#WDYS

WDYS — At Last the Light

Fandango14 Comments

This post was written for Sadje’s What Do You See prompt.

Seventy-eight-year-old Millie sat in her chair next to the window most days, just watching and waiting. She had outlived everyone else in her group and knew she didn’t have much longer to go.

Her caretaker, Louisa, stopped by once a week with groceries and household goods, and she would put fresh flowers in a vase on the windowsill in the room where Millie sat all day. Today, Louisa brought fresh white roses cut from the garden behind Millie’s house.

“If you don’t mind my asking, Miss Millie, what do you sit and look at all day long?” Louisa asked. “Are you expecting company?”

“I am waiting for them to show up to take me home,” Millie responded.

Louisa started to ask a follow-up question, but Millie raised her hand flat to signal Louisa not to ask any more questions. Millie was a private person and was never good at conversation.

There were no religious artifacts in Millie’s home — no crosses, no images of Jesus — so Louisa didn’t know what religious beliefs Millie had, but she guessed Millie might have been talking about angels coming to escort her to heaven and to be with Jesus. “I’ll be back next week, same time, hon,” Louisa said as she left.

Millie kept her vigil, watching the fields beside her home, only breaking to eat, use the bathroom, and get a few hours of sleep. Day and night, she sat by the window until sleep finally overtook her long after midnight.

Then one night, shortly after Millie went to bed, she awoke to a soft humming that slowly grew louder. She got up, looked out the window, and saw it — a bright, pure white light on the horizon. She also saw that the humming and the bright light had attracted a large — and growing larger — gathering in her field.

She hadn’t received any warning or notice about this event. No dreams or premonitions. But she knew what it was, what it meant. She knew it was her time. She was being called back.

Millie put on her slippers, slipped her housecoat on over her nightgown, and walked out the front door. She headed toward the white light and the crowd of people. “Excuse me,” she said to the crowd as she weaved through them. “That’s here for me. It’s my ride home. At long last.”

Some people in the crowd laughed at the old lady. A few tried to stop her, thinking she needed help. But with unexpected strength and determination, she kept going toward the light. Then she disappeared.

A few minutes later, the hum grew louder, and the light lifted off the ground and shot straight up, racing up toward the stars and planets until it vanished.

Top image credit: Jay Sadangi @ Unsplash. Second image credit: Rafael Garcin @ Unsplash.

WDYS — The Sculptor

Fandango16 Comments

This post was written for Sadje’s What Do You See prompt. Photo credit: Andrés Beltrán @ Unsplash.

At first I was stuck when trying to think of what to write about this photo. I thought it was a weird, maybe a little macabre, photo (no offense to Andrés Beltrán, intended). So I decided to go with something a little weird and maybe a little macabre for my story. I hope it works.

As an amateur sculptor, Tim never worked from photographs — only memory. That was his gift, people said. Or his curse.

Tonight, he shaped three nested faces from a single block of clay, his fingers trembling as though guided by something older than muscle and bone. Each face emerged with eyes closed, lips soft, as if caught between a breath and a secret. He stacked them carefully, one atop the other, and held the column in his hands like a fragile relic.

He had tried before. Dozens of times. But this was the first time they all looked, well, right. “Finally,” he whispered, though no one else was in the room.

The top face was his wife, Ellen, as she’d looked the night she vanished — peaceful, almost relieved. The middle was his brother, Daniel, whose body had never been found. And the bottom? Well, the bottom was Tim, himself.

A sudden chill passed through him. The clay was still warm. Too warm. It seemed to be pulsing faintly.

Then the eyes opened.

Not all at once. First Ellen’s — calm, knowing. Then Daniel’s — accusing. Finally, his own — terrified.

“You remembered,” Ellen said, though her lips didn’t move.

Daniel’s voice followed. “But not the truth.”

Tim staggered back, dropping the piece. It didn’t shatter. It sank into the floor like wet earth swallowing rain.

And in its place, a memory rose — clear, undeniable.

He hadn’t lost them.

He had buried them.

WDYS — The Letter

Fandango9 Comments

The morning light slipped through the sheer bedroom curtains, soft as the memories Rebecca wasn’t ready to erase. She sat at the small desk by the window, the same place where she’d once written grocery lists, birthday cards, and little romantic notes she’d tuck into his coat pocket before he left for work. Today, though, her hand trembled over the paper. The robe around her shoulders felt heavier than it should have, as if it carried the weight of all the feelings she was about to fold into a single letter.

