My Mama always told me not to play, "Picky-choosy," in the trail mix but here you have permission... pick and choose that which enthuses your muse and flash a bit of fiction if you wish!!
It's been so long since I've flashed my fiction, I forget if we're bound to the prompt and also if we're supposed to post here or on a blog ... hence - here mine ... I apologize in advance if it's a)not in the right place b)not to the right topic (should maybe mention - your 411 goes to a "dead site" now)
Eek, Eek
I am frightened of them this year and I don't quite get that. We didn't have them last year so I don't know how I felt then.
The year before I was quite fearless, would chase them with a broom and if we did catch one, I had no qualms about picking up a trap and springing it, and mouse, into the garbage. Although I do recall, after awhile I began wearing rubber gloves when I did that, beginning to worry about Hanta virus or some such thing ...
Now, I can't stand to even hear them scritch-scritch scratching in the bag of dog-food in the kitchen cupboard, and when my husband said he'd seen one scooting across that floor I immediately pulled my bare feet up on the chair.
Then last night in the garage, as I went through to the other side, I glimpsed one large pink one clipped at the head in a trap near the big blue pail. I stared at it for a few minutes not sure of what I was seeing. Pink? Maybe not - the garage light is not that strong. I could make out a skinny tale though so knew it was a mouse. Not wanting to look at it any more, I kept going.
I got to wondering if maybe I wasn't seeing a pregnant mouse's big pink belly, given the size and the colouring, and my first thought oddly was one of grief. To kill a mama anything seemed just wrong.
I found myself remembering when I used to help a minister at our church catch mice humanely in a trap, and then release them. I wondered what happened to that person.
I finally figured she must've got older and maybe frightened to boot.
One moment she had been standing behind Mrs. Glouchester's ample rear covered in yards of a mini-print of what had to be thousands of bunches of posies. She had just gotten onto the end of the long snaking line slowly slithering toward Mr. Harrod's lemonade van. Mr Harrod was one of her father's best friends, who usually used his van for shampooing rugs, except for these ten days in August when it was time for the fair and he became the the best lemonade and lemon-ice maker she had ever met in all her eleven years. One minute she was standing there almost tasting the icy lemonade and thinking maybe she would get a lemon ice too, seeing as to how it was so particularly hot, and the next, well those posies on Mrs. Glouchester's bottom spread out into a whole field and there was a buzzing in her ears like a swarm of bees but the funny thing was, there weren't no bees, and even funnier was that she had gotten to be looking up at a circle of people calling "give-her-air-give-her-air" and the sky was this bright blue, the clouds puffy and white just the way they were in one of them picture post-cards and best of all Mr. Harrod himself was kneeling on the grass, holding a cup of lemonade, telling her he had called her daddy, and she was alright and to just sit up real slow and have a sip whenever she felt ready.
Remembering the photo of globes, they remind me of small “snow bulbs” that you turn upside down, and then when they are set right again, small snow flack drift back down on the objects. It would be neat to be in the quiet, snowdrift world. There always seems to be peace within the globe.
What kind of scene would I want? The photo prompt is not in front of me, so I need to make-do with a picture of my own.
I close my eyes and see a meadow. There are snow-capped mountains in the distance and trees behind me. The trees are sparely spaced, and easy to move about in. The meadow studded with tall white daises that tower above the animal trimmed grass. There are small boulders and a few bushes scattered about the grass. Birds fly overhead while deeper in the trees there are two songbirds.
Mostly it is the feel of quiet that draws me. The quiet prickles my skin and fills me with ideas, pictures and...peace.
The flakes in this case would be beautiful, quietly falling leaves.
Everywhere he looked he saw roads. Paved roads. Dirt roads. Sky roads. The only thing they held in common was that they all pointed away from here.
ReplyDeleteAnd why wouldn't they. Promise had left town in the back seat of a run down Chevy Cavalier pushing 130,000 miles and primed for a few a more.
"Stay," he found himself saying to empty streets.
