Category Archives: Author of “A Hero’s Curse”

Thanksgiving is coming up in just a few days! Will you see family and friends? What are you most thankful for this year? Our writerly fellowship has penned short stories spun from a single picture today, chosen by Robin.

Mikey, introduced in the story below, is very thankful that he hasn’t been eaten by a dinosaur, (yet). And down below, check out the openers from Robin and Trish!

Parker Broaddus

Author of  A Hero’s Curse & Nightrage Rising

Follow along on Amazon

The McGalliard Street Gate, (a teaser)

Mikey forced his way through a tangle of fronds that grabbed at his clothes and the canvas bag slung over his shoulder, trying to keep Doc’s back in view at all times. Doc stopped.

“Shhhhh.”

Mikey frowned. Easier said than done. Doc put his hand up and made a claw with one finger. Then pointed off to the left before continuing through the undergrowth. Mikey didn’t know exactly what Doc was saying but he felt like he caught the general implication. Something dangerous off that way. Got it. Mikey nodded. Something with claws or teeth. That had been a recurring theme ever since Mikey had been the unsuspecting victim of some kind of dimension displacement in that abandoned warehouse alley and sucked him through to this crazy jungle. He’d been a normal, nerdy, slightly bored, twelve-year-old kid taking a shortcut off McGalliard Street on his way home from school in Orlando one minute, and the next he was being introduced to the very real fact that velociraptors like to hunt at dusk and dawn. By a group of survivors who had also been displaced in that alley over the past few weeks and months. It was beyond weird.

Doc pulled him back to the present by stopping so abruptly Mikey almost ran into him. Mikey peered around him to see what had caused a halt. The jungle ended where a chasm opened up in front of them, with the nicest bridge Mikey had seen in this place stretched across the canyon. Woven rope and boards had been strung and crisscrossed and cleverly sunk into the rock, giving the bridge a sense of permance. A breath of fresh air moved the tops of the trees and made the structure sway.

“Wow,” Mikey breathed. “You built this?”

Doc didn’t respond. Mikey looked up to see him tugging thoughtfully at his wiry, brown and stained beard. “Nope.” He said it softly. Like a secret.

“You mean you didn’t build it?”

“Nope,” he grunted. “Found it. Just like this.”

The implications made Mikey dizzy. “So…”

Doc looked at Mikey, offering nothing. Mikey plucked at one of the ropes strung across the gorge. “Somebody else…built it?”

Doc shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.” He gazed again at the rope bridge. “I haven’t found anybody else out here, besides us.” He waved a hand that included the group back at the camp. “Haven’t found any other sign of civilization. No tracks. Nothin’. I don’t know if this bridge is a part of the displacement, like maybe it got pulled through somehow, or if somebody got sucked through way before us and built it here. I don’t know. And not knowin’…not knowin’ anything about where it all started…in that alley…that makes it all the less likely we can get out of here. Especially with nobody lookin’ on the other side.”

Mikey cleared his throat. “Actually, I do think somebody knows.”

Doc looked at him sharpley. “You’re saying somebody may know where to look for you? Somebody in your family? They would know to search the alley?” His mouth set in a grim line. “That would make you unique here. If anyone is looking for the rest of us–and that’s no guarantee–they wouldn’t have any reason to look near that warehouse complex, much less the alley. We’re loners. Runaways. Drifters. Wallflowers. Misfits.” Doc shifted the coil of vine-made-rope on his shoulder and looked at Mikey again. Something glimmered in his eye. “You’re sure?”

Mikey nodded, slow. “Yeah.” Then he nodded again, firmer. “Definitely. It may take some time, but he’ll figure it out. He’s…like a detective. It can be annoying if you live with him. But he’s good. Really good.” Mikey let out a shaky breath, but he knew it what he said was true. “He’ll find the McGalliard Street gate.”

“Who’s ‘he,’? Your dad?”

Mikey shook his head. “My younger brother. Lucas.”

Robin Lythgoe

Author of As the Crow Flies

Robin’s Website

Bridge to Hope

The rope and plank bridge strung across the canyon looked like any other of a score of such structures the Dog had seen in his journeys. It swayed violently, victim of the wind dragged down the steep, rocky canyon by the setting sun. Shadow devoured the depths and crept up the far wall. On this side, the last rays of light saturated the greens of pines, mountain ash, and oak. Vivid purplish-red flowers peppered great swathes at their feet.

Beautiful.

Harsh.

Solitary.

Incongruously, hope waited on the other side of that fragile passage.

Patricia Reding

Author of Oathtaker

Patricia’s Website

Coming soon…

There it is! What did you like? What stories are you working on? What would you have written about if you saw that bridge? Drop me an email, send a picture, or comment below.

Are you a writer? Where do you write? What does it look like? What makes that particular spot special? That’s the topic of this month’s scribblings. See for yourself, and down below, check out the openers from Robin and Trish!