“Dear Alan,” she wrote, and paused. Two words, and already her throat tightened.

Rebecca thought of the life she and Alan had built together — twenty years of shared routines, quiet dinners, inside jokes that had faded with time. They had weathered storms by each other’s sides, but somewhere along the way, she had stopped recognizing the woman she was when she stood beside him. She had tried to ignore it, tried to shrink herself into the spaces he left unfilled, hoping the ache would dull. It hadn’t.

Her pen moved slowly, deliberately. She told him she was grateful for the years, for the steadiness he offered when the world felt unkind. She told him she was sorry — sorry that she had stayed silent for so long, sorry that leaving was the only honest thing left she could do. This wasn’t about blame, she wrote, but about truth, and the truth was that she needed a life that allowed her to breathe again.

When she finished, she set the pen down and closed her eyes. The letter lay before her, quiet and final. She folded it up, put it in an envelope, wrote Alan’s name on the envelope, and placed it on his pillow.

Outside, the day continued as if nothing had changed, but she knew everything had.

Written for Sadje’s What Do You See prompt. Photo credit: Alexander Mass @ Unsplash.

WDYS — Bad Ending

Fandango10 Comments

Art, a dedicated Happiness Engineer, bought the novelty key caps because they felt honest to him. Most computer keyboards offered optimism — “enter,” “return,” even “escape.” These novelty caps, though, spoke the truth to Art.

The “end” key (pristine white, the color of surrendered hope). The “bad” key (noir black, dark and deep as a null pointer exception). The “ing” key (crystal clear, a window into the reflective futility of continuous processes). The pixel-faced orange key (the face of digital death, permanently stunned into submission).

He had meant for them to signify something useful, like “end-to-end debugging.” But fate had other ideas.

First, there was the email from management about a meeting to discuss the most recent quarterly results at 4:00, at the end of the day. Rumors circulated that projections were seriously missed, which was bad.

Then he got a text from Carl in accounting, who reminded Art of their lunch plans, where Carl promised to explain cryptocurrency to Art. This brought the orange face-of-death key cap to mind.

Art looked down at his novelty key caps and saw that they formed a tiny, cruel poem. A silent, unblinking three-word tragedy: “bad end ing.” It’s over, it’s bad, and it’s all ending.

The orange key cap just looked up Art, who felt bewildered and disappointed. The pixel-face didn’t blink. It was just an artifact, but it felt more like a diagnosis.

Art took his hand and swept the four novelty key caps off his desk and into his trash can. He realized that his reality could not be rebooted by the Ctrl+Alt+Del keys.

He stood up, left his cubicle, and went to get more coffee. In his mind was an image of a giant Esc key.

Written for Sadje’s What Do You See prompt. Photo credit: Puscas Adrian @ Unsplash.

WDYS — The Last Road

Fandango18 Comments

Jonathan had been driving for six hours when the storm found him.

It hadn’t snuck up on him — nothing that violent could be called subtle. It had simply appeared on the horizon like a wall being erected by some unearthly force, purple and furious, stitching the ground to the sky with crooked threads of lightning. He pulled over on the empty two-lane highway somewhere in the Oklahoma panhandle, killed the engine, and watched.

Five bolts. Then three. Then a curtain of white-pink fire that turned the flat grasslands into something unholy.

The road ahead disappeared into the storm’s belly, straight as an accusation.

He thought about the job in Albuquerque that may or may not still be waiting for him. He thought about the fact that he was thirty-eight years old and everything he owned fit inside a nine-year old Jeep Grand Cherokee with a cracked rear bumper.

Most men would have turned around, but for better or worse, Jonathan wasn’t most men. That’s one thing he always understood about himself. He is the kind of person the road keeps calling forward, even when forward means driving directly into the thing everyone else is fleeing.

He also thought about Sarah, about the divorce papers sitting unsigned in the glove compartment. Sarah knew that he was a free spirit, a maverick, when she married him. She believed that she’d be the one to domesticate him. But he is unbreakable.

He started the engine.

The lightning answered.

Written for Sadje’s What Do You See prompt. Photo credit: Ryan Lansdown @ Pexels.

