Written for Sunday Whirl Wordle – #733. Our host
is Brenda Warren and these are our prompt words:
thistles, horns, stiff, treat, wee, chirping, fit,
down, stick, blushing, out, and moment.
Here’s where the prompts took me.
Tag: Scared
Just Ducky
Written for Crispina’s Crimson’s Creative
Challenge #055. I chose pic #3.
Here’s where the image took me.
The Intruder
Written for Sammi’s Weekend Writing
Prompt #416 using the word ‘breath’
in exactly 14 words. This is my flash.
He Was Expendable
Our gracious host, Rochelle, at Friday Fictioneers
asks us to use the photo below as inspiration
to write creatively in 100 words or less while
making every word count. This is my flash.
Christmas Tree Soliloquy
Written for dVerse Poets where we are encouraged to compose an
Etheree based on trees …. Christmas or fir-themed … consisting
of 10 lines. In an Etheree, the first line has one syllable;
the second line has two syllables, and so on, until there are
ten syllables in the tenth line. We are asked to create our Etheree
in the shape of a tree, with two extra lines of 2 syllables
each forming the trunk of our tree. This is my Etheree.
Displaced
Written for The Unicorn Challenge where we are
encouraged to write something creative in 250 words
or less, using the photo below as inspiration. Here’s my story.
Covered in filth and mange, the horde of dogs and cats that survived the hurricane were crammed into military vans. Those once long-haired canines with soft billowy fur now resembled stone creatures encased in a shell of thick crust. Scrawny, flea-ridden cats no longer purred contentedly but howled in fear. Muscular pit bulls were reduced to skeletons, the outlines of ribcages clearly visible in emaciated bodies.
The relentless rain caused the levees to burst, resulting in flooding; homeowners lost everything. Many scrambled to their roofs in a desperate attempt to save themselves while others tried swimming to safety. Those lucky enough to own a rowboat floated on the flood waters, dragging people into their boats along the way.
A state of emergency was declared; first responders worked ceaselessly. Overlong, the levees were rebuilt and people relocated.
Tragically, family pets were forgotten in the frenzy or deliberately left behind. When the waters subsided weeks later, they were found chained to fences and porch railings. Some had climbed up trees or hidden themselves away in the attics of abandoned houses. They were scared, starving, sick. Innumerable were dead.
Helpless, hopeless pets were brought to makeshift hospitals. With unbelievable patience, veterinarians treated every surviving animal, gently cutting away matted crusty fur, administering antibiotics and vaccines, providing food and water, bringing those nearly dead back to life. The doctors never rested; they desperately hoped to save more than they did but the struggle was too great. Too many innocents didn’t stand a chance.
NAR©2024
250 Words
Authors Note: True account of Hurricane Katrina, August 23-31, 2005, New Orleans, Louisiana.
This is “When The Levee Breaks” by Led Zeppelin
All text, graphics and videos are copyright for The Sicilian Storyteller, The Elephant’s Trunk and The Rhythm Section and are not to be used without permission. NAR©2017-present.
Such A Crime
Denise at GirlieOnTheEdge
has challenged us once again
to write a Six Sentence Story
and to include the word “stock”.
This is my response.
Monday after school, me and my friends were in our usual hang out …. Caroni Brothers Grocery Store …. where we go for snacks, gum, you know – typical things 10 year old boys like – and, as usual, my mouth was watering for my favorite candy in the whole wide world, Tootsie Rolls, BUT I forgot my allowance and my friends didn’t have any extra money to loan me so I just walked around the store feeling glum when all the while those chocolatey Tootsie Rolls kept calling my name; before I could even think about what I was doing, I reached into the display box on the shelf, snatched a handful of Tootsies and bolted out the side door, but instead of running as fast and as far away from the store as I could, I tossed my candy into my backpack and sat on the ground leaning against the wall, relieved that I got away with it, when suddenly Mr. Caroni appeared outta nowhere, looming over me like a gorilla, and he reached into my backpack for my stash of Tootsie Rolls, shook his beefy fist and snarled something about cleaning him out lock, stock and barrel and to “get outta here, you mangy little thief, and never come back!”
That night I prayed Caroni’s would burn down – no such luck, by the way – and every day that week I gazed at the store with longing as my school bus passed by with one sickening thought haunting me: this coming Sunday morning, when me and my Dad are gonna take our weekly walk to Caroni’s for a loaf of Italian bread, a box of macaroni, a half-dozen cannoli and the newspaper; there’s no way I’m gonna be able to walk into that store and I’m thinking maybe I should just run away from home right now and never look back, but that would break my Mom’s heart.
Sunday arrived and Dad called out for me to “get a move on!”, all the while I’m making up excuses why I can’t go but he ain’t buying any of them; that’s it – dead man walking – and I dilly-dallied the whole way to the store, watching caterpillars, kicking pebbles, stopping to tie my shoelaces .… again …. until my Dad couldn’t take it anymore and shouted “C’mon, kiddo; what is this .… a funeral?” and I’m thinking “yeah, mine!” and before I knew it, I started crying and blubbering like my baby sister.
