tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-38654123577165089812024-03-05T01:38:48.319-06:00Ann PinoFiction WriterAnn (bunnygirl)http://www.blogger.com/profile/04938134750150653386noreply@blogger.comBlogger410125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3865412357716508981.post-9154070241001053952019-08-14T10:51:00.002-05:002019-08-14T10:51:48.066-05:00Little Lies<div abp="4314">
What if you weren’t who I thought you were?<br />
And all this angst,<br />
this hair shirt,<br />
were for naught?<br />
<br /></div>
<div abp="4314">
What if you were just a fevered dream?<br />
And my self-flagellation <br />
was for someone no more real <br />
than a fairy tale?<br />
<br /></div>
<div abp="4314">
Oh tell me, please<br />
that I haven’t suffered in vain.<br />
That I haven’t sacrificed<br />
beauty<br />
health<br />
peace of mind<br />
over a you that never was.<br />
<br /></div>
<div abp="4314">
Even if it’s a lie, just whisper in my ear<br />
that yes, you were worth it after all.</div>
Ann (bunnygirl)http://www.blogger.com/profile/04938134750150653386noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3865412357716508981.post-6186713082093808522018-04-12T08:50:00.005-05:002018-04-12T08:50:58.886-05:00PerceptionThe train pulled into the depot with a hiss of steam and hydraulics. <br />
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Robert urged his daughter to stand up. “Let’s get something to eat.” He led her into the shabby building, frowning at the peeling paint and broken fans. <br />
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Sophie, of course, took it all in stride. “This is a nice place.”<br />
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Her father started to correct her, but then stopped himself. Sophie had never known a world that was fresh and shiny with promise, and maybe it was better this way. <br />
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He could only imagine putting the world back together, but she could imagine making something new.<br />
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<i>This was written for Friday Fictioneers and is related to my serial, <a href="https://valledecenizas.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Valley of Ashes</a>. Photo by <a href="https://yarnspinnerr.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">Yarnspinner</a>. </i><br />
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<a class="K3JSBVB-ec-a" href="javascript:void(0);" kind="click"></a>Ann (bunnygirl)http://www.blogger.com/profile/04938134750150653386noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3865412357716508981.post-38499471129909357032018-04-04T17:05:00.001-05:002018-04-04T17:05:12.197-05:00New Vince StoryI have a new Vince story for Friday Fictioneers: <a href="http://vincechron.blogspot.com/2018/04/grand-reopening.html">Grand Reopening</a>Ann (bunnygirl)http://www.blogger.com/profile/04938134750150653386noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3865412357716508981.post-75066297287461847282018-03-21T16:31:00.000-05:002018-03-21T16:31:24.081-05:00Mountain RoadSophie reined in beside the sign, then dismounted and approached the ledge. Below was a steep drop that was both terrifying and heartbreakingly beautiful. She sighed and tipped her head back so that all she saw was the blue of the sky and a hawk soaring on the mountain air.
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But the sign still required her attention. She peeked around the bend in the trail but saw nothing to suggest she should turn back. If someone didn’t want her exploring beyond this point, they would have to do better than this. <br />
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She climbed back on her horse and continued on.<br />
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<i>This story is based on my new serial </i><a href="https://valledecenizas.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"><i>Valley of Ashes</i></a><i> and was written for </i><a href="https://rochellewisoff.com/2018/03/21/23-march-2018/" target="_blank"><i>Friday Fictioneers</i></a><i>. Photo is by <a href="https://brudberg.me/" target="_blank">Bjorn Rudberg</a>.</i></div>
Ann (bunnygirl)http://www.blogger.com/profile/04938134750150653386noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3865412357716508981.post-28136138330937185742018-03-10T13:34:00.001-06:002018-03-10T13:34:36.507-06:00Runaways<div abp="52">
The children – one on horseback, the other on a donkey – clopped down the trail in silence. Night would be falling soon and they needed to make camp.
