Rebecca M. Douglass, Author

My brother set this challenge, based on something he saw in the grocery store... it's a very short flash, just over 250 words.  Harvest Time It wasn’t the farmer’s favorite job. At the end of the growing season, the crop had to be brought in, and it was… disconcerting. Right up to harvest time, the crop was a pleasure to tend. He liked it all, carefully managing the fields, not thinking about the end.   He looked out over the fields now, aware that harvest time was coming fast. There were certain unmistakable signs, a stillness that began to settle over the fields. One more day. Not for the first time, he wished he could pick the time. It was going to be unseasonably warm.   The next morning, the farmer check the crop and called out the harvest crew. Distributing the special rakes, he made the usual speech, with extra urgency.   “We have to work hard to get the harvest in before it spoils in this heat. You know the drill. Into the bin...

It's not exactly the full-length flash-fiction I had hoped to bring you this weekend, but considering I've been putting in full days as the family handyman, it's more than I might have done. A 100-word drabble about someone with a penchant for saying the wrong thing. Open Mouth, Insert Foot  I just wanted to let Karl know that he might be making a fashion faux pas—that rip in the back of his jeans didn’t look intentional. It looked like he’d gotten too close to a barbed wire fence. Someone had to let him know.   Still, maybe I didn’t say it right. Because when I announced that I had a needle and thread and we could fix the tear, everyone stopped talking and stared. At me. Turns out it was a fashion statement after all.   That’s the 212th time this year. Maybe I could earn a living as a contortionist.     ###   Crossing my fingers that by this time next week I'll at least be on my way home, DIY and the weather permitting! ...

This story is from January 2018. Have fun! Garbage Cans   I knew we were in trouble when the garbage cans started moving about on their own.   It just turned out that it wasn’t exactly the trouble I thought we were in. I mean, I spotted them first, and made the usual resolve. You know, to swear off the moonshine, give up the mason jar, and dry out.   The first thing wrong with that reaction was that I don’t drink.   The second thing was that I wasn’t the only one who saw them. Oh, lots of people had noticed that their trashcans weren’t in the same place in the morning as they’d been the night before. There were lots of reasons for that. “It’s raccoons. Those critters will do anything for a meal.” “Teenagers playing pranks.” “Minor earthquakes are vibrating them so that they move about.”   Then there were the whacko reasons: “There are magical fields in this neighborhood.” “It’s the aliens again. I told you they’d be back.” “Pol...

Originally written in 2016, this bit of flash fiction was inspired by a mailbox I saw on a rural road with a winged pig mounted on top. Flying Pig Farm   “I don’t think we’ll ever save enough.” Evelyn didn’t say it to be discouraging. It was a simple statement of fact. That made it worse.   “We’ll find a way.” Barry’s sigh belied his words.   “I do hope so,” Evelyn said with a glance around their cramped apartment. Soot from the trains and factories marked everything, and the street outside was noisy and crowded. “But pigs will fly before we save enough money for even a little farm.”   Barry grinned. “When I prove you wrong, I’ll name our place Flying Pig Farm.” They laughed, and sighed, and Barry took his lunch and went to work.   Barry and Evelyn Thomas were small-town people, but hard times had forced them into the city. After a month or more of doing odd jobs, Barry had landed a place at a factory, and had confidence th...

Here's piece written back in 2016, and touched up a little for today's post. It seemed like a good response to this week's Day of Overeating Thanksgiving holiday.   What’s for Dinner?  Mom’s acting weird. Well, that’s kind of normal, if you follow me, because she’s always weird, but usually she’s weird like wearing strange clothes and working all night on one of those bizarre sculptures she makes. I won’t ever tell her this, but I don’t like them. They have too many jagged edges. They’ll tear holes in you if you get too close. I sometimes wonder if she’s out to destroy someone, or if she just sees the world that way, all jagged. Either way: weird.   But what’s really weird is that she’s started cooking. No more Swanson’s pot pies, and no more trips through the fast food drive-through window. So now, I have to eat what she calls “real food,” which is sometimes pretty unreal, if you know what I mean.   Her idea of real food can get pretty d...

