#WEP October #Horrorfest - Life is a sunless garden. #IWSG October - let's talk about ghosts.

 Hello there!

I know I'm a week early for the IWSG, but what the heck. It fits in perfectly with the WEP special challenge, so I'm all over it.

October 2 question - Ghost stories fit right in during this month. What's your favorite classic ghostly tale? Tell us about it and why it sends chills up your spine.

My favorite ghostly tale is Dracula, the old classic vampire tale, often credited with so much vampire lore. But ghosts come in various forms. The ghost I'm writing about today is all too common, but has a lot in common with vampires.

There remains a fascination with paranormal romance. Here's the latest:

"63% of Amazon's top 100 best-selling books in 2024 are Romance titles, and 30% of those feature paranormal or fantasy elements."  

Alex Newton (K-lytics

So here I go...

It feels so good to be writing again. So if you missed my last post, you'll know I'm back after a long hiatus. I'm the epitome of the #IWSG. I feel like I've forgotten everything about publishing etc, but am glad that the writing is still there. And I'm starting back with #flashfiction, my favorite. If you missed it, WEP is back for an October special challenge for all those who've been missing the motivation to write out of your comfort zone. 

The idea for my WEP entry hit me when I recollected Oscar Wilde’s quote – “A life without love is like a sunless garden.” I thought about the possibilities, and this is what I came up with.

 

A Sunless Garden

 

A Sunless Garden

The city of New Orleans moved to its chaotic rhythm, indifferent to the hollow ache nestled inside Clara's chest. How many people were like her, going through the motions but not really living? You’d never know with all the color, noise and mayhem surrounding her. She was an empty shell, nothing left inside but cold and desolation.

Completely out of sync with her city.

She sat at her favorite café window, mesmerized by rain streaking down the glass. Every drop felt like a tear she couldn’t cry, every shadow on the pavement outside a whisper of something lost.

"More coffee?" The waiter, his smile mechanical, held up the steaming pot of darkness. Clara liked his offish manner. No chatting. Just isolation.

She nodded, not caring that she hated the bitter taste. The warmth it gave was all she craved, a small comfort in a world grown cold.

As she sipped her third brew for the day, a glint caught her eye—outside, across the street, a man stood under the awning of her favorite bookstore, Dead End Books. His eyes locked on her, not with the casual gaze of a passer-by, but with a dark, knowing intensity. Clara’s breath hitched. There was something wrong about him, something familiar, yet utterly alien.

She looked away quickly, her heart pounded, the air in the café suffocated her. Her breath was choking gasps. The last time she had felt that sensation was with Thomas, her late husband. The same heart-racing fear masquerading as love. What torture had he planned for her when he returned from work and decided he hated the meal she’d prepared? But Thomas had died three years ago, and the pitiful trickling of love that had once warmed her world had died with him.

She’d always been lonely. Thomas was her antidote to loneliness, her lifeboat, until she came to prefer loneliness to her life with him.

Guilt tore at her. Why did she do what he asked right to the end? How could she administer that lethal dose that took him from the world? When she refused, he cursed and ranted, spittle flying in her face. Then he said his final words – “I’ve never loved you. Truth is, I’ve hated you for a long time.”

He was taunting her. He always taunted her to get what he wanted. She shouldn’t have done it. But she gave him what he wanted as she always did.

As the needle pricked his arm, his eyes glinted, triumphant. To the last you obey me, they said.

Now, her life was a sunless garden—dead flowers choked by weeds, nothing but shadows.

She scanned the street, but the man had disappeared as quickly as he’d appeared. Yet unease gnawed at her. She left notes on the table, rushed from the café, her heels clicking on the wet sidewalk in a hurried, hollow rhythm.

As she rounded the corner, she felt it again—that eerie presence.

Not someone.

Something.

She spun around, but the street was empty. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. As drops of rain fell on her head, the world seemed to warp, grow darker, the sky a bruised gray that smothered the last vestige of light.

She sped down the bright, graffitied alley close to her apartment, but the walls were black towers, pressing against her. Every footstep echoed twice. Someone was walking behind her.

She stopped.

Turned around.

The man. At the far end of the alley. Shrouded in shadow. He stood, legs planted apart, arms raised in the air like a boxer ready to administer the first blow. His eyes glowed faintly through the shadow, the way Thomas’s had the night he died—distant, lost to the sickness that had taken him, yet triumphant when she carried out his bidding.