Love this....I love the use of long and short sentences....interesting and leaves me hungry for more, Jerry! Great work...thank you for writing!
Deletehttp://wordrustling.wordpress.com/2012/10/03/practicing-for-the-real-thing/
ReplyDeleteHere's where you'll find my offering...please come and read! :)
It's been so long since I've flashed my fiction, I forget if we're bound to the prompt and also if we're supposed to post here or on a blog ... hence - here mine ... I apologize in advance if it's a)not in the right place b)not to the right topic (should maybe mention - your 411 goes to a "dead site" now)
ReplyDeleteEek, Eek
I am frightened of them this year and I don't quite get that. We didn't have them last year so I don't know how I felt then.
The year before I was quite fearless, would chase them with a broom and if we did catch one, I had no qualms about picking up a trap and springing it, and mouse, into the garbage. Although I do recall, after awhile I began wearing rubber gloves when I did that, beginning to worry about Hanta virus or some such thing ...
Now, I can't stand to even hear them scritch-scritch scratching in the bag of dog-food in the kitchen cupboard, and when my husband said he'd seen one scooting across that floor I immediately pulled my bare feet up on the chair.
Then last night in the garage, as I went through to the other side, I glimpsed one large pink one clipped at the head in a trap near the big blue pail. I stared at it for a few minutes not sure of what I was seeing. Pink? Maybe not - the garage light is not that strong. I could make out a skinny tale though so knew it was a mouse. Not wanting to look at it any more, I kept going.
I got to wondering if maybe I wasn't seeing a pregnant mouse's big pink belly, given the size and the colouring, and my first thought oddly was one of grief. To kill a mama anything seemed just wrong.
I found myself remembering when I used to help a minister at our church catch mice humanely in a trap, and then release them. I wondered what happened to that person.
I finally figured she must've got older and maybe frightened to boot.
One Way To Get To The Head Of The Line...
ReplyDeleteOne moment she had been standing behind Mrs. Glouchester's ample rear covered in yards of a mini-print of what had to be thousands of bunches of posies. She had just gotten onto the end of the long snaking line slowly slithering toward Mr. Harrod's lemonade van. Mr Harrod was one of her father's best friends, who usually used his van for shampooing rugs, except for these ten days in August when it was time for the fair and he became the the best lemonade and lemon-ice maker she had ever met in all her eleven years. One minute she was standing there almost tasting the icy lemonade and thinking maybe she would get a lemon ice too, seeing as to how it was so particularly hot, and the next, well those posies on Mrs. Glouchester's bottom spread out into a whole field and there was a buzzing in her ears like a swarm of bees but the funny thing was, there weren't no bees, and even funnier was that she had gotten to be looking up at a circle of people calling "give-her-air-give-her-air" and the sky was this bright blue, the clouds puffy and white just the way they were in one of them picture post-cards and best of all Mr. Harrod himself was kneeling on the grass, holding a cup of lemonade, telling her he had called her daddy, and she was alright and to just sit up real slow and have a sip whenever she felt ready.
SNOW GLOBE By MARJORY M THOMPSON
ReplyDeleteRemembering the photo of globes, they remind me of small “snow bulbs” that you turn upside down, and then when they are set right again, small snow flack drift back down on the objects. It would be neat to be in the quiet, snowdrift world. There always seems to be peace within the globe.
What kind of scene would I want? The photo prompt is not in front of me, so I need to make-do with a picture of my own.
I close my eyes and see a meadow. There are snow-capped mountains in the distance and trees behind me. The trees are sparely spaced, and easy to move about in. The meadow studded with tall white daises that tower above the animal trimmed grass. There are small boulders and a few bushes scattered about the grass. Birds fly overhead while deeper in the trees there are two songbirds.
Mostly it is the feel of quiet that draws me. The quiet prickles my skin and fills me with ideas, pictures and...peace.
The flakes in this case would be beautiful, quietly falling leaves.
PKP - What a delightfule ditty, I can see all those posies rolling along in front of her.
ReplyDeleteMarjory