Rebecca M. Douglass, Author

 Since I'm out hiking, it seemed only right that my flashback stories should be from the mountains, as it were. This 770-word gem is from 2016. A Minor Navigational Error   "I'm cold, dear."   "You're always cold. That's the trouble with you females. You can’t handle the weather at all."   "It's July. It shouldn't be this cold here. Are you sure we're in the right place?"   He made an exasperated noise. "Of course I'm sure."   She sighed in her turn. "You're always so certain you are right."   "I am Zeus, after all. A god. Remember?"   Hera hated it when he brought that up. Anyway, she was a god, too. "Well, yes, dear, but..." She didn't finish the sentence. They both knew she was thinking about Leda. That had taken some tricky explanations on his part, and she had really only pretended to believe him. But he'd had to claim it

Astonishingly, I seem to have caught up with my photos, just days before leaving to go collect a whole lot more (watch this space). So this week, and for the next 5 weeks, I'll share a story from the archives for your entertainment and enjoyment.   This particular tale dates back to 2016. 919 words. I'm In Love With A Zombie But He Doesn’t Even Know I’m Alive Look, I’ve been crushing on Armand since the sixth grade. We’re graduating next spring, so that’s pretty much a whole lifetime, in teen years. He’s never liked me back, of course. Why should the cutest guy in the school pay any attention to a geek with pimples? Even if I do have the best brains in our class. Plus I don’t even know if he likes boys.   So I guess I have the best brains except when it comes to crushing on beautiful boys with no brains and 17 girlfriends. I have to admit that’s pretty stupid.   After last month, it’s even more stupid.   You know all about that, of course. There

 I had hoped to have a story for you this weekend, but everything I’m working on has gone too big for flash fiction on the blog. So here are a couple more photos so you don’t forget about me while I’m out having fun.  ©Rebecca M. Douglass, 2023  As always, please ask permission to use any photos or text. Link-backs appreciated. Don't miss a post-- Follow us !

 Photo Credit K.L. Caley I am writing this for the weekly #WritePhoto challenge by KL Caley at New2Writing.com. Read all about it and join in if you'd like! Kind of a fun challenge this time. It's exactly 1000 words. Past the Tower Tommy and Beth stood and gazed up at the tower-topped entrance to the castle grounds, their mouths slightly open. It looked just like they would expect a castle gate to look.    “You think we’re supposed to just walk in?” Tommy tried not to sound scared, but he wasn’t sure he’d managed. Bethy could always tell, anyway. His older sister put her arm around him.   “The letter said this is where we come, and we’ll be starting our new lives.” If Beth worried that the letter was all a fakement, she kept it to herself. Were there such a things as princes and princess these days? They didn’t have anywhere else to go, unless they stayed at the orphanage. The letter said they belonged here. What was the worst that could happen if they

 ... though somehow a whole week went by without a post. I got back from my 5-day writer residency in Oregon, full of excitement about writing and with a ton of work facing me as the listing date for my house approaches. I want to do a report on the residency and share some photos, but that will come next week. For now, I'll give you another bit of fiction from the archives. This story seems particularly appropriate in these unsettled days. It was originally written to a photo prompt, a picture of a gazing ball on top of a fence post.   The World In the Palm of Her Hand All Lissa knew was that she was supposed to save the world. In point of fact, she didn’t really know even that: she’d had a message from some mysterious old man who refused to show his face, exactly according to regulations. The message read, “She has the world in the palm of her hand. Don’t let her drop it.” In theory that left the field so impossibly wide open that there was little hope of finding the right woman,

