Sunday Photo Fiction — The Playhouse

78CBBBF6-0481-4433-8B4B-EFAFBBD25579Amanda came running into the house that her father and mother were looking at and excitedly asked, “Daddy, can we buy this house?”

“Do you like this house?” he asked her.

“Oh yes,” Amanda said. “There’s a playhouse in the backyard, Daddy. It looks like a Hansel and Gretel house.”

“Is it made out of candy and treats?” Amanda’s father asked her.

“Daddy, don’t be silly,” Amanda laughed. “But it looks like a storybook cottage. Come see.”

As it turned out, Amanda’s parents bought the house with the playhouse in the backyard. It came with a small table and chairs and shelves on the walls, and Amanda moved her dolls and stuffed animals onto the shelves and set up her tea set on the table. She would go to the playhouse every day to play tea party with her dolls, stuffed animals, and her imaginary friend.

Until one day when she came running into the house it tears. “What’s the matter, sweetie?” her mother asked.

“She tore apart my dolls and stuffed toys,” Amanda cried.

“Who did?” her mother asked.

“My friend who lives in the playhouse.”

Amanda’s mother followed Amanda to the playhouse and looked inside, and screamed.015B13FD-4F98-4AA1-8DF9-9D40B02AA12B

(199 words)

Written for Susan Spaulding’s Sunday Photo Fiction prompt. Top photo credit: Susan Spaulding. Old hag image credit: Google Images.

Twittering Tales — Bad Role Models

02D1724F-DFAC-4DC8-ABF3-64E161477E64“Oh, baby, what happened to your Barbies?” Jenn’s mother asked when she saw all of her daughter’s dolls broken apart.

“I hate them!” Jenn yelled in anger.

“But I thought you loved your Barbies.”

“Look at them, Ma,” Jenn said. “They’re beautiful, but I don’t look anything like them.”

(280 characters)

Written for Kat Myrman’s Twittering Tales prompt. Photo credit: Skitterphotos at

3TC — Boys Don’t Play With Barbies

65E9435D-5535-4BE3-B78E-7968AA1887E9“You need to do something about Brian,” Max told his wife.

“What are you talking about?” Tammy asked Max.

“Are you crackers?” Max said. “You seriously don’t know?”

“Max, I have no clue what it is that you want me do about Brian,” Tammy said.

“You don’t find his behavior at all questionable?” Max asked.

“Will you just spit it out, please?” Tammy said. “I honestly don’t know what your problem with Brian is.”

“Fine,” Max said. “Brian seems to like playing with his sister’s Barbie dolls.”


“Are you kidding me? He’s a boy who likes playing with Barbie dolls,” Max said. “Boys don’t play with Barbies. If he wants to play with dolls, we should get him some action figures, like G.I. Joe or Captain America.”

“Why?” Asked Tammy. “Boys can play with Barbie dolls and not be called a sissy, gay, or worse.”

“Not Brian, not my boy,” Max protested.

“Brian is only seven years old. Playing with a Barbie doll doesn’t define his gender identity,” Tammy said. “Let me ask you a question. In ten years, would you prefer that he be more interested in playing with someone named Joe or someone named Barbie?”

“Okay, fine,” Max said. Then Tammy heard Max calling out to Brian, “Hey Brian, let’s go out back and toss a football.” Tammy just shook her head.

Written for Teresa’s Three Things Challenge prompt, where the three things are dolls, crackers, and questionable.

Sunday Photo Fiction — Heads Up


“Why do you do that to your dolls?” Samantha asked her daughter.

Sheri was a shy, quiet girl with few friends. She spent most of her free time alone in her bedroom. “You mean pull their heads off?” she asked.

“Yes. Why do you do that?”

Sheri shrugged her shoulders and simply said, “I dunno. I just do,”

“That’s not an acceptable answer, young lady,” Samantha scolded. “You must have a reason for removing the heads from your dolls.”

Sheri shrugged again.

Well, Sheri, if you won’t tell me why, I’ll make sure that Santa knows what you do to your dolls and I’m pretty sure he won’t be bringing you any new dolls this Christmas.”

“Fine,” Sheri said, “I’ll tell you.”

“Go ahead,” Samantha said. “I’m waiting.”

“I’m making a shrine and the dolls are my sacrifices.”

Dumbfounded, Samantha said, “A shrine? What kind of shrine? Who gave you that idea?”

“She told me you wouldn’t understand,” Sheri said.

“She? Who is ‘she’?”

Pointing at her own head, Sheri said, “She did.” Then an eerie smile crossed her face and she added, “Mom, did you know that Satan is an anagram for Santa?”

Written for this week’s Sunday Photo Fiction prompt.