Neither Snow Nor Rain Nor Heat Nor Gloom Of Night

Written for this challenge – Gracias Sr. Mosey

It was midafternoon on a hot day in July. Cooper and Max were hanging out together, waiting for the Postman and wishing they had something cool to drink.

Max scratched the hair on his chin and then turned his attention on Cooper, “So, whatcha think, Coop? You in?”

“I dunno, Max; it kinda goes against everything I was raised to believe. I’m just not sure I can do it.”

“Jeeze, Cooper.” Max snarled, “He’s a Postman. He expects this stuff. This is the kind of shit we were born for. If you don’t do this, I will. Look here he comes now,” the postman rounded the corner a couple of doors down, “and he’s walking. Perfect.”

“Max, you might be bred for this…”

“What’re you saying, Coop? You better consider the consequences if you’re gonna trash talk me.”

No, Max. I don’t mean any disrespect, but man – let’s face it. You’re half Doberman and half Pit Bull. Me? I’m a Sheep Dog.”

“I’m ¾ Pit Bull, and let’s face it. That’s the beauty of this plan. He’s not expecting you to bite him. He’s expecting me to do that. Put your game face on. Growl, bark, and charge him. When you get there take a big chunk outa his leg. You can do this.”

Cooper nodded his head and raised the hackles on his back. The growl started deep in his belly and he began moving toward the hapless Mailman. He picked up speed as he moved forward. He barked. He barked again. When he was close enough, Cooper leapt and hit; knocking his target to the ground. The mailman was now on his butt, scooting backwards and away from his attacker as quickly as he could. When he fell further and was flat on his back Cooper stood on his chest. The letter carrier closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable. Cooper wagged his tail.

“Hi,” he said, “I’m Cooper, I’m a dog. Do you have any dog treats in that big bag?”

“Damn it, Cooper,” shouted Max from the driveway. “That was disgusting. You make me ashamed to be a dog.” He turned and hightailed it away from the scene of the crime.”

  1. Did David definitely dance down Devon, dear?
  2. If you don’t do this, I will…
OLWG · writing

OLWG#125- Dancers

 Written for OLWG#125

Trillian had always dreamed of being a dancer. She convinced her father to enroll her in ballet at the tender age of eight and she studied under Miss Jenny until she was twelve. It’s hard for a girl to be raised by a single parent, especially when that parent is a father who knows little about raising girls. He tried hard though.

Starting high school she learned that she could take “Dance” instead of PE. She was all over that option, and took Dance all four years of high school. She learned the history of dancing. She studied the Minuet in 3/4 time, and learned to Waltz. They taught her movements that could be incorporated with jazz music, country music, swing, and rock n roll. She learned dances from South America, Eastern Europe, Africa and Asia among others, but everything seemed like only an intro; nothing was covered in any depth.

There was one male in the class; a tall thin boy with long dark hair, and a freckled face named Martin Bacon. He was strong enough to lift, catch and carry any of the girls in class. He could assist with leaps, promenades and supported pirouettes. Trillian was smitten. So were several of the other girls in class.

Trillian fought for him and on the eve or their high school graduation she and Martin eloped. She took his name and was thrilled to be Mrs Martin Bacon.

The young couple couldn’t afford a honeymoon, so Martin got a job right away, at the factory, building sofas and love seats. He was trying to work his way into the design department.

Trillian found herself “with child” when the pair had been married less than a month and her dreams of being a dancer were dashed. By her own calculations Trillian had been pregnant at the wedding. Six months later she gave birth to a 7 pound 11 ounce baby girl. They named the child Faith.

As she grew up – Faith, like her namesake before her, learned to dance; and oh how she could dance. She made her mama proud.

The Original Faith Bacon (1909-1956), la donna più bella del mondo secondo Florenz Ziegfeld, è stata in origine l’ideatrice della fan dance.

The prompts were:

  1. Miss Jenny
  2. there has to be a better way
  3. the lady with the fan

OLWG · writing

OLWG#124- Billy, Roxanne, and the Pirate

 Written for OLWG#124

He worked with the paper and pencil. The tip of his tongue protruded from the corner of his mouth.

“Whatcha doin’, Billy?”

“I don’t need any help, Roxanne.” He said to his sister, twisting his sketch pad to the left and then back to the right.  He spun his pencil and tapped the rubber on the tabletop. He spun it back then turned the page and found a new blank sheet of paper. He glanced down at his lap.

“What are you trying to do?”

“Get into art school, I’m gonna do it too.”

“You are not, Billy. You’re not old enough for art school.”

“There’s no special age for it, and it’s free”

“No way.”

“Way!” he reached down to his lap and pulled up a sheet of paper, obviously torn from a magazine. He showed it to her, “see, it’s from The Art Instruction School in Minny, Minny apple less. All I gotta do is draw this pirate, and mail it in before the end of the month. I’ll be famous before I’m a teenager.”

Roxanne blew a raspberry into the palm of her hand, “You’re such a dork, Billy. It’s some kind of trick. Can’t you see that?”

He said not a word, but collected his sketch book and pencil. He climbed down off the chair and headed for the hallway. At the last minute he came back and snatched the page from the magazine back off the table. He tucked it between the sheets of his pad. Roxanne watched as he walked down the hallway and into his bedroom. She heard the door close and the lock turn. Shrugging her shoulders, Roxanne picked up the telephone receiver and dialed a number. It was a number that she knew by heart. Humming to herself, she waited while it rung at the other end.

“Oh, good afternoon Mrs Bradford, this is Roxanne Cole. May I speak with Trish please?”

