Almost Time

Storm Approaching Naama Yehuda

(Photo: Na’ama Yehuda)


The skies darkened. A distant rumble rolled.

She stared out the window and tried to suppress the nub that tugged and pulled and nibbled at her innards. The others seemed oblivious. But she knew.

It was almost time.

She’d foreseen it.

They had dismissed her premonitions. Her knowledge of things hidden. How what she willed, was.

The clouds gathered. Answering her call.

Her mind wobbled under their layered, quickened swirl. From the effort of control.

A flash of movement.

A voice.

“Come away from the window, Ms. Bentley,” Nurse Tabitha manifested at her elbow. “It is time for your medicine.”




For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers.

(And how fun that you chose to use my photo! 🙂 )


Lost And Found

(Photo: Cameron Stow on Unsplash)


They said she was wanton.

That from a child she’s been, capricious.

Her mom would sigh. Her father, frown.

They loathed how she refused to bow.

Ungovernable. Resisting.

She was, to them,

A moral stain.

A failure

In contrition.

They had stopped speaking to her

Till she had learned submission.

The wayward daughter of the tribe.

The one who lost

Her compass.

Only they none of them knew


In shunned space,

She finally


Life scrumptious.




For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: wayward in 77 words



Photo: Sue Vincent


They called her Allegiance.

Contract and insurance, she was. Revered and guarded, both.

So well revered and so well guarded, in fact, that with time she became almost forgotten and had turned more a symbol than a soul. She sometimes wondered if she was in that way not too dissimilar to many of her kind through time, even if they had been so for far shorter spans.

Women often were made ornamental. Used as symbolic pawns, utilized as cementers of allegiances, then blamed for those that broke.

It helped her feel less lonely, knowing that even in her immortal isolation she was still in some way a member of a community of others who’d been perched into positions, as she was, without much of a choice. Possessions and producers, keepers of the continuity of power, serfdom and thrones.

They called her Allegiance.

And she sat in her fortified tower, aware of the two rows of guards: One row looking out against any who may get it in their minds to sabotage, the other row looking in against any indication that she may get it in hers to leave.

They needn’t have worried. At least not about her.

There was enough of misery without adding heads to spikes in any kind of rebellion, where those most likely to be harmed were those least likely to have been given part in the decision.

She accepted her place. A figurehead to keep the heads of others firmly on their shoulders and their children’s hearts safer from the sorrows of orphanage and war.

So she stayed.

As centuries passed, those who’d placed her there took less care with guarding her and the promises she’d represented. The tower crumbled. The guards played cards and drank and slept and grew lazy, and she took comfort in knowing that at least this meant they weren’t in battle. Even if she shivered, windowless, her walls crumbling all around.

Perhaps, she thought, as winds whistled and the stories of her had become lore printed onto metal plaques for tourists to ignore, it was all as it should be.

Perhaps one day there will not be a need.

Perhaps one day allegiances will be built-in, rather than built-up and set with guarded fences that time and lassitude and apathy were certain to erode.

Till then, Allegiance waited.

For the moment, the ruins of her tower stood.



For Sue Vincent’s WritePhoto




Prompt photo: Pixabay


They were going to put them there to remember, they said. To frame the recollections of the community, so none of what had happened be forgotten. That’s what they said.

It was meant as a memorial of sort, they said. A referendum of the eye. Intended to draw the faces upwards and lend a sense of a somber chaos, carefully controlled.

Perhaps it was all that. Yet it was so much more.

For the installation was also meant to keep the chairs out of reach. To take away the possibility of seating. To have people stand and look and move on, rather than linger or make themselves oh-too-comfortable. Again.

Because it was the idleness – those in power believed but did not say – that had led to the gatherings and speeches and protests and that weekend party-turned-riot. People got too comfortable in using public spaces as if those were a right rather than a privilege. They sat. They lingered. They huddled together and began to think they should have the power to decide how they passed their spare time, where and who with they sat. Mutiny, it was.

The police were sent to squash it.

And put all the chairs up.



For Donna’s Sunday Photo Fiction prompt

Roll Control

handbrake SmadarHelperinEpshtein

Photo: Smadar Halperin-Epshtein


When the push

Comes to shove

And a full stop


Put a rock

‘Hind to lock

So any roll

Is suspended.



