Paper Days

Photo credit @JellicoStation

Paper Days
By T. Delaplain

You folded the fuselage into a triangle then tightened the binder paper into a nose. You licked a finger and raised it to the sky; a northern breeze, good visibility. Precise dirt smudged creases, torn into perfect straight lines, you fashioned the wings to maximize lift. Continue Reading

The Perfect Blue


Pegman has taken us to Mars today and has stumbled upon an art enclave. Apparently there is life on the Red Planet and she’s a voracious artist. If you want to take an intergalactic journey with us come along and create your own flash fiction, just don’t leave the mother ship. What Pegman Saw.


Photo credit NASA

The Perfect Blue
by T. Delaplain

The paint fumes danced up her nostrils, she inhaled and the rush followed. The cerulean flowed from her brush as she swept it across the translucent canvas.

No rules on Mars, only art and an endless supply of humans. Continue Reading

Make Mine a Guinness

Pegman took a stroll around my favorite city, Dublin, and despite the beautiful and historically significant sites, the stick man found a Corona Light billboard. I try to be culturally sensitive but light beer in Ireland?

Ridiculous!

I will not drink Corona, not with my feet in sand, not with pesos in my hand. I will not drink it any time. Not even with a bright key lime.

That being said, join me for a pint and some flash fiction with Pegman.

Make Mine A Guinness
by T. Delaplain

“Gimme a pint Paddy.”
“I’ll build it for ya Mick, let me get rid of the Yank drinking Mexican horse piss, kids today wouldn’t know their Guinness from their Smithwick.”
“No rush, herself is at a hen party for Mrs. Shea tonight. I told the Mrs. she was too old to be chasing the craic. Not the proper thing at all for an old girl. Imagine remarrying when Declan ain’t been dead but two years. A saint, I say. He never let a man raise a pint alone. They say it was the drink that took him, but I think it was the naggin’. It’ll be a cold day in hell when a man cain’t raise a Guinness without a fuss in Ireland.”
“I can see the bottom of that glass, can I start ya another, Mick?”
“No, thank ya kindly, I promised herself I’d have but one and I ain’t about confessing otherwise on Sunday.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I’ll be confessing to Dr. Seuss himself for that bad poetry. We will be raising a pint for St. Paddy’s Day in Loreto, Mexico next week. Believe it or not, we have an Irish born brew master in town so we’ll toast with a stout and dance to a Mexican/Celtic band.


How writing flash fiction helped me write a novel

I couldn’t have said it better. Check out Louise’s novels, The Sister and The Gift.

fabricating fiction

the-sisterWhen I started writing in earnest two years ago I created this blog and stumbled across a weekly flash fiction challenge called Friday Fictioneers. A photo would be posted each week and participants were invited to use the prompt to create a hundred word story.

It sounded fun and a good way to kick off my blog. Writing the first story was difficult. It took me ages to edit it down to 100 words. It was nerve wracking sending my first story out into the world but if I’m honest, I didn’t expect anyone to read it, but read it they did. I was soon enveloped into a supportive writing community who have critiqued with kindness, encouraged and soothed every step of the way on my journey to publication, commiserating with every rejection and celebrating my first two novels hitting No. 1 on Amazon. I am so grateful to those…

View original post 407 more words

Walking on Water, Fly Rod in Hand

image

Photo credit: Ted Strutz

Walking on Water, Fly Rod in Hand
by T. Delaplain

“It’s all in the wrist, Trace.” My Dad’s line whipped behind him, slowly returned and walked across the calm water in a lazy “S”. I swore as my tangled fly drove its hook into my thumb.

“Try again, it’ll come.” He handed me his tattered creel. This relic of his youth held all his truths. They had shared the silent hours of meditation, the lonely farewells to his fishing buddies and the rapture of just being.

The fly rod, his staff.
The river, his bible.
The mountain, his chapel.

I recast with perfect pitch and rhythm.

Today’s sermon,”patience”.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Some stories write themselves. A voice takes you along for the ride and you write. My Dad was a grand story teller and his advice was always given by example. This is his story. He had no use for churches but had an incredible reverence for our natural world and wild spaces. There was never a problem that couldn’t be solved with a fishing rod in hand. He believed that the best stories are about the one that got away, that the water always flows under the bridge so there’s no time for regrets and there’s always another opportunity around the bend. He believed in feeding any neighbor in need and often fished with that in mind. He had endless patience when teaching me how to fish or do long division. I still look to him for answers and sometimes those answers come in strange 100 word packages.

Take a seat in the chair and write a 100 word story for Friday Fictioneers.

Held In Memory

image
Photo credit @Al Forbes

Held In Memory
by T. Delaplain

I slide into the backseat, lie on my back and imagine the moonlight. I’m assaulted with longing so intense that it can only be desire. The taste of your breath lingers still. I run my hand over the discolored upholstery. I can almost smell the vanilla ice cream mishap: kids and dogs and chaos.

My tears cloud the rear view mirror again. Continue Reading

When Faith Becomes Grief

image
Thank you for the photo Dale Rogerson

When Faith Becomes Grief
by T. Delaplain

The familiar incense of candle wax, smouldering wicks and desperation forced the bile to rise in my throat. It had been a routine operation, on a common ailment, on a run-of-the-mill day, yet here I am with my extraordinary grief. Continue Reading