Might As Well

sandra-crook

 

“They don’t know how to park around here.”

Gail rolled her eyes. Just like Stella to find something to criticize, instead of taking in the big picture. And this was big! “How old are those?” she pointed at the castle’s remains on the hill. The walls stood sentry still. Empty windows portals to the past.

Mom consulted the guidebook. “11th Century. Even older foundations.”

Gail opened the window. The warm air smelled of old stone and fresh bread.

“Close that thing,” Stella groaned. “It’s probably full of plague.”

“Too late, then. Might as well stop for lunch before we’re dead.”

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

Photo prompt: Sandra Crook

 

Road Ready Monologue

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(Photo: SOCMIA Fotografía on Unsplash)

 

Get the kids. Get the bags. Pack the boot. Start the car.

And save that look for your Mother,

For having her jamborees so far.

Did you pee? Did you wash?

Are you sure the doors are locked?

Where’s your brother? Why right now?

Where does he think we’ll squeeze in his guitar?

No, you won’t.

Not you, too.

Don’t care if the harmonica will be something to do.

Off we go.

Off we are.

Right into bumper-to-bumper trucks.

We’ll never make it.

Best turn back.

 

 

For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt of: Jamboree in 86 words

 

Bill’s Bull

bill-r-12

 

“What a dump.” Larry kicked at a holey plastic disk on the dusty ground.

“Perhaps,” Bill acquiesced. “But it is my dump.”

“Fit for a match,” Larry snickered. The place stunk.

Bill regarded his cousin. He recognized the green-eyed monster behind the hooded eyes. “Perhaps,” he replied finally, “but I foresee another kind of match.”

“Like what?” Bill had the Midas Touch. It drove Larry nuts, but maybe this time he’d get some of it to rub off on him. Could use some green.

“Plastic sheeting, sprinklers, plants.”

“Bullshit.”

“Already got plenty here!” Bill laughed. “Used to hold animals, that.”

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

Photo prompt © Bill Reynolds

 

Tall Tell

dales-stop-sign

 

“Why this thing?”

“They don’t like pancakes.”

Stella frowned.

Stephan chuckled. Too serious for her own good.

Her stare continued. He wanted dessert. He demurred.

“Bad accident last year. Someone got run over.” He slapped his palms for emphasis. “Totally.”

She kicked his shin.

“Ow!”

“Not the Stop sign, the lamppost! Too tall.”

Stephan’s eyes traced up to her manicured nail.

“Ah, they had to.”

Stella lowered her glasses. Warning or curious? He couldn’t tell.

“That family of giants down the street? Any shorter and the lamp ignites their hair.”

Forget dessert.

Her glare incinerated what chance he had left.

 

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

Photo by: © Dale Rogerson 

 

Turned Out Well

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(Photo: Emilie Dwire on Unsplash)

 

She was never big on plans.

It drove her parents mad, but her impromptu projects did turn out well more times than they did bad.

So they said nothing when she began digging a hole in the backyard.

And weren’t sad

When gold was found

Amidst the sand.

 

 

For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Impromptu in 48 words

 

 

Not Cold

chair DaleRogerson

 

“I am not cold!”

“Your lips are blue,” the mother deadpanned.

“They’re not!” the child insisted, her exclaim dampened by chattering teeth.

“I see,” the woman breathed and swallowed a retort. The girl was altogether too much like herself and would only dig in deeper if confronted.

One set of eyes stared at the other.

The shuddering intensified.

“There’s a nice warm bath and dinner waiting inside,” the mom dangled.

A shrug.

“And how long do you intend to be … um … ‘not cold’?”

The little girl narrowed her eyes.

“Very well. Shall I bring you a chair, then?”

 

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

Photo: © Dale Rogerson

 

A Case of Spoiled Rotten

roger-city-street-tilted

 

“You’re pouting.”

He hated crowds. “I’m not having fun, Ma.”

“Then why come? You could’ve stayed behind, along with the long face.”

Mani sighed. “I tried.”

“So now I tied you up and carted you along?”

Pretty much, emotionally. He shook his head. “Sorry, Ma. I’m in a mood.”

“A mood? What’s a mood? If you bled like a woman, you’d know about having a mood. You just have a case of spoiled rotten.”

“Yes, Ma.” It was easier to agree.

Ma craned her head. “Ah, now, lets see if these Jewish Greeks can cook anything worth eating.”

 

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

Photo prompt © Roger Bultot

 

I Am NOT!

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(Photo: Jordan Ladikos on Unsplash)

 

I am NOT,

She insisted,

Capricious

Or blind.

I am bold.

I am loud.

I am the life of

The crowd.

I speak up.

I won’t hush.

My decisions

May clash.

My opinions indeed

Tend to

Unwind,

And it’s true that

I’m good at

Changing

My mind.

But I am not,

(At this moment)

Arbitrarily

Inclined.

 

 

 

For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: capricious in 55 words

 

Laid-Back Lizzie

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(Photo: Circe Denyer on Unsplash)

 

Laid-back Lizzie

Would not be pressed

Into a tizzy.

She left herself

With ample

Time,

To saunter to and

From her

Crime.

She kept pace

When sirens blared

And ambled on

As others stared.

She did not hold

With running

Fast.

But strolling was what

Caught up with her

At last.

 

 

 

For Sammy’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Saunter in 51 words

 

Attired

Claire Fuller (7)

 

“You aren’t seriously going to do that.”

One could debate which was opened wider, Bella’s jaw or her eyes. She did have enormous eyes. People sometimes said they took half her face. I used to think it an exaggeration, but looking at her now, I was no longer so sure.

“Am too,” I kicked one of the tires. Part for emphasis. Part to check the resistance.

Definitely Bella’s jaw. Definitely more than half her face.

“Good for the planet. Also, if a gal can make a dress out of meat, another gal can make a prom dress out of tires.”

 

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

Photo prompt: – Claire Fuller