WDYS — The Sailboat Race

Fandango11 Comments

When I saw the photo below by Amein Shareef77 @ Unsplash in Sadje’s What Do You See prompt, I decided to write a story about two experienced sailboat owners running their boats in a competitive sailboat race. The trouble is, I don’t know anything about sailboats or about sailing.

So I sent this photo to a friend of mine who has his own sailboat in a text message and told him that I wanted to write a piece of short fiction about a sailboat race where the two boats are neck and neck as they near the finish. I asked him to give me some clues as to what might be involved. He said to give him a few hours and he would give me some pointers. But he added that he wanted to be named as the winner of the race (first name only) using the actual name of his sailboat, the Solaris.

Anyway, here is my short tale with thanks to Glenn for his sailing and nautical expertise.

The horn had sounded forty minutes ago, and now only two boats remained in contention — Solaris and the white-hulled Cerulean Dream.

Solaris captain Glenn Reeves gripped the tiller, his knuckles pale against the worn wood. From his deck, he could see the other boat holding steady, its mainsail billowing in perfect trim, cutting through the darkening chop like a blade through silk. He had been watching that sail for the better part of an hour. It haunted him.

“Wind’s shifting northwest!” his crew member, Tobias, called from the bow.

Glenn felt it before he finished the sentence — a subtle nudge against his cheek, a whisper that changed everything. Cerulean Dream hadn’t noticed yet. Their skipper, the decorated and insufferably confident Victor Hale, was looking the wrong direction.

“Now,” Glenn said quietly.

Tobias released the jib. The sail snapped and filled with new purpose. Solaris heeled slightly, surging forward with a sound like thunder held inside canvas.

The finish line buoy glittered in the afternoon haze, perhaps a quarter mile ahead. The two boats were impossibly close — close enough that Glenn could see Victor finally turning, finally reading the wind, finally understanding what he’d done.

He adjusted. So did Glenn.

The sea between them disappeared to nothing.

When the committee boat’s horn finally screamed across the water, both crews fell silent for one suspended, breathless moment.

Then the Solaris crew erupted.

Victor Hale nodded, removed his cap, and pressed it to his chest.

WDYS — The Secret of the Ribbed Vault

Fandango10 Comments

When I saw the photo below by Yasmin Onuș @ Unsplash in Sadje’s What Do You See prompt, I did a reverse internet search and saw that it was taken at the Kasımiye Madrasa, a 15th‑century Islamic school in Mardin, a city in southeastern Turkey. With that in mind, I decided to try my hand at writing a mystery/adventure story, maybe in the style of Dan Brown (The Da Vinci Code) or perhaps an Indiana Jones adventure. What I have written can be viewed as an open-ended but self-contained story, or perhaps as a first chapter to novel. Either way, it’s a relatively long post for me, so sit back and relax.

The first thing Brian Cole noticed inside the Kasımiye Madrasa was the silence. Not the peaceful kind he’d expected from a centuries-old Islamic school, but a silence that pressed in on him, heavy and watchful, as if the stone itself was holding its breath.

Brian, an American freelance archivist from Boston, had been hired by a private collector to verify the existence of a rumored manuscript said to have been hidden somewhere in the madrasa. The document, according to legend, was a final treatise written by a 14th century scholar who vanished during a period of political upheaval in Mardin. Most historians dismissed it as folklore. Brian didn’t. Folklore had a habit of leaving paper trails.

The late afternoon sun cast geometric patterns through the latticed windows in the corridor Brian was walking through, painting the honey-colored stone with dancing shadows. Brian ran his fingers along the ribbed vaulting of the corridor, marveling at the 15th century craftsmanship, when he noticed something odd. There was a series of shallow indentations that didn’t match the architectural pattern.

“You see it too,” said a gravely voice behind him.

Brian turned to find an elderly Turkish scholar, Professor Demir, whose eyes sparkled with knowing amusement.

“These marks,” Brian began, “they’re not decorative.”

“No. They’re a code.” Demir approached the wall, tracing the indentations with practiced ease. “For centuries, scholars believed them to be damage from the madrasa’s turbulent past. But three weeks ago, a graduate student suggested they correspond to an ancient numerical system.”

Brian’s pulse quickened. This was exactly the kind of discovery that could redefine historical understanding of the region’s scholarly traditions. “What do they say?”

Demir smiled cryptically. “That’s where you come in. The pattern continues into the eastern wing, but the stones there were restored in the 1970s. The restorers didn’t know what they were covering up.” He handed Brian a weathered photograph showing the same corridor before restoration.