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“You’re sure we can build a shelter with just sticks and a tarp?” Mateo asked.</div>
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Sophie shrugged. “Of course. It’ll be a little drafty, but it works. Even in stormy weather. I saw my dad do it.”</div>
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<div abp="58">
“But can <em abp="59">you</em> do it?”</div>
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<div abp="61">
“I told you I could, didn’t I?”</div>
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A little farther on they found a place that looked promising. They picked a spot for the shelter where the soil wouldn’t be too sandy for their purposes, then Sophie charged Mateo with finding some large branches that could interlocked to form a tepee. </div>
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It was slow going, and as darkness fell, the children realized they weren’t likely to have an adequate structure completed before dark. Part of the problem was the branches, which slipped apart whenever a new one was added. But the biggest problem, of course, was their lack of experience.</div>
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Mateo frowned. “Should we tie them? I’ve got some copper wire.”</div>
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Sophie tried to cover for her unease. This wasn’t going according to plan. “We’re probably just tired and hungry. We should take a break. We’ll be able to finish later when the moon is out.”</div>
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Mateo looked away like he wasn’t so sure, but he started building a fire anyway, while Sophie got the food and skillet out of their packs. </div>
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Cooking went more smoothly than shelter-building, and soon they had a tasty meal of fried potatoes with cheese. For dessert, there were dried apples. </div>
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It was fully night now, and both children were tired. Running away from home was more effort than they had anticipated. After a while, Sophie said, “You know, it’s really not that cold tonight. Maybe we don’t need a shelter.”</div>
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Mateo could tell by her artlessly casual manner that she didn’t want to admit she had made a mistake. But that was all right with him. He still thought the world of her and would never do anything to mar their friendship. </div>
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They huddled in their jackets, sipping tea and gazing into the crackling fire as the stars came out all around them. Unseen things rustled in the tall grass nearby, but they weren’t afraid. Travelers took this trail regularly and always arrived safely at their destination. What could they possibly have to worry about?</div>
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Far away in the darkness, a shadow moved toward them on the trail and slowly resolved into the shape of a man on horseback. As he drew near, Sophie realized with a guilty start who it was.</div>
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<div abp="83">
“Shit,” she said, startling Mateo who had never heard her curse before. “It’s my father.”</div>
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<div abp="85">
“What do you think he’s going to do?”</div>
<div abp="86">
<br /></div>
<div abp="87">
Sophie honestly didn’t know. The worst thing her father had ever done to her, other than make her go to school, was send her to her room once. But she had never done anything this bad before.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div abp="89">
She felt Mateo fumble for her hand. He would be by her side no matter what. It was a very great gift to have a friend. Knowing this gave her the courage to stand so she would be ready to meet her father’s eyes.</div>
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<em>This scene is alluded to in my serial </em><a abp="184" href="https://valledecenizas.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"><em>Valley of Ashes</em></a><em> and was written for </em><a abp="93" href="https://sundaywhirl.wordpress.com/" target="_blank"><em>The Sunday Whirl</em></a><em>.</em> </div>
Ann (bunnygirl)http://www.blogger.com/profile/04938134750150653386noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3865412357716508981.post-80265514092964763722018-03-04T10:16:00.001-06:002018-03-04T10:19:20.509-06:00Snow Day<div abp="52">
<div abp="3212">
Sophie swung her feet, kicking the legs of the table. She was supposed to be doing her homework, but it was boring. “Let’s you and me go outside,” she said.
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<div abp="3216">
Mateo looked up from his school books. “Why? It’s cold out there.”</div>
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<div abp="3218">
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<div abp="3220">
“It’s more interesting than being in here.”</div>