"Who are you?" Clara demanded, her voice trembling.

The man stepped forward, walking slowly in her direction, and with every step, the world dimmed. The lights flickered, street traffic silenced, even the rain stopped mid-air, frozen in time.

"You … know … who … I … am."

Her heart raced, the truth clawed at her mind. This wasn’t real. Couldn’t be.

"Thomas? But you’re dead.”

The figure smiled, but there was no joy in it.

"Not exactly."

His voice was Thomas’s, but colder, laced with something darker, more threatening.

"You let me go, Clara. You killed me. Now you have no one. Instead, you’re living in this sunless garden of grief, and you’ll never escape."

Clara took a step back, her pulse a wild drumbeat in her ears. "This can’t be. You’re not him."

The figure stopped before her, so close she could smell his stench. Tilting his head, he growled like an attack dog.

"No. I am what’s left. The emptiness. The darkness you invited in when you let love go."

“What we had wasn’t love. You hated me. You taunted me. You beat me.”

Her back hit the alley wall. She was trapped by shadows.

"What … what do you want?"

His eyes glowed brighter, the alley swallowed the last fragment of light. "I want what you took from me. What you buried with your cold heart."

“My heart was never cold. That was all you. Despite how you treated me, I loved you.”

His teeth grimaced, rotten and yellow. His face in hers, his spiney hands encircled her neck.

“But I never loved you, Clara. I pitied you. Your life has always been a sunless garden.”

He squeezed, harder, harder.

Her eyes bulged, opened long enough to see the triumph in his.

And then the world went black.

In the silence, broken only by the inhuman sounds emanating from her throat, she realized the truth. Love was not the sun. It was the garden. Without it, the shadows had come for her.

TAGLINE:

The scourge of Domestic Violence reaches beyond the grave.

 

WORDS: 1000

FCA 

Aren't you sickened by those horrific stories of domestic violence and despite the money thrown at the scourge by the government, the violence gets worse. And I don't believe in judging women for staying in a toxic marriage - not everyone has an 'out' and some are kept in this situation by crippling emotional needs.

I wanted to show how far reaching domestic violence is - it reaches beyond the grave.

Thanks for visiting and reading. It's good to be back to blogging!

The awesome co-hosts for the October 2 posting of the IWSG are Nancy Gideon, Jennifer Lane, Jacqui Murray, and Natalie Aguirre!

To read more Horrorfest stories, click on a name below

HELLO THERE! I'M BACK!

 Hello blogging friends (if I have any left!) Out of sight, out of mind? Hope I can claw my way back to this much-loved community. As said in my last post before disaster struck, I prefer blogging over all other social media. And I will come by to say hi!

I'm too late for the IWSG this month. I told Alex of my situation, but I've been away too long and no longer have my exalted position near the top of the list. 💔

So...where have I been?

On April 4, my son was taken gravely ill with respiratory failure and has just been released from hospital after 4 months! So from that you will deduce he is still not out of the woods, so my husband Geo and I are helping take care of him at his home in Brisbane. We used to live here in the city and love it, so it's not such an impost although we miss the beach like crazy. 

Now we don't have to bus it to the hospital every day, I've taken some time for myself and here I am at the gorgeous Brisbane Square Library in a nice little possee with a view over the Brisbane River and the new bridge connecting the South Bank with the new casino complex and reconnecting with the writerly world. 

So, hello again, fellow writers! I'm so glad to be back!

Anyway, anyone who knows me knows of WEP (Write...Edit...Publish) and how we had to close down, some insisted temporarily due to overwhelming life challenges, and turns out they were right. Many said they needed WEP to write to a challenge every two months and some said they'd not written anything since we stopped with the challenges so Yolanda, Nilanjana, Olga, Jemi and Sonia all agreed to reopen for a challenge in October, our funnest month, with a Thrillfest. 

So, thanks to some clever artwork from Olga Godim, our badge guru, we have prepared a challenge for all those who like to have a crack at flash fiction of the scary kind, or non-scary if you can't bring yourself to horrify readers.

This is going to be my first foray into writing for four months! I have two completed novels which I will be rereading and sending to editors, but I fear I've forgotten more than I ever knew about publishing. Hmm. Going to be a tough road home. Found anything that works for you? Do share!

Here I present WEP's October Horrorfest!

Are you ready?

Thought we were caput didn't you?!!

Nope, just dealing with life's issues,

but we're ready once more.

