Rebecca M. Douglass, Author

 I'm on the road/trail again, so you get a bit of flashback fiction this week! This one is 750 words, from back in 2015. Ubehebe They say to err is human, to forgive divine. The second half of that saying is a complete lie. Consider the incident at Ubehebe Crater. That sounds like the title of a Hardy Boys mystery, but it was deadly serious to me. Unfortunately for me, it was equally serious to the gods involved.   I don’t even know exactly which gods were there. Probably Pele; it is, after all, a volcanic crater. But she wasn’t alone, not by a long chalk, and none of the gods did much forgiving that day.   After saying so much, I suppose I’d better tell you the whole story. See, I went there because I’d heard there were some interesting things living in the silty mud puddle at the bottom of the crater. And I went at night, because I didn’t have the proper permits for my research, and National Parks are a bit fussy that way. I suppose that w...

While I'm off collecting exciting new photos to share, I'm also sharing some of my flash fiction from years gone by.   This piece is from 2014, and is short at 650 words. I think I wrote it mostly as a sort of homage to US 50 in Nevada, "the Loneliest Road in the America" (not true) and a route of which I'm oddly fond. Anchored at one end by the Sierra Nevada (if you don't take the obvious route and get on I80 at Fernley) and by Great Basin National Park at the other. What the Highway Wants LeAnn clutched the wheel of her ’78 Buick, and kept her eyes on the road. It had been a long drive from Ely, and traffic was growing thicker. US 50 wasn’t the Loneliest Road in America at this end, and there were on-coming cars every minute or two. She pulled off the road at Grimes Point, where the petroglyphs were, just outside Fallon. She knew it was the last convenient bathroom before Donner Pass.   LeAnn didn’t like to stop at Donner Pass. T...

While I'm off collecting exciting new photos to share, I'm also sharing some of my flash fiction from years gone by.   Another story from 2016. The main character may have some tiny resemblance to me in certain respects. It's conceivable that there is also some resemblance here to actual events, though I have never cussed out a bear.  984 words. For Want of a Map “You said you knew the route. You said you didn’t need a map.” Rosa’s tone was deceptively calm, and Hal swallowed. After 27 years of marriage he knew when he was in trouble.   “I, ah, must have missed the junction. It can’t be far back, though.” He tried to picture it, but he’d been thinking about a problem at work, and had really no idea where the junction had been.   Rosa looked at her husband a moment, hands on hips, and let him squirm. Then she dropped her pack, opened the top pocket, and extracted a map. Unfolding it, she turned her back to the wind—and to her spouse. The e...

While I'm off collecting exciting new photos to share, I'm also sharing some of my flash fiction from years gone by.  I chose this one from 2016 just for the last line, which in my mind saves it from being obvious and marks it as my work. 1029 words. Huntress “They’re back.” Artima looked up from the weapons she tended with the attention a woman lavishes on that which keeps her alive. “What?” Herbert of Callia always looked like he’d lost his last friend. His expression now suggested that he’d found that friend rotting behind the castle. “The spiders.” “I thought they killed all of those while you were still learning arms.” The little man shrugged. Herbert swore he had no dwarf blood, but he was small, hairy, and mean enough she figured that for a lie. “Looks like they didn’t get them all.” He was also her armsmaster, and Artima knew what he wanted. “You never taught me how to fight the spiders.” Herbert sighed. “I never thought you’d need to....

Astonishingly, I seem to have caught up with my photos, just days before leaving to go collect a whole lot more (watch this space). So this week, and for the next 5 weeks, I'll share a story from the archives for your entertainment and enjoyment.   This particular tale dates back to 2016. 919 words. I'm In Love With A Zombie But He Doesn’t Even Know I’m Alive Look, I’ve been crushing on Armand since the sixth grade. We’re graduating next spring, so that’s pretty much a whole lifetime, in teen years. He’s never liked me back, of course. Why should the cutest guy in the school pay any attention to a geek with pimples? Even if I do have the best brains in our class. Plus I don’t even know if he likes boys.   So I guess I have the best brains except when it comes to crushing on beautiful boys with no brains and 17 girlfriends. I have to admit that’s pretty stupid.   After last month, it’s even more stupid.   You know all about that, ...

