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.

‘Almost’ Perfect Planning

Art Credit: Crusty Da Klown

‘Almost’ Perfect Planning


Carefully detaching the fleshy fragments from the canvas with tiny tweezers, the lead forensic specialist placed each ‘piece of evidence’ in the properly corresponding baggy.   Then each bag was secured, taped and labeled. The labels matched the picture she had previously taken with her iPad.

As she worked she explained the splatter remains.

“Likely we’re looking at a .38 caliber. You can see where the victim’s head shielded much of this lower area in the painting.”

“Didn’t you retrieve the bullet?”

“We did. But the prospects of a comparison’s not good. The projectile passed through the frontal and the parietal of the victim’s skull before lodging in the wall behind the painting. It’s fatally distorted.”

“So no luck there.”

“Lieutenant, they is no need for an identification of the projectile. We have the gun.”

“No,” replied the lieutenant. “You have ‘a gun’. Unless we can link this gun to the bullet, the defense attorney will have a heyday on cross. There’s no good reason to have left the weapon that was used in the commission of this murder at the scene. Everything else has been too well thought out. This particular gun is a ‘red herring’. I’d bet my badge on it.”

“Lieutenant,” an officer reports in. “We have a suspect, sir. He was hiding in the crawlspace. We also found vinyl gloves with powder residue still on them.”

“Well,” smiled the Lieutenant. “Looks like he planned the perfect murder- red herring and all. But he forgot about the getaway.”



Written for (This was to be for a 100 word prompt but I misread and got two different prompt’s requirements confused.) Me. 

I Love You Soooooo Much!

PHOTO PROMPT @ Jan Wayne Fields

I Love You Soooooo Much!


“There now. Doesn’t that just make you feel good all over? A place for everything, and everything in its place.” Agatha smiled at me triumphantly and briskly rubbed her hands together giving herself a gratifying self-high-five.

Aggie was always ready to help me out. Didn’t matter the time. Didn’t matter the place. Didn’t matter the skillset needed. Aggie was there for me 24/7. It was exhausting!

“Thanks Aggie. I love my new workspace.”

“I knew you would. I’ll leave you to it, now.”

“Thanks, again, Aggie,” I said as she was leaving. “Now where did she hide my thumb drives?”



Written for Friday Fictioneers.

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.

Megabots Are Real

PHOTO PROMPT © Na’ama Yehuda


Megabots Are Real


“I see him. I see him.” Broodan couldn’t hide the fear in his squeaky twelve-year-old voice.

“Shh.”

“There’s no way he can see us hiding here in the ditch?”

“Is there something unclear about ‘sssshhhh’?

“I know ‘sshhh’. Do you know ‘Holy Crap!!!’ That’s the gianormous robot from my comic books you said I was wasting my time reading.”

“Unless you have something helpful to say, now’s not the time to be snarky.”

“Is it being too snarky to know that this comic book tells you how to kill that creepoid?”

I grabbed the book from his hand. “What page?”



Written for Friday Fictioneers.

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.

Toad-ly Worth It

gifer

Toad-ly Worth It



“Are you sure you want to do this, Beth?” SarahBelle asked.

Beth looked up- seemingly startled- by the question. “Of course, I’m sure. Elliot has been pulling prank after prank on me ever since the new semester. He has to pay.”

“There’s no way Master Wizard Alfredo is going to allow you to do this.”

“Do you think I’m going to ask?”

“It’s against all the coven’s rules, using magic on one another. Even Elliot doesn’t do that. His pranks are just a harmless Guinea pig in you dresser drawers, or a garden snake under the pillow. He just wants you to notice him.” AnneMay tried to speak some sense into her friend. “He’s never done anything that would harm you.”

“Notice him. Notice him!” Beth could hardly contain her emptions. “Elliot will know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I have noticed him.”

“But a frog?” intervened SarahBelle once again. “You could get expelled from Academy if you get caught.”

“Nonsense,” declared Beth. “We mix this potion in Elliot’s soup at evening’s supper. Give it four hours, by curfew- Elliott’s a slimy, crusty amphibian. No one will notice that he is missing. Elliot’s always away plotting and scheming over the weekend. By Sunday, the spell will have worn off. It’s likely no one will even know anything every happened- except Elliot.”

“But if you get caught?” simultaneously, the two girl’s fears were spoken.

“Toad-ly worth it, smiled Beth.”

 

Written for ‘Picture This’: FanStory. 

I’ve Seen You Drive

PHOTO PROMPT © C.E.Ayr


I’ve Seen You Drive



Lady Templesworth wheeled onto the pier. Smiting the brake, she pressed the lift enclosing the convertible and shut-off the engine simultaneously.

Quickly disembarking. Lord Templesworth tried to get to the driver’s door of the pink Ferrari before his wife could exit on her own.

She won.

Racing to the dock, she exclaimed, “It’s pink!”

“Completely renovated. Teak decks. Your signature paint. A master and guest berth. A gourmet kitchen. An entertainment room. And of course, the accompanying necessities.”

“It’s beautiful. HoneyBear, why buy this lovely yacht before you’ve taught me to navigate?”

“Entirely a business decision, My PookeyBear. I’ve seen you drive.”



FYI: I cheated a little. I counted Lord Templesworth’s and Lady Templesworth’s name as one word each.



Written for Friday Fictioneers.

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.