For a NEW CHALLENGE!

It's coming up in October

Just in time for Halloween!

Write about what scares you.

Whether it ghosts, or goblins, or ghouls...

Or it's relationships, spiders, or snakes...

Maybe you fear tomorrow, or yesterday,

the past, or the future.

With so many fears, there's no reason

not to participate.

So we'll see you there!!!!

Post your masterpiece

    OCTOBER 1st through the 16th

Just affix your link and get ready for

some amazing writing!!!!!

Don't forget, comments count!

See you then with a link!

Thanks Yolanda Renee for letting me steal the promo which is found at the WEP website.

Sadly, two of our original members have passed - Sally Stackhouse and Nancy Williams. They are sadly missed by us all.

Hopefully we will see some of you posting your stories with us in a celebration of the gift of life!

#IWSG April 2024 - Blogging, social media ...

 Here we are, another month done and dusted. Hope your month was rewarding in every way.

April 3 question - How long have you been blogging? (Or on Facebook/Twitter/Instagram?) What do you like about it and how has it changed?

Hmm. The question this month makes me think. I've been blogging for a gazillion years it feels, but I think I began in 2007. 

Someone said today that blogging hasn't really changed over the years, but I disagree. Or, rather, it's we who have changed over time. 

I started with a travel blog to enter a competition, L'Aussie Travel, then created a Paris blog as a place to talk about my favorite city, then Flashquake blog where I posted my stories to the #Fridayfiction prompts, then began Romantic Friday Writers, which became  WEP, a trusted place to write flash fiction to prompts, and toyed with the idea of a separate blog for my paranormal pen name, Silver Tree. Way too much work. So now I'm going to make a major change to this, my author blog, and put all my eggs in one basket (couldn't resist the pun).

When social media became a thing - yes it wasn't always a thing - many of my blogger friends left for Facebook especially, which is a lot less work than blogging. 

Even though I'm a lot less enthusiastic about blogging than I used to be, I still prefer it to FB/X/Insta etc. even though I force myself to 'do' these when the spirit moves me. Blogging is much more personal and I do still have a few blogging friends left, not too many, unfortunately. 

Writing can be an isolating experience, so it helps to touch base with fellow writers once a month for the IWSG, and latterly, I catch up with my WEP friends each month or two on the WEP site. All good.

The awesome co-hosts for the April 3 posting of the IWSG are Janet Alcorn, T. Powell Coltrin, Natalie Aguirre, and Pat Garcia!

  Be sure to visit the
Insecure Writer’s Support Group Website!!!

See you in May!

Denise

#WEP #October2023 - My #flashfiction, THE GHOST OF OPERA GARNIER

 Hello all!

It's time for October's WEP challenge, based on the Phantom of the Opera. For this #flashfiction, I have retold the classic story in fairytale form, using third person omniscient, not the 'person' I usually write in, but I felt it suited this story.

Hopefully, my retelling of the classic suits the October thrill fest.

 

The Ghost of Opéra Garnier

Opera Garnier showing its underground caverns

Credit

Once upon a time, in the beautiful heart of Paris, beneath the majestic Opéra Garnier, lay a world hidden from prying eyes. From the pinnacles of its rooftops to its underground caverns and lake, it was a realm of whispers and shadows. Here passion and despair intertwined like dark strands of haunting melodies.

This was the home of the Phantom of the Opera who had lived in a labyrinthine lair beneath the theater for as long as anyone could remember. Shrouded in mystery and illusion, his soul bore the weight of a thousand unspoken sorrows.

The Phantom had been a legend in the Parisian opera house for decades. He was a genius - a composer, master of disguise, violin virtuoso. His compositions, resembling fragments of a tortured soul, echoed through the corridors and enchanted every soul who heard them.

But the Phantom's true genius lay in his artistry of concealment. In the decades he had inhabited the cavernous spaces, he had never been seen by a single soul, his presence only known through the haunting letters and cryptic instructions he was wont to write.

He was hideously disfigured according to the rumor spread by members of the Belle Epoque society who floated through the opera house halls in search of the next exquisite rendition of their favorite operas.

But if no one had seen him, how did the rumor begin?

There was but one who knew him.

Her name was Christine Daaé, a beautiful, talented young soprano, the Phantom’s obsession. She was entranced by her mysterious benefactor, believing him to be the Angel of Music her father had promised would watch over her when she embarked on her new career. Her voice had drawn the Phantom like a moth to a flame. He tutored her in secret, taking her from chorus girl to star of the opera in a few short months.

