What She Ought

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Photo: Monika Grabkowska on Unsplash

 

She looked so fraught

I thought she fought

For what she brought.

She apparently did not

But then still she almost forgot

To tell me of some fish she’d caught

And how distraught

The worms she bought

Were at the thought

That she decided that she ought

Just put potatoes

In the pot.

 

 

 

For Linda Hill’s SoCS challenge: “ght”

 

Simon’s Snack

Photo prompt: © Ronda Del Boccio

 

“Peach jelly and olives?! Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack.”

Jack shuddered. This may well be the end result.

Jill’s pasta sauce concoction reminded him of “after-school snack” on days his mother had to work late and the school-bus would drop him off at his uncle’s house. Uncle Simon would have a tall glass of bluish milk waiting, alongside a dish of crackers topped with lemon-lime marmalade and loaded with sardines.

The mere thought of Jill’s recipe gave him the runs.

Good. Saved by the throne.

“Sorry, Hon. I must’ve caught something at work. I better have plain toast.”

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

Note: Dedicated to my cousin Noam, who reportedly loved sardines-and-jelly sandwiches. I remember being horrified by the very idea and saddened that he would never enjoy them again. Four years my senior, he died at war, just weeks past his nineteenth birthday. We miss you, Noam (sandwiches and all)!

 

All Caught Up

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She leaned back, took a long look around, and sighed in satisfaction.

He’d love it. She was sure he would.

It took three full weeks and dozens of hours, but now every piece of paper he’d ever owned was alphabetized and catalogued. The photos organized by color, location, and main character. The receipts tagged and ranked by preference: favorite things first, the things he’d never order again, last.

He was due home by nightfall. She could only imagine his delight.

The office was transformed. So was the garage. She even organized the nets and oar for an artistic touch. Bronzed all his mementos so they matched.

No more desk and drawers. No more folders. No more boxes with a mishmash of photos and cards. Goodbye to letters stacked together by arbitrary designations of correspondence, when they could be more logically sorted by zip code (or when there was none noted, ordered alphabetically by addressee’s given name and divided by paper-type).

It had been a Herculean task, but she was undaunted. Who but her would take it on to help him out?

She couldn’t wait to show him how she’d got him all caught up.

 

 

For Keith’s Kreative Kue #236

 

 

Doomed

Photo: Sue Vincent

 

“I will stand here, then slowly scoot in and get us tickets. No one will notice.”

“Are you kidding me?!” I tried to keep my voice low. Fortunately, it wasn’t difficult to do, muffled as it was already.

Doug shrugged, scattering orange and yellow.

It was a bad idea. This whole thing. I never should’ve let Doug talk me into it.

“It will be so much fun!” he’d said. And … anything did sound better than being cooped up in a hospital bed, my face swollen and bruised and covered with bandages after reconstructive surgery, while everyone else went partying.

Doug’s initial idea was to bandage the rest of me like a mummy, but I wasn’t going for it. I had enough of bandages. So Doug ‘borrowed’ his brother’s bike leathers and brought along some plastic ‘armor’, a roll of fake cobwebs, and a helmet that he somehow managed to fit over my post-surgically-wrapped visage. It was a bit too snug in places and as soon as he’d pulled it on I knew I’d regret it when we tried to remove the thing from my poor head. My noggin was five tons of throb.

We’d gotten through the nurse’s station undetected, and were now trying to crash the doctors’ party at the end of a hallway off the lobby. There seemed to be tickets involved. Or invitations. Or IDs of some sort. Now what?

Music crashed against my ears. I was tired. I wanted to be back in bed. I should have gone as a mummy. Preferably in a sarcophagus. At least then I could lie down. It wasn’t even three full days since my surgery. What was I thinking?… Clearly I was not.

“This is stupid!” I hissed.

“You’ll see,” Doug, undeterred, maneuvered his wrapped wheelchair into a corner, shedding more leaves, “People don’t notice trees.”

Oh, I could see already. And more than I wanted to.

“They would notice this one,” I grumbled.

Already Doug’s stick arms and bony torso showed. Someone should have hold him that being a potted tree in fall was doomed to leave him sitting in the nude.

 

 

 

For Sue Vincent’s WritePhoto Challenge

 

Gregory Green

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Photo: Keith Kreates

 

“You have to save me!”

She looked at him, filed her nails, and licked her lower lip thoughtfully. She said nothing.

He hated when she did that, pretended that she didn’t hear him, or that what he said wasn’t even worthy of a reaction. Sure, he leaned toward the dramatic, but that didn’t mean his feelings didn’t count!

“Daisy!” he breathed, “I know you heard me.”

She tilted her head in his direction, her nails continuing to move as if of their own volition. Truth is, sometimes he wasn’t sure they didn’t. Have their own volition, that is. These things could come at you uninvited and without warning.

“I’ll give you my special treat …” he begged. Defeated. He loved his Sunday treats.

At that she deigned to flick her lashes in his direction. She knew she won. She always did. Her patience outpaced his excitement. Every. Single. Time.

“I’ll see what I can do,” she purred.

He breathed. It was as good as done.

Once Daisy got her claws into the yarn, he would be spared the indignation of being made to wear another stupid knit thing. It took a full year from the last St. Patrick’s day for the others in the dog park to stop calling him Gregory Green.

 

 

For Keith’s Kreative Kue 234

 

 

 

Take A Side

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Photo: Na’ama Yehuda

 

It does not always work to take

A seat

Head on.

Sometimes the best way

Is

To come at it

As if you’d really meant to move

Along.

 

 

 

For Cee’s Black&White Photo Challenge: Side of things

 

 

Protector Squared

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Photo: Na’ama Yehuda

 

He will guard it with his presence

He will goggle eyes at you

If you dare come too near

To

This blanket square

That your fingers and soft yarn

Conspired for a little one’s doll to

Darn.

 

 

 

For Becky’s October Squares: Lines&Squares

 

 

Quite Out of Yellow

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Photo: Smadar Halperin-Epshtein

 

“Mama, we are quite out of

Yellow

And down to the last

Red.

I’ve used up all the

Orange

And can’t use green

Instead.

We must head to the

Market

Where there’s so much to

Get.

I cannot cook this salad

If

Colors aren’t all here

Yet!”

 

 

 

For the Tuesday Photo Challenge: Groceries

 

Nick’s Shtick

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Photo: Alexander Dummer via Unsplash

 

I nicked Nick

With a stick

After he picked

And tried to hit

Me

With a brick.

He should not try

Such a sick

Kind of shtick

If he doesn’t like

Being tricked

And summarily pricked

By a royally ticked

But quick thinking

Chick.

 

 

For the dVerse Quadrille challenge: Nick

 

 

Pharaohsaurus

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Photo: Na’ama Yehuda

 

“It looks like a pharaoh,” the boy commented.

“Hmm …” the girl leaned her elbows on the display case to take a photo. Dinosaurs weren’t Pharaohs, but her little brother was obsessed with anything Egyptian, so it was easier to agree. Took long enough to drag him out of that wing of the museum and into what she really wanted to see.

“Do you think the pharaohs saw one of these and it gave them the idea?”

She sighed. “There were no dinosaurs left at the time of pharaohs.”

“It’s not what I meant!” His nudge made her take a photo of a piece of plaster instead of the fossil bones. “Maybe they found something like this one.”

“Stop it!” She hissed. They’d be told to leave if they fought.

“Sorry.” He was, only sort of. “Is it called a ‘pharaohsaurus’?”

She rolled her eyes.

“Well, it should!”

 

 

 

For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Museum in 147 words