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<div abp="3224">
The boy acknowledged this was true. “But if I go out, Mama Norma might send me on an errand. I’d rather be here in the store where it’s warm, even if it’s boring.”</div>
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<div abp="3228">
Sophie considered. Her father owned this store and even though he wasn’t around this afternoon, and she was only ten years old, she had some authority around the place. “Well, I want to make a snowman. And I want you, as my employee, to help me.”</div>
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<div abp="3230">
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<div abp="3232">
“I’m not your employee, I’m your friend.” Mateo frowned. “Or am I?”</div>
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<div abp="3236">
“Of course you’re my friend.” Sophie giggled. “But in this case, you’re my employee too. That way Mama Norma can’t send you out. You’re working for me. And your job is to help me make a snowman.”</div>
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Mateo shrugged like it was all the same to him, but his infectious grin gave him away. “Sounds good, boss. Lead the way.”</div>
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<em>This story is based on my new serial </em><a abp="161" href="https://valledecenizas.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"><em>Valley of Ashes</em></a><em> and was written for </em><a abp="70" href="https://sundayphotofictioner.wordpress.com/2018/03/04/sunday-photo-fiction-march-4th-2018/" target="_blank"><em>Sunday Photo Fiction</em></a><em>. Photo is by Jade Wong.</em></div>
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Ann (bunnygirl)http://www.blogger.com/profile/04938134750150653386noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3865412357716508981.post-12354013000274319732018-02-28T12:52:00.000-06:002018-02-28T12:52:02.282-06:00Friday FictioneersI've added another <a href="http://vincechron.blogspot.com/2018/02/knockout-idea.html" target="_blank">Vince story</a>. This time for <a href="https://rochellewisoff.com/2018/02/27/2-march-2018/" target="_blank">Friday Fictioneers</a>.Ann (bunnygirl)http://www.blogger.com/profile/04938134750150653386noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3865412357716508981.post-8047069632338273502018-02-24T13:03:00.001-06:002018-02-24T13:03:05.653-06:00New Vince StoryWell...sort of. <a href="http://vincechron.blogspot.com/2018/02/the-dress.html">Read it</a> and you'll see.Ann (bunnygirl)http://www.blogger.com/profile/04938134750150653386noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3865412357716508981.post-50523943021929089892018-02-22T13:06:00.001-06:002018-02-22T13:06:48.693-06:00Decision-Making<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Stop it, June.” Robert glared as the girl plucked a flower
and tossed the petals on the wind.<br />
<br />
“Should you stay, or should you go,” she chanted.<br />
<br />
“It’s too late for that.” He shifted the pack on his
shoulder. “I base my decisions on reason, not flowers.”<br />
<br />
“What’s so reasonable about fighting the government? My
father died too. You don’t see me packing my bags.”<br />
<br />
“Maybe you should.”<br />
<br />
With tears in her eyes, June held the last petal aloft.<br />
<br />
“What does it say?”<br />
<br />
“It says to kiss me before you go.”<br />
<br />
Robert indulged her, then set off down the trail.<br />
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<img alt="https://rochellewisofffields.files.wordpress.com/2018/02/mg-rose-stem.jpg?w=600" height="320" src="https://rochellewisofffields.files.wordpress.com/2018/02/mg-rose-stem.jpg?w=600" width="213" /> <br />
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<i>This prequel is related to <a href="https://valledecenizas.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">my new serial</a>. Photo prompt by Marie Gail Stratford, posted at <a href="https://rochellewisoff.com/">Friday Fictioneers</a>.</i> </div>
Ann (bunnygirl)http://www.blogger.com/profile/04938134750150653386noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3865412357716508981.post-85742284656615831862018-02-19T00:28:00.002-06:002018-02-19T00:28:39.331-06:00New SerialI've started posting my new novel <a href="https://valledecenizas.blogspot.com/">here</a>. I haven't decided whether I will be posting once a week or more often, but it's a finished piece and you'll get to read the whole thing, regardless. Feel free to send me an email or leave your thoughts in the comments!Ann (bunnygirl)http://www.blogger.com/profile/04938134750150653386noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3865412357716508981.post-55562839830887202072018-02-15T10:35:00.000-06:002018-02-15T10:35:55.741-06:00New WIPHello, everyone! This is just a quick announcement that I have recently completed a draft for a new novel. It's set in the same fictional world as most of my other work: <a href="https://tinsoldier2.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Tin Soldier</a>, <a href="https://bella-diana.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Bella Diana</a>, <a href="https://dianadiario.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Diana's Diary</a>, and all the short stories about <a href="https://vincechron.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Vince</a> and about Will and Diana that I've posted over the years on my <a href="https://ampfiction2.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Writings blog</a>.<br />