One evening, as Christine prepared to perform her signature role as Marguerite in "Faust," a fragrant red rose lay on her dressing room table, accompanied by a note in elegant handwriting.

"My dearest Christine,

Tonight, the world shall hear your voice as never before. Tonight, you shall be the embodiment of perfection. Do not forget, my love, that you are mine, and I am yours. Let none come between us. Every note you sing, every breath you take, is a symphony of our shared passion.

Yours eternally, The Phantom"

 

 Christine's heartbeat tripled in speed. She knew the Phantom watched her every move, guiding her to greatness.

“I will honor you with a perfect performance, my Phantom,” she whispered, laying the red rose in the center of her dressing table.

She sang from the bottom of her heart; the audience hung on to her every note. The Phantom whirled around her, a presence guiding her to perfection.

Performance over, the applause was one almighty roar. Over and over she was called back to the stage to bask in the adoration of the crowd until she stood knee deep in red roses.

But the only red rose she cared about waited in her dressing room.

She rushed from the stage as soon as the curtain fell for the final encore, her heart pounding with the thrill of the night.

As she entered the dressing room, the Phantom stood before her, a shadow cloaked in darkness. Here he was, the man who haunted her dreams and shaped her destiny.

"Christine." His voice a mix of longing and desperation.

She approached him, hand outstretched, curiosity overcoming her fear. "You were there," she whispered, "with me on stage. I felt your presence. Are you indeed a ghost as they say?"

"Yes, I cannot deny it." His voice trembled. "My ghostly form allows me to always be with you, my dear Christine. Your talent is a mystical gift from me, a reflection of our love."

Christine reached out and touched the glittering silver mask. "Why do you hide your real self?"

He hesitated, then removed his mask. “If you reject me, I will leave his building, and you, forever.”

“I will never reject you, my Angel.”

The sight that met her eyes was beautiful and tragic. His skin pallid, his features distorted by a cruel twist of fate. But his eyes, pools of deep emotion, overflowed with a yearning that reached into Christine's soul.

"You see, my love, I am a monster as they claim," he murmured. “Unexplained deaths are laid at my door. They declare I am a master of secrecy and horror.”

Tears welled in Christine's eyes. She gazed into his face. Placed a hand on his caped shoulder. "Never call yourself a monster," she said. "You are a genius, a maestro of music, a man with a heart that loves deeply."

Tears ran down the Phantom’s ravaged face. “I expected rejection, but your words fill me with a glimmer of hope.” He touched her cheek, his gloved hand trembling. "Christine, I have loved you from the moment I heard your voice. Will you ever be able to love a man as grotesque as I?"

Christine pressed his hand to her heart. "I already do, my Angel. I love you for the music you have given me, for the passion you have awakened in my soul as no other has done."

The Phantom could not believe his ears. For so many years, he had hidden in the shadows, a ghost, believing himself unworthy of love, and now, Christine offered him her heart. He kissed her hand, trailed kisses up her arm, his lips cold, yet gentle against her skin.

Their love was a forbidden one that defied convention. But it was a love that transcended the boundaries of the world above and the world below.

“My Phantom, together we will face the challenges that lay ahead.”

“Yes, Christine, our love is a melody that will endure for all eternity.”

And their bittersweet melody echoed through the hallowed halls of the Opera Garnier for all time, a testament to the power of love and music.

TAGLINE: Love will find a way, despite exceptional circumstances.

For the month of December, you get to choose your own genre, story theme, whatever inspires you.

POST December 1 through to 15. 

WEP invites you to write an entry for their first Anthology, the theme, Gone! Gone! Gone!

Submissions Open! 

Close end December!

Thanks for reading,

Denise

 

#IWSG OCTOBER 4, 2023 - AI - Will it assist writers or replace them?

Hi all!

Time for another IWSG post. This month I'm very interested in the question:

The topic of AI writing has been heavily debated across the world. According to various sources, generative AI will assist writers, not replace them. What are your thoughts?

Like many writers, I've been following this debate for some time, well, years really. 

AI has come too far for us to stop it, or change it to much extent. 

Sure, there are writers suing ChatGPT for infringing copyright, but that's just a drop in the ocean. There are 18,000 Australian authors and 180,000 international authors who've had their copyright infringed as AI uses our books to teach from. This is going to mean copyright laws will need to be looked at.

