Geppetto’s Gift

MorgueFile 7b9285bdd8b792f01949dde0f2f2eb55

Geppetto’s Gift



“She doesn’t bark.”

“What are you talking about?”

“She doesn’t bark. The dog grandpop made for me. She doesn’t bark.”

“Bradford. You’re twelve-years-old. The dog Grandpop Rossi made for you is a classic. It is a hand pull-toy crafted from imported Ceylon ebony and Ponderosa pine. It is a collector’s toy.”

“I know that. But I wanted a dog that barks. One that I can go to the park and throw Frisbees with and he’ll bring them back.”

“Well, we don’t always get exactly what we want.”

“But Grandpop is always telling me stories of him and Papa when Papa was just a boy. Every night he would tell these remarkable stories of trips through the Great Forest to find just the right piece of wood. And all about how he carefully carved each of Papa’s parts. How he lovingly whittled and sanded and whittled and sanded until every piece fit just right.”

“I know the stories.”

“The stories must be true. Papa said that they were true.”

“Papa wouldn’t lie to you. But what else did Papa say?”

“Without love, unabashed love, it never would have happened.”

“Well, there you have your answer.”

“I just have to love Piddle’s, that’s his name, I just have to love Piddle’s until he is real?”

“Sounds like that’s what Grandpop would say.”

“Good. Mom, what’s unabashed mean?”



Written for Flash Fiction for the Practical Practitioner.

Geppetto’s Gift

MorgueFile 7b9285bdd8b792f01949dde0f2f2eb55

Geppetto’s Gift


“She doesn’t bark.”

“What are you talking about?”

“She doesn’t bark. The dog grandpop made for me. She doesn’t bark.”

“Bradford. You’re twelve years old. The dog Grandpop Rossi made for you is a classic. It is a hand pull-toy crafted from imported Ceylon ebony and Ponderosa pine. It is a collector’s toy.”

“I know that. But I wanted a dog that barks. One that I can go to the park and throw Frisbees and he’ll bring them back.”

“Well, we don’t always get exactly what we want.”

“But Grandpop is always telling me stories of him and Papa, when Papa was just a boy. Every night he would tell haunting stories of trips through the Great Forest to find just the right piece of wood. And all about carefully carving each of Papa’s parts. How he lovingly whittled and sanded and whittled and sanded until every piece fit just right.”

“I know the stories.”

“Papa said that they were true.”

“Papa wouldn’t lie to you. But what else did Papa say?”

“Without love, unabashed love, it never would have happened.”

“Well, there you have your answer.”

“I just have to love Piddle’s, that’s his name, I just have to love Piddle’s until he is real?”

“Sounds like that’s what Grandpop would say.”

“Good. Mom, what’s ‘unabashed’ mean?”



Written for Flash Fiction for the Practical Practitioner.

I Don’t Believe in Fairytales.

MorgueFilleOctober 2020file000180116622

I Don’t Believe in Fairytales.



“This is the path.”

“How can you tell?”

“Look around you, stupid. Do you think that these trees were planted in a double line by Mother Nature?”

“Don’t call me stupid.”

“Quit saying stupid things. Now we just follow this lovely path to the castle.”

“Do you really think that it’ll be that easy to rescue Princess Agatha? Haven’t you read any of the fairytale endings?”

“I don’t believe in fairytales.”

“And you call me stupid. Of course you believe in fairytales. Why do you think that Princess Agatha has been locked away, sound asleep in this bloody castle for the last 175 years? Do you think she just got tired and decided to take a long nap?”

“OK. I believe the stories that Dad told us. He believed them. Dad said that his two best friends tried to rescue Princess Agatha more than seventy years ago.”

“What happened to them?”

“They never came back. Every 25 years or so, two men from our town feel the ‘passion’ to go on the quest. It is said that this ‘passion’ will continue throughout the generations of our town until a man of honorable birth rescues Princess Agatha.”

“And you’re that man?”

“Yep.”

“That sounds like a fairytale to me.”



Written for Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner: 2020: Week #47.

The King Is Merciful. Long Love the King.

MorgueFileb9cc5bc4043821089ff78e26c0162f76

The King Is Merciful. Long Love the King.


“You gonna stand there watching me or you gonna say something?” the executioner continued to hone the edges of the sword.

“Do you know what the King has decided?” I asked.

“He is the King. I do not question his wisdom.”

“He is executing an innocent. Maybe even a child,” I continued.

“The king would never execute an innocent.”

“The entire village will be there,” I said.

“Of course they will. All of the King’s executions are in public.”

“You don’t understand.” I said. “I am to remove alphabet letters from King’s purse. After each letter, those villagers with that surname are moved to the back of the commons awaiting me to draw the next letter.”

