(Photo: Jim Moore)
He now possesses
Every want:
A hat, a sweet
Face coat.
For Sammi’s Weekend Writing Prompt: Possess in 11 words
All Wants
Funnies
Topper
‘Twas the best spot in the woods and he was keeping to it.
Sure, it had almost no leaves and practically no protection from the wind. Sure, the branches whipped around in every breeze and let the cold sneak under the most primped up feathers.
It none of it mattered.
When he could perch up at the very top.
Surveil. Keep tabs. See things first. Unhindered by masses of pine needles or large floppy green things hiding one’s next dinner.
“See Topper there?” he heard a winger chatter at another. “He thinks he’s top banana.”
“Not banana,” Topper retorted, and puffed his chest for emphasis with not-so-hidden indignation. “Top crow!”
For Sue Vincent’s WritePhoto Challenge
Photo prompt: Sue Vincent
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Not Rolling With It
“No way I’m doing that!” Ming shook his head.
“Oh, come on, don’t be a wimpy dimpy!”
Ming narrowed his green eyes at Mei-Mei, whose body was swishing in what he knew was part-dare, part-enticement, part-mockery.
“Not happening,” he turned to leave.
“Ha! I knew it! Told General Tso you’d be too chicken to give it a whirl.”
Ming hissed. That hurt. Mei-Mei was beautiful, but mostly on the outside.
He swished his tail at her. “You wanna ride the toilet paper? Go ahead. Roll with it. Be my guest. I’m not falling into that bowl.”
Again … Once was enough.
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo prompt © Trish Nankivell
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Water Wait
“Who put it there?” Moe grumbled.
The waiting room was almost empty, but it only added to his resentment. Don’t people know it is cruel?
Alisha looked up from the small screen that consumed her waking moments and too many of what should have been her sleeping ones.
“Put what where?”
At least she was sort-of-paying attention.
“That,” he put as much contempt as he could manage with a parched brain into the word. He hated clinics. Especially this one.
“Oh, it’s yours,” Alisha handed him the water bottle. “Nurse said to have some. Told you no need to fast.”
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
Photo prompt © Marie Gail Stratford
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Subdued Sacrilege
“Simply look down instead of up,” Manny pushed his hands deeper into his pockets and hiked his shoulders up against a chill no one else probably felt. It was 99F outside.
“But the basilica is right here, and so beautiful!” Danielle exhaled wonder.
My point exactly, Manny thought, but did not say. Recruiting was a subtle thing.
Instead he nudged the water with his shoe, rippling the surface to distort the reflection of the edifice. Almost spitefully the puddle settled back into the sharpest mirror, and Manny half expected his superiors to appear in frowning disappointment at his dismal conversion pace.
“What it is?” Danielle responded to his sigh, her eyes still gazing in the opposite direction of the Netherworld, and therefore opposite to where he needed them to be.
“Nothing,” he muttered, deflated.
Her softly luminescent hand appeared. “How about we go into the church and pray about it?”
For Crispina‘s Crimson’s Creative Challenge
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Elfie’s Solution
“Not every elf can be on a shelf.”
Elfie heard this all his life. From his teachers at the Santa Academy. From his parents, Elfonso and Elfinia. From his judgy Aunt Elfisia. And now from his insufferable brother Elfonso Junior (who everyone called EJ), who just had to rub in the fact that he had gotten into the EFS (Elves For Shelves) program, while Elfie did not.
“But what if I want to be an elf on a shelf?” Elfie protested.
“It’s not about what you want,” his mother scolded. “It is about your Efltitude Score.”
“…and,” EJ added with an elfin smirk, “as we all know, you don’t quite measure up.”
If it weren’t for his mother’s presence, Elfie would have tossed EJ under a reindeer.
Thinking of reindeer. And reins … gave him an idea.
No shelf? No problem.
He’d hang out as an elf by himself.
For Crispina‘s Crimson’s Creative Challenge
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Sniffers
“This won’t do,” Tina sighed. “You have got to sniff better.”
Spinner tried, but there was nothing. Or at least, nothing he could make heads or tails out of. And making tails was the whole idea.
He shrugged and spun around. Perhaps he’ll glean a clue from his surroundings. Perhaps it’ll settle the tension that trying to sniff things often awakened.
Tina groaned. “Mama was right. You will never amount to anything.”
“Hey!” Spinner whined.
Tina lowered her head. That had been below the belt. Still, it was true, and someone had to confront Spinner now that Mama was no longer there to instruct them.
“Look, Spin,” she tried to soften her frustration with a bit of guilt. “It really shouldn’t be so hard. You sure there’s nothing wrong with your sniffer?”
“I think it’s broken,” Spinner whispered, shamefaced. “What kind of a dog can’t tell the smell of poop?”
For Crispina‘s Crimson’s Creative Challenge
Note: Anosmia, or the lack/loss of sense of smell, is a real condition that was made famous by the pandemic but is certainly not limited to the current virus. Nor is Anosmia limited to humans. Like humans, dogs can live without a sense of smell, though for many of them it carries a significantly higher ‘sensory price’, because their sense of smell is 10,000 to 100,000 more acute than that of humans.
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The Long Wait
“You coming?” Betty scanned the space to make sure nothing was forgotten, slung her pack over her shoulder, and headed for the door.
“Nope.”
“Are you serious?!” she swung around to stare at Ron.
“Yep.”
Her arms began to bend and she was just about to press her palms to her hips, when she exhaled, shook her head, and stuck her hands in her jacket pockets instead.
That’s what he wanted. Another argument. Another delay.
Not this time.
“Suit yourself,” she said.
His incredulous intake of breath was almost worth a glance. She resisted the urge.
“You’re a coward!” his words chased her in a continuation of the arguments they’d had. “I’m not a quitter. I’m gonna stay and see this slump through, and when you come crawling back, I will not let you in.”
She drove away.
The town had since dissolved but apparently Ron still waits.
Sort of.
For Crispina’s Crimson’s Creative Challenge
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Better Happy Than Sad
“You think he’ll win?”
Shlomi shrugged. Elections or not, he was distracted by the scents wafting from the cart across the stone-paved alley. His wife would kill him if he drank any of the juices. Diabetes would kill him, too. So it was just a matter of whether it’ll happen on his terms.
Or not.
He sighed.
“Get that pomegranate juice,” Abdul urged. “You know no one makes it like my father does.”
Better die happy than sad.
“Abu Abdul,” Shlomi called across the narrow alley. “One pomegranate?”
“For sure, Habibi,” the old man grinned. “Want that fake-sugar in there?”
For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers
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Going Green
“No way Jose!” Jessie’s arms were folded in what was half stubborn refusal, half terrified self-preservation.
Derek laughed and wiggled his toes, which were caked with mud and muck and unidentifiable stuff that was best left well outside of sniffing range.
His sister groaned. “Do you have to be so gross?”
“What’s wrong with a little bit of nature, eh?” he teased. He took a step and bent to touch the carpet of green algae that covered the pond. It looked like velvet.
“Are you nuts?!” Jessie looked ready to lunge and probably would’ve pulled him back if it weren’t for the fact that it would require getting closer to the pond’s edge.
“Chill, Sis,” Derek shook his head. “It’s not like I’m gonna be eaten by Nessie.”
“Imaginary monsters don’t worry me,” Jessie’s lip curled in disgust. “Salmonella from those mallards and whatever else in this water sure does.”
For Crispina’s Crimson’s Creative Challenge
Na'ama Yehuda 
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