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I will be serializing this story in a blog and later make it available as a free or almost-free Kindle download. I'm also looking at other possible formats, since technology trends change so rapidly. If anyone has new posting locations that they can recommend, please email me or post something in the comments.<br />
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If all goes as planned, I'll start posting as early as February 17, and no later than March 3.Ann (bunnygirl)http://www.blogger.com/profile/04938134750150653386noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3865412357716508981.post-33789007578053082232017-06-28T14:16:00.001-05:002017-06-28T14:16:48.444-05:00Endings and BeginningsShe had come to know these crooked lanes and narrow alleys well. In fact, she had memorized them, along with all the city’s hazards and delights. Living here had been both a challenge and a hard-won opportunity, but life’s haphazard events had a way of changing one’s priorities. So it was with much regret that she now packed her bags. What would home feel like after being so long away? Well, she would soon find out.<br />
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She went down the stairs, opened the door and paused on the front step. “Goodbye,” she whispered softly, then stepped out into the street.<br />
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<i>This was written with words from <a href="http://www.threewordwednesday.com/2017/06/3ww-final-chapter-and-week-no-538.html">Three Word Wednesday</a> and photo prompt from <a href="https://rochellewisoff.com/">Friday Fictioneers</a>.</i>Ann (bunnygirl)http://www.blogger.com/profile/04938134750150653386noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3865412357716508981.post-24200241599001378852017-05-31T10:44:00.002-05:002017-05-31T10:44:58.271-05:00All Grown UpThe damage was intentional. Of that, Betty was sure. Her brother had goaded her for months to give up her toys and “grow up.” But what was so grown up about abandoning her friends? And who needed to be grown up at eight years old? She checked Teddy, Chango and Delilah for lacerations, but they seemed fine, except for the mud. Should she take them to Mom? No, she could fix this herself. She got the biggest bowl she could find, then sprinkled in some of the kaleidoscopic crystals of Mom’s laundry detergent. Soon everyone would be good as new.<br />
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<i>This was written with words from <a href="http://www.threewordwednesday.com/2017/05/3ww-week-no-534.html">Three Word Wednesday</a> and photo prompt from <a href="https://rochellewisoff.com/2017/05/31/2-june-2017/">Friday Fictioneers</a>. Photo by <a href="https://livinglearningandlettinggo.wordpress.com/2017/05/12/were-they-once-beloved-toys/">Karuna</a>.</i>Ann (bunnygirl)http://www.blogger.com/profile/04938134750150653386noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3865412357716508981.post-56340106255355365602017-04-19T09:59:00.000-05:002017-04-19T09:59:24.960-05:00Modern WomanViolet meandered wistfully through her bedroom. She didn’t have to go. Staying and waiting for a boy to propose would be easier. But she had never taken the easy way out. That’s how she managed to become her high school’s first female valedictorian and win a scholarship to Vassar.<br /><br />
Her father was contemptuous of her ambitions, but she didn’t think much of his oafish views. The world was too exciting a place to be just another nameless housewife.<br /><br />
She slipped on her shoes, straightened the seams in her stockings, and picked up her suitcase. Life was going to amazing!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuseD7aUhW7INZm23q54qYcIqsw_dsf6CgG8jk6YFqZGKJ3w5-CeB-p_niAJfzGM1BFkYTmXVbeyZ9Q3lp9-K-bXcGLKPZ1tpXLhFY5f2N5wET931JH2bvdZUkEstibNOkQMF4bwNxZ_A/s1600/fictioneers_4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuseD7aUhW7INZm23q54qYcIqsw_dsf6CgG8jk6YFqZGKJ3w5-CeB-p_niAJfzGM1BFkYTmXVbeyZ9Q3lp9-K-bXcGLKPZ1tpXLhFY5f2N5wET931JH2bvdZUkEstibNOkQMF4bwNxZ_A/s320/fictioneers_4.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
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<i>This was written with words from <a href="http://www.threewordwednesday.com/2017/04/3ww-week-no-528.html">Three Word Wednesday</a> and photo prompt from <a href="https://rochellewisoff.com/2017/04/19/31-march-2017/">Friday Fictioneers</a>. Photo by <a href="http://magalyguerrero.com/">Magaly Guerrero</a>.</i>Ann (bunnygirl)http://www.blogger.com/profile/04938134750150653386noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3865412357716508981.post-57111914486578456002017-04-12T11:11:00.001-05:002017-04-12T11:11:28.233-05:00RoommatesThe timing was bad.<br />
