Written for The Unicorn Challenge where we
are urged to get creative in 250 words or less. The
photo below is our inspiration and this is my story.
Tag: The Unicorn Challenge
Bones Of Steel
Introduction: More Italians have emigrated to the United States than any other people in Europe. When they first arrived, speaking no English, they learned very quickly the only jobs available to them were in sanitation and construction. They took pride in their work. The resulting cathedrals and skyscrapers dotting Manhattan are testaments to their craftsmanship and determination.
I will not lie; this is not a new piece. It’s been
whittled down from its original 746 words to
250 words for The Unicorn Challenge where
we are urged to get creative using the photo
below as our inspiration. This is my story.
Boxer Rebellion
Written for The Unicorn Challenge where we are
asked to get creative in 250 words or less using
the photo below as inspiration. This is my story.
Honeysuckle and Provolone
Originally written several years ago, I thought this fitting
for this week’s Unicorn Challenge where we are
asked to get creative in 250 words or less using
the photo below as inspiration. This is my story.
Afternoons With Tom
Written for The Unicorn Challenge where we are
asked to get creative in 250 words or less using
the photo below as inspiration. This is my story.
The Continuing Adventures of George and Martha, Vol. 6: Potāto Potǎto
Written for The Unicorn Challenge where we are
asked to get creative in 250 words or less using
the photo below as inspiration. This is my story.
Shapeshifter
Written for The Unicorn Challenge where we are
asked to get creative in 250 words or less using
the photo below as inspiration. This is my story.
On The Rocks – Part 4: A Table In The Corner
Written for The Unicorn Challenge where we are
asked to get creative in 250 words or less using
the photo below as inspiration. This is my story.
Till Death
Written for The Unicorn Challenge where we are
asked to get creative in 250 words or less using
the photo below as inspiration. This is my story.
L’enfant aux Cymbales: The Concluding Story of Harvey and Fiona
Written for The Unicorn Challenge where we are
asked to get creative in 250 words or less using
the photo below as inspiration. This is my story.
A Sudden Slip Of The Tongue
Written for The Unicorn Challenge where we are
asked to get creative in 250 words or less using
the photo below as inspiration. This is my story.
Woman Of Substance
Written for The Unicorn Challenge where we are
asked to get creative in 250 words or less using
the photo below as inspiration. This is my story.
The Prayer
Written for The Unicorn Challenge where we are
asked to get creative in 250 words or less using
the photo below as inspiration. This is my story.
Luca’s
Written for The Unicorn Challenge where we are
asked to get creative in 250 words or less using
the photo below as inspiration. This is my story.
I was waiting outside Luca’s Restaurant for my guy to show up with that lovely little glassine envelope of blow. He was running late and I was freezing my ass off, chainsmoking. Even at this hour the place was busy.
A cozy-looking niche in the wall beckoned me; I scooted over and huddled there to keep warm. I was agitated, my toes tap-dancing inside my boots. It had been several hours since my last hit and I couldn’t collect my scattered thoughts.
Shoving my hands into my pockets to stay warm, I immediately came in contact with a stubby vial; a little spoon dangled from a delicate chain … a very clever design … although I must admit the one with the miniature spoon neatly built into the inside bottom of the screw-on cap was pure genius. This was a nice surprise! I had changed jackets the other day and didn’t remember it was there.
Elated, I wrapped my fingers around the bottle, smiling at the feel of the all-too-familiar smooth glass. I removed the vial from my pocket; it was difficult to see but even in the darkness I knew it was empty. Crap!
Where the hell was my guy?
As if summoning a genie, he appeared in the glow emanating from the light above Luca’s doorway. I began to stand when piercing sounds of squealing tires stopped me. Three unmarked cars pulled up and the feds jumped out, surrounding my guy. Busted!
Dammit! I receded into the bushes.
NAR©2024
250 Words
This is “Snowblind” by Styx
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.
Crossroads
Written for The Unicorn Challenge where we are
asked to get creative in 250 words or less using
the photo below as inspiration. This is my story.
