Tag Archives: #carrotranch

Another Person’s Trash

Another Person’s Trash

“Every Wednesday Mom insists I take her to the Sally Ann after morning Bingo,” I said with a deliberate eye roll.

“You say ‘Thrift Store’ with a pejorative connotation.”

“It’s all junk and every time we go, she stops at the tables filled with odds and ends left by the dead. How many quasi-fine China teapots and cups does an 82-year-old woman need.”

“Come on Sis, you know she collects that shit. Don’t you recall summer weekends being dragged from yard to yard? All those treasures she plucked from unsuspecting sellers put us through college.”

“Hmmm… Whatcha doing Saturday?”


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9. Revenge: The Shadow Woman 1

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9. Revenge: The Shadow Woman 1

Lilith fretted. She was comfortable skirting the periphery. Biding her time and studying the beast. Plotting how to best secure its loyalty. She needed it to support her primary mission.

Years had faded since she last saw him but not her memories. His captivating charm, the lost hours and waking up disoriented. His voice mocking as she stumbled dazed and half-naked into the corridor.

He was the real predator, worse than this unholy beast. Still, she clung to her script, leaving the dark recesses unprepared could prove severely disastrous.

“Show yourself,” the beast snarled. Slowly the shadow woman emerged.


The Revenge Series


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Busted

Busted

Doris lay in the dark. Something had jolted her from slumber. Its source, elusive in that waking haze. The pungent smell of booze was strong enough to induce drunkenness. There again, the squeaky hinge she’d asked Artie to oil.

A bolt of electricity radiated outwards to the tip of each tiny hair standing on end. Carter was asleep down there! She prodded Artie but the oaf might as well be dead. She bounded downstairs grabbing the kitchen broom en route.

Pushing through the door she was greeted by Carter half outside, her ass up, legs dangling from the ceiling-level window.


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Penal Colony 99

Penal Colony 99

Trapped inside this pressurized pod, small and insignificant against an endless regolith ocean.

There was a time in history when the unsavory were banished. Prisoners to an island, yet free to start again.

There are two states of existence on the ‘dark’ side. The ghostly gray of day and the almost black on black of night. This is my Australia. No new beginnings, only reflections on the coming end. Still, every rotation I sip on weak replicated tea watching the light creep across an unchanging moonscape until it falls off a distant horizon and I drift into darkness again.

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Another Bad Day

Another Bad Day

Today was difficult. I was completely blindsided by what was to come. If I’d known I’d have stayed in bed.

The day unfolded in layers like a sad country song. I’m sure the dog would have run away if I had one.

My heart pounded, sweat beaded on my forehead. I cried and screamed and sobbed in anger and anguish.

As I sit here alone, the sun long set, I put all of it into a bubble and blow it up and away. As I watch it drift upwards I feel my body relax. Tomorrow is a new day.

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What the Duck!

What the Duck!

Bobby sat at the riverbank looking at her phone when she grabbed a nearby duckling and popped it between two slices of bread.

Angelina watched in horror as Bobby started to bite down on the quacking sandwich. “What’re you doing!?!?”

To the duckling’s relief, she pull the sandwich out and said, “Research for Carrot Ranch’s writing challenge.”

Angelina shot her a confused look…

See it says, “Write a story explaining why you ate baby ducks for lunch.”

“Ummm, no Bobby, it says ‘…explain baby ducks ate my lunch.’ You really need new strategies to keep your dyslexia in check!”

Disclaimer: No ducks or ducklings were harmed during the writing of this ridiculous piece of fiction.

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Hayin’ Season

Late June in Ontario, Dad’s station wagon pack and pointed northward. It was hayin’ season on my Uncle’s farm and for the next week it was all hands on deck.

Riding the fields, we’d watch our fathers, row upon row, hooking the rectangular blocks emerging from the contraption sandwiched between tractor and trailer, neatly stacking the bales, back to front.

Somewhere in the middle we’d play in the hayblock forts fashioned for us while they toiled in the midday sun.

As always, the harvest would come to an end but we wished we could live on the farm forever.


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Not Me

My heart races as the world closes in. Periphery blurring to gray as my jaw tightens. The room seemingly devoid of air. Fingertips numb and tingling, I clutch at the pain in my chest…

Embarrassed and disoriented, I wake to the voices of the paramedics. As I recover I downplay the significance but inside I’m freaking out. Could I have had a heart attack at 27?

After several hours in the ER, the doctor shares his diagnosis, “Your heart looks good, I suspect it was an anxiety attack.”

“Me, panic?” I reply. “Not a chance. You better check again.”


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A New Day

Today.
A new day.
Starting over,
again.

It doesn’t matter.
I’ll continue,
day after day.
Hopeful,
this time will
be different.

It won’t,
I know better, but
I have to try.
If I don’t I’d be 
admitting defeat.

The sun rises –
and sets –
and rises –
and sets –

I wake up,
it’s still there.
In my chest,
in my bones.
Always there, like
background noise.

Still,
you haunt me.
I can’t,
I won’t,
let you go.

The new moon –
waxing –
full –
waning –

I close my eyes,
it’s still there.
Each heart –
beat / beat / beat
A reminder I’m
only half alive.

It should have
been me,
not you,
laid shallow (sigh)
on that hill.

The seasons –
Become years –
Strung into decades –
A lifetime –

Today.
A new day.
Starting over,
again.

Originally posted for critique at Carrot Ranch Literary Community‘s
Saddle Up Saloon: Anyone Can Poem with Chel Owens.
Photo credit: Brett Sayles via Pexels.
Copyright 2021 Greg Glazebrook, All Rights Reserved.

The Lost Craft

Dale watched her grandfather rebuilding the lawnmower. Moments earlier the machine groaned as the blades crashed against the garden’s rocky edge.

“Pass the wrench.” Grandpa hollered.

Dale grabbed the tool from the kit running her hands along the time-weathered edges. She was certain her grandfather had taken this instrument into battle on many occasions.

The worn surfaces fit her grandfather’s hand perfectly. He wielded it with precision, as though it were an extension of his arm. Any hope the chores were done dashed as she supervised her Grandpa’s work. She knew the machine would be running in no time.

Written for Carrot Ranch Literary’s November 18 Flash Fiction Challenge. (Theme: Tools, Count: 99)
Photo credit: Oxa Roxa via Unsplash.
Copyright 2021 Greg Glazebrook, All Rights Reserved.