I understand the negative view of AI-assisted writing, but I'm afraid it's here to stay, IMO. I've toyed with it, which is why I was interested to read an ARC of an author explaining how to use AI to our advantage.

Only available in paperback

link

Here's the beginning of Nina's blurb:

ChatGPT: Your Silent Co-author for Successful Romance Novels.

In order to make a living as a genre fiction author, you have to create more books, preferably in a linked series, faster than ever before.

And that is where a tool such as Open AI's ChatGPT can save you days if not weeks of work.

Say Goodbye to Procrastination, Boost Your Writing Speed, and Bring Your Romance Fiction to Life in Ways You Never Thought Possible.

ChatGPT is the writer's secret weapon. Shaping Bestsellers, One AI-Assisted Story at a Time.

You might be shocked that a romance author has already published this book months ago, but there you go.

Remember when mathematics was done in your head, then we developed the scientific calculator, then the computer which can solve a maths' problem in nanoseconds which would take us hours, days, months (me, forever). Taking this attitude, I can see Nina's idea of hurrying that writing along.

It is said that AI-assisted writing is the first real change since Gutenberg invented the printing press in 1440 and it was ready for commercial use 10 years later. The printing press finally democratised writing, printing texts at lightning speed instead of the beautiful, hand-styled pages laboriously created by monks and the like and available to very few. 

link

Haven't we all benefited from this invention?

So, I don't have a magic wand. Who knows how much AI will take over our writing. Amazon is onto it - you have to state if you've used AI in writing your book and you're limited to publishing 3 a day! Not that Amazon doesn't use AI - they've been using it freely to do all sorts of things data-wise. As have many other businesses.

And AI can do much more than write books - it can write code, create artworks, write essays and non-fiction articles.   

HERE is a link on how to write a novel using the ChatGPT novel template.

MORE USEFUL LINKS:

https://www.geeky-gadgets.com/how-to-use-openai-dalle-3-for-free/

https://www.geeksmint.com/ai-tools/

For those who are dead against AI-assisted writing, I'll point out that it covers:

(1) PLOT AND STORY DEVELOPMENT

(2) CHARACTERS

(3) SETTING

Go on. Take a peek. (I haven't used it yet, but when I get my current 2 novels published without AI's assistance, I will experiment).

AI-assisted writing is only as good as what you feed it. You need to have ideas on the above and ChatGPT will help you refine them. Chat will come up with ideas instantly that would take a human over a week or more.

FULL DISCLOSURE: I have used ChatGPT to help me write blurbs. I suck at writing blubs and need all the  help I can get. Once ChatGPT spits out my blurb, I can use it as a springboard to improvement. I must say, Chat is not perfect - it takes a lot of editing to produce your work.

I'll be interested in what you all have to say. I firmly believe AI will assist writers, not replace them.

But I'm ready for probably the majority of writers who hate the idea.

~*~ 

The awesome co-hosts for the October 4 posting of the IWSG are Natalie Aguirre, Kim Lajevardi, Debs Carey, Gwen Gardner, Patricia Josephine, and Rebecca Douglass!

  Be sure to visit the Insecure Writer’s Support Group Website!!! 

~*~

Please join WEP for succulent stories for our October thrill-fest hosted by our very own horror author, Yolanda Renee Stout.

POST October 18 - 20th.

Question is, did I use AI to assist in writing my flash fiction?

Thanks for visiting,

Denise

#WEP August Challenge - my #flashfiction using the movie, Chocolat as the prompt.

Hello there! I'm glad you came by to read my #flashfiction based on the movie prompt - Chocolat. Those who have read my novel, Paris Dreams, will recognise the restaurant where I set the two main characters' first break up. My follow up book, still in the works, is also set in Paris, and is based on a traditional French cookery school. I've incorporated some ideas from that as well. And even the service overseas is in my new book, so I had several ideas to play with for this story. 

Please enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing this.

Tastes of Love

 

The restaurant, with its silky red walls and black chandeliers, wrapped its dark arms around me, welcomed me home to Paris after a long absence. As a war correspondent in the Middle East, food, any food was a bonus eaten on the run, but I can’t recall the taste, but I recall much else I’d rather forget.

“Concentrate on the joys you’ve experienced, not the tragedies,” my therapist, Celeste, advised during  our session today.

“What do you know of tragedy?” I couldn’t help saying, raw from my latest loss.

