Archive | March, 2014

Carpe Diem #435, Awe

31 Mar

Carpe Diem #435, Awe, our first ”modern” kigo of spring



sun on the maples

my tall stack of pancakes

awaits the bounty



Paleontology 101

30 Mar

Written for:

Sunday Photo Fiction: March 30th 2014

Celebrating their first anniversary this week. Congratulations Al for a job well done.

53 03 March 30th 2014

Paleontology 101

When Dr. Charles Ozgood died, the paleontology community remembered him as an idiot. His life’s work was fodder for laughter and ridicule at digs the world over.

Somewhat of a loner, he had worked on a site for over thirty years. By himself he had painstakingly reassembled “his” dinosaur one bone at a time.

Everyone scoffed at him, insisting that what he built was an assembly of several species but Dr. Oz steadfastly maintained the existence of the squarasaurus.

Nearly fifty years after his death, a monstrous hurricane has left an amazing discovery piled up on the shores of the Pacific Ocean.

With the arrival of these square fossilized eggs the doctor will now be hailed a genius.


Fairie Dance

25 Mar

Written for: Friday Fictioneers .. and my grandson Finnegan Owen

28 March 2014


Copyright-John Nixon

Photo Copyright-John Nixon


Three generations of McCoy’s enter the gnarly woods just before dusk. Five-year old Finnegan happily holding the hands of his Daddy and Grampie. They choose a sturdy branch and sit to wait.

“How do we know they will come?” asks the boy, worry creasing his brow.

“Not to fear” replies Grandpa ” when the air is hot and the moon is right the fairies will dance an Irish jig. It has been that way for as long as these trees have had their roots in this earth.”

In the darkening light, dozens of fireflies begin to appear  and twirl among the trees.


Haight and Ashbury

25 Mar

Written for:

Haibun Thinking: Week 10 – March 25th 2014

Check it out..better yet, why not give it a try ?

© Patricia Ellis McCoy








Photo © Patricia Ellis McCoy

Ray stepped off the bus on the corner of Haight and Ashbury and straight back into the summer of love. In her mind she could almost picture the hippies, men in bellbottom pants and fringed vests, the women in flowing dresses their hair adorned with flowers. She laughed to herself as the tune from John Phillips earwormed its way into her head. So this was where it all began .

She had grown up in a house of women. Grandma, mother, and herself. Mom had never wanted to talk about Ray’s father, only to say that they had been very much in love and that he was buried far away in a place called Vietnam. Grandma would shake her head sadly and refuse to elaborate.

Grandma and mother are both gone now and Ray was left with the daunting task of emptying the old house. In an old trunk she found a faded wreath of flowers and an envelope addressed in her mother’s handwriting with “return to sender” stamped on it. She opened it slowly, feeling like it was an invasion of privacy.

The letter crisp with age was addressed to Paul and spoke of her conception beneath the cypress trees of Golden Gate Park in July 1967.  Her mother a hippie? Was Ray really a flower child ?

With the name Rainbow you would think she would have suspected.

secret of the obvious

not in what you know

but what you believe

It’s on it’s way!!

24 Mar

If you are looking for stories to share around the campfire this summer..I have the book for you !



COMING THIS APRIL! — official date TBA

100 NIGHTMARES by K.Z. Morano is a collection of horror stories written in exactly 100 words and accompanied by a few illustrations.

It takes a brief encounter with death to cause enduring nightmares.

A single well-placed blow could maim you for life…

One well-placed word could haunt you forever.

Micro-fiction is a blade—sharp, swift…

Sometimes it goes for the jugular, killing you in seconds.

Its silver tongue touches your throat and warm blood hisses before you can scream.

Sometimes, the knife makes micro-cuts in the sensitive sheath of your sanity, creating wounds that will fester throughout eternity.

Take my 100 words daily like a slow-acting poison or read them all and die of overdose.

Your call.

It’s your suicide after all.

The Author

K.Z. Morano is an eclectic eccentric… a writer, a beach bum and a chocolate addict who writes anything from romance and erotica to horror, fantasy, sci-fi and bizarro fiction. Over the past few months, her stories have appeared in various anthologies, magazines and online venues. Visit her at where she posts short fiction and photographs weekly.

