© Ayr/Gray
First step? Draw the chalk outline.
Berta sat back on her heels, trying to remember the next step from Baba’s grimoire. She was sure she’d gotten all the right ingredients: white chalk, pint jar of honey, ten pound sack of dirt from Janeesa’s grave. There were words she needed to say, herbs to sprinkle as she said them. Continue reading
© Ayr/Gray
He said they had things to talk about, but she wasn’t having any of it. Hadn’t been having any of it for quite awhile, now that he thought about it. He looked again at the address on the flyer she’d shoved into his hand the minute his lips started moving. Continue reading
Another piece from my alter -ego, Tessa. Thanks Witcraft, for accepting her (my) slightly off-kilter sense of humor.
© Ayr/Gray
Tickets for the early train to Claris City spewed from the printer with a high-pitched whine, one after the other in twos for couples, four for young families, and the occasional single for the middle-aged women, purse draped cross-body, sporty sandals or high-tops broken in and ready for an active day away from the smoking volcano. Continue reading
© Ayr/Gray
From Jenne Gray and C.E. Ayr’s photo prompt, The Unicorn Challenge (02/02/2024). No more than 250 words in length. Otherwise, let your creative flag fly!
I’d had every intention of hopping on the old New Year’s Resolution Fitness Challenge. I’d even signed up for a morning biker’s meetup, unaware that Harleys were the usual ride. Still, they were nice about it, once they stopped laughing. Continue reading
The challenge? Write a story in exactly 6 sentences based on Denise’s one word prompt: GAME. Visit, comment, and write & post your own on Six Sentence Stories
The Two sit across from one another, their gaze held by the flame of a single candle, burning steady and still in the cut-glass candlestick; their relationship had been nothing like, for the past three months. Continue reading
ForJusJoJan24, on Jan 28, 2024, prompt = CONGREGATE (My observation: WTF did this come from?!)
A thin wind blew through the break in the old growth of Whittler’s Forest, a steady sussurus to accompany the rustling of dark wool cloaks and hoods, and the occasional clip of leather boot against loose stone. None dare speak aloud as they wait. Even a muffled cough – for this had been a wet winter and many suffered the wicked catarrh that had carried off so many of their loved ones – was glared at. Continue reading
Writing and Stuff by Chris Hall - Storyteller and Accidental Blogger
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Stories and thoughts about being a queer girl geek in the 21st Century.
