Character Witness

Offered my hand, his dog cowers.


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New story

I have a new story titled “Nonverbal Communication” in 50-Word Stories today. If you read it and like it, I’d really appreciate a like-click.

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Three New Stories

Hello all, and long time no updates. Since I last posted on this blog, I’ve had three new stories published. One’s a 100-word micro about crayon drawings crawling down off the fridge, titled “Understudies,” and now hosted by 101 Fiction. The other two are flash tales, the second of which just posted today: “Afromosia Wakizashi,” […]

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Floral Arrangement

I have a new story on 50-Word Stories, titled “Floral Arrangement.” This one grew out of a #vss365 prompt for which the prompt word was #riddle, so not only does this one concern a riddle, it’s kind of a riddle itself. It appears to have already stumped one reader on the site.  

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Road Mage

…. Hexed against right turns, they’d loop until they ran out of gas. Then they’d walk in circles. ….

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Constellations in Mourning

By Graham Robert Scott The morning after Sandy Hook, I drove my boy to a birthday party. He was seven, same as some Sandy Hook kids. “The flags aren’t up all the way,” he observed. Texas wears a lot of Old Glory, now a constellation in mourning, flag after flag bowing low. “It’s all the…

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As her key catches and turns the lock, she spots his face in a downlight, end of the hall.

Instant recognition. In a beat, she’s in. Throws the deadbolt, reviews decisions.

Fanfic about bad boys of crime? Okay. But next time? None about men still living. Men uncaught.

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Animatronic taxidermy. The new bougie thing to do with their beloved. God, Hector wanted out of door-to-door sales.

“Oh! Don’t mind him,” his host said. “Never met a lap he didn’t like.”

On his thighs, the thing rolled onto its back, waggled its paws: pet my belly.

Hector’s churned.

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A Raging Fire

The library carries old rituals, shelved in wafer-thin booklets.

He checks out a pictorial history of London, the ritual to cure erectile dysfunction secreted within. Its magic doesn’t work, but the painting of the Great Fire of 1666 does.

Great. Another thing to be embarrassed about.

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Taking the podium for her turn at the campus Big Read, fifty peers below, she spots the word debut two lines into her first page. Fear surges. She’s seen the word before, but has never heard it pronounced.

Then she recalls Matthew Mercer’s sigil: missteps don’t define you; strengths do.

Emboldened, fortified, she conjures her voice and speaks.

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