Category: Writing Prompts

Jade’s Arcade: Video Games at the Mall

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Flash Fiction: A Wayne Donald & Kinley Chris Adventure

Photo by Element5 Digital on Pexels. The image depicts a glowing, lit sign that reads “Arcade” hung above the entrance to a hallway. At the other end of the hall, we see a doorway leading to a room with different arcade games.

“I gots $5.75″ to spend at the arcade, Kinely Chris. That ain’t enough for four hours’ worth of playing video games. What you got?”

Wayne Donald yells to her big sister as she’s scraping change from her piggy bank for their impending trip to the mall to explore Jade’s Arcade. The girls do not get out often. With their grandmother being the town’s declared homebody, their Uncle Henry has access to them every few weeks and allows them a trip or two upon those visits.

“I have ten dollars. Now, lemme just say this… You know as well as I do that Uncle Henry ain’t gon’ give us more than $5.00 a piece when he comes, so I’ll go on and give you two of my ten dollars, so you’ll have $12.75 once he’s done handin’ out money. I’ll have ’bout a dollar more’n ya, so we can split that last dollar later, before we leave. That sound all right t’ya, Wayne Donald?”

Wayne Donald is shaking up her piggy bank, trying to see if any more coins are dangling from side to side. The empty echo of nothingness signals to her that she has nothing left to spare. She looks in Kinley Chris’s direction and nods her approval before speaking.

“Thanks, Kinley. I sure do appreciate that. I know which games I’m gon’ play, too! Mrs. Pac-Man, Frogger, Skee-Ball, and Air Hockey. And if Uncle Henry’ll put me on his shoulders, I’ll play basketball, too!”

“Ya ain’t skilled enough to play Frogger, and you always bouncin’ the balls into other lanes with Skee-Ball. Stick to what ya’know, and that’s Mrs. Pac-Man and Air Hockey.”

Silence fills the room, and the younger sister nods her head in agreement, and tilts it to the left—she’s trying to gauge whether or not she should just stick to what she knows. More than likely, she’s going to do what she wants anyway. She coughs into her cupped hands and rebuts.

“Kinley Chris, I do believe I’m gon’ play what I said I’m gon’ play. If I don’t try, how will I learn?”

“Y’know what, Wayne Donald?! Ya got me there. Ya got me.”

Uncle Henry pulls up to their grandmother’s castle-like home, parks his truck in the driveway, and honks the horn twice. The girls skate down the stairs, yell their goodbyes to their grandmother, and bolt through the front door.

“HEY, UNCLE HENRY!” They shout in unison.

“Hey, girls. So, Jade’s Arcade, right? Should be just a few tykes there by the time we get to town. Y’all buckle up for safety. And here’s ya money.”

He leans slightly over the front seat of his truck and hands the girls a $5.00 bill apiece—crispy bills, too. The girls look at each other with huge smiles, slapping their faces.

“THANKS, UNCLE HENRY!” The hum of the truck presses into the cool air of the late morning. Uncle Henry turns his radio to 94.5, and the lovely sounds of electric jazz fill the truck. A smile slaps his face, too, and before the girls can say anything else, he says tenderly…

“Y’all welcome.”

Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, and Part V.

This concludes the adventures of Wayne Donald and Kinley Chris. Thank you for joining me on their memorable journey!

This flash fiction piece is my offering for this week’s Melissa’s Fandango Flash Fiction Challenge. It is week #357. When I saw the image, the girls sprang into action, and the story above is what came to me.

Perhaps, you’ve got a story brewing within you, too, for this week’s image offering?

Scattered Words: Poems for Jernee Timid Loadholt is available now! Have you gotten your copy? Hardcover|eBook

Helen, Lucy, and Quack

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Flash Fiction: A Wayne Donald and Kinley Chris Adventure

The image above is by Erwin Bosman on Pexels. It depicts three chickens perched on a branch. The chickens appear to ascend in height from left to right; the leftmost chicken being mostly brown, the one at center being mostly white, and the rightmost being mostly black.

Wayne Donald stares outside their upstairs bedroom window. She is scratching the curly, messy knot of hair on her head while she huffs and breathes outwardly in exasperation.

“You gon’ tell Charlie ’bout them chickens of theirs cluckin’ about in the yard again, Kinley Chris, or do I have to put on my knickers and go on over there and do it myself?”

