beckoned her ear back with a wave of his finger.

“Gotta be careful out there though,” his beard tickled her ear.

“Why?” she giggled as the Captain pointed his finger skyward.

Her drunken gaze struggled to follow it but her wide eyes told him she was sober enough to see them.

A big circular object twice as wide as the ship was spinning very fast above them. The other party goers were quickly ascending skyward in bright beams of light. Each body seemed to shoot up in rhythm with the beats.

He took her hand gently and kissed it smiling at her.

“Pleasure,” he said as her drink fell to the ground and her grip snapped away.

One by one they were all taken until just the Captain remained. His swift salute dismissed the giant craft and it disappeared in the blink of an eye.

He gathered a fresh box of black trash bags and started to clean up, bobbing his head to the music as it still blared. Human trafficking has gone interstellar.

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Sunday Photo Fiction – August 9th 2015


Docked sail cruise ship at night


August 12th, 2015

Posted In: Sunday Photo Fiction

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