“Pardon. You’re right of course.” She smoothed her perfect chignon, freshened her bright red lipstick then cooed to her pet birds in the covered courtyard of her luxurious apartment. “But try.”

I’m trying. 

Immersing myself in what has always brought me joy – traditional French food. Traditional French food never changes and tonight I relished that. I’ve had enough change for now. The meals at Le Chocolat (pronounced show-ko-lah, don’t you love it!) are typically French – plain, tasty, inexpensive peasant's food which is what I love best. It’s never fussy with modern twists and miniscule servings which don’t work for me. I rarely choose my restaurants by Michelin stars – I choose those with hearty, old-fashioned meals like Maman and Grand’Mere used to cook.

Waiters here are as traditional as the food. My favorite, Maurice, caught my eye, hurried to my table, pulled out my chair, flicked a crisp white napkin and placed it on my lap. “Shall I bring the mussels, Cara?” He scanned the room. “But where is your friend?”

Oh my heart. “He couldn’t make it, désolé. Mais oui to the mussels, s’il te plait, Maurice.”

I dealt with those rattly little mouthfuls of joy quickly, relishing the white wine and cream sauce, nectar of the gods. I struggled to stay in the moment, sorry Celeste; I shake my head and instead anticipate the rich onion soup, Le Chocolat's signature dish.

Maurice was already whipping away my plate and placing a huge white bowl before me. Ooh la la. What could beat the shot of sweet onion fragrance on a bitter winter's night?  Hmm. Concentrate, Cara. That soaked garlicky bread and long, stringy toasted cheese always sticks to my chin. Let’s face it; there is no elegant way to eat this dense soup, but tonight no one dabs my messy face with a napkin. But the soup; I wanted to live in the bowl, be revived by the nourishing juices, build myself up for my next assignment, Ukraine. Where will I find food over there?

Maurice offered me a free cocktail. I held the tiny, jeweled glass against the light, mesmerized by the play of diamonds and rich red liquid. I held it close to my nose, hesitated, sipped. It tasted of rose perfume, a sweet flavor that clashed with my morbid thoughts. Guilt crept over me; I try to push it away, but it refuses to leave. Why should I survive to live another day, eat another joyous meal, while my fellow correspondent, Benoit, ate his last meal then stepped onto an IB outside the restaurant? 

I will visit his parents in Montmartre after dinner which is why my stomach is taut and I’m forcing myself to enjoy every mouthful. For Benoit. Benoit. We shared so many meals at Le Chocolat and Maurice always gave us that tiny cocktail. He was performing an act of kindness, but memories turned my taste to dust.

I pushed it aside and ordered a rich red to accompany the Beef Bourguignon which Maurice has delivered to my table. The sharp aromas of tiny roasted onions, carrot, and rich, red, melt-in-your-mouth beef...my stomach danced, relaxed a little. How Benoit loved this dish and always reached across the table to finish mine! 

I lifted my fork, speared a cube of tender meat. The flavor of red wine mixed with onion and herbs revealed to me, if the mussels and onion soup hadn't already convinced me, that I was back in Paris.

It was pleasant beyond words to be drinking good wine and eating excellent food - a bottle of wine and a plate of comforting food is always good company, tonight, my only company.

Maurice saw I was immersed in my food and drink and left me to my joys and sorrows, only coming by to top up my wine at regular intervals. I saw in his doleful eyes that he’d realized Benoit wasn’t coming back, and he offered succor in the way he knew best. 

He raised his eyebrows.

I nodded. Yes, please.

Chocolat.

We always finished our meal with a platter of perfectly-created chocolat in all shapes, sizes and colors.

I reached for a dark star-shaped chocolate with golden hearts and placed it on my tongue.

“Au revoir, Benoit,” I whispered. “I hope you’re somewhere enjoying plentiful food, my love.”

TAGLINE: Food is a memory trigger extraordinaire!

~*~

WORDS: 817

FCA

BIG NEWS! A FLASH FICTION ANTHOLOGY!

Mock up cover only created on Canva

If you enjoy writing flash fiction, please go HERE to read about WEP's upcoming Anthology. If you've ever written to a WEP challenge, or do so before December '23, you are invited to submit.

If you like the idea of writing to prompts, October is our next, run by our very own thriller queen, Yolanda Renee. Please think about what you could do with the Phantom of the Opera prompt. Go HERE for ideas to get your creative juices flowing.

Thanks again for reading! I'll visit as soon as I can.

Denise