Beyond Superficial

October 8, 2017

Really quick and rough fiction from today’s daily word prompt ‘Superficial.’


Jonathan Barnes was only twenty-three years old but he knew better, no matter what everyone told him when he brought up the subject of Catherine Belle. Catherine was a beautiful woman, the kind of person everyone knew had the upper hand due to what others might term as ‘genetic luck’ but Jonathan knew better than that.

His friends would poke fun at him when his feelings and thoughts about Catherine leaked out into the open, because of affection, the one emotion no one really should repress if it is of the healthy and objective variety, has a way of escaping it’s confinement to be blurted out across nervous speeches and bold gestures. They would make fun of him for loving what to the more lustful than loving was nothing more than a trophy, a conquest; a place they could plant a flag and claim superiority of their peers based on instincts belonging to a less gentle and knowledgeable age.

Jonathan, however, could notice the little things other seemed to just let pass them by. A beauty that is appreciated by many is either the result of a gorgeous lie or a plainly visible truth and in the case of Catherine Belle, the case could definitely be made for truth over lie being the cause of her popularity. No one hated Catherine the way they might others with her appearance and poise, but it was because there was no trickery going on.

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Planet Rising

September 26, 2017

Random and quick poetry from today’s writing prompt ‘planet.’

Stranded out in deep uncharted regions of mystery,

Building on the past progression, the timeless march of history.

Drifting on momentum, long run out of burn,

Still in weightlessness directions are upturned.


Although wonderous always are the sights and sounds,

Different values encountered, some petty, some profound.

Wander far enough and at some point you just accept,

A difference of the margin of error is just a moment to intercept.


New planet rising, am I the only one?

Vision clear with blind spots, still forgotten sun.

Blanketed in black void, surrounded by points of light,

From powerful forces, the rising of each new day must fight.

Thomas Spychalski

Read more posts from this writing prompt here. 

Charlie Irrelevant

September 24, 2017

Bit of hastily imagined short fiction for today’s WordPress Daily Prompt: Irrelevant.

Charlie stalked through the crowd, and it slightly parted as he made his way through the busy marketplace.  Maybe not as much of a part as the old prophet Moses made on Earth when he spread the Red Sea (was it actually red? Like the natural waste ponds on Aldranuich Seven? Who knew much about Earth now?), but the crowd parted enough that Charlie could feel that same feeling he always felt, like he was repelling people away from him, like an instinct.

Maybe it was a bad idea to leave the public hive building to go to the cinema.

Thing was, his neighbor and he had been talking the last weekend prior, a real treat for Charlie (alcohol was of course involved. It took ten Talbatian ales to make Charlie open up and half a dozen blue worm wine bottles to make Mr. Granfeild from frame 6-A to be able to stand to be within five feet of Charlie for an extended period) but he told him there was this great film from Earth that was playing at the Plateau Sixteen, called Catcher in the Rye, made in the late 21st century from an infamous novel from the twentieth century that Mr. Granfeild felt he might enjoy, maybe even identify with.

Problem was Charlie really liked the film, despite how true it stayed to the dialogue of the book, which he found quite dull and tacky, but he had to admit, as he passed all the people going to and fro in the twilight of this great city, the word ‘phony,’ however tacky, did seem to ring true.

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Love’s Leaf

September 22, 2017

From the Daily Writing Prompt on WordPress. 

Love is like a leaf.

It appears from out of nowhere like a hidden magic of the Spring and spreads fast, reaching high towards the bright revealing light of the sun.

The leaves grow until it becomes a part of us, mixture, the color born out despite the stagnation of our history and roots.

It can feed us well and makes us seem larger than life, fuller than the frame of the Human restraints of body and instinct that lie beneath love’s leaves.

Winds of change can take it from us, breaking the bonds that hold the leaves to our wooden skeletons, causing us to sway in the waves of the storm, calling for relief so we do not lose our proud majesty.

Seasons change as well for love’s leaf, the chilled fall air making once proudly vibrant leaves whither, before winter’s cold embrace reminds us that we are once again alone in the whitewashed cold, longing for encouraging breezes and warmer days that now seem like a fantasy.

Love’s leaf grounded, trapped under the ice of regret and loss, but yet again the sun will move closer to our cycles, a random spark will erupt inside the barren trunks of the Human heart and make them flare up again, and the fallen leaves of yesterday’s lost loves will only fertilize a new Summer’s cauldron of joy.

Thomas Spychalski 

Please visit the daily one word writing prompt of ‘leaf’ for more posts from this prompt and thanks for reading.

Spider Bites

August 29, 2017

Basic story idea from this Writing Prompt, opinions, advice, and comments gratefully taken and desired. 


Henry balled up both his fists again, the tight olive green t-shirt straining at the mass of his upper arm as he started his swinging motion, the same kind of T-shirt he told Cynthia he used to wear during basic training.

Thwack, thwack, boom!

Cynthia felt the pain explode in her head as she fell onto the kitchen floor, her hands shielding her head as she went into a fetal position. Cynthia’s right hand felt around her temple and her fingers slid into something wet and slightly warm, like some soup left in a pot that had to be reheated before it could be served.

Her eyes were closed but Cynthia could hear Henry take a step closer in his steel toe work boots. There was a minute moment of perfect silence, a muttering of what might have been the word: ‘Bitch,’ and then the pain and the blood from her now throbbing head was quickly forgotten as a worse pain exploded in her stomach and all the air was forced out of her lungs.

It was as if one pain outranked the other and told it who was in charge when it came to the pain game.

All this over a spider.

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Of Roots & Fractals

August 6, 2016


Throwing this out there and it was inspired by this writing prompt on Reddit.

Bob admittedly felt strange as he awoke on that Sunday morning, staring at the blue sky from his bed in his tiny one bedroom apartment, the bright sunlight forcing his eyes and his mind under the covers to try and regroup.

It felt like he got no rest at all, even though he had gotten into the habit of sleeping as much as possible, because it was better to be blissfully asleep rather than think about how lonely and isolated he was every single day of his life.

His eyes burned and his body ached as if he had been on a bender and then proceeded to start a fight in which the odds must have plainly been against him. Bob had vague recollections of a strange dream, of hands reaching out and a voice that kept telling him he had one last chance.

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Unpredictable Predictions

July 17, 2016

Bumped into a WordPress prompt thingy which asked you to use the word unpredictable creatively so this was born:

Practicing Unpredictable Predictions,

Shouting Soothing Syllables.

Predicting Unpredictable Practices,

Craving Cowering Criminal.



Unpredictable Practices Predicting,

Destructive Demeaning Debate.

Practice Unpredictable Predicting,

Forever Fear For Fate.

Thomas Spychalski

Short Fiction: The Perfect Crime

August 10, 2015


This was originally inspired by a writing Prompt from Reddit.

Enjoy and please let me know what you think of it in the comment section:

“No good will come of this you know”

“I know…”

The couple stood over the dead body, staring down at the lifeless form at their feet. The Body was still fresh, the eyes open and accusing, the hollow stare that will one day happen to all of us when the soul vacates it’s shell.

“So what do we do now?” She asked.

“I guess we bury it, try to make sure she does not see it before she gets up.”

She looked at her watch, then up at the bedroom window on the second floor of the house.

“That only gives us a couple hours…”

“Then we better work quickly then.”

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