Wayne Donald is in rare form this morning. It is a raging hot Sunday in the depths of the South, and wandering chickens are the last things she wants to deal with the day before going back to school. The girls had been out for Christmas break, enjoying every moment of freedom their grandmother would allow, and now… the countdown to back-to-school has begun.

“Who out there?! Which ones? Some, I don’t mind. I put some chicken feed out near the fence yesterday morning—might be sopping that up.”

“Looks like Helen, Lucy, and Quack.” She squints her eyes to look closer outside of their upstairs bedroom window—zooming in with imaginary binoculars. “Yeah… that’s definitely Helen, Lucy, and Quack.”

Kinley Chris looks up from an adventurous book she had been reading, keenly stares at her younger sister, and nods in approval.

“Long as it’s not those other demon birds, I say, let them be. Charlie Rhett and ‘nem are at church anyway at this hour. It ain’t no need bangin’ on their door about some harmless chickens just cuz you don’t like the way they cluck.”

“They irritate me, Kinley Chris, and I just can’t take it. Why you gotta put that chicken feed out on Sunday mornings when I wanna sleep in?”

“Who are you to tell me where and when to put chicken feed, Wayne Donald? It’s late morning, and you shoulda been up about an hour ago anyway. Don’t get on my bad side before noon.”

Wayne Donald shuffles off to her bed, plops her flimsy body back down, tucks her face underneath the sheets, and fake-sobs. Through the sheets, she continues her argument with her big sister.

“I’m just sayin’… they cluck and squawk and make so much noise while they’re eatin’, Kinley Chris. How can you even read with all that racket walkin’ in through the window?”

“You were just up, Wayne Donald. You could’ve closed the window, silly. They aren’t that loud, and it’s too early to be complainin’. Get yourself a few more winks in, and I’ll go downstairs in a bit and fetch us some breakfast. If Helen, Lucy, or Quack laid some eggs, we’ll have us a mighty fine batch of eatin’.”

To this, Wayne Donald does not debate. She turns over, snuggles up into a ball, and closes her eyes. “Fifteen more minutes,” she says. “Fifteen more minutes.”

Part I, Part II, Part III, and Part IV.

This piece is my offering for this week’s Melissa’s Fandango Flash Fiction Challenge, #353. I love it when these two sisters start speaking to me. When I saw the prompt roll out this past Monday, and those chickens staring back at me, I said, “Ha! Wayne Donald and Kinley Chris,” so here we are. Thank you so much for reading.

Have you gotten your copy of Séduire: Serial Tales & Flash Fiction at Lulu in E-Book & Paperback versions, or Amazon in Paperback (only) yet?

I am on Substack as well. Poking the Bear’s Belly for Fun is a place of healing, as I discuss recent events related to my previous place of employment, including racism and discrimination, the growth I experienced after resigning from that company, and the foibles and overall experiences of life. I welcome your visit.

Ivy Tower

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Flash Fiction: A Wayne Donald and Kinley Chris Adventure

The image above is from Jon Tyson. The image depicts the window of a brick building that is overgrown with ivy; some of the leaves are still green, but many are a beautiful red color. We see some, but not all, of the window frame.

“Wayne Donald! Get out here! We needa clear somma this ivy!”

Kinley Chris shouts up toward the huge window of their grandmother’s home. Wayne Donald is in their bedroom watching Gremlins, avoiding all Saturday chores. She huffs, kicks her feet up from the bed, jumps down from the top bunk, and lands with a vicious thud over their grandmother’s art room.

Kinley is standing outside in front of their grandmother’s home, under the first window. She is dressed in a medium Uline Deluxe Coverall, ski mask, gardening gloves, and goggles for protection. She is holding a mini rake in one hand and a standard rake in the other.

“Kinley Chris, why we gotta do this? Why we can’t wait ’til Uncle Henry gets here to clear this ivy? I hate it. It makes my stomach turn.” The younger sister whines and tries to plead her case, but Kinely Chris stands firm on what needs to get done as a part of their Saturday chores.

“Every Saturday you moan’n groan, like I wanna hear it. I don’t. Uncle Henry won’t be over here ’til later on this evening for dinner, and by that time, he ain’t gon’ wanna do nothin’ but plop down and fill his belly with steak, potatoes, and gravy. So… please go get your gear on and get back out here so we can do what we need to do.”

