Flash Fiction

WEP - OCTOBER 2017 CHALLENGE, A Dark Night Of The Soul - By Pat Garcia

October Badge



The trail seemed endless. Voices whispered in the pitch-black night. Stumbling over potholes, she couldn’t see, she missed one and fell into it. It swallowed her legs, and she kicked to break away from whatever it was that was trying to pull her down into what seemed like a bottomless pit.

Around her, the grunginess from the foul odor of worms squished together formed a halo around the hole. Decay had set in. Macerated to an unrecognizable substance, she cringed and tried to avoid touching the liquid mash. The hollow whisperers in the wind, witnesses to her misery, tortured, with familiar whining voices, “nearer, come nearer.”

No, she thought, as she tried to unwrap the swaddling vines that bound her legs preventing her escape. She twisted and kicked to try to free her legs that were not free.

No longer the master of her own plight, she breathed deeply, fighting against what was next to come, struggling to find herself in the dark soupy night where stars were not seen and thin vapors, cold and wet, dampened her face.

Hell, she thought. This must be hell, and she screamed out.

“No, not me. Not this way, never” she shouted, and with the remaining strength in her arms, she pushed down around the edges of the pothole, and the vines released her legs.

Crawling out, Tirzah forgot about the squishy worm liquid that she was afraid to touch.  She sought the light. Free, she ran, not looking back, not giving ear to the horrible whisperers that were trying to get her  to turn back.

She felt something warm touch her shoulders.

“Hey, it’s me,” John said as she screamed.  “It’s okay. No one going to hurt you.” And he took her in his arms.

Tremors ran through her body. She checked her hands.  Her teeth clenched together tightly. Looking out of their bedroom window, lightening blitzed across the sky.

“When did you get home?” she asked and buried her face against his chest.

“A few minutes ago. I heard you scream as I walked in and rushed upstairs to check on you. Did you have that same nightmare again?”

“Yes,” she said. “The horror of my narrow escape doesn’t seem to let loose. I can never thank you enough.”

“Tirzah, don’t try to thank me. Your becoming my wife was thank you enough.”

“Will I ever forget the torture and the pain I saw as a woman prisoner in that beastly guerilla war camp?”

“Forget, I don’t think so,” John said and let out a deep sigh, knowing that she had been lucky.  His squadron arrived in time to save her from the pointless rapes and beatings that killed the souls and bodies of the women held in captivity at the camp where she’d been freed.  “But your experience in that hell pit has made you sensitive to women who suffer the horrors that you were spared.”

“It was my dark night of the soul, John.  A night, I can barely live with,” And her tears started to flow. “I was counting the hours waiting for my turn to come,” Tirzah muttered against his chest.  “But my dark night ended suddenly when the tiny light of hope showed up right on time.”



Shalom aleichem,

Photo on 01.08.17 at 11.13 #2

Pat Garcia

Many Thanks! The Bridge of Hope Is Runner-Up in the WEP JUNE 2017 BRIDGES CHALLENGE

I am associated with a group of writers who participate in the WEP CHALLENGES  that are simply magnificent. Most of them are published authors with many books that have been published, and one or two, like myself, are striving to get the first contract.

Writing is hard work. We spend days and sometimes nights working on three or four sentences, and sometimes even one sentence, trying to express ourselves and how our perception of the events and situations influence our lives––our worlds and our beliefs.

Writing demands courage because it tests who you are on the inside. It consumes and forces you to kick yourself upward when you are down. You find yourself writing even through the hard times.

I found out at 6:30 this evening per email that my flash fiction The Bridge of Hope placed as runner-up in the WEP BRIDGES 2017 CHALLENGE.

In recognition of this honor, I would like to thank Denise Covey and Yolanda Renée, who are the sponsors for WRITE-EDIT- PUBLISH WEP CHALLENGES and their team members Nilanjana Bose, and Olga Godim who work along beside them to make this challenge happen every two months.  Their giving of their time, talent, and expertise to promote writers on a platform that is indeed outstanding is mind-blowing.

