Rebecca M. Douglass, Author

This was my take on an exercise I had my students do a couple of weeks ago, where we were to write a story from one point of view, then rewrite from another. I've tweaked it some, but it remains what it was from the start, i.e., an exercise. But it's kind of fun so I thought I'd share it anyway.  I'll get back to pretty pictures next week.   At the Track 1. The jockey’s story   Albert crouched on the back of Silver Streak, absurdly small atop the tall racehorse, muscles tensed and ready for the sound of the gun. Take it easy. Don’t let the horse feel any unease. Tension was okay, if it was the good kind, to give horse and rider a sharp edge. He found the perfect position, the riding crop poised, as if Silver would need any urging when the gun sounded and the gates opened. That horse knew how to run. Silver Streak loved to race.   Bang! The muscles of the powerful animal bunched under Albert. They burst through the gate like one creature, in ...

A couple of weeks ago I offered my seniors' writing class a selection of wonky characters to work with, and nabbed a pair for myself. The following is the result, though I could see making some changes and turning it into a full-length short story (is that an oxymoron?) Among the Dunes “Damn!” Bargo let the air-cruiser coast toward the surface of the planet he’d come to pillage. Once again the blasted impulsion motor had cut out and he was about to be stranded… where? He pulled up his map and tried to figure that out. Somewhere in the middle of something called the “Mojave Desert.” His home planet had only one biome, the one inside the domes, so he wasn’t sure what that meant, but based on what he was seeing below him, it meant nothing good. He shifted to concentrate on landing in one piece, for all the good it might do him. The air-cruiser landed gently in one of the clear spaces, where he was pretty sure he’d not rip the belly out on the sharp rocks or po...

While I'm out playing, I'm re-running some flash fiction for your enjoyment. This one dates to something like 2017, and I think came from a challenge where people wrote a first paragraph and we selected one to complete. 1160 words.   Millions of Cats   Things never work out according to plan when there are cats involved.   I knew that, and I should have known better than to take the job.   But Keelan made it all sound so easy: we just had to pick up the consignment from Alpha-Centauri 4 and take them to Exilion 17.   Four days, max, and two of them in hyperspace.   “What could go wrong?”   I should really have run when Keelan said that, because I know darned well that anytime those words are uttered a disaster is sure to follow.   Unfortunately, we needed cash, and the cat people had it.   So we went and picked up the load of cats.   That was where the trouble began.   They were supposed to be cr...

I'm teaching a short-story class at the senior center just now--primarily providing writing prompts and some conversation about aspects of story-creation. Since a chunk of the class time is spent in writing to the prompts, I'm taking the opportunity to do so along with my students. I had to finish the story at home, but it was fun to sit in a room with other people, all of us scribbling or typing away. This was my take on one of the prompts... what happens when a superhero needs a vacation.  A Quiet Day at the Beach   Lois stripped off her cape, letting the fabric waft to the floor, heedless of the dust. She could regret that later when she had to clean it. Silly thing to wear, anyway, but it did look cool when she was flying. She made herself pick it up before she wriggled out of the bodysuit that went with it. Damn, but it was getting hard to keep in shape for an outfit like that, super-powers or no. When the magic powers were handed out they never t...

My brother set this challenge, based on something he saw in the grocery store... it's a very short flash, just over 250 words.  Harvest Time It wasn’t the farmer’s favorite job. At the end of the growing season, the crop had to be brought in, and it was… disconcerting. Right up to harvest time, the crop was a pleasure to tend. He liked it all, carefully managing the fields, not thinking about the end.   He looked out over the fields now, aware that harvest time was coming fast. There were certain unmistakable signs, a stillness that began to settle over the fields. One more day. Not for the first time, he wished he could pick the time. It was going to be unseasonably warm.   The next morning, the farmer check the crop and called out the harvest crew. Distributing the special rakes, he made the usual speech, with extra urgency.   “We have to work hard to get the harvest in before it spoils in this heat. You know the drill. Into the bin...

It's not exactly the full-length flash-fiction I had hoped to bring you this weekend, but considering I've been putting in full days as the family handyman, it's more than I might have done. A 100-word drabble about someone with a penchant for saying the wrong thing. Open Mouth, Insert Foot  I just wanted to let Karl know that he might be making a fashion faux pas—that rip in the back of his jeans didn’t look intentional. It looked like he’d gotten too close to a barbed wire fence. Someone had to let him know.   Still, maybe I didn’t say it right. Because when I announced that I had a needle and thread and we could fix the tear, everyone stopped talking and stared. At me. Turns out it was a fashion statement after all.   That’s the 212th time this year. Maybe I could earn a living as a contortionist.     ###   Crossing my fingers that by this time next week I'll at least be on my way home, DIY and the weather permitting! ...

This story is from January 2018. Have fun! Garbage Cans   I knew we were in trouble when the garbage cans started moving about on their own.   It just turned out that it wasn’t exactly the trouble I thought we were in. I mean, I spotted them first, and made the usual resolve. You know, to swear off the moonshine, give up the mason jar, and dry out.   The first thing wrong with that reaction was that I don’t drink.   The second thing was that I wasn’t the only one who saw them. Oh, lots of people had noticed that their trashcans weren’t in the same place in the morning as they’d been the night before. There were lots of reasons for that. “It’s raccoons. Those critters will do anything for a meal.” “Teenagers playing pranks.” “Minor earthquakes are vibrating them so that they move about.”   Then there were the whacko reasons: “There are magical fields in this neighborhood.” “It’s the aliens again. I told you they’d be back.” “Pol...

Originally written in 2016, this bit of flash fiction was inspired by a mailbox I saw on a rural road with a winged pig mounted on top. Flying Pig Farm   “I don’t think we’ll ever save enough.” Evelyn didn’t say it to be discouraging. It was a simple statement of fact. That made it worse.   “We’ll find a way.” Barry’s sigh belied his words.   “I do hope so,” Evelyn said with a glance around their cramped apartment. Soot from the trains and factories marked everything, and the street outside was noisy and crowded. “But pigs will fly before we save enough money for even a little farm.”   Barry grinned. “When I prove you wrong, I’ll name our place Flying Pig Farm.” They laughed, and sighed, and Barry took his lunch and went to work.   Barry and Evelyn Thomas were small-town people, but hard times had forced them into the city. After a month or more of doing odd jobs, Barry had landed a place at a factory, and had confidence th...

Here's piece written back in 2016, and touched up a little for today's post. It seemed like a good response to this week's Day of Overeating Thanksgiving holiday.   What’s for Dinner?  Mom’s acting weird. Well, that’s kind of normal, if you follow me, because she’s always weird, but usually she’s weird like wearing strange clothes and working all night on one of those bizarre sculptures she makes. I won’t ever tell her this, but I don’t like them. They have too many jagged edges. They’ll tear holes in you if you get too close. I sometimes wonder if she’s out to destroy someone, or if she just sees the world that way, all jagged. Either way: weird.   But what’s really weird is that she’s started cooking. No more Swanson’s pot pies, and no more trips through the fast food drive-through window. So now, I have to eat what she calls “real food,” which is sometimes pretty unreal, if you know what I mean.   Her idea of real food can get pretty d...