Miss Julie’s Notion

“Okay, class, settle down, now.” Miss Julie smiled and silently screamed on the inside for the third time that day–and it was only nine.

“John, put that away.”

“Margaret, why are you taking out your math book? I said to take out a piece of paper.”

“Yes, Michael, I’m sure today is Friday.”

“Your rabbit had babies last night? That’s nice, Travis… Oh, then she ate three of them… That’s gross. No, I don’t want to see a picture of them.”

“Can everyone settle down, please?”

“Miss Julie?”

“Yes, Mrs. Powers?”

“Principal Howard would like to see you after school.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Powers.”

“Class… class… No, I’m not being sent to the principal’s office. Well, yes, he is the principal, but… Class, pull out a blank sheet of paper, please.”

“No, Holly, it doesn’t matter if it’s lined paper or not.”

“Yes, Hunter, you have to take this, too.”

Miss Julie leaned against her desk and closed her eyes. “I am going to count to ten. Anyone not sitting quietly in their seats–your seat, not anyone else’s seat–with a blank piece of paper–any paper–and a writing utensil–anything you can write with–on their desks will be sent to the principal’s office–now, not after school. Everyone understand?”











Miss Julie opened her eyes and silently screamed. Four students in their seats, three sitting on the floor ready to write on their seats, two looking out the window, one trying to sneak out the back door, and she didn’t want to know what Michael was doing in the back of the classroom near the plant.

“First word in this week’s spelling test… notion. As in, I have a notion to pack my things, leave my keys on the desk, go out to my car, drive to the nearest grocery store, buy their entire supply of peanut butter and chocolate ice cream, then go home, eat until I puke, then start looking for a new job in the morning. Notion.”

FJ Readers

I know there are a few out there reading my current project and as much as I would love to post the last seven chapters, there is no way to safely use a warning or excerpt system where people who don’t want to read certain things can just skip over it (the “read more” option only works on my site and since I get a few “likes” I know everyone is using the reader to read it).


I’m left with either posting the chapters and risk hurting someone or not posting them and leaving readers to wonder what happened (or buy the book when it comes out… ha ha).

I have decided that I cannot post the last seven chapters as they non-graphically delve into some darker themes.

I hope you have enjoyed the story so far and will consider buying it when it comes out later this year (after I have a chance to revise and edit it). Everything will be left up for three more days, then I will be removing the chapters from the blog.

Who knows what next month might bring lol.



Al and Maggie opened All-Nighters shortly after they wed. An instant hit with local office workers for their guaranteed 5-minute lunch service and the after closing time bar patrons for their greasy fries and free coffee, Al and Maggie were never short on customers. No corners cut, no shortcuts taken, they worked diligently as they seasoned their meats to perfection. At first, it was easy to keep up with demand, but soon their reputation grew and so did special requests. They didn’t want to disappoint their customers but also didn’t want to lower the quality of their selection. Maintaining that delicate balance between supply and demand proved too much for Al and he passed, leaving Maggie to decide what to do next. The old place held too many memories for her. Armed only with Al’s cookbook and money from his insurance, she closed up shop and moved. Local diners were disappointed, but it was the customers who were most disappointed. It would be six months before the next meat supply would be ready for harvest, and even then, it would be years before seasoned to perfection.

I took a shortcut (ha ha) and used both Fandango’s Flash Fiction picture prompt and their one word challenge today.


Peter and Karen sat in the kitchen, arguing silently between them as John strolled in from school and threw his backpack on the tiled floor and kicked it into the hallway. Karen scowled at Peter and nodded toward John. Peter shook his head and held up his hands. Karen huffed and kicked him in the shin under the table. “Jonathan Allen Williams, sit down.”

John glanced at his mother and sighed, then closed the refrigerator door and leaned against the counter. “Why?”


Peter sighed while rubbing his shin. “Just sit and get this over with.”

“Whatever.” John sat at the table and rubbed the apple against his shirt, staring at his mother. “What?”

Karen sighed and “We found your stash. Care to explain yourself, mister?”

A brief crunch filled the air as John took a bite of his apple, freezing mid bite. Moments later there was another crunch as he pried off a chunk of apple and slowly chewed as he stared at her. “What stash?” he asked after swallowing.

She flung a brown paper sack on the table, dumping its contents and spreading it out. “This stash. What in the hell are you doing with joints?”

John smirked and glanced toward his dad. He stood and said, “Ask him.”

Karen scoffed and prepared to unleash her fury until she saw the look of shame on Peter’s face.

