Tag Archives: flash fiction

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

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

Stop the Presses (Short Story)

You know, if the school wanted to foster a love of writing and journalism among the students, they’d have given us a nicer room for the school newspaper.

The musty smell of that room still lingers on my coat. A dark, dreary janitor closet of a room with murky windows. File cabinets, cramped desks and windows that were stuck shut. Oh and a coffee machine that only produced mud flavored water. What a inspiring, creative place it was.

Only three of us students ran the school newspaper. That week, two were out sick with mono that they contracted from each other. And our supervising teacher had a meeting with their divorce lawyer.

I, Bianca Pellegrini, had to singlehanded write, edit, proofread, publish the entire ‘Sullivan Spectrum’ newspaper before the impending deadline. And I refused to miss a deadline. Thank goodness nothing interesting ever happened around here.

There was a knock on the door. No one ever knocked on that door.

By Thursday, the mountain of stress and my foul mood reached it’s peak. You really shouldn’t meet the love of your life in such a state.

With frizzled curls tied into a messy bun and raccoon bags under my eyes, I stalked over to open said door. And there he was. Picture handsome and humbleness wrapped in a theater kid package. Tobias Bernard.

“Can I help you?”

An earnest smile greeted me. How dare he. “Hey, I’m Toby B-“

“Oh I know who you are.” A proper journalist needed to know who’s who. “Your sister made the front page last week.” How could I forget that cover story? A picture of a “artistically defaced” statue and his sister Kimber with paint on her hands. Literally caught red handed.

An amused smirk played on his lips as he scratched the back of his head.”Yeah, that’s my sister. Don’t hold it against me.”

“Actually, that old statue needs a pop of color.” We shared an awkward laugh. “Did you need something?”

Without an invitation, he waltzed himself in the room. “Bianca, right?” I nodded as his hand rifled inside his backpack. “You wrote the review for the school musical.” From his backpack, he pulled out a rolled up, crumpled newspaper. “I need you to change it.”

Crossing my arms, my brows knitted together. Excuse me?

A bit hesitant and bashful, Toby continued. “See, my friend was the lead. And there were some… Critical things written and she’s been crying about it for days.” He offered me the newspaper, to see for myself, but I didn’t bite.

“It’s called being honest.”

“You called her mediocre.”

“I called her singing mediocre.” I corrected. Trust me, mediocre was an understatement. “Besides, I can’t reprint my review. I’d lose credibility.” Definitely couldn’t lose my credibility. I slumped back in my seat behind my desk. “Sorry about your friend, but there’s nothing I can do.”

After a brief stalemate, he conceded. With a deep sigh, his shoulders shrugged. “Well, It was worth a shot.” His fingers idly lingered on my mug of coffee, peering inside with a grimace.

Snatching the mug from his grasp and turning back to the computer, I began working on the next article. A half baked piece about the prom’s unoriginal theme, under the sea. Drown me already. I thought he would leave, but he didn’t. His eyes glanced around the empty room. “Wait, are you working on the paper by yourself?”

“Yep.” I grumbled before sipping my coffee, which no longer tasted like sludge but like a fancy, overpriced espresso. Little did I know, that was the first sign of his “magical talent”.

Toby leaned against the desk, tossing me a skeptical yet intrigued look. “But you’re only a freshman.”

Okay, make that one big gulp of coffee. “Bottom of the totem pole. I know. Gotta work my way up.”

As it turned out, we kept talking until free period was over. All thoughts of stress and deadlines lifted off my shoulders. The conversation was oddly comfortable. Toby had brought me a welcomed break, I’d say. Talk about stop the presses. I told him about my plans for my own column next year. He asked what I’d write about.

“Paranormal investigation.” Unusual subject matter, I understand. Ever since I was a kid, I chased the things that go bump in the night. Stories of witches and ghosts and aliens caught my interest.

His once relaxed demeanor grew tense. He shifted away from me, rubbing his arm. Trying to play it smooth, a magic he had yet to learn. “That’s pretty cool.”

The bell rang and we parted ways.

“We should hang out sometime.”

“Yeah, maybe we should.”

As he walked away, he sent me a wink. Corny fool. But that corny fool eventually became my boyfriend. Who was the fool now?

“Lemme know if you find any witches, Bianca Pellegrini.”

All is Magic and Bright (Fantasy/Humor)

Juniper dusted the snow off her cloak as she entered the claustrophobically small shop. Shelves full of trinkets and bobbles and bobbled trinkets. Potion bottles and feather tipped arrows too. And a leather glove with brass trimmings and a brightstone set in the center. The topaz yellow gem winked at her as she stared at it.

Gus, the shopkeeper, leaned over the counter. “Hello, hello. What can I help you with, little missy?”

“I need one Gauntlet of the Scorching Sun.” She dropped three gold pieces onto the counter. The earning from too many oddball quests.

Adjusting his spectacles, he eyed the coins, then the fairy girl with wings like a monarch butterfly. The gap in his teeth let out of long whistle. “No can do, little lady. That there doohickey is five gold.”

Her wings stiffed in agitation. “What? But I need that for a friend. It’s supposed to be a gift for the winter solstice celebration.”

Shoulders bounced. “Holiday inflation, you know. “

“You gots anything to trade? Adventurers always got things to trade.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. Grumbling under her breath, she searched her bag, sifting through miscellaneous items acquired during their adventures.

“How about three gold coins, fifty silver pieces and two bubble potions.” Two vials of pink liquid were set on the counter. His head shook slowly. Thumb jabbed over his shoulder to an entire case of bubble potions. She dug deeper into her satchel and held up a bloody canine. “Annnddd a…. Goblin tooth?”

“That’s a troll tooth.”

“Same difference.” Juniper pushed her items closer before reaching out her hand to shake. “Do we got a deal or not?”