For the Tuesday Photo Challenge: Roll



The Fence

Photo: © Russell Gayer


“We don’t go There,” Mama always warned. “Ever.”

“There” was beyond the fence. Where the embankment locked in perpetual shadows and where the yellow cliffs rose shining in the sun and where the scary things lived and mortal danger was certain to find you.

As a child I never questioned the relative flimsiness of the wire fence and how it possibly prevented such pervasive awfulness from invading the compound.

It wasn’t until much later that it occurred to me to wonder whether both the fence and its electric bite were there to keep us in.



For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers


Loose Control



When details crowd you in — take a step into quiet.

When to-dos heap on tasks — take a moment, be still.

When emotions flood senses — take a breath, shed a tear, find your laughter.

When frustration creeps in — let it be, let you be, let it roll.

Relax the hold

Of control.

When minutia takes over the foreground — lift your soul, find horizon.

When time flies beyond call — stop the clocks.

Let it slide.

Let the the mess have a corner.

Let it go.

It is fine.

Life will flow.

Take a breath.


The grip

Of control.



For The Daily Post


On The Matter Of Monsters

Angelika Scudamore - monsters under bed scene “monsters under bed scene”


Zane’s mother looked exhausted. I asked her if all was well.

“He won’t go to sleep unless I’m with him, he is taking forever to fall asleep and waking me up several times every night,” she sighed. “It is exhausting.”

“How come?” I asked, looking from the preschooler to his mother.

“It’s the monsters,” he chirped to clarify.

“For the hundredth time, Zane,” his mom exasperated, “there is no such things as monsters and there are certainly none in your room!”

“Is too!” his lower lip tightened in determination then began to tremble.

Zane’s mom took in a long breath and mouthed a silent “help.”

I smiled gently. The matter of monsters comes up often. Many young children–especially between four and six years of age–go through a period where they fear monsters. Under the bed, in the closet, behind the curtains/desk/wardrobe/chair, camouflaged among the stuffed animals on the top shelf … At the age where imagination and reality can merge and the veil between what’s real and what could be is thin, many children find the dark ominous and fear the parting with parents for the night and being left to their own thoughts and imagination. They are often too young to verbalize what it is they fear, exactly, but the feelings are still there: scary, dark, sneaky; the territory and making of monsters.

Scared or fearing to become so, they plead, coerce, and cry for their parents to stay and make sure they are okay.

Some are reassured by the adult checking under bed or dressers. For others, securing the closet door closed can suffice. However, for many, the fear remains in the ‘what if’ category: “what if the monster comes later?”, “what if the monster opens the door?”, “what if it is invisible and you can’t see it?”, “what if it just pretending to be my shoes but it will scare me later?”

Perception, reality, and belief make a sticky trio; and declaring monsters nonexistent rarely helps. To many children–as with Zane–this only makes the fear grow further and adds frustrated loneliness onto it, making nighttime doubly scary.

Zane’s mother needed her sleep. Zane needed his to feel safe. It was time to bring out the ‘big guns.’

I looked at the boy. A messy head of curls, brown piercing eyes under thick brows, a smattering of freckles on a button nose, wide lips, and a tongue that likes to slip out during speech and activity regardless of whether its presence is required (the tongue thrust being the main reason he sees me for speech-therapy).

The little boy regarded me. He needed to ascertain whose side I was on. “I have monsters,” he announced, “under my bed.”

“Yikes,” I replied. “This sounds scary.”

He smiled and turned to glare victoriously at his mommy.

She looked at me with uncertainty.

“You also see monsters!?” he checked, suddenly a bit wary of the possibility. Monsters being real is one thing. Monsters being REAL is quite another.

“Nah,” I shook my head. “But you say you do, so maybe they are there.”

He nodded quickly.

“What do they look like?” I wondered aloud.

“I don’t know!” he exclaimed. “They are hiding under my bed and it’s dark.” He followed that obvious fact with an ‘adults-can-be-so-thick’ look.

“Oh.” I demurred. “What if you turn on the light?”

“You can’t see them in the light. They do magic.”


“If I go to sleep by myself they will come and get me,” he warned. “Mommy says they not there but they are.”

