The Race for Intergalactic Space (Sunday Photo Fiction)


(Photo: Copyright A Mixed Bag, 2012)

The silence in the command capsule was deafening.

“You can’t blame yourself,” Captain Mason interjected.

“It’s my responsibility,” Admiral Blake insisted.

“No one could have seen this coming,” Mason said.

“You’re not a god,” Lieutenant Lana added.

“You don’t understand,” Blake pled. “It was the academy’s very first lesson. Everything that happens here is my responsibility.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Mason tried.

“I’ll lose my command. I might even be thrown in the brig. Our search for a free-floating radical to reach hyper-drive failed,” Blake cried.

All of a sudden, a thunderous voice from another dimension disquieted things.

“You better find your sister’s hair dryer in your disaster of a room,” Blake’s mom yelled.

In an instant, Mason and Lana vanished into thin air. A thick silence again blanketed things.

Blake looked down from the space mural on his bedroom wall into the mess on his bed. There, splayed out in a thousand pieces, was Katie’s hair dryer. The blower motor—AKA free floating radical—no longer worked apart from the blower.

“Maybe even death awaits me,” Blake sighed. (179 Words)


Submitted as part of Sunday Photo Fiction–a fiction story of 200 words or less based on the photo prompt. 

Alcohol and Philosophy Don’t Mix


(Photo: The Provence, France)

We use terms like ‘spend’ time, ‘pay’ attention, and a ‘saving’ grace on resources that don’t cost anything.

With so much attention placed on exhaustible resources, it’s ironic that we call the stuff that comes out the back of our cars ‘exhaust’. Was the person who coined the term prophetic?

Our resources are precious even if these perspectives aren’t.

Pizza Pie (Three Line Tales)


(Photo by Cathal Mac and Bheatha via Unsplash)

Mom always had tears in her eyes–the good ones from nostalgia rather than the bad ones from worry–whenever she told of Pa ranting up one side of their ancestrial home and down the other in disgust over the strange concoction of ingredients that had become all the rage of the town. His self-proclaimed love of pies, all shapes and sizes, came face-to-face with the Italian dish that belied its name. Each pizza pie I put into the brick oven hisses with the saltiness of mom’s tears and the timbre of her laugh.

Three Line Tale

© Gregory Masiello, 2017