He stood on the top step. “Spiritual awakenings are a bunch of sh*t,” he said.

He took a step down and mis-recited, “Prayer and meditation are also bullsh*t. There is no God.”

Next step, “I KNOW when I make mistakes. Why do I have to tell the rest of the world?”

Down again. “People are frickin’ unforgiving.”

Another step. “Make a list? Make amends? No. Way. In. Hell.”

Step down again. “There is no God. Nobody is listening.”

Down. “If there is a God, He sure as hell made me defective.”

Another. “My life is an open book. I have f–ed it up.”

Four steps from the bottom. “Moral inventory. That’s a laugh.”

Three. “I am not turning my life over to anybody but me. I can take care of myself.”

Two. “There is no hope.”

One. “I am powerless over alcohol. Give me a drink.”

He looked up at the man waiting with a shot of whisky poured for him. He could see the rest of the bottle in the man’s other hand.

He reached out to take the drink and his granddaughter stepped out from behind the man with the whisky.

“Grampa?” she said.

---

This is my response to the Unicorn Challenge. It’s such a simple challenge: write no more than 250 words and use the photo as a prompt.

I counted the steps in the photo — twelve of them — and decided to do the twelve steps of AA in reverse.

When the bag holding the box came through the security scan at the airport, she quickly retrieved it. She was so relieved that nobody had questioned the contents.

As she walked the concourse to find her gate, another traveler had bumped hard against the bag. She quickly stopped and checked to make sure the contents were still secure.

After boarding, she held the bag on her lap.

“Would you like me to put that in the overhead compartment?” the stewardess asked.

She shook her head. “I’d prefer to hold it,” she said.

“You can’t have it on your lap during take-off or landing,” the stewardess said, “but you can put it on the floor if it will fit under the seat ahead of you.”

She folded the excess bag over the box and it neatly fit in the prescribed spot. After take0ff and before landing, she held the box on her lap again, cradling it protectively.

When the plane landed, she retrieved her checked suitcase. She wheeled the suitcase and carried the bag to a City Cab which drove her to the house.

She found the key under the mat where it always was and went inside. Leaving the suitcase in the kitchen, she carefully removed the box from the bag and headed outside.

The rocky shoreline was just how she remembered it. She found a place to sit and opened the box.

As the wind lifted ashes from the open box, she whispered, “I brought you home, Mom.”

---

This is my submission for the Unicorn Challenge. The challenge is simple if you’re a person of few words. Write no more than 250 words using the photo as a prompt. I could easily have used at least 100 more this time.

“Hey! Are you Scottish by chance?”

Iain looked up from his strumming.

“Y’know. Your kilt and all,” said the man.

Iain thought, Yeah, and are you a tourist, by chance?

Aloud he replied, “Aye,” and continued playing his mandolin.

“You know, I’ve had this question for a long time. What IS the Scottish national anthem?” the man asked.

Iain didn’t look up, but started strumming Flower of Scotland.

The man started singing, “O, flower of Scotland, when will we see your like again…” His voice was amazing. “That was the first one I thought of! I was right!”

But Iain smoothly switched to Loch Lomond.

The man joined in singing when he got to the chorus, “O ye’ll tak’ the high road, and I’ll tak’ the low road.” His inflection was spot on. And, oh, what a voice!

“So Loch Lomond is the anthem?” the man asked.

Iain didn’t answer. He started playing Caledonia.

Sure enough, the man joined him at the chorus, “Let me tell you that I love you and I think about you all the time.”

His tenor was impeccable. People were starting to gather.

The man said, “I thought it should be Scotland the Brave. I love to hear pipes playing it.”

Iain started strumming Scotland the Brave and the man sang, “Hark when the night is falling…”

He knew every word. When he finished the chorus, “…Land of my heart forever, Scotland the brave,” the gathered crowd burst into applause.

And it wasn’t for Iain.

---

This is my submission to the Unicorn Challenge. It’s a simple challenge: Write no more than 250 words based on the photo prompt.

True story — politics are making me bonkers and, like an idiot, I keep listening to the news.

So the other day, instead of news, I looked up a now-retired podcast called “Thistle Do Nicely” because I knew that listening to Rory, Chris, and Jonny would make me laugh. Really, it has to be my favorite podcast ever. Listening to Thistle Do Nicely is like sitting in a pub and listening to three Scottish guys sitting at the next table talking and laughing. They’re funny. A little crude. A little off-color. So much better than politics.

Anyhow, with that background, this week’s prompt made me think of the episode they did discussing all the contenders for the Scottish National Anthem which doesn’t exist.

And, in truth, that wasn’t the episode I listened to this week. I’m relying on faulty memory regarding the National Anthem episode. Last week I actually listened to a Christmas episode because I just wanted to hear their voices.

“John!” I cried.