The prompts were:

  1. not a place for good boys / girls
  2. I don’t need any help
  3. The cutest

OLWG · writing

OLWG#123- Three Degrees

 Written for OLWG#123


Gilda pulled the fox fur collar higher up on the back of her neck and eased through the back door of the caboose, then closed it behind her. She stood on the deck and leaned on the horse head cane that her daddy had given her. She breathed deeply of the cool mountain air, as hills and trees raced past in the opposite direction. Mostly a mix of Pine and Aspen. The Pines stood tall on the ridges. The Aspen huddled in the gorges and sheltered areas, where they were most comfortable.

She watched the landscape dance by in time with the rhythmic clack of the wheels. Soon enough, the snow began. The train continued to climb until they were high enough for the snow to dust the rails behind them, she tossed the cane and used only the curved safety railing for support. When the snow began covering the wooden sleepers that supported the rails she stepped quietly off the back of the train. No one noticed.

Gilda never arrived in Denver, she never met the rancher who waited there to meet her.


It was early morning in Denver when the last train pulled away from the platform and Ben Vega, who worked at the station, began extinguishing the gaslights illuminating the platform. He noticed a well-dressed man seated at the far end of the platform holding a small bouquet of wildflowers. Drawing closer he recognized the man as the owner of a mid-sized spread situated higher up in the surrounding mountains, The Alemán Ranch.

Colton Alemán was a cattleman whose family had been ranching in these parts for years. Drawing closer to the rancher, Ben noticed the man was crying. He sat down on the rough-hewn bench and put his hand on the rancher’s shoulder.

Alemán had ordered a bride from back east. Maybe she hadn’t made it this far west. Maybe something had happened.

They sat that way for a few moments before Vega took a deep breath and spoke, “Station’s closing Colton. You can’t stay here.”

Alemán said nothing but nodded his head, he stood and started walking down the platform to leave.”

Maybe she’ll get here tomorrow, Colton. Come back tomorrow. I’m sure she’ll be here tomorrow.”


Ben had been in Denver for less than a year when he began working for the railroad. He took the job of sweeping the platform and taking out the trash. He would also do odd jobs for the stationmaster. When he wasn’t working he would ride out to the Hilton’s place. They ran a large Stage Stop on the plains East of Denver offering food, drink and lodging to the stagecoach passengers and staff. Ben would go there because it was far enough away that he wouldn’t be recognized.

Ben would get all liquored up on that roadhouse whisky and moan about his true love, back East. She was the reason he’d come to Denver in the first place. Her daddy had refused to permit them to be wed. Ben was too coarse a man, too vulgar for his daughter, Gilda.

Gilda deserved better than the likes of a Vega boy. He wouldn’t hear of it.

The prompts were:

  1. Roadhouse whisky
  2. a horse head cane
  3. he was crying

OLWG · writing

OLWG#122- Short Form Verse

 Written for OLWG#122

American Sentence

An approximation of pi needn’t be exact, just round it up.


What Is It?

Is it Lust? Is it
Love? Am I smart enough to
know the difference?



A chill climbs my spine
Cool air rises from the grave
Your eyes lock with mine-
Across the pit we connect
Each of us buried a friend

The prompts were:

  1. round ‘em up
  2. am I smart enough to know the difference?
  3. burying my friends


Never Play Cards With a Man Called Doc

I wrote this for the Tuesday Writing Challenge at Go Dog Go Café

I pushed through the swinging doors of The Nugget Saloon looking for a card game but sidled up to the bar to get a read on the establishment first.
“What’ll it be?” the barman asked.
“Whiskey and a beer.”
Before we could continue our discussion there was a ruckus at one of the tables. A cowboy stood quickly, knocking his chair down as he pulled a gun, apparently because he had lost a big hand. He was quickly dispatched by a gambler with a fast draw on the other side of the table. The barman excused himself and went to drag the dead ranch hand out the back door. He told one of the girls to go fetch the doc and then busied himself cleaning up the remaining blood on the floor. There wasn’t much mess on the chair or the table so a mop erased the scene relatively quick.
I went to take the seat that had just been vacated and signaled the barman to send my drink over to the table.
The five remaining players nodded their assent as I pulled out the chair with a questioning look on my face as if asking, “Mind if I sit in?” I introduced myself, “I just came in on the two o’clock stage. Name’s Chance,” I said, “Doc Chance.”
Three of the men sitting at the table pushed their chairs back, scooped up their cash, stood and left. The other two remained sitting, but shaking their heads.
The guy to my left finally pushed away from the table too. “Sorry, Doc,” he said as he stuffed his winnings into his pockets and stood, “I just can’t do it.” He walked to the door.
Last guy leaned back. He was the one who had shot the cowboy, “not much of a game with only two players,” he said. He picked up my beer and downed it, “I’m willing to wait if you are, Doc.”

Write anything around the theme or words: Trapped in my ancient fear

Carrot Ranch · writing

Who, Exactly was Yvette Bouchard?

I wrote this for the September 26th Flash Fiction Challenge

Yvette accepted the post-coital Cohiba offered by the bearded writer from La Plaza Vieja. He was writing his memoir. She tucked the bed linens around her waist, leaned back against the worn headboard, and told him about France, her life before la Habana. Before coming to Cuba.

He listened carefully as she smoked and wove her tale, “… But Paris was a very old city and we were young and nothing was simple there, not even poverty, nor sudden money, nor the moonlight, nor right and wrong nor the breathing of someone who lay beside you in the moonlight.”

The prompt: In 99 words (no more, no less) write a story about someone unremembered. Is it a momentary lapse or a loss in time? Play with the tone — make it funny, moving, or eerie. Go where the prompt leads you!