“Well then,” I breathed. “I’m not in your house and I haven’t seen them, but just in case they are there, have you tried telling them you don’t want them there?”

“They don’t know English,” he responded.

“They don’t?” I let my voice rise some.

“No!” he explained, “they only speak Monster.”


He nodded sagely.

“…and they eat children,” he added for emphasis, then his eyes grew big with fright at the possibility of his own words and he backpedaled, “…um, maybe … if they really hungry.”

“We can’t let that happen,” I said.

He nodded again, reached for my hand.

I squeezed his little palm in reassurance. Children may be small but their fears can still be big, and their imaginations; bigger.

“Good thing we know what to do,” I stated.

He looked at me hopefully.

I pursed my lips in contemplation. “Have you tried Monster Spray?”

“Monster Spray?” This sounded intriguing.

“Yeah. They hate the stuff. Makes their noses itch.”

His eyes grew again, this time with wonder. He looked at his mom, clearly expecting her to know everything there is to know about sprays and all manner of remedies.

She raised her palms up in bewilderment and gave me an ‘I hope you know what you are doing’ glare.

“It works every time,” I reassured both of them.

“What’s Monster Spray?” Zane asked. “Mommy, you have to listen, too,” he ordered. “Because you didn’t learn it yet.”

I swallowed a chuckle. I was waiting to see how he would get back at her for not believing him that monsters waited under his bed waiting to eat children (maybe … if they really hungry…).

“It’s a spray and it makes monsters go away. It smells the same as an air freshener or perfume. The monsters don’t know the difference,” I said meaningfully. Mom’s eyebrows lifted and the corner of her month twitched a bit. Good. One aboard.

“Like in the bathroom?” Zane’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“Sort of. Doesn’t have to be the same one, though. You can pick any scent you like. They hate all of them. Makes their noses itch. Here is what you have to do. You listening?

He was.

“First, you find a spray that smells good to you. Mommy can help you choose. Next you make a sign that says “Monster Spray” and you tape it on the bottle …”

He nodded in approval. It was important to label things. Especially when it came to monsters.

“…and before you go to sleep you spray a bit under your bed, and if you want you can spray a little in the air, and that’s it. If the monsters are there they will say: ‘Oh, no, Monster Spray, we better come another day!’ and they’ll go away.”

Zane’s jaw hung open in delight. “For really?”

“Yep,” I nodded. “Works every time. If there are monsters there, they’ll run away from the monster spray.”

“What if they come tomorrow?”

“If they come another day, they’ll have to deal with more monster spray … and they’ll say: ‘Oh, no, Monster spray …”

“… better come another day!” he completed, his eyes shining.

“So we’ll have to do this forever?” Zane’s mom. I could sense her wariness about committing to nightly spray-bottle battles till Zane was in college.

“Oh, no,” I clarified. “You see, once you do it a few times, if the monsters come again they will say: ‘Oh no, more Monster Spray; we better go another way.’ They hate this stuff so much, they will tell all their monster friends to go another way!”

“Better go another way!” Zane clapped his hands, intoning, “Oh, no, Monster Spray; better go another way! Hey!” he paused, “Spray-way!” he lisped. “It rhyme!”

“It does indeed!”

“Spray, spray, go away,” Zane sang to himself and doodled as I explained the ‘anti-monster process’ to his mother.

Any scented spray would work. Body mist or freshener or even bottled water with some essential oils, vanilla extract, or lavender for scent. The scent will help Zane remember that the ‘Monster Spray’ is working, and can make associations to feeling safe and in control. I recommended keeping the spray bottle within reach, in case he woke at night and needed a ‘booster squeeze.’

As we returned to speech-sound practice, we spent part of the session making a label with the words “Monster Spray” on it, complete with a drawing of a dark-green/red/black blob (“that’s the monster, but you can’t see it because it is under”) and a figure in a cape holding a spray bottle like a sword (“that’s me, because I am super-Zane”).