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“It’ll have to wait,” Maria said. <br />
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Todd concurred. “If we’re to reach a lasting agreement, we can’t get distracted.”<br />
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Susie took the pizza out of David’s hands and smiled knowingly. “Sorry, greedy.”<br />
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David sighed as she took it away. On the sofa, Todd resumed talking about the bills and Maria chimed in about the rota for household chores.<br />
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“People also have to stop eating each others’ food without permission.” Susie added. <br />
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Meanwhile, the treat in the other room whispered David’s name. So while the others jabbered, oblivious, he slipped away and gave in to his cravings.<br />
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<i>This was written with words from <a href="http://www.threewordwednesday.com/2017/04/3ww-week-no-527.html">Three Word Wednesday</a> and photo prompt from <a href="https://rochellewisoff.com/2017/04/12/14-april-2017/">Friday Fictioneers</a>. Photo by <a href="https://adelectablelife.com/">Dale Rogerson</a>.</i>Ann (bunnygirl)http://www.blogger.com/profile/04938134750150653386noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3865412357716508981.post-4666896406645571032017-03-29T10:23:00.000-05:002017-03-29T12:19:22.819-05:00Dream BoatOh, how he wanted to participate in the regatta! But all Ben had was his grandfather’s battered dinghy. The old boat was weathered and barnacle-encrusted, with a mast so flimsy it could barely hold a sail. Turning this around would be a chore.<br />
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He could, of course, buy a new boat, but he liked the thought of trouncing the competition in this humble craft while the crowd erupted in applause. Yes, he thought as he headed to the hardware store, he was up for this. He was going to make something of this little boat and everyone would be dazzled!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0_5zT-FlW2AZBjVjcXFu3OZuRUxE0gVqToEHiTfIB6yUy92GkKjtRjoyujr-9C6SzK5hiPqJbjxzwRi-01yPXMUIH9Gf_GRL-WC0m_2i3kwd4-EDFlPYydFLKu8XhGEvbApNnWktlSmo/s1600/fictioneers_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0_5zT-FlW2AZBjVjcXFu3OZuRUxE0gVqToEHiTfIB6yUy92GkKjtRjoyujr-9C6SzK5hiPqJbjxzwRi-01yPXMUIH9Gf_GRL-WC0m_2i3kwd4-EDFlPYydFLKu8XhGEvbApNnWktlSmo/s320/fictioneers_2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<i>This was written with words from <a href="http://www.threewordwednesday.com/2017/03/3ww-week-no-525.html">Three Word Wednesday</a> and photo prompt from <a href="https://rochellewisoff.com/2017/03/29/21-april-2017/">Friday Fictioneers</a>. Photo by <a href="https://ffdwrites.wordpress.com/">Fatima Fakier Deria</a>.</i>Ann (bunnygirl)http://www.blogger.com/profile/04938134750150653386noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3865412357716508981.post-33233526553037079122017-03-22T14:14:00.000-05:002017-03-22T14:14:02.869-05:00Crime StoppersTrey pressed his face against the bars. Nobody had lived here for years, but the owners had left furniture, crystal, and who knew what else behind. He intended to use this information to his advantage. Trey never worried about breaking into places. His babyish face and innocent smile always got him out of a tight spot if cunning failed.<br />
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He clambered over the fence and headed across the lawn. Suddenly he heard the baying of dogs. He turned and ran, two Rottweilers in close pursuit. This place wasn’t abandoned after all, and charm wouldn’t get him out of this one!<br />
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><em>This was written with words from </em></span><a href="http://www.threewordwednesday.com/2017/03/3ww-week-no-524.html"><em><span style="color: #5588aa; font-family: "calibri";">Three Word Wednesday</span></em></a><em><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> and photo prompt from</span></em><a href="https://rochellewisoff.com/2017/02/22/24-february-2017/" target="_blank"><em><span style="color: #5588aa; font-family: "calibri";"> </span></em></a><a href="https://rochellewisoff.com/2017/03/22/24-march-2017/"><em>Friday Fictioneers</em></a><em><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><a href="https://rochellewisoff.com/2017/03/15/17-march-2017/">.</a> Photo by </span></em><em><span style="font-family: "calibri";">J Hardy Carroll. </span></em>Ann (bunnygirl)http://www.blogger.com/profile/04938134750150653386noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3865412357716508981.post-2462563021630342442017-03-15T12:45:00.000-05:002017-03-15T12:45:37.670-05:00Objet d'ArtIt couldn’t be done, they said. No one could create such a grand object on such enormous scale using only hand tools and some rusty scrap iron.<br /><br />