The door creaked open. Cecil flinched in surprise, a book tucked under his arm. A smile spread across his face. “Juniper! What… What are you doing here? I thought you were leaving to Mirinda already.” Those plans were still true. There were a bundle of fairies down south waiting to celebrate the solstice with her. Juniper offered the young wizard a poorly wrapped package.

“Oh, I’m on my way now.” She assured. “Couldn’t leave before delivering your present first, could I?” He gestured her inside the tiny cottage. The warmth of the fireplace embraced her. Frost melted from her wing tips. She gave a quick greeting to his mother and grandmother, who were preparing a small feast for the three of them.

“You s-sure you can make the flight in this weather?” Cecil ask as he unwrapped the gift. Snow and wind blustered outside.

“I’ll be fine. I still have bubble potions left.” Two potion bottles were holstered to her belt.

The wizard gasped, holding the gauntlet in his hands. “But how did you…?” A anxious look flashed through his face, worried about the cost of such an item.

“Don’t worry about it. Go on. Try it out. ” She nudged him as his fingers slipped into the glove. The golden gem shimmered. A glowing sphere appeared in his hands, hovering in the air. Watching her young wizard friend cradle a bright ball of light made it all worth it.

After the shopkeeper declined her deal, he was asking for roguish deviance. Juniper left the shop with a huff, claiming that she’d take her business elsewhere. In actuality, she snuck back in with the stealth of a true thief. Smoke bombed the cramped shop. Amidst the chaos, she swapped the gauntlet with 3 gold coins and a bloody troll tooth. Tis the season, after all.


Happy holidays everyone! Love, Lady Jabberwocky

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The Cinnamon Witch (Slice of Life/Horror)

“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.”


Happy Halloween, Writer bees!

– Lady Jabberwocky

Lyrics from ‘Hey Jude’ by the Beatles

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Two Young Adventurers Walk Into a Tavern (Fantasy Flash Fiction)

“Juniper…This….This…. Is a bad idea…”

“Why do you say that?”

A young fae and a novice wizard stood outside of a tavern. Shouting and laughing and glass smashing rumbled the stony building. Candle light spilled into the dirt road through a crack in the door. A burly patron wobbled out, a stein of ale in his mits.

Cecil quivered behind her. An exasperated sigh huffed out her lungs. Wings tilting downwards. “Oh come on. We have to find this Brutus guy. He knows about the dragon.” Chin raised, she dragged her friend into the seedy establishment. “Brave adventurers fear no danger.” She reminded proudly to her nervous companion.

Busty barmaids hustled around the room. Brawny men and women clinked glasses, toasting to successful quests. A heated game of darts was being played in the corner.

Look for the man with serpent tattoo. That’s what Ramona had told them. In him, you will find the answers you seek. Over by the roaring fireplace, a chiseled dwarf. A winged serpent painted on his bicep. Smoke from his pipe billowed into the air. A Warhammer strapped to his back.

“Are you Brutus?”

“Whose asking?” His voice gruff and disinterested.

“Me, obviously. Or are you blind?”

He scoffed, eyeing the fae girl. “Haven’t seen a fairy around these parts in a long while.”

“Good. Now you have. My friend and I are looking for information, about the Dragon of the South.” Juniper plucked the rolled up scroll from Cecil’s hands and unfurled the map for the dwarf.

He stiffled a laugh and shook his head, dismissing them with another puff of his pipe. “Fly away, little moth, Or you’ll – ” The tip of her gleaming rapier appeared inches from his face. Incoherent words stammered out of Cecil’s mouth. Juniper’s scowl never wavered. A growl gargled in his throat. Everything in the bar halted to a stop. Then, impish cackle broke the silence.

Perched on a table, a scrawny man strummed a lute, shoulders bouncing in giddy giggles. Pointed ears and eyes like lost emeralds. Opal white hair tied into a pony tail. The dwarf jabbed his thumb in the bard’s direction. The elf bowed his head, holding his instrument in his arms, ready to play a tune.

“Brutus P. Capatrius the Second, at your service.” With a dramatic wave of his hand, he beckoned the barmaid over. “Some cups of apple cider for the youngins.” A sly grin smeared on his lips. “You two are awfully adorable.”

You’re Brutus?”

“Miss Ramona, our mentor, sent us. To find the exact location of the dragon. A-And she also said…-”

“That we were lovers? In our youth, of course. Though I suppose it’s not a story for children.” He gestured for them to sit. “Sit, Sit, little dears.”

“Wait,” Juniper’s head shook in disbelief. Wings aflutter, she hovered off the ground, drawing closer to Brutus. “You’ve fought a dragon?”

“Definetly not. I simply sang it a lullaby.” He grinned, beaming in his mirth. “But I have seen the nasty bugger.” His fingers stroked the strings once. “I wouldn’t go chasing him if I were you.” He warned in a sing song tone.

“We must collect….” Cecil tossed Juniper an uneasy glance. “something from the dragon’s lair, for one of Ramona’s spells.”

“And what Ramona wants, Ramona gets, no?” He snickered, gingerly taking the map. This dragon was notorious for being difficult to find. Lots of tunnels and caverns, he explained. The two children drank cider as he told his tale of the dragon of the south. With a feather quill, Brutus marked a point on the map with a circle. “This… Something…. That you two are searching for better be worth it.”

“We can handle it.” Sticking her nose up in the air, she grabbed her companion’s hand. After giving their thanks to the carefree bard, the two adventurers scurried outside.

Cecil hugged his stomach, letting out panicked breaths. “I can’t believe we survived.”

Lifting off the ground, Juniper swooped the wizard up underneath his arms and carried him through the night sky. “Now all we have to do is find that dragon egg.”