There he stood at the crossroads of his life. He was 72 years old and made more poor choices than he cared to remember. He was purposeless, never knowing which direction to take.
He was an indecisive man. The only true and clear decision he made was marrying his wife. She was his anchor when he began to drift, his lifeboat when he was drowning in the sea of life.
On this crisp autumn day, he was suddenly consumed with the urge to take a walk, clear his head. His wife offered to go with him, but he declined saying thanks, but he needed this time by himself to think.
His wife suggested he wear his new chartreuse windbreaker; if he lost his bearings, as he was often wont to do, he’d be easily visible. And so he donned his yellow-green jacket and took off to find himself.
Now here he stood at the crossroads of his life, literally. He had no idea where he was. As he looked around, he realized he was truly screwed for he blended in perfectly with his surroundings.
At that moment he cursed his wife. He wanted to wear his beloved red jacket but no, she suggested he wear the chartreuse one. Because he could never make up his mind, he did as he was told. Now he was lost without a clue which way to go.
And to think he went off to find himself. Now he wondered if anyone would find him.
NAR©2024
250 Words
This is “Crossroads” by Cream
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.
Rubbernecking
Written for The Unicorn Challenge where we are
asked to get creative in 250 words or less using
the photo below as inspiration. This is my story.
“Hey, Daryl! Phil! Get a load of this!” neighed Ed as he stared over Bess and Elsie’s fence onto the country road. “Do they really think they’re capable of running? On two legs?? If that don’t beat all!”
“What the heck are they doing?” asked Daryl.
“They’re jogging; humans run around all bandy-legged with arms flailing, getting sweaty, going nowhere in particular and looking pretty dumb while doing it.” Ed explained.
Phil trotted over. “Yeah. I read about these idiots in ‘Horse Beautiful’. It’s some kind of craze, far as I can tell …. some sort of asinine exercise routine.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Look at what we got coming this way, gentlemen. Now that’s some fine-looking little filly!” exclaimed Ed.
“Check out those tiny shorts she’s wearing. She can ride me bareback any time she wants!” Phil declared.
“Man, now that’s one stacked number! I could watch her jog and bounce around all day!” Daryl smacked his lips.
“Hey! What are you three stud farm rejects doing all this way from the barn?” It was Barkley, the yellow lab who lived on the ranch. “Farmer Brown’s gonna have a cow if he hears you jumped the fence again! Best get yourselves back home before someone notices you’re gone. C’mon! Giddy-up, boys!”
“Buzz kill!” snorted Ed and the trio took off.
“Bunch of jackasses!” Barkley yowled indignantly. “Well, good riddance to them and woof to you, my sexy lady. You jog by here often? Have I got a bone for you!”
NAR©2024
250 Words
This is “Who’s That Lady” by the Isley Brothers
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.
Coulro Saves The Day
Written for The Unicorn Challenge where we are
asked to get creative in 250 word or less using
the photo below as inspiration. This is my story.
My whole life has been nothing but one big joke. I don’t know why I expected otherwise, considering I was raised by a couple of clowns, but I did. Oh, don’t get me wrong; I’m not being derogatory. Not in the least. My parents are clowns .… literally. They are circus clowns and so am I.
Raffles and Mittens are my parents. Some of my aunts, uncles and cousins are Poodles, Flopsy, Jingles, Pogo and Skippy. Rumor has it that my great-grandparents were Bozo and Clarabell but we never know what to take seriously in this family.
We all live in a rinky-dink circus trailer and if you think walking into pantyhose drying in the bathroom is annoying, try existing with a squirting flower, a megaphone, a pop gun and a seltzer bottle every day of your life. This clowning around life ain’t that easy!
Anyway, we needed some mode of transportation to get around town for shopping and appointments so we went to the used car lot. Of course, the used car salesman tried to talk us into a clown car, which was terribly condescending. Clowns are people, too, dammit!
That’s when my boyfriend, Stumpy, had an idea. Stumpy is a coulro* and the best clown on stilts there ever was. Everybody looks up to him! With bicycle parts salvaged from the junkyard, he assembled the Clown Limo. With his long legs, Stumpy can drive us anywhere at all.
