Anecdote Love

Stories and Musings from a girl named Harvey


Guanella Pass

After a long hiatus from blogging (for which I have a laundry list of excuses none of them valid) I am finally at a point where I have time to write/blog again.  I feel rather out of practice so I am easing back into this blogging thing by trying my hand at some writing challenges.  This piece is written for the DP Weekly Writing Challenge: Snapshot and is a snapshot of part of my recent mountain vacation.

Guanella Pass

“Do you need to pee?”  my husband asked.  We were returning from unsuccessful big horn sheep viewing.

“No I’m ok”

“All right then”

We drove passed our small hotel tucked in the valley and into Georgetown passing Victorians.  Some had new paint on their gingerbread that gleamed in the sun; pink, purples, and greens.  Next door peeling grays and boarded up windows.

Brandon headed for the road we didn’t choose the day before, but going the wrong way.  I said nothing.

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Leslie’s Morning Part 1

So I am now attempting to write Leslie’s story somewhat chronologically.  This bit is nearish to the beginning and I obviously had a tearoom craving when I wrote it.  Written for Friday Fictioneers.

No cream.  Her small striped jug contained a speck.  It was a “C.C’s” morning Leslie decided and promptly went out.  Leslie first went to “C.C’s” because they advertised “a very nice cat”.  She continued to go because at “C.C’s” she found sunny nooks, a feline to snuggle, exquisite scones, and Devonshire cream for her morning tea.  Plus Mabel, the proprietor, was chatty.  Thus the sensible decision upon running out of cream was not the market, but “C.C’s”.  Upon approaching “C.C’s” on that drab morning Leslie noted an oddity. The purple sign with cream lettering was advertising “a very nice dog”.


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Beginning of the Story

Oh my goodness my story has a beginning !  And here it is the first paragraph to precede all those other paragraphs in Leslie’s ongoing adventures.  The beginning is inspired by this week’s Friday Fictioneers.  To read more of Leslie’s adventures you can check it out here

The front door to her small Victorian townhouse was green.  Leslie bought it for that door.  Forest green with stained glass panels of Art Nouveau flowers.  Green as the grass she read in as a child.  Green as her memories of travels and bruises. Green as his eyes and her heart.  Everyday opening the heavy creaking green redwood Leslie stepped into her blue parlor.  The picture rail holding nostalgic watercolors of now concrete vistas, bookshelves with pleasantly molding words, the yellow pinstripe armchair with a snugly ginger tom ensconced, smell of dahlias and lavender.  Until one day the door didn’t.


A tad about Gregory

This snippet in the unraveling tail of Leslie focuses on Gregory. That most ignominious of polymaths. Written for Trifecta: Week Ninety Six challenge.   This weeks word is animal third definition: a human being considered chiefly as physical or nonrational; also: this nature.   To read more of Leslie’s tails you can jump down the rabbit hole here:

“We’re going to join the warren.” Ed had smiled under his bushy eyebrows and rotting tophat.  “There’s nothing left for us to do here” added Mel in her soft velvet voice, smoothing her skirt.  Their lined faces had looked at him expectantly.  That was at least a century ago.

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A Green Dress

Another little confusing bit of the Leslie puzzle written for Friday Fictioneers I haven’t quite decided where to take this storyline I’m slowly building yet. So interpretations and ideas would be most appreciated!

The dress in the window seemed familiar to Leslie.  Dark green in silk.  Typical 50’s with a petticoat. V-neck and elbow length sleeves trimmed in boisterous ruffles.   She had to have it, despite the $450 price tag.

At home Leslie swayed in the mirror.  The dress fit perfectly, it brought out the amber in her eyes and hair.  It was labeled “G.G. designs”.

The room shifted and a woman in 50s attire handed Leslie a drink.  A crowded room with cigarette smoke clinging to surfaces.  As if she had stepped into a living vintage photograph.  A party?


V is for Vitroil


This story was written for the Weekly Writing Challenge: Dialogue.  It was inspired by a friends use of the word vitriol in a facebook post, which I considered elevating my facebook feed considerably.  I also hate grocery shopping, so there you go.

V is for Vitriol

Vitriol defined by Merriam Webster: something felt to resemble vitriol especially in caustic quality; especially :  virulence of feeling or of speech

“We can’t carry the eggs”
“They’re eggs.”
“Exactly, fragile.  They won’t make it five flights.”
Rick shot a glare at Meg and put the eggs back.
“You wanted vaulted ceilings” he muttered.

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Leslie in NYC

This story was written for Friday Fictioneers.  Check it out here:  Slightly over word count this week at 107.  Also I had an extreme fascination with the film “Man on Wire” a few years back which also inspired this story.   More on that:

Leslie in NYC, visiting mother.  She intensely disliked both.

Sitting on mother’s white sofa, drinking mocha, staring at the skyline from the penthouse.

“Cheerio” greeted Gregory.

Leslie raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t you see it’s an interesting day?”

She shook her head.

“There’s a man on a tightrope at the top of the world.”  He leaned towards her.

Leslie looked in the direction indicated, toward Ground Zero.

“A hole” she said flatly. “A big hole.”

“You’re not looking hard enough.” Gregory adjusted his red bowler and flickered away.

Looking she saw a man on a tightrope between the towers.  Their gaze met.  The next instant he was gone.


S is for Sardonic (aka the Nudist Rock Band Story)


This installment of Alphabet Soup is inspired by the Daily Post Weekly Writing Challenge: Backward.  You can check it out here:      

Please be aware there’s a lot of cussing in this story.  If that’s not your thing this is not the story for you.


S is for Sardonic (aka the Nudist Rock Band Story)

Sardonic as defined by Merriam Webster: disdainfully or skeptically humorous : derisively mocking

So there she was by the Damen Blue Line stop, standing under her Louis Vuitton umbrella, in the rain, waiting for a cab.  Melrose decided to join her cokehead brother’s nudist rock band.  He said she had great tits.  A cab went by without stopping and splashed her Jimmy Choo’s.  Ruination.  It was the end of a not good day.

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Leslie Tills

Leslie was tilling her garden and heard a thunk.  She had hit a rectangle of rotting wood.   Pulling it up she gasped at a gas mask staring back at her.  Grabbing her trowel she started to unearth the mask.  Slowly the top half of a skeleton unveiled.

The bones gleamed white.   The top half wore: a red bowler hat with remaining brown curls of hair, a gray suit jacket with a red silk pocket handkerchief, a yellow and white shirt in small plaid, a black tie, and jet cuff links.  The skeleton was eccentric, well-mannered and familiar to her.

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She leaned back and peered over her book at Timothy.  He wore a red sweater with yellow chevrons under his tweed jacket.  He didn’t match.  In fact Timothy never matched.

He was the sort of person who always wore two different colored socks.  As if it was beyond his comprehension to put on two black socks with matching shoes.  Thistle softly smiled at his peculiar shoelaces.  He was wearing blue shoelaces with maroon aglets. His shoelaces had been the first thing she noticed that day he came into the agency.  The day her chest tightened and her breath stilled.

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