I went into this one to fix some typos, and it's posting as new--so enjoy a story that is, sadly, still timely. The WEP team has worked incredibly hard all year, and this month we are all taking a break--Write...Edit...Publish... is purely voluntary, with no sign-ups and no one judging anything. I wasn't sure I'd participate, but seeing some others doing so inspired me. I don't think this is the best of my stories, and I haven't worked it over the way I'd like, but I wanted to share something kind of uplifting.  Masked Rosemarie fingered the black silk and feathers, imagining the effect it would have at the party.   The effect it would have had, if there had been a party. It was meant as the finishing touch for the most amazing dress, something Marie Antionette might have worn, at least in Rosemarie’s imagination. Olive and Carlo’s annual New Year’s Eve bash was such a fixture in their set that she’d ordered the outfit right after last year’s party. Before they

This December challenge wraps up the year of artistic inspiration from some great works of art. The WEP is open to all, following the simple rules: 1. SUBMIT your name to the list below on December 1 thru the 15th . Add your link (URL) 2. POST your entry, put WEP is in the TITLE along with The Narcissus badge within your entry. 3. STATE feedback preferences and word count at the end of your entry. 4. READ other entries, giving feedback if requested. 5. SHARE THE CHALLENGE on social media. Tweets are ready on the WEP blog. PLEASE NOTE: ENTRIES CLOSE Dec. 15th @ midnight (NY Time - check WEP blog clock) ALL GENRES WELCOME except erotica - 1,000 words maximum My story for this month's challenge is maybe cheating a little--I didn't write it for the challenge, but I decided that the common understanding of Narcissus and narcissism fits well enough, even if the story doesn't relate to the painting. I wrote this while trekking in Nepal last month, highlighting a character w

 It's time for the bi-monthly WEP challenge. This year's prompts are all from famous paintings, interpretation up to us, of course. Here's the June prompt: WEP Challenge are open to anyone. Post during the 3-day posting window, then link back to the WEP post page, and visit the other writers to enjoy a bunch of great stories! Read more about it here . 920 words, FCA     Great Wave The hooded figure was reported to have visited the same rocky point on the shore every day for a week. Always at high tide, and carrying a large pack. It wasn’t that no one knew who it was; there were no strangers in the tiny coastal town. Nor did anyone wonder about the hood. Any sensible person outside was wearing a hooded rain parka, and rain pants as well. The question everyone was asking was what Mildred Perkins thought she was doing out there in the rain and crashing surf, and what she had in her pack. There was some attempt to speculate that she was engaged in some form of smuggling, but th

I'm off celebrating my youngest son's university graduation. While I'm busy, I hope you enjoy this story from 2015!   The Gods' Own Keeper Osbert Godskeeper scurried across the Great Hall of Chaotica. Orgo and Hempto were fighting again, and Osbert had no desire to get caught between those two. Neither had learned the control proper to a god, and Orgo tended to leak lightning when he got mad. Hempto was worse. He smoked. Not his pipe, which was bad enough--the gods’ herb of choice stunk, as far as Osbert was concerned. But when Hempto was upset, smoke came out of every orifice. It stunk even worse than his pipe, or Chacto the Great's cigars, and it burned. Hempto was a fire god, and nothing but trouble.   When he had reached the far end of the hall and the safety of his office, Osbert’s manner changed. No longer a frightened, scurrying figure, he stood erect and took firm hold of his microphone, scowling fiercely at the battling behemoths.  

 We have an all-new story for you! As a way of warming up for work on the next novel, I hunted up some random story prompts, and found an opening paragraph in my files. That paragraph is pretty much all gone, but it gave me the following story. I would categorize this as comic horror.   A Dangerous Thirst Half mad with the shaking, whimpering, head-throbbing withdrawal, I charged across the room. I would have that drink. I must have that drink, and damn the cost. I could not give up the cup of coffee the bookshelf had taken prisoner. A direct charge at the line of leering, jeering knick-knacks did no good. They closed ranks around the steaming paper cup with its stylized and sanitized green mermaid, and I dared not reach between their ranks to claim my prize. After all, it seemed, my addiction hadn’t yet driven me to utter madness. I deeply regretted buying that bronze statuette of an ancient Greek warrior—he was small, but looked more than capable of using the sword to whack off some