Tranquil Cove #Writephoto

Grock this new story from D. Wallace Peach

Myths of the Mirror

photo by Sue Vincent

The beach parking lot was jammed with cars. Outside their blue rental, Samantha stretched her stiff limbs while Jeff rummaged in the back seat for snacks and towels. A tow truck clanked its chains and ground its gears in the midst of hauling away one of several abandoned vehicles, the windshields dusted with a week’s worth of windblown sand.

According to the glossy pamphlet, the rocky headlands and clustered islands sheltered turquoise waves, and the soft sand welcomed blankets and picnics. All inviting. But after days of battling crowds of tourists, the feature that most appealed to Sam was the promised solitude. Unfortunately, Tranquil Cove didn’t look like it would live up to its reputation.

She sighed and read the sign pounded into the sand at the lot’s edge. Someone had hand-scrawled a sloppy “g” on the otherwise formal warning.   “Beware of the grocks. No…

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Jazz Age Wednesdays — 1 Million Years B-Lulu

From Teagan’s Books

Teagan's Books

Wednesday, April 24, 2019

LULU Arrival 2.Lulu’s clumsiness sends the train to 1 million years BC. Art by Rob Goldstein

It’s finally time!  I’ve been promising you a short story with illustrations by Rob Goldstein.  Lulu, Gramps, and Valentino are joined by a couple of unexpected characters in this one episode story.  I call it “One Million Years B-Lulu.”  It’s a little riff on “One Million Years BC,” which featured Raquel Welsh.  Don’t ask me why that particular scenario popped into my head.  I’ve told you that I’m just not wired right. The three random things Rob gave me to drive the story are velociraptor, stone axe, and capacitors.

Rob is featuring the story as a guest post today at Sue Vincent‘s blog, so I hope you’ll click over and visit them.  I’m posting it here as well.  Without further ado…

All aboard!

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Are You Forgettin’ Why You Loved Me, Darlin’?

A must read from Living a Beautiful Life

Living a Beautiful Life

She drapes a towel over her shoulder hiding her left breast.  Rather, the vivid red scars snaking her ribcage where her left breast was carved out.

She turns to her left, enough so that she looks whole.  If she accidentally catches a glimpse of her reflection, that is.

Spraying the area with rubbing alcohol from the pump bottle — she still can’t bring herself to touch it — she switches the blow dryer to ‘low’ and dries under the towel.  Then she spritzes Vitamin E and baby oil, even though it’s a lost cause.  Those scars aren’t going anywhere.

She ties a robe loosely around her waist and shuffles to the kitchen.  Hot cereal she enjoyed from childhood might help her feel a bit better.

A shadow crosses the window making her jump.  But her imagination was playing tricks.  Nobody had been in the garden since the day he left — coincidentally, the morning…

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