Brian studied it carefully, comparing it to the existing marks. The pattern was clear now — a mathematical sequence, possibly astronomical calculations or a calendar system.

“But there’s a problem,” Demir continued. “Someone else knows about this. Several documents have gone missing from the archives. Last week, someone attempted to remove stones from the southern courtyard after hours.”

Brian understood immediately. If this code revealed the location of lost manuscripts or indicated hidden chambers within the madrasa, it could be priceless. “We need to decode it before….”

A sound echoed through the vaulted corridor. Footsteps, deliberate and approaching fast. Demir pressed the photograph into Brian’s hands. “The pattern reverses at the fountain courtyard,” he whispered urgently. “Start there.”

Demir disappeared into a side passage just as a figure emerged from the shadows ahead. Brian clutched the photograph and made a decision. The Kasımiye Madrasa had kept its secrets for five hundred years. Tonight, he would help unlock them — or protect them, depending on who was following him through these ancient halls.

WDYS — Analysis Paralysis

Fandango9 Comments


Emma and Jake had been standing at the snack vending machine for seven minutes. What started as a simple late-night snack run had devolved into philosophical crisis.

“The Snickers is classic,” Jake reasoned, pointing at slot D4. “But what if I’m just choosing it because it’s familiar? Am I playing it too safe?”

Emma nodded gravely. “That’s exactly what I’m thinking about the M&Ms. Plus, look — there’s a green package on the second shelf. What even is that? What if it’s amazing and we never know?”

They stepped back, reconsidering the entire grid. The fluorescent glow illuminated their furrowed brows. “We could get something healthy,” Emma suggested halfheartedly, eyeing what might have been granola bars.

“But we came here specifically not to be healthy.”

Jake pulled out his phone to research reviews. Emma started calculating price-per-ounce value. Neither noticed they’d been blocking the machine for another five minutes.

A girl approached, pressed B3 without hesitation, grabbed her Twix, and left.

Jake and Emma stared at each other, stunned by such decisive confidence.

“Should we just get what she got?” Emma whispered.

Jake sighed. “Wait. Let me think about it.”

Written for Sadje’s What Do You See prompt. Photo credit: Richard Stachmann @ Unsplash.

WDYS — The Secret of Nachi Falls

Fandango17 Comments

Here this week’s What Do You See prompt from Sadje. As those who read my blog regularly know, I have been writing a number of film noir-style detective stories of late. I saw this photograph from Alex Mesmer at Unsplash and it cried mystery story to me, but since it is taking place in Japan, my typical 1930s or 40s Chicago or New York hard-nosed private detectives wouldn’t cut it.

When I was growing up, I remember watching a lot of Charlie Chan movies on TV. Chan was a fictional Chinese detective working for the Hawaiian police force, but he traveled the world investigating mysteries and solving crimes.

My post today is a story loosely based on a Charlie Chan-like detective who is Japanese, since the scene of the crime is at a Japanese pagoda. My story is not meant to offend those of Chinese or Japanese descent. It just a good old detective story.

Detective Kenji Matsuda stood at the base of the stone steps, studying the crimson pagoda through the morning mist. Behind it, Nachi Falls thundered down the cliff face, as it had for centuries. But today something was terribly wrong.

“The monk was found at dawn,” Inspector Yamamoto explained, his breath forming clouds in the cold air. “At the bottom of the waterfall. They’re calling it an accident.”

“Ah,” Matsuda said softly, his fingers stroking his neat mustache. “But the wise man knows that coincidence, like the rare black lotus, blooms most seldom in gardens where treasure grows.”

The inspector’s eyes widened. “You know about the scroll?”

“Ancient wisdom has way of making itself known to those who listen.” Matsuda began climbing the steps, his measured pace suggesting deep contemplation. “Ninth-century manuscript depicting location of lost imperial seal. Worth perhaps millions. Yes?”

“The abbot reported it missing last night. Only three people knew of its existence.” Yamamoto hurried to keep pace. “The abbot himself, the deceased Brother Takeshi, and.…”

“And the visiting scholar from Kyoto.” Matsuda paused at the second level of the pagoda, examining fresh scratches on the vermillion railings. “Professor Tanaka, who arrived three days ago to study architectural preservation techniques.”