John left the kitchen laughing, picking up his backpack as he walked down the hall.

Upstairs in his room, John sighed a long, deep sigh of relief as he reached behind his dresser and pulled out a small metal box. He flung his backpack on his bed, pulled out a medium-sized wad of red tissue paper, and smiled. Gently and carefully, as if it were a Christmas present, John unrolled the tissue paper and opened the box. He placed the latest acquisition into the box and counted the severed fingers. “Only three more till this stash is complete.”

Ideal Inspiration Blogger Award

Sadie, over at Keep it Alive, nominated me for this Q&A blog award. Thanks!

As I only have 16 followers and everyone knows everyone else (and me), I won’t be nominating any blogs but I love answering questions.

Here are her questions and my answers:

How much time do you allocate to your blog, daily? I spend about 3 hours a day when I am working writing and some of it ends up on the blog, but I don’t allocate specific time to the blog.

Do you feel positive about the future of the written blogs? As long as there are people, there will be ways of expressing oneself. Whether it’s through blogs, vlogs, or another medium expression will always exist.

What is more important to you regarding your blog; Views, Followers, Comments? As I only have a handful of followers, I can say that is not important (while I wouldn’t turn down more readers lol). My story chapters average 6 views and I still post, so I guess I can say that is not too important either. I enjoy getting comments (especially since I have removed the life button from my actual blog site) but I know almost all my reads are through the reader where it’s easier to leave a like than comment. I get a handful of comments a week and still write, so I guess I can safely say that none of these are important to me.

What types of blogs you are more likely to read? I read creative writing posts more than opinion articles or other traditional blog posts.

How do you think a blogger can inspire others in the blogosphere? Just keep writing.


“You gotta strike when the iron’s hot!”

Brad glanced up as the air hockey puck soared through his goal. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

Phil smirked. “Means I just got a point.”

“Dammit.” Brad pulled the puck out of the slot and tossed it in front of his goal, slamming his paddle into it, sending it sailing toward Phil’s goal. The puck flung back across the table and Brad tapped it gently. “You have too many irons in the fire,” he whispered.

“What?” Phil straightened, lifting his paddle off the table as the puck glided into his goal. He looked down and frowned as he retrieved it from the return slot. “Dammit.” He sighed as he placed it on the table and hit it with his paddle.

The puck flew back and forth between the two friends and neither noticed when Julie stepped to the side of the table. “You can put your iron in my fire,” she said, giggling.

Phil glanced up, asking, “What?” just as his paddle slammed into the puck sending it flying off the table straight toward Julie’s nose.

The only iron any of them saw that night was the iron lung display in the lobby of St. Catherine’s Hospital as they waited for Faith to be released from the emergency room.

The Box

Billy bolted through the back door, the screen closing three times before it latched, and thundered upstairs only to descend the stairs, leaping from the middle step, moments later holding a shoe box.

“Where are you…” Mom stopped mid sentence and looked at Dad, shaking her head. “He’s your son.”

“Ha, don’t blame me.” Dad returned to reading his book.

A few minutes later, Billy and Eddie crept through the back door, trying to hide the shoe box between them.

“Whatcha got?” Mom asked , glancing out the corner of her eye.

Dad winked and grinned as the boys said, “Nothing” in unison.

“If it’s nothing, then why are you trying to hide it?”

Billy and Eddie, straightened and hurried upstairs without responding.

Eddie left for home after supper and Billy went upstairs to get ready for bed.

After his bath, Mom met him outside his door with folded arms. “Okay, mister. What’s in the box.”

Billy frowned and flashed Mom his perfected “Do I have to?” look.

Dad stepped out of their bedroom in his pajama pants and stared Billy down. “Show us.”

Billy sighed and resigned himself to getting grounded. “You won’t like it. I’ll take it back outside and bury it.”

“Bury it?” Mom’s face screwed as she clutched Dad’s arm.

“Um, what do you mean, bury it?” Dad asked.

“We found a really cool looking dead…” Billy opened his bedroom door and froze. His eyes grew as large as saucers and he glanced between his parents and the box. “Um.” He walked over and nudged the topless shoe box. “Where’s the top?” He shook his head and gazed into the shoe box.

“Billy?” Mom said.

Billy nudged the box with his foot and jumped back. “I don’t get it.”

“Son, what is going on?”

“I don’t know, Dad. Seriously, I don’t. We came up here, put the box down, poked it a little, and I swear I put the lid back on when you called us for dinner. But…”

“But what?” Mom asked.

Billy turned and looked at her. “The box is empty.”