The progress report the following week was that the monsters had such itchy noses the first time Zane used the newly minted spray on them, that they declared right away: “Oh, no, Monster Spray; Better go another way.” When a few monsters did not get the memo and tried their luck a few nights later, Zane spritzed them and they reportedly scuttled away to warn all others that: “Zane has Monster Spray, better go another way!”

monster Spray1

Superhero Story


The little boy loves chocolate. He adores candy, cookies, florescent sour sticks. His idea of a balanced meal is french fries and ketchup with some chicken fingers on the side. He cringes at anything that grows on trees and runs away from any shorter plant life, especially those grown on farms with salads in mind.

He thinks brownies are a food group and can name all the junk food in the aisle of a mega-mart. He’s a keen critic of the varieties of cheese doodles, pasta shapes (no sauce), donuts, and icing from a can.

He perfected pouts and frowns to span the whole range of disgust, denial, and gradients of ‘no-way-Jose’ with which to respond to any and all attempts at offering healthy nutrition. You can dress vegetables however you like, try to hide fruit in a smoothie or an ice pop, claim that dried fruit are “as sweet as candy”–he sees right through the sneakiest disguise. The only way a vitamin will pass his lips is in a gummy.

His world revolves around sweets, snacks, and superheros.

Of the latter, he owns every size, shape, and denomination; in clothes, sheets, watches, slap-on-bracelets, stickers, backpack, cup, cap, hat, and mittens. He is genially inclusive of all superheros, identifiable by characteristic puffy chests, disproportionate arms, odd skin color (tending toward green), and various kinds of billowing plastic capes and armament. There are of course the Spiderman, Batman, and Superman, Green Lantern man, and Darth Vader, but also many others that adults keep confusing and, more’s the pity, cannot even name … 

The boy lives, breathes, sleeps, plays, narrates, and animates his superheros. He is rarely found without one–they are constant companions–at home, in the car, in the tub. He takes one with him to the toilet, for some friendly company and conversation.

He keeps a place at the table for his superheros. He lugs a carry-on packed with them onto the plane. He delights in having them, ecstatically anticipates upcoming birthdays and holidays as opportunities for enlarging his beloved collection.

Some may think his ‘fixation’ willful or limiting. They may frown upon his adulation of plastic figurines with overstuffed musculature and unrealistic proportions and stereotype. Others see him walk along the street in full superhero regalia, grinning, prancing, proud as rain … and they cannot hold back a smile. He is absorbed, enchanted and enchanting. At almost-four, he bobs easily in and out of the bubble of delight in mystery and magic-thinking.

His parents tolerate sheets and towels becoming capes, draping furniture, and sweeping fragile items off of shelves and coffee tables. They have learned to live with constant sound effects as Spiderman climbs walls and Superman flies atop buildings and other superhero this-or-that saves all manner of fallen toy-victims. His parents accept that going anyplace takes longer when there’s a world to rescue with each move, a hero to swoop wide from every stair, a never ending battle between good and bad to wage and master.

Speaking of battles … there is the matter of his aversion to tooth brushing. Sugary and colored yellow with sticky cheese powder, he refuses to allow any mention of teeth cleaning. He clenches jaws against attempts at probing. He flees, superheros in each hand, at the sight of toothpaste or mouthwash.

Oh, he has some valid reason to–medical professionals have spliced his little mouth all too many times in efforts to reshape what a birth defect distorted. They came from care, but his experience left him wary and refusing further vulnerability. He controls access to his mouth with iron will that puts maximum security detention centers to shame.

His parents despair — they loathe to force him when so much was forced already and yet they know that to neglect his mouth is to invite issues in the future and invasive dental work besides. They admit helpless caving in to his refusal. Embarrassed, they are torn between their worry for his pain and the need to work beyond it.

So we had a hubbub, he and I, and we’ve come to an agreement. An understanding. A plan of action. Superheros brush teeth, too, you see. They floss regularly with gusto. They gargle mightily. They epitomize mouth-care and a fighting spirit against germs a-hiding. The proof is seen in any superhero movie, cartoon, or poster; where one is certain to be dazzled by the light reflecting from their pearly white perfection ….

Now, superheros line the sink, the toothbrush is adorned with muscled plastic. Towel cape on shoulders, feet in puffy superhero slippers, he seeks to destroy all hidey-holey bugs that wish to burrow cavities.

Superheros brush teeth, too. Whew. Next, they will be eating vegetables…