People say it’s the coolest ride in town!
NAR©2024
250 Words
*Coulro is a Greek word that means “stilt walker” or “clown“. It may come from the ancient Greek word kōlobathristēs, which means “one who goes on stilts“.
This is “Take The Long Way Home” by Supertramp.
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.
When Push Comes To Shove: The Continuing Story of Harvey and Fiona
Written for The Unicorn Challenge where we are asked
to get creative in 250 words or less using the photo
below as inspiration. This is my 4th story about Harvey
and Fiona; for my previous stories, please click here.
Early each morning on her way to work, Fiona passed the busy bakery in the heart of town. She loved the shamrock-green storefront and the delicious aroma of baked goods, and imagined herself working there.
Maneuvering the heavy pressing machines at her job took its toll on Fiona; she was exhausted and complained of backaches. Harvey barked that she better toughen up because no way was she quitting that job. And for the first time, he slapped her.
On Sunday morning Fiona asked Harvey to bring down the mixing bowl from the top shelf in the kitchen so she could make an apple pie. Grousing, but inwardly delighting at the prospect of dessert, Harvey took a long swig of his beer and got the stepladder out of the closet. As he started to climb, Fiona managed to hoist a five pound sack of apples, grimacing at the awful pain in her back, and bashed Harvey as hard as she could on the back of his head. He fell backwards onto the kitchen floor, vacant eyes staring at the ceiling. He would never slap her again.
Fiona tore open the sack of apples, dumped them into the colander on the counter and shoved the empty sack into the trash. She looked at Harvey’s dead body; blood had pooled under his head and she felt sick to her stomach. Fiona vomited in the sink, then washed her face and hands; she lifted the receiver of the wall phone and called the police.
NAR©2024
250 Words
This is “Push Comes To Shove” by Van Halen.
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.
Bisnonna*
Written for The Unicorn Challenge where we are
asked to get creative in 250 words or less using
the photo below as inspiration. Here is my story.
The ambience in our house was different today, quietly busy as delivery men and acquaintances paying their respects came and went. My father and mother’s uncles directed the traffic of floral deliveries and positioned the many arrangements throughout the parlor. My mother and her aunts labored in the kitchen like silent worker bees preparing trays of food for the funeral dinner tomorrow.
We children sat meekly on the two enormous matching sofas along the side walls, eyes downcast, confused and uncharacteristically restrained. Occasionally we would glance toward the elevated casket in the center of the room and quickly look away. At 6:00 we were whisked off to the dining room where we wordlessly ate our evening meal, then returned to the parlor to continue our vigil.
There seemed to be a never-ending flow of people, a soft parade of mourners entering our house. Veiled women dabbed their eyes and men removed their hats, heads bowed. This stream flowed seamlessly from 2:00 in the afternoon until 9:30 that evening, many people lingering to reflect while caressing their rosary beads. A priest arrived shortly after 9:30; he spoke softly in our native Sicilian dialect, offering prayers and words of consolation. When he was finished, everyone except my mother’s aunts and uncles departed. My little cousins, some no longer able to stay awake, were carried home and my sister and I were shooed off to our bedroom upstairs.
It had been a long and sorrowful day. My great-grandmother, the family matriarch, had died.
NAR©2024
250 Words
*Bisnonna is the Sicilian word for “great-grandmother”.
Author’s Note: I was nine years old when my great-grandmother died. Much of that day is etched in my mind; in particular, I remember being unable to sleep that night knowing there was a dead body in a coffin downstairs in my parlor. Never ever will I forget the cold and waxy feel of my bisnonna’s skin on my lips as I, along with all the other children, lined up to place a kiss on her forehead … not something we did willingly.
This is “Paint It Black” by the Rolling Stones
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.
With Friends Like Gonzo
Written for The Unicorn Challenge where we are
asked to get creative in 250 words or less
using this photo as inspiration. Here’s my story.
“Kevin! Wake up, man! You gotta see this. Wake up!”