I would also like to recognize all the writers who participated. I have had the privilege of reading at least one or two books from many of these writers, and I can say these writers are par excellence. Knowing them reassures me as I trek through this lonely desert on the way to publication. I know that I am not alone. They have trekked through this same desert, and they made it through, and so will I.

Shalom aleichem,

Pat Garcia 2 August 13 2016

Pat Garcia

The Bridge of Hope by Pat Garcia

June Badge

 WC: 919

Around her, disturbing sounds floated into her ears. Hammering against her head, beating against her heart, intorsions whined at the prevarications of her life over the past three and a half years. Hurts, disappointments, and scars gouged into her soul, buried beneath the bridge of callousness he’d built.

Yet, she had let him. Sinking into the never ever world of her fantasy, she had hidden herself as he lay stone for stone, by day and night, crushing her love. It took him three and a half years to erect this huge monster between them. Like the building of the Chesapeake Bay-Bridge Tunnel, today he had lain the last stones.

 “We’re not suited to be parents,” he said, haughtily,

 “Why not? What about me?” She asked, hoping to loosen a tiny stone of compassion.

 He didn’t answer. He walked to their bathroom to shower, leaving her lying on their bed. She turned on her side and watched him. His back toward her, she wondered why she had married him in the first place.  Three and half years, she thought for him to build the bridge of callousness she tasted in her mouth, the rejection she felt in her heart, and the repudiation of herself that gnawed at her conscience.  She placed her right palm on her small bulge.  It didn’t matter that she was twenty weeks. The fact was, she was not able to hide it anymore. Girdles and corsets, wide dresses and baggy pants couldn’t swallow up her weight gain or her bulging breasts. He didn’t find it funny that she looked like a hippopotamus. He found it revolting and told her so.

 She got up from the bed and walked out to the edge of their second story balcony, and she gazed down into the deep. The clear water in the pool below reflected the blue floor at the bottom of the pool. She blinked; it had turned a murky, dark, red.  She shook her head, trying the shake away the surreal picture of blood that hyponagogically appeared for a nanosecond.

 Shaking her head, she wondered why she had not seen him as he truly was. That he was demanding she got rid of the nuisance that would destroy her life with him didn’t disturb him.  

 “What’s twenty weeks in comparison to a lifetime with me?” He asked passing by the door that led out to the balcony on the way to his wardrobe.

 She had said nothing. He took it for granted she would do as he requested. After all, he needed her to devote herself to looking pretty, not pregnant. She had to charm, not look like a bloated whale.

 She stood there leaning against the rail, looking down into the deep. This was her chance, her only chance.  His footsteps sounded behind her. So, close, yet so far away from each other. The bridge he’d built between them was too difficult for her to cross over.  Could she tell him that?

 “What are you thinking about?” he demanded as he put on his tie.

 She turned to look at him but didn’t answer. To tell him about all the birthdays he would miss; to mention the first tooth, the first steps, the first signs of laughter, he wouldn’t understand, so she said nothing.

 He went back into the bedroom, and she continued to lean against the rail of the balcony.

 “Come, you can ride with me to the clinic,” he said.

 “No, I’ll go alone,” she said regarding him, dressed up in his tailor-made suit and his rattlesnake shoes.

 “I can cancel my appointment and stay with you until it’s over, but then I need to be in my office for three o’clock appointment. It’s with the senator.” He said smiling.

 “No, it’s not necessary. I’ll go alone,” she repeated.

 “That’s my girl. You’ll thank me for this later.”

 She said nothing.

 “I have to go,” he said, not even giving her a hug. He felt no sorrow, no regret. “I expect you to have it taken care of by the time I return. If you need a nurse, afterward, hire one for a day or two.”

 She watched him walk to the door.  He stopped when he reached it and turned and looked at her once more.

 “Either it or me,” he said. “The uncomely bulge in the front of you has to go.”