“What’s the point?” they asked. Why spend so much effort on an object of curiosity when one could spend one’s time more productively?<br /><br />
Aaron deflected the naysayers with a vigorous shake of his head and disappeared into his workshop. After weeks of effort, late one night he finally moved his great work into position. Taut with expectation, he waited for daylight and the stunned faces of the townsfolk. <br /><br />
They had always underestimated him.<br />
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><em>This was written with words from </em></span><a href="http://www.threewordwednesday.com/2017/03/3ww-week-no-523.html" target="_blank"><em><span style="color: #5588aa; font-family: "calibri";">Three Word Wednesday</span></em></a><em><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> and photo prompt from</span></em><a href="https://rochellewisoff.com/2017/02/22/24-february-2017/" target="_blank"><em><span style="color: #5588aa; font-family: "calibri";"> </span></em></a><em><a href="https://www.blogger.com/goog_940899906">Friday Fictioneers</a></em><em><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><a href="https://rochellewisoff.com/2017/03/15/17-march-2017/">.</a> Photo by Jennifer Pendergast. <span style="color: #5588aa;"><span></span></span></span></em></div>
Ann (bunnygirl)http://www.blogger.com/profile/04938134750150653386noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3865412357716508981.post-3412642108484230332017-02-22T19:05:00.000-06:002017-02-22T19:05:52.732-06:00Family Dynamics<div abp="14">
She had been on her feet all day cleaning and cooking, chasing after the children and trying to get them relocated into a single bedroom. Their two uncles were coming and since one worked for Greenpeace and the other was a climate change denier, there was no way they could bunk together.</div>
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With a languid sigh, she settled into the window seat and waited for their arrival, only to be startled by a high-pitched shriek.</div>
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“It’s snowing! Mom, it never snows in July!”</div>
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Donna gave an impish grin. “Too true.” This was going to be a very entertaining family visit.</div>
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<span abp="188" style="font-family: "calibri";"><em abp="189">This was written with words from </em></span><a abp="190" href="http://www.threewordwednesday.com/2017/02/3ww-week-no-520.html" target="_blank"><em abp="191"><span abp="192" style="color: #5588aa; font-family: "calibri";">Three Word Wednesday</span></em></a><em abp="193"><span abp="194" style="font-family: "calibri";"> and photo prompt from</span></em><a abp="195" href="https://rochellewisoff.com/2017/02/22/24-february-2017/" target="_blank"><em abp="196"><span abp="197" style="color: #5588aa; font-family: "calibri";"> Friday Fictioneers</span></em></a><em abp="198"><span abp="199" style="font-family: "calibri";">. Photo by <span style="color: #5588aa;"><a href="https://sarahpotterwrites.com/" target="_blank">Sarah Potter</a><span abp="202">.</span></span></span></em></div>
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Ann (bunnygirl)http://www.blogger.com/profile/04938134750150653386noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3865412357716508981.post-16341777699967300412017-02-15T18:47:00.001-06:002017-02-15T18:55:59.766-06:00A Tragic End<div abp="4629">
Ah, Doreen! Once a glamorous model stepping out in the latest styles, she was now a decaying wreck. Instead of bright lights and swank restaurants, she spent her time in a muddy field, swilling beer and chain-smoking, gazing at the empty sky.<br />
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Was she remembering happier days? Did she miss the fragrant swish of a perfumed dress and the posh elegance of an exclusive club? Did her fans and boyfriends ever come to mind, or were these embers of a life enough for her? Frightening to think that this was all that remained. She used to be such a doll!
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<span abp="118" style="font-family: "calibri";"><em abp="119">This was written with words from </em></span><a abp="121" href="http://www.threewordwednesday.com/2017/02/3ww-week-no-319.html" target="_blank"><em abp="122"><span abp="123" style="color: #5588aa; font-family: "calibri";">Three Word Wednesday</span></em></a><em abp="125"><span abp="126" style="font-family: "calibri";"> and photo prompt from</span></em><a abp="127" href="https://rochellewisoff.com/2017/02/15/17-february-2017/" target="_blank"><em abp="128"><span abp="129" style="color: #5588aa; font-family: "calibri";"> Friday Fictioneers</span></em></a><em abp="130"><span abp="131" style="font-family: "calibri";">. Photo by <a href="http://lizy-writes.blogspot.co.uk/" target="_blank">Liz Young</a><span style="color: #5588aa;">.</span></span></em></div>
