PHOTO PROMPT ©David Stewart
The ride to the park was downright annoying. The idiot behind her had his music on blast; if you want to call this stuff ‘music’.
Wouldn’t you know it, the guy was heading to the park too, followed her the entire way.
Who was this guy? Ball cap twisted to the right, white rimmed sunglasses, and that loud rap music, God, this was too much!
“What’s wrong with kids these days?” she thought, as she rolled up her windows to drown the noise.
As she pulled into the lot, she noticed him hurrying to the bandstand, cello in tow.
This is my entry into this week’s Friday Fictioneers. Be sure to check out the link for more stories.
“Whatcha doin Bobby?”
“I beez a Tweetin'” he replies.
Little Billy stares at his older brother as he tinkers away with his phone.
“You done don’t look like no bird, so how is it you tweets?” asked the little one.
“Weel, I watched the growed-ups at school, and they sits around a table, none of dem talking wit each oddur, and all of a sudden they are laffin at nothin’. Well I barged in the room and axed dem what dey was laffin at and dey sais dey were tweetin.”
“Well tweet fast, I wants to play a game or sumptin’!” says the impatient one.
In no time at all, Bobby gets tired of all the tweetin and decides to take his little brother and go fishing. Mom, who was standing next to the house at the time laughs at the antics of her kids and decides to see what her oldest has ‘tweeted’. As she reads the screen, she smiles to herself :”Tweet tweet chirp chirp chickadee dee dee”
I just started using Twitter. Thought this little story might give you a laugh.
PHOTO PROMPT – © Copyright – Rachel Bjerke
The retirement home was filled with stories, but none stranger than that of John-Paul’s. He claimed that was born in a tiny village in the middle of Central Park.
“Maybe your grandfather lived there, but not you” doubted the nurse who was assigned to the old man.
“Take this map, and one day, when I am gone, follow it. It’s there I tell you!” he pleaded.
Sure enough, one chilly October day, she found it. The entire place was covered by moss and branches, but she could see that John-Paul was telling the truth.
This little tale is brought to you by Rochelle Wiseoff-Fields’ Friday Fictioneers. Be sure to check out the other titles using the link below.
PHOTO PROMPT © Sandra Crook
He would pick daisies for her
as they walked along the road.
The water under the bridge rushed
but he didn’t.
He would hold her hand
and they would lie
under the Sycamore tree,
staring at the sky
of their future.
Then one fateful day
he got a letter
from Uncle Sam.
He was called to fight
in a war that made no sense.
and he tried
to make the best
of the situation.
battered and bruised
inside and out.
Ellen was gone
and so was the sycamore tree
nothing but a memory.
This tragic little story is brought to you by Rochelle Wiseoff-Fields’ Friday Fictioneers. Please follow the link below for more stories.
His boots clicked on the hard, dry pavement as he exited his truck. I could hear his footsteps as he slowly scanned the area and walked toward me. He didn’t come to my rescue at first, rather he went directly to the animal.
The Caribou squealed in pain, its limbs broken, its body battered and bloodied. The man held the animal in his arms, saying a prayer while he shed tears for the suffering beast. A loud cry came from the side of the road, as a larger animal, perhaps the mother of the injured deer said goodbye to her baby. I watched as he removed a long blade from the leather sheath that dangled from his belt. He took the knife and quickly cut the throat of the suffering animal. Everything went silent and its body went still. With that, the herd moved on, leaving the slain one behind.
I was most amazed at his strength, as he heaved the animal over his shoulders and into the back of his pickup. He walked over to where I lay, bent down and smelled my breath. When he detected the smell of whiskey, he spat on me and walked away, leaving me to bleed to death on the lonely highway.
I tried to call out to him, begging him for help, but he said nothing. He simply walked back to his truck and drove away.
This is a work of fiction. Just to let you know.
PHOTO PROMPT – © Erin Leary
In early Autumn Mushroom Mike would be found bent over, picking ‘magic-mushrooms’.
Mike spent his entire life in search of the ultimate high. Magic-mushrooms began to lose their appeal, so he decided to try Egg Mushrooms, found only on Ol’ Harry’s farm.
Harry had a reputation of being unruly. When he noticed Mike’s ass sticking out of the tall grass near the barn, he took action. A barrel of buckshot in the cheek was all it took to get Mike on his way. Harry laughed as Mike ran through the fields, holding his ass and crying.
WHAT A HIGH!
This little tale of sore asses and stoned minds is brought to you by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields’ Friday Fictioneers. Be sure to follow the link to more stories.
Walking through a field one day
amongst the old wrecks that lay
rotting into the ground,
I happened upon a pile of rust
in the shape of a car.
What history lay here, in front of me
grass growing through the floor
bird droppings on the smashed windshield
seats ripped and torn and blood stained.
The front bumper was bent in the middle,
as if it collided with a tree.
Inside I seen candy bar wrappers and pop bottles and a broken toy
a baseball hat, a broken bat, and a skipping rope on the floor.
And beneath the driver’s seat I spot the culprit
an empty whiskey bottle.