Parker Broaddus

Author of  A Hero’s Curse & Nightrage Rising

Follow along on Amazon

Scribblings, scritchings and scratchings.

My writing desk is situated in the study, against the far wall, just right for catching the morning sun. It’s perhaps the one, sometimes, semi-quiet place in our small farmhouse complete with five kids. Other than the back corner of the hot water heater closet. I’ve only been able to use the space once or twice in its current location – ever since our move nine months ago I’ve been tromping around in Wellingtons with a hammer in hand upfitting and building and renovating. Bringing the farm back to life. Building a cottage on the place to host guests. But all of that is wrapping up. And now, as we wade into September in earnest, I’ve finally got one eye on my writing desk.

The desk itself is an older one, refinished and painted, stuffed with paperwork and notes, pens and checkbooks, and surrounded on both sides by books. Of course. Small treasures are tucked away on shelves. Items of no real value, but they remind me of histories, people, and places.

Having now used the space (twice now!), I can attest to its appropriateness as a writing corner. I was able to sit down to type out a few words, only to get distracted by something I needed to look up on Amazon, look out the window and note that I needed to mow grass, go get more coffee, respond to hollering in the other room, come back, try to pick up my place in the paragraph, check my email (nothing new), review my sticky note to-do list, strum a minute on my guitar, realize with a shock how much time I’d already spent piddling around at nothing, and then ultimately push through the tiny bit of writing I had assigned myself.

My review: it’s a fine corner that works beautifully as advertised. If there is any shortcoming, it has more to do with user error than functional design.

The window looks out at a pastoral view that’s like something out of a magazine. I don’t think it has really sunk in that we live here now. I feel like I’m in a movie, watching someone else. It’s been too much to soak in – too much to even appreciate all at once.

So my hope is to appreciate it slowly. Over the days, and months, and years.

Robin Lythgoe

Author of As the Crow Flies

Robin’s Website

I am one of those wildly lucky people who can claim an entire room for her writing space. With a population of one at my house, the quiet and privacy isn’t important anymore, but there is something to be said for having space dedicated to one’s dream. If only the room was the right color…

Patricia Reding

Author of Oathtaker

Patricia’s Website

In truth, I cannot complain about not having enough room. After 30+ years of raising children, my husband and I are now alone in our home. While I would not use “large” as a word to describe it, even with children in the house we had significantly more room than my family of ten (Mom, Dad, and their eight daughters) had when I grew up. In those days, up to four shared a single bedroom, and there was but one bathroom for the entire clan. I’ve been blessed in that the circumstances in which I raised my children were significantly better—and yet, I was always at a loss for finding space for one thing in particular. That one thing was: me.

There it is! What about you? Do you have a spot that’s special? Drop me an email, send a picture, or comment below

Short stories, fantastic tales, spun from a single picture. It’s flash fiction month! Our picture is colorful, detailed and fun! See what you think!

And down below, check out the openers from Robin and Trish!

Parker Broaddus

Author of  A Hero’s Curse & Nightrage Rising

Follow along on Amazon

The Elemental Temple

“Over there,” Teddy pointed with the gnarled stick he was holding like a staff. “They’re probably hiding in the shadows – they don’t like the sun.”

Lena wasn’t sure if Teddy truly believed in goblins, or if it was just his highly active imagination embracing the game as completely real.
“Knock it off, Ted.” She tried to sound tough, like an older sister should sound. “Let’s just find the temple already.”

She didn’t do games like this with her little brother. Ever. But when he asked her to play this morning he had been so earnest, almost desperate, and he had been decked out in his medieval festival costume. He’d even strapped some sort of a saddle on Bear, their dog, who was, well, the size of a bear. And when he held out her old roller skating knee pads and a wooden sword, she caved. It was the middle of summer after all, and she was bored.

At first, as they pushed into the woods that bordered their backyard, she had encouraged the play acting. When Teddy suggested they find one of the lost elemental temples, she had grinned and joked about goblins. Teddy looked troubled for a second, but recovered. “But not too many,” he muttered, “and they don’t like the light.”

Lena laughed and pat Bear’s giant shoulder. “I’m sure Bear can handle anything this forest throws at us.”

Teddy grinned. “Oh, yeah. Good. That’s good.”

The noises from the suburban neighborhood faded, with only the sounds of birds chirping and leaves rustling in the trees overhead. Twigs snapped underneath their feet, and a kind of green twilight settled over them. Up one ridge and then down another, the forest subtly changed. It felt older. Quieter. Lena thought the trees themselves stopped their whispering to watch the trespassers. She shivered, and looked for something to say to break the silence. “So, what about trolls and–” Teddy brought the end of his stick down on her foot. She stopped mid sentence, “Ow! Ted that hurt!”

He held a finger up to his lips. “You can’t say stuff like that Len–that’s part of the rules.”

“What rules?” Lena huffed. She looked at her foot. That would probably leave a bruise. She wouldn’t be able to wear sandals for a week!

“You just can’t…” Teddy shuffled awkwardly. “You can’t call the names here.”

“Call what names?” Lena was actually getting angry now. She pulled off her shoe and looked at the red spot.

“They turn real if you call the name of it.”

Lena turned to look at him, her face a combination of frustration and puzzlement. Teddy was close to tears. Her aggravation quickly evaporated. “What are you saying Ted? I don’t understand the game.”

Teddy shuffled his feet. “Sorry about hitting your foot. It’s just,” he paused and took a deep breath. “It’s not exactly a game.”

Lena raised her eyebrows.

“I mean, it is a game,” he twisted his staff nervously. “At least, it was a game. But it’s real too.” He looked down again.

“I still don’t get it,” Lena said in a dry voice. “Talk to me like I’m eight.”

Teddy whipped his head back up. “Hey. I’m eight.”

Lena flashed a sarcastic grin at him. “Exactly.”

“Fine.” He shrugged. “I started playing the game a while back. Just by myself. Remember that old gemstone that Mom gave me?”

“Yeah – the emerald one from the dig? I thought you lost that.”

“I did,” he flapped his hand impatiently. “I’ve been looking for it ever since. That’s the elemental temple.”

“Okay. So we’re pretending that the emerald gemstone Mom gave you is a temple, and we’re looking for it.”

“Right, that’s how it started. I mean that’s what I pretended at first. And stuff was pretty normal, but then it all started to get…well…real. Like the woods.” He waved a hand a the huge trees surrounding them.

“What do you mean?” Lena felt a weird tickle up her spine.

Teddy looked down at the ground and kicked at some leaves. “Promise you won’t laugh?”

“Yes!” Lena snapped, impatient.

Teddy glanced up. “I think the gemstone actually turned into the temple. Like, planted itself or something.”

Lena snorted, but Teddy stayed completely serious. He put a hand in Bear’s deep fur and kept talking. “And then, whenever I would pretend that there were–” he paused and looked around. “Other things…creatures and stuff…they started being out here too.”

“Other things?” Lena asked, arching an eyebrow.

“Like…goblins and stuff.”

A branch broke some ways off in the woods. Something thumped off in the undergrowth. Lena scanned the trees and rocky trail before looking back at Teddy. “Deer?”

Teddy shook his head.

“Really, Ted? You don’t expect me to believe that, do you? You can’t scare me, I’m twelve!”

“The more you talk about it–the more you name it–the more real it becomes.”

Lena frowned at him, but Teddy stayed serious. “So now what?”

Teddy folded his arms across his chest and took a deep breath. “We need to find the temple. I think that’s what’s giving power to this new world. I’ve been out here a lot, looking, but every time it keeps getting more–dangerous.”

Lena rolled her eyes. “Fine. So, the same game we were playing at the beginning.”

Teddy grabbed her arm. “Just don’t name anything bad. That’s the most important rule.”

Lena pulled herself away. “Okay. I won’t name goblins or trolls or werewolves or…” Teddy’s face had gone white. “Fine, whatever. I’m sorry Ted.”

He shook his head, unable to speak. Lena puffed her cheeks out. “Maybe we should just stop this game and go home.”

Teddy pointed past her with his staff. Lena glanced back in the direction he was pointing, the direction toward home. What she had assumed was a boulder was standing on stumpy legs as big as tree trunks, leering down the trail at them. Its black eyes glittered. Another lumpy creature stood up behind the first, even taller.

“See?” Teddy whispered. “You made it real.”

Lena’s hand found Teddy’s. “Ted…” Her voice wavered. “What’s that?”

Bear growled.  Teddy gulped, choked, and tried again. “It’s between us and home.” He squeezed Lena’s hand. “We have to find the temple this time.”

Robin Lythgoe

Author of As the Crow Flies

Robin’s Website

Hazu Hotfoot and the Orb of Orgrad

“We’re here.” Hazu peered over a moss-covered pile of rocks, eyes narrowed. A thundering roar filled the space beneath the towering trees. Gnarled, humped roots rose far over the goblin’s head.

“Can you see the orb?” Pint-sized Morsel rubbed his hands together in anticipation.

Hazu grunted. “Nah. Too much water.”

“Lemme look.” With a shove and a wiggle, he moved up beside her. “Wouldja lookit that…”

Patricia Reding

Author of Oathtaker

Patricia’s Website

The Screaming Wilds

by Patricia Reding

Copyright Patricia Reding 2021

The Screaming Wilds spread far and wide, filled with centuries-old trees, the roots of which bulged above ground, ready to trip the weary or unwary. Meandering streams throughout poured into fetid marshes. At the center sat The Crushing Falls, through which flowed The Tears of Beasts, dark-magic infused waters that turned all that entered them from good, to evil.

Storm and Tracer trudged through the Wilds, along with Beowulf, their trusty canine companion.

There it is! Up top you read a flash fiction that was great fun for me, but what about you? What tale would you have spun from the picture above? Drop me an email or comment below

“Seize the moment. Remember all those women on the ‘Titanic’ who waved off the dessert cart.” ~ Erma Bombeck

“If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world.” ~ J.R.R. Tolkien

“Popcorn for breakfast! Why not? It’s a grain. It’s like, like, grits, but with high self-esteem.” ~ James Patterson, The Angel Experiment

“What I say is that, if a man really likes potatoes, he must be a pretty decent sort of fellow.” ~ A.A. Milne

“He was a bold man who first ate an oyster” ~ Jonathan Swift

You’ve probably figured it out by now…this month, we’re talking about food.

Robin Lythgoe

Author of As the Crow Flies

Robin’s Website

A bite of something delicious and familiar can transport us in time, reviving feelings and memories from times gone by. Mama’s chicken soup isn’t just for curing colds. Cookies fresh out of the oven can remind you of holiday baking parties with the family. A dish of chocolate Knox Blox immediately brings to mind a summer evening spent on the front step, talking about anything and everything with our kids.

The foods we especially like—the foods that come with rich, warm memories—are different and unique to each of us. I will never forget the humid “green” smell…

Patricia Reding

Author of Oathtaker

Patricia’s Website

Oh, food! It is as critical a part of a well-spun story as it is of a well-enjoyed life.

Some years ago—let’s say 25 or so—there was a person in my life who had moved from the “acquaintance” column into the “among two best friends” column, where she has remained ever since. But even then, our relationship changed in a crazy and meaningful way, beginning with an exchange one Friday evening that went something like this …

Parker Broaddus

Author of  A Hero’s Curse & Nightrage Rising

Follow along on Amazon

I’m surprised. I found (yet another) topic that is frustratingly difficult for me to write about.

Food. Turns out I can spin tales in fantastical worlds, make horses fly, cats talk, or craft a raging daemon – but the everyday sustenance that I depend on, that I look forward to – I come up vague and boring, like a bowl of tepid, gluey oatmeal. It’s not necessarily bad, but it’s certainly uninspiring.

But that is my failure, because food and drink actually weave a deep magic that not only bring hope, joy and happiness to our daily lives, but can even warp time and space, tying the fabric of our existence together in a way nothing else can.

Green chili casserole with a pot of cowboy beans, rolls or cornbread, and an apricot cobbler for dessert, takes me back to some of my earliest memories on a ranch in New Mexico. The meal was a favorite after a long day of gathering cattle, branding, or shipping. It was a large spread, with plenty for our family and any of the neighbors who were there to help. It didn’t just satisfy a momentary hunger – it brought us together as family and friends. It created community.

I think J.K. Rowling demonstrated this well in the Harry Potter series in an easy, natural, way. So many of the interactions in the books happen in the Great Hall, around the long dining tables where the students eat three times a day. The Great Hall captured the lifeblood of the story. It was here that relationships were formed, friendships founded, and wizards sorted. It even hosted the climactic final battle.

There is an intimacy around food that is impossible to replicate. I’ll mention one more dish that ties the present to the past. Rice pudding. It is a favorite of our four kiddos, and was a favorite of mine when I was their age. I recall running away from home one late afternoon with my brother, our most precious belongings stuffed in a heavy metal toolbox that we carried, trading the load back and forth as the journey unfolded. It’s a great story. We trekked four miles before it started to get dark. We made camp, and as the high mountain desert cold rolled in, our tummies started rumbling. At dark we saw the searchlights from our folks, two or three miles away. We hoofed it. We ran toward the lights, toward home, handing the toolbox back and forth as we tripped and scrambled and raced through the night. Papa was in the pickup, headlights scanning the hills, when we came skittering across the prairie. Mom and our hired hand, Jose, had saddled up and were looking for us horseback. I’m sure there were consequences. A telling off at the least. I don’t remember any of that. But I do remember that when we got home, it was rice pudding for supper, and it was still hot. As I dug in, I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why I had ever considered running away.

There’s a magic in food and drink that is easily underestimated, and ignored at our peril. I don’t want to be Odysseus’s crew, turned into pigs by the witch Circe as they feasted, or Chihiro’s parents in Spirited Away (2001), turned into pigs for gorging themselves on the food left for spirits. But neither do I want to be an ascetic monk, rejecting the good gifts given me. It seems these extremes are avoided around the hearth, at home.

And so, I’m off, leaving the office and heading home, to a kind and thoughtful wife, three loud boys, one wide-eyed, wispy haired girl, and rice pudding.