Then, he left.

 She leaned her head to her left side and thought about the large shoulders she would miss.

He would never understand. The bridge she allowed him to build was too narrow for two people to walk across. He had built it wide enough for her to walk to him, but he couldn’t walk to her; the damage to her soul was on his blindside.

Sickened by his demands, she turned and gazed down the path watching him walked toward his chauffeur.  He didn’t turn to look back; that didn’t surprise her. He never did. He assumed she would carry out his orders.

Tears ran down her face as she walked back into the bedroom to shower and dress. She took her passport and three wrapped bundles of five hundred dollars out of the safe.

He was still commuting to his office when her taxi came.  Walking out the door, she whispered goodbye as she turned away from the bridge of callousness she wouldn’t cross over.  She laid her first stone to the bridge of hope, reclaiming herself and the life of the unborn within her.


Shalom aleichem,

Pat Garcia 2 August 13 2016

Pat Garcia

The Box in the Loft by Pat Garcia

February BadgeWC: 827



The loft wasn't supposed to be a storage room for Giovanni’s things. It just evolved into one. Each anniversary, she would pack away his summer things, and they celebrated one more year of them, together, one loving one, them, loving them. He would laugh at her.

“All things are temporal, Kathleen Katy-bear,” he’d say, combining her birth name with the pet name he’d given her. “What we have is priceless. The things you’re stowing away can never compensate for the memories in our hearts.”

Then, he would take her into his arms. “Come sleep with me,” he’d say, taking her mind off the task she was doing. He would stress the present moments as he pounded into her body.   Her screams of delight and his groans of pleasure, as he released his semen, had him falling on top of her after their climax, whispering words between breaths, as he pecked her ears, her neck, and her cheeks, planting tiny kisses in the aftermath. “This is significant, Katy-bear,” he’d say. “Nothing is more important than this. My lips on your lips. The warmth of our mouths as we explore each other, me pressing you close to my body letting you feel the heat you’ve generated in me. Only that counts, Katy-bear."

 Kathleen sat holding his jacket in her arms. Three years had passed, but his aroma was still present like yesterday.

Tears covered her face as she unpacked. She was on the last box before the Salvation Army came to pick up his clothing. She gave them a call after he appeared to her in a dream. He’d admonished her for dishonouring their love by not remembering the sweet golden moments.

The smiles when they were both thinking about the same things, the hugs when she accidentally asked a question that pointed out an error in the planning of his next mission, or the late-night walks where she gathered stones and put them in her pockets, and he would remind her those stones were like him. Each time that he returned she collected the broken pieces of his soul and put them back together again.  In the evenings, he would take her in his arms and hug her tightly, and say, "Let's go upstairs, I need you."  And upstairs, they went and made passionate love with the full realisation each time could be their very last.


 It happened. They both knew the time had come. Yet, Giovanni’s death came too soon. He was too young.

 What do I do now? Even though I was older, you understood me. What do I do now, Giovanni?

 "I hate you, Giovanni!”  Kathleen cried out. “You and your honour for your country. Why did you have to go on that particular mission? Why couldn’t you let someone else volunteer? No one misses you as much as I do," she screamed.  

Her tears flowed heavily; mucus ran out her nose, and her hands trembled as she pulled the things out of the last box and threw them on the mountain before her.

She picked up the jacket she mistakenly threw back into the box.

  I'll keep this jacket. It smells of you.

She put her left arm into the left sleeve. Something solid in the left pocket of the jacket touched her hip bone. Reaching into the pocket, she pulled out a flat, jagged key.

  NaNu, what do you open? 

With the key in her hand, her gaze went to the box, and that’s when she saw the dark mahogany chest. She lifted the chest out of the box sat down on the floor; her back to the mountain of clothing.

Where did you come from? Why would Giovanni buy a chest?

 Her hands trembled; the key shook as she put it into the lock.