Ann (bunnygirl)http://www.blogger.com/profile/04938134750150653386noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3865412357716508981.post-26492809782931852752017-02-08T18:08:00.003-06:002017-02-08T18:08:52.056-06:00Introvert's Dilemma<div abp="1222">
Bob was an introvert, through and through, but he was blessed (or perhaps cursed) with the kind of charisma and good looks that drew all to him. No asymmetrical features or flab marred his Adonis-like body, and although he preferred to be alone, he could smile and charm with the best of them.</div>
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<br abp="14" />Beset at all sides by men and women clamoring for his presence, he fled the city, taking only a plain, bare chair. For days he drove through the countryside. Where could he find the solitude he craved?</div>
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Now if only the damn birds would leave him alone!</div>
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<em abp="219"><span abp="220" style="font-family: Calibri;">This was written with words from </span></em><a abp="222" href="http://www.threewordwednesday.com/2017/02/3ww-week-no-318.html" target="_blank"><em abp="223"><span abp="224" style="color: #5588aa; font-family: Calibri;">Three Word Wednesday</span></em></a><em abp="225"><span abp="226" style="font-family: Calibri;"> and photo prompt from</span></em><a abp="228" href="https://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/2017/02/08/10-february-2017/" target="_blank"><em abp="229"><span abp="230" style="color: #5588aa; font-family: Calibri;"> Friday Fictioneers</span></em></a><em abp="231"><span abp="232" style="font-family: Calibri;">. Photo by <a abp="236" href="https://tedstrutz.com/" target="_blank">Ted Strutz.</a></span></em></div>
Ann (bunnygirl)http://www.blogger.com/profile/04938134750150653386noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3865412357716508981.post-84227882850067186092017-01-25T19:08:00.001-06:002017-01-25T19:08:57.741-06:00Parade<div abp="14">
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<span abp="16" style="font-family: "calibri";">It was scandalous. Grandpa was ninety-six years old, blind
in one eye, half-deaf, and so fat it was debatable whether he could get his
rotund self behind the wheel. But he had insisted until the family gave up. </span></div>
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<span abp="19" style="font-family: "calibri";">And who knew? He had restored the jalopy in his youth and knew
it the way a mother knew her own child. Maybe instinct would see him through.</span></div>
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<span abp="22" style="font-family: "calibri";">Then a voice from the back seat.</span></div>
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<span abp="25" style="font-family: "calibri";">“How much farther? Hand me another beer. I’m parched!”</span></div>
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<span abp="28" style="font-family: "calibri";">Sharon sighed. Grandpa and his car were going to be the most
memorable entry in this year’s parade.</span></div>
</div>
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<a abp="141" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQWlqxmNM9lJpDoPpcCzHIJmWPcvmcU7b2vq-oD9qVB-G6tGl1UdALu_Z2NBk3jR8AJs79wZlv67_aUc5ZcaZcx8NA6cHoKWS2QNakMSpU58JsBPKvxhfJxdcYhsV6x4XekKV5Rz7mYV8/s1600/fictioneers.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img abp="142" border="0" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQWlqxmNM9lJpDoPpcCzHIJmWPcvmcU7b2vq-oD9qVB-G6tGl1UdALu_Z2NBk3jR8AJs79wZlv67_aUc5ZcaZcx8NA6cHoKWS2QNakMSpU58JsBPKvxhfJxdcYhsV6x4XekKV5Rz7mYV8/s320/fictioneers.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span abp="30" style="font-family: "calibri";"><span abp="179" style="font-family: "times new roman";"></span>
<em>This was written with words from </em><a href="http://www.threewordwednesday.com/2017/01/3ww-week-no-516.html"><em>Three Word
Wednesday</em></a><em> and photo prompt from</em><a href="https://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/2017/01/25/27-january-2017/"><em> Friday
Fictioneers</em></a><em>. Photo by Al Forbes.</em></span></div>
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Ann (bunnygirl)http://www.blogger.com/profile/04938134750150653386noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3865412357716508981.post-28860052454774430052017-01-18T22:08:00.002-06:002017-01-18T22:16:38.046-06:00Protege<div abp="4620">
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<span abp="15" style="font-family: "times new roman";">She hurried down the tunnel-like hallway, oblivious to the clean lines of its modern design. A particular memory nagged.</span><br />
<br />
<span abp="15" style="font-family: "times new roman";">“Your work has a certain neophyte appeal,” he had told her, “But it’s nothing special.”</span><br />