I was walking home, lost in thought. These streets are so familiar — yes, I could walk them with my eyes closed.

Or in the dark.

October days keep getting shorter. Now I walk beneath the light of the moon and the occasional streetlight.

So I was walking home and there was my old friend John, emerging from the alley.

“John O’Reilly!” I said. “I was just thinking about you! It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”

“Karen?” he said, studying my face. “It HAS been years.”

“Just yesterday,” I said, “I was thinking about that day that we skipped school together. That was probably 15 years ago. It’s funny, isn’t it? How you think of someone and then there they are!”

He laughed. Well, it was more of a snort, but that’s how he laughs. Even that sound brought back a host of memories.

“Remember how we ducked out after getting off the bus? We didn’t go into the school — we just headed down to the river.”

“I think that was the last time I was barefoot,” he said.

“That’s what made me think of it!” I said. “Yesterday I cut my hand washing dishes and it wouldn’t stop bleeding. You gashed your foot on something in the river, remember? Broken glass? But you bled like bejeebers and it wouldn’t stop.”

His silence was deafening. I looked up at him, seeing him beyond my fog of memory.

His hands were covered with blood.

---

This is my submission to the Unicorn Challenge. The challenge is quite simple: write no more that 250 words and use the photo as a prompt.

“Boys, Mrs. Feola invited us over for dinner,” Mom said.

“Who’s that?” asked Johnny.

“She’s the lady that drove her pig around town on a bike,” said Michael.

Mom nodded. “That’s right! She had that special bike made so she could give it rides around town.”

“It had that big platform on it,” said Michael.

“Remember how she huffed and puffed going up the hill?” Johnny imitated the heavy breathing of the exhausted bike rider.

“Remember the time the pig fell off and she chased it into our yard? We trapped it by the fence for her,” said Michael. “That’s when I learned her name.”

“I was so busy scratching Piggy’s chin that I didn’t pay attention,” Johnny said. “That pig really liked when I did that.” He smiled remembering. “Under the chin. Behind the ears. That was one happy pig.”

“I haven’t seen her lately,” said Michael.

“What do you think happened to the pig?” Johnny wondered.

“We can ask her tonight at dinner,” Mom said.

That evening as they sat around the table beautifully set with linens, china, and candles, they ate their dinner.

“I suppose you’re wondering why I invited you here,” Mrs. Feola said. “I wanted to thank you for the time you helped me catch my pig.”

The boys looked at each other and smiled. “We were wondering what happened to that pig. We haven’t see you out with it lately,” Michael asked.

She smiled at them, fork in hand. “This is it,” she said.

---

250 words exactly.

This is my submission for this week’s Unicorn Challenge. The rules are simple: no more than 250 words based on the photo.

Years ago, my brother gave a piglet to my sons. It lived in the pig sty with the other pigs he was raising, but we would bring table scraps and whatnot to feed the pig. They may have even named it.

Anyhow, one day some cousins were visiting and the family was brought out to see the pig. Their aunt looked at it and asked my boys what were they going to do with a pig?

Very matter-of-factly my oldest son answered. “We’re going to kill it and we’re going to eat it.”

It went to a butcher eventually and we DID eat it, but I’ll never get over the horrified expression on my sister-in-law’s face.

“Somebody isn’t doing their job,” he growled, staring out the window.

“Sir?” she said.

“That is the black and white lot,” he said, jabbing his finger in the direction of the parking lot below them. “Black. And. White. Blackandwhite.”

She looked at him and blinked her eyes.

He continued. “I only allow black and white cars to be parked in that lot. I conceded to allow gray. THIS is too much, though.”

“But sir –” she started to say.

He interrupted. “It’s MY lot. I make the rules. Black and white. That’s it.”

“But –“

“No buts. Get those red cars towed out of there. And that stupid yellow car should just get crushed.”

She stared at him, unsure what to do next.

“CALL THE DAMN TOWING COMPANY. Do I make myself clear?” he barked.

An hour later, he watched with a satisfied smile as the final red car was towed away.

“I do like black and white,” he said to himself, looking around his office suite with its white walls and black-and-white tiled floors.

He heard a brisk knock on the door and turned to see a well-dressed woman enter. Her jet-black hair was pulled up and held in place with shiny black combs. Her dress bore black and white geometric designs.

“Darling,” she said. “Look who came to visit! My mother and her sisters. I told them they could park in the lot while we had lunch together.”

His face went white as three women entered wearing red dresses.

---

This is my response to the Unicorn Challenge. The simplicity of the challenge is deceiving: write a story of no more than 250 words based on the photo prompt.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t see you tomorrow.”

“You’re calling off our Wednesday date?” he asked. “We’ve been having dinner every Wednesday for eight months!”

“I know,” she said. Her voice was small. “I just can’t tomorrow.”

They walked in silence.