 She hoped the key wouldn’t fit. All her beautiful bubbles of their seven-year relationship could suddenly burst into thin air.


 Laughter filled the loft.

 Giovanni, are you here?

“Don't be afraid Katy-bear. Turn the key!”

Her heart beats became irregular; her chest ached.

People will think I’m insane if I tell them I heard Giovanni’s voice.

Her eyes grew large when she raised the chest top. Within were seven mid-size diaries, and she took out the first one.

 Leaning against her mountain, she opened the journal and began to read the first page. She burst out in laughter. “You sneak!” She yelled out joyfully for the first time in three years. Her tears forgotten, she began to read aloud.

“Words for you, Katy-bear. Invisible conversations I’ve had with you on each mission. Each diary records my present moments when you weren’t there. I love you, Katy-bear. Always have, always will. Love is eternal.”

 The anguished and inner turmoil she’d suffered, eased. The pain in her chest disappeared.

Yes, love is eternal.

Sitting by the box in her loft, her back against the mountain of Giovanni’s clothes, Kathleen read as she slipped over into eternity to be with her Giovanni.


Shalom aleichem,

Pat Garcia August 13 2016

Pat Garcia

Guest Blogging at the WEP Website on the Importance of Critical Reading

Hello Everyone,

I am guest blogging over at the WEP website on Critical Reading. Please drop by and read my article on The Importance of Critical Reading. The link is,


Also, the next WEP is coming up in February for all of you who are interested in participating. I recommend it highly. It is Flash Fiction at its best.

I will be returning with my Work In Progress,  Just At Dawn, and short snippets about what is happening between Phoebe and Daniel on Friday.

Have a great day and be safe.

Shalom aleichem,

Pat Garcia August 13 2016
Pat Garcia

The Woman and Her Dream, Winner of the 2016 WEP December Utopian Dreams Challenge, Sponsored by Write-Edit-Publish

First-moment experiences are never forgotten.  They are the golden nuggets of success, which keeps you moving forward in whatever you have chosen to accomplish.  That is one of the reasons why it is so important to record them in your heart in your treasure trove of memories.


Today, I have received a first-moment experience. I have been informed my entry, The Woman and Her Dream, is the winner of the 2016 WEP December Utopian Dreams Challenge.  This challenge is my first win.  I have participated in many writing challenges over the years, but this is my first win, and I am elated and thankful.


Many heartfelt thanks to Denise Covey and Yolanda Reneè.  You have made my day.


Shalom aleichem,

Pat Garcia August 13 2016

Pat Garcia

The Woman and Her Dream by Pat Garcia


The ocean waves rippled under the woman's belly.  They tickled her stomach, gently.  The red rays in the heaven signalled the ending of the day. Though she couldn't tell where the day began or where it ended. Unending was time. The reddish orange tint spread itself out upon the ocean. The width and breadth of its streams amazed her. 

She lay on the atop of the ocean and observed the cold blooded mammals in the deep. Water drops touched her hair and ran down both of her temples. She gazed out into the vastness. Coming her way was a giant six-legged cirrata. Its arms splattering water as it moved toward her. 


The strange singsong squawking of the eagle above her lulled her mind. Had she finally made it? She opened her eyes and turned over to watch the giant bird’s approach.  The roar of the waves became stronger. A blue-black fin sticking up out of the ocean was gliding in her direction. A smile crossed her face; she should have known this was the way it would be. Embedded in nature, surrounded by water, the inner peace she sought overtook her, and she sighed and stretched her legs.


“I love this place. This is heavenly.”

 “Indeed it is, Woman.”



 “Is this real?”

 “Is what real?”

 “The peace.”

 The singsong squawking sound of the Eagle intrigued her. She laughed.

 “He’s singing a song for you.”

 “Yes, I know. That’s why I’m laughing, but you haven’t answered my question, Prophet.”

 “What question?”

 “Is this peace real or is it an illusion?”

 “Do you like the eagle’s song, Woman?”

 “Of course, I do. I already told you that.”