Between NaNo and a major computer change-over that really messed with my Lightroom files (and contributed to a friend coining the word "techtrum" to indicate the kind of meltdown that comes specifically from issues with the tech that's supposed to be making our lives so much easier), I didn't make it with a photo post for today. Nor a new work of flash fiction. Instead, I'm reposting a story originally from 2015. I think this goes well with the backpacking theme of the past several Fridays.   How the Rain Gets In It starts small. After months of drought, you are glad to see rain, and don’t give much thought to anything but ending the drought. Happy plants, lakes refilling. You sort of forget what rain can do.   That’s how it is for us. We’re hiking, so we stop to dig out the rain gear, to strap on the pack covers we had nearly given up carrying. It is still warm, though, and we are happy. Our tent is good; we’ll stay dry.   That’s the ...

We're on the road and out hiking, so you get to enjoy a story from the archives. I tweaked a few things here and there in this little piece from 2015. The River Gods   Nothing has been right here since the river stole the gods.   I must explain. Our village sat on the banks of a great river. I will not say which river, or even upon what continent, because we don’t need treasure-seekers swarming our lands, hunting for the gods. The gods must be found, it is true, but it must be we who find them, not someone who will carry them still farther from us.   The problem with idyllic villages on the banks of great rivers is that great rivers do not keep to their courses. Changes in the river channel had happened many times, to be sure, and each time we picked up and moved farther back into the jungle. Or forest. Or prairie. I’m not giving up clues that easily. We thought nothing of it. It was the natural course of things, including the course of the ...

I first wrote this story in 2013, not long after I started blogging. It's kind of creepy, and kind of fun. It might originally have been inspired by a photo? 997 words.   The Quick and the Quicker I never trusted that statue in the garden behind the house. The place was crawling with statues, but the rest remained well-behaved, doing as they were told and returning to their appointed places when asked. It creeped me out a little, but Mom and Dad took it all for granted, and said I was much too sensitive. Mom liked it. She said it was like living in an art gallery and that helped her create.   Mom’s an artist, and she’s had a lot of trouble working lately. She says all artists go through dry periods, and she just needs inspiration. I don’t know what inspiration one gets from statues that won’t stay put, and I’m not sure I want to know. Mom’s work is a little weird.   There was one statue that did the washing-up for us every evening. She loo...

For this story from the archives, I picked on of my ventures into a mild sort of horror, or at least the weird. 1132 words The Choker  I was with Brian when it began. I knew something had happened, and I tried to get him to talk about it then, but he would not and I let it slide. That was my first and biggest mistake, but we who have these powers are slow to speak of them, and with reason.   Brian had taken me shopping with him to look for a birthday present for his wife. She liked old jewelry—not necessarily antiques, but old. Brian had seen a shop he thought looked promising. You know the kind: half junk store, half antique shop. A few good bits mixed in with a ton of trash. It just takes patience, to keep looking until you find treasure.   Brian spotted it first, and pointed it out to me, half-buried on a tray with stamped-tin costume stuff: a silver choker, made from four strands of fine chain.   To tell the truth, I didn’t like i...

While I'm off playing in the desert (if I can find it under the snow), I'll share some stories from the archives, starting this week and next with a pair about a cat sometimes known as Dahlia, originally run in 2015. This week's story is a little longer than usual, at 1380 words. Dahlia Sings the Blues On a grey and gloomy day on moderately quiet street in a medium-sized town, a woman of more or less middle age moved from lamp post to lamp post, taping up signs. Each featured a photo of a large marmalade cat and read, “MISSING CAT! Dahlia is lost! She is lonely, cold and scared. Won’t you help me find her?” and gave a phone number to call if the cat was seen. The woman shivered as she worked, and drew her sweater more tightly about her shoulders.   Meanwhile, across town on a rather less quiet street, a large marmalade cat relaxed in a nightclub, enjoying the scene. Word of the notices came by roundabout means. The small furry dog who lived three ho...