“Are you going to tell me why?” he finally asked.

She didn’t answer. “I’ve got to go,” she said abruptly and turned around.

He watched her walk away and pressed his lips together.

He started to call her that night, but changed his mind.

He thought about her all the next day. He knew that he shouldn’t, but he went to her house after work and stood in the shadows of the alley across the street, trying to think what to do.

She came out, dressed in a stunning dress. She didn’t see him as she walked past the alley, but he could smell her perfume. She had only worn perfume one other time that he could remember. Clearly, this was a special occasion.

He followed from a distance, walking up the hill to the cemetery. He lost sight of her, then heard her voice. “I miss you so much. I love you.”

But he found her alone. She was startled.

“Who are you talking to?” he asked.

“M-m-my husband,” she stammered and started to cry. “He was in New York on business on 9/11. I never got to say good-bye. Every year I try to.”

He wrapped his arms around her.

“I still can’t,” she said.

This is my submission for the Unicorn Challenge. It’s a simple challenge — write a story of no more than 250 words based on the photo.

“One… two…. three… four…” counted Rory.

“What are you counting?” his mother asked.

“Five… aw, dang, Mom! You messed me up,” he said. “I was counting the waves. Oliver said that the seventh wave is always the biggest.”

“I never heard that, but, okay, I’ll help you count,” she replied.

She stared at the sea and the waves licking the shore. “How do you know which one is one?” she asked.

Rory explained, “I wait for a big wave, then I start counting.”

“There!” his mother shouted. At the next wave, Rory called, “One!”

“Two… three… four,” they counted together.

“Wait,” said Rory, “that was another big one.”

“The biggest?” Mom asked.

His shoulders slumped. “I don’t know. Let’s try again.”

They watched and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

“They’re all small now,” Rory whined.

His mother nodded understandingly.

“There’s a big one!” his mother said, then Rory counted, “One!”

“Two… three… four… five… six… seven… eight… nine,” they both counted.

Rory looked at his mother. “It’s not seven,” he said.

“Where did you hear this again?” his mother asked.

“Oliver,” he replied. “His uncle told him. He’s a surfer so he knows.”

“Hmm,” his mother said. “Let’s try once more.”

After the next big wave, they both counted “One!”

Then together, “Two… three… four… five… six… SEVEN!”

Oliver jumped up and down. “It’s true! It’s true! Every seventh wave is a big wave!”

His mother questioned, “EVERY seventh wave?”

“Yes! Yes! You saw it, right?” Oliver said.

---

This is my response to the Unicorn Challenge which calls for a 250 word response to the photo prompt.

I’ve been listening to this Skipinnish song on repeat for a while. It’s so hopeful. The name of the album is “The Seventh Wave” and the song references in its lyrics “the seventh wave” so, of course, I looked it up.

Basically it’s not true.

Except when it is.

Go figure.

If this story is fiction but sort of science-y, does that make it science fiction?

“Tell me about this,” the detective said, handing her a photograph.

The woman in the hospital bed studied it, then handed it back.

“I dunno. Just a car,” she replied, and pronounced it “cah.”

“Boston?” the detective asked.

The woman scoffed. “BAH-stin? Gawd, no. That’s not Massachusetts!”

“I was trying to guess your accent,” he replied. “Boston?”

The woman shook her head, trying to remove her confusion with a vigorous shake. When she spoke again, the twang was gone. “No,” she said,”I’m from…” Her voice trailed off.

She looked at the photo quietly, then asked, “Where am I?”

“You’re in the hospital in Glasgow, Scotland.”

“That’s not the driver’s door open, right?” the woman asked, staring at the picture.

“No, it’s the passenger door.”

“Was I driving?” the woman asked.

The detective hedged. “What do you remember?”

She furrowed her brow. “I… I… I don’t remember anything.”

Her English was clipped and clean, practiced, so as not to reveal anything about her.

“What’s your name?”

The woman raised her eyes from the photograph and studied the detective’s face.

“I don’t remember,” she said finally.

“Who were you with?”

“Where were you going?”

“Where are you from?”

“Why are you in Scotland?”

He peppered her with questions; her answers were all the same. “I don’t remember.”

After the nurse left the room, he shut the door and leaned in close to her face. “Listen,” he said, “I know why you’re here, but if you want protection, you’d better start talking.”

---

This is my response to the Unicorn Challenge. 250 words on the button.

I don’t know why I’m struggling so much with these photographs lately. I kept looking at it and looking at.

I thought about the time I was driving home and had to pull over to throw up (stomach bug). My two youngest daughters had been with me and for months after that, whenever we passed the spot, one of them would say, “Remember that time?” Yes, I remembered.

I didn’t want to write about vomiting though. Instead, I thought the fact that I just started Season 19 of Taggart. I started at Season 1 some months ago. It’s on Brit Box.