Wayne Donald stirs up a fuss with her feet as she rattles the leaves awake beneath them. She races upstairs to gather her gear, puts it all on in haste, and rushes back outside to help her big sister.

“Get yo rakes and make sure your goggles are on good. We don’t need you rashin’ up ’round the eyes like you did two weeks ago. I got a swift slap to my cheek from grandma for not checkin’ on ya before we started, and I ain’t aimin’ for that to happen today.” Wayne Donald straightens up her goggles and pulls her ski mask down to meet the edges.

“And if you do a good job today, I’ve got some gummy bears with yo name on’em.”

Wayne Donald looks over at Kinley, shakes her head happily, and gets to work.

AI-Generated Image: Two sisters; one teenager, one seven-year-old, dressed in gardening gear and goggles, frowning.

A rare shout from up above meets the girls’ ears. It’s their grandmother giving precise orders for the proper trimming of the ivy.

“Girls, I likes them red leaves… how they’re comin’ in beautifully. Keep as many of them as you can, leave some green leaves to mingle with it, and trim from the top to the bottom. Y’all got your hedge clippers out there?”

The girls look up, both surprised to hear from their grandmother at this time of day. Typically, she’s asleep until noon, it’s only 09:30 AM. Kinley is the first to respond, then Wayne Donald.

“Sure thing, Grandma. We’ll get it right.”

“Okay, Grandma, will do!”

The sun rose higher to greet the two of them just as they were making headway under the third window. With seven more windows to go, the girls know they will not finish the task today, but at least most of the trimming and clearing of the ivy will be done for next Saturday.

“Whew! Five windows down, five more to go. It’s time for lunch, Wayne Donald. We can end here and finish up next Saturday. I think I smell Grandma’s fried spam and eggs, and I sure do want a belly full of that on some buttered toast.”

“Lawd, I do too, Kinley Chris! I been waitin’ for you to say we can stop since we started. Let’s get inside!”

What will the two of them get into next?

Part I, Part II, and Part III.

This piece is my offering for this week’s Melissa’s Fandango Flash Fiction Challenge, #349. I love these two sisters. They remind me of my friend, E’s two youngest girls. When the series is complete, I will share it with her. I am long overdue for a trip up to the mountains of Western North Carolina to visit all of them, and I am looking forward to it at the beginning of next year.

Angles and Distance

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A Collaborative Poem by Barry Dawson & Tremaine L. Loadholt, published in Collaborature

Image: Greg Schmigel

BJ Dawson:

They come dripping with honied songs.
You happily lap them up at first;
so cloyingly sticky with promise
the sting of their claws goes unnoticed.
And just like that, there’s nothing again,

Only now, nothing feels less than that.
Got you chasing things you never wanted
just to feel something one more time,
just to get another juicy taste,
just like they wanted all along.

Play at being prey enough times,
angles and patterns soon seem telegraphed.
Funny how when you see them coming
those sweet songs croon on empty calories,
leaving you, me, and this naked truth.

Unsheathed, this mummer’s mimic still has fangs,
so be mindful how you cast them off.
Though a well-dressed no is still a no
and boundaries trigger venomous bite,
angles and distance out-leverage their reach.

Let them bait their lines again and again.
Mimic being moved by their siren song
as saccharine curdles into sour nothings
as you walk away from their invite
to thank them for gorging on your wholeness.

(In Response) Tremaine L. Loadholt:

You love being whole,
love feeling like you have
it all, and every woman you
meet must be craving
your attention.
A welcome yes may not
be the yes you yearn for,
but this doesn’t matter, you’ll
take what you want anyway.

And the sun and moon watch
as you devour hearts that
haven’t bloomed into their
ripe age. they plot on you–one
to brace you when it’s hot, the
other to push you when it’s cool.
You are so intent on breaking
every rule, you don’t realize
protecting you is their job.

The distance to sanity from where
you are is a two-day journey.
Wives and husbands, sisters and
brothers; every connected union
you find along your path–

To read the poem in its entirety, please find it in its published form at Collaborature. Thank you so much, Melissa Lemay, for hosting our work! Thank you, Barry, for continuing to collaborate with me. Our words have danced with each other for years, and I pray they continue to find each other in the future, too.