 “You told me you were laughing at the sound.”

 “Well, I like the Eagle’s song. He sounds like a chorus of frogs.” She imitated his sounds and then  burst into giggles.

 “Arms crawled around her neck and slid down her shoulders.  “Octopus, what took you so long to get here? Did you dive down to the ocean floor?

 The Eagle arrived and circled around her.  The whale sprouted water and doused her.

 “I’m a mess. I think I need to stay here.”

 “Why’s that, Woman?”

 “The peace.”


 “Oh what, Prophet?”

 “Peace is a priceless commodity where you come from?”

 “Prophet! A lion and a bear are dancing on the water! Are they friends?”

 “Everybody is a friend.”

 “Not where I come from.”


 “This peace is transformative.”

 “The quietness?”

 “Yes, Prophet. The stillness. It’s peaceful.”

 “No stillness down there, huh?”

 “Too much talk.”

 “Why talk, Woman?

 “People are afraid of stillness.”


 “Fear, Prophet.”

 “What about you, Woman?”

 She turned to answer him.  A flash of light shone. Something buzzed loudly breaking the silence. She covered her ears with her hands, the sound getting louder as it came closer. 

“Stop it,” she screamed.

 The explosion burst down her door. The blast knocked out the window panes.   Her body thrown against the wall, she landed a few feet away from her bed. 

 No, no, no!

 The floor was shattered with glass. Her hands bled.  In her confusion, she tried to think as she counted her fingers.

Ten. Good.

 Slowly, she crawled to where her door once was and headed to the shelter beneath her apartment. 

 It was only a dream.

The war is not over.

There is no peace.



Shalom aleichem,

Pat Garcia August 13 2016

Pat Garcia




Emma by Pat Garcia

Lost&found_badge wood v3 MED



Emma worked as a librarian. It suited her perfectly.  Books defined her life; books defined her womanhood. That she had never married, she blamed on her resilience to dominate and her no-nonsense way of looking at circumstances. A self-reliable woman, she considered herself to be a self-reliant StrongBlackWoman, who didn’t need a man. That the frequent use of her vibrator indicated an impoverished need anchored beneath the garbage hidden in her mind only popped up when Valentine’s Day neared.  Then, she experienced three horrible pre-weeks like her menstrual period until the fourteenth had passed.

She banged her head lightly against one of the shelves in the erotic section and proclaimed to herself, “Valentine’s is just like any other day.  Nothing unusual.”  A big sigh escaped her lips, and she reached for Anais Nin.  Even though she had been proclaiming this quote for thirty-five of her fifty years, her heart still had not accepted it. Stuck in her mind like burned rice on a hot oven, it failed to stop Valentine’s Day from stinking up her life and destroying her mood every single year.

Mihaly Toledano crossed her mind as she was thumbing through the erotic section, looking for a book that might break through her depression. Her books had given her everything she needed until Mihaly Toledano burst into her life and started coming to the library on a regular basis. 

Sly smiles sent her way, winks when she looked up catching him looking at her, slight touches on her shoulders when he passed by her, and last week, he had reached over her head to get a book for her from a shelf she couldn’t reach and pinned her in with his body. 

What’s wrong with him?  Doesn’t he have anything better to do with his time?



She looked up, startled and embarrassed that he’d found her in one of the aisles of the erotic section.

"We're closed, Mr. Toledano.”

"On the door, it says closing hours are at nine,  so I have exactly seven minutes," Mihaly Toledano said, taking a look at his watch before he came closer and took the book by Anaïs Nin out of her hand.

Mihaly looked at the woman before him; a spark had ignited between them when she helped him find a book over a month ago.  Valentine’s Day was two weeks and four days away, and he had no intentions of letting another month go by without her being his Valentine sweetheart.

Her hazel brown eyes, the short nappy Afro, styled to fit her round brown face complimented her double chin that disappeared when she laughed, and her voice painted pictures of happiness in his darkened soul; she pleased him.