For more updates on the story collection like K.Z.’s Facebook page



23 Mar

Written for Sunday Photo Fiction

Sunday Photo Fiction: March 23rd 2014

Fog lingering around Dover Western (Cruise) Docks. [Image has been adjusted so it can be seen properly]

Fog lingering around Dover Western (Cruise) Docks. [Image has been adjusted so it can be seen properly]


Maura stood staring into the fog long after the cruise ship had departed. Her parents had planned this trip for over a year. “A second honeymoon”, they had said laughingly.

How was she to tell them of her recurring nightmare? The screams, the water, then the frightening silence? Just that morning, she had awakened sobbing uncontrollably.

Mum and Dad had chuckled when she hugged them goodbye. ” Lordy! It’s just a ten-day cruise.” her Dad had quipped.She was surprised by the taste of blood in her mouth as she turned to walk away and realized that she had bitten her tongue out of fear.

On her way home the stress and fatigue began to get the better of her. She did not notice until the last second that the lorry in front of her had stopped. She hit the brake pedal and swerved to miss it. Her car screeched to the left and spun through the air like a top, landing on its roof in the water filled ditch where she drowned before she could be rescued.



20 Mar

Haibun Thinking: Week 9 – March 18th 2014

Golly, did I hear you say you would be free if you could?

Gussy the Goose, Charlotte’s Web (2006)


At the age of fifteen, I discovered my freedom where it had been buried all along; hidden inside me behind the fear and lack of self-worth.
That bitter cold November day, I saw my father for the first time for what he truly was. A cowardly bully who vented his alcohol-fueled rage upon his children. He would often tell us that we were a great disappointment to him and it was his shame that caused him to drink. He abused us because we deserved it.
On that day, he raised his hand to me for the last time. Without a word, I walked upstairs to the bedroom and called the police. Of this I am not proud. What kind of daughter sends her father to jail?
But something else happened that day. I stopped allowing him to victimize me and in some strange way I think he respected me for it.
teenager discovers within
the secret to freedom
independence day
Freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose,
Nothing don’t mean nothing honey if it ain’t free,
“Me & Bobby McGee”


Up or Down ?

19 Mar

Written for: Friday Fictioneers

21 March 2014

Copyright -Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Photo Copyright -Rochelle Wisoff-Fields


Diagnosed with terminal cancer, Pam  decided to forgo any treatment and enjoy the time she had left. She spent some nights pondering the afterlife. Would she go to Heaven or Hell?

She remembered the dollar she had stolen from  Mother’s purse, the time she hit her little brother, when she lied to get a job.She also recalled baking for charity, caring for her elderly Grandma, clearing snow for her neighbour.

When she died she found herself in an elevator which had no buttons. The doors closed and it  slowly began to move..

Vlad’s End

16 Mar

Written for: Sunday Photo Fiction: March 16th 2014

51 03 March 16th 2014

Vladmir had been told of the rumors that there was an assassination attempt planned against him. Which country was behind it? Truthfully, many world leaders would rejoice upon his demise. Vlad chuckled to himself “they underestimate my intelligence, those unworthy opponents”.

He knew that  undetectable poisons could be introduced into food and drinking water so he had peasants brought in from the fields to taste all foods and drinks before being served to him. The poor were, after all, expendable. Body guards surrounded him day and night.

After a month of near fanatic behaviour, Vlad sat upon his toilet and wondered to himself if he was perhaps a little too paranoid, then proceeded to wipe his backside with toilet paper laced with a deadly bacteria.


Beneath The Boardwalk

12 Mar

Written for: Friday Fictioneers

14 March 2014


Photo copyright – Adam Ickes

The smell of her decay permeates the scrub brush where he has dumped her body.



All manner of beast dine upon her flesh by the pale moonlight.

Meanwhile her jilted lover, sated by his revenge, slips between his sheets and drifts off to sleep.

She visits him on that night and every one thereafter, her piercing blue eyes turning red as she rips him to pieces beneath the boardwalk.

The screams of anguish that awaken him

are his.