Squatting down and taking hold of my shoulders, Dad looked me square in the eye and asked “Ok, what’s going on?” and sobbing pathetically like a little sissy, I told Dad the whole sordid tale about me, Mr. Caroni and a handful of Tootsie Rolls; he took out his handkerchief, wiped my face, held it to my nose and said “Blow; listen, kiddo …. what you did was wrong and it’s obviously eating you up inside, but I’m afraid it’s not over because you still have to apologize to Mr. Caroni, which won’t be easy, but you have to do it …. and not a word about any of this to your Mom because this is a “guy thing” and it stays between us guys.”
We walked into the store, picked out our usual items and brought them up to the counter where my day wasted no time mincing words and said “Mr. Caroni, my son has something to say”; shaking in my shoes, I managed to look up at Mr. Caroni’s face and squeaked out “I’m sorry for taking those Tootsie Rolls, sir, and I’ll never steal anything from you ever again” and I extended my hand; an eternity seemed to go by but, to my shock and relief, Mr. Caroni took my little hand in his large meaty one, gave me one solid shake and nodded in agreement.
“Anything else?” Mr. Caroni asked, to which my dad replied “Just these” as he tossed a handful of my beloved Tootsie Rolls onto the counter; I’m sure glad my secret’s safe with Dad ’cause the last thing I wanna do is break my Mom’s heart.
NAR©2024
From 1971, this is Cat Stevens with “Father and Son”
This portfolio (including text, graphics and videos) is copyright for The Sicilian Storyteller, The Elephant’s Trunk and The Rhythm Section and is not for use by anyone without permission. NAR © 2017-present.
NIGHT TERRORS
My son cried out for me again. It had become a nightly ritual.
At first I was amused by his attempts to stall going to sleep. Sometimes he’d ask for a glass of water or another bedtime story. His latest ruse was “monsters”. I’d made a big deal of looking under the bed, inside the closet, behind the rocking horse in the corner. Satisfied nothing was hiding in his room, he would drift off to sleep.
Now the routine had turned into a habit and I found myself becoming exasperated. The last couple of nights, my son was clearly upset by something he claimed to have seen. He cried real tears, asking me to keep the lights on. We compromised and began using a nightlight.
Still, something was scaring my boy and my frustration turned into concern. He was now saying a wicked witch came to him every night. There was no denying my little guy was truly scared.
I thought about every tv show or movie that could have set this off, any posters or books in his room. Nothing came to mind and I rubbed my temples as another headache began to worm its way in.
My son screamed for me and I ran to his room. The witch was back and he cried for me to stay with him. I crawled onto his bed and laid down, my arms around him and my head on his pillow. I closed my eyes as he described the bony and twisted fingers of a witch’s hand reaching through his bedroom window. With ragged breaths my boy clung to me, begging me to keep the witch away.
I held him tightly and kissed his head, assuring him that witches weren’t real and he was safe. Slowly his breathing calmed and I opened my eyes to see if he was asleep. With my head still on his pillow, I had the same view of my son’s room as he did. For the first time I saw his world through his 4-year-old eyes.
And there in the darkness tap-tap-tapping on his window was a sight that made me gasp … the gnarled and skinny branches of the scraggly juniper bush outside my son’s room looked very much like an evil witch’s hand grasping at little boys! How could I have missed it and the fearsome shadows it cast across the walls and onto the ceiling? I felt an enormous amount of guilt for not seeing what he saw, for thinking it was his only imagination, for losing my patience with a frightened little boy.
We sat up on his bed and I explained to my son that what he saw was not a witch but only branches and I could understand why it scared him. I asked my boy if he remembered seeing the juniper bush during the day while outside playing. He quickly nodded “Yes”. I asked him if the bush scared him when he saw it during the day; he giggled and said “No!”
I turned on all the lights in his room and asked if it would be ok if I opened the window. My son didn’t answer right away; he stared at his hands in his lap and nervously fussed with his pajamas, then looked up at me with tears in his eyes. I wanted to run to him and scoop him up in my arms but I forced myself not to move. I’m sure it took every ounce of courage for him to quietly answer “Ok, Mommy”.
I held out my hand and he slowly walked to me, that look of ‘dead man walking’ on his face. But he was a brave boy that night and together we opened the window. I reached out and touched the branches of the juniper. I shook the branches; there wasn’t a witch anywhere. My son asked if he could shake the branches, too, and I told him he could. When I asked if we should have Daddy cut down the bush in the morning, my son was very thoughtful for a minute. Then he shook his head saying “No, the bush didn’t mean to be scary”. He threw his arms around my neck and he climbed back into bed.
That night the fears were conquered, the night terrors vanquished. My little son is now a grown man with little sons of his own and it’s his turn to dispel their fears. Sometimes I wonder if he has any memory of those frightening nights from forty years ago.
Something tells me he doesn’t remember a thing.
NAR © 2023
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In The Groove.
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