<br />
<span abp="15" style="font-family: "times new roman";">He had wanted her to keep studying with him, but she knew better. He just wanted her money and her body. The old misogynist didn’t believe a woman could be a serious artist.</span><br />
<br />
<span abp="15" style="font-family: "times new roman";">Well, she showed him. A few more steps and she would be in the gallery surrounded by her paintings and the fans who had come from all over the city to meet her.</span><br />
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<a abp="84" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-c5_NOBQT0IIr7GmQplNoTU_RoVu_UTmyWjoOKR7LSVdcy9cDlks2p3IZW_HTvcErWYB8R6q0y8VtaHk7kU_lA_Ni_9iFCK5bphehvekmGb2jlhkt6DKsctuIoV3Q8Ty61dkfRKKMLOk/s1600/fictioneers.01.18.17.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img abp="85" border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-c5_NOBQT0IIr7GmQplNoTU_RoVu_UTmyWjoOKR7LSVdcy9cDlks2p3IZW_HTvcErWYB8R6q0y8VtaHk7kU_lA_Ni_9iFCK5bphehvekmGb2jlhkt6DKsctuIoV3Q8Ty61dkfRKKMLOk/s640/fictioneers.01.18.17.png" width="425" /></a></div>
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<em abp="243">This was written with words from <a abp="357" href="http://www.threewordwednesday.com/2017/01/3ww-week-no-515.html">Three Word Wednesday</a> and photo prompt from <a abp="301" href="https://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/2017/01/18/20-january-2017/">Friday Fictioneers</a>. Photo by <a abp="245" href="https://adelectablelife.com/">Dale Rogerson</a>.</em></div>
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Ann (bunnygirl)http://www.blogger.com/profile/04938134750150653386noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3865412357716508981.post-49934623658540933322016-07-09T17:06:00.001-05:002016-07-09T17:17:50.099-05:00Bitter Season<div abp="1342">
Everything has its season<br />
and the most transient of blooms<br />
can have roots that go deep,<br />
seemingly dormant, <br />
until ripped from the earth.</div>
<div abp="1342">
<em abp="60">Then they bleed.</em></div>
<div abp="1342">
<br /></div>
<div abp="1342">
Love is irrational, </div>
<div abp="1342">
caring nothing for the needs <br />
of hours, <br />
or days, <br />
or proximity,<br />
which is just another word <br />
for the space that comes between</div>
<div abp="1342">
and breaks us apart.</div>
<div abp="1342">
<br /></div>
<div abp="1342">
In a single wild bright moment <br />
I thought I could have it all,<br />
but soon came reason<br />
and bitter truth:<br />
<em>there was more room in my heart</em><br />
<em>than in my life.</em></div>
<div abp="1342">
<br /></div>
<div abp="1342">
Whether I shed another tear,<br />
or throw a tantrum like a child,<br />
nothing past will change.<br />
So I choke back the lump in my throat,<br />
gasp for air,<br />
and curse Ananke<br />
that she left me at my mirror<br />
with my thousand salves and emollients,<br />
preserving what’s left of youth<br />
for a reunion that will never come.</div>
<div abp="1342">
<br /></div>
<div abp="1342">
And now the mandate to myself:<br />
that I should write this down,<br />
lest I fritter away the rest <br />
of an uncertain strand.<br />
For when my tears are spent<br />
and my books are filled,<br />
there will still be much to do,<br />
and I must find my own way <br />
through the dregs</div>
<div abp="1342">
of my illusions.</div>
<div abp="1342">
<br /></div>
<div abp="1342">
<em>This was written for </em><a abp="88" href="http://sundayswhirligig.blogspot.com/2016/07/whirligig-67.html"><em>Sunday's Whirligig</em></a> <em>and M.A. (sixth in a series)</em></div>
Ann (bunnygirl)http://www.blogger.com/profile/04938134750150653386noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3865412357716508981.post-35686112740719901812016-06-29T13:43:00.000-05:002016-07-09T17:18:46.214-05:00RefugeYou did not bring order to chaos,<br />
but you gave me shelter,<br />
preserved my sanity,<br />
(saved my soul)<br />
and taught me not to put my faith<br />
in those who would deceive.<br />
<br />
You could not lead me<br />
through the wasteland,<br />
but you sustained my journey,<br />
propped me up,<br />
gave me what I needed<br />
until I found my guide.<br />
<br />
Possessed of an unruly heart<br />
that would not obey the rules,<br />
you proved love could be<br />
unjealous,<br />
unconditional,<br />
cornucopian.<br />
<br />
<i>You were a well in the desert that never ran dry.</i><br />
<br />
My refuge, my safe harbor<br />
in a sea of queasy dramas,<br />
indiscretions,<br />
night confessions,<br />
and the violent obsessions<br />
that too often passed for love,<br />
you were the small quiet certainty<br />
in the eye of the storm<br />
that was my youth.<br />
<br />
<i>This was written for <a href="http://www.threewordwednesday.com/2016/06/3ww-week-no-486.html">Three Word Wednesday</a> and for M.A. (fifth in a series). </i>Ann (bunnygirl)http://www.blogger.com/profile/04938134750150653386noreply@blogger.com8