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 

 

His Lamppost

 

They didn’t quite expect him to show up as he had, but most of them who’d known him weren’t all that terribly surprised. Not really.

Not when he had made himself comfortable under that very lamppost, every evening and in every weather, for as long as anyone could remember.

It almost made sense, then, that he would.

Manifest.

From the beyond.

Some began to keep a distance from that corner after dark.

Others, though, just walked on by.

“Evening, Mr. Barns,” they’d tip their head in the direction of his halo.

Even when alive, he hadn’t been known to respond.

 

 

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers