Stories

The Cinnamon Witch (Slice of Life/Horror)(Repost)

(Hello Writer Bugs! Since life is a bit busy at the moment and with Autumn/Halloween vibes in full swing, I’m reposting this short story. Enjoy!)


“Hey Jude. Don’t make it bad.”

A baker sings a Beatles song while sifting flour into a mixing bowl. Amber hair tied into a low ponytail. Freckles and flour smeared across her cheeks. She works on a shiny metal counter, disinfected daily, per the Health Inspector’s orders. Halloween banners hang in the window. It’s sunny today. 

Add sugar. Add baking soda. Time for seasoning. Ground nutmeg. Ground cinnamon. Ground finger bone. Freshly sourced, of course. She whisks until her elbow goes sore. 

“Take a sad song and make it better.”

Wet ingredients next. Crack an egg. Make that two eggs. A splash of milk. Cold butter. A spoonful of blood, for color. Who needs red food coloring anyway? Mix again.

“Remember to let him in to your heart. And you can start to make it better.”

Her hand finds a rolling pin. Roll out dough. Flatten like roadkill. Cut into cute pumpkin shapes. Line the sheet. Bake at 350 degree for thirteen minutes. Lips curl into a smile. Wait thirteen minutes. Take out of the oven, let chill. Finish with a final dusting of cinnamon and powdered sugar. Perfect. 

“Hey Hazel!” A voice bellows from the front of the shop. “How much longer on those cookies?”

She does not answer him, only keeps singing as she piles the cookies on a plate. Ready to serve.

“Hey Jude…. Don’t be afraid.”


Stay safe and keep writing!

– Lady Jabberwocky

Lyrics from ‘Hey Jude’ by the Beatles

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Oh She’s Marvelous (100 Word Story)

“Please… Tell me what you see.” The expectant mother pleaded.

Hesitant, the seer conceded and placed his hands carefully on her swollen stomach. 

Visions overtook his sight. He saw a mewling newborn, clutched to her mother’s chest. He saw a little girl wearing a flower crown in springtime. He saw a valiant knight of the realm, charging into battle. He saw a final breath, with someone holding a hand. 

Tears welled in his eyes. Her fingertips caressed his cheek. 

“Love, what is it? Is the baby…?”

He pressed a grateful kiss onto her globe of a belly. “Oh, she’s marvelous.”


I’ll be honest, writer bees. In recent months, baby fever has taken over my life. My boyfriend and I are expecting a nephew any day now. We are excitedly waiting for his arrival. This short story was inspired by this upcoming delivery. Sorry in advance if the next post or two is baby themed.

Interested in reading more 100 word stories? Check out The Basil Sprites and Death by Dinner Conversation.

Want to follow my writer adventures? Follow me on Twitter!

Stay safe and keep writing!

— Lady Jabberwocky

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Help support this blog and the writer behind it with a generous donation.

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Death by Dinner Conversation (Crime Humor/100 Word Story)

“Well, I didn’t mean to kill him.”

A sigh came with her guilty surrender. “Alright, maybe I did mean to.” She smoothed a napkin over her lap before reaching across the table to clasp the inspector’s hand.  “Oh Detective, please understand. He was truly a slug of a man. Such boring dinner conversations, night after night. It drove me insane.”

“You killed your husband because of boring dinner conversations?”

No answer. Ever so casually, the woman returned to meal.

“You stabbed him several times,” The detective noted, exasperated. “With a butter knife.”

She sliced into her roast beef and shrugged. “Wouldn’t you?”


I’m still experimenting with writing an 100 word story. Give it a try, it’s a fun challenge.

Stay safe and keep writing!

— Lady Jabberwocky

The Basil Sprites (100 Word Fantasy Story)

Hidden under basil leaves, they sit, aglow. With their firefly kisses and rice paper wings, they wait for the first sprig of spring to sprout. Wandering travelers fondly call them diminutive deities. In unwavering tradition, farmers tie bells or chimes to branches, to win favor with these guardians of the field.

Threads of golden luck tucked in their clutches, the little spirits bless the harvest of many. Be weary, dear friends. Do not ravage the earth nor mistreat nature itself. Common basil sprites will become vengeful imps, inviting weeds and death onto your land. Best to keep the bells ringing.


Can you believe inspiration for this short story came from me picking basil from my backyard? Neither can I. Guess inspiration is funny like that.

Wanted to go out of my comfort zone and write an 100 word story, which I’ve never done before. It was one of my goals for the month. Plus, I felt like dabbling in the fantasy genre today. Hope you guys enjoy this tiny tale.

Stay safe and keep writing.

— Lady Jabberwocky

Act One, Scene One (Poem)

Hey writer bees!

I haven’t shared a poem in a long time. This one’s an oldie from my poetry workshop days. Hope you all like it.

Today, my boyfriend and I are heading to a baby shower celebrating our incoming nephew. A poem about beginnings just seems fitting.


It always starts with Act One, Scene One.

Take a moment, become your character.

The stage is set.

The cello strings moan in anticipation.

The audience is taking their seats.

Keep your toes pointed.

Remember your lines, remember your cues.

Remember to breathe.

Remember,

It always starts with Act One, Scene One.


Write With Heart,

Lady Jabberwocky

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Proud Colors (LGBTQ Flash Fiction)

Red. Red is the color of romance and passion and successful first dates. This red did not cut it. Need a darker shade of red. Like glass of chilled Merlot red. Like matching his football jersey red. Makeup remover to the rescue. I viciously wiped Ruby Explosion off my lips. What else is there? Tickled Pink. Burnt Berry. Cherry Pop will have to do.

Mascara gives me eye lashes like Ramona Ortega from down the street. That girl has ridiculously long eyelashes. And curvature like no other. I’m built like a tall can of beer. Light beer. The kind women pretend to enjoy at Super Bowl parties. Mascara can’t give me curves like her.

Eyeliner is a game. Playing connect the dots with you eyelids. I always manage to draw outside the lines. “Al,” My sister stands in the doorway, folding her arms across her chest. There’s a constellation of freckles scattered across her nose. A smile curls onto her lips. This week, Pepper dyed her hair purple. Purple. The color of childhood dinosaurs and artists on the brink of insanity. Moody purple is tied into a top knot. “Need help?”

My hands brace against the granite counter. Doubt is grey, if you look at it close enough. Grey creeps along the shell of my ear. “Be honest, Pep. Do I look like a clown?” I ask because a clown was definitely staring back at me in the mirror. What if baby deer eyelashes isn’t enough to win him over? What if cherry red lipstick isn’t enough to earn a goodnight kiss?

She stands beside me, offering a simple shake of her head. “Are we going for beautiful or handsome tonight?” She asks as she skillfully traces my eyelid with the pen. Like an artist at her canvas.

A laugh hiccups in my chest. “Both, if I’m lucky.”

“Good. Because you look like both,” Pepper straightens my jacket and runs her fingers through my hair. An encouraging, motherly touch that came from my sister. Stew together yellow, orange and gold and you’ll end up with a bowl of encouragement and pride. “He is gonna fall head over heels for you. I mean, he’d have to. You’re the only guy crazy enough to wear a full face of makeup to a roller skating rink.” She adds as she finishes a near perfect cat eye with a flourish.

I face off against my reflection and dust the nerves off my shoulder. The doorbell rings. A kaleidoscope rattles in my brain. He’s early. With a playful wink, she pats me on the shoulder.

“Go get ’em, Albert.”


To everyone celebrating Pride Month, this one’s for you.

– Lady Jabberwocky

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Skeleton in the Closet (Mystery Short Story)

“You sure you’re sure about this one, boss? She just a sweet old lady.”

His wrinkled face pinched into a scowl as he glared at the muggy March sky. “Dreadful weather today.” He grumbled, fastening his coat. Cold and rainy, my mother would call this ‘soup weather’. Clutching the handle of his cane, he teetered down the pathway of the Madam’s estate.

Keeping with his turtle slow pace, I held an umbrella over both of our heads. “Are you even listening?”

“Of course.” Mister Barnaby assured me. I had worked with him long enough to know he was certainly not listening.

It was an awfully big house, far too ritzy for my taste. May as well live at the Plaza. Upon entering the sprawling mansion, a church mouse dressed as a maid met us at the door. Glancing behind her, she presented us with a simple key, the last piece of the puzzle. As we were led into the living room, I stuffed the skeleton key into my vest pocket.

“Detective Barnaby, come in. Come in!” A gracious greeting offered by the lady of the house. Mrs. Matilda Pierce, a well kept woman, with pristine makeup and not a hair out of place. Trust me, this broad didn’t look a day over 50. Perched by the fireplace, she sat in her antique rocking chair, wearing a dressing gown embroidered with orchids.

“Fiona, dear,” Mrs. Pierce beckoned for her timid maid. “Bring some more tea for the detective and his assistant.” The maid scurried off. After sipping her cup of tea, her lips curled “Did you find him?”

Three months Franklin Pierce had been missing. His shiny automobile still parked in the driveway. Most of his personal possessions were still in the home. And none of the staff members saw him leave either. An odd case, wouldn’t you say?

Tipping his tweed cap like a proper English gentleman, Mister Barnaby eased into the chair opposite her. “Unfortunately, your husband is still missing. We are still investigating. Your granddaughter is quite concerned, last we spoke to her.”

Her hand waved dismissingly. “Oh she worries too much. Franklin probably went on another fishing trip.”

“One of your maids said that you were arguing with you husband before his disappearance.”

“Couples have disagreements. Couples take breaks,” She patted my cheek like a long lost grandmother. “You’re young, sweetie. You will learn soon enough.”

“I see.” Mister Barnaby gave me a measured nod, a signal that meant ‘fetch, dog, fetch’. Oh, the joys of being a detective’s right hand man. I excused myself to go to the restroom, leaving my employer and the madam alone by the fire.


Last night, the detective lectured me on old homes with their various hiding places. How he suspected Mr. Pierce was still on the property, one way or another. How the maid promised to give us the skeleton key when we arrived tomorrow.

“Check behind every door, every closet.” Mister Barnaby instructed. “Mr. Pierce is still in that house.”


I searched anything that had a hinge. Cupboards with hidden compartments. Closets within closets. What kind of maniac built this house? Then, I checked a closet in one of the guestrooms. Behind fur coats and cardboard boxes of leftover Christmas decorations was a narrow wooden door. A secret passage, if you will. The door led to stairs, and the stairs led to a basement.

I found Franklin Pierce. Strangled to death and left to rot in a cement room under his home. A kiss of red lipstick stamped on his cheek. Early stages of decomposing. Poor fella had seen better days. When I returned to the detective’s side, Mrs. Pierce was reapplying her red lipstick in the mirror. And she began to laugh. “Oscar, darling, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“More like a skeleton in a closet, boss.” I muttered to Mister Barnaby, lighting a ciggy in my mouth. The mad madam continued to laugh.


To end May of Mystery, here’s a story based on a prompt of the week, featuring characters from my WIP, Detective Barnaby and his assistant Oscar. Enjoy!

– Lady Jabberwocky

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The Artist Who Paints Sunflowers (Flash Fiction)

My therapist told me, for once, write a happy story. What a writing prompt for a gloom and doom writer such as myself. A difficult task, I admit, what with all the death and tragedy and misfortune in the world. I sat at my writing desk, pouring a glass of whisky and pushing notes of cynicism aside. Like some Peter Pan, I instead grasped for blissful thoughts.

Then, I thought of Gertrude. A friend, you could say.

A twinkling lost soul in a lost generation. Worries never seem to stain her coat. I can’t recall where she lives, but wherever it is, summer is eternal. Her life is simple. Perched on her sunny balcony like an exotic parrot, she paints flowers at her wooden easel. Daisies, roses, poppies. Sunflowers are her favorite.

When Gertrude laughs, her head tilts back and expels champagne bubbles from her lungs. With Sinatra crooning through the speakers, she slow dances with lovers in the living room. She relishes even the most boring of dinner conversation. A nymph perfectly content with simply existing.

Every morning, she returns to that easel, a servant to the art. She makes love to colors on a blank canvas. Gold drips from her paintbrush. Satisfaction curves her lips into a smile. Leaning back with a mugful of coffee, she appreciates her painting. A sunflower smiles back at her.

Gertrude is fiction.

A mere wisp of delight on a page. Although I would not be surprised if some form of Gertrude walks the earth today, an artist who paints sunflowers on a light soaked balcony. Still, there is a joy that comes with flights of fiction, isn’t there?

Perhaps my therapist was right about these so-called happy stories.


The other day, I was talking to my boyfriend about what I should post for you all during quarantine, to help uplift other writers. He simply said “Write a story. People want to read happy stories right now, to take their mind off things.”

Thank you to my better half for inspiring this story.

Keep writing, writer bees, and stay safe.

– Lady Jabberwocky

The Charlatan (Fantasy Flash Fiction)

“Excuse me, kind sirs. Could I have a moment of your time?” A plump gnome woman approached a table with three half orcs clad in leather armor. Cradled in her arms were three cork-topped bottles filled with burnt orange liquid. The opal ring on her finger winked at the weary adventurers. “I’m selling home brewed health potions.”

The group exchanged looks, grunting and crossing their arms. “100 gold for the whole lot.”

A sigh in surrender as she glanced over her shoulder. “Well, I didn’t want to say anything but… See that fellow over there?” Stationed at the lonely table near the tavern door was a figure wearing a dark cloak and a crow like mask. He appeared entranced by the lute playing bard across the room.

The trio of warriors leaned closer, now intrigued. Her tragic tale of woe began. “Would you believe it, a bolt of lightening set his house on fire. Left his face severely burned and hideous scarred.” After setting all three vials on the table, she dabbed the corner of her eye with a handkerchief. “100 gold per bottle would greatly help him get back on his feet.” Her offer was coated with a honey sweet voice.

Coins clattered onto the table.

Hooking her arm in the crook of his elbow, the two strolled into a secluded alleyway, embracing the shadows. “Severely burned and hideously scarred,” He mocked while he counted the coins in the pouch. “You really laid it on thick this time, Poet. Those poor fools.” His cape enveloped her, eyes faintly glowing silver behind glass windows. Autumn leaves skittered across cobblestone streets.

For a brief moment, the opal ring shimmered. Her entire body transformed. A sly grin spread across burgundy lips as she snickered like a conniving witch. Lavender painted her skin. On both sides of her head, ram horns curled. No longer a mere gnome, but a roughish Tiefling.

“The world is built on poor fools.” Poet kissed the beak of his mask, her devilish tail swishing like a pendulum. “Come along, Endymion. We need to make a new batch of Poppy flower tea.” With her masked companion trailing behind, the charlatan disappeared into the night.

“On to the next town.”

————————————————————-

Since our DnD is suspended until further notice, I decided to write this short story inspired by the game and our characters. And it’s based one of my prompts of the week. Stay safe and stay healthy out there, everyone.

Lady Jabberwocky

Bianca and the Mysterious Happenings (Mystery Short Story)

“You suffered a serious loss this summer, Bianca. The school faculty was concerned, even the principal wanted me to check up on you.” Let me assure you, I did not have time to have a conversation with the school’s psychiatrist. Sitting amongst a sea of throw pillows in a cramped office, I adjusted my Edgar Allen Poe patterned socks. On his desk, a wooden crane dipped up and down, moving on its own accord.

“Oh I’m fine.” Reassuring others that I was fine seemed to become a common occurrence nowadays. Students treated me like I was some tragic mess, fragile and ready to crumple at any moment. Hardly. There’s more to my story than that.

“It appears so.” The therapist shuffled his paperwork. My life condensed in a manilla folder. “Excelling in all of your classes. Writing for the school newspaper. Volunteering in the school play.”

My shoulders bounced. “I try to keep busy.” And Chester always did like the theatre.  

“This is a safe place to talk about him.” Mister Raphael reminded.  Yes, because the motivational poster of a polar bear climbing a mountain really made me feel safe to express my feelings. “Grief takes many forms.”

Fingers fidgeted with the sleeve of my wool sweater. My eyes kept glancing at the clock. This meeting lasted 6 minutes and 47 seconds, 5 minutes longer than necessary. Why did I give up free period for this?  Although my jaw tightened, I forced a smile. “He was my boyfriend since freshman year. We were planning to go to the same college together. Get married. Kids. White picket fence.” Excuse the cynicism, it had been a long semester, with more sympathetic looks than I could count. Some of them didn’t even know Chester.

“He’d want me to keep going.” Not very poetic, but very true, nonetheless.

After a couple seconds of silence, I informed Mister Raphael about the pieces I planned to write for the school newspaper. I had a journal filled with notes and outlines for possible articles. While talking about news topics, an eagerness returned to my voice. Are the tofu burgers in the cafeteria really vegan? Did last year’s valedictorian cheat on his SATs?

“And I’m also looking into the recent disturbances at the graveyard.” Mysterious happenings were happening in the Westminster Cemetery. The reporter in me must investigate. The ceiling light flickered above.  “Or maybe I should write about the school’s faulty wiring.”

We share an uneasy, cordial laugh. Then, It was time to leave. “Well, my door is always open, if you need an ear.” 

With my chin raised and a sigh of relief, I exited the office. Ponytail swishing from side to side. The halls were mostly clear, except for a few lingering students and a security guard distracted by his smartphone.

“Grief takes many forms.” Those empathetic words felt lackluster on my lips. I stared at my reflection in the vending machine window. “How am I supposed to grieve when you won’t quit bothering me?” One of the metal rings in the machine spiraled, releasing a snack from it’s grip. A bag of honey wheat pretzels, my favorite.

I couldn’t help but smile. What a charmer, even in death.


Hey Writer Bees! Hope you enjoyed this little scene. Lately, I’ve been playing around with the idea of a having fiction series on this blog, updating with a new chapter each month. This is just a snippet of a mystery plot, following Bianca, the school reporter, and the unusual events happening in Baltimore.

Want to read more of this story? How do you feel about a regular series on this blog? Be honest, and let me know what you think in the comments.

Write with heart,

Lady Jabberwocky

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