Just the right size, size sixteen or eighteen. I need to feel your flesh and not a bony skeleton;  he thought as he looked at her thighs wrapped tightly in her jeans, and he closed his eyes, savoring the image of her that popped up in his mind. 


“So how may I help you,” Emma asked, interrupting his train of thought as she extended her hand wanting him to give her her book back.  “You now have five minutes to tell me what book you're looking for before I close."  

"Actually, I was looking for something soft to read, but not exactly in this section. Something with a romantic touch, like Keats or Shelley, because I’d like to take you to dinner and afterward read you some poetry, but I’m opened to reading Anaïs Nin if that’s what you’d prefer."

“I don’t remember you asking me out Mr. Toledano.”

“Emma, we agreed to be informal with each other.”

“True.  Like I said, Mihaly, I don’t remember you asking me out.”

“I just did, a few minutes ago. I said, I’d like to take you to dinner and then read you some poetry. Do you remember now?”

“Oh…was that asking? Well, if it was, then, No.”

“Why not?”

“You’re too young for me.”

Mihaly saw their age difference as a minor thing. That he was 35 years of age never bothered him.

So, why should it bother you, Emma? Besides, I prefer older women, and the sparks told me you’re mine.

 “Mihaly let’s be upfront with one another, Emma said, interrupting his thoughts.  “What you’re looking for, I’m not willing to give.”

“I didn’t know you could read minds, Emma.”

“I can’t.”

“Then, how do you know what I’m looking for?”


Emma looked up at the man standing before her. His dark black hair shining under the lighting looked dark navy blue.  She saw gaiety in his eyes, and she thought he was laughing at her.

“So what do you want?”

“Be my Valentine.”

“And then what?”

“See where these sparks are leading us.”

“They’re leading me home and your five minutes are up. I’ve got to close.”

“Good. Let’s get Shelley or Keats and go eat,” he said, replacing Anais Nin back on the shelf above her head where she couldn’t reach it without the help of a ladder.

“I don’t remember saying yes to dinner.”

“And I don’t like playing games.”

“I don’t either,” Emma said.

“Then, we’ve agreed on the first premise for our budding relationship.”

“If you say so,” Emma said, walking away from him to go get Keats.

“Is dinner on?” he asked, following behind her.


“In two weeks, you won’t need Anaïs Nin anymore only Keats,” Mihaly said.

“Why not?” she asked, stopping so suddenly that he walked into her causing her to stumble forward.

“Because you’ll have me,” he said as he reached out to catch her and bring her into his arms.

“So you think you’ll be my fantasy for a few weeks, huh?”

“Not weeks, Emma. Years.  You’ll be my Valentine for years to come.”

The End



The Seventy-Nine Words Story Challenge



Hello Everyone,

I don’t know when it happen, but I remember reading the MONDAY FUNNIES, one morning and bursting out with laughter.  I was hooked on the funnies. Laughter is not typical for me before eleven a.m. If you ask the people very close to me, they will tell you, Pat is usually unapproachable before eleven. 

Honestly, as a writer, I find myself experiencing highs and lows.   It’s a writer madness that takes hold and motivates me to write what I see as I write about the world I  live in during the early morning hours.

Thus, Chris Graham’s, CHRIS THE STORY READING APE’S BLOG has become a necessity in my life. It touches the humor within me, and laughter comes bubbling out.

Recently, Andrew Joyce, an author, sent out a dare, a seventy-nine-words dare to writers and it has been running on Chris’s blog as the Seventy-Nine Words Story Challenge.  Each week, stories are chosen as the best submitted. This week, one of my stories  from The Child and The Prophet (a W.I.P.) was among the ones chosen and to be very honest with you that makes me happy.

To read my story and the stories of the other participants, please go to the link below. It’s only 79 words and drop a line on Chris’s blog and let him know you were there and me too, of course.


  Photo on 14-10-15 at 09.35 #5









Pat Garcia