Saving Bruce Dennis

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Introducing Charlie Rhett Baylor

The image above is from Getty Images. It is a vintage photo of a young boy sitting at a table and looking mischievously at a whole turkey on a platter garnished with lettuce and tomatoes. The boy wears a suit jacket, dress shirt and tie, and his hands are folded and placed on the table. An empty dinner plate, a smaller plate with a dinner roll on it, and a full glass of milk are in front of him.

Bruce Dennis is getting so far up that the girls wail out to her, pleading for her to get back down to safety. The poor cat sits unbothered, still attached to ten red heart-shaped balloons, drifting by a will not of her own. They stomp their feet and cry out with impatience. Kinley Chris shouts downstairs to their grandmother—screaming for her help—begging her with plump tears in her eyes for her to do something.

“Grandma! Bruce Dennis is flyin’ up more and more. We need to get her down! Grandma, please!”

But their grandmother was in the very place she was before all the commotion began. The girls have no idea she is the one who hitched Bruce Dennis to the balloons—swatting the cat away for breaking her favorite vase. She had said so many times before her art room was off limits. She is going to show them better than she can tell them. But before she would wiggle her overgrown self from the vintage loveseat perfectly placed next to the only window in the art room, their young ginger-haired neighbor, Charlie Rhett Baylor, raps at their door.

“Kinley and Wayne!!! I see Brucie up in the sky. What is goin’ on, y’all?!” In between his yelling, there were frantic knocks at the door. Charlie is also thinking of a way to get the fat cat down while he continues to knock and yell. His father, Hank Baylor, is the Deputy Sheriff in town, so Charlie has a few tricks up his sleeve that will surely secure the fat cat soundly.

Wayne Donald shoots down the stairs quicker than an incoming evening tide and swings the door open. She notices Charlie’s Sunday Best attire, then waves for him to enter their home. Kinley Chris strips the bedding off the guest room’s twin mattress and tosses it out the window. She is thinking they can shoot the balloons one by one with her slingshot or BB gun, and get Bruce Dennis to land on the mattress, but they have to be quick. When Charlie meets her in the guest room, she rattles off her plan to him, and he throws his suit jacket on the box spring, kicks off his loafers, and races back downstairs so he can place the mattress in the spot where Bruce Dennis would land.

Kinley Chris loads the BB gun with .177 caliber pellets, flings the gun over her shoulder, and sets up shop right in front of the old window. Like a focused sniper, the eldest sibling tilts her head to find the subject, braces her legs for shifting, and kneels down in an experienced shooter’s position. She yells down to Charlie, who is in a frenzied state, trying to track Bruce Dennis’ landing position.

“Charlie Rhett Baylor, you gotta good eye on Brucie? I ain’t aimin’ to kill my cat when she falls, so you besta be movin’ that mattress in the right direction!”

“Yeah, I’m watchin’! I’m watichin’ ya, Kinley. You just let those bbs rip, and my eyes will be on the fat cat prize.”

Kinley Chris launches the first three pellets with vigor and swift calculation. Two more pellets follow, and Charlie is monitoring every hit and is maneuvering the mattress as if his life depends on it. Kinley Chris launches two more pellets, and Wayne Donald wails in exclamation—deathly afraid of a negative outcome.

Just before Kinley lets the last three pellets fly, Bruce Dennis is falling down at a pace none of them expects, and Charlie has his eyes on her—keenly assessing the situation as every second passes.

“I’m lettin’ these last three rip, Charlie! Make sure that mattress is placed right. Looks like Bruce Dennis is comin’ right at ya!” Each pellet hits its respective target, and the fat cat meows loud enough for the whole block to hear. She lands with a pounding thud on the mattress on her eight-lives-left paws and quickly runs toward the shed behind the house.

“Wayne Donald!” Kinley Chris turns to her sister to give the final instructions. “You go on to that shed and make sure she ain’t got no bruises or nothin’ like that, and take her a fresh bowl of milk and open a can of that good tuna for her, too.”

Charlie waits until he sees Wayne Donald, then hurries up the stairs to grab his suit jacket and loafers. His day of helping the neighbors is over, and now he has a story to tell his highly decorated Deputy Sheriff of a father.

Bruce Dennis won’t even look in the art room’s direction. She will never trust the girls’ grandmother again.

This piece is my offering for this week’s Melissa’s Fandango Flash Fiction Challenge, #348. We had to save Bruce Dennis; we simply had to.

Part I and Part II