“Why the letters?” the executioner’s curiosity was finally piqued.

“This village has given comfort and shelter to the bandits. They see them as Germany’s version of Robin Hoods. The King has decided that the village has offended him- the village should pay the price.”

“I see,” responded the executioner.

“Do you?” I asked. “After the first letter is drawn, I will continue to remove villagers according to their surnames until it is just one family remaining. Then I will draw letters for their forenames.”

“Makes sense to me,” responded the executioner.

“The last person remaining will be the person you execute.”

“I understand that.”

“Have you ever been called upon to execute a four-year-old child?” I said.

“Never. The King would show mercy,” replied the executioner.

“There will be no mercy. I am here to hold ransom your son. Should you fail to execute the King’s commands, your son will take the villagers’ stead.”

The executioner stroked one last stroke on the sharpened blade. “It seems the King has thought on everything.” Putting on his hood, he slowly walked toward the scaffolding.



Written for Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner: 2020: Week #46,

The Root of the Problem

MorgueFIle March2020 e598b2fda82621c99650a2950367faa6

The Root of the Problem


Death

Slaughter

Destruction

Execution

Extermination

Immortality

Vigorous

Survival

Safety

Life


Many people see them as the ‘Bringers of Death’. Senselessly slaughtering all you get in their path.  Delivering destruction to families… villages… towns… entire countries.

Executioners have used them. Dictators have allowed the extermination of millions of people ‘not of their kind’. Young men, with dreams of immortality, have used them to create havoc in our society.

But they are only the tool. They are a symptom of a far greater disease. Mankind has allowed the development a pandemic of wanton savagery.

Vigorous interventions must be made into the lives of our youth. Accolades of honest, no-strings-attached love must be showered upon them. The survival of mankind is at stake.

Families and communities have a right to safety. Safe countries. Safe cities. Safe towns. Safe families. The change has to begin with us.

LIFE is sacred. It needs to be a cherished treasure once again.



This was written in the form of a diamante poem. Instead of using the parts of speech, I used a syllable count. 1-2-3-4-5-5-4-3-2-1 and went with antonyms as the poems endpoints. Written for Flash Fiction for the Practical Practitioner. 

Let Them Eat Cake

MorgueFIle March2020 f70773a9b33f07d676c23fce7a1cace0

Let Them Eat Cake


“Yellow!”

Sara screamed as she neared the dock.

“I thought you’d like it.” Grandpa was smiling. “But the surprises aren’t over yet.”

Sarah was already running passed the “Careful. Slippery When Wet.” signs the get to the new boat. Grandpa and her brother had been working on it during the winter as their ‘togetherness project’. She was surprised when Fredrick told her that the maiden voyage of the craft was supposed to be just her and Grandpa, but it was a good surprise. Sara loved to waters. To spend a day with Grandpa was always a plus.

Sara was barely able to contain her bubbliness and stay on the dock as she waited for her grandfather to catch up.

Grandpa stood beside her as they silently marveled at the magnificent work that he had Fredrick had completed.

“Well,” Grandpa looked had her. “Ready for the unveiling?”

“The unveiling?”

“Sure. Every worthy craft has to have a name fitting for it majesty. Fredrick and I decided on the name for this one’s christening. We thought you should have the honor of revealing it.” Suddenly, as if from the shadows appeared Fredrick and Sara’s mother and father.

Father was carrying a small basket. “Wait. Before this solemn evert occurs, we need to have our toasts ready.” He went to one knee and opened the basket. Swiftly handing out glasses to each of them, he handed a bottle of OceanSpray Cranberry-Grape to Fredrick. “Prepare us, please. Sir Fredrick.”

Fredrick’s smile was ear-to-ear. He twisted the top off of the chilled OceanSpray and filled each of their plastic goblets.

“To Grandfather and Fredrick,” Father toasted. They all took one small sip. There were to be more toasts.

“To the ‘Togetherness Project’,” Mother was quickly following in line.

“To a family a man can be proud of,” was Grandfather’s toast.

Before Sara could say anything, Fredrick busted through. “And now, the time we have all been awaiting. Sara, would you removed the silk covering draped across the bow of our magnificent vessel.”

As Sara stepped onboard the craft to remove the silk cloth masking the port of the vessel, Fredrick boldly announced, “To the Sara Anne.”

There was much hugging and handshaking as Sara stood stunned at this turn of events. Then, ever true to Sara, she let out a squeal of joy that would have awakened dead sailors.

“Now, let’s give’er a spin.” Grandpa loaded the poles and boxes he had been carrying onboard joining Sara.

“See you for supper,” father said as he handed Grandpa the basket that the family had brought.