This is a flashback flash fiction piece from 2016, a bit of (maybe) harmless Halloween fun...   Witching Weather   “Fog’s rising.” Jack made the observation in a detached sort of way, not sure if it mattered.   “More fun that way,” Jill answered. If he was unsure about the weather, she was not. She straightened the tall, pointed hat that kept threatening to tumble from her head. “It sets the right sort of mood.”   The boy and girl grinned at each other. Both wore sweeping black robes, rather in the fashion of the students of Hogwarts. A close observer might have even thought they had come from the costume shop, but with the fog settling in and the daylight gone, no one could be sure. Jack wore a silver circlet around his forehead, while Jill sported the afore-mentioned pointed hat.   “At least half the kids will be spooked before we even begin,” Jill said, eyes aglow with excitement.   Jack nodded, seeing her point. “A...

While I'm away, I'm running some flash fiction from years gone by. This story from 2013 came from one of the prompts Chuck Wendig used to run weekly on his blog, Terribleminds.com (I believe it was a random selection of a psychic power). It seems a good choice of story as we approach Halloween, being one of my few ventures into horror (ish) that doesn't turn comic. It's a little long at 1090 words, though I tightened it up a bit. The Choker   I was with Brian when it began. I knew something had happened, but when he said nothing, I let it slide. That was my first and biggest mistake, but we who have these powers are slow to speak of them, and with reason.   Brian had taken me with him to shop for a birthday present for his wife. She liked old jewelry—not necessarily antiques, but old. Brian had seen a shop he thought looked promising. You know the kind: half junk store, half antique shop, where a few good bits may be mixed in with a ton of tra...

Although the WEP group--Write...Edit...Publish--has ceased regular operation, our wonderful leaders brought it back with an October prompt to write about what terrifies us. To see the contributions, check the list on the WEP page .  I've been needing some motivation to write flash fiction, so I'm happy to have this nudge, even if horror isn't my thing.     We are meant to provide a tag-line for the story, so here's mine:  On a gloomy wet day, a writer discovers what is truly terrifying in a world that can seem hostile all around. 835 words, full critique acceptable. True Terror What terrifies you? What makes you shake in your shoes and go watery at the knees? It may not be what you think. I’m afraid of heights. Well, not really heights. I like mountain tops. I just don’t like edges. The feeling that I could fall, and can imagine just what it feels like when I hit the bottom. That’s bad enough, but a person can manage it, mostly by staying away fr...

I'm pretty sure this was originally written in 2015. In any case, it's a semi-fictional account of an actual storm we experienced in Kings Canyon NP that summer. It's a quick read at 360 words. Fear and Trembling in a Tent  It's midnight in the Sierra Nevada mountains, and suddenly we are not sleeping. The weather was pleasant when we went to bed, and two days of hard hiking made it easy to drop off. I wouldn’t have been surprised had I slept soundly all night.   Thor and Odin and the crew have a different idea. The first boom of thunder—if it was the first; it was the first I woke to hear—is loud and close. The flashes of lightning sear the retina even with the eyes closed. We count off the seconds between flash and boom. Do the math. Two miles. One. Half a mile. A quarter. Then: holy shit it’s in the tent!   It isn’t. The mind knows that, because the mind is still there to think about it. But when the gap between lightning and thunder drop...

By next week I'll have some more photos for you, and hope to have some new flash fiction soon, but for now, enjoy this story from 2016. I believe it was a random scenario from a Chuck Wendig flash fiction challenge--I think a pair of characters originally meant to be "he's a... she's a ..., together they save the world" kind of thing. About 1080 words. Attraction of Opposites Saves the World “Maga, can’t you clean up after yourself for once?” Susan shouted her frustration from the living room. “How the dickens can I be expected to do my work when you leave shopping bags everywhere?”   Maga poked her head out of the bedroom. “I like new clothes. And you have to admit I wear them well. You’ll manage.”   “But the furniture doesn’t look so good under all the bags, Maga. And I can’t work if there’s no space. Anyway, with all your shopping, did you ever think to pick up more bananas?”   Maga stiffened, her hair escaping the effort she...