210 Farrington Lane

flash fiction

I can still remember the house – 210 Farrington Lane. I remember every nook and cranny, every closet. Unlike years past, I rarey wake up in a cold sweat anymore, filled with terror. I remember those nooks and crannies, those closets, because this is where I would hide, in terror, when the fighting began.¬† Raymond would pace the living room, saying the most terrible, frightening things. He would throw books, glasses … whatever came to hand. Then he would lock himself in his office, where he would converse with the devil. This is when I went into hiding – because when he came out, he would be the devil.

(c) April 2018 Bonnie Cehovet
Reproduction prohibited without written permission from the author.

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A Majority Of One

flash fiction

“A Majority Of One”. That is how I often feel. Then I Googled the title for an image – I honestly had no clue this was a major theatrical production! Jewish widow falls in love with a Japanese industrialist … quite an interesting interface of cultures! So … why do I feel like a majority of one? I reflect a mid-western, middle american upbringing, fairly progressive, fairly liberal. Oh, okay! There is our current political structure – this is why I feel like¬† majority of one. I cannot understand the why of it.

Off to find it on DVD – with George Takei!

(c) April 2018 Bonnie Cehovet
Reproduction prohibited without written permission of the author.

The Happy Squirrel

Happy Squirrel

Image from the “Shadowscape Tarot”, Llewellyn Publications, 2008.

Renata looked at the card she had drawn. She remembered when this deck first arrived, and how excited she was. It was a magickal deck on its own, with the added extra card, The Happy Squirrel, derived from an episode of the Simpsons TV show. Squirrels were active, inquisitive little fur people, and it was a good addition to the deck, in her opinion. Renata was asking the cards about a life decision. The Squirrel seemed to be mocking her, egging her on to take action. Was this a good thing? A shiver went up her spine as she contemplated the Squirrel.

(c) March 2018 Bonnie Cehovet
Reproduction prohibited without written permission of the author.

The Note

book

Anne stood, with the book in her hand. Her sister had disappeared over a month ago, leaving no clue as to where she had gone. She had been reading this book the last time that she saw her. Startled, Anne looked down as a slip of paper floated down from the book. She bent down and picked the paper up. As she read the words, tears came to her eyes. “Know that I am well.” Anne knew in her heart that this message was for her. She took a deep breath, and replaced the book on the shelf.

(c) March 2018 Bonne Cehovet
Reproduction prohibited without written permission of the author.

Murder On The Orient Express

Blog

“Murder On The Orient Express” is probably my all time favorite movie. (The original movie, that is. I have not even seen the newest version – not sure that I want to.) Who knew that a group of seemingly unconnected people could right a wrong that went so deep. So many lives changed – it is unbelievable! Talk about degrees of seperation! I would have loved to have lived in those times.The train is still running – it is on my bucket list to take this trip one day. I don’t plan on killing anyone – I just want to take the trip.

(c) March 2018 Bonnie Cehovet
Reproduction prohibited without written permission of the author.

The Face In The Window

flash fiction

“Who, exactly, is this face in the window?” She had asked herself that many times. The face in the window was not her, that she did know. It was part of the cityscape that she often looked out at. The face was part of the people below, part of the energy of the city. It was not good, it was not bad, it was simply what it was. She often wanted to join her soul and the soul of the face in the window. Perhaps they already were joined, and she just didn’t know it yet. So mote it be.

(c) February 2018 Bonnie Cehovet
Reproduction prohibited without written permission of the author.

The Stairway

Stairs

The dream is very real. I find myself in the middle of an elegant anteroom. I am the only person in the room. I am at peace. My attention moves to a lovely, curved staircase. The bannister is dark wood, the stairs are a pale beige. Beause of the curve, I cannot see where the stairs lead. To an upper level, but what awaits me up there?

I can hear music – very soft music. I move slowly to the stairs, being drawn by some unknown force. I start up the stairs – I am floating, my feet do not touch the stairs.

(c) February 2018 Bonnie Cehovet
Reproduction prohibited without written permission of the author.