“Quit it, Luke! I’m trying to sleep!” Kevin mumbled crossly. The disgusting smell of stale beer, Slim Jims and weed slammed Kevin in the face; gagging, he pushed his brother away.
“C’mon, Kev. Something heavy happened down at the beach, man. I swear it’s not of this world, bro!”
“The only thing ‘not of this world, bro’ is your breath. You’re stoned, Luke; go to sleep.”
“I swear on the Bible, Kevin. If you don’t see this, you’re gonna kick yourself.”
Kevin sighed deeply and swung his legs out of bed. “Alright, man. I’m up. Let’s get this over with.”
Kevin and Luke drove out to the Pacific Palisades beach where Luke had his sighting. Kevin recognized the beach right away.
“Hey, Luke … doesn’t your buddy Gonzo clean this beach?”
“Far out, man! I forgot about that. This is gonna blow his mind!”
When they reached Luke’s spot, he dropped to the sand and began to belly crawl to the top, motioning for Kevin to do the same.
“Check it out, Kev. Have you ever seen anything like this, man? They’re crop circles, like in that movie!”
“You got that right, Luke. This really is something else! Could be an alien vehicle way out on the left side. If I squint I can make out the words ‘GONZO’S LUNAR ROVER. I BRAKE FOR WEED!’ Brilliant detective work, Carl Sagan! C’mon, bro. I’m buying breakfast. I’ll explain it on the way.”
NAR©2024
250 Words
This is a delightful video of a Japanese pufferfish creating underwater sand art. Photography by Yogi Ookata. Check it out, dudes!
Here is a rare rap song by Carl Sagan. Enjoy, yo! 😎
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.
When I Grow Up
Written for The Unicorn Challenge where we are
asked to get creative in 250 words or less using
the photo below as inspiration. Here is my story.
“Hm, what’s this?” I asked myself, cycling up to an abandoned car … a bit of excitement in my otherwise dull existence.
It struck me as odd that the car appeared to have been deliberately driven to the side of the road, the engine turned off while, in sharp contrast, the door had been hastily left open. The key was in the ignition, the constant reminder of “ding-ding-ding-ding” shattering the stillness.
Instinctively, I yanked out the key, pocketing it. I exhaled, savoring the calmness. Looking around, there wasn’t a living thing in sight, but two trash bins implied the presence of civilization.
I stood at the silent intersection, the roads reaching out to the horizon. The only change in landscape was a mound strewn with tree cuttings. I decided to scope out the area to see what was about, but my exploration yielded nothing. The car and I stood idle.
Shrugging my shoulders, I began walking back to my bicycle when an indistinct sound penetrated the air – a muffled voice coming from the mound.
With renewed vigor, I ran up the rise, stopping abruptly at the sight below – a traveling circus being dismantled. It was then I noticed a silver-haired man giddily leaping toward the carny folk, waving and shouting “wait for me!”
Before I knew what was happening, I was bounding after the man, yelling for him to “take me along, too!” He motioned for me to “c’mon!”
At some point the car key fell out of my pocket, no longer needed.
NAR©2024
250 Words
This is “Goodbye Cruel World” by James Darren
And for a bit of culture …. from the musical “Stop the World – I Want to Get Off”, this is the incomparable Anthony Newley with “What Kind of Fool Am I?”
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.
Paradise Found
Written for The Unicorn Challenge where we ar1
asked to get creative in 250 words or less using
the photo below as inspiration. This is my story.
Eastern-most Long Island, New York. A little village called Montauk. “The End”, according to locals. Drive to the tip of the peninsula, walk a few steps and you’re in the Atlantic Ocean … literally.
1984 was our first visit. “Let’s go out for a weekend. If we don’t like it, we won’t go back.” Famous last words. We stayed at a no frills family motel on the beach; it was paradise.
Step outside the motel and watch your toes disappear into the sand. Big pool filled with sunburned families having the time of their lives. Huge towels and colorful umbrellas cover the beach.