Inside the temple, Professor Tanaka sat composed in the prayer hall, his wire-rimmed glasses catching the filtered light. The abbot knelt nearby, elderly hands folded in meditation.

“Forgive humble observation,” Matsuda said, bowing respectfully, “but professor wears hiking boots with distinctive tread pattern. Same pattern found in mud near waterfall’s edge, where Brother Takeshi fell.”

Tanaka’s composure cracked like porcelain. “He was going to expose me! The scroll was already promised to a collector in Shanghai….”

“Ah, but hasty conclusion reveals anxious mind.” Matsuda’s eyes twinkled. “Brother Takeshi wore identical boots. Gift from generous professor, perhaps?”

The abbot’s head jerked up. “How did you….”

“Receipts in professor’s briefcase tell interesting story. Two pairs of boots purchased. Most generous gift. Unless purpose was to create identical tracks.” Matsuda turned to Yamamoto. “Inspector will find scroll hidden in professor’s camera bag, if wisdom serves.”

As Yamamoto led the professor away, Matsuda gazed once more at the waterfall. “Ancient proverb says: Those who chase waterfalls often find only rocks at journey’s end.”

The mist swallowed his words, leaving only the eternal thunder of falling water.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

WDYS — The Pillars of Veyl

Fandango25 Comments

For this week’s What Do You See prompt from Sadje, I am going to try my hand at writing something I rarely write: science fiction. The photo Sadje gave us to work with, from Sean Pierce @ Unsplash, was a little dark, at least on my iPhone, so I lightened it up a tad so I could see what it was. I hope that didn’t break any rules. So here we go. And if you’re a science fiction fan, don’t be too hard on me, as Sci-Fi is not in my wheelhouse.

The eclipse came exactly when the Archives predicted it would — three thousand years to the day since the last one painted the sky in copper and ash.

Kaël stood among the ruins, her feet planted in dust that had once been a thriving plaza. The tufa spires rose before her like the fingers of a buried giant, each one hollowed and weathered by centuries of wind. Their silhouettes resembled a procession frozen mid-march. Now known as the Pillars of Veyl, the colonists who’d first come to this world had called this place the Cathedral, though no gods were ever worshipped here. Only memories.

The blood moon hung heavy above the broken columns, its light turning everything the color of old iron. Kaël checked her scanner again, though she already knew what it would say. The signal was strongest here, had been growing stronger with each passing hour as the moon climbed toward totality.

“You shouldn’t have come alone,” said a voice behind her.

She didn’t turn. “Yet you followed me anyway, Arini.”

Her partner emerged from behind one of the larger pillars, atmospheric suit reflecting the russet moonlight. “Because you’re predictable. Also stubborn. Mostly stubborn.”

“The Council said no excavation permits for another decade.”

“The Council is afraid of what you might find.”

Kaël finally looked at Arini. “Aren’t you?”

Before Arini could answer, the ground beneath them hummed — a low vibration that traveled up through their boots and into their bones. The pillars began to glow from within, faint at first, then brighter, lines of blue-white light tracing ancient patterns through the stone.

“Kaël…” Arini’s voice was tight with wonder and fear.

The air between the columns shimmered. Not from heat distortion. From something else. Something that made Kaël’s teeth ache and her scanner scream warnings she couldn’t read fast enough to understand.

And then she saw them.

Figures made of light and memory, walking through the plaza as it had been before the cataclysm. Thousands of them, living their last moments over and over again, preserved somehow in the stone itself. A civilization’s final day, captured and held like insects in amber.

The blood moon reached its apex.

One of the figures turned toward Kaël. It actually turned, actually saw her. It raised a hand. Its mouth moved, forming words in a language dead for millennia.

But Kaël’s translator, struggling with the interference, caught one word clearly:

“Witness.”

The light faded. The figures dissolved. The pillars went dark again, just weathered stone against a darkening sky.

Arini grabbed Kaël’s arm. “Did you…?

“Record everything,” Kaël whispered, her hands shaking as she clutched her equipment. “Yes. Every sensor, every reading. The Council was wrong. This isn’t a tomb.”

“Then what is it?”

Kaël looked up at the fading eclipse, at the ruins that suddenly seemed less dead than sleeping.

“A warning. Or a message. Either way, we have three thousand years to figure out which before it happens again.”

The moon continued its slow return to silver, leaving them alone among the silent pillars.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​