“Start her up, Sara,” said grandfather. “The fish are awaiting us.”

“We’re going to spend our day fishing?” Sara was taken back and just a bit pale.

“Sure, lassie. That’s Fredrick’s and my favorite pastime on the waters.”

“Grandpa, I’m not Fredrick.” Sara tried to be very polite as she was suddenly filled with incredible hurt.

“Oh. That’s right. You’re with me today.” Grandpa was smiling. “That must be why your family gave us this extra basket. Go ahead. Open it.”

Sara lifted the lid from the basket and found sandwiches, chips, and several chilled waters. “Look under the linen napkins,” said Grandpa.

Sara lifted the napkins and there were two large pieces of red-velvet cake.

“Grandpa!” Sara giggled as she reached starboard to give him a hug.

“Let’s wait ‘til we get to my favorite fishin’ hole.” smiled Grandpa. “Today, dearie, we just feed the fishies.”

Written for Flash Fiction for the Practical Practitioner.

There’s Gold in Them There Hills

MorgueFile April2020 8e2988a47483eb5557e86bec8d20f56c

There’s Gold in Them There Hills


“Are you sure this is the way?’ asked Alfred.

“It has to be. The old man said follow the river. There’s not a lot of ways to mess that up.”

‘I don’t know but from what I’ve read in most books, they talk about ‘There’s gold in them there hills.’ and we’re going down from the hills and not up into the mountains Just sayin’”

“I know.” I replied a little spitefully. “You’re the one with the brains. We’re just like pack mules to you.”

“That’s not what I mean at all. I’m just wondering if maybe that old codger was pullin’ a fast one on us.”

“You just don’t trust people. Why would he do that?”

“First- The $25 each we gave him for his mining rights. He just happened to have the deed in his wallet.  Second- If there is gold, as much as he implied there was, then why isn’t he havin’ his grandsons go on this grand adventure?”

Just then, there here was a shout up ahead from the lead hiker. “Look! There’s a town just around the bend.”

***

As we approached the town, there was a freshly painted ‘Welcome’ sign for all to see. Behind the sign, three small one-room cabins.

I started laughing.

“Don’t say it. Don’t say it. Even if there is no gold here… and the old man did swindle us … At least we have great places to sleep for the night.



Written for Flash Fiction for the Practical Practitioner.

It Won’t Happen Again

haunted house



It Won’t Happen Again



“Video camera and thermal camera.”

“Check.”

“EMF gauge. Audio recorder. Headphones.”

“Check.

“Flashlights.”

“Check and check.”

“We’re good to go. All our domestic necessities in my pack. We’re ready. If she’s there, we’ll see her.” Packing for tonight had to be all cloak-n-dagger. If their parents found out…

“This is the night. According to all forensic records.” It had taken us two years-three summer jobs each (weeding gardens, picking fruit, and shoveling (well, just don’t go there.) for us to finally afford this new gear. “It’s not like they had a very proficient C.S.I. team in 1913,” I chuckled.

“Didn’t really have to, Everything’s in her diary. She stopped writing in it on August 31, 1913. Her body was found two days later. So tonight, whatever happened… happened.”

“Oh, that’s so profound. Let me write that down.”

“You just keep your hands near the recording equipment. We were right about her showing up last time. This year we’ll have proof.”

“Sure we will. We’d have had the proof two years ago if you hadn’t upturned and busted all the equipment. Ruing and screaming out of the house like a mad man from He…”

“Just shut it. It won’t happen again.”



Written for Flash Fiction for the Practical Practitioner200 words.

A TRUE MOONLIGHT SERANADE

MorgueFIle March2020 5505949277945981e863844c582745fc
MorgueFIle March2020 5505949277945981e863844c582745fc


A TRUE MOONLIGHT SERANADE



“Sweetms, when you said we had a five-story beach-front house with a 360-degree lookout tower, this isn’t exactly what I thought you were talking about.

“She’s beautiful, Darling … Isn’t she? You can sleep to the rhythmic beatin’ of the waves every night. And you ought to see it in the moonlight.”

“There appears to be a lot of stairs. What about when our folks visit?”

“Easy peasy. There’s a lower loft under the first floor. I’ve installed an elevator-lift. It’s complete with its own full bath and master suite along with a kitchenette.”

“Looks like you’ve thought of everything.”



Written for Flash Fiction for the Purposeful Practitioner: Week #32: 2020. 

SHADOW CREATURES

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January MorgueFIle a2fcb55ca5db1109b34c023e488b84fc


SHADOW CREATURES 



There’s nothing better

than terrifying mysteries

read in candle light.



Written for FLASH FICTION FOR THE PURPOSEFUL PRACTITIONER: 2020: WEEK #15