An old salt regales us with tales about the first German U-boats arriving off Montauk in June, 1942. Psyched, we ride our bikes to the lighthouse where we discover WWII bunkers buried deep in the woods.
Montauk’s pizza place and ice cream joint are constantly busy. Drive five minutes west on ‘the stretch’ to a place known simply as “LUNCH” for a mouth-watering lobster roll or puffers and chips.
At night little fires dot the beach, glowing and crackling. Kids stab marshmallows with long sticks and plunge them into the flames for a gooey sweet treat that won’t be eaten again till next summer. Our boys’ hair is sun-streaked, skin bronzed, feet perpetually coated in sand. They’re happy as clams.
In time we started renting a house with a pool; vacations lasted six weeks; 35+ years of unforgettable family memories made, Montauk style.
Man, it was paradise!
NAR©2024
250 Words
The Memory Motel has been a fixture in Montauk since the mid-1920s. When the Rolling Stones were out at the east end, they would visit the bar at the motel for some heavy drinking, dancing, shooting pool, tussling, scuffling, and playing the only piano in town until sunrise.
This is “Memory Motel” by the Rolling Stones.
https://youtu.be/FJ4be-0Nt0s?si=mP0lpYtWe2zg_AFA
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.
Unnoticed
Written for The Unicorn Challenge where we are
asked to get creative in 250 words or less using
the photo below as inspiration. This is my story.
The claustrophobia started gradually for four-year-old Phoebe.
She had climbed into the back of her father’s flatbed truck to investigate the crates of chickens ready for market. Phoebe went unnoticed as her father threw a tarp over the back and locked the tailgate. When her dad found her, she was curled up in a ball, crying pitifully.
Over time, Phoebe seemed to forget about the incident in the truck.
Years later Phoebe was accidentally locked in her bedroom closet when a gust of wind blew through the window and slammed the closet door closed. Her parents were out and her older siblings were watching television; her frantic cries for help went unnoticed. Exhausted, Phoebe fell asleep in the closet, her family unaware. Her mother found her the next morning, traumatized.
Incidents like that kept happening. Phoebe became obsessed with her surroundings and her parents sought professional help. After eight years in the hospital, Phoebe was declared “cured”.
She met Evan, a great guy, and they began dating. Life was good again for Phoebe. For her birthday, Evan and Phoebe planned to see her favorite band. She felt safe with Evan and was unafraid to ride public transportation.
The train was packed. During one stop, Evan was pushed out with a crowd of passengers; the doors closed before he could get back in. Phoebe panicked when the train started up. She lost it.
At the last stop, Phoebe was found in the corner – disheveled, mumbling, eyes wild in terror. She was finally noticed.
NAR©2024
250 Words
This is “Crazy Train” by Ozzy Osbourne
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.
No Martinis
Written for The Unicorn Challenge where we are
to get creative in 250 words or less using the
photo prompt as inspiration. This is my story.
The name’s Hammer …. Jack Hammer.
The life of a special agent is a lonely one. It’s nothing like a James Bond movie or a John le Carré novel.
There were no pens that turned into parachutes. There were no Alfa Romeos, Jaguars or Aston Martins to drive along the Positano coast in a high-speed chase. Not a single suave and dangerous owner of a multi-million dollar casino. Nary a gorgeous, exotic, provocative sex bomb with a highly suggestive name. There were no martinis … neither shaken nor stirred.
In short, there was no excitement, no risk, no action. Not once did I dive behind a sofa while bullets flew across the room. Never did I slide down a roof covered with Mediterranean tiles, land smoothly in my waiting MG and speed away from the bad guys. I have never been shot in the neck with a poison dart. Never was I threatened and tossed out a window by a jealous husband.
That’s the life I was expecting when I was recruited by the Enigma International Elite Investigative Organization .… otherwise known as E.I.E.I.O. My dream profession as a super-secret special agent was nothing but one boring stakeout after another.
Time to report in: “Negative, sir. Nothing going on at the location. Not even the car in the alley has moved.”
“Alley?”
“Yes, sir. On the left.”
“Your target has no alley, Hammer; it’s attached on both sides. You’re watching the wrong house, you idiot! Report to headquarters. Now!”
Shit.
NAR©2024
This is the theme song for the “Pink Panther”, written by Henry Mancini and performed by the WDR Funkhausorchester under the baton of Nic Raine.
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.
Our Little Rendezvous
Written for The Unicorn Challenge where we are asked
to get creative in 250 words or less using the photo
prompt below for inspiration. Here is my story.
“Woods. Roger Woods. Please check again” I implored the desk clerk at the Hotel Moderne.
“I’m sorry, madame, there is no reservation for that name.” The young man looked at me with a mixture of embarrassment and pity.
“You must be mistaken” I replied, my voice shaking.
“There is no mistake, madame. Perhaps you have the wrong hotel” the clerk suggested, offering me an out.
Of course I didn’t have the wrong hotel! Roger and I had been meeting here the second weekend of every month for three years.
I checked my phone for missed text messages or calls from Roger; there were none. Rather than stay in the lobby looking distraught and abandoned, I sat in the lounge and ordered a martini. I had a clear view of the front desk on the left and the entrance on the right. I’d be able to see Roger the moment he arrived.
After thirty minutes and two martinis, I began feeling paranoid. It was painfully obvious, at least to me, that I looked like a lonesome and tedious woman who had been stood up.
I became aware of someone approaching. Expecting to see Roger, I looked up, smiling; it was the concierge. Whispering discreetly, he handed me a note: “Dearest Cecile. I cherish our little rendezvous but it’s time to go our separate ways. Farewell. Roger”
‘Our little rendezvous!‘ I was shattered. Just like that, as unexpectedly as it began, it was over.
Looking straight ahead, I gracefully exited the hotel.
NAR©2024
250 Words
This is “Non, Je ne regrette rien (No, I do not regret anything)” by Edith Piaf
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.
The Harmonica
Written for The Unicorn Challenge where we are
encouraged to be creative in 250 words or less
using the photo below as inspiration. This is my story.
He was neither old nor young and if he had memories … good, bad, happy or sad … they were long forgotten, washed away like tears in rain.
His hand reached for his breast pocket, fingers touching the familiar object resting inside. A harmonica. He had no idea where it came from nor did he know why it was in his pocket yet somehow with an intrinsic knowledge he knew it was his.
Removing the instrument from his pocket, he stared at it as he reverently caressed the wood, reading the faded inscription. Raising it to his mouth, he began to play an old tune he forgot he even knew.
People passing by dropped coins into the white cloth shopping bag at his feet. He might not remember much but he’d never forget the delicious aroma of the crusty baguette in his bag.
A little boy of perhaps eight years of age shyly approached, dropped a coin in the man’s bag and ran back to his father waiting nearby. There was something about the older man that made the boy’s father pause for just a moment.
This ritual continued for several days and the two men pensively acknowledged each other with a nod.
One day before the boy ran back to his father, the man slipped the harmonica into his hand. When the boy’s father read the inscription, he knew. He looked up but the older man was gone.
He closed his eyes as a teardrop landed on the harmonica.
NAR©250
250 Words
This is “Georgia On My Mind” by Charlie McCoy
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.
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.
Some Kind Of Innocence
Written for The Unicorn Challenge where we are
encouraged to write creatively in 250 words or less
using the photo below as inspiration. Here’s my story.
“No! Didn’t do it!” wailed Robbie, the dishwasher at Michael’s.
The waitstaff ran into the kitchen when they heard the crash. Shattered crystal covered the kitchen floor …. the new glasses for the lounge’s grand opening.
Robbie huddled in the corner like a little boy, wiping his runny nose on his sleeve. He was a 32 year old man with the mind of an eight year old, courtesy of that one decisive extra chromosome …. a little thing called Down Syndrome. Robbie’s brother Gary, the maître d’, crouched next to him while everyone stood in awkward silence.
“Robbie, accidents happen” Gary said calmly. “C’mon now. Everyone will pitch in.”
The crew began sweeping up …. everyone except Vic, the bartender.
“Not me. I ain’t helpin’!” snarled Vic. “It was that moron’s fault. He shouldn’t be around normal people!”
Michael Banks, the lounge owner, stormed into the kitchen. “What the hell’s going on?!” Slowly he looked around, taking in the whole scene, then asked everyone to leave except Robbie, Gary and Vic.
“Robbie, it’s ok” Michael said. “Talk to me. Tell me what happened.”
Robbie sniffled. “I saw the boxes but I didn’t touch them, cross my heart and hope to die. Vic rushed in the back door and pushed me into the boxes.”
“You lyin’ freak!” sneered Vic. “Look, Mr. B. I’m tellin’ ya I didn’t do nothing. Who ya gonna believe – that retard or me?”
“That’s enough! It’s over!” Michael barked. “Grab a broom. We’re opening tonight on schedule.”
NAR©2024
250 Words
This is “Hey Bulldog” by the Beatles
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.
Affaire de Famille
Written for The Unicorn Challenge were Jenne encourages us
to write something magically creative in 250 words or less
using the photo below for inspiration. Here is my story.
The letter arrived the other day. Terse, to the point of being almost rude. Where have people’s manners gone in today’s society?
You see, this building .… the one with the orange shutters and the sign which reads MOULIN À HOUILE …. has been in my family for generations. We were among the best olive oil makers in the region for more years than I can count.
My twin brother, Marcel, and I grew up here at the elbows of our grandfather, father and uncle as they worked the presses in the mill to produce the purest of olive oils. The huile d’olive was then bottled and prepared for distribution to fine-end stores and restaurants. We had a thriving family business.
As is the nature of all familial enterprises, there was no question that Marcel and I would take our place working in the mill. It was as innate as taking our next breath. Then the unthinkable happened; our father died suddenly leaving no will and, during our grief, his brother secretly arranged for the takeover of the business, employing only his sons and kicking Marcel and me to the curb. We tried having the decision reversed but were unsuccessful.
One by one our uncle’s sons abandoned the business leaving him alone with strangers in his employ. Now it is our time for payback.
My gun is aimed at the open window while Marcel keeps guard. Our uncle appears, my finger teases the trigger and abruptly I’m plunged into darkness.
NAR©2024
250 Words
This is “Family Affair” by Sly and The Family Stone
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.
On The Rocks – Part 3: In The Beginning
Written for The Unicorn Challenge where we are
encouraged to write a story in 250 words or less
using this photo as our inspiration. Here is my story.
Handsome Nigel Forsythe taught history at the university where Camilla Saunders was the librarian. His penchant for crime novels brought him to Camilla’s desk every week. She was a mousy thing with dull hair and thin lips but splendid breasts for which Nigel had a hankering.
When he asked her out for coffee, she accepted. Getting to know one another was excruciating but Nigel persevered, no doubt spurred on by the thought of getting into Camilla’s blouse.
On their fourth coffee date, Nigel suggested they do “something different”; Camilla was apprehensive but went along. They drove to a secluded park with meandering pathways and steps that seemingly led to nowhere.
“Aren’t the flowers lovely, Camilla?” Nigel asked and was rewarded with a thunderous sneeze.
“Allergies” Camilla complained.
“Watch the ivy, Camilla. We wouldn’t want you getting your heels caught up in it.”
“Nigel, this looks like poison ivy. I’m allergic and don’t have my EpiPen! Why did you insist on bringing me to this horrible jungle?”
“It’s hardly a jungle, Camilla, and the view from the top is to die for.”
With each step Camilla’s breathing became more labored until she was near collapse.
Camilla turned. Nigel was stunned to see her blouse soaked with sweat and clinging to her heaving breasts. He grabbed her shoulders, planting a hungry kiss on her cadaverous lips.
Camilla broke away, slapped Nigel and ran down the steps to the car. They drove back to the university in stony silence.
Nigel was not deterred.
NAR©2024
250 Words
This is “Love Bites” by Def Leppard with the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra
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.
The Elephant's Trunk 