Delphine always wanted to pilot her father’s plane and when he forgot his keys on her tenth birthday, she knew that taking off would be easy.

That night she made her play, sneaking out while her Father was out flying an emergency delivery for the Post Office using their plane.

It was easy as they lived in an old converted hanger right on the airfield.

Sitting in the pilot’s seat she eyed all the controls and went through the motions she saw her father do hundreds of times.

No matter how much she begged he never let her fly.

The small single prop rumbled to life tensing her tiny body in fear from the violent vibrations.

‘This was stupid,’ she thought to herself.

The engine promptly died as the passenger door opened.

“Going somewhere birthday girl?” her father smiled as he fitted himself into the passenger seat.

Delphine was silent and ready for a thrashing. Her father calmly buckled his seatbelt and pushed the starter.

“Passenger is ready,” they smiled at each other as she took her first night solo flight.


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Mondays Finish the Story – July 13th, 2015

© 2015, Barbara W. Beacham

© 2015, Barbara W. Beacham


July 14th, 2015

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The barista shook his head. That hedge couldn’t have moved closer overnight. Could it?

Noticing he was alone this morning caused a funny urge to enter his mind. He would leap through the figures.

Standing on the sidewalk, just outside a square of soft grass, he dug his heels into the cement.

His body moved as his mind solidified a clear vision of how this Olympic level feat of athleticism would play out.

Three bounds, flatten the body while airborne, straighten the legs, lock the knees, spread arms out into a “T” and sail straight through. Clean. Magnificent.

He lifted off after the third stride, closing his eyes he steered his body into the green portal.

No longer was he man.

Now, he was flying pancake.



He was born into this place of warm serenity, molded by it.

Too warm.

Syrup now. Covering his body.

‘Help me!’ his mind screams.

They cut into him now. Darkness.

‘Pretty sweet jump though, right?’

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© 2015, Barbara W. Beacham

© 2015, Barbara W. Beacham

Mondays Finish the Story – July 6th, 2015


July 8th, 2015

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Hey boys, how ’bout y’all makin’ yer Ma some wind chimes?”

The group of boys sprinted off around the property to search for materials. Ages six to seventeen they were nearly a full baseball roster.

Many of the local folks wondered how it was possible for there to be eight boys in a row with no girls.

Some say Ma dabbled in the dark arts. Others, thought she was a luck charm and would travel from far away to have her bless their bulging bellies for a boy.

That night Ma walked around the porch admiring the children’s fine work.

Two sets of chimes were made of rusty tractor parts. Four sets were made of sticks and cones. One set was made of old bones and feathers. One set was made empty soup cans.

The ninth set, a set of upside down daisies, silently swished in the cool night air.

Ma shot a rage filled glare toward the loft of the old barn as she ripped the flowers down, grinding them to bits under her bare feet.

A tiny set of eyes darted from view, followed by the faintest glint of long blonde hair.

© 2015, Barbara W. Beacham

© 2015, Barbara W. Beacham

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June 23rd, 2015

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At first, it looked like an ordinary marble, but it was far from it.

The daily log would report it as another random piece of space debris on Mars.

“Curiosity Rover, you are go to pick up the object,” a voice squawked through a young engineer’s earpiece as nervous hands extended 140 million miles to pick up the sphere.

“Bring it close to the camera son.”

The team looked stunned through the cracked marble now larger than life on the mission control wall of monitors.

“Is that earth spinning inside?”

The young engineer looked up at the screen and flinched slightly putting pressure on the small glass orb.

It shattered.

Alarms sounded. Life support systems began to switch online. The air breathed cleaner as oxygen was pumped in. The Defcon level shot straight up to that of a full scale nuclear assault.

Only those underground would survive. Those enjoying their last sunrise were boiled alive instantly and those lucky enough to be asleep froze to death in moments.

Earth’s atmosphere was gone.

© 2015, Barbara W. Beacham

© 2015, Barbara W. Beacham

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June 19th, 2015

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Zeus was not having a good day and he made sure everyone knew it.

“How long has he been in there?” Hera asked.

Hermes stopped his fluttering back and forth outside the large golden ornate Olympus door. He turned quickly toward Hera with a small hovering bow.

“Most of the morning my Queen. I have some urgent…” before he could finish a loud BOOM of thunder crashed through the air.

No corner of Olympus was safe from this concussive wrath of Zeus.

“Move!” an angry voice shouted pushing past both of them.

Athena pounded her first on the bright door rattling the delicate ancient clockwork inside that kept it shut.

“Dad get the hell out. I need to take a shower,” she screamed.

Another thunderous explosion filled the space around them accompanied by the tiniest manly whimper.

The two Goddess’s expectantly looked at Hermes.

He shrugged at them.

“Apollo’s Sun Bean Chili Night. You know he loves the stuff.”

© 2015, Barbara W. Beacham

© 